THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 "^IS*


 
 THE MONEYLESS MAN 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 HENRY T STANTON 
 
 [SECOXD EDITION! 
 
 CINCINNATI 
 
 ROBERT CLARKE & CO 
 1884
 
 Entered according tr Act of Congress, in the year 1870 by 
 
 HENRI? C. TURNBULL, JR. 
 In the Office of the Librarian ol Congress, at Washington.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The exhaustion of a first edition of this volume, and 
 the continuance of a steady demand for it, has induced 
 the preparation of this new and revised edition. The 
 size of the work has been increased by the addition of 
 many new poems, and the author now presents the 
 book to his friends and the poetry-loving public with 
 confidence, and trusts it may meet the same generous 
 welcome which has heretofore been bestowed upon 
 
 his literary efforts. 
 
 H. T. S. 
 
 761035
 
 THE MONEYLESS MAN 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Moneyless Man 9 
 
 Nameless 12 
 
 Caste 15 
 
 The Nasturtium Flower 17 
 
 Winter Night ,. 23 
 
 The Life-Way 25 
 
 Ideal Presence 27 
 
 The Eastern Star 28 
 
 Retrospection 32 
 
 Dead Flowers 33 
 
 A Pipe After Tea 34 
 
 Under the Pines 37 
 
 She 38 
 
 The Faith She Plighted Me 41 
 
 Charity 45 
 
 Seventy 49 
 
 Sabbath School Bells 50 
 
 Type and Time 54 
 
 Sweetheart 63 
 
 Types of Life 66 
 
 The Path 63 
 
 (vii)
 
 8 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Bivouac 70 
 
 Heart Lessons 73 
 
 Time at the South So 
 
 Double Life 84 
 
 The Little Boy Guiding the Plow 86 
 
 The Flower-Graves 89 
 
 Fallen 93 
 
 Midnight Bells 102 
 
 After the War 106 
 
 Sixty-Five in 
 
 To Master George W. Johnston 120 
 
 His Last Day 122 
 
 Elmwood 127 
 
 Response Impromptu 129 
 
 The Dead that Shone 131 
 
 At Clearing 137 
 
 Cure for Headache 138 
 
 Underneath 139 
 
 Sixty-Six 141 
 
 Lee 153 
 
 The Devil's Hollow , 157 
 
 Thanksgiving i(\ o 
 
 Change Z 6 2 
 
 Good-night 160 
 
 When School Lets Out 171 
 
 Christmas 173 
 
 The Bourbon Horse-thief 175
 
 THE MONEYLESS MAN. 
 
 Is there no secret place on the face of the earth, 
 Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has birth ? 
 Where bosoms in mercy and kindness will heave, 
 When the poor and the wretched shall ask and 
 
 receive ? 
 Is there no place at all, where a knock from the 
 
 poor, 
 
 Will bring a kind angel to open the door ? 
 Ah, search the wide world wherever you can 
 There is no open door for a Moneyless Man ! 
 
 Go, look in yon hall where the chandelier's light 
 Drives off with its splendor the darkness of night, 
 W r here the rich-hanging velvet in shadowy fold 
 Sweeps gracefully down with its trimmings of gold, 
 And the mirrors of silver take up, and renew, 
 In long lighted vistas the 'wildering view : 
 Go there ! at the banquet, and find, if you can, 
 A welcoming smile for a Moneyless Man ! 
 
 9
 
 I0 THE MONEYLESS MAN. 
 
 Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching spire, 
 Which gives to the sun his same look of red fire, 
 Where the arches and columns are gorgeous within, 
 And the walls seem as pure as a soul without sin ; 
 Walk down the long aisles, see the rich and the great 
 In the pomp and the pride of their worldly estate ; 
 Walk down in your patches, and find, if you can, 
 Who opens a pew to a Moneyless Man. 
 
 Go, look in the Banks, where Mammon has told 
 His hundreds and thousands of silver and gold ; 
 Where, safe from the hands of the starving and poor, 
 Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore ! 
 Walk up to their counters ah, there you may stay 
 'Til your limbs grow old, 'til your hairs grow gray, 
 And you '11 find at the Banks not one of the clan 
 With money to lend to a Moneyless Man ! 
 
 Go, look to yon Judge, in his dark-flowing gown, 
 With the scales wherein law weigheth equity down ; 
 Where Ire frowns on the weak and smiles on the 
 
 strong, 
 
 And punishes right whilst he justifies wrong ; 
 Where juries their lips to the Bible have laid, 
 To render a verdict they 've already made : 
 Go there, in the court-room, and find, if you can, 
 Any law for the cause of a Moneyless Man ! 
 
 Then go to your hovel no raven has fed 
 
 The wife who has suffered too long for her bread ;
 
 THE MONEYLESS MAN. ZI 
 
 Kneel down by her pallet, and kiss the death-frost 
 From the lips of the angel your poverty lost : 
 Then turn in your agony upward to God, 
 And bless, while it smites you, the chastening rod, 
 And you '11 find, at the end of your life's little span, 
 There 's a welcome above for a Moneyless Man !
 
 NAMELESS. 
 
 THERE were great lights from the palace 
 
 Streaming on the outer trees, 
 That, with fleckings thro' the trellis, 
 
 Played a-tremor at his knees, 
 As a minstrel stranger, friendless, 
 
 Underneath the walls of Fame 
 Sat in silence, whilst the endless 
 
 Notes of glory-music came. 
 
 Paths, to him, were bleak and aimless, 
 
 As he sat within the shade, 
 Telling o'er the wonders, nameless, 
 
 That his poet-heart had made : 
 " Could he pass the amber portal, 
 
 And the jasper halls along, 
 Where the poet-souls immortal 
 
 Held their revelry of song ? 
 
 " Could he strike a chord of sorrow 
 
 In the upper, choral spheres, 
 Where to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
 It would echo down the years ?
 
 NAMELESS. 
 
 Could he grasp the ivy clinging 
 At the marble casement, now, 
 
 And amid the spirits singing, 
 
 Wear it, deathless, on his brow ? " 
 
 Once he thought to climb the terrace 
 
 To the open, opal gate, 
 Where, beyond the sweeping arras, 
 
 Swelled the voices of the great ; 
 Where the stricken harp-strings golden 
 
 Gave their notes in high accord 
 To the music-stories olden, 
 
 To the glory of the LORD. 
 
 But his soul, untaught and simple, 
 
 Shrinking outward, turned away, 
 Where the great lights from the temple 
 
 Drove the night-time from the day : 
 " I shall seek the shadow, yonder 
 
 Underneath the silent pine ; 
 There are harp-notes higher, grander 
 
 Than may ever be from mine ! " 
 
 Soft he touched the strings, like Summer 
 Touching o'er the barren trees, 
 
 And the night bore out their murmur, 
 Through its alleys, to the seas ; 
 
 Softer, sweeter went the cadence 
 Through the branches and above, 
 B
 
 NAMELESS. 
 
 As come visions unto maidens 
 In the budding-time of love. 
 
 Through the gates of opal splendor, 
 
 And along the jasper wall, 
 Pass the notes of music tender, 
 
 Through the corridor and hall ; 
 And his tones sweep in the chamber 
 
 From the shadow and the gloom, 
 And their liquid echoes clamber 
 
 Up the arras to the dome. 
 
 And they rise and fall like billows, 
 
 In the alcoves of the air, 
 Passing in and out the willows, 
 
 And across beyond the mere ; 
 High, and grand, and godly power 
 
 Sweeps along the palace eaves, 
 'Til the ivy-vine, in flower, 
 
 Trembles music from its leaves. 
 
 And the poet-souls may listen 
 
 To the outer harp to-night, 
 And the great lamps gleam and glisten 
 
 In an ecstacy of light ; 
 These are music-tones undying, 
 
 These are worthy highest name, 
 From the poet-spirit lying 
 
 Underneath the walls of Fame.
 
 CASTE. 
 
 IF, as a burn, 
 That from the shadow fleeing, 
 
 Seeks the shine 
 On some broad river, 
 
 I now could turn 
 The current of my being 
 
 Into thine, 
 To flow forever 
 Believest thou this tribute-blood 
 Would give thy veins to darker flood ? 
 
 The tuneful brooks 
 That down the slopes are going 
 
 To the sea 
 With music-laughter, 
 
 In hidden nooks 
 Begin their silver flowing, 
 
 Silently, 
 
 To chorus after. 
 Believest thou, because obscure 
 Of origin, they are not pure ?
 
 1 6 CASTE. 
 
 Not in the grand, 
 Resistless, moving river, 
 
 Do we find 
 The lucent crystal ; 
 But out the land 
 The springs run limpid ever, 
 
 Overtwined 
 By vine and thistle : 
 
 Not from the pure, pearled fountain veins 
 Do rivers take their debris stains. 
 
 O, maid ! O, queen ! 
 O, proud and pulsing woman ! 
 
 If the tide 
 That floods these valleys, 
 
 Less pure were seen 
 Than that in any human, 
 
 It should hide 
 In covert alleys, 
 
 Where cunning eyes should never trace 
 The slow course of its under-race.
 
 THE NASTURTIUM FLOWER. 
 
 I SAW, last night, a ruin gray, 
 
 An isolated tower, 
 A work of art, from which' decay 
 Had crumbled portions every day, 
 
 A feature, every hour ; 
 
 And o'er it grew a summer vine, 
 
 A purple Morning Glory, 
 That hung in many a waving line, 
 And many a clustering tassel fine, 
 From turrets old and hoary ; 
 
 And underneath the ruined wall, 
 
 In moody spirit lying, 
 I saw the white wave rise and fall, 
 And heard the sea-bird's mystic call, 
 
 Far on the waters dying. 
 
 The wood upon the sombre hill 
 
 Its leafy bosom hushes, 
 And nothing wakes the midnight still, 
 Save here and there a Whip-po-wil 
 
 From widely scattered bushes. 
 
 ?* 17
 
 1 8 THE NASTURTIUM FLOWER. 
 
 I know not if my eyelids fell 
 My pulses were not failing ; 
 
 I saw the ocean's even swell ; 
 
 At intervals, my ear could tell 
 
 The lone bird's far-off wailing. 
 
 And while I lay, with wandering eye 
 
 O'er Heaven's starry arches, 
 And watched the meteor shooting by, 
 And saw the Pleiads holding high 
 Their ever-burning torches, 
 
 A voice came from the ruin old, 
 At first, a pleasant murmur ; 
 And then I heard a story told 
 In accents stronger, and more bold, 
 Of Winter and of Summer. 
 
 The Vine said to the Tower gray: 
 " My leaves about thee flinging, 
 Thou shalt not feel the burning day, 
 Thy rocks shall never waste away 
 
 Where my green arms are clinging. 
 
 " Uphold me with thy sturdy hand, 
 
 And lift me from the shadow, 
 And thou shalt feel thy gray brow fanned 
 With zephyrs, through its leafy band, 
 From fragrant field and meadow.
 
 THE NASTURTIUM FLOWER. 
 
 " I '11 gather all the morning dew 
 
 Within my purple flower,' 
 And when the sun comes up anew, 
 I '11 wash thy granite bosom true 
 With all my silvery shower. 
 
 ' ; So tenderly I '11 twine around 
 
 Each fragment, trembling over, 
 That it shall spurn the colder ground, 
 And feel itself as sweetly bound 
 As lady to her lover. 
 
 " I '11 make thy portal emerald-green, 
 With here and there a blossom, 
 And thou shalt have some fairy queen 
 To come into my leaves, and lean 
 Her forehead on thy bosom. 
 
 " Oh, I will make thy life so sweet, 
 
 In one delightful Summer, 
 That pulses in thy heart shall beat 
 And then I '11 wither at thy feet, 
 And die without a murmur." 
 
 Then spoke the cold gray stones, and said 
 
 " Thy life, sweet Vine, is golden ; 
 The season all its charms has shed 
 Upon thy fair and fragile head, 
 While I am gray and olden.
 
 THE NASTURTIUM FLOWER. 
 
 " I need not tell thee whence I sprung ; 
 
 For yonder craggy mountain 
 Is not more old, nor yet more young, 
 Although its brows have frowning hung 
 Since Adam, o'er the fountain. 
 
 " My form is rude, as thine is fair ; 
 
 My limbs are cold and cheerless ; 
 I feel the very summer air 
 Come searching through me, even where 
 
 Thou cling'st in beauty peerless. 
 
 " No zephyr comes but takes away 
 
 A portion of my being ; 
 The gathered dew, that starry spray 
 Which thou upon my breast would'st lay, 
 
 But aids my life in fleeing. 
 
 " The sunshine through thy very leaves 
 
 My particles doth sever ; 
 And while thy tender bosom grieves, 
 One after one an atom leaves, 
 And I am dying ever. 
 
 " The summer rain that bids thee live, 
 
 And opens out thy blossom, 
 Can to my life no freshness give, 
 But takes away the strength I have 
 In passage through my bosom.
 
 THE NASTURTIUM f LOWER. 21 
 
 " Oh, I have seen a form like thine 
 
 Reach up how very often ! t 
 
 And here its gentle tendrils twine 
 
 About this frosty head of mine. 
 As thou, my cares to soften. 
 
 " And I have seen the Autumn too 
 
 The fairest trellis redden ; 
 And Winter, pour its breathing through 
 The very cup that caught the dew. 
 
 And all its powers deaden. 
 
 " And one by one their lives have fled, 
 
 As thine will soon be flying ; 
 And at my feet a fragrant bed 
 Of withered leaves, and tendrils dead, 
 
 In sorrow will be lying. 
 
 " I cannot weep, though all I love, 
 
 The freshest and the fairest, 
 That on my gray rocks live and move, 
 Must take the garb that Winter wove 
 For that which now thou wearest. 
 
 " The Winters come, and come and go, 
 
 And I am here repining ; 
 I feel alike the sun and snow, 
 The zephyr or the storms that blow, 
 
 Where thy green arms are twining."
 
 22 THE NASTURTIUM FLOWER. 
 
 The voices hushed, and silence came, 
 
 A spell upon the Heaven ; 
 
 And underneath the Pleiad's flame, 
 
 The mantled tower stood the same ; 
 
 The ocean swelled as even. 
 
 I prithee, lady, read my dream 
 
 To thine interpretation, 
 And it shall take that brighter gleam 
 From thy poetic current stream, 
 
 To music's sweet relation. 
 
 In blessing me it must have been, 
 
 At that enchanted hour, 
 That thou, of fay and blossom kin, 
 Had left a spirit sleeping in 
 The bosom of the flower. 
 
 And thus to me in vision thrall 
 
 Came glories without number : 
 I see the white wave rise and fall, 
 I hear the sea-bird's mystic call 
 In echoes from my slumber. 
 
 Ah, unto such a soul as mine 
 
 The gentle fairy's doin' 
 Was but to tell in softer line, 
 That thou wert yet a tender vine, 
 
 And I a crumbled ruin !
 
 WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 WHEN the soul is weary, weary, 
 Through these winter days so dreary, 
 
 With their wilderness of white, 
 There's a charm for such an illness 
 In the shadow and the stillness 
 
 Of the sober, thoughtful night. 
 
 When the earth's green shoots are dying, 
 And the cold snow o'er them flying 
 
 Flying all the Winter day, 
 Then the heart will beat in satlness, 
 While with strange, fantastic gladness 
 
 The white flakes seem to play. 
 
 But the purple Night comes, slowly, 
 As some abbess, grave and holy, 
 
 Up the still aisles of the sky; 
 And the red stars troop the arches 
 With their legions, to the marches 
 
 That are only heard on high. 
 
 23
 
 WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 Then the soul, no longer minion, 
 Beats the trammels from its pinion, 
 
 Bids its sorrow all adieu ; 
 And the scarcely dying even, 
 Sees in yonder tranquil Heaven 
 
 Its white wing cleaving through.
 
 THE LIFE-WAY. 
 
 THE axe-man of life, at the Master's decree, 
 Hath come from the clearing and girdled a tree 
 An oak that was leaning -in sympathy o'er 
 The ashes of trees that were girdled before ; 
 And under our feet, as the passage we tread, 
 The branches are withered, the blossoms are dead. 
 
 *"v 
 V 
 
 Before is a forest, behind is a plain 
 
 Where verdure may never be trodden again ; 
 
 For, on to the shadow and into the shade, 
 
 We follow the way that the woodman has made : 
 
 Though sturdy the monarchs, and stately and tall, 
 
 The axe of the woodman must girdle them all. 
 
 The forest is Life, and the trees are the Years, 
 The leaves under-foot are the symbols of tears, 
 And shadows are with us wherever we go, 
 And spirits are weary and eyelids a-flow ; 
 For TIME is the woodman, and over his track 
 The feet of humanity never go back.
 
 2 6 THE LIFE- WAY. 
 
 There are those in the world, who, living too fast, 
 Have never an eye for the lesson-full past, 
 But in reaching beyond and peering away, 
 They trample the bloom that environs to-day, 
 And suffer with hope, and out of their sorrow 
 They rush to the ultimate pang of to-morrow. 
 
 The pleasures we seek and the jewels we find 
 
 Are never before, but are ever behind ; 
 
 And carelessly, heedlessly still clo we pass 
 
 The treasure-full things that go down in the glass ; 
 
 For the greed of a greater thing urgeth us on 
 
 'Til gem after gem in the life-sand is gone. 
 
 Our moments are gold, and the shores of the Past 
 From whence we have come on the journey too fast, 
 Are sparkled with riches we never may reach, 
 That lay in our way as we loitered the beach 
 When Hope went ahead with its promises sweet, 
 We trampled Reality under our feet.
 
 IDEAL PRESENCE. 
 
 As bees go over 
 
 The seas of clover, 
 So do my heart-wings go to my lover; 
 
 And over the grades 
 
 Of murmurous blades, 
 And over the shimmer and over the shades, 
 
 And airy and light 
 
 As a fairy's flight, 
 I follow the arc of the inner sight. 
 
 Where a commerce moves 
 
 In its iron grooves, 
 May tarry the clay of the heart that loves ; 
 
 But over the aisles 
 
 Of the iron miles 
 Must hasten the eye to the eye that smiles ; 
 
 To the jewel set 
 
 In a minaret 
 The track of its gleam is the truest yet. 
 
 27
 
 THE EASTERN STAR. 
 
 IN Mason's Hall, with earnest eyes, 
 
 Upon the Chart before me, 
 I viewed the symboled mysteries 
 That Masons keep and Masons prize 
 I see the arm my brothers wield, 
 Uplifted with its burnished shield, 
 Let fall its shadow o'er me. 
 
 ii. 
 
 My sisters true in years agone 
 Beyond the waste of water 
 
 I see them stand and beck me on : 
 
 Sweet RUTH, the gleaner at the dawn ; 
 
 ELECTA, dear, and MARTHA wait ; 
 
 Queen ESTHER, in her robes of State ; 
 And JEPHTHA'S peerless DAUGHTER ! 
 28
 
 THE EASTERN STAR. 2 <) 
 
 III. 
 JUDGES, xi : 35. 
 
 " My father's vow, so fervent made, 
 
 I would not have it broken! 
 And though my pallid neck be laid 
 All bare beneath the colder blade, 
 I '11 give him still a steadfast eye 
 And joy, in hearing as I die, 
 
 ' Alas ! my daughter ! ' spoken. 
 In Heaven's sight my faith I plight, 
 And I will break it never : 
 I '11 trust in this, and this, and this, 
 
 Forever and forever ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 RUTH ii : 5. 
 
 " The Master in the harvest days 
 
 Shall find me gleaning early ; 
 The sun shall gild me with his rays 
 As I go down the reaper ways, 
 And tho' He ask, ' Whose damsel 's this ? 
 I know His great heart cannot miss 
 
 These little hands of barley. 
 In Heaven's sight my faith I plight, 
 
 And I will break it never : 
 I '11 trust in this, and this, and this, 
 
 Forever and forever I " 
 c*
 
 3 
 
 THE EASTERN STAR, 
 
 V. 
 ESTHER, v : 3. 
 
 " I fearless go before the crown 
 
 To move the thorns that fester ; 
 And though the king himself may frown, 
 And long to cut God's people down, 
 I still have faith in such a day 
 That he will smile and freely say, 
 
 ' What wilt thou, proud Queen Esther ? ' 
 In Heaven's sight my faith I plight, 
 
 And I will break it never : 
 I '11 trust in this, and this, and this, 
 Forever and forever ! " 
 
 VI. 
 
 JOHN, xi : 26. 
 
 " My faith in Christ no earthly hand 
 
 Can ever move or sever : 
 Go, take His tidings thro' the land 
 With cymbals loud and trumpets grand ! 
 For He shall say, ' Believest this ? ' 
 And dead shall rise His feet to kiss 
 
 Forever and forever ! 
 In Heaven's sight my faith I plight, 
 
 And I will break it never : 
 I '11 trust in this, and this, and this, 
 
 Forever and forever ! "
 
 THE EASTERN STAR. 31 
 
 VII. 
 20 EPIS. JOHN, ii : 5. 
 
 ' ' Tho' rack and torture come to me 
 
 To husband, children, mother 
 Thro' Jesus' blood I yet shall see 
 Some glimpses of eternity ; 
 And far beyond the cross the grave 
 There 's still a hand to bless and save 
 
 For loz'ing one another. 
 In Heaven's sight my faith I plight, 
 
 And I will break it never,: 
 I '11 trust in this, and this, and this, 
 
 Forever and forever ! " 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " In virtue's paths my way shall be, 
 
 Where flowers bloom the rarest ; 
 And all I know, and all I see, 
 Shall mark a sister's truth in me. 
 By yon bright star that shines above, 
 My path I '11 keep, and try to prove, 
 
 Among ten thousand fairest. 
 In Heaven's sight my faith I plight, 
 
 And I will break it never : 
 I 'K hope in these, and these, and these, 
 
 Forever and forever ! "
 
 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 LOOKING backward for the glory 
 
 Of a gilded summer dawn, 
 Down a weary waste of whiteness 
 
 Down a drear/ winter lawn ; 
 Looking backward for the freshness 
 
 Of a green and sapful June, 
 Through the sombre brown and crimson 
 
 Of an autumn afternoon ; 
 Looking backward, down the shadow 
 
 Of an iron-beaten way, 
 Whence the armored Time came, silent, 
 
 On this animate to day. 
 O, it startles human reason, 
 
 O, it withers human pride 
 Looking backward, ever backward, 
 
 For the living things that died ; 
 And the soul that seems immortal 
 
 In the never-breaking gloom, 
 Hath a presence at the portal 
 
 Of the palace of the tomb. 
 32
 
 DEAD FLOWERS. 
 
 " Because I wore them for an hour, 
 Forever fresh to thee. Ij> 
 
 THE Rose-bud on thy bosom died 
 
 O, death, divinely sweet 
 Whilst here a poet-heart hath sighed, 
 To bear to thee its passion tide, 
 
 And perish at thy feet. 
 
 The P'uchsia withered on thy brow, 
 
 Amidst thy shining hair ; 
 Whilst here a soul to earth would bow, 
 And break its latest altar-vow 
 
 For but one moment there. 
 
 O, brow of pearl ! O, breast of snow ! 
 
 O, lips of love divine ! 
 The bud hath caught their crimson glow, 
 And borne thy pulse's tidal flow 
 
 In purple life to mine. 
 
 33
 
 A PIPE AFTER TEA. 
 
 BRING me a coal for my old clay pipe 
 A coal that is glowing and red, 
 And draw up my chair 
 To the fireside there, 
 And hasten the children to bed : 
 We have finished our task and finished our tea, 
 And the evening prayer is said. 
 
 Now place at the hearth a faggot or two, 
 And carry the kettle away; 
 I 'm thinking, my wife, 
 Of the pleasure in life 
 We have known this many a day ; 
 For our hearts are warm and our spirits young, 
 Though our heads be turning gray. 
 
 Ah, now you look, with your knitting, there, 
 So cheerful and pleasant, my dear, 
 That I feel, full well, 
 My old heart swell 
 As it did in its bridal gear, 
 And I know it throbs as faithful still 
 In the Autumn-time that's here. 
 
 34
 
 A PIPE AFTER TEA. 
 
 Come back with me to the early day, 
 The Spring of our tender love, 
 When a fair young bride, 
 At the altar-side, 
 Looked up to the Heaven above, 
 And GOD was nigh, and His Summer wind 
 Sang joyous in the grove. 
 
 Our fathers were there, our mothers too 
 We cherish the blessings they gave ; 
 
 And tears must fall 
 
 To know they 're all 
 In the cold and silent grave, 
 
 Where the slow years pass 
 
 In the dropping glass, 
 And willows o'er them wave. 
 
 But all of us die, and day by day 
 We pillow each other to sleep, 
 And the tears may rise 
 To our saddened eyes 
 From the heart in its sorrow deep ; 
 But GOD hath an eye to the sparrow's fall, 
 And the humblest soul will keep. 
 
 For two score years we have kept our faith, 
 And true to our earliest tryst, 
 We have found the goal 
 Of a quiet soul, 
 
 35
 
 A PIPE AFTER TEA. 
 
 That many a heart hath missed, 
 And many a spirit hath wandered away 
 To the tones we would not list. 
 
 Ah, wife, I feel my old blood course 
 And tingle away in my veins, 
 When I think how true 
 Both I and you, 
 Together, have guided the reins, 
 With nothing on earth to mar our love, 
 And fret and bother our brains. 
 
 And here we sit, on this Winter night, 
 A cozy and happy old pair," 
 And loving as true 
 As we used to do 
 
 When I was young and you were fair, 
 And the silver thread from the loom of years 
 Came not in your raven hair. 
 
 I shake the coal from my old clay pipe, 
 For now it is blackened and dead, 
 And the faggot gone, 
 And the fire wan, 
 And the lamp-wick nearly fled, 
 And the clock, with a nervous stroke, says TEN ! 
 And it's time to go to bed!
 
 UNDER THE PINES. 
 
 NIGHT, with her clustering, coronal stars, 
 Over a world full of passions and wars 
 
 Her quieting wing has spread ; 
 There 's silence out in these mystical hills 
 There ! s silence over the voiceful rills, 
 And Earth, to all of its sorrowful thrills 
 
 In the fever of day, is dead. 
 
 O, beautiful Night ! sweet season of dreams ! 
 Rich in thy glory and soft in thy gleams, 
 
 How rapidly fleeting thou art ! 
 Throw over my spirit thy mantle of gold, 
 Let slumber and visions my bosom enfold, 
 Till all of thine eloquent moments are told 
 
 In the silvery sands of my heart. 
 
 Out in the meadow are those who have died, 
 The stream running still from the wound open wide 
 
 Oh, I sickened all day at the sight ! 
 Alas ! for the heart of its idol denied ! 
 Alas ! for the vow of the groom to the bride ! 
 He only may come to her tremulous side 
 
 In the beautiful visions of Night ! 
 D 37
 
 SHE. 
 
 O, COLD are the flakes 
 
 That fall in the lakes, 
 And bitter the winds that be j 
 
 And icy and chill 
 
 The minarets still 
 That stand in the Polar Sea; 
 
 But colder than all 
 Of the flakes that fall, 
 
 And the bitterest winds that be- 
 Than the Mer de glace 
 In the Northern Pass 
 
 Than the Pole itself is she. 
 
 In the amber light 
 
 Of the sky, one night, 
 I tore my bosom apart, 
 
 And under a moon 
 
 Of the fervid June 
 Was "offered" to her my heart; 
 
 For I tore it out 
 Of its red redoubt, 
 33
 
 SHE. 39 
 
 And laid it over the pyre, 
 
 Where the torrid heat 
 
 Of its fever-beat 
 Went, soul to soul, with the fare. 
 
 But never a stone 
 
 To the chisel known 
 So little of pulse betrayed, 
 
 And the passion lines 
 
 Of her outer signs 
 Meant never a word they said. 
 
 O, the glacier stoop 
 
 Of her shoulders' droop 
 May show in the night like gold, 
 
 And the lunar fleck 
 
 On her marble neck 
 A tinge of the blood may hold ; 
 
 But never a drop 
 
 Of the venous cup 
 Can ever the lancet shed : 
 
 The fever has flown 
 
 The woman is stone, 
 And the sylph-like thing is dead. 
 
 What the boddice robes 
 For her mammal globes 
 Is only an icy lie ;
 
 40 SHE. 
 
 Though the lace may rest 
 On her milk-white breast, 
 A babe at the place would die ! 
 
 For colder than all 
 Of the flakes that fall, 
 
 And the bitterest winds that be 
 Than the Mer de glace 
 In the Northern Pass 
 
 Than the Pole itself is she!
 
 THE FAITH SHE PLIGHTED ME 
 
 HER whiter hand lay lost in mine, 
 
 The while she turned away 
 To where the evening's flush of wine 
 
 Went up the face of day 
 " When all these Autumn leaves are shed, 
 
 And I beyond the sea, 
 You '11 not forget, O Love," I said, 
 " The faith you Ve plighted me ? " 
 
 Her brown eyes, going outward far, 
 
 Were silent in reply ; 
 It seemed she thought some early star 
 
 Would break the shadowed sky ; 
 "When seeds of Spring are harvest grain, 
 
 And leaves in purple be, 
 You '11 not forget," I said again, 
 " The faith you 've plighted me ? " 
 
 And shadows thickened where we stood, 
 And night came on apace ; 
 
 D* 41
 
 THE FAITH SHE PLIGHTED ME. 
 
 I saw a tear the heart's true blood- 
 
 Stand silent on her face 
 " By these two hands at parting met, 
 
 By sacred tears I see, 
 I know, dear Love, you '11 not forget 
 
 The faith you 've plighted me." 
 
 Then came her full-heart from her eyes, 
 
 Turned, liquidly, to mine 
 " Did Eve forget her Paradise 
 
 Beneath another vine ? 
 No, no," she said, '' the waves may fling 
 
 Their whiteness on the sea, 
 Nor time, nor tide, nor death shall bring 
 
 Forgetfulness to me ! " 
 
 I went where science, learning, art, 
 
 Heaped memorable piles ; 
 I felt the great world's pulsing heart 
 
 Throb in the Flower Isles ; 
 I saw the countless soulful eyes 
 
 That sparkle in their dance, 
 Beneath the rich Italian skies, 
 
 The fruity hills of France ; 
 
 The Scottish truth the Irish grace 
 The German's frugal care
 
 THE FAITH SHE PLIGHTED ME. 43 
 
 In every shape the human face, 
 
 And beauty everywhere; 
 And Summer and the Autumn came, 
 
 And leaves were in their fall 
 I held her image here the same, 
 
 An idol over all. 
 
 You mark the pale, proud woman there. 
 
 Beneath the astral shine: 
 Despite such blossoms in her hair 
 
 Her heart should pulse to mine : 
 I brought the sunset back to-night 
 
 From far beyond the sea; 
 I dared not think she held so light 
 
 The faith she plighted me ! 
 
 I clutched the goblet as a vise, 
 
 And pledged her thus in wine; 
 May Eve forget her Paradise 
 
 Beneath another vine ! 
 And then I said, the waves may fling 
 
 Their whiteness on the sea, 
 Nor time, nor tide, nor death shall bring 
 
 Forgetfulness to me ! 
 
 O, friend ! I trust no siren tongue, 
 No human voice or tears;
 
 44 
 
 THE FAfTH SHE PLIGHTED ME. 
 
 In all the world I dwelt among, 
 No eye had truth like hers. 
 
 I pass no more the blighted spot, 
 No more the shadows see, 
 
 Since she who loved so soon forgot 
 The faith she plighted mel
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 How many proud people who gather to-day 
 In chambers of pleasure, at feasts of display, 
 Who quicken their lips in immaculate wine, 
 With its typical foam and its sparkle divine, 
 Have a pang at the heart, or a tear at. the eye, 
 For the woman in rags who is shivering by? 
 
 How many to-day in this legion of souls 
 
 Who are tracing the pictures that glow in the coals, 
 
 Who see in the future their temples arise 
 
 As the wonderful homes unto worshipful eyes. 
 
 Have pulses awake for the shadowy poor, 
 
 Who, white as the marble, enphantom the door? 
 
 How many, O GOD ! in Thy mercy and grace, 
 Who are made in Thy form and are stamped with 
 Thy face, 
 
 45
 
 46 CHARITY. 
 
 Who move on Thy footstool, and graciously live 
 With light for Thy worship, with power to give, 
 Have oil for the wounds of the man by the way, 
 Or bread to be cast on the waters to-day? 
 
 O, people whose chambers of crimson and gold 
 Are astir with the lambs of your own little fold, 
 Whose feet in their frolic just dimple the bed 
 Of the burying velvet the little ones tread, 
 Be still for a season, just hearken the moans 
 Of the poor little feet that are bare on the stones ! 
 
 O, people who banquet, and revel, and laugh 
 In the blood of the grape and the fat of the calf; 
 When dwelling in plenty and swelling in pride 
 Your children are petted, and pampered, and plied, 
 Throw open your casements, and look at the brood 
 Just over the way, who are crying for food ! 
 
 O, people in coaches, with liveried things 
 That wait in the glitter of tinsel and rings, 
 That come at your becking and go at your will 
 All creatures of Mammon GOD'S images still ! 
 Sink back in your cushions and hide you in shame 
 From the piteous eyes of the paupered and lame ! 
 
 O, mistress of fashion ! O, master of gold ! 
 Far hidden in furs from the sting of the cold 
 As your spirits go out and your ecstasy swells
 
 'CHARITY. 47 
 
 At the sight of the snow and the sound of the bells, 
 Do you mind that the widow is wanting a cloak 
 That her chimney is bleak in a city of smoke ? 
 
 Come out of your casings, O, armor-clad souls, 
 That live in the tinkle of ewers and bowls ; 
 Come out from the sight of your carpeted feet 
 With pity for those that are bare in the street: 
 Come, open your coffers, in mercy, to-day, 
 For the little ones crying just over the way ! 
 
 Step out of your coaches and cutters, O, fools 
 That sneer at the wretches that dwell in the pools ; 
 Step out, and for once in the bountiful year 
 Have eyes that can see and have ears that can 
 
 hear; 
 
 Step out from your cushions of revel and shame 
 Go comfort the widow, go pity the lame I 
 
 O, there 's nothing at all in this region below 
 So hollow and dead as their tinsel and show ; 
 When people who shimmer in glory and gold 
 Are blind to the beings that dwell in the cold ; 
 When lights from their windows, that dazzle the 
 
 poor, 
 See most of true virtue outside of the door ! 
 
 O, blessings for people, who, feasting to-day, 
 Have thought of the little ones over the way ;
 
 48 CHARITY. 
 
 Whose spirits, grown large at the board and the 
 
 hearth, 
 
 Cry welcome, to all the distressed of the earth ! 
 O, blessings for people, who, hearing their moans, 
 Have lifted the bare-footed out of the stones !
 
 SEVENTY, 
 
 THE sad Sixty-nine in the midnight has gone, 
 
 And Seventy comes in his chariot on ; 
 
 With light in his eye and a flush in his face, 
 
 He enters the course and is in for the race. 
 
 A fever of being, a fullness of joy 
 
 Is throbbing the pulse of the animate boy. 
 
 "Tis a glorious hope that his spirit reveals 
 
 In the crack of his whip and the rush of his wheels. 
 
 But life is a mockery common decay 
 
 Is big in the womb of the promising day ; 
 
 For death hath a touch at the heart of the corn 
 
 Ere light on the silk of its tassel is born ; 
 
 And never a flower abandons the dust 
 
 But foldeth a germ of the cankering rust ; 
 
 And even the beautiful, bountiful year 
 
 That cometh to-day in its infancy here. 
 
 Is typed in the life of ephemeral bloom, 
 
 For he driveth his chariot on to the tomb. 
 
 E 49
 
 SABBATH SCHOOL BELLS. 
 
 IN the glow of a. purple October 
 
 The nut-dropping time of the year 
 When leaves have a rustle of splendor 
 
 And branches in silver appear, 
 As cometh the sun to the Sabbath, 
 
 Up out of the Orient hills, 
 A sense of an Infinite Being 
 
 The whole of humanity fills. 
 
 Man sees in the passage of seasons, 
 
 The regular transit of days, 
 How great is Thy goodness, Jehovah ! 
 
 How wondrous, O GOD, are Thy ways ! 
 The steeple-bells over the churches 
 
 That dot, in their whiteness, the land, 
 Elate at the glad Sabbath morning, 
 
 Ring out in a symphony grand ; 
 And homes that are sprinkled with children 
 
 A story of happiness tells, 
 
 50
 
 SABBATH SCHOOL BELLS. 
 
 When faces grow bright at the music 
 
 That flows from the Sabbath School bells. 
 
 Now out of the lane and the by-way, 
 
 And out of the alley and street, 
 W T ith murmurous mingle of voices 
 
 And musical patter of feet, 
 The children of all of the people 
 
 The humble in state and the high, 
 The rich in their Astrachan wrappings, 
 
 The poor in their woolen go by. 
 
 And in at the arch of the chapel, 
 
 Along in the sanctified aisles, 
 They gather like earliest blossoms 
 
 That Spring in her beauty beguiles ; 
 And there, at the foot of the altar 
 
 A ground that is even at last 
 The hearts of the children are measured 
 
 By Heaven's true standard of caste. 
 
 The bells of the Sabbath are ringing 
 
 Alike for the rich and the poor, 
 And open the mine of the Bible 
 
 To all who are seeking its store : 
 No prince at the zenith of power, 
 
 With nations on suppliant knees, 
 Hath gems in his coronal decking 
 
 That sparkle in fervor like these.
 
 52 SABBATH SCHOOL BELLS. 
 
 Come hither, O children, and gather 
 
 The jewels GOD scatters to-day ; 
 Here 's Honor, and Virtue, and Mercy, 
 
 The riches that never decay ; 
 Here 's knowledge that 's free to the orphan, 
 
 The child of the widow may learn 
 The prince and the pauper together 
 
 May in at the vestibule turn. 
 
 Come, children, glad-eyed and white-hearte:', 
 
 And join in an anthem of praise ; 
 Thank GOD for the voice in the steeple 
 
 That heralds His holiest days ; 
 Thank GOD for the boon of the Bible, 
 
 The blessed Redeemer of men, 
 The glorious plan of salvation . 
 
 Revealed in the beautiful Ten. 
 
 Away with sectarian uses, 
 
 The narrow confinements of creed ; 
 The little one's heart is a garden 
 
 Where Jesus should scatter the seed. 
 Teach GOD as a merciful Father, 
 
 The source and the fountain of love ; 
 Not feared for His might, and the power 
 
 He wields in the kingdom above, 
 But honored and glorified ever 
 
 For Charity, Mercy, and Love, 
 The jewels to seek in the Bible 
 
 And wear to the kingdom above.
 
 SABBATH SCHOOL BELLS. 
 
 These grey-bearded men of the city, 
 
 Worn out in the service of trade, 
 Their foot-way, borne down from the sunlight, 
 
 Is bent to the valley of shade ; 
 And stories of struggle and sorrow 
 
 The lines in their faces can tell, 
 Since light-hearted children together 
 
 They Answered the Sabbath School bell. 
 
 And often and often at midnight 
 
 Their memory goes to the past, 
 To wander again in the flowers 
 
 That GOD in their passage had cast ; 
 And up from the glory of childhood, 
 
 In mystical melody swells 
 A sound that endureth forever 
 
 The song of the Sabbath Day bells. 
 
 53
 
 TYPE AND TIME. 
 
 THAT stern old man, the Harvester. 
 
 Who garners in the years, 
 Whose passage up the fields of space 
 
 A path of death appears ; 
 Whose way is in the early grain 
 
 Ere yet its golden hue, 
 . And bended head, and parting husk, 
 
 Invite the sickle through ; 
 
 That cold old man, whose arteries, 
 
 At Mercy's plaint, congea 1 
 And harden, that they may but show 
 
 The blood's organic steel 
 He feels no pity, knows no shame, 
 
 Nor spares nor passes o'er 
 An atom in the widening plain 
 
 That, trackless, lies before. 
 
 He turns not back, but onward still, 
 With steady, tireless sweep, 
 
 54
 
 j 
 
 TYPE AND TIME. 55 
 
 His burnished scythe goes through the realm 
 
 Forevermore to reap ; 
 No RUTH of Moab in his wake 
 
 With tender hands may glean, 
 Nor stem nor stalk shall stand for her 
 
 Where iron Time has been. 
 
 But stolid eye and tuneless ear 
 
 Shall quicken at a sound 
 That floats above the reaper sphere, 
 
 And spurns the harvest-ground ; 
 For Time shall note, beyond the dust 
 
 Of men and nations wrecked, 
 The stately tread of Genius, 
 
 And the march of Intellect. 
 
 Whoso hath marked the lives of men, 
 
 Their better words and deeds, 
 May point some flower blossoming 
 
 Above the trammel weeds ; 
 Some growth hath struggled out the arms 
 
 That uridertwine the way, 
 And lifts its scented splendor 
 
 In the ardent upper day. 
 
 Though blight and blast may fell the stalk 
 
 In seasons urging by, 
 The essence of the flower still 
 
 Is floating on the sky ;
 
 56 TYPE AND TIME. 
 
 And free, beyond the reach of death, 
 
 Upon the arch sublime, 
 The souls of men of Intellect 
 
 And Genius conquer Time. 
 
 Go back along the shadow-days, 
 
 And down their cycles run, 
 And mark the lights from human lives 
 
 Since human lives begun : 
 Though countless legions in the throng 
 
 Were stars that early set, 
 The grand old planets of the past 
 
 Are at the zenith yet. 
 
 From out the darkness of an age 
 
 That gave their genius birth, 
 They rose above the atmosphere 
 
 And battled down the earth ; 
 And in the space, from every clime, 
 
 And every class, are some 
 Who prove how under-gravity 
 
 Is grandly overcome. 
 
 So let us live, and act, and be, 
 
 That after-time may tell 
 We were not in the reaper-way, 
 
 Nor by the sickle fell ; 
 But upward, over all that die, 
 
 By force of human will,
 
 TYPE AMD TIME, 57 
 
 We cut a passage to the sky 
 And hold the agther still. 
 
 On those who gather here to-day, 
 
 Some lights, that ever show, 
 Have come to shed their glory-ray 
 
 From out the long-ago : 
 The first old masters of an Art, 
 
 Ere Genius yet was ripe, 
 Who threw the cruder stylus down 
 
 To greet the coming Type ; 
 
 Who from the cells of hooded monks, 
 
 And sacrist scribes, and clerks, 
 W T ere free to bear the outer world 
 
 The magic of their works j 
 Who tore the vail of mystery 
 
 From small Khorassans then 
 That swayed the world with vellum scraps 
 
 Of wisdom from the pen. 
 
 The German KOSTER, first of. all, 
 
 Whose carven letters came 
 And gave the acts of noble men 
 
 To glory and to fame ; 
 Whose spirit, from the narrow groove 
 
 That circumscribed his kind, 
 Was bold to break the barrier 
 
 And poach the fields of mind.
 
 58 TYPE AND TIME. 
 
 The common chain that ignorance 
 
 And superstition bound, 
 His light ambition scorned to wear 
 
 Upon the trodden ground ; 
 And men were taught forevermore 
 
 That better path to climb, 
 When KOSTER sent the Bible up 
 
 The avenues of Time. 
 
 Though long ago his parchment sheets, 
 
 And vellum scrolls, and leaves 
 Were gathered by the Harvester 
 
 And lie among the sheaves, 
 We lift the science of his thought 
 
 From out the rubbish lost, 
 With honor to old GUTTENBERG 
 
 And gratitude to FAUST. 
 
 Where'er the cunning T3'pe is known 
 
 Where'er the magic page 
 Is stamped with living characters 
 
 That photograph the age, 
 The massive forms of GUTTENBERG, 
 
 Of FAUST, and SCHCEFFER too, 
 Shall stalk the aisles of learning 
 
 And the paths of genius through. 
 
 These are the planet-stars that shine 
 For those who follow still
 
 TYPE AND TIME. 
 
 The science-way that leaves the vale 
 And takes the stubborn hill ; 
 
 These are the patron-saints the gods 
 Of energy and worth, 
 
 That point us from Apprenticeship 
 To Mastery on earth. 
 
 And down the sparkled arch that bends 
 
 Above these darker years, 
 We hail the risen splendor 
 
 Of our later pioneers ; 
 The noble FRANKLIN of our own, 
 
 Whose hand of usefulness 
 Was first to clutch the thunderbolt 
 
 And draw the lever-press. 
 
 The simple beauty of his life 
 
 The smooth and even pace 
 With which he took the upper way 
 
 And won the honor race, 
 Have left, through reaching history 
 
 And ever-ringing fame, 
 The civil world electrified 
 
 And nervous with his name. 
 
 We hold the greatness of his brain, 
 
 His openness and truth, 
 The highest model for our men, 
 
 The noblest for our youth ;
 
 60 TYPE AND TIME. 
 
 The brawn-armed daily laborer 
 The ermined of the State 
 
 May find, in FRANKLIN'S excellence, 
 A life to emulate. 
 
 And after him, above the verge, 
 
 Our firmament can show 
 The advent of another star 
 
 The scintillating HOE ! 
 The hot sheets from his cylinders 
 
 O'er all the land are spread, 
 To tell the world how Intellect 
 
 And Genius are not dead. 
 
 White-winged and free, across the sea 
 
 His seeds of labor fly, 
 And men must know, where'er they go, 
 
 How Genius cannot die ; 
 For all the soil of fertile brains 
 
 With labor-seeds are rife 
 They germinate in fields of fame, 
 
 And in the sands of life. 
 
 As long as Christian temples bear 
 Their turrets to the sun 
 
 As long as in our cycle -lives 
 The sands of Fame shall run, 
 
 So long shall human hearts be glad, 
 And human voices bless
 
 TYPE AND TIME. 61 
 
 The master-hands that wrought the Type 
 And reared the magic Press. 
 
 For us, who stand as Signal-men, 
 
 Along the army track, 
 And onward wave the messages, 
 
 From flags that lessen back, 
 How meet it is that arm, and eye, 
 
 Should steady be, and true, 
 To guard the honor of the post, 
 
 And speed the signal through. 
 
 We hold the symbol of a cause, 
 
 A power in our hands, 
 To point the army-march, and shape 
 
 The destiny of lands ; 
 To good, or ill, we guide the world, 
 
 By virtue of our trust 
 For good, we lift the signal high 
 
 For ill, it trails the dust. 
 
 When, here and there, a veteran 
 
 And leader in the corps, 
 Is signalled from the angel flags 
 
 That flit the silent shore, 
 He musters out of human strife, 
 
 And treads the courts of fate 
 Our HARNEY'S through the vestibule, 
 
 Our PRENTICE at the gate. 
 
 F
 
 62 TYPE AND TIME. 
 
 God keep us in the goodly track, 
 
 That leaves the ill behind ! 
 God turn us to the flower-way 
 
 Of love for humankind ! 
 God give us grace to wield the PEN, 
 
 And so direct the PRESS, 
 That we may point our fellow-men, 
 
 To ever-blessedness ! 
 
 And TIME may keep his steady sweep 
 
 Throughout the fields of earth, 
 And in the maze of autumn days 
 
 May fell the latest birth; 
 But human souls have higher goals, 
 
 Where reapers never dare, 
 And men shall rise beyond the skies, 
 
 To shine forever there.
 
 SWEETHEART. 
 
 SWEETHEART I call you sweetheart still 
 
 As in your window's laced recess, 
 When both our eyes were wont to fill, 
 
 One year ago, with tenderness. 
 I call you sweetheart by the law 
 
 Which gives me higher right to feel, 
 Though I be here in Malaga, 
 
 And you in far Mobile. 
 
 I mind me when, along the bay 
 
 The moon-beams slanted all the night ; 
 When on my breast your dark locks lay, 
 
 And in my hand, your hand so white ; 
 This scene the summer night-time saw, 
 
 And my soul took its warm anneal 
 And bore it here to Malaga 
 
 From beautiful Mobile. 
 
 The still and white magnolia grove 
 Brought winged odors to vour cheek, 
 
 63
 
 SWEETHEART. 
 
 Where my lips seared the burning love 
 They could not frame the words to speak ; 
 
 Sweetheart, yoa were not ice to thaw ; 
 Your breast was neither stone nor steel ; 
 
 I count to-night, at Malaga, 
 Its throbbings at Mobile. 
 
 What matter if you bid me now 
 
 To go my way for others' sake ? 
 Was not my love-seal on your brow 
 
 For death, and not for days to break ? 
 Sweetheart, our toothing holds no flaw ; 
 
 There was no crime and no conceal, 
 I clasp you here in Malaga, 
 
 As erst in sweet Mobile. 
 
 I see the bay-road, white with shells, 
 
 I hear the beach make low refrain, 
 The stars lie flecked like asphodels 
 
 Upon the green, wide water-plain 
 These silent things as magnets draw, 
 
 They bear me hence, with rushing keel 
 A thousand miles from Malaga, 
 
 To matchless, fair Mobile. 
 
 Sweetheart, there is no sea so wide, 
 No time in life, nor tide to flow, 
 
 Can rob my breast of that one bride 
 It held so close a year ago.
 
 SWEETHEART. 
 
 I see again the bay we saw ; 
 
 I hear again your sigh's reveal, 
 I keep the faith at Malaga 
 
 I plighted at Mobile. 
 
 -5
 
 TYPES OF LIFE. 
 
 I SAW a star fall from its home 
 
 In Heaven's blue and boundless dome, 
 
 To gleam no more ; 
 I saw a wave with snowy crest 
 Thrown from the Ocean's stormy breast, 
 
 Upon the shore. 
 
 I saw a rose of perfect bloom 
 Bend, fading to its wintry tomb 
 
 In silent grief; 
 I saw a living oak, but now, 
 Touched by the storm, with shattered bough 
 
 And withered leaf. 
 
 The star had shone tnro' countless years, 
 And shed its rays like virgin tears, 
 
 So pure and bright, 
 
 That earth scarce knew the holy thrall, 
 And only sighed to see it fall 
 
 And fade in night. 
 66
 
 TYPES OF LIFE. 67 
 
 The wave hid wandered to and fro, 
 With Ocean's ebb and Ocean's flow, 
 
 From pole to pole, 
 Till here upon the nameless strand 
 It sank beneath the thirsty sand, 
 
 Its final goal ! 
 
 The rose sprang from a fallen seed, 
 And smiled above the graceless weed, 
 
 To greet the sun ; 
 
 But 'neath the Winter's chilling breath, 
 The lovely flow'rets' race to death 
 
 Was quickly run. 
 
 The living oak, with noble shade, 
 Had stood the monarch of the glade, 
 
 Thro' ages long ; 
 
 But rifted by the lightning's glare, 
 His sturdy arms grew brown and bare, 
 
 And were, not strong. 
 
 And these are types of human lives ; 
 Man lives a little while and thrives, 
 
 But withers fast. 
 
 He sees a thousand lovely gleams, 
 But wastes his life away in dreams, 
 
 And falls at last.
 
 THE PATH. 
 
 JUST by the road we are journeying fast, 
 
 Down to the Lake of Tears, 
 A blind old man has tottered at last, 
 Out of the Present into the Past, 
 
 Over the brink of years. 
 
 What were his virtues, what were his crimes, 
 
 Nobody cares to-day ; 
 Once he was ours now he is Time's 
 For lives are but as murmuring chimes, 
 
 Coming and going away. 
 
 Up on the hill there 's a patter of feet 
 
 A voice in the flowers wild ; 
 Carelessly down to the busy street, 
 Many to pass, and many to meet, 
 
 Rambles a little child. 
 68
 
 THE PATH. 69 
 
 This is "the dead man's son and heir" 
 
 Coming along the road ; 
 He gathers the lightest treasures there, 
 The violet bloom and crocus fair, 
 
 Bearing a childish load. 
 
 Soon he will be in the hurrying crowd, 
 
 Pushing his way ahead 
 
 Some of them broken some of them bowed, 
 Some for tha altar and some for the shroud, 
 
 Some who are leading and led. 
 
 Soon ir. tne way to the Lake of Tears, 
 
 The little one's feet must go ; 
 For thorns are thick in the path of years, 
 And the Frav to death is a way of fears, 
 
 All down to the silent flow.
 
 THE BIVOUAC. 
 
 A SOLDIER lay on the frozen ground, 
 With only a blanket tightened around 
 
 His weaiy and wasted frame ; 
 Down at his feet, the fitful light 
 Of fading coals in the freezing night 
 Fell as a mockery on the sight, 
 
 A heatless, purple flame. 
 
 All day long, with his heavy load, 
 Weary and sore, in the mountain road, 
 
 And over the desolate plain ; 
 All day long, through the crusted mud, 
 Over the snow, and through the flood, 
 Marking his way with a track of blood 
 
 He followed the winding train. 
 
 Nothing to eat at the bivouac 
 But a frozen crust in his haversack 
 70
 
 THE BIVOUAC. 71 
 
 The half of a comrade's store 
 A crust, that, after a longer fast, 
 Some pampered spaniel might have passed, 
 Knowing that morsel to be the last 
 
 That iay at his master's door, 
 
 No other sound on his slumber 'fell 
 
 Than the lonesome tread of the sentinel 
 
 That equal, measured pace 
 And the wind that came from the cracking pine, 
 And the dying oak, and the swinging vine, 
 In many a weary, weary line, 
 
 To his pale and hollow face. 
 
 But the soldier slept, and his dreams were bright 
 As the rosy glow of his bridal-night, 
 
 With the angel on his breast ; 
 For he passed away from the wintry gloom 
 To the softened light of a distant room, 
 Where a cat sat purring upon the loom, 
 
 And his weary heart was blest. 
 
 His children came, two blue-eyed girls, 
 With laughing lips and sunny curls, 
 
 And cheeks of ruddy glow ; 
 And the mother pale, but lovely now, 
 As when, upon her virgin brow 
 He proudly sealed his early vow, 
 
 In summer, long ago.
 
 72 TftE BIVOUAC. 
 
 But the reveille wild, in the morning gray, 
 Startled the beautiful vision away, 
 
 As a frightened bird in the night ; 
 And it seemed to the soldier's misty brain 
 But the shrill tattoo that sounded again, 
 And he turned with a dull, uneasy pain, 
 
 To the camp-fires' dying light.
 
 HEART LESSONS. 
 
 I HAD no design in passing 
 I was walking rather late 
 
 I did not dream that ROSA GRAY 
 Was standing at the gate ; 
 
 And when the cloud passed over, 
 And the moon revealed her there, 
 
 With its ripple on her bosom 
 And its shimmer in her hair, 
 
 I was startled at the glory 
 And the suddenness of light, 
 
 That had silvered up the arches 
 Over all the aisles of night. 
 
 I had kept my passion hidden ; 
 
 I had held it deathly still 
 Through the vigor of my manhood, 
 
 Through the power of my will. 
 G 
 
 73
 
 74 HEART LESSONS. 
 
 Oh, the pride in being master ! 
 
 Oh, the dread of being slave ! 
 Better wear the crimson fever 
 
 In a by-way to the grave. 
 
 Better hold it hide it downward, 
 Though the fibrous, vital man 
 
 From the inner heat's expansion 
 Into baser metal ran. 
 
 Better feel the slowest fusion 
 Of the being's finer parts, 
 
 Than to show the garish colors 
 And the flame of common hearts. 
 
 But this sudden, white appearance 
 
 At the gate of ROSA GRAY, 
 Drove my real nature backward 
 
 Drove my stronger self away. 
 
 Standing, queenly, where the moon-glow 
 Brought its finish to her cheek. 
 
 Where the star-eyes saw her breast-swells 
 At the boddice-margin break, 
 
 Some entire unknown sensation, 
 From the heart's entangled wild, 
 
 Broke amain upon my life-strings, 
 And o'erswept me as a child.
 
 HEART LESSONS. 
 
 She was looking far to seaward, 
 And her outline shone so clear 
 
 That she seemed a chiseled SILENCE, 
 Cut from silver, leaning there. 
 
 And the* near Egyptian Lily, 
 Bending from its marble vase, 
 
 Might be fairer for her whiteness, 
 Might be rarer for her grace. 
 
 She was looking far to seaward, 
 And the moon-path, silver laid, 
 
 For the passage of her vision 
 To the outer world, was made. 
 
 75 
 
 
 
 She was lost in dreamy poems 
 
 To the ever verseful sea, 
 And the dimmest stars were nearer 
 
 Than her soul was unto me. 
 
 I approached her like a coward ; 
 
 For the under-lying dew 
 Scarcely sparkled at my foot-fall 
 
 In its noiseless passage through. 
 
 " ROSA GRAY," I said, and touched her 
 From her meditative sleep 
 
 " What of all this coral labor : 
 Will it overcome the deep ?
 
 76 HEART LESSONS. 
 
 "Mark you yonder reef, unbroken 
 
 Through the foam-line of its length : 
 Has this boundless spread of water, 
 Or the insect, greater strength ? 
 
 " Mark you how the brine beats ever 
 
 Up the still and steadfast wall : 
 Do the spray-drops gather marble, 
 That they whiten as they fall? 
 
 "There are grottos, arches, towers, 
 
 Cities, islands building on : 
 Will not Time proclaim a triumph 
 When the Ocean shall be gone? 
 
 " Come, now, ROSA GRAY, and listen : 
 
 Once my heart was all a sea, 
 And the thought-ships furrowed o'er it, 
 Bringing treasures unto me ; 
 
 " Fair white sails from isles of learning, > 
 
 Bringing knowledge unto me ; 
 I was master of its commerce, 
 I was monarch of the sea. 
 
 " I could feel the waves go outward, 
 And the wind-share cutting free 
 Through the white-enameled furrows 
 Of my great, expanding sea.
 
 HEART LESSONS. 
 
 11 You began your labor early 
 
 In my heart-deeps, ROSA GRAY, 
 And my ships, and waves, and ocean, 
 Long ago have passed away. 
 
 " So you fill me now, and sway me, 
 With the cunning of your skill ; 
 I have neither force nor reason, 
 I have neither way nor will. 
 
 " Speak me truthful words, O mistress t 
 
 In this fever of my mood ; 
 Let my heart-valves force the chalice, 
 Be it poison, down my blood ! " 
 
 You have seen a twig inclining, 
 Where, the liquid crystal found, 
 
 Kept the murmur of its music 
 In the alleys underground ; 
 
 So I thought to find her spirit, 
 So I sought to catch her tone, 
 
 Where the magic of my circle 
 Was the compass of her zone. 
 
 And ROSA GRAY looked outward 
 Once again toward the waves, 
 
 And her eyes came o'er with pity 
 As the dews come over leaves ; 
 a* 
 
 77
 
 HEART LESSONS. 
 
 And my own eyes burning in them, 
 Burning through the glassy flow, 
 
 Saw her real being shrinking 
 In the darkness far below. 
 
 Little need for her to utter, 
 Little need for her to move 
 
 Friend, I came not in the margin 
 Of the shadow of her love. 
 
 Mark you, now, I 'm looking backward, 
 Somewhat further than it seems, 
 
 Where the real things that met us 
 Take the portraiture of dreams. 
 
 There was no design in passing 
 I repeat here what I said 
 
 I but followed where the genius 
 Of my meditation led. 
 
 It was well I came upon her 
 
 In that mystic, latter noon, 
 When my heart gave off its burthen 
 
 As the cloud went off the moon. 
 
 It was well to yield my purpose 
 To the sway of impulse then ; 
 
 It was well to bring my greatness 
 To the plane of common men.
 
 HEART LESSONS. 79 
 
 It was meet that I, a beggar, 
 
 Trailing ermine as a king, 
 In her real, regal presence 
 
 Should appear the lower thing. 
 
 What is human pride and purpose 
 
 But a passion at the most ? 
 Men are haunted through ambition, 
 
 And their vanity 's the ghost. 
 
 For the lessons and the knowledge 
 
 That she gave me, ROSA GRAY, 
 I would cast the garnered learning 
 
 Of a former life away. 
 
 And I mind me often, often, 
 
 In my wanderings of late, 
 Of the figure standing silent 
 
 In the halo at the gate. 
 
 And I tread the pathway backward, 
 
 To that mystic, latter noon, 
 When my heart gave off its burthen 
 
 As the cloud went off the moon.
 
 TIME AT THE SOUTH. 
 
 IN the shade of the pool, where the queen-lily dips, 
 With the dew of the night on her beautiful lips ; 
 
 Where blossoms the orange, where bloometh the rose, 
 And the bright oleander and jessamine blows 
 
 Tread lightly, tread softly, O merciful Time, 
 
 O'er the land of the sun, and the lemon, and lime ; 
 
 For leaves of the flowers so faded and strewn 
 Were fair in the morning and fallen at noon. 
 
 Go back to the plane of your ice-hidden lakes 
 Go back with your breath of the frost and the flakes ; 
 
 Go Northward, O season of Winter and gloom, 
 From the emerald South and its odorous bloom. 
 
 O, the purple dead leaves that environ the ways 
 Of the genius of Time in its passage of days ; 
 
 O, the late-fallen leaves and the withering grass 
 How they rustle, and gather, and people the pass ! 
 So
 
 TIME AT THE SOUTH. g 
 
 O, better to die and be hidden away, 
 
 Than to live in the circle and sight of decay. 
 
 Our metals of life in their crucibles run 
 
 When the pulses are red in the glow of the sun. 
 
 13ut come to the South with the ice of your heel, 
 And the channels are still and the currents congeal. 
 
 Go backward, O Winter, go back to the lakes, 
 With your withering frost and your wandering flakes. 
 
 The bush is borne down and the blossom is shed, 
 And we gather to-day at the grave of the dead. 
 
 The corse that is stark, and the body that's cold, 
 Is a link of the past to be lost in the mold ; 
 
 And armies may file to the sepulchre plain 
 To laurel the bier of the body that's slain ; 
 
 But never again, at the death of the years, 
 
 Will the heart of the Southron be lavish of tears. 
 
 Go seek in the far-reaching fields of his land, 
 For the shade of his column and capital grand ; 
 
 Go look for the mosque of his worship and pride ; 
 Go look for his brother go look for his bride ; 
 
 Go look for all things he has cherished and loved 
 The garden he haunted, the valley he roved
 
 82 TIME AT THE SOUTH. 
 
 And the desolate track, and the ravens that fly, 
 Will tell that the fount of the Southron is dry. 
 
 Time was, when a sentinel stood at the gate, 
 And guarded the annals and altars of state ; 
 
 When the gleam of his eye and the glare of his blade 
 Kept the wolf in the covert afar and afraid ; 
 
 When the good and the pure, and the noble and true, 
 Were all in the land that the sentinel knew : 
 
 Time was when the tyrant would blanch in the sight 
 Of the column and arch of our temple of right, 
 
 When the marbles of state in their purity stood, 
 That our fathers had builded and hallowed in blood , 
 
 But time is long gone with the sands of the glass, 
 When honor was watchword, and virtue the pass. 
 
 Go banish the dust from your lexicons old, 
 Ye people that glitter and seek to be gold ; 
 
 Go back to the schools of your earlier days, 
 For their lessons of truth, and their patriot lays ; 
 
 Go study the greatness, that tried in the fires, 
 Shone bright in the glory that covered your sires ; 
 
 Go feel in the spell that encircles their graves 
 That tyrants and cowards are meaner than slaves.
 
 TIME AT THE SOUTH. 83 
 
 Oil, men of the nation oh, rulers and kings, 
 
 Do ye know that your riches and powers have wings ? 
 
 Do ye know that the ashes ye scatter and spurn, 
 Must quicken in time and arise from the urn ? 
 
 Do ye know that the gates where ye gather your tolls, 
 Are peopled with things that have pulses and souls? 
 
 Do ye dare, from your source in the dust and the clods, 
 To covet the robes and the thrones of the gods ? 
 
 Ye may look at the waves that go out on the sea, 
 And learn from the past what your future will be ; 
 
 For the ocean is broad, and the wave in its track, 
 Must follow, and follow, and never come back. 
 
 Ye are like to the waves that are gathered and tost, 
 And driven to sea, to be scattered and lost 
 
 In the morn, ere the scent of the roses is o'er, 
 
 Ye may sleep in the cove and the calm of the shore ; 
 
 Ye may toy in the isles at the mellower noon, 
 With your feathery spray and its murmurous tune ; 
 
 But evening must come from the shadow at last, 
 With a garment of gloom and a gathering blast.
 
 DOUBLE LIFE. 
 
 OVER pools of purest water, 
 
 Lying silent, there will come, 
 Soon, or late, the green enamel 
 
 Of a quickened herbage-scum ; 
 Taking color from the vesture 
 
 That the margin grasses wear, 
 Till it hides the lambent sparkle 
 
 Of the liquid crystal there. 
 
 So the poet-nature shadows 
 
 All its glory with a cloud, 
 That the soul-light may not dazzle 
 
 In the ordinary crowd ; 
 So they hide their real beings, 
 
 So they live and act a part, 
 Making nature but an adjunct 
 
 To the perfectness of art. 
 
 Oh, I hate this outward seeming, 
 This unreal, double-life,
 
 DOUBLE LIFE. 85 
 
 Where the face is full of quiet 
 While the heart is full of strife ; 
 
 For our latent inner-currents 
 Would to other currents run, 
 
 Though the waters of the spirit 
 Mav be hidden from the sun. 
 
 We may live upon the surface, 
 
 We may wear the mantle green, 
 And among the outer beings, 
 
 Be as outer beings seen ; 
 But the spheres of souls magnetic 
 
 Are beyond the common thrall, 
 And the true life of the poet 
 
 Pulseth under, after all.
 
 THE LITTLE BOY GUIDING THE PLOW. 
 
 WHEN a bugle-note rang in the quivering trees, 
 
 And a drum beat the nation to arms, 
 Our people came up from the shore of the seas, 
 
 And away from their blue-mountain farms ; 
 All stalwart and strong as the hardy old pines, 
 
 Or the wave-breaking rocks of the shore, 
 They came in their long gleaming columns and lines, 
 
 Till the bugle-note sounded no more. 
 There are hearts in the ranks, as light as the foam; 
 
 There are those of a gloomier brow ; 
 And some who have left but a mother at home, 
 
 With her little boy guiding the plow. 
 
 There are silver-haired men, the tide in their veins 
 
 Leaping down the red 3 'leys of youth, 
 All fresh as the water-fall thrown to the plains, 
 
 And as pure as the beautiful truth j 
 There are sons too, and sires the old and the 
 
 young 
 
 In the midnight and morning of life, 
 86
 
 THE LITTLE BOY GUIDING THE PLOW. 87 
 
 Who came from the hills and the valleys among, 
 
 To be first in the glorious strife ; 
 And many, how many beneath the blue dome, 
 
 Are bending in solitude now, 
 To plead for the weal of a mother at home, 
 
 And her little boy guiding the plow ! 
 
 Oh, the pang of his heart, and the keenest of all 
 
 That a wandering father may know, 
 Is the vision of home with its agony-call, 
 
 Its hunger and shivering woe ; 
 And who would not chafe in the sacredest chain 
 
 At a memory bitter as this, 
 
 Though he knew in his heart that each moment of 
 pain 
 
 Would but hallow his future to bliss? 
 And who would not weep in a vision of gloom, 
 
 When the Evil One whispered him how 
 The toil grew apace to the mother at home, 
 
 And her little boy guiding the plow ? 
 
 But courage, keep courage, oh, parent away! 
 
 Be noble, and faithful, and brave ! 
 And the midnight shall pass, and the glorious day 
 
 Shall be shed over tyranny's grave ! 
 Though a desolate thing is a fenceless farm, 
 
 And as dreary, a furrowless field, 
 Still, God in his mercy shall strengthen the arm 
 
 Of the little boy asking a yield ;
 
 88 THE LWTLE BOY GUIDING THE PLOIV. 
 
 And the stubbornest clay shall be as the loam, 
 
 When the patriot spirit shall bow, 
 And ask for a friend to the mother at home, 
 
 And her little boy guiding the plow. 
 
 Oh, God will be kind to the needy and poor 
 
 Who shall suffer from tyranny's hand ; 
 His foot-print shall be by the loneliest door, 
 
 And his bounty shall cover the land ; 
 And broken the glebe in the valley and mead, 
 
 Where the poorest and weakest shall be, 
 And plenty shall spring of the promising seed, 
 
 Till a people shall live to be free; 
 And never, oh, never shall tyranny come, 
 
 With iron-bound bosom and brow 
 May God give him back to the mother at home, 
 
 And her little boy guiding the plow !
 
 THE FLOWER GRAVES. 
 
 FROM the fields that underlie us, 
 
 Down the flowered South's incline, 
 Where the vintage of the battles 
 
 Took a deeper glow than wine ; 
 When the early green of summer, 
 
 Winning out the smitten gaze, 
 Caught, from war, a sudden crimson, 
 
 As of later autumn days ; 
 Where the tangled, trodden grasses, 
 
 And the fragment blades and shells, 
 All the story of the struggle, 
 
 More than eloquently tells ; 
 
 From the salients and the centres, 
 
 And the points of jealous guard, 
 Where the trees and earth with missiles 
 
 Bearing death were deepest scarred ; 
 Where the tempered blade was needed, 
 
 And the gallant arm to wield, 
 For the honor and the glory 
 
 And the guidance of the field ; 
 
 H* 89
 
 90 THE FLOWER GRAVES. 
 
 In the surge and edge of carnage, 
 
 In the battle's tidal flow, 
 At the focus of the conflict, 
 
 At the colors of the foe 
 There we sought, and there we found them 
 
 In the clotted field and fen 
 Found the relics, and the shadows, 
 
 Of our grand and god-like men. 
 
 Meet it is, oh widow mother! 
 From this sweet, prolific May, 
 
 Thus to bear its living garlands 
 Through the winter of your way. 
 
 Meet it is, O men and brothers ! . 
 
 Here amid the fallen great, 
 These to glorify and honor 
 
 As the noblest of your State. 
 
 In the shadow of a column, 
 
 Bearing upward to the day, 
 Yonder carven marble semblance 
 
 Of the ever-living CLAY, 
 Well it is that they should slumber, 
 
 Who, beneath his power-tone, 
 From the cradle-time of being, 
 
 Into patriots had grown ; 
 Who were early taught his lessons, 
 
 And to noble paths inclined
 
 THE FLOWER GRAVES. 
 
 By his scorn of crawling spirits, 
 And the narrow grooves of mind ; 
 
 Who were taught the worth of freedom, 
 And the glory of such graves . 
 
 As should come before the shackles, 
 And the curse of being slaves. 
 
 Bring your garlands here, O sister, 
 For the brother who is free, 
 
 Who to brutal pomp and power 
 Never bent a servile knee. 
 
 For the cause in which he suffered, 
 
 And the hearth and home-lands gone, 
 Yet his ashes lise in witness 
 
 At the courts of after-dawn 
 Let his banner bear the record 
 
 Of an impulse in his blade, 
 When the red track down an army 
 
 Told the havoc he had made. 
 
 Such an even-handed justice 
 As the nation's cannot move, 
 
 There will be in that tribunal, 
 At the golden bar above. 
 
 Bring the rose and lily hither, 
 And the May-time's early bloom; 
 
 Let us conquer now, with flowers, 
 -All the legions of the tomb ;
 
 THE FLOWER GRAVES. 
 
 Let the green and living garlands 
 Over all the mounds be shed, 
 
 As a token that the heroes 
 Underlying, are not dead. 
 
 Keep them fresh, O eyes of beauty, 
 
 With the moisture of your tears, 
 That their souls may haunt the flowers 
 
 Down your summer-way of years. 
 Keep them fresh with darling kisses; 
 
 Let them feel your bosom-sigh, 
 And the thousand years of glory 
 
 Shall not see the Southrons die.
 
 P'ALLEN. 
 
 THS iron voice from yonder spire 
 
 Has Iiush'd its hollow tone, 
 And midnight finds me lying here, 
 
 In silence and alone. 
 
 The still moon through my window 
 Sheds its soft light on the floor, 
 
 With a melancholy paleness, 
 I have never seen before ; 
 
 And the summer wind comes to me 
 
 With its sad yEolian lay, 
 As if burthened with the sorrows 
 
 Of a weary, weary day ; 
 
 But the moonlight cannot soothe me 
 
 Of the sickness here within, 
 And the sad wind takes no portion 
 
 From my bosom's weight of sin. 
 
 93
 
 94 
 
 FALLEN. 
 
 Yet my heart and all its pises 
 
 Seem so quietly to rest, 
 That I scarce can feel ther beating 
 
 In my arms, or in my b:ast : 
 
 These rounded limbs are nting now 
 
 So still upon the bed, 
 That one would think, to se me here, 
 
 That I was lying dead. 
 
 What if 'twere so ? Whatf I died 
 
 As I am lying now, 
 With something like to vine's calm 
 
 Upon this pallid brow ? 
 
 What if I died to-night ? Ui, now 
 This heart begins to bet 
 
 A fallen wretch, like me, ) pass 
 From earth, so sadly sect ! 
 
 Yet am I calm ! as cah as clouds 
 That slowly float and frm, 
 
 To give their burthen-tea in some 
 Unpitying winter storm 
 
 As calm as great Sahara 
 
 E'er the simoom sweej its waste 
 As the ocean, e'er the blows 
 
 All its miles of beach ave laced.
 
 FALLEN. 95 
 
 Still, still, have no tears to shed; 
 
 These eylids have no store 
 The founta. once within me, 
 
 A fountai is no more. 
 
 The moon ione looks on me now, 
 
 The pale nd dreamful moon; 
 She smiles Don my wretchedness, 
 
 Through d the night's sweet noon. 
 
 What if I dil to-night within 
 
 These gildl, wretched walls, 
 Upon whose rimson tapestry 
 
 No eye of irtue falls. 
 
 What would i soulless inmates do 
 When they ad found me here, 
 
 With cheek tc white for passion's smile, 
 Too cold fc passion's tear ? 
 
 Ah ! one woul come, and from these arms 
 
 Unclasp thoauble bands; 
 Another, wrenc the jewels from 
 
 My fairer, \\iter hands. 
 
 This splendid ibe, another's form 
 
 Would grace, )h, long before 
 The tender moc-beam shed again 
 
 Its silver on ie floor.
 
 FALLEN. 
 
 And when they'd laid me down in earth 
 Where pauper graves are made. 
 
 Beneath no drooping willow-tree 
 In angel-haunted shade, 
 
 Who'd come and plant a living vine 
 
 Upon a wretched grave? 
 Who'd trim the tangled grasses wild 
 
 No summer wind could wave? 
 
 Who would raise a stone to mark it 
 
 From ruder graves around, 
 That the foot-fall of the stranger 
 
 Might be soft upon the ground? 
 
 No stone would stand above me there 
 
 No sadly bending tree, 
 No hand would plant a myrtle vine 
 
 Above a wretch like me. 
 
 What if I died to-night! and when 
 
 To-morrow's sun had crept 
 Where late the softer moonlight 
 
 In its virgin beauty slept, 
 
 They'd come and find r6 here oh, who 
 Would weep to see me dead? 
 
 Who'd bend the knee of sorrow 
 By a pulseless wanton's bed?
 
 FALLEN. 
 
 There's one would come my mother! 
 
 God bless the angel band 
 That bore her, ere her daughter fell, 
 
 To yonder quiet land ! 
 
 Thank God for all the anthem-songs 
 
 That gladdened angels sung, 
 When my mother went to heaven, 
 
 And I was pure and young ! 
 
 And there's another too would come 
 
 A man upon whose brow 
 My shame hath brought the winter snow 
 
 To rest so heavy now. 
 
 Ah ! he would come with bitter tears 
 All burning down his cheek, 
 
 Had reason's kingdom stronger been 
 When virtue grew so weak ! 
 
 My sisters and my brothers all, 
 
 Thank God ! are far away ! 
 They'll never know how died the one 
 
 That mingled in their play; 
 
 They'll never know how wretchedly 
 
 Their darling sister died, 
 The one who smiled whene'er they smiled, 
 
 Who cried whene'er they cried. 
 
 97
 
 FALLEN. 
 
 For him that sought a spotless hand. 
 
 And lives to know my shame, 
 In such a place I'd tear the tongue 
 
 That dared to speak his name. 
 
 The cold sea-waves run up the sand 
 
 In undulating swells, 
 And backward to the ocean turn 
 
 When they have kissed the shells ; 
 
 So, there's a torrent in my breast, 
 
 And I can feel its flow 
 Rush up in crimson billows 
 
 On a beach as fair as snow ; 
 
 And backward, backward to my heart, 
 
 The ocean takes its tide, 
 My cheeks and lips left bloodless all, 
 
 And cold, as if I died ! 
 
 I'm all alone to-night ! How strange 
 
 That I should be alone ! 
 This splendid chamber seems to want 
 
 Some rou&s passion-tone ! 
 
 Yon soulless mirror, with its smooth 
 
 And all untarnished face, 
 Sees not these jewelled arms to-night, 
 
 In their unchaste embrace
 
 FALLEN. 
 
 Oh, I have fled the fever 
 Of that heated, crowded hall, 
 
 Where I might claim the highest-born 
 And noblest of them all ; 
 
 Where I might smile upon them now 
 
 With easy, wanton grace, 
 Which subdues the blood of virtue 
 
 That would struggle in my face. 
 
 I hate them all I scorn them, 
 As they scorn me in the street ; 
 
 I could spurn away the pressure 
 That my lips too often meet; 
 
 I could trample on the lucre 
 That their passion never spares : 
 
 They robbed me of a heritage 
 Of greater price than theirs. 
 
 They can never give me back again 
 What I have thrown away, 
 
 The brightest jewel woman wears 
 Throughout her little day ! 
 
 The brightest, and the only one, 
 That from the cluster riven, 
 
 Shuts out forever woman's heart 
 From all its hopes of Heaven !
 
 loo FALLEN. 
 
 What if I died to-night? and died 
 
 As I am lying here ! 
 There's many a green leaf withered 
 
 Ere autumn comes to sear ; 
 
 There's many a dew-drop shaken down 
 Ere yet the sunshine came, 
 
 And many a spark hath died before 
 It wakened into flame. 
 
 What if I died to-night, and left 
 These wretched bonds of clay 
 
 To seek beyond this hollow sphere 
 A brighter, better day? 
 
 What if my soul passed out, and sought 
 
 That haven of the blest 
 "Where the wicked cease from troubling, 
 The weary are at rest " ? 
 
 Would angels call me from above, 
 
 And beckon me to come 
 And join them in their holy songs 
 
 In that eternal home ? 
 
 Would they clasp their hands in gladness 
 When they saw my soul set free, 
 
 And point beside my. mother's 
 To a place reserved for me ?
 
 FALLEN. 10 1 
 
 Would they meet me as a sister, 
 
 As one of precious worth 
 Who had gained a place in Heaven 
 
 By holiness on earth? 
 
 O God! 1 would not have my soul 
 
 Go out upon the air 
 With ali its weight of wretchedness, 
 
 .To wander, where oh, where?
 
 MIDNIGHT BELLS. 
 
 Ho ! ye who wait where sleeps in state 
 The silent form of SIXTY-EIGHT, 
 Where from the shadows blue and far 
 Has come his glinting taper-star, 
 Where from the carboned upper dark 
 The crystal scalings of its arc, 
 In fitful, hither, thither ways, 
 Are driven like the drifting days, 
 Now o'er the winter fields and fells 
 Ye hear the sobbing Midnight Bells. 
 
 Ho ! ye whose tears were shed on biers 
 Of other gray and gathered years, 
 Why weep ye now, and watch, and wait, 
 Beside the corse of SIXTY-EIGHT? 
 The widowed hills, the orphan vales, 
 May give their anthem* and their wails ; 
 May wear their garb oi mourning white 
 Along the pathways of the night, 
 But YE! why heed ye now the knells? 
 Why hearken still the Midnight Bells?
 
 MIDNIGHT BELLS. 
 
 The sunlight smiles through airy miles 
 On fair and flowered summer isles, 
 And earth in green and living things, 
 So gladdened with its lightsome wings, 
 Floats wanton where the odor-breeze 
 Goes out the shining summer seas ; 
 But winter from her secret caves 
 Creeps darkling o'er the ocean waves, 
 And sad and far from o'er the swells 
 The bloom has heard its Midnight Bells. 
 
 O men who know how sure and slow 
 The tides of time must ebb and flow ; 
 How one by one the waves must reach 
 And bear their tribute from the beach, 
 How sure the sands upon the lea 
 Go outward to the central sea, 
 And buried are in hollow grooves 
 Where slow th' eternal current moves, 
 Why pause they where the sounding shells 
 Bear echoes from the Midnight Bells ? 
 
 The nations rise, and through the skies 
 The clamor of their glory flies ; 
 Their flaunting pennons out the gales 
 Go with the sunlight and the sails, 
 And spicy isles and frozen zones 
 Their splendor and their power owns ; 
 But deathless Time eternal TIME ! 
 He heeds no king, he knows no clime ; 
 
 103
 
 104 
 
 MIDNIGHT BELLS. 
 
 And over wars, their shouts, their yells, 
 He peals the nations' Midnight Bells. 
 
 The great, the grand, who gave the land 
 
 Their crimson for its right to stand ; 
 
 Who on their swords of valor brought 
 
 Our right of action and of thought ; 
 
 Who piled their way from kings and thrones 
 
 With such a hecatomb of bones, 
 
 Their hearts are still, their forms are cold, 
 
 Their very deeds beneath the mold, 
 
 And scarce the country's record tells 
 
 How we have heard their Midnight Bells. 
 
 When tyrant knaves make freemen slaves, 
 And tread the sod of sacred graves ; 
 When in the darkness and the dust 
 They give our sabres to the rust ; 
 When in our cells no sound remains 
 Above the voices of the chains ; 
 When all but memory is dead, 
 And TIME alone hath ceaseless tread, 
 Oh, joy to know a chain foretells 
 The clanking of their Midnight Bells ! 
 
 For men whose souls amid the shoals 
 Are fearless in the tidal rolls ; 
 Who move with shackles on their arms 
 As proudly in the face of storms
 
 MIDNIGHT BELLS. 
 
 As they whose ermine drapes the gates 
 Of conquered Empires, fallen States, 
 To them shall come no craven gloom, 
 No haunting shadow of the tomb, 
 No fear of death, no shrieking hells, 
 When Freedom swings her Midnight Bells. 
 
 The fairest stream that like a dream 
 Goes down the land, a silver seam ; 
 The stars that show their golden glow 
 On things that slumber here below ; 
 The waves, the sea, the earth, the sky, 
 All things that live and all that die; 
 The great, the good, the weak, the strong,- 
 To TIME ETERNAL all belong, 
 And soon or late must come their knells 
 From sad and solemn Midnight Bells. 
 
 In virtue's way to endless day, 
 
 Beyond the margin's reaching gray, 
 
 Beyond the ether's thick'ning spread, 
 
 Beyond the world, beyond the dead, 
 
 Let men, let nations cast their eyes 
 
 Toward the opening Paradise, 
 
 Till all the hopes and all the fears, 
 
 Till all the chains and all the wars 
 
 Are lost forever in the swells 
 
 When Heaven tolls our Midnight Bells.
 
 AFTER THE WAR. 
 
 WE have filled with recollections 
 All our calumets to-day, 
 
 And from this clearer present 
 Floats the cloudy past away. 
 
 We have burned to finer ashes 
 All the debris of the years, 
 
 That so late amid the home-lands 
 Brought us misery and tears. 
 
 Farewell to all the memories 
 That preyed upon our souls, 
 
 That made us in our carnage-time 
 A populace of ghouls. 
 
 Farewell to every record-mark 
 
 Of cruelties and crimes, 
 And a welcome to the sunlight 
 
 Of dawning better times. 
 106
 
 AFTER THE WAR. 107 
 
 Already from the havoc-fields 
 
 Where rolled the battle-drums, 
 The busy beat of hammers 
 
 And the din of labor comes j 
 
 The plowshare in the sodden ground 
 
 Its fruitful passage takes, 
 And toil is in its triumph 
 
 From the bayous to the lakes. 
 
 O blessed land ! where swords are drawn 
 
 To hew the armied grain, 
 Where lines of corn are stricken down 
 
 Upon the harvest plain ; 
 
 Where every stalk beneath the stroke 
 
 In golden beauty bows, 
 And men are counted noble 
 
 Who have sweat upon their brows. 
 
 O blessed land ! O land of toil, 
 
 And land of human love, 
 There are pages of repentance 
 
 In thy records up above ; 
 
 And onward, onward through the days 
 
 Of glory yet to come 
 Shall march thy legion labor, 
 
 Shall beat their anvil-drum.
 
 108 AFTER THE WAR. 
 
 Our sinews strong from North to South 
 Are wrought of iron bands, 
 
 And rivers wind like silver threads 
 Adown our shining sands. 
 
 Brave Progress with her certain pulse, 
 Her mighty breath of steam, 
 
 Goes out in power on the earth, 
 In glory on the stream. 
 
 And Westward far, by plains a-bloom 
 And mountains rich in ore, 
 
 Our engines bear their burthens 
 To the great Pacific shore. 
 
 Our sails are white on all the seas, 
 With gleaming tracks behind 
 
 At peace to-day with all the world! 
 Good-will to all mankind ! 
 
 Thus much for all the nation 
 As a grand majestic whole, 
 
 Made up of smaller portions 
 As our acts make up the soul. 
 
 GOD hath trusted us with talents, 
 Each and all of us a trust ; 
 
 Howsoe'er we please to use them, 
 HE is merciful and just.
 
 AFTER THE WAR. 
 
 Let us do our share of labor, 
 Let us toil and sweat to-day, 
 
 Let us lift our burthened neighbor 
 From his falling by the way. 
 
 Every impulse of our kindness, 
 Every act we do of love, 
 
 Hath its record to our credit 
 In the archives up above. 
 
 By the broad and fair Ohio, 
 In the rich lands of the West, 
 
 We have builded up our mansions, 
 Here to live and here to rest ; 
 
 And the long grass waves in greenness 
 
 Over plains and over hills, 
 And the sunlight gives its shimmer.' 
 
 To the ever-going rills. 
 
 Land of Peace and land of Plenty! 
 
 Richer far than any yet: 
 May thy rising sun of glory 
 
 In the shadow never set ! 
 
 Goodly arms and sturdy spirits 
 Over all thy fields be spread ; 
 
 Teach the children of thy people 
 To be proud to earn their bread ! 
 J 
 
 109
 
 110 AFTER THE WAR. 
 
 Never plowman trod the furrow 
 Of a richer soil than ours, 
 
 To a bosom more prolific 
 
 Never came the summer showers; 
 
 Corn and wheat in rolling billows 
 Flood the acres with their gold, 
 
 And the strata spreading under 
 Have a hidden wealth untold. 
 
 Build the lordly track of iron 
 
 Through the pasture-lands and fields, 
 That its greater strength may gather in 
 
 And garner up the yields ; 
 
 Let the palpitating engines 
 
 Spread their steam adown the valleys, 
 And the woodlands hanging over 
 
 Keep its echo in their alleys. 
 
 Send the golden harvest outward, 
 Bear away the corn and kine ; 
 
 Open up the secret treasure 
 Of the underlying mine ; 
 
 Show the world your share of riches, 
 Give to commerce what you can; 
 
 Show the dignity of labor 
 And the worthiness of man !
 
 SIXTY-FIVE. 
 
 IF a nation hath not goodness then it never can be 
 
 great, 
 For there's nothing like to virtue in the building of 
 
 a State. 
 
 Though you bring your quarried marble from a mul 
 titude of miles, 
 
 And rear it into paiaces and monumental piles j 
 Though with dome and arch and column you may 
 
 beautify the land, 
 Making earth and air and water pliant agents in your 
 
 hand, 
 Still without the seal of virtue on the charter of your 
 
 State, 
 In the eyes of Christian people you are neither good 
 
 nor great ; 
 In the eyes of God Almighty you are only great in 
 
 sin, 
 And he'll weigh you in the autumn when His Angel 
 
 garners in. 
 
 in
 
 112 SIXTY-FIVE. 
 
 Let us look a moment calmly o'er the little season 
 
 gone ; 
 Let us mark the boggy places in the road we journey 
 
 on : 
 There are others to come after in the path which we 
 
 have trod, 
 Let us point them from the quicksand to the way 
 
 upon the sod. 
 
 There were mighty throes upon us when .we ushered 
 
 in the year 
 Which yesterday in solemn shroud we saw upon its 
 
 bier; 
 There were throes as if a giant on our being bent a 
 
 knee, 
 Admonishing of what we were and what we sought 
 
 to be ; 
 We had coffers heavy laden, we had ships upon the 
 
 brine, 
 
 We had fallow-lands and vineyards with their effer 
 vescing wine ; 
 We were strong and stern and haughty from the 
 
 growth of years before, 
 And our plenitude of glory only made us crave the 
 
 more: 
 Not such glory . as the Christian, in the presence of 
 
 his God, 
 Hath to come upon his spirit when he bows to kiss 
 
 the rod ; 
 But the vanity of power and the strength of human 
 
 pride,
 
 SiXTY-FIVE. H 3 
 
 That had made us scorn the virtues and the honors 
 
 as they died : 
 So a hand was laid upon us, and our glory stripped 
 
 away 
 As one might strip a flower-stem upon an autumn 
 
 day. 
 
 We have conquered many battles, we have gained a 
 
 world-renown, 
 We have driven gallant armies and have shaken cities 
 
 down ; 
 We have laid a land in ashes, we have made a people 
 
 slaves, 
 We have carried golden trophies from a citadel of 
 
 graves ; 
 There's blood upon our bayonets and blood upon 
 
 our guns, 
 And some of it's our brothers' blood and some of 
 
 it's our sons'. 
 " What boots it how we triumphed so a victory was 
 
 gained ! 
 Who wears the whiter garment may expect to have 
 
 it stained ! " 
 
 Thus spoke we in our vanity, our ecstasy of pride, 
 As one who goes rejoicing o'er the grave of one that 
 
 died ; 
 So climbed we up the pathway to the pinnacle of 
 
 sin, 
 
 And o'er the gulf of darkness we were calmly look 
 ing in. 
 
 J*
 
 II4 SIXTY-FIVE. 
 
 But the wrath of God was on us, and we felt His 
 
 mighty hand 
 As he stripped the mad ambition of its garments in 
 
 the land. 
 We were " proud and strong and haughty," but within 
 
 a little day 
 We have seen our gilded treasures fast as bubbles 
 
 float away : 
 We are wrecked in pride and fortune ; we were rich, 
 
 and we are poor ; 
 There's . a coffin in our dwelling and a sexton at our 
 
 door. 
 
 Let us turn the crimson pages in the record-book of 
 war: 
 
 There are giant sins upon us, giant crimes to answer 
 for: 
 
 There are cities laid in ashes, there are desolated 
 farms ; 
 
 There are starving children crying in their helpless 
 mother's arms ; 
 
 There are widows, there are orphans, cold and home 
 less in the land, 
 
 With the husband and the father lying fleshless on 
 the sand; 
 
 There is woe and want and sorrow over all the South 
 ern States ; 
 
 From within the nation's chamber, we can hear it at 
 the gates ; 
 
 Yet our flags are flaunting bravely, and our music 
 fills the air,
 
 SIXTY-FIVE. 
 
 1*5 
 
 For the burthen of the sorrow it is not for us to 
 
 bear ; 
 We have prison-cells and dungeons thickly peopled 
 
 with the foe, 
 And some have on the gibbet died, and some are 
 
 dying slow. 
 
 Such a fever and such passion over all the North 
 
 has swept, 
 That though weeping MERCY pleaded, it hath never 
 
 known she wept ; 
 
 And the vengeful cry for slaughter from the Puri 
 tanic crowd, 
 In the halls of central power hath an echo fierce 
 
 and loud ; 
 From the Northern press and pulpit, from the bench 
 
 and from the bar, 
 
 Cometh all the evil pleading of a fury after war. 
 And but a little while it seems, when frenzy ran so 
 
 high 
 
 The nation by a gallows stood to see a woman die 
 A woman weak and trembling and as guiltless as a 
 
 child, 
 
 But a victim to the fury of a passion fierce and wild. 
 And here the high offended God put forth His hand 
 
 again, 
 To write upon the nation's brow the burning mark 
 
 of CAIN. 
 
 Again for WIRZ, the foreigner, a wretched feeble man, 
 But yesterday we filled his cup until it over-ran ;
 
 n6 SIXTY-FIVE. 
 
 And one by one we lessen them, these victims to our 
 
 hate, 
 And there's a thirst for human blood an ocean can 
 
 not sate. 
 
 At our helm we had a despot, and for him this crim 
 son tide, 
 A Nero who could revel while his better subjects 
 
 died ; 
 But the Mighty Hand o'ertook him in his revel and 
 
 his wrong, 
 And it taught us in our weakness that the Deity 
 
 was strong. 
 There are those who call him martyr, there are those 
 
 who call him great: 
 After passion cometh reason let the better spirits 
 
 wait ; 
 
 As the water finds its level, so the characters of men 
 Some may die and be forgotten, some may die and 
 
 live again. 
 There's a gray-haired man in prison, under iron bolt 
 
 and bar, 
 
 A relic and a trophy from the desolating war; 
 He was once a mighty leader, such as few are born 
 
 to be ; 
 He had armies in the nation, he had ships upon the 
 
 sea; 
 But our strength in war was greater, for we crushed 
 
 him with our might, 
 And we watched his day of glory as it settled into 
 
 night.
 
 SIXTY-FIVE. n-j 
 
 Now we held him bound and shackled, with a palsy 
 
 in his arm ; 
 
 We have seized and sacked his temple, he is power 
 less for harm. 
 But to crush and break his spirit, and to take away 
 
 his all, 
 For the crime of Revolution was a punishment too 
 
 small ; 
 And the nation must have vengeance, for her women 
 
 cry for blood 
 Though it runs a mighty torrent they would have it 
 
 run a flood. 
 God forgive them all their passion ! God forgive them 
 
 all their sin ! 
 From their hearts drive out the anger, and invoke the 
 
 mercy in ! 
 
 There's another cry of sorrow from the liberated 
 
 black ; 
 There is want among his children, and blood upon 
 
 his track. 
 From his proper grade and level they have thought 
 
 to lift him up, 
 And he glories at their banquet with a poison in his 
 
 cup. . 
 From his love and from his labor they have taken 
 
 him away, 
 And the gloomy night is crowding over all his sunny 
 
 day. 
 
 We can hear him in the darkness giving out his bit 
 ter moan,
 
 Il8 SIXTY-FIVE. 
 
 While for all the bread he asketh they have only 
 
 found a stone. 
 Let him freeze and let him hunger they are blind 
 
 and cannot see ; 
 It is food and cloth and shelter, and a glory to be 
 
 FREE. 
 
 O ye great and godly Christians ! O ye Puritanic 
 
 souls, 
 Have ye lost your human spirits ? are ye demons ? 
 
 are ye ghouls? 
 Was it not enough to wreck him in his hopes and in 
 
 his all, 
 That ye triumph so and revel at his miserable fall? 
 
 Though the sins of all the nation in their multitude 
 
 are great, 
 There are crimes as black and cruel in the records 
 
 of our State ; 
 For Kentucky (God forgive her), though she sought 
 
 to do the best, 
 From the black and base attrition grew as callous 
 
 as the rest. 
 There were those who did her murder in the guise 
 
 of right and law ; 
 There's the blood of HUNT upon her, and of CORBIN 
 
 and McGRAW ; 
 And there's such a cry of sorrow from the grave of 
 
 bleeding LONG, 
 As should pale the cheek of hatred in its memory of 
 
 the wrong.
 
 SIXTY-FIVE. 
 
 119 
 
 God forgive us all our errors ! God forgive us all our 
 
 crimes ! 
 We have lived in sin and darkness let us hope for 
 
 better times.
 
 TO MASTER GEO. W. JOHNSTON, 
 
 IN youth, my boy, I pray you keep 
 
 This simple truth in view: 
 That men are only counted great 
 
 For goodly things they do. 
 
 The man who lives an aimless life, 
 
 Nor labors very day, 
 Belongs to that ephemera 
 
 That passes soon away; 
 
 But he who takes the labor-tools 
 
 And seeks the science-fields, 
 Will find the noble harvest that 
 
 The golden autumn yields. 
 
 The way to fame is over-grown 
 
 With tangled weeds and vines, 
 And many take the trodden path 
 
 That from the goal inclines;
 
 TO MASTER GEO. W. JOHNSTON. j 2 i 
 
 But you, my boy, with compass true, 
 
 Must keep the bearing straight, 
 And cut the stubborn obstacles 
 
 That lie before the gate. 
 
 Be guided by the honor-laws 
 
 That gave your kindred name, 
 And keep the course that ushered t'heift 
 
 Within the walls of fame ; 
 
 And when at last the honor-roll 
 
 Above the world is spread, 
 You will not blush to find your name 
 
 Is written at the head.
 
 HIS LAST DAY. 
 
 As one who from his native place 
 
 In tender youth had turned, 
 To feel the brown upon his face 
 
 Bv distant solstice burned ; 
 Who, journey-worn and scarred and sore, 
 
 And sickened with the past, 
 Has reached again his father's door, 
 
 And tottered in at last; 
 
 As one whose memory at home 
 
 Is slowly fading out, 
 Whose features to his kindred come 
 
 In mistiness and doubt ; 
 Who from the sea has turned again 
 
 The ingle-side to share, 
 And fled the haunts of stranger men 
 
 To be a stranger there. 
 
 So I, to-night, a loiterer 
 In other paths and lands,
 
 HIS LAST DAY. 
 
 From struggle-scenes and wreck and fear, 
 
 And death upon the sands, 
 Have turned again an eager gaze 
 
 Upon the homeward track, 
 And through the mist and through the maze 
 
 Have slowly travelled back. 
 
 Here home at last 1 ah, HOME no more ! 
 
 For time hath, hurtled through, 
 And faces that I study o'er, 
 
 Alas ! are strange and new ; 
 All new ! all strange, save only one, 
 
 The old Familiar there ; 
 And Time his silver-work hath done 
 
 Upon the master's hair. 
 
 I keep the outline of his face 
 
 As faithfully of late, 
 As when with early artist-grace 
 
 I "did him" on the slate: 
 The kindly eye, the open brow, 
 
 The lips that ever smiled, 
 I mark them just as truly now 
 
 As when I was a child. 
 
 The bold front teeth, the queer-turned nose 
 
 (Your pardon, sir, I pray), 
 The forward step upon the toes, 
 
 They seem like yesterday. 
 
 123
 
 HIS LAST DAY. 
 
 Though Time hath fled with gray and brown, 
 
 I mark him just as well 
 As when he pulled the old rope down 
 
 And tied me to the bell. 
 
 Full thirty years have fleeted by 
 
 Since first the school began, 
 And from a little urchin I 
 
 Have grown to be a man ; 
 But I would dash the cares of men 
 
 And give I cannot tell 
 If he could take me back again 
 
 And tie me to the bell. 
 
 The dear companions of my class, 
 
 Habitues at play, 
 Have some of them gone down the glass, 
 
 And some live great to-day. 
 I've watched the progress of them all, 
 
 And in the ways of fame 
 I hear at every honor-call 
 
 Some well-remembered name. 
 
 The pulpit and the bench and bar, 
 
 The science-fields of earth, 
 The blood-red annals of the war 
 
 Are vocal with their worth. 
 Throughout the land, from East to West, 
 
 From Erie to the Keys, 
 The spirits known and loved the best 
 
 Were nurtured here like these.
 
 HIS LAST DAY. 
 
 When late, for sad fraternal strife 
 
 Our battle lines were drawn, 
 And North and South alike were rife 
 
 With armies marching on, 
 A portion of the early class 
 
 On either side were found ; 
 And some are 'neath the trampled grass, 
 
 And some live yet renowned. 
 
 All honor to the dust of those 
 
 Who in the struggle fell, 
 Who grew as friends but met as foes, 
 
 And fought each other well ; 
 Their soldier-graves shall long attest 
 
 To future passers-by, 
 That dulce et decorum est 
 
 Pro patria mori. 
 
 I come to-night with weary heart 
 
 And saddened eye, to find 
 Some vestige of the scholar-art 
 
 Left years ago behind : 
 The labors of the early age, 
 
 The mysteries of school, 
 The art to scan a Virgil page, 
 
 The Algebraic rule. 
 
 From other scenes and other toils 
 Too late, alas ! I turn ; 
 K* 
 
 125
 
 126 HIS LAST DAY. 
 
 The science-lamps their sacred oils 
 No more for me shall burn. 
 
 The springs of youth that joyous sped 
 Their courses to the river, 
 
 Have mingled with the waves, and fled 
 The flower-ways forever. 
 
 What though a .stranger in the throng 
 
 That now the master sways, 
 I claim the right to give my song 
 
 The flush of other clays ; 
 And here upon this honored stand 
 
 A gratitude to show 
 To him who gave a guiding hand, 
 
 So many years ago. 
 
 Ah, more than all, to-night should band 
 
 The early friends and true, 
 To take the master's honest hand, 
 
 And bid him- here adieu ; 
 Nay, let the gush of tender years 
 
 Adown their channels run ; 
 The labor of his thirty years 
 
 Is well and nobly done.
 
 ELMWOOD. 
 
 I, ALONE of all at Elmwood 
 
 I, alone of all, 
 Hear the night-sands dropping slowly, 
 
 Hear them as they fall. 
 Over me the spirit's slumber 
 
 That these moments bring, 
 Has not cast the sombre shadow 
 
 Of the night's narcotic wing. 
 
 Wakeful now, and full of feeling 
 
 As the stars of light, 
 I can count the even-pulses 
 
 Beating through the night ; 
 I can count the palpitations 
 
 Of the vision-driven hearts, 
 By the great magnetic power 
 
 Which poetic night imparts. 
 
 There is one of all at Elmwood, 
 One alone of all, 
 
 127
 
 123 ELM WOOD. 
 
 Who would start to know her pulses 
 
 Echoed up the hall 
 Echoed up the gloomy stairway 
 
 And along the quiet hall 
 One who in the glaring day-time 
 
 Never beats a pulse at all. 
 
 Oh I read her, now she sleepeth ; 
 
 Feast upon her dream ; 
 Catch the real of her spirit 
 
 In its glory-beam. 
 
 We are strangers at the noontide ; 
 
 She a study deep to me, 
 She a language dead, a scripture 
 
 Upon tablets in the sea. 
 But I read her now at midnight 
 
 Read her very soul ; 
 Oh, I creep upon her slumber 
 
 Silent as a ghoul ; 
 And I feast upon her vision 
 
 Feast upon it, at the price 
 Which gave Adam wondrous knowledge, 
 
 Whilst it lost him Paradise !
 
 RESPONSE IMPROMPTU. 
 
 I DO not forget you I never have thought 
 
 A moment to check the sweet flow of our love ; 
 
 I cannot forget what so lately you taught, 
 
 I cannot throw down the bright wreath that you 
 wove. 
 
 Oh the young bird of Hope, with its plumage of truth, 
 That flits in the noontide of life's early spring, 
 
 Hath a season so brief in the gardens of youth 
 That flowers but once feel the rush of its wing. 
 
 Not so when the sun has passed over the hill, 
 To the autumn of life with its yellower sheaves ; 
 
 If Hope comes at all, Oh its melodies fill 
 
 In the long afternoon all the murmuring leaves. 
 
 I do not forget you no, no! while my heart 
 
 Hath been touched with the shadow of seasons 
 gone by, 
 
 129
 
 130 
 
 RESPONSE IMPROMP TU. 
 
 While lamp after lamp hath gone out at the start, 
 I cannot believe that all passions will die. 
 
 I pray you forego every thought that would give 
 But a color of falsehood to what I have said ; 
 
 'Twere shame that a spirit so faithless should live 
 'Twere better a friendship so hollow were dead. 
 
 Then let us strike hands in that honester way 
 
 That tells to ourselves we are unriven friends ; 
 So when life shall have come to its twilight and 
 
 We may smile at the silvery thread that it sends.
 
 THE DEAD THAT SHONE. 
 
 [Read before the Confederate Memorial Association at the decoration of 
 Confederate graves, Maysville, Ky., June I2th, 1883.] 
 
 FROM hills that rise with crowning woods 
 
 In light and air a-quiver, 
 Still send the springs their mimic floods, 
 
 Free tribute, to the river ; 
 From freighted leaves that zephyrs turn 
 
 When morning bends them over, 
 Still fall the dew-drops on the burn 
 
 That glitters through the clover. 
 
 Where shadows rest, where sunbeams play, 
 
 In laughter and in revel, 
 Still go the brooks a vagrant way 
 
 Toward the lower level. 
 Through summer green, through autumn brown, 
 
 With steady placid motion, 
 Still sweeps the blue Ohio down 
 
 To meet the waitin ocean.
 
 THE DEAD THA T SHONE. 
 
 Thus is it with all human kind 
 
 Thus will it be forever ! 
 Man's passage here is well defined 
 
 In rill, and brook, and river ; 
 He cometh as a drop of dew. 
 
 His light a moment showing, 
 A breath and fallen, lost to view 
 
 Upon the under-flowing. 
 
 This common course, this common end, 
 
 Is true, alas ! to nature, 
 So goes the foe, so goes the friend, 
 
 And every living creature ; 
 And drops make up the little rill, 
 
 The rills make up the river, 
 They speed to where is lying still 
 
 The ocean wide Forever ! 
 
 Who, in some morning's moment brief, 
 
 Hath not been blest and christened, 
 By clew, that on some flower leaf 
 
 That single moment glistened? 
 Who hath not seen the rainbow hue, 
 
 When morn is moisture-freighted, 
 That makes a perfect drop of dew 
 
 The fairest thing created? 
 
 What atom in this atom world 
 Of ash, and spark and ember,
 
 THE DEAD THAT SHONE. 
 
 Is more in human eyes impearled 
 
 Or sweeter to remember? 
 And who, that through his morning rife 
 
 Shook down the gems in showers, 
 Hath not, from crowding eve of life, 
 
 Called back the dewy hours. 
 
 Some lives flow out from hidden springs 
 
 And are not clearly singled, 
 They move, a mass of living things, 
 
 Of bodies dark, commingled ; 
 But some are born like drops of dew 
 
 By rainbow arches bounded, 
 With surface bright and outline true, 
 
 Completely made and rounded. 
 
 In memory of such as these 
 
 Who glorified the hours, 
 We gather here, beneath the trees, 
 
 With knots and wreathes of flowers. 
 Here, finding peace and perfect rest 
 
 From rill and river motion, 
 A few that lived and shone the best 
 
 Have found, at last, the Ocean. 
 
 And here are typified the dews 
 That come, the world adorning, 
 
 For these were men of rainbow hues 
 Brushed down in life's fresh morning, 
 L 
 
 133
 
 '34 
 
 THE DEAD THA T SHONE. 
 
 What matter if they came to sight 
 From gowans of the meadow ! 
 
 They only shone with stronger light 
 By reason of the shadow. 
 
 But here were some from daisy bloom, 
 
 And here were some from roses ; 
 On common level in the tomb 
 
 Humanity reposes. 
 In earth the evil and the just, 
 
 The high and low are blended ; 
 It's ash to ash and dust to dust 
 
 When human life is ended. 
 
 With garlands green and flowers fair, 
 
 We come to deck the places, 
 Where rest the few of virtue rare 
 
 That higher manhood graces. 
 Upon these mounds that, sprinkled here, 
 
 Drsclose the sadder story, 
 Let living bloom to-day appear 
 
 A semblance frail of glory. 
 
 Here lies the dust of men who fell \ 
 The blood of heroes freeing 
 
 Who nobly gave to principle 
 The tribute of their be ; ng ; 
 
 And some were in the gray of morn 
 And some the blue of even,
 
 THE DEAD THAT SHONE. 1 
 
 The older grown, the later born, 
 To pride and purpose given. 
 
 In Shiloh's bloody battle tide 
 
 By flaming cannon lighted, 
 When Albert Sidney Johnston died 
 
 A country's hope was blighted. 
 A monument shall bear his name 
 
 Enduring as the river, 
 And all of glory, all of fame 
 
 Shall be for him forever. 
 
 And humbler names shall take the stone 
 
 And be retained in story 
 Let's carve them deep and make them known 
 
 To magnitude of glory ; 
 For there are heroes yet unsung 
 
 Who lie within the wicket, 
 " The gallant Pelham " fearless Young, 
 
 And Lashbrooke, Watts, and Pickett. 
 
 From all the wars here rest some dead 
 To do the Country honor, 
 
 To show what wealth Kentucky shed 
 In sacrifice upon her ; 
 
 For some there were whose mounds here show 
 Grand actors in the drama 
 
 Who wove the blue in Mexico, 
 The gray in Alabama.
 
 136 THE DEAD THAT SHONE. 
 
 God speed the work that keeps in mind 
 
 This grand heroic feature ! 
 That teaches man to love his kind 
 
 And elevates his nature ; 
 That makes him like the drop of dew 
 
 That rests upon the flower, 
 Of perfect form, of rainbow hue 
 
 The diamond of his hour.
 
 AT CLEARING. 
 
 Two ships weigh anchor in the cove ; 
 
 Two ships slide out the brine ; 
 And one white sail is tfoine 5 --my love, 
 
 And one white sail is mine. 
 
 A land of peace, hid in the grey 
 
 Beyond our eyes define ! 
 Will thy ship find its quiet bay, 
 
 Thy ship, my love or mine? 
 
 Thou, God, make faith our steering star, 
 Through clouds alway to shine, 
 
 And bring within Thy harbor-bar 
 My wife's white ship and mine. 
 
 i3 
 
 L*
 
 CURE FOR HEADACHE. 
 
 MY brain is athrob with a pulsing unrest. 
 
 And fever is over my breath ; 
 Ob, bury my head in the snow of your breast 
 
 And let me be frozen to death. 
 
 138
 
 UNDERNEATH. 
 
 SOME tuneful words that in our hearts 
 
 Bisect the prosy courses, 
 Do, by their rhythm, drive the parts 
 
 Insensibly to verses. 
 
 While sadder things the autumn days 
 Our outer lives are bringing, 
 
 A thousand summer roundelays 
 The inner voice is singing. 
 
 What though we move in sober coats 
 
 The Quaker masses after? 
 There's something welling in our throats, 
 
 Unorthodox as laughter. 
 
 We take the sacerdotal stole 
 And priestly surplice o'er us, 
 
 139
 
 I40 UNDERNEATH. 
 
 To hide the real music-soul 
 And smother down its chorus. 
 
 What foolish arts beset us all ! 
 
 How we ourselves are tasking ! 
 There's every day a funeral, 
 
 And all the mourners masking.
 
 SIXTY-SIX. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 THERE'S a sculptor for the marbles 
 
 Over all the buried years, 
 And his smooth and polished labor 
 
 In a line of white appears. 
 
 He hath cunning with the chisel, 
 
 And hath graved the record in, 
 Telling what the years departed 
 
 In their living-time have been. 
 
 He has now a greater labor, 
 
 Worthy all his better skill; 
 He has carved us many virtues 
 
 Let him carve us now the ILL. 
 
 From the black Egyptian marble 
 
 Let him build a column high, 
 That the coming years may mark it 
 
 In their quiet passage by. 
 
 141
 
 142 
 
 SIXTY-SIX. 
 
 Never yet hath sculptor graven 
 More of crime or more of sin, 
 
 Than is better now for speaking 
 What this latter year hath been ! 
 
 We are moving slowly onward 
 Through a vista-way of years ; 
 
 We are looking to a future 
 Full of sorrow and of tears ; 
 
 There is not a light to guide us, 
 
 Not a gleam upon the sky; 
 All our hopes are dead and buried, 
 
 All our jpys have flitted by. 
 
 We are not the Christian nation 
 That we once were thought to be, 
 
 When with common voice we worshipped 
 "From the centre to the sea." 
 
 We are not a godly people; 
 
 We are very far away 
 From the path that leadeth outward 
 
 To the everlasting day. 
 
 Let us see how much of virtue 
 
 We have left in all the store, 
 Where a world hath looked and wondered 
 
 In the happy days before.
 
 '43 
 
 Let us see how great and godly 
 Are the acts of those who take 
 
 On themselves the nation's ermine 
 For. the troubled nation's sake. 
 
 First of all, we dare be tyrant 
 We who thought the English swav 
 
 Over torn and trampled Erin 
 Should be rudely dashed away; 
 
 We who wept for bleeding Poland, 
 And our Christian flag unfurled, 
 
 That its folds might flaunt defiance 
 Unto all a tyrant world. 
 
 We have learned another lesson 
 In the onward march of time. 
 
 And we build our greatest virtue 
 From the fabric of a crime ; 
 
 And we spurn aside the maxim 
 
 That "your truer blood will show:" 
 
 That "he is most ignoble 
 
 Who would trample on a foe." 
 
 We have swept our foreign legions 
 Over all the Southern bands - 
 
 They were fewer than the Spartans, 
 We were many as the sands
 
 144 SIXTY-SIX. 
 
 And because of all their courage, 
 All their stubbornness in fight, . 
 
 All their pride of birth and section, 
 All their love of human right, 
 
 We must put our feet upon them 
 We must crush and bend them low* 
 
 Lest their better blood and breeding 
 In the future "come to show."' 
 
 This is Christian, this is proper, 
 
 This is Puritanic law, 
 And we see the goodly future 
 
 As our Plymouth fathers saw. 
 
 What are they that we should iove them'? 
 
 They are little of our kin ; 
 Seldom yet hath Southern current 
 
 Let the Northern current in. 
 
 Proud of blood and proud of bearing, 
 
 Quick in anger to a foe, 
 Never yet hath given insult 
 
 Been without attendant blow. 
 
 We are calmer, better balanced, 
 
 We are cooler in our veins ; 
 We have less of heart in battle, 
 
 More of calculating brains ;
 
 SIXTY-SIX. 
 
 We are not a kindred people, 
 And the passage yet of years 
 
 Will not mix the Plymouth waters 
 With the blood of Cavaliers! 
 
 Next, we claim a godly power, 
 And we widen out our span 
 
 When we raise the apish negro 
 To the standard of a man. 
 
 This we do for godly reasons 
 
 Such our early fathers gave, 
 "That Ihe servant may be master, 
 And the master may be slave." 
 
 Thus we raise him from the level 
 To his greatest earthly goal, 
 
 And we take away his instinct, 
 And we give him back a soul 
 
 Such a soul as we are given, 
 Such a soul as makes him great 
 
 He is worthy of the chancel, 
 He is worthy of the State ! 
 
 He may come into our circles, 
 He may mingle with our blood, 
 
 He shall be our equal brother 
 As he was before the Flood. 
 
 M 
 
 '45
 
 146 SIXTY-SIX. 
 
 Though the curse of God was on him, 
 Though he wandered in the land, 
 
 We would give him whitest vesture, 
 We would take him by the hand. 
 
 In the summer all our meadows 
 Were a-bloom with scented hay, 
 
 And the corn upon our acres 
 Spread its fullness far away; 
 
 All the shadows of the woodland 
 Were astir with heavy kine, 
 
 And the hill-sides gave their treasure 
 From the rich Catawba vine. 
 
 Far indeed from cold and hunger, 
 Far indeed from want and woe, 
 
 We are in the golden current, 
 In the glory of its flow. 
 
 Let the people down below us, 
 
 In the desolated land, 
 Starve and shiver in the palaces 
 
 They built upon the sand ; 
 
 We have corn and wine and vesture 
 Let it rot and let it mould ; 
 
 They have nothing now to give us, 
 Neither human love nor gold.
 
 SIXTY-STX. 147 
 
 O ye rich and pampered people ! 
 
 O ye cold and cruel men ! 
 They have crossed your swords in battle, 
 
 They were one and you were ten ! 
 
 Dare you press your heel upon them, 
 
 When ye usher back the day 
 That your full and feasted legions 
 
 Fled before the starving Grey? 
 
 Are ye cowards, are ye cravens 
 
 That ye fear to let them live? 
 Can ye see a nation perish 
 
 Whilst ye have the food to give? 
 
 They had richer fields and vineyards, 
 Better homes and broader lands, 
 
 Till ye threw the torch among them 
 From your desolating bands. 
 
 They were proof against your valor, 
 They had better-tempered steel 
 
 Think ye now your servant Hunger 
 Will be proud to see them kneel. 
 
 Not to you, O callous stranger ! 
 
 Not to baser blood and birth 
 Will the true chivalnc Southron 
 
 Bend his knee upon the earth.
 
 I4 8 SIXTY-SIX. 
 
 Better starve amid the ruins 
 Of his fallen arch and dome ! 
 
 Better die amid the ashes 
 Of his violated home ! 
 
 Not for cold nor not for hunger 
 Will he kiss your iron rod : 
 
 There's an altar for his kneeling, 
 It is only to his God ! 
 
 What of him who, great and noble, 
 Stood so very long at bay, 
 
 Whilst the veterans drawn around him 
 Left their crimson in the way? 
 
 Still in bondage, still in prison, 
 Living still yet near to death, 
 
 Never yet hath human being 
 
 Drawn on earth a prouder breath 
 
 First among his race and kindred, 
 First among his noble clan, 
 
 He has taught a cruel nation 
 How to suffer as a man. 
 
 All that cunning, all that malice, 
 All that human hate can do, 
 
 All that any Christian martyr 
 In his dying ever knew,
 
 SIXTY-SIX. 
 
 He has known and felt and suffered, 
 
 And his spirit liveth still, 
 Something more than mortal courage, 
 
 Something more than human will, 
 
 Oh that they could learn to conquer ! 
 
 Oh that they could come to know 
 How the truer way is opened 
 
 To the bosom of a foe ! 
 
 Not by bars of steel and iron, 
 Not by rack and torture here, 
 
 Can ye force the higher spirit 
 From its great and only sphere. 
 
 Throw your prison-gates asunder, 
 Strike the iron from his hand, 
 
 Bid him walk the earth a freeman, 
 Make him equal in the land; 
 
 Show him first that you are noble, 
 Let him see that you are brave, 
 
 Act no longer as a coward, 
 Be not brutal as a slave. 
 
 While he lingers in the shackles 
 
 He is master of you all, 
 He is freer than the sentry 
 
 In your very prison-hall ; 
 M* 
 
 149
 
 150 SIXTY-SIX 
 
 He is better, prouder, freer 
 
 Than the proudest of your State ; 
 
 He can teach you what is noble, 
 He can show you what is great. 
 
 May the angels at his pillow 
 Their undying vigils keep ! 
 
 God preserve his Southern children, 
 Who are praying as they weep ! 
 
 As the fire hid in ashes 
 
 Under mountains of the earth, 
 
 When its red volcanic lava 
 Struggles into upper birth, 
 
 There are words that come unbidden, 
 And the lips are burst apart 
 
 By a passion leaping upward 
 From its covert in the heart. 
 
 Though we bury wrongs, to hide them 
 From our own and other eyes, 
 
 There are those that in us quicken, 
 For the spirit never dies ; 
 
 And upward from the charnel 
 Come the living that were dead, 
 
 All the olden wounds upon them, 
 All the marks of where they bled.
 
 SIXTY-SIX. 151 
 
 Oh that crimes and wrongs were fewer ! 
 
 Oh that men were better grown ! 
 Oh that veins had less of fever ! 
 
 Oh that hearts had less of stone ! 
 
 Brave Kentucky ! brave, but laggard 
 When her sisters gave their blood, 
 
 She has walked into the current 
 With her bosom to the flood ; 
 
 She has dared to give example 
 To the cruel-hearted States, 
 
 When she meets her Southern children 
 With a welcome at her gates. 
 
 Though a tyrant held her silent 
 In the shadow of her guns, 
 
 She had all a mother's yearning 
 For the glory of her sons ; 
 
 And with chains upon her person, 
 And a hand upon her mouth, 
 
 She had not a pulse within her 
 But was beating for the South. 
 
 Better far than poor Missouri, 
 
 Better far than Tennessee, 
 And Virginia, best of any, 
 
 Better now than she.
 
 [ 5 2 
 
 SIXTY-SIX. 
 
 Ah, Virginia ! torn and bleeding, 
 O'er the ashes of her dead 
 
 Let the tears of .queenly woman 
 Be the requiem that is said. 
 
 Though they build no pallid marble 
 O'er the silence of their graves, 
 
 There are tombs in fairer bosoms 
 For Virginia's fallen braves. 
 
 Pass, O seasons, spring and summer ! 
 
 Come again, O winter cold ! 
 TIME shall never lose the record, 
 
 TIME shall hear the story told ! 
 
 Truth has more of spirit-feature, 
 Falsehood more of human cast ; 
 
 Nations yet unborn shall hear it, 
 Truth shall conquer at the last.
 
 LEE. 
 
 WE saw the fragile maiden. May, 
 Trip down the paths of morning. 
 
 And queen July in central day, 
 Her flower-throne adorning ; 
 
 And weeping trees in sombre lines 
 Took up an anthem murmur, 
 
 When August, \vith her trailing vines, 
 Went out the gates of Summer. 
 
 Now yellow husks are on the grain, 
 And leaves are brown and sober, 
 
 And sundown clouds have caught again 
 The flush of ripe October; 
 
 We hear the woody hill-tops croon, 
 The airy maize-blades whisper, 
 
 The year is in its afternoon, 
 And leaf-bells ring the vesper.
 
 154 
 
 What is it gives this gloaming-song 
 
 Its melancholy feature? 
 What is it makes our souls prolong 
 
 This monotone of nature ? 
 
 What tearful grief is in our hearts 
 What swaying under-reason? 
 
 What sorrow real now imparts 
 Its spirit to the season? 
 
 The crisping leaves may shoal the ways, 
 The sun turn down the heavens 
 
 Still all the years have fading days, 
 And all the days have evens : 
 
 Enough whatever else may be 
 That in this autumn weather, 
 
 The verdure of the world and LEE 
 Have silent fled together. 
 
 So prone are men where'er they move 
 
 To tread the ways of evil, 
 They seldom hold their kind above 
 
 A common grade and level ; 
 
 But LEE, beside his fellow-man, 
 
 Stood, over all, a giant 
 The higher type the perfect plan 
 
 God fearing, God-reliant.
 
 LEE. ; 
 
 A giant not alone in fields 
 
 Where bent the sanguine Reaper, 
 
 Where Death thre*w o'er his harvest-yields 
 An autumn crimson deeper ; 
 
 But with an iron strength of will 
 
 He sought his life to fashion ; 
 He held his ruder pulses still, 
 
 And closed the gates of passion. 
 
 There have been men whose mighty deeds, 
 
 On cold historic pages, 
 Are driven like October seeds 
 
 Along the reaching ages ; 
 
 Whose statues stand like sentinels, 
 
 On whited shafts and bases, 
 Whose ashes rest in marble cells, 
 
 And sepulchres and vases ; 
 
 But he who in this autumn time 
 
 Was lost beyond the river, 
 Has found a glory-path to climb, 
 
 Forever and forever ! 
 
 And monumental marble here, 
 
 With deeds of honor graven, 
 What can it be to one so near 
 
 The inner gates of Heaven?
 
 156 LEE. 
 
 By still Potomac's margin dun, 
 Where shrilly calls the plover, 
 
 Where lean the heights of Arlington 
 Its glassing waters over, 
 
 No autumn voices haunt the moles, 
 
 No breezy covert ripples, 
 No longer whirl the leaves in shoals 
 
 Beneath the stately maples ; 
 
 Some vandal's axe has shorn the crest, 
 The woody slopes are shaven, 
 
 No longer builds the dove her nest 
 Where mournful croaks the raven ; 
 
 But down the Southland's fruity plain 
 The leaves are all a-quiver, 
 
 And there his memory shall reign 
 Forever and forever!
 
 THE DEVIL'S HOLLOW 
 
 ON Devil's hill 
 
 The Day-king still 
 His amber robe is trailing ; 
 
 Floats up to sight 
 
 The Queen of night, 
 Her white, sweet face unvailing. 
 
 In silver cars 
 
 The courtier stars 
 With leal allegiance follow ; 
 
 As kling-go-ling 
 
 The cow-bells ring 
 From out the Devil's hollow. 
 
 How smooth and hard 
 The boulevard 
 This autumn eve for walking; 
 
 N
 
 1 58 THE DE VIL 'S HOL LOW. 
 
 Beneath the cliffs, 
 In misty skiffs, 
 
 I hear the fishers talking ; 
 Above the bridge, 
 'Round Devil's ridge, 
 
 Still flits the tardy swallow, 
 As kling-go-ling 
 The cow-bells ring 
 
 From out the Devil's hollow. 
 
 Oh, mystic scene ! 
 
 The still ravine ! 
 The bridge ! the elm ! the river ! 
 
 For love and rhyme 
 
 This twilight time 
 Should linger here forever ; 
 
 No meeter field 
 
 Was e'er revealed 
 For Daphne or Apollo, 
 
 As kling-go-ling 
 
 The cow-bells ring 
 From out the Devil's hollow. 
 
 Though nights to be 
 
 Come fair to me, 
 Beyond my fancy's bringing, 
 
 When light shall steer 
 
 Some gondolier, 
 With maids to gittern singing,
 
 THE D E VI US HOL LOW. 159 
 
 From distance long, 
 
 Shall float the song, 
 Above their tra-la la-la, 
 
 The klang-go-lang 
 
 The cow-bells rang 
 A-down the Devil's hollow.
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 FOR meet dispense of shine and rain 
 
 On mold and sod ; 
 For ga there J seeds, for garnered grain, 
 
 Give thanks to God ! 
 Give thanks for fecund summer fields ; 
 Give thanks for fullest autumn yields. 
 
 For greening stools of growing wheat 
 
 In spring to nod ; 
 For present grace, for promise sweet, 
 
 Give thanks to God ! 
 Give thanks for fruity tree and vine ; 
 Give thanks for raiment, meat, and wine. 
 
 For pleasures spread, for riches veined 
 
 Through paths untrod ; 
 160
 
 THANKSGIVING. 161 
 
 For realms to seek, for realms attained, 
 
 Give thanks to God ! 
 Give thanks for glory pre designed ; 
 Give thanks for muscle, manhood, mind ! 
 
 For steerage clear beyond the shoals ; 
 
 .For sparing rod ; 
 For peace, for hope, for deathless souls, 
 
 Give thanks to God ! 
 Give thanks for life, for action free, 
 For all that is and is to be !
 
 CHANGE. 
 
 PINK-CHEEK'D, blue-eyed, and fair, 
 With swirls of golden hair 
 
 On shoulders bare, 
 I saw them every-where. ' 
 Upon my round, 
 
 I found, 
 Throughout the street, 
 
 Their faces sweet 
 Girl-children little motes 
 
 Of womanhood, 
 
 With voices in their throats 
 
 Like those that fill the wood 
 
 When winter breaks 
 
 And man awakes 
 To know that God is good. 
 
 Sweet girls, 
 162
 
 CHANGE. 163 
 
 That went along 
 
 With song 
 
 And laughter, 
 
 Not recking of the after, 
 
 But flitting in the sun and shade, 
 
 As they were made 
 
 Like flowers are, 
 
 All fair, 
 
 And fresh, and sweet, 
 Creation to complete. 
 
 But yesterday 
 
 Upon my way 
 
 I saw them, at their ease, 
 
 With petticoats above the knees, 
 
 Go through the pool, 
 
 A joyous way to school. 
 
 It seems so short a time, 
 
 It does not chime 
 
 With truth to say, 
 
 'T was yesterday ; 
 
 And, yet, 
 I almost think their feet are wet, 
 
 As now I see them pass 
 New pictures in the glass 
 
 Lithe maids, 
 With gathered braids 
 
 And hooded heads, 
 
 Young thoroughbreds ! 
 
 With hair gone up and skirts gone clown
 
 164 CHANGE. 
 
 The glory of the town ! 
 
 They broke the bonds of barefoot play 
 
 Since yesterday. 
 
 And this is change ! 
 
 In all the /ange 
 
 Of human sight, 
 
 Through shade and light, 
 
 It cometh every-where 
 
 The very air 
 
 Doth change its temper in the year 
 The birds of spring appeal ; 
 
 The grasses grow 
 
 And streams are set aflovv ; 
 
 And while we look 
 
 The brook 
 
 Is closed o'er ; 
 
 The bud hath blossomed on the shore, 
 
 And from a brief 
 Existence in the leaf, 
 
 It turneth down 
 Unto the grass grown brown. 
 
 Some change, upon my round 
 I note on every ground ; 
 
 New features 'wake 
 As hidden crysalides break, 
 
 And all things take 
 A new complexion in the sun, 
 
 As, one by one, 
 The sure sands run.
 
 CHANGE. 
 
 The barefoot girl 
 
 With straggling curl 
 
 And careless swing, 
 
 Became another thing 
 
 In time ; 
 
 She did not climb, 
 
 And wade the pool, 
 
 Her later maiden way to school : 
 
 With modest looks 
 
 She bore her books, 
 
 And as she passed, 
 
 Nor slow, nor fast, 
 
 Went as she should, 
 
 The stately way of womanhood ! 
 
 So with the boy : 
 
 His toy 
 
 Is thrown aside ; 
 
 He does not ride 
 
 With such exultant speed. 
 
 The old velocipede. 
 
 As days go by 
 
 His eye 
 Hath compassed greater things ; 
 
 He swings 
 A wider circle now. 
 
 His brow- 
 Begins to ache for bays 
 To crown it in his latter days; 
 He seeks a plan 
 
 i6 5
 
 1 66 CHANGE. 
 
 To make the man, 
 And puts away 
 His yesterday. 
 
 And so again, 
 
 With men, 
 
 They seek a wider range, 
 And greater change 
 
 Of after-life ; 
 
 Grow weary of the strife 
 
 And moil 
 
 And toil 
 
 Of earth, 
 
 They seek the newer birth 
 
 The peace and quiet of the grave, 
 
 And Him who died to save. 
 
 This law 
 
 Should give us awe. 
 
 This never-failing course 
 
 Of Nature's force, 
 
 Is planned 
 
 Upon a basis grand,, 
 
 The cunning M;iker of the scheme 
 
 Hath closed every seam. 
 
 And finished every part 
 
 With perfect art. 
 
 We have our days 
 Of great amaze,
 
 CHANGE. 167 
 
 At all the wonders done 
 Beneath the sun. 
 
 We see 
 The little seed that makes the tree. 
 
 It taketh root, 
 
 And beareth leaf, and bud, and fruit ; 
 
 And leaf inust brown, and fruit must fall, 
 
 And death must follow after all. 
 
 We note the rain 
 Shed over hill and plain, 
 And streams in laughter 
 
 Coming after, 
 Until the land, its yellow blood 
 
 Gives up to make the flood ; 
 And when the cloud has pass'd, 
 
 The sun at last, 
 
 Comes out to drink the sea ; 
 
 The water goeth from the lea, 
 
 And, by and by, 
 
 The earth is dry, 
 
 And newer clay 
 
 Is in the field of yesterday. 
 
 The days and years, 
 
 Alternate, come with smiles and tears, 
 
 And all this rule of change must keep, 
 
 And all must smile, and all must weep. 
 
 He smiles the best who weeps the most, 
 
 And neither smile nor tear is lost. 
 The tear is rain the smile is sun
 
 1 68 CHANGE 
 
 We could not part with either one. 
 
 In day we wake, 
 
 In night we sleep ; 
 
 In youth we smile, 
 
 In age we weep ; 
 
 And sweet our early childhood seems, 
 
 And sweeter still our later dreams, 
 
 And sweet, through all the days and years, 
 
 Are all our smiles and all our tears ; 
 
 We take the whirl 
 
 Through every grade, 
 
 From barefoot girl 
 
 To lissom maid 
 
 From maid to woman youth to man 
 And keep, throughout, the perfect plan.
 
 GOOD- NIGHT. 
 
 " WAIT till the moon goes down 
 Wait yet a little time," she said, 
 And to the trellis leaned her head, 
 In braids of autumn-brown. 
 
 Both her still hands in mine, 
 Full close I stood and caught her sighs, 
 And looked great love in sweet, wide eyes, 
 
 And made no other sign, 
 
 And westward went the moon, 
 And brighter grew the craggy edge 
 The silver turrets of the ledge 
 
 Must hide its glory soon. 
 
 It was not soon to me ; 
 I felt the moments grown to years, 
 With my lips on the verge of hers 
 
 Dead shells beside the sea. 
 
 169 
 o*
 
 1 70 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 Cold were my lips like shells, 
 As there I saw the white tulle float, 
 A misty sea about her throat 
 
 A sea of foamy swells. 
 
 And closer still I stood, 
 And colder grew, and trembled strong, 
 And then red lava ran along 
 
 The alleys of my blood. 
 
 And still her hands, so white, 
 So small, I held in mine so great, 
 Until the moon went down in state, 
 
 And then I said " good-night ! "
 
 WHEN SCHOOL "LETS OUT." 
 
 WHEN school " lets out" at sun-down time, 
 And shadows long up hill-sides climb, 
 With leap and romp and laugh and shout, 
 In kilt and smock and roundabout, 
 By grain-field fence, through pasture-grass, 
 A foot-worn way, her scholars pass ; 
 And bright-faced elf and brown-faced lout 
 Go heart-glad home, when school " lets out." 
 
 I sit and watch, where, white and slow, 
 The mistress moves in grace below : 
 A lithe young girl, with folded hands, 
 With low-down locks in wide, brown bands, 
 Who floats in light where deep shade lies, 
 With sweet, sad looks in lake-blue eyes ; 
 I sit and watch, and hope and doubt 
 I know not what, when school " lets out."
 
 172 WHEN SCHOOL "LETS OUT." 
 
 Were I so young as they who know 
 The mild maid rule, just there below: 
 Would I be glad as they who pass 
 By grain-field fence and pasture-grass? 
 Would I be glad the home bound way, 
 And laugh and shout and romp as they? 
 It might be so in roundabout, 
 But not, as now, when school " lets out." 
 
 Some day how soon I can not tell, 
 But some day soon, I know full well 
 My feet shall fall with beat as slow 
 The green-laid way that hers do go, 
 And I shall feel my great heart rise 
 To tender looks from lake-blue eyes, 
 And there shall be no fear, no doubt, 
 Her hand in mine, when school :i lets out."
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 THE day had gathered from the night, 
 
 When, in God's truth abiding, 
 There came three men on camels white 
 
 From out the desert riding 
 Three heralds gray, that through the morn 
 
 Were speeding fast and faster, 
 Proclaiming loud : " The King is born ! 
 
 We come to serve the Master ! " 
 
 And days have been, and days have gone, 
 
 And years on years have darkened, 
 Since in that blessed Christ-day morn, 
 
 The three wise men were hearkened ; 
 And still, through all the maze of years 
 
 That constant Time is summing, 
 To trustful eyes there yet appears 
 
 Three snow white camels comin.
 
 1 74 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Oh, let it fall, or clear or gray, 
 
 With sunshine or with shower, 
 Our Holy Master's natal day 
 
 Shall have no saddened hour. 
 God send His fairest Christmas morn ! 
 
 God free all souls from trammels ! 
 Let men proclaim : " The King is born !" 
 
 Let all see three white camels.
 
 THE BOURBON HORSE-THIEF. 
 
 A STILL, fall night in the fields of Bourbon ; 
 
 The dip burnt down in the breeder's room ; 
 Lamplight faint in the distance urban ; 
 
 Starlight faint in the mist-thick gloom. 
 
 Ten by the clock from the spire at Paris ; 
 
 The moon not up, but the east sky gray ; 
 Knee-deep grass in the grove where the mare is ; 
 
 Wide green meads in the lands away. 
 
 Full three score miles to the hills of Rowan ; 
 
 Six full hours till the red daybreak ; 
 I'll ride as the crow flies grass and gowan 
 
 A grand blood-bay, or a grave at stake ! 
 
 My black mare champs in the locust thicket ; 
 
 A nostril wide and a nicker low ; 
 A true vedette to a hard-by picket 
 
 Steady, good girl ! there 's blood to go.
 
 ! 76 THE B O URB ON HOR SB- THIEF. 
 
 Cope, boy ! cope, boy lie's neaving the cover 
 Cope, boy ! cope, boy be steady there, Prue 
 
 He scents the corn and' he leaves the clover ; 
 Gods ! what a mount for a grand review ! 
 
 Ho, boy ! so-h boy ! ha ! curse on his shying ! 
 
 A true speed strain, or I know no hoof! 
 Ho, boy ! cope, boy ! he 's offish ; how trying ! 
 Merciless villain, to stand aloof! 
 
 Hither, my girt, come out of the shadow ; 
 
 Teach the Adonis there 's naught to fear. 
 A queen of the road ! a king of the meadow ! 
 
 Death and the devil ! the moon is here. 
 
 So-h ! coming at last ! now, beauty, be still ! 
 
 A silk-soft flank, a grip at the nose ; 
 There 's ever a way for a right good will ; 
 
 Saddle and spur, and away he goes. 
 
 Follow, my lass ; no moment to squander ; 
 
 It's forty miles to the mouth of Slate ; 
 Venturesome here, but it's dangerless yonder 
 
 Beautiful stride as we cleared the gate ! 
 
 Over the rise, in shade of the maples, 
 And down the slope to Stoner's ford. 
 
 A risk, mayhap, to run in the ripples 
 A thorough-bred or a cooling-board. 
 
 Good ! here we are ! no tide in the water ! 
 Hist ! what is that on the other side?
 
 THE BOURB ON HO K SE- THIEF. 
 
 A Paris beau and the breeder's daughter 
 Taking it late for a lover's ride. 
 
 Bother the fool ! he stared at the horses ; 
 
 He turned in saddle to see the bay ; 
 He '11 ride right hard if he rides my courses ; 
 
 The hills of Rowan or Hell by day ! 
 
 Here, over the wall to the left ; it's better 
 By far to lope in the rye just now. 
 
 The black mare knows that a midnight clatter 
 Is not correct in the road, somehow. 
 
 A ten-rail panel ahead. We'll throw it; 
 
 A rail and a rider is all we need. 
 There, now it's down ; why, a scrub could go it 
 
 It is n't a break for a blooded steed. 
 
 Hark! my ear is at fault, or the air is; 
 
 What a murmuring noise in the corn ; 
 There ! it 's back in the region of Paris ; 
 
 And i'ts somebody blowing a horn. 
 
 Blow on, poor fool, till your lungs are tested; 
 
 The trump of a chase is joy to me; 
 The bay is fresh, and the black is rested ; 
 
 The moon is up and the fields are free. 
 
 Hinkston is here, like a silken ravel, 
 
 Its white line laid on a ground of green. 
 
 The wind is slow to the way we travel 
 A hoof unheard and a horse unseen. 
 
 177
 
 178 THE BOURBON HORSE-THIEF. 
 
 Oh ! for a war in the world ; a strider 
 
 Equal to this for a hasty raid ! 
 Glory for two of us horse and rider 
 
 Ah ! this is the way that names are made. 
 
 Bath already, for yonder is Bethel ; 
 
 It 's just an hour to the mouth of Slate ; 
 The Fat Creek Knohs and the glens of Athol ; 
 
 The horns of Bourbon were blown too late. 
 
 Nothing to fear in the fells of Licking ! 
 
 The ford is fair and the water low. 
 I crossed it once when the ice was breaking 
 
 It was n't a time to travel slow. 
 
 What's that? only the spit of a rifle. 
 
 Somebody's tithing a herd to-night. 
 A fool, to risk so much for a trifle 
 
 A light below and the town in sight- 
 
 People must live, and cries of the younger 
 Go never unheard, at pight, for food ; 
 
 Property laws and the laws of hunger 
 Are not the make of a common mood. 
 
 Answered! so ho ! and over the border! 
 
 A signal shot from the other side ! 
 A slacker rein, and the spur in order ! 
 
 It's coming at last the time to ride. 
 
 Off like a bolt, and faster and faster ! 
 It 's safe if only we pass the town !
 
 THE BOURBON HORSE-THIEF. 
 
 Go, my steed, for yourself and your master; 
 They'll have to ride if they ride us down. 
 
 Over hurrah for the hills of Rowan! 
 
 A foam-white flank, but the danger past ; 
 Over the grass, and over the gowan 
 
 The village of Morehead gained at last; 
 
 Two score and a half, and a half to go 
 A merry dash by a mellow moon ; 
 
 They beat the break in the briars below, 
 But bantered the game a bit too soon. 
 
 I ride right on to the star of morning ! 
 
 A red brush bound to a shalv way ! 
 Was ever a prize so worth the earning 
 
 Ever such blood as the Bourbon bay ! 
 
 After us still ? a pack of the beagles ! 
 
 Treachery here in the uplands free ! 
 Cowardly dogs, in sight of the eagles : 
 
 Better they never be known to me ! 
 
 Powder again! the sing of a missile ! 
 
 They try to rival my run with lead. 
 I know the piece by the pellet's whistle : 
 
 It isn't the first has grazed my head. 
 
 The black mare down ! O, murderous devil ! 
 
 He had n't the soul of her he smote ! 
 The day shall come, and he pray and drivel, 
 
 And bleat and beg my grip at his throat. 
 
 79
 
 iSo THE BOURBON HORSE-THIEF. 
 
 Good-bye, good friend ! Ah, never a truer 
 Under the thigh of a soldier strode. 
 
 Thus all drop out : grow fewer and fewer : 
 There bleeds my best in the Rowan road. 
 
 Speed on, brave boy ! the haven is yonder 
 A blue line under a rare red sky : 
 
 Give them a roll of your heels in thunder 
 Over the beds of the branches dry. 
 
 A shot in the leg ! no matter, go on ! 
 
 A little time and we end the chase : 
 Farewell, fair night ! there is hope in the dawn- 
 
 A sorry road, but a splendid race. 
 
 My bridle arm ! well, go at your pleasure : 
 Volley away, ye vulturing knaves ! 
 
 Less than a mile at the front to measure, 
 The yellow brush and the Yocum caves. 
 
 Hit in the back ! the gallop is over, 
 
 These are the breaks of the Rowan hills ! 
 
 It's hard to fall in front of the cover 
 Oh, God ! it is n't the shot that kills.
 
 NOTES 
 
 IT was not thought necessary to introduce these poems with 
 any apologetic preface, as no apology ought to excuse an act of 
 this kind ; but the author takes advantage of these notes to say 
 that his verses are an accumulation of the rubbish of boyhood and 
 youth, mixed with a few expressions of his later manhood. A 
 demand for such a collection has existed among his friends for 
 several years, and he has taken advantage of terms offered by his 
 publisher to prepare this volume, without a further design than 
 that of gratifying those who have manifested a personal interest in 
 him and his writings. 
 
 The poem entitled LEE, was hastily prepared after this book 
 was ready for press. The subject was worthy a far higher tribute 
 than any tongue or pen could offer ; but those who know the 
 author will see in the lines a desire to do honor to the memory of 
 the great and good man ; and what more can be done ? 
 
 SHE appeared in the Yeoman, at Frankfort, Ky., in August last. 
 It was severely handled by a writer in the Cincinnati Enquirer, 
 who thought " for the sake of letters," poetry of that sentiment 
 had better not be encouraged. It was evident from the character 
 of the paragraphs, that he who wrote was perhaps as appreciative 
 of the lines as the author himself. The poem, if it may be called 
 N 181
 
 1 82 NOTES. 
 
 such, was never intended for any other purpose than that o 
 eliciting remark. It succeeded in this particular case, if not n 
 general. 
 
 The poems SIXTY-FIVE and SIXTY-SIX, were written in the 
 years indicated, and published as New Year addresses. The 
 apostrophe to Kentucky in the last poem, was occasioned by 
 the circumstance of the repeal of an Expatriation law by the 
 Legislature. 
 
 The MONEYLESS MAN appeared for the first time in 1855. 
 
 The BIVOUAC pictures a condition oi the Confederate soldiery 
 as existing at Bull's Gap, in 1862. 
 
 UNDER THE PINES was produced on an outpost near the City 
 of Richmond, one night in 1864. 
 
 The lines entitled His LAST DAY, were written upon a few 
 hours' notice, and read at the closing exercises of Rosemont 
 Academy. Mr. W. W. Richeson, the tutor, had been in charge 
 of a school at Maysville, Ky., for thirty-seven years, and this occa 
 sion was the last upon which he would officiate there in that 
 capacity. He had taught the parents and grand-parents of some 
 of his scholars, and was greatly beloved in the community. 
 
 The lines addressed to MASTER GEO. W. JOHNSTON, were 
 written on his birthday. He was then twelve years of age, and 
 had already distinguished himself by a long retention of a place 
 on the " roll of honor " at an excellent school. His development 
 of character now gives high promise of later worth. 
 
 FALLEN was one of the author's early efforts. It was first 
 published in the Illustrated News at Richmond, Va., in 1862, but 
 had been written several years before. 
 
 THE LITTLE BOY GUIDING THE PLOW was written at " Tally's 
 Church," a small log-house in East Tennessee, in 1864. The 
 condition of that section at the time was such as the poem 
 represents.
 
 NOTES. 18$ 
 
 A lady of Virginia gave the author a NASTURTIUM FLOWER in 
 memory of Swain's conceit 
 
 "A spirit dwel's in every flower." 
 
 She said a fairy inhabited the one she gave, which she hoped 
 would inspire a poem. The verses were written in camp that 
 
 night. 
 
 THE FAITH SHE PLIGHTED ME is founded upon an actual 
 circumstance. The unfortunate gentleman, however, still lives, 
 having fairly forgotten his disappointment in the possession of a 
 new love.
 
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