THE 
 
 "^^- * *
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES 
 
 Gift of 
 Mrs. Prank Good
 
 THE OUTCAST; 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 J. W. WATSON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "BEAUTIFUL SNOW; AND OTHER POEMS.' 
 
 COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS ; 
 306 CHESTNUT STREET.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C.
 
 TS 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ' PUBLISHERS' PREFACE 19 
 
 x THE OUTCAST 21 
 
 THE OLD MUSICIAN 30 
 
 r 
 
 NJ 
 
 ^ NELLY SWEET NELLY BROWN 35 
 
 DARLING DORA M'lLVAINE 37 
 
 TO-NIGHT 41 
 
 MY DARLING JOSEPHINE 43 
 
 GONE TO SEA 45 
 
 foUT ON A BOUNDLESS SEA 4 S 
 
 NIGHT BURIAL AT SEA 51 
 
 J^V DEATH RIDES ON THE EASTERN WIND 56 
 
 REAL CHRISTMAS ANGELS 60 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE STORE 65 
 
 DEBT 71 
 
 THE CIRCUS BOY ' 75 
 
 17
 
 I S CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 GARIBALDI'S ENTRY INTO NAPLES So 
 
 THE TWELFTH COMES BACK TO-DAY 85 
 
 THE WALTZ OF ANTIETAM 90 
 
 MY SERGEANT OF THE GUARD 94 
 
 THE BALL IS UP 99 
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY 101 
 
 I WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR 1 14 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 119
 
 PUBLISHERS' PREFACE. 
 
 At a time when, in the language of society, " Poetry is 
 a drug in the market," the success of the volume entitled 
 "Beautiful Snow and Other Poems," by John W. Watson, 
 might be considered remarkable, were it not that the ac- 
 knowledged merit of these lyrics, most of which appeal to 
 the tenderest and kindest feelings of humanity, is very 
 remarkable also. The high eulogiums passed upon these 
 compositions by the discerning press of the United States, 
 and also in England, have been so thoroughly endorsed by 
 the public, that the sale has exceeded that of any other 
 volume of American poetry published within the last ten 
 years. The Publishers rejoice that it is in their power to 
 present a second volume from the pen of Mr. Watson, en- 
 titled "The Outcast and Other Poems," which they are 
 very confident will be not less acceptable and popular than 
 the former. These poems, indeed, may be considered as 
 the fruit of Mr. Watson's maturer fancy and judgment, and 
 will touch not less sensitively than the others the sympa- 
 thy and home affections of all classes of readers. 
 
 10
 
 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 r I ^HE night was dark, and dank, and drear; the 
 
 wind blew bitter cold ; 
 The sleety snow, with every gust, became more fierce 
 
 and bold ; 
 The yellow gas, through iceclad panes, along the 
 
 pavement lay, 
 And all the glory of the street had passed with 
 
 night away ; 
 In dabbled heaps, with mud and filth, the cutting 
 
 snowdrops lie, 
 And only cheerless, shivering forms rush bent and 
 
 hurried by. 
 
 21
 
 22 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 I labored on with chosen steps and head bowed to 
 
 the gale, 
 When suddenly, from out the storm, there came a 
 
 droning wail. 
 I stopped like one when spoken to, and listened to 
 
 the sound, 
 And then, responsive to the moan, looked fearfully 
 
 around : 
 I saw a man, who cowering stood, in rags both 
 
 scant and thin, 
 Force moaning, wailing notes from out a wretched 
 
 violin. 
 
 I marvelled much to see him choose so bleak, so 
 
 dark a place, 
 
 And sought, with curious scrutiny, to peer into his face : 
 A moment's glance the tale revealed, his staring 
 
 eyes were dim 
 All depths of darkness, light and shade, all were 
 
 alike to him
 
 THE OUTCAST. 23 
 
 Blind wanderer on a glorious earth, the sunshine or 
 
 the storm 
 Were one to him when he could keep his aged 
 
 body warm. 
 
 And so I stood before the blast and hearkened to 
 
 the song, 
 While well-clothed, thoughtless, hurrying men went 
 
 rapidly along : 
 
 I heard that wretched violin tell all its screed of woe, 
 In words as plain as man could speak, to the ques- 
 tions of the bow; 
 
 I heard the story of a life, a life with clouds o'ercast, 
 The sighs, the tears, the bitter moans for all the 
 bitter past. 
 
 I once, it said, had friends and home, a wife and 
 
 children fair, 
 A home of peace and happiness, for love dwelt 
 
 always there ;
 
 24 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 And who on all the earth could make a little go 
 
 so far 
 As she, the Mary of my love, my life's bright 
 
 guiding star? 
 Then I was cheerful, hale and strong, and work 
 
 came freely in 
 I never sang a song of woe through you, my violin. 
 
 When children came to bless our hearth, the neigh- 
 bors far and near 
 
 Declared they were the best they'd seen for many 
 and many a year; 
 
 They grew so fresh and rosy, and so cunning in 
 their ways, 
 
 That I and Mary stood full oft and watched them 
 in amaze. 
 
 I saw them all four sweet-faced girls grow up to 
 womanhood ; 
 
 I felt that they were beautiful I knew that they 
 were good.
 
 THE OUTCAST. 2$ 
 
 The first that left us, Abigail, passed off one sum- 
 mer morn, 
 
 When all the air was filled with life, the fields with 
 ripening corn. 
 
 She had been failing many months, but hope held 
 to the last; 
 
 We could not think our darling gone until the hour 
 was past. 
 
 It was the first great chastening blow that fell upon 
 my head, 
 
 When Abigail, my firstborn child, was numbered 
 with the dead. 
 
 The next was Hannah she so young, so thought- 
 less and so gay. 
 
 I left her in the field, one noon, among the new- 
 made hay; 
 
 Within an hour the girl was gone; they sought her 
 high and low, 
 
 And soon they brought my child to me O God ! 
 what dreadful woe !
 
 2 6 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 They took her from the river's bed, and from her 
 
 pallid lips 
 The fearful death-slime came away in slowly-oozing 
 
 drips. 
 
 Then Mary, with her golden hair, and skin like 
 
 tinted pearl, 
 She looked so like her mother did, when she was 
 
 but a girl. 
 
 So angel-like our Mary seemed, so angel-like from birth, 
 That many a time my whispering heart would doubt 
 
 her of the earth. 
 One day it pleased her God to call our angel to his 
 
 throne, 
 And Mary's mother and myself were left once more 
 
 alone. 
 
 No ! not alone, there still was one, a wanton, wan- 
 dering child, 
 
 A truant from our homely hearth, by false sworn 
 love beguiled.
 
 THE OUTCAST. 2J 
 
 We sought by every wile we knew to win her back 
 
 again, 
 But guilty love was strong enough to make our 
 
 prayers in vain. 
 We heard but little after this, but when we did, we 
 
 plead 
 With God to take the nameless one much better 
 
 she were dead. 
 
 Since Mary, who for forty years I never knew to frown ; 
 
 Since Mary, she who shared my cross, has gone to 
 wear her crown ; 
 
 Since God was pleased to take the light of day 
 from out mine eyes, 
 
 I've pondered on the memory with weary, wasting 
 sighs ; 
 
 And oh ! I would it were his will to hear my voice- 
 less cry, 
 
 That I might feel the nameless one once more 
 before I die !
 
 2 8 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 The music changed, with one deep sob, into the 
 
 tones of prayer, 
 So mournfully, so pleadingly, upon the cutting 
 
 air: 
 A woman dressed in drabbled robes went flaunting 
 
 idly by, 
 With painted cheeks and bloodless lips, with dim 
 
 and sunken eye. 
 She stopped and turned her ill-clad back upon the 
 
 whistling blast, 
 And listened with an eager air unto the very last. 
 
 The music ceased, the woman reached toward the 
 
 blind old man ; 
 She stooped her head with starting eyes, she clenched 
 
 her hands and ran; 
 But suddenly, with faltering steps, she tottered back 
 
 again, 
 And stood as though her gasping lips were seeking 
 
 words in vain.
 
 THE OUTCAST. 2Q 
 
 A moment thus I watched the two, the man's 
 
 unconscious form ; 
 The woman bent and kissed his hand, then fled 
 
 into the storm.
 
 THE OLD MUSICIAN. 
 
 [A few weeks ago an aged mendicant died at New Orleans. On 
 his deathbed he stated that he had been in his day a musician ; that 
 he had occupied a distinguished place among the musicians of one of 
 Napoleon's military bands ; and that his execution had frequently at- 
 tracted attention from the Great Man himself. He said much more 
 which was very interesting in reference to his past life, but death 
 interrupted his revelations. He had lived, it seems, for many years in 
 New Orleans in great poverty and privation, with no other companion 
 than his violin.] 
 
 T3 AISE up my head. 
 
 Enough: I see and hear all I would wish to 
 
 know. 
 
 And so they say that I must die, and call me old ! 
 They know not what is age who call me old. 
 Age must be counted by the loss of fire, not years ; 
 Not by the weariness of limb, not by the dimness 
 
 of the eye. 
 
 Quick! raise up my head; give me my violin; 
 And stand you silent while I tear your hearts. 
 
 \Plays. 
 
 30
 
 THE OLD MUSICIAN. 3! 
 
 There is my solo in the key of G ; 
 
 The last six notes were heard by Mozart : 
 
 He declared them worthy of a crown so think I. 
 
 And now my wordless song. [Plays. 
 
 I sang this song 
 
 Before the Emperor before Napoleon, 
 When in the flush of power ; and he did bow to me, 
 And sent me from his own great hand this ring 
 This diamond ring. Where is my diamond ring? 
 Ah me ! I did forget they took my ring. 
 Ah ! yes, they took my ring for rent. 
 Well, well ! it is but empty honor ; none can take 
 
 my song. 
 
 / 
 Now, am I old ? Hear this, my symphony in F ? 
 
 [Plays. 
 
 This, too, before an Emperor, the Czar. He gave 
 Me smiles, and sent a snuff-box by an equerry : 
 A snuff-box blazing with a score of gems, 
 And on the lid a limning of his face. 
 
 Ah ! 'twas a cunning box. I have it now 
 
 B
 
 32 THE OLD MUSICIAN. 
 
 In memory. I did not sell it till I wanted bread, 
 Not for myself alone, but for Adele. 
 Not know Adele ? She was my pupil ; in the world 
 Is known as I will not call her name. 
 
 Too well you know her; she has made the cities 
 ring 
 
 With shout and bravos. Ah ! such a register ! 
 
 Rossini wrote Wait; let me see what did 
 
 Rossini write for her ? She loves me, and she sang 
 
 My Opera. That was a night of nights ; 
 
 When I, well hidden from the public gaze, 
 
 Would watch my pupil sing the breathings of my 
 heart ! 
 
 Yes ! they found me. Ha ! ha ! me, the poor mu- 
 sician ! 
 
 And then they bore me forth, and stood me on the 
 stage 
 
 Before ten thousand eyes, and covered me with 
 flowers.
 
 THE OLD MUSICIAN. 33 
 
 Ay ! and she kissed me Adele kissed me 
 Kissed me there before the envious crowd, 
 Dukes, lords and nobles would have given wealth 
 And titles to have been the kissed. Where is 
 
 Adele ? 
 She knows not of me now. She thinks that I am 
 
 rich, 
 And I will not seek her to beg. 
 
 Here is a sonata 
 
 I composed for her. Beranger did me great honor 
 When he heard those bars, from thence to thence, 
 By asking from my pen a copy. Then he gave 
 To me a song, a deathless song, that I might wed 
 The music of its words to sound. Hark ! I play. 
 
 [Plays. 
 
 Now, am I old ? Is my arm palsied ? 
 Is my blood weak? Must I die? Is there no fire 
 
 in me? 
 Oh ! false prophets ! raise me up quickly !
 
 34 THE OLD MUSICIAN. 
 
 Where is my wealth and honor ? Where is Adele ? 
 Lay on my breast the star that Austria gave. 
 Where is the gold I won in England? Where are 
 
 the plaudits 
 That I won in France? Where is my violin? 
 
 And am I blind ? 
 
 \ 
 Could I not tell my own loved violin before my 
 
 eyes ? 
 Hark ! I will play a scena from my Opera. 
 
 [Attempts to play. 
 
 Oh, vain ! my hand fails in its endeavor ; but 
 My ear deceives me not. I still know time ; 
 Perhaps I soon shall know eternity. 
 
 Why is it dark? 
 Why do I hear your sobs no longer? Is the world 
 
 hushed ? 
 Am I dead? Am I dead? Dead?
 
 NELLY SWEET NELLY BROWN 
 
 r I ^HERE is life in the breath of the morning, 
 
 Ere the hum of the cricket is done, 
 When the low of the cows is a warning 
 
 That I must be up with the sun ; 
 For the sun is a loitering sluggard 
 
 To the maid with the homespun gown ; 
 She is calling the cows from the meadow 
 
 Nelly, sweet Nelly Brown ! 
 
 They may laugh when 1 say that I love her 
 They may laugh, if they like it, at me : 
 
 Must I think of myself as above her, 
 Because I am richer than she ? 
 
 I shall think of my sunburnt lady 
 As I would if she wore a crown, 
 
 35
 
 36 NELLY SWEET NELLY BROWN. 
 
 And be neartily glad that I love her 
 Nelly, sweet Nelly Brown ! 
 
 She is calling the cows with a ringing 
 
 That is meant for the cows, and for one 
 Who has helped her so often in bringing 
 
 The pails when the milking was done. 
 But the time it is rapidly coming 
 
 When the maid with the homespun gown 
 Will be mine only mine ! and no longer 
 
 Nelly, sweet Nelly Brown !
 
 DARLING DORA M'lLVAINE 
 
 r I ^HE rain fell softly on the grass, 
 
 Ah me ! the summer rain ; 
 I waited for the storm to pass, 
 
 The sun to shine again ; 
 Ah me ! the treacherous rain ; 
 Will the sun e'er shine again ? 
 
 While I stood beneath the shed, 
 Listening to each pattering drop, 
 
 Wondering when the clouds o'erhead 
 Would think it time to stop, 
 
 I saw her running down the lane, 
 
 Flying from the summer rain. 
 
 87 
 
 398737
 
 38 DARLING DORA M'lLVAINE. 
 
 I 
 
 Saw who ? Why, Dora M'llvaine, 
 Woe is me! that fatal day, 
 
 Watching in the summer rain 
 For the storm to pass away. 
 
 Years will glide too slowly by 
 
 Ere I lose that memory. 
 
 Darling Dora M'llvaine, 
 
 Seven minutes, by the clock, 
 
 Did I beg, and beg in vain, 
 For one single chestnut lock : 
 
 Dora, Dora, 'twas to me 
 
 All of an eternity! 
 
 I have seen some maidens fair 
 Skilled to win a trusting heart, 
 
 I have seen some chestnut hair 
 Braided with a wondrous art: 
 
 Chestnut hair and hazel eyes 
 
 Is not where the magic lies.
 
 DARLING DORA APILVAINE. 39 
 
 Never till that summer day, 
 
 As I watched the falling rain, 
 Had I seen that little fay, 
 
 Darling Dora M'llvaine; 
 Never since that summer rain 
 Heard of Dora M'llvaine. 
 
 Love is counted not by years, 
 Dora, Dora ; well we know 
 
 Lovers' vows and lovers' tears 
 
 i 
 Are the things of long ago. 
 
 In these fast magnetic times 
 Dallying love is worst of crimes. 
 
 Twenty golden minutes fly 
 
 While she made my soul rejoice 
 
 With the laughter of her eye, 
 With the music of her voice ; 
 
 Hazel eyes and teeth of pearl, 
 
 Dora was a pretty girl.
 
 4O DARLING DORA M'lLVAINE. 
 
 Dora was but sweet thirteen, 
 Half a woman, half a child, 
 
 Childlike grace and haughty mien, 
 Free and guarded, coy and wild ; 
 
 Such a winsome woman-fay 
 
 Never saw I till that day. 
 
 Dora! time and space has passed, 
 I shall never see thee more ; 
 
 When our lots in life were cast, 
 
 * 
 
 We were placed on either shore. 
 Never shall we meet again, 
 Darling Dora M'llvaine !
 
 TO-NIGHT. 
 
 I lift a flowing glass, 
 The wine shall touch my quivering lip; 
 It shall not flow to drown the past, 
 But on its spell I'll cling and sip, 
 Or think within its shady hues 
 A spirit laves in pearly light, 
 And bids a joyous laugh to-night. 
 
 To-night I will remember all 
 
 All that is worth a kindly thought; 
 
 The hours the wing of sorrow swept, 
 The lessons that her broodings taught, 
 
 Shall mingle in a glowing train 
 
 With gems so deeply, purely bright, 
 I could not help but laugh to-night. 
 
 41
 
 42 TO-NIGHT. 
 
 To-night no stranger hand shall clasp 
 The fevered throbbings of my own, 
 
 Nor pledge me in the brimming cup 
 I drink, and dream, and think alone. 
 
 No friendly eye shall look in mine, 
 
 Lest they might think the dimming sight 
 Betrayed my will to laugh to-night.
 
 MY DARLING JOSEPHINE. 
 
 ' I ""HE stars are countless in the skies, 
 
 The earth a flood of light ; 
 The cream-white moon in beauty flies 
 
 Along the path of night; 
 I sit alone, but not alone : 
 
 A spirit all unseen 
 Has to my welcome bosom flown 
 
 My darling Josephine. 
 
 Fast fly the fairy- footed days, 
 
 That meteor-like go by, 
 When I can on her beauty gaze, 
 
 And feast my hungry eye. 
 What refuge has my longing breast 
 
 In all the hours between,
 
 44 MY DARLING JOSEPHINE. 
 
 But clasping as a spirit-guest 
 My darling Josephine? 
 
 So shall she be my honored guest 
 
 When sleep departs from me, 
 And when my dreaming stands confessed 
 
 My queen of dreams shall be. 
 By night, by day, by sun, by shade, 
 
 I'll homage pay my queen, 
 And bless the happy hour that made 
 
 Me love sweet Josephine.
 
 GONE TO SEA. 
 
 r I "HERE sailed a brig of a thousand tons, 
 Yo ! heave merrily, O ! 
 She was pierced for the carriage of twenty guns, 
 
 Yo ! heave merrily, O ! 
 Her pennons were set, and the wind was fair, 
 
 And the brig swept out with the ebbing tide, 
 And every eye of the hundreds there 
 Watched her sail with a swelling pride. 
 
 Yo ! heave merrily, O ! 
 
 The mother has bidden her son farewell, 
 
 Yo ! heave merrily, O ! 
 
 4 
 
 She smothers the tear as she hears them tell 
 Yo ! heave merrily, O ! 
 
 45
 
 46 GONE SEA. 
 
 That the brig is as stanch as stanch can be; 
 
 That her men are picked for a fearless crew; 
 And so she is standing and smiling to see 
 
 The glorious brig that seaward flew. 
 
 Yo ! heave merrily, O ! 
 
 The brig has rolled in the white sea-wave, 
 
 Yo ! heave terribly, O ! 
 Her timbers are tough, and her crew are brave, 
 
 Yo ! heave terribly, O ! 
 
 But the winds were sweeping the face of the deep, 
 While the waters gaped for the staggering craft ; 
 And down they went to their endless sleep, 
 
 While the storm above them howled and laughed. 
 Yo ! heave terribly, O ! 
 
 What one of all that wondering crowd, 
 
 Yo ! heave terribly, O ! 
 i 
 Who sang the song of the brig aloud, 
 
 Yo ! heave terribly, O !
 
 GONE TO SEA. 47 
 
 Hath bidden his friend the long farewell 
 The word he would speak before they died 
 
 The day he watched the waters swell, 
 
 And, the brig sweep out with the ebbing tide ? 
 
 Yo ! heave terribly, O ! 
 c
 
 OUT ON A BOUNDLESS SEA 
 
 "T)O ATM AN, whither flies our vessel? 
 See, the shore grows far and dim ; 
 While about us monsters wrestle 
 
 As they through the darkness swim. 
 Boatman, speak the night is chilling, 
 Cold is sad, and silence killing." 
 
 " Mortal ! in this darkness tremble. 
 
 Time has been, but is no more. 
 Cease to with your soul dissemble ; 
 
 You have left yon sunny shore. 
 Mortal, though your soul endeavor, 
 You. have left yon shore for ever." 
 
 48
 
 OUT ON A BOUNDLESS SEA. 49 
 
 " Boatman ! fright me not so sadly ; 
 'Tis but one short hour agone 
 That I left yon shore so gladly, 
 
 On the glassy waters borne. 
 Boatman, why this fearful changing, 
 All my pleasure-plans deranging?" 
 
 " Mortal ! in your idle scheming, 
 
 Gave you not the helm to me ? 
 In that hour, while you were dreaming, 
 
 I have steered your bark to sea. 
 Learn this lesson by your failing : 
 Hold the helm when you are sailing." 
 
 " Boatman ! yet a moment linger, 
 
 Youth and manhood both are gone ; 
 
 Point not with your iron finger 
 Still so sad and sternly on. 
 
 Boatman, to my prayer respond 
 
 Ere we meet the dark beyond."
 
 SO OUT ON A BOUNDLESS SEA. 
 
 " Mortal ! cease thy sad bewailing, 
 
 Death is waiting there for thee : 
 Hear you not his ghostly hailing 
 
 Growing nearer o'er the sea? 
 Had you saved your freight this morning, 
 Now you would not fear his warning. 
 
 " From your bark you cast rich treasure 
 
 Out into the hungry deep, 
 All that you might lie in leisure 
 
 Lie full lapped in lazy sleep. 
 Wasted jewels : mortal, ponder 
 How they'd light your path out yonder."
 
 NIGHT BURIAL AT SEA. 
 
 r I "^HE dim lamp swings in the dingy hold 
 
 To the ravings of the storm, 
 And the waves are waiting to enfold 
 
 A soldier's lifeless form : 
 They are lifting their snow-white fingers up, 
 
 Like spirits of the night, 
 And they dance and beckon to our ship 
 
 To stay her onward flight. 
 
 The stars are dimmed with a flying cloud, 
 
 The ship goes heaving past, 
 A corse lies wrapped in i'ts homely shroud, 
 
 And the night is going fast. 
 We have stretched the flag he has died to serve 
 
 Over his quieted heart, 
 
 51
 
 52 NIGHT BURIAL AT SEA. 
 
 And here, with our heads uncovered and bent, 
 We silently stand apart. 
 
 We stood but a few short hours agone 
 
 By that dying soldier's bed 
 A blanket, battle- stained and worn 
 
 While a knapsack pillowed his head. 
 A rough board under his fleshless limbs, 
 
 And a stranger hand for nurse; 
 His requiem sang by the beating waves, 
 
 A smothered groan or a curse. 
 
 The lanterns swung in the dismal hold 
 
 As the life-tide ebbed away, 
 And the dim eyes closed to open no more 
 
 Till the resurrection-day. 
 He is deaf to the sound of his comrade's voice 
 
 When he shouts his name in his ear, 
 And a soul drifts out on the stormy tide, 
 
 While the clay-cold corse lies here.
 
 NIGHT BURIAL AT SEA. 53 
 
 We wrapped his gaunt and rigid limbs 
 
 In the blanket's scanty fold, 
 And we bore our strange, mysterious load 
 
 Away from the noisome hold. 
 The midnight stars look down on the form 
 
 That lies on the gangway plank, 
 And rolls to the rolling of the ship 
 
 And the engine's heavy clank. 
 
 And there we gathered, a silent group, 
 
 To wait for the last sad rite, 
 And thought, as we looked on the lifeless mass, 
 
 Of a saddening second sight 
 Of his far New England, yearning home ; 
 
 Of the love that waits in vain, 
 And never shall clasp that soldier form 
 
 To its beating breast again. 
 
 Waiting the waves are waiting still 
 To seize their promised prey ;
 
 54 NIGHT BURIAL AT SEA. 
 
 But the good ship madly flings them back 
 As she cleaves her onward way; 
 
 And the words of hope rise clearly up 
 Over the din without, 
 
 Stilling the storm in our aching hearts, 
 And stilling our every doubt. 
 
 A pause we wait in silent awe 
 
 . Then lifting the shrouded clay, 
 
 With a sullen plunge and a heavy splash, 
 
 We cast the load away. 
 The ship goes staggering on her route, 
 
 The winds scream wild and free, 
 But the corse of a soldier brave and true 
 
 Lies down in the depths of the sea 
 
 Lies down in the depths of the troubled sea, 
 
 With the dwellers of the deep, 
 To rise when the last great trump shall sound 
 
 To waken him from his sleep.
 
 NIGHT BURIAL AT SEA. 55 
 
 No stone to mark where the lifeless clay 
 
 Is clasped in the hissing foam, 
 But his monument stands in the loving hearts 
 
 Of his far New England home.
 
 DEATH RIDES ON THE EASTERN 
 WIND. 
 
 T7ROM the gates of Teheran, from Ispahan's walls, 
 
 Like a king from a mouldering throne, 
 The terrible sound of his footstep falls 
 Through the Tartar tent and the Persian halls, 
 And the Orient echoes back the calls 
 Of the monarch claiming his own. 
 
 With his ghastly spear upraised to the sky, 
 
 At the solemn whirr of his wing 
 The nations despair as he hurries him by, 
 For, however they wrestle, however they fly, 
 The richest and poorest must surely die 
 
 In the path of the spectral king. 
 
 56
 
 DEATH RIDES ON THE EASTERN WIND. $7 
 
 In vain are the edicts of earthly kings, 
 In vain are the sword and the spear; 
 
 The wave of his weapon a pestilence flings, 
 
 \ 
 And a merciless poison distills from his wings, 
 
 Till even the savage his death-dirge sings 
 Wherever his minions appear. 
 
 In his train come as servitors, cringing and base, 
 
 Intemperance, Gluttony, Crime, 
 Who follow the king with a staggering pace, 
 Who sing of their deeds with a brazen face, 
 And scatter their ruin on every race 
 
 To the chant of their horrible rhyme. 
 
 From the glut of the kennels, the mould of the walls, 
 
 From the rime of the breath-stifling drain, 
 The voice of the king in his majesty calls 
 The spirits of death, in their shadowless palls 
 From each den where the light of the day never falls 
 To join in his pestilent train.
 
 58 DEATH RIDES ON THE EASTERN WIND. 
 
 From the stagnant miasm that lives in decay, 
 From the poisonous breath of the swamp, 
 
 From the vermin-cursed dwelling that lies by the way, 
 
 From the prison and vault where the green lizards play, 
 
 He gathers the ministers day by day, 
 To aid in his kingly pomp. 
 
 Though fierce on his path roll the bottomless seas, 
 
 For a thousand miles between, 
 Though a nation be pleading afar on its knees, 
 The hands that are lifted he scorns, if he sees, 
 And he sweeps on his path with the seaward breeze, 
 
 Till they never more are. seen. 
 
 From the Arctic Sea to the Torrid Zone 
 
 He reigns as a king supreme; 
 All climes, all nations, all lands are his own, 
 His sweetest of sounds is a shriek or a groan, 
 And the earth is a desert when once he has flown, 
 
 And his memory only a dream.
 
 DEATH RIDES ON THE EASTERN WIND. 59 
 
 Hail, king of the world from the Eastern shore ! 
 
 Hail, monarch in ghastliness dressed ! 
 Our soil has been drenched with unbrotherly gore; 
 Must we yield to thy clutch a hecatomb more, 
 Ere the cry of the blood-chastened land shall be o'er, 
 
 And we sink into peaceful rest ?
 
 REAL CHRISTMAS ANGELS. 
 
 T 'M a very plain and homely man, 
 
 Just a leetle old or so, 
 And the rheumatiz troubles me, off and on, 
 
 Whether I will or no ; 
 And so, whenever that comes to pass, 
 
 It drives me a'most in a craze, 
 To think of the lots of time I lose 
 The many working days. 
 
 For my old woman, Meg, and I, 
 
 Agree on this, d'ye see, 
 That I shall be sick when she is well, 
 
 And I be well when she; 
 For it's little of work that she can do, 
 
 When well or ill, for bread, 
 
 60
 
 REAL CHRISTMAS ANGELS. 6 1 
 
 Yet many a stitch her fingers take 
 From sunrise-time till bed. 
 
 And so 'tis no disgrace to us, 
 
 With the rheumatiz and all, 
 That sometimes Meg, for hunger's sake, 
 
 Should have to pawn her shawl ; 
 But then 'tis woeful hard to me, 
 
 When the winter nights are cold, 
 For I miss the shawl on my old legs 
 
 If the words be not too bold. 
 
 Yet Meg and I get somehow on, 
 
 For poverty isn't a crime, 
 And we never think nothing about it 
 
 Until it comes Christmas-time ; 
 For we have a memory, Meg and I, 
 
 Of a Christmas long ago, 
 When we both were strong and hearty. 
 
 And never knew want or woe.
 
 62 REAL CHRISTMAS ANGELS. 
 
 And so it happens that Meg and I 
 
 Have been waiting in hope and fear, 
 To see if the Christmas coming 
 
 Will be like the one last year; 
 For then we were all right happy, 
 
 Meg and the neighbors and I, 
 And the very remembrance of it 
 
 Is enough to make one cry. 
 
 It was all on the Christmas morning, 
 
 When we hadn't a loaf of bread, 
 And Meg and I, to keep life in, 
 
 Were obliged to go to bed. 
 The shawl it was in the pawn-shop, 
 
 And we hadn't a cent not we 
 So we thought it the hardest Christmas 
 
 We ever had chanced to see. 
 
 Meg sat in the bed a-sewing, 
 I reading the Bible to she,
 
 PEAL CHRISTMAS ANGELS. 63 
 
 When there came at the door a tapping, 
 Like a woodpecker tapping a tree. 
 
 Meg cried for the knock to enter, 
 And a rosy face peeped in, 
 
 With hazel eyes and clustering curls, 
 White teeth and a dimpled chin. 
 
 There was sunshine in a moment 
 
 To break away the gloom, 
 And a voice like an angel's whisper 
 
 Went sweetly through the room. 
 It said, "Accept this turkey. 
 
 Some potatoes and coal, if you please ; 
 It is merry Christmas Day, 
 
 And no one must starve or freeze." 
 
 Oh ! wasn't Meg up directly ! 
 
 But the angel had vanished in air, 
 And a stout man stood with a bushel of coal, 
 
 And the turkey it lay on a chair.
 
 64 REAL CHRISTMAS ANGELS. 
 
 And didn't we have a feast 
 In a good old-fashioned way, 
 
 And wasn't we warm and jollily fed 
 That glorious Christmas Day ! 
 
 So that is my tale all told 
 
 A homely tale at the best 
 A tale that Meg and I repeat 
 
 Each night when we go to rest. 
 I have heard of angels with wings, 
 
 Who noiselessly flit through the air, 
 But the angel of angels that we like best 
 
 Left a turkey upon the chair.
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE STORE. 
 
 T WAS poring over my ledger 
 
 On a cold November day, 
 And counting up my profits 
 
 In a calculating way. 
 How I strove, and worried, and dreamed, 
 
 And dreamed, and talked, and swore, 
 As I fought the fight through many a year 
 
 The battle of the store! 
 
 I was thinking it over and over 
 
 The per cent. I should lose on Brown, 
 
 And whether I'd sell to Smith again 
 Whenever he came to town ; 
 
 And whether my draft on Jones 
 Would trouble me any more; 
 
 65
 
 66 THE BATTLE OF THE STORE. 
 
 And so I went fighting, fighting on, 
 The battle of the store. 
 
 I was poring over my ledger 
 
 On a cold November day, 
 When I heard a voice at my elbow, 
 
 In a supplicating way : 
 " Will you let me entreat your notice 
 
 Toward this little book ? 
 The price is only a shilling; 
 
 I think you will buy if you look." 
 
 I turned my head to my shoulder, 
 
 To a figure gaunt and gray, 
 Whose coat was shabby, and very thin 
 
 For this cold November day. 
 He had every look about him 
 
 Of a room in a dirty street, 
 With a smoky fire in it, 
 
 And never enough to eat.
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE STORE. 6? 
 
 He stood at my elbow humbly, 
 
 And stared a vacant stare, 
 While I took his book with a business smile, 
 
 And motioned him to a chair. 
 For somehow in the ledger 
 
 I had entered that old man gray, 
 And I knew I should find the entry 
 
 At no far distant day. 
 
 I would give him a touch of nature, 
 
 Forgetting the god I obeyed; 
 So I gave the fire a goodly stir, 
 
 And I asked him, " How is trade ?" 
 " Ah ! trade is very, very low, 
 
 And bread and meat are high ; 
 And the weather is very, very cold 
 
 And do you not wish you could die ?" 
 
 I said that I thought I was willing to live, 
 And struggle on for a while ;
 
 68 THE BATTLE OF THE STORR. . 
 
 So the old man said it was very well, 
 
 And smiled a ghostly smile; 
 " But when you have lived as I have lived, 
 
 And lost as I have lost, 
 You will wish for death as the only rest 
 That is left for the tempest- f ossed. 
 
 " It was many and many a year ago, 
 
 I could look in my ledger and see 
 The names of my debtors in every land, 
 
 And my ships on every sea. 
 I sat and counted the loss and gain, 
 
 As 'tis counted to-day by you, 
 And I looked on my God and my love of truth 
 
 In a business point of view. 
 
 " I have seen my dream of gold dispelled, 
 
 My friends among the dead, 
 And the name that stood for a million once 
 Not good for a loaf of bread.
 
 BATTLE OF THE STORE. 69 
 
 I have lived to see far more than this 
 
 My wife and my children fair 
 Go one by one to the silent land : 
 
 They tarry for me there." 
 
 He ceased, and wiped the dropping tears 
 
 From off his withered face, 
 Then slowly from his pocket took 
 
 A strip of ragged lace. 
 He kissed and pressed it to his lips, 
 
 And speaking thick and fast, 
 " This is the only relic left 
 
 That binds me with the past." 
 
 O sad and desolate old man, 
 
 Thou type of all thy race, 
 Like thee, they cling unto the past 
 
 By bits of ragged lace. 
 Like thee, they pace the dreary round 
 
 Of pleasure or of pain ;
 
 7O THE BATTLE OF THE STORE. 
 
 Like thee, they dwell upon a life 
 They would not live again. 
 
 Good-night, thou man of many woes 
 
 Come not again to me, 
 For 1 have debts in every land, 
 
 And ships on every sea; 
 And I have wife and children fair; 
 
 My friends are not yet dead ; 
 But still I'll close my ledger up, 
 
 And think on what you've said.
 
 DEBT. 
 
 T SAT in my room on a midnight dreary, 
 
 Counting the rain on the roof; 
 Hearing the roll of the wheels aweary, 
 
 And the clank of the horses' hoof, 
 Hearing the fall of the distant feet 
 That echoed along on the sleeping street, 
 And the hollow song of a roistering rhyme 
 Striking in with the clang of the midnight chime. 
 
 I sat in my room while the gas burned low 
 
 On the dead-white chamber wall, 
 While, pale and haggard, and full of woe, 
 
 And strangely lank and tall, 
 A stony figure in silence stands 
 Watching the moves of my trembling hands 
 
 71
 
 72 DEBT. 
 
 Watching the drop of my weary eye, 
 With a dim, grim smile at my every sigh. 
 
 I gazed at this figure in solemn awe, 
 
 This spectre so gaunt and gray, 
 Who came not by the bolted door, 
 
 With his ghostly, shadowy way. 
 I saw that the rags on his shrunken form 
 Were dripping with wet from the midnight storm ; 
 I saw him shrivelled with pain and cold, 
 And his face looked prematurely old. 
 
 With a shiver of dread in every vein, 
 
 I spoke to this man of stone ; 
 And every word he spoke again 
 Were the echoes of my own : 
 "What dost thou here in the midnight deep, 
 
 When the world is wrapped in its sweetest sleep ?" 
 " What dost thou here ?" he said again 
 
 o f 
 
 " When the pillow claims thy wearied brain ?"
 
 DEBT. 73 
 
 " What art thou, thing of a bloodless life, 
 
 Whose presence is death and shame, 
 Whose every word is the stab of a knife 
 
 What is thy dreadful name ?" 
 For a moment flashed his eyes in light, 
 Then darkened again, as in endless night: 
 '' Whoever shall know, shall never forget 
 The time when he wore the chains of DEBT. 
 
 " W'hoever shall once, in a thoughtless way, 
 
 Wear those golden chains for me, 
 Shall labor and toil for many a day 
 
 Before his limbs are free. 
 At first my chains are of burnished gold, 
 And worn in a rich and gorgeous fold ; 
 But they grow in weight, and they grow in size, 
 With every speedy hour that flies. 
 
 " But I, with a magic all my own, 
 Can change these chains of gold ;
 
 74 DEBT. 
 
 I can turn them to iron, and eat the done, 
 
 And gnaw the flesh till the heart grows old; 
 Till the clothes shall hang in a filthy shred, 
 Till the eyes shall look like the eyes of the dead; 
 Till the arm shall die in its palsied pain, 
 And the blood run cold in each icy vein. 
 
 " Who weareth my chains shall know no hope, 
 
 Shall crave no length of life 
 Shall die by drug, by knife, and rope, 
 
 Or live in blood and strife." 
 With his golden chains the shape drew nigh : 
 I sprang to my feet with a shuddering cry ; 
 There was nothing to hear but the swell of my 
 
 scream, 
 And nothing to see but the mist of a dream.
 
 THE CIRCUS BOY. 
 
 A H me ! how memory flashes back 
 
 Through forty years of time - 
 Through hard, prosaic, epic strains, 
 
 And pleasant-flowing rhyme ! 
 How, after half a century's march, 
 
 Leaning on Nature's staff, 
 I look me back along the road 
 With many a hearty laugh ! 
 
 With many a hearty laugh or smile 
 That struggles with a tear, 
 
 For many a moment fraught with fate, 
 And many a memory queer. 
 
 I gaze upon my portly form, 
 My well-filled bankers' book 
 
 75
 
 76 THE CIRCUS BOY. 
 
 The last a credit to my thrift, 
 The former to my cook. 
 
 And then I think me of the boy 
 
 Of half a score years old, 
 Charmed, as a man is ever charmed, 
 
 By glitter and by gold. 
 How my ambition's highest height, 
 
 My gold without alloy, 
 Reached through all worldly gifts and lore 
 
 To be a circus boy. 
 
 I watched him, clad in silken sheen, 
 
 All spangled over gold, 
 Leap gayly on his gallant steed, 
 
 And ride away so bold ; 
 I saw the rude, admiring crowd 
 
 Strain all their eager eyes ; 
 I heard their praises fill the air, 
 
 Their plaudits and their cries.
 
 THE CIRCUS BOY. 77 
 
 I saw him spring through painted hoops, 
 
 O'er silken banners high ; 
 With beating heart I watched his flight, 
 
 And many an envious sigh. 
 Here, to my boyish thought, was all 
 
 That earth could give of joy ; 
 And then I prayed an earnest prayer 
 
 To be a circus boy. 
 
 Weeks sped : one autumn day we met ; 
 
 My memory still was warm, 
 His face was graven on my heart 
 
 Not so his ill-clad form. 
 With boyish fire I clasped his hand, 
 
 And marked his sunken eye ; 
 No more the roses on his cheeks 
 
 Provoked an envious sigh. 
 
 His words were few, but oh how quick 
 They pierced the filmy spell !
 
 78 THE CIRCUS BOY. 
 
 The hard, bold voice, the reckless tone, 
 
 His story told too well: 
 No mother, and a father dead 
 
 To all the sense of shame; 
 No home but in the circus tent, 
 
 And but a circus name. 
 
 At night, with bitter, blinded heart, 
 
 He rode his gallant roan ; 
 All day, half fed and poorly clad, 
 
 He moped about alone; 
 At night the thousands cheered him on 
 
 Through peril and through pain; 
 All day he craved one word of love, 
 
 But craved, alas ! in vain. 
 
 Since then I've looked behind the scenes 
 
 Of many a ghastly play; 
 A word, a look, a breath of life, 
 
 Has swept the gilt away.
 
 THE CIRCUS BOY. 79 
 
 But never through these forty years 
 
 Could time the force destroy 
 Of that first lesson that I took, 
 
 Taught by the circus boy. 
 
 E
 
 GARIBALDI'S ENTRY INTO 
 NAPLES. 
 
 T T E came ! not with the pomp of state, 
 With bayonets flashing round him ; 
 But in the broad glare of the day, 
 Where frantic thousands lined the way, 
 And, hopeful, knelt to weep and pray, 
 We found him. 
 
 He came ! not as a conqueror comes, 
 
 With rattling drum and clashing sabre, 
 But like an angel from the skies, 
 With form erect and flashing eyes, 
 He stood, clothed in the simple guise 
 Of labor. 
 
 80
 
 GARIBALDI'S ENTR Y INTO NAPLES. 8 1 
 
 He came ! as Heaven's own chosen king, 
 
 His throne a trampled nation, 
 Claiming no power but such as came 
 From the great glory of his name 
 No weak or meretricious fame, 
 No station. 
 
 Out rang the vivas fierce and long, 
 Made louder by each patriot's wrong, 
 And manly shout joined woman's song, 
 Where Marinella's half-crazed throng 
 
 Hailed freed Italia's son. 
 'Twas noon, high noon, along the way, 
 And sunlight danced upon the bay ; 
 The shouting thousands swayed and swung, 
 A hundred bells the chorus rung, 
 And Naples, mad from fear and doubt, 
 Screamed forth the hero's welcome shout 
 Screamed forth the hope so long deferred 
 With every long-forbidden word :
 
 82 GARIBALDPS ENTR Y INTO NAPLES. 
 
 " UNA UNA UNA VIVA ! 
 DEATH AND HELL TO THE DECEIVER ! 
 VOGLIAMO, VIVA, VIVA ! 
 GOD'S GREAT GRACE TO THE ACHIEVER ! 
 
 Calm and unmoved amid the whole, 
 With eyes that shadowed forth the soul, 
 
 The patriot hero stood. 
 Cry upon cry has rent the air, 
 But still the selfsame words are there : 
 
 Viva Garibaldi/ 
 Una vogliamo, I 'Italia una ! 
 
 Ni^ht falls ; the deep-mouthed cannons boom 
 Their notes of freedom through the gloom, 
 And from a thousand hands and throats 
 The wildering music swells and floats. 
 Along the gay Toledo's pave 
 The joy-mad crowd their greetings rave,
 
 GARIBALDI 'S ENTR Y INTO NAPLES. 8j 
 
 And banners flash upon the night, 
 And torches shed a midday light, 
 Unveiling every hideous sight. 
 The beggar jostles with the lord, 
 
 The master with the man, 
 The wearer breaks the tyrant's sword, 
 
 And kisses where he can. 
 Still high above the crash of all, 
 
 The song is loud and clear 
 Above the cannon, bells and shouts, 
 It breaks upon the ear: 
 Viva, viva Garibaldi, 
 Voglianw, r Italia ! 
 Una una una viva ! 
 God's great grace to the Achiever. 
 
 White-armed women, heaving-breasted, 
 
 Fiery-eyed and voiced aloud, 
 Half of flowing robes divested, 
 
 Wander through the surging crowd,
 
 84 GARIBALDI'S ENTRY INTO NAPLES. 
 
 Singing loud, 
 Viva, viva Garibaldi! 
 
 Far along the Marinella, 
 
 Through the night the cries still ring, 
 Echoed from Largo Castello, 
 To the palace of the king, 
 Still they ring, 
 Fii>a, viva Garibaldi! 
 
 Saver of his native land ; 
 Vogliamo, I 'Italia ! 
 Una una ima viva !
 
 THE TWELFTH COMES BACK 
 TO-DAY. 
 
 r I ^O-DAY, up yonder turnpike-road, 
 Past clover waiting to be mowed, 
 Past fields of growing grain, 
 With banners waving proud and high, 
 And music singing to the sky, 
 The Twelfth comes back again. 
 
 It comes with all its record clear 
 To write its history on the year, 
 
 Each man himself a brave; 
 And we, forgetting in our joy 
 How many a mother's darling boy 
 
 Has found a Southern grave. 
 
 85
 
 86 THE TWELFTH COMES BACK TO- DA Y. 
 
 Two years ago, in spring-time bloom, 
 From out the shadow of this room 
 
 My tear-dimmed eyes were bent; 
 The Twelfth went marching down that road, 
 Each casting forth his own heart-load, 
 
 And singing as he went. 
 
 That day, amid the wild hurrah, 
 There softly opened yonder door, 
 
 And in came one alone : 
 He looked so handsome in his blue, 
 And in his eyes, so soft and true, 
 
 A light unusual shone. 
 
 He spoke as though he had been sent 
 With tidings of some good intent ; 
 
 And thus the message ran : 
 " Maggie, I held against my heart 
 Till now a false and selfish part, 
 
 And failed me as a man.
 
 THE TWELFTH COMES BACK TO- DA Y. 87 
 
 " This morning, in the ringing shout, 
 In every blast the band sends out, 
 
 In every tap of drum, 
 I hear the voices of the dead, 
 The echoes of their ghostly tread, 
 Persuading me to come. 
 
 " And so I've donned this glorious blue, 
 And come, unsoiled, to speak with you, 
 
 The last one in this town. 
 Maggie ! with all my heart and soul 
 I love you. Maggie, hear the whole, 
 
 My own ! before you frown. 
 
 " Since those bright days when we forsook 
 The sunny road for some lone nook, 
 
 And conned the self-same task, 
 I've loved you, Maggie, true and long, 
 But be it right or be it wrong 
 My heart has worn a mask.
 
 83 THE TWELFTH COMES BACK TO DAY. 
 
 " I knew how good and pure you were : 
 ' I can do naught deserving her,' 
 My faltering heart-words said. 
 And as I loved years sped away, 
 While I, to see thee day by day, 
 My faltering heart obeyed. 
 
 " But, Maggie, with this morning's light 
 There came a glorious second-sight, 
 
 A vision from on high ! 
 It said, ' Your heart's delusion quell, 
 And win the one you love so well. 
 
 Hark ! to your country's cry !' 
 
 " My place is vacant in the line, 
 I wait but for a single sign, 
 
 To know if this be true ; 
 I wait but for a glance, a word, 
 To know if this emotion stirred 
 
 Is shared, my own, by you."
 
 THE TWELFTH COMES BACK TO-DAY. 89 
 
 A moment more, and on his breast 
 I calmed his doubting heart's unrest, 
 
 And sped him on his way. 
 Since then that one that came alone 
 Has made me feel his deeds my own, 
 
 And proudly wait to-day. 
 
 Tis I that now must doubter be 
 Until I know he still loves me, 
 
 Since he has grown so great. 
 A hero coming from the South, 
 Whose praise is full in every mouth, 
 
 Is he for whom I wait.
 
 THE WALTZ OF ANTIETAM. 
 
 "How do you like the new waltz?" I was asked as we whirled 
 away. 
 
 "Beautiful! What is it?" 
 
 " The Antietam Waltz," was the answer. 
 
 OO soon ere yet the life-blood dries 
 
 That gushed from many a manly breast, 
 Ere yet the cry of woe is o'er, 
 
 And ere the wearied victors rest 
 Upon their bruised and battered arms 
 The harp and horn have gayly pealed 
 To merry groups a gladsome air 
 Of red Antietam's field. 
 
 Beneath the glare of myriad lamps 
 
 How many bosoms softly beat 
 
 oo
 
 THE WALTZ OF ANTIETAM. 91 
 
 An echo to the mocking air 
 
 That moves the facile dancers' feet! 
 
 But look abroad at those bereft 
 Of every hope and living shield; 
 
 Their hearts lie buried with the dead 
 Upon Antietam's field. 
 
 I would not stay the tide of mirth, 
 Nor stop to weep amid the gladness, 
 
 But still I'd have that joyful air 
 Replaced by one of quiet sadness. 
 
 Upon the wind were other sounds 
 
 When rushing thousands madly reeled, 
 
 With shout and groan and deadly blow, 
 Upon Antietam's field. 
 
 One merry whirl, then come to me 
 And let me tell thee tales of truth 
 
 How the strong man went boldly forth, 
 In all the confidence of youth,
 
 92 THE WALTZ OF ANTIETAM. 
 
 To win a soldier's name and fame; 
 
 With nervous hand and bosom steeled, 
 He sought them both amid the fray 
 Upon Antietam's field. 
 
 He fell, with torn and broken limbs; 
 
 Right onward swept the countless throng; 
 Trampled beneath the horses' feet, 
 
 Or, fainting, borne with speed along, 
 Smeared with the sand and clotted gore, 
 
 No more his hand the weapons wield ; 
 He gasps he staggers, and he falls 
 Upon Antietam's field. 
 
 Oh, well it were no mother's eye 
 Should see him in that dreadful hour, 
 
 Howe'er might soothe her kindly touch, 
 However healing be her power! 
 
 All gashed and crushed, with starting eyes, 
 His livid features half revealed,
 
 THE WALTZ OF ANTIETAM. 93 
 
 He lies, a mass of lifeless dross, 
 
 Upon Antietam's field. 
 
 i 
 
 Trace with the limner's magic art 
 The deeds we term unfading glory, 
 
 Or weave them in undying song, 
 Or tell them in immortal story; 
 
 Still will it be a thrice-told tale, 
 A truth that will not be concealed, 
 
 A drama acted o'er and o'er 
 Upon Antietam's field. 
 
 Then change the music of to-night, 
 
 Or bid it bear some other name, 
 And, though the very note and time, 
 
 It will not seem or sound the same ; 
 And if through many a weary year 
 
 Its gaping wounds remain unhealed, 
 We'll chase from memory all the woe 
 Of red Antietam's field.
 
 MY SERGEANT OF THE GUARD 
 
 T T ERE, sergeant of the light-horse troop ! 
 
 A glass of eau de vie ; 
 The night is full of whistling wind 
 
 And chill as chill can be. 
 I heaped the camp-fire high ablaze 
 
 To meet thee on thy round, 
 And I will be thy Ganymede 
 Thy couch shall be the ground. 
 
 I like your looks, my sergeant bold, 
 
 Your eye that never quails ; 
 Of Lucknow and of Inkermann 
 
 I like your soldier-tales; 
 I like the medals on your breast, 
 
 I like your forehead scarred; 
 
 94
 
 MY SERGEANT OF THE GUARD. 95 
 
 And then by Jove ! I like your beard, 
 My sergeant of the guard. 
 
 I watched you in the battle-front, 
 
 Where shell and ball flew fast, 
 When many a brave heart stopped appalled 
 
 Before the iron blast 
 I watched your careless riding in 
 
 To hack and hew and gash, 
 And said, " By Jove ! I'll live to see 
 
 Him wear a yellow sash." 
 
 Another horn of eau de vie 
 
 The first was not so large 
 Then tell me of the ride you took 
 
 At Balaklava's charge ; 
 And tell me how, through blood and smoke, 
 
 You fought at the Redan, 
 And where, when fighting hand to hand, 
 
 You found the better man. 
 F
 
 96 MY SERGEANT OF THE GUARD. 
 
 " Your health, my captain ; may we soon 
 
 Ride such another tilt; 
 I love the sound of clattering hoofs 
 
 And swords crossed hilt to hilt. 
 There's music in the bugle's blare 
 
 Beyond the scan of art; 
 There's glory in the squadron's rush 
 
 To fire a dying heart. 
 
 " I've fought upon a score of fields, 
 
 And bloody fields were they ; 
 I've rode full many a fearful ride 
 
 In many a fearful fray. 
 At Inkermann, on Alma's field, 
 
 And at the great Redan, 
 I've watched with jealous eyes and ears 
 
 To find the better man. 
 
 "The better man is he whose heart 
 Is knitted to the fight;
 
 MY SERGEANT OF THE GUARD. 97 
 
 Whose arm is clothed in conscious strength 
 
 From striking for the right ; 
 Whose blows, my captain, hottest fall 
 
 Amid the deadliest strife, 
 Will know no brother that is foe 
 
 To liberty and life. 
 
 He marches on with sturdy steps, 
 
 Still singing as he goes, 
 His country's banner in the breeze, 
 
 To flaunt before its foes. 
 Good men there were at Inkermann, 
 
 And at the great Redan, 
 But, ah ! they lacked the strength of heart 
 
 To make the better man. 
 
 ' He fights to save the glorious land 
 
 That nurtured him from birth ; 
 He fights to save the truest flag 
 That ever flew on earth.
 
 98 MY SERGEANT OF THE GUARD. 
 
 His only thought is how to be 
 
 For ever in the van ; 
 And this whatever be his creed 
 
 Is still the better man." 
 
 Bravo, my sergeant of the guard ! 
 
 I'll drink a health to thee, 
 For every word thou say'st to-night 
 
 Are words of gold to me. 
 I love thy tales of Inkermann, 
 
 And of the great Redan, 
 But better far the tale thou'st told 
 
 About the better man.
 
 THE BALL IS UP. 
 
 ball is up at the Central Park! 
 Come, gather your skates and away; 
 There's glorious health and the heart's true wealth, 
 
 Out on the ice to-day. 
 Ah ! now I see your flashing eyes 
 
 The ice is a wonderful spell 
 Yes, she is there, that maid so fair, 
 She whom you love so well. 
 
 You loved her, when to the harp and horn 
 
 You swung her in the dance; 
 When through the night, by the crystal light, 
 
 You watched her silent glance. 
 You loved her when you held her hand 
 
 And saw her cheek grow pale ; 
 
 99
 
 IOO THE BALL IS UP. 
 
 The night when first your courage durst 
 Breathe forth the old, old tale. 
 
 But now to-day, when the ball is up, 
 
 And she, the loved one, there, 
 The blue of the skies will blend with her eyes, 
 
 And the gold of the sun with her hair. 
 Ah ! then you will love her twice as much 
 
 As ever you did before ; 
 That the ice is a spell you will learn full well, 
 
 More potent than ball-room floor. 
 
 You can mark the flush on her rounded cheek, 
 
 The flash in her love-lit eyes, 
 The waist you have spanned, and the tiny hand, 
 
 And the lips without disguise. 
 You will like them better, my boy, to-day, 
 
 Under the light of the sun; 
 By its golden glow you will learn to know 
 
 What you have wooed and won.
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 IT was Christmas ; and up with the rise of the 
 * 
 sun 
 
 Got merrily every blithe little one : 
 
 The first thing they did was to rush with a clatter, 
 Which waked the whole house to know what was 
 the matter, 
 
 To look in their stockings and count up their joys, 
 To taste of the sugar-plums, gaze at the toys; 
 
 For their hearts were too full of their wonderful 
 wealth 
 
 To think of their playing, not even by stealth. 
 
 101
 
 102 CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 From the depths of these stockings they quickly 
 
 turned out 
 Enough of the good things to silence all doubt. 
 
 There were papers and boxes, with candies so rare 
 That the very first opening perfumed the air; 
 
 There were nine-pins and chequers for Walter and 
 
 Dan, 
 Croquet and a sweet little Dollie for Fan 
 
 A doll that called forth from her dear little eyes 
 The sparkles of gratitude, love and surprise; 
 
 For its dress was the brightest and bluest of silk, 
 And the trimming as white as the whitest of milk, 
 
 While its boots they were made from the finest of 
 
 kid, 
 And its soft sunny locks by a bonnet half hid
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY. 1 03 
 
 A bonnet that by its appearance alone 
 Looked much as though fairies had milliners 
 grown. 
 
 And there was a package for Daisy the queen 
 A box with contents such as never were seen, 
 
 For in it were nestled a necklace and brooch, 
 And ear-rings that fairly defied all reproach ; 
 
 While for Maud and for Del there were oceans 
 
 of things, 
 Such as only at Christmas Old Santa Claus 
 
 brings : 
 
 Books, pictures and puzzles, and wonderful games, 
 And things of which I have forgotten the names ; 
 
 But all of them charming, and all of them rare, 
 Enough to make every little one stare,
 
 104 CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 And wish, with a mingling of longing and fear, 
 That Christmas would come every month in the 
 year. 
 
 With a chatter like magpies they hurried to dress., 
 Mixing up with their joy an occasional guess 
 
 As to what Will and Clara, who lived the next 
 
 door, 
 Had got in their stockings from Santa Claus' store ; 
 
 And if Cousin May, who had longed for a doll, 
 Had got it, or got any present at all. 
 
 So, with guessing, and chattering, and laughing 
 
 aloud, 
 Of a sudden the breakfast- bell startled the crowd ; 
 
 But, alas for the breakfast ! each frolicsome elf, 
 So sated with joy, had forgotten itself;
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY. 105 
 
 And, uneaten, the breakfast was left on the board, 
 For the pleasures that dwelt in their new-gotten hoard. 
 
 Oh, then what a row-de-dow, rumpus and riot 
 There came from that crowd, who, in general, were 
 quiet ! 
 
 Such Ohs ! and such Ahs ! and such screams of 
 
 delight ! 
 The whole was enough to deafen one quite, 
 
 
 
 If it had not been Christmas, when each little throat 
 Is permitted to scream its most wonderful note. 
 
 And so, with their games and exchanging of toys, 
 The morn passed away with a plenty of noise, 
 
 Until the bell rang, and there came the first guest, 
 Followed up by some more : each was dressed in 
 their best.
 
 106 CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 There were aunties, and uncles, and cousins, and 
 
 friends, 
 And such other good things as Santa Claus sends ; 
 
 For what is there better, when Christmas comes 
 
 round, 
 Than that aunties and uncles and cousins be found 
 
 Filling up at the table each welcoming seat, 
 And helping at dinner the pudding to eat? 
 
 And oh, what a dinner! The water runs down 
 In a stream from my mouth, as this feast of renown 
 
 Flashes back on my memory, waking a sigh 
 For the visions of turkey, of pudding and pie 
 
 That went, as such good things have vanished 
 
 before, 
 Down that very red lane always gaping for more.
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY. IO/ 
 
 That pudding, a marvellous compound of sweets 
 The pudding that every one, young and old, eats 
 
 The pudding of Christmas, the pudding of age, 
 The pudding of youth, of the fool, of the sage 
 
 The pudding that wakes in the wanderer's brain 
 The last latent thought of his home once again. 
 
 Then, after the pudding, what revel and rout! 
 What a pulling of cousins around and about ! 
 
 What a wonderful playing of "blind-man's buff!" 
 And of " puss-in-a-corner " they had more than enough ; 
 
 Then, " Open the gates as high as the sky," 
 Gave a help to the hours just wandering by, 
 
 Until, when the shadows of evening fell, 
 
 There was dancing, and songs that we all knew so well
 
 108 CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 That we joined in the choruses, roaring our best, 
 Long after the sun had sunk down in the west. 
 
 With the lighting of lamps a rumor went round, 
 In a whisper, that soon there would be on the 
 ground 
 
 No less of a personage, hearty and true, 
 Than Santa Claus proper, and Mrs. S too. 
 
 The whisper had scarcely got scattered about 
 When we heard from the distance a faint little 
 shout : 
 
 The door was thrown open, and there, on my life, 
 Stood Santa himself, and his quaint little wife. 
 
 They nodded and bowed, and shook hands all 
 
 around, 
 And did everything in creation but frowned.
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY. I<X) 
 
 They laughed, and they sang, and made fun for 
 
 us all, 
 And they, danced the last dance from the Carnival 
 
 ball, 
 
 Till we thought that each youngster its buttons 
 
 would burst, 
 As they laughed at the pranks of King Santa Claus 
 
 First ; 
 
 And then, as the evening drew on apace, 
 He held up his hand with an exquisite grace, 
 
 And hushing the laughter, he uttered some 
 
 words 
 That sounded to all like the singing of birds. 
 
 He said, " Now, my darlings, I mean you to 
 
 see 
 My latest invention a real Christmas tree :
 
 HO CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 So follow your leader;" and off in a trice 
 We marched two by two through the room once 
 or twice, 
 
 With him and his jolly old wife at the head, 
 And the music kept time to our frolicsome tread. 
 
 The dining-room doors swung back at his knock, 
 And the sight that we saw was almost like a 
 shock. 
 
 There, stretching its length in a gorgeous array, 
 A feast for the fairies in opulence lay ; 
 
 And right in the middle, all studded with light, 
 Stood an evergreen tree a most beautiful sight. 
 
 It was hung from its top to its bottom with toys; 
 There were some for the girls and some for the 
 boys.
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY. Ill 
 
 And there we ate ices and jellies and cake, 
 
 And drank lemonade, till they made our jaws ache ; 
 
 And we laughed and we talked, and then, after that 
 Mr. Santa Claus drew out our names from a hat; 
 
 And as they were called, each advanced, and was 
 
 free 
 To choose what they liked from the magical tree. 
 
 Oh, merciless Time! could you lend me your 
 
 wings 
 To go back through the pleasuring record of kings, 
 
 I doubt if the seeking would show me a day 
 Like that which I sing and you hurried away; 
 
 For, as life leads us on and you cut short our 
 years, 
 
 We find there's less laughs, but a plenty of tears. 
 
 G
 
 1 1 2 CHRISTMAS DA Y. 
 
 We find that our pudding has not the same phase 
 As that which we ate in our innocent days. 
 
 But ten strikes the clock : it is time to depart. 
 Santa Claus and his wife have gone off like a 
 dart ; 
 
 And of all that were there not a soul could have 
 
 said, 
 With a certainty, whither the couple had fled 
 
 Whether out by the door, or out through the wall, 
 Or up by the chimney, or whether at all 
 
 They had left, or had only, by Santa Claus' power, 
 Just made themselves viewless at that very hour. 
 
 So they kissed all around and bade a " Good- 
 night !" 
 Some looking worn-out and some jolly and bright;
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY. 113 
 
 But not one of all, though 'most dropping to sleep, 
 But spake out their wish, and as ardent as deep, 
 
 Said, " May we all live until this time next year, 
 And spend CHRISTMAS DAY with you merrily here !"
 
 I WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW 
 YEAR. 
 
 T WISH you a Happy New Year, 
 
 Gentlemen, one and all, 
 And you, most charming ladies, 
 
 Who grace this splendid hall. 
 The wind is free and biting cold, 
 
 But the fire is very near; 
 I watch its glare through the window-pane; 
 
 So I wish you a Happy New Year. 
 
 Excuse me if my nose is blue, 
 If my garments are not whole ; 
 
 Your coats, I see, are of double cloth, 
 Your boots are a double sole. 
 
 It is gay and glorious wine you drink 
 
 I can see it sparkle from here, 
 111
 
 / WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR. 11$ 
 
 As I stand on the pavement cold and wet, 
 And wish you a Happy New Year. 
 
 ladies bright and beautiful ! 
 I came but an hour ago 
 
 From a lonely room, in a lonely street, 
 That your footsteps never know; 
 
 1 saw a woman whose blood I see 
 Stitched in your robes of silk 
 
 How she would have relished a glass of wine, 
 Instead of her bread and milk ! 
 
 The times are very, very hard, 
 
 And labor very low 
 In yonder garret there lies a man 
 
 Whose head is tinged with snow : 
 The landlord says he must die to-day, 
 
 He looks so gaunt and grim ; 
 He says he owes for a quarter's rent 
 
 It is very bad for him.
 
 Il6 I WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR. 
 
 Fair lady you with the golden hair 
 
 Come gaze at this thin-lipped child; 
 See how she shivers and shrinks along, 
 
 And looks so wan and wild. 
 Did you notice, lady bright and fair, 
 
 That she had an eye like you ? 
 It was dim and sad with hunger and cold, 
 
 But a perfectly heavenly blue. 
 
 It was but a few short minutes ago, 
 
 As I came through yonder lane, 
 That I met a pale and trembling girl, 
 
 Whose face was marked with pain. 
 She clutched her fingers long and thin, 
 
 And raised her tearless eye 
 To the tempting loaves in a baker's shop, 
 
 And hurried swiftly by! 
 
 I knew that pale and tearless girl 
 When she was enshrined, like you,
 
 / WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR. IT? 
 
 The jewel of a peerless home, 
 
 The well-beloved and true. 
 Change comes, my gentle lady fair 
 
 Change to the loved and dear ; 
 But change may never come to you ; 
 
 So I wish you a Happy New Year. 
 
 Ah me ! when I was a little boy 
 
 That was a happy time 
 The New Year was a New Year then, 
 
 My life a pleasant rhyme ; 
 But the time has passed, and brought a change, 
 
 A change for sorrow and woe ; 
 But I will not speak of that happier time, 
 
 'Tis so very long ago. 
 
 And now, my gentle ladies all, 
 
 May you never know want or sin : 
 
 I see that the toes are out of my boots, 
 And the snow-water rushes in ;
 
 Il8 I WISH YOU A NAPPY NEW YEAR. 
 
 So I bid you all a gay good-bye, 
 Though bread is very dear; 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, fair and good, 
 I wish you a Happy New Year,
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 THE edition of " Beautiful Snow and Other Poems" just 
 issued by the Publishers of "The Outcast and Other 
 Poems" being a new and enlarged one, they feel it incum- 
 bent on them to say something in reference to certain of 
 the poems therein contained, especially the leading poem 
 of "Beautiful Snow." 
 
 This fine poem has had the singular literary fate of hav- 
 ing been claimed by no less than eight or nine different 
 persons, several of whom have actually disputed with the 
 real author through the public press and with the Pub- 
 lishers, ending only in their shame and their conviction of 
 falsehood. 
 
 That all false claims and falsehoods might be set at rest, 
 we publish in the same volume with "Beautiful Snow" 
 several more of Mr. Watson's poems, which will show by 
 their beauty and the style that they are all from the same 
 hand. 
 
 " The Dying Soldier " is a poem that has achieved won- 
 derful popularity ; and it is a fact worth mentioning that 
 this poem and "Beautiful Snow" were both read upon 
 nights, a few months since, to audiences ranging from one 
 thousand to four thousand, in seven of the great cities of 
 the country, including New York, Philadelphia and Boston. 
 
 "Ring Down the Drop, I Cannot Play!" was written 
 after a circumstance that occurred several years since at 
 the Terre Haute theatre, where Mr. McKean Buchanan and 
 
 119
 
 120 APPENDIX. 
 
 his daughter were playing, and simply follows his words 
 and tells the story as it occurred. 
 
 "The Sailing of the Yachts " was written at the time of 
 the famous ocean yacht-race, and was thought by the 
 New York Herald worthy of insertion in its editorial 
 pages. 
 
 The universal press of the country received the first 
 edition of "Beautiful Snow and Other Poems" with the 
 highest commendation, and especially spoke of "The 
 Patter of Little Feet," " The Oldest Pauper on the Town," 
 "Drowned," "No Letter," "The Sunlight in Her Hair," 
 "Death's Carriage Stops the Way," "Farmer Brown," 
 and of Mr. Watson as a poet of the highest order, and one 
 who appeals directly to the human heart. 
 
 In issuing the last edition of "Beautiful Snow," several 
 other poems written by Mr. Watson have been added to 
 the volume, viz.: "The Kiss in the Street," "I Would 
 that She were Dead," "What I Saw," "Please Help the 
 Blind," "Somewhere to Go," and "Swinging in the 
 Dance." These poems possess great interest, and display 
 a lively and pleasant fancy, as well as a genuine, hearty sym- 
 pathy with the joys and sorrows of humanity. They will 
 take strong hold of the heart and memory, and will live and 
 last because they touch many chords of human sympathy. 
 
 We also append a copy of a letter written by Mr. Watson 
 to the publishers of the first edition of "Beautiful Snow 
 and Other Poems," claiming his authorship of it : 
 
 NEW YORK, May 4, 1869. 
 
 GENTLEMEN, In answer to your inquiry, I will give, in 
 as few words as possible, the history of the poem of 
 "Beautiful Snow ;" and as it has acquired some notoriety 
 or celebrity by having sundry claimants, which certainly 
 is flattering to me, I will, as far as I can, spea.k of these. 
 
 I wrote "Beautiful Snow " in the fall of 1858, while on
 
 APPENDIX. 121 
 
 a visit of a few days to Hartford, Connecticut. Where I 
 got the idea from it is hard to recall at this late day, but 
 it certainly was not from "sitting in any Broadway saloon," 
 or having " the idea suggested by any fallen woman." I 
 wrote it, as I have written a hundred other things, from the 
 thought of the moment, and sent it, as I then sent all my 
 writings, to Messrs. Harper & Brothers, who printed it in 
 their Weekly.' 
 
 The poem becoming popular, and apparently having no 
 real father, it suffered the fate of all other orphans of a 
 literary class, and was claimed by a dozen. I have in my 
 possession hundreds of copies of it, cut from country and 
 European papers, in some of which the title of the poem is 
 altered ; in others the text is changed, words cut out, and 
 words interpolated ; and I count no less than nine different 
 copies with as many stranger names at their heads. This 
 was at first a source of amusement to. me, and I never 
 thought it worth while to claim the production openly 
 before the public until one impudent charlatan, whose 
 name I Avill spare in this letter, wrote, over his own signa- 
 ture, to the New York Sunday Times, claiming its paternity. 
 Even this would have been amusing, had not the fellow, 
 when confronted by Mr. Stephen Massett, who had been 
 reading the poem all over the world, in his entertainment 
 of "Drifting About," told that gentleman coolly that my 
 name must be erased from his bills, and his own, as the 
 real author, substituted. Not content with this, he went to 
 the Messrs. Harpers' and declared himself the author, and 
 denounced me as a fraud. As this had become serious, I 
 wrote a letter to the Times relating the manner and time 
 of its writing and publication, which happened to be about 
 five years before this fellow claimed to have written it, and 
 then, taking a friend with me, I called on him. I was 
 utterly astounded to find that he still persisted in his as- 
 sertion to my face, but like a noble fellow he pitied me
 
 122 APPENDIX. 
 
 for having claimed it, declared he forgave me, and actually 
 offered to shake hands with me. I think he was a little 
 disgusted when I insisted on his proofs of authorship, to pro- 
 duce which I gave him two months, though he only asked 
 two weeks ; and as that is three years ago, I presume he is 
 searching for them yet. I have heard of him since reciting 
 the poem as his own, and publishing in country papers 
 doggerel verse, endorsed editorially, to prove that he wrote 
 it, which I should think proves very positively that he 
 never wrote anything in his life that possessed either 
 rhythm, rhyme, or grammar. 
 
 I only speak of this case as interesting on account of its 
 singularity, for, though I have met many odd cases of 
 claimants before and since, none had the interest for me 
 that this had. I have been present several times and heard 
 the poem recited, and heard the orators claim it as their 
 own ; and only a few weeks since I was delighted to hear a 
 very pretty young lady in your own city, before an audi- 
 ence of a thousand people, give the first two verses garbled, 
 and then add several of her own or somebody else's, which 
 I am much too modest to wish to own, though her pro- 
 grammes had my name in full as the author. 
 
 Of some of the reputed claimants I can speak knowingly. 
 One who has been paraded especially as the writer, Dora 
 Shaw, declared to me, personally, that she had never 
 claimed it ; and I believe her. The story, romantic as it 
 is, originated in the brain of some country editor, and has 
 as little foundation in the life of that lady as it has in her 
 mournful death, seeing that she still lives. 
 
 I have never offered proofs of authorship, for the simple 
 reason that I have looked upon such a course as absurd. 
 Any one claiming the least literary judgment can see by 
 my other poems that they are all of the same family, and 
 that it is only by the accident of popularity that " Beauti- 
 ful Snow " ever had any claimant but myself. It certainly
 
 APPENDIX. 123 
 
 is flattering and gratifying to me, and it would be strange 
 if, with that belief, I should not entirely forgive any one 
 who has so flattered me. 
 
 With thanks for your kindness and liberality, and a hope 
 that, for your sakes, the republication in book form may be 
 a success, I write myself, 
 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 J. W. WATSON. 
 
 "Beautiful Snow" having achieved such a wonderful 
 popularity in this country and in Europe, and in its travel- 
 ling through the press becoming mutilated, we purchased 
 the copyright, and have published it in the beautiful style 
 it is now issued in. Its great sale has warranted our belief 
 in its popularity and its fast-increasing appreciation by the 
 public at large. 
 
 To show the estimation "Beautiful Snow and Other 
 Poems " is held in by the united public press of the coun- 
 try, we append a few notices of the work : 
 
 "Few poems have been more popular in this country 
 than 'Beautiful Snow.' Its authorship has been claimed 
 for several different persons, and not many weeks since we 
 saw the old statement to the effect that the manuscript was 
 found on the person of an unfortunate woman after her 
 death, and that she was the author. Every reader will 
 remember the long discussion provoked by this statement 
 when it first appeared years ago. The many who read it 
 then had copies of the poem laid away in scrap-books, for 
 it had touched everybody as it had touched the unfortunate 
 woman who carried a manuscript copy with her to her 
 grave. It is now definitely stated that this poem was writ- 
 ten by Mr. Watson in 1858, and was published in Harpers' 
 Weekly. People liked the melody and the spirit. It 
 pleased even when it did not touch the deeper feelings.
 
 124 APPENDIX. 
 
 When, some years later, 'The Dying Soldier' appeared, it 
 was scarcely necessary to say ' by the author of Beautiful 
 .Snow,' because there were the marks of the same heart and 
 hand about it. This poem touched the soldiers as the other 
 had touched the people. There is no pretence of giving 
 the soldier vernacular, but the dramatic situations and the 
 whole spirit of the scene were as if torn from the battle- 
 field. The intensity of feeling, the quick-spoken words 
 charging like bewildered soldiers, first this way, then that, 
 whirling constantly in a dizzy way to the same point of 
 'Wasn't it grand?' and the rough, nervous asking for 
 prayer, are so in keeping with the battle atmosphere that 
 makes men demons and babes in spirit in the same minute, 
 that the poem found in those years of war a place in every 
 heart. In many of the other poems there is this war feel- 
 ing this suggestion of terribly dramatic action and of 
 quick-beating hearts, and in all there is the quality that 
 touches one, and, we may say, saddens." Toledo Blade. 
 
 " In issuing the present new and enlarged edition of 
 'Beautiful Snow' several other poems written by Mr. Wat- 
 son, and not included in the first edition, have been added 
 to it viz. : 'The Kiss in the Street,' 'I Would that She 
 were Dead,' 'What I Saw,' 'Please Help the Blind,' 'Some- 
 where to Go,' and 'Swinging in the Dance.' The poem 
 which lends its name to the book, 'Beautiful Snow,' treats 
 of a well-worn subject with originality and feeling at once 
 delicate and intense. The despair of the wretched outcast 
 as she watches the falling of the pure, beautiful, yet cold 
 and unfeeling snow, and remembers that she was once as 
 fair and pure, is depicted with true artistic effect All the 
 poems in the volume possess great interest and display a 
 lively and pleasant fancy, as well as a genuine, hearty sym- 
 pathy with the joys and sorrows of humanity. They will 
 take strong hold of the heart and memory, and will live
 
 APPENDIX. 125 
 
 and last because they touch many chords of human sym- 
 pathy. ' Beautiful Snow and Other Poems ' is complete in 
 one large octavo volume, and is printed on the finest tinted 
 plate paper, bound in morocco cloth, with beveled boards, 
 gilt top, gilt side stamp and back. It is one of the hand- 
 somest volumes ever issued in this country. Price of the 
 book bound in this style, $2. In full gilt, full gilt edges, 
 full gilt sides, etc., $3. In full Turkey morocco, full gilt 
 edges, sides, etc., $4." Weekly Press, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 " 'Beautiful Snow and Other Poems,' by J. W. Watson, 
 would make an acceptable present to any one. It is 
 complete in one volume, printed on the finest tinted plate 
 paper and elegantly bound. ' Beautiful Snow ' is admired 
 throughout this country and Europe, and the other poems 
 possess great merit. The first mentioned has been claimed 
 by a number of persons, but it is doubtless the production 
 of Mr. Watson, who wrote it while on a visit to Hartford 
 in November, 1858. It was published immediately after- 
 ward in Harpers' Weekly. Peterson & Brothers have pur- 
 chased the copyright, and have now presented it to the pub- 
 lic in a beautiful and enduring form." New York Weekly. 
 
 "The poem of 'Beautiful Snow' has been, like that 
 other sentimental lyric, 'Rock me to Sleep, Mother,' both 
 widely popular and bitterly contested as to authorship. We 
 believe there is now no denial that Mr. Watson wrote 
 'Beautiful Snow;' and, apart from other proofs, this vol- 
 ume presents that one, without which all documentary and 
 circumstantial evidence in such cases amounts to nothing 
 the proof, namely, that he could write it, in that he has 
 written numerous other pieces showing the same poetic 
 feeling and skill, and, let us add, the same faults ; for Mr. 
 Watson's poetry is not perfect in artistic form, though it 
 has power to touch the heart. Such pieces as ' The Dying
 
 126 APPENDIX. 
 
 Soldier ' are powerful in suggestion and in dramatic vivid- 
 ness, while others, like 'Swinging in the Dance,' are 
 more graceful and less out of the commonplace of society 
 verses. But the volume, as a whole, is exceedingly attract- 
 ive, and this new edition contains several poems not con- 
 tained in the former one." New York Christian Union. 
 
 "T. B. Peterson & Brothers publish } Beautiful Snow 
 and Other Poems,' by J. W. Watson. The book contains 
 as one of its attractions the poem called 'Beautiful Snow,' 
 whose heart-stirring pictures have touched the tenderest emo- 
 tions of humanity, and will never lose their power to awaken 
 sympathy for the unfortunate victim whose remorse and 
 penitence find eloquent utterance in other poems. ' The 
 Patter of Little Feet' and 'The Dying Soldier' evince a 
 lively fancy and a hearty sympathy with human joys and 
 sorrows. It is one of the choice books of the season, and 
 is printed and bound in a style suitable for presentation, 
 and will be acceptable for its well-known leading picture 
 of winter loveliness." Boston Daily Evening Transcript. 
 
 " 'Beautiful Snow and other Poems' were evidently 
 written at leisure moments, and though the author does 
 not claim to be a poet, several of them have touched the 
 popular heart in a manner indicative of great intrinsic 
 worth. ' Beautiful Snow ' was, at the time of its publica- 
 tion, one of the most successful poems that ever appeared 
 in a periodical. There is much in the volume that can be 
 highly commended." New York Daily Times. 
 
 " ' Beautiful Snow and Other Poems' has had great popu- 
 larity, which is not likely to diminish, as it touchingly tells 
 the tale of many a soul-wreck. Several other poems of the 
 volume have achieved a wide popularity, among which may 
 be mentioned 'The Dying Soldier,' 'The Oldest Pauper
 
 APPENDIX. 1 27 
 
 on the Town,' ' Patter of Little Feet ' and ' Farmer Brown.' 
 The popularity of these pieces is accounted for not only by 
 their genuine poetic fancy and lyric power, but by the sym- 
 pathy they awaken in the heart of universal humanity. The 
 authorship of ' Beautiful Snow' has been claimed by a num- 
 ber of persons, and has been the subject of much newspaper 
 comment. The claims of Mr. Watson, however, are now 
 established beyond all question." Lutheran Observer. 
 
 "Mr. Watson has found, in his 'Beautiful Snow and 
 Other Poems,' his way to the hearts of a large class of 
 readers, and the volume will win a warm welcome from 
 them. ' ' Cincinnati Gazette. 
 
 " This new and enlarged edition of ' Beautiful Snow and 
 other Poems,' by J. W. Watson, is as handsome, inside 
 and out, as one could desire, and the contents really de- 
 serve their fine dress. It is rare that a collection of poems 
 contains so much which many will recognize as pleasantly 
 familiar, and which those most familiar with it will be the 
 first and warmest to welcome in book form. The popular 
 poem which gives a name to the volume does not strike us 
 as the best, though its popularity is not undeserved. We 
 find in a number of the others even more of that careless 
 vigor and unstudied felicity in which the author excels. It 
 is a pleasing collection." Boston Commonwealth. 
 
 "It is finally settled that Mr. J. W. Watson wrote 
 'Beautiful Snow.' That and 'other poems' have been 
 put in very elegant book form by T. B. Peterson & 
 Brothers. The book is bound in maroon and gold, and 
 the typography is excellent Thousands of young ladies 
 think ' Beautiful Snow ' is so full of sympathy and sweet 
 suffering that thousands of young gentlemen cannot do 
 better than to buy the beauty of a book and present it to 
 
 II
 
 128 APPENDIX. 
 
 them. 'The Sunlight in her Hair,' 'No Letter,' 'A Million, 
 All in Gold,' 'Death's Carriage Stops the Way,' 'My 
 Pipe,' 'Ring Down the Drop, I Cannot Play,' and twenty 
 other 'characteristic' poems of kindred title and tendency, 
 are relied on by the author to attain publicity along wUh 
 ' Beautiful Snow.' "Brooklyn (TV. F.) Eagle. 
 
 " T. B. Peterson & Brothers, of Philadelphia, have pub- 
 lished a new edition of J. W. Watson's ' Beautiful Snow 
 and Other Poems.' The long-standing controversy upon 
 the authorship of the first poem in the volume appears to 
 be settled in favor of Mr. Watson, and the very handsome 
 style in which his works are now issued must add to their 
 already extensive popularity." New York Sun. 
 
 " 'Beautiful Snow,' the leading poem in the volume en- 
 titled 'Beautiful Snow and Other Poems,' is one of the 
 most exquisite productions known in the history of our lit- 
 erature ; and the other poems contained in the book can 
 have no higher recommendation than that they are by the 
 same author." journal, Wilmington, N. C. 
 
 "A new and enlarged edition of 'Beautiful Snow and 
 Other Poems,' by J. W. Watson, has just been published 
 by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. The contents 
 of the volume are, to a great degree, of a domestic cha- 
 racter, and offer many attractions to the lovers of emotional 
 poetry." New York Tribune. 
 
 "A new and elegant edition of 'Beautiful Snow and 
 Other Poems ' is just from the press of Messrs. T. B. Peter- 
 son & Brothers. The poems of this writer commend them- 
 selves to all for their originality, purity of sentiment, and 
 delicacy of treatment. A number of gems, not to be found 
 in any previous edition of Mr. Watson's poems, find place
 
 APPENDIX. 129 
 
 in this, such as ' The Kiss in the Street,' ' I Would that 
 She were Dead,' 'Please Help the Blind,' 'What I Saw,' 
 * Swinging in the Dance,' and 'Somewhere to Go.' The 
 volume is printed from clear type, on fine tinted plate 
 paper, and is handsomely bound in green and gold, with 
 gilt tops." Boston Daily Traveler. 
 
 ''As a holiday or presentation book to any one, the ap- 
 pearance of this handsome volume, 'Beautiful Snow and 
 Other Poems,' from the press of T. B. Peterson & Brothers, 
 Philadelphia, is particularly apropos. The edition is a new 
 and enlarged one, bound in morocco cloth, and elegantly 
 gilt. With the poems most people have long since delighted 
 themselves. In the beautiful shape in which it is now given 
 to the reading community by the Petersons', it comes to us 
 in the nick of time." Philadelphia Sunday Mercury. 
 
 ''T. B. Peterson & Brothers have published a new edi- 
 tion much enlarged by the addition of seven new pieces 
 of 'Beautiful Snow and Other Poems,' by J. W. Watson. 
 The lyric which gives the title to this volume first appeared 
 in No. 100 of Harpers' Weekly (November 27, 1858), and, 
 as the saying is, immediately 'ran the round of the press' 
 in this country and in England. It has been claimed for 
 and by several persons, but, after a careful examination of 
 their various pretensions, we have no doubt that Mr. Watson 
 really is the author. The closing stanza, which was unjus- 
 tifiably altered, but not improved, to adapt the poem for 
 recitation in public, is given correctly in the present edi- 
 tion. Mr. Watson, who does not regularly belong to ' the 
 press,' has considerable facility whether knack or talent 
 we shall not pause to inquire in writing strikingly sensa- 
 tional ballads upon familiar subjects. Sometimes he infuses 
 tenderness and pathos into his effusions. 'The Oldest 
 Pauper on the Town,' 'Drowned' and 'Ring Down the
 
 1 30 APPENDIX. 
 
 Drop, I Cannot Play,' belong to this class. In the present 
 edition there are seven new poems. The book, which is 
 handsomely printed on tinted paper and richly bound in 
 morocco cloth, will doubtless have a large sale during the 
 approaching book-buying season." Philadelphia Press. 
 
 " 'Beautiful Snow' has been widely read and as widely 
 admired. It is delicate in imagery, liquid in movement 
 and extremely touching and happy in expression. It is one 
 of the happiest of works in conception and execution. 
 Although 'Beautiful Snow' is considered Mr. Watson's 
 finest poem, it is by no means the only one which is 
 worthy of more than passing remark. ' Beautiful Snow ' 
 has certainly attracted more attention than his other poems, 
 but such as 'Death's Carriage Stops the Way,' 'The Sun- 
 light in Her Hair,' 'No Letter,' 'The Dying Soldier,' 
 'The Patter of Little Feet,' and 'The Oldest Pauper on 
 the Town,' are all full of fine feeling, admirably expressed. 
 Mr. Watson is a much better poet than the world thinks. 
 His versification is always correct, and often full of novel 
 effect, and he selects excellent subjects. He deserves a 
 higher position in the literary circle of American authors 
 than has yet been granted him. The Petersons' have issued 
 the book in very tasteful style, and it is suitable for pres- 
 entation to any one. It is complete in one large octavo 
 volume, and is printed on the finest tinted plate paper, 
 bound in morocco cloth with beveled boards, gilt top, gilt 
 side and back. Price of 'Beautiful Snow and Other 
 Poems,' bound in this style, $2 ; price in morocco 
 cloth, full gilt edges, full gilt sides, back, etc., $3; price 
 in full Turkey morocco, full gilt edges, full gilt sides, back, 
 etc., $4." Philadelphia City Item. 
 
 "Watson's 'Beautiful Snow and Other Poems' is the 
 title of an elegantly bound and beautifully printed volume
 
 APPENDIX. 1 3 1 
 
 from the press of T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadel- 
 phia. Perhaps there never was a poem which met with 
 such sudden and widespread popularity, or was attributed 
 to so many celebrated authors, as 'Beautiful Snow.' Its 
 highly dramatic, combined with its practical character, 
 ranks it among those poetical effusions which will make 
 it acceptable in any age and country where our language 
 is understood. The other poems are evidently from the 
 same hand, and are worthy of their companionship with 
 the initial gem in the volume. The inscription on the first 
 page, 'To My Mother,' shows the existence of the true 
 poet's heart." Philadelphia Daily Bee. 
 
 " It is not often that so beautiful a volume as ' Beautiful 
 Snow and other Poems' issues from the press. The type 
 and paper are both luxurious, and the binding is in perfect 
 taste. The principal poem is the celebrated ' Beautiful 
 Snow," about the authorship of which there raged such a 
 controversy, but which is now conceded to be the work of 
 Mr. J. W. Watson. The tenderness, reality and felicitous- 
 ness of this poem will always give it a prominent place in 
 the public heart. The other poems in the volume are also 
 good, some of them even better than 'Beautiful Snow,' 
 though none on so popular a theme. The volume is dedi- 
 cated to the author's mother." Ladies' National Magazine. 
 
 "Mr. J. W. Watson is the author of the beautiful and 
 touching production entitled 'Beautiful Snow,' which has 
 appealed to thousands of hearts, and will be read and 
 spoken of as long as language exists. It was written in 
 Colonel Colt's house at Hartford, Connecticut, in the fall 
 of 1858, and was read there for the first time in the presence 
 of many choice literary friends. No doubt the poor crea- 
 ture in whose possession a copy of this poem was found at 
 her death had copied it, as hundreds of others of her class
 
 132 APPENDIX. 
 
 have done; and it would be well if every female in the 
 land would copy it and ponder well its teachings. Mr. 
 Watson writes with vigor, and we have read the contents 
 of the whole volume with a great deal of pleasure. Several 
 of the pieces can scarcely fail to impress the reader very 
 forcibly, and will touch the feelings by their tenderness. 
 The volume has been produced by the publishers in a 
 handsome style." American Literary Gazette. 
 
 11 'Beautiful Snow' has achieved a very wide popularity, 
 and the other poems in the volume are worthy of being 
 included in the same collection." True Flag. 
 
 "We do not often see a more elegant volume than 
 'Beautiful Snow.' The poems form very vivid pictures of 
 scenes that have dramatic interest. Several of them are 
 incidents of the war; all of them appeal directly to human 
 sympathy for suffering or misfortune. The chief poem has 
 the pathos that marks Hood's celebrated poem the ' Bridge 
 of Sighs,' and the same feeling of pity for fallen humanity. 
 There is a vigor in the expression, and the poetic merit of 
 the poems is undeniable." Philadelphia Age. 
 
 " The deep pathos of ' Beautiful Snow ' has long been 
 recognized. It was written thirteen years ago, and the 
 literary reputation of the author has survived every attempt 
 to blacken it." New York Standard. 
 
 "The enterprising Petersons' have made a very beauti- 
 ful book of the celebrated poem of 'Beautiful Snow.' It 
 is indeed beautifully gotten up, and impressed by the 
 very best of type. The history attached to this tale of 
 pathos in poetry, in addition to its peculiar literary merits. 
 must insure for it a very large circulation. For so com- 
 plete a book the price is very low. The 'Other Poems'
 
 APPENDIX. 133 
 
 mentioned on the title-page are composed with a fine 
 sentiment of tenderness, and are of that unexceptionable 
 metric quality which must recommend them very favorably 
 to the public." Pomeroy 1 s Democrat. 
 
 "There has been a good deal of controversy about the 
 authorship of 'Beautiful Snow,' but Mr. Watson's claims 
 are now generally conceded. It will live in literature side 
 by side with the ' Bridge of Sighs,' ' Resurgam,' and other 
 rare gems of pathos. The volume has several other poems 
 of great merit. The whole tenor of the book is plaintive. 
 'The Dying Soldier' is a powerful production in the 
 pathetic line." Chicago Evening Journal. 
 
 "All of the poems contained in the volume entitled 
 'Beautiful Snow,' have stood the test of criticism, and 
 some of them are justly regarded as perfect gems. It is 
 enough to say of ' Beautiful Snow' that the authorship of it 
 has been claimed by half a dozen or more unscrupulous 
 individuals who were ambitious of fame, and yet too lazy to 
 work for it. We must say, however, that we do not look 
 upon it as the best poem in the volume. We vastly prefer 
 'The Patter of Little Feet' and 'The Dying Soldier, 
 which latter is, by long odds, one of the best poems that 
 the war inspired." Buffalo Commercial Advertiser. 
 
 "'Beautiful Snow and Other Poems,' is just the book 
 for presentation to the ladies, with whom the leading poem 
 is so much of a favorite. The song of the poor outcast, 
 who has the additional curse of memory, treats a well-worn 
 subject with originality and feeling both artistic and deli- 
 cate." New Orleans Picayune. 
 
 " ' Beautiful Snow ' is a volume of poems of extraordi- 
 nary merit. Every stanza in it is well done, and it closes
 
 134 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 with a touch of pathos, which is a peculiarity of many o 
 the pieces in the volume. The poet moralizes with a vei- 
 of sadness often on what he sees in the every-day life abou 
 him. We find it in 'The Oldest Pauper on the Town,' i 
 'Ring Down the Drop, I Cannot Play,' in 'A Million 
 All in Gold,' and in 'Please Help the Blind.' But th 
 most noteworthy of these pathetic poems is the one entitled 
 'The Dying Soldier.' It was read a few months since 
 together with ' Beautiful Snow,' in New York, Philadelphia 
 Boston and other of our great cities, before audiences o 
 from one to four thousand persons. Certainly, nothin: 
 more stirring was ever heard from any stage. The rough 
 courageous trooper, full of enthusiasm over the gloriou. 
 stand he and his comrades made when the enemy's batta! 
 ions were hurled against them, have never been excelled 
 There are other verses on various subjects we shouh 
 like to quote, did space permit, in which the intensi 
 feeling of the poet is shown, but we can only call thi 
 reader's attention to two or three of the pieces in whicl 
 they occur. 'The Patter of Little Feet' is exquisitel; 
 sweet and tender; so is 'The Kiss in the Street;' \vhil 
 ' The Sailing of the Yachts ' is inspired by a patriotic glov 
 over the renown our gentlemen sailors won in the ocear 
 yacht-race when they crossed the Atlantic in their tiny craf 
 during the stormiest season of the year. The volume i 
 evidently the work of a man possessing a high order of 
 genius, and is printed and bound in a manner that wil 
 make it an ornament to any drawing-room. We feel confi- 
 dent that many editions will be called for of a work so 
 artistic and of so popular a character." New York Globe,
 
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 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below
 
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