THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 \ 

 
 THE RHYMES 
 
 OIF- 
 
 RUTH RAYNE 
 
 HELEN E. MORTON. 
 
 "Nothing but may be better, 
 and every better might be best." 
 
 FREDONIA, N. Y.: 
 W. McKiNSTRY & SON, Printers.
 
 F5 
 
 To MY HIGHLY ESTEEMED 
 
 AND 
 
 VERY WORTHY FRIEND, 
 
 MRS. L. M. EDMUNDS, 
 
 UNDER WHOSE ROOF AND 
 
 BY WHOSE FIRESIDE 
 
 MANY OF THESE RHYMES WERE WRITTEN, 
 ABE THEY 
 
 AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FLOWERS IN THE NIGHT.... 9 
 
 WOULD YOU KNOW? 11 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE ROSE 14 
 
 IN YOUR FOOTSTEPS 17 
 
 LEOTA 19 
 
 THE YOUNG WARRIOR'S DREAM 21 
 
 SAVE A TEAR 23 
 
 SWEET VOICES SINGING 25 
 
 PICNIC CAROL 28 
 
 MUSINGS 32 
 
 MARKS OF MYSTERY 35 
 
 A BUNCH OF WILD GRASSES 37 
 
 IN AN OLD FASHIONED ALBUM 38 
 
 THREE YEARS 40 
 
 HAPPY HUSKERS 43 
 
 PLEA TO FASHION... 45 
 
 BRIGHT BEYOND 49 
 
 THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 52 
 
 GOLDEN WEDDING 54 
 
 THE RAGE FOR THE RINK 57 
 
 THE FORCED RECRUIT 59 
 
 WHAT SHE HAD ON 66 
 
 HER FATHER 70 
 
 THE IMMORTAL 73 
 
 SUNSHINE AGAIN.. 75
 
 vi. CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 76 
 
 SONG OF WELCOME 78 
 
 THOUGHTS OP HEAVEN 80 
 
 LITTLE CARMEN 83 
 
 "PERFECTLY HORRID". 84 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY 86 
 
 A VISION 89 
 
 FINDING PAPA 92 
 
 ALWAYS THERE.. 94 
 
 WHEN 97 
 
 THE OLD SETTLER'S LETTER 101 
 
 IF I COULD 107 
 
 GIRLS OF NUMBER TEN.. HO 
 
 I'LL MEET HIM AT THE GATE.. 114 
 
 TILL YOU PASSED BY. 117 
 
 DRESSMAKING 119 
 
 A REVERIE 123 
 
 PRAYER OF THE BEREAVED 1:>6 
 
 DEAR OLD MOTHER 129 
 
 BEAUTIFUL RAIN.. .131
 
 THE RHYMES OF RUTH RAYNE,
 
 FLOWERS IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 Not alone were the shadows of evening around me, 
 For with them a darker, invisible came 
 
 A shadow of loneliness happily broken, 
 
 By some one approaching and calling my name. 
 
 Begging pardon, lest giving untimely intrusion, 
 The bearer, in courtesy, paused but to say, 
 
 That the gift had been left by the hands of the giver, 
 And gave to my keeping a dainty bouquet. 
 
 How I joyed to receive them, the delicate blossoms 
 All fragrant, and wet with the summer night's 
 showers ; 
 
 But where the heart's shadow ? No trace of it lingered 
 Dispelled by the light of the beautiful flowers. 
 
 I've heard of a gift so priceless and precious, 
 To darkness long reigning imparting a light, 
 
 That darkness the cloud of despair and of sorrow, 
 That gift the sweet singing of songs in the night.
 
 10 FLOWERS IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 But now do I know of a charm no less potent, 
 Instead of the shadow, slow forming for hours, 
 
 Sweet thoughts for the absent, fresh hopes for the 
 
 morrow, 
 Inspired by a. handful of night-gathered flowers. 
 
 With thanks for your beautiful gift to a stranger, 
 Here 's hoping moreover, kind Heaven may please 
 
 To shower upon you rich flowers of affection 
 As freely as rain drops are showered on these. 
 
 And when, if there ever a similar shadow 
 
 Shall come between your soul and all that is bright, 
 
 May some one be near to charm with surprises, 
 As sweet as my flowers that came in the night.
 
 WOULD YOU KNOW ? 
 
 Would you know before you meet them, 
 
 Of the thorns strewn in your way ? 
 Would you know how long the storm-cloud 
 
 Will its sure approach delay? 
 Would you know of projects cherished, 
 
 Which shall fail and which shall win ? 
 Where the skies of gloom shall brighten, 
 
 Where the sunlight's coming in? 
 
 Would you know of all the number 
 
 That are seeming friends to-day, 
 Which in time shall be most worthy, 
 
 Which shall by and by betray ? 
 Would you know the bitter sorrow, 
 
 That afar off waits for you ? 
 Would you, could you, better meet it, 
 
 Aided by prospective view ? 
 
 Would you know what acts of kindness 
 
 Shall by insult be repaid ? 
 And the added suffering measure 
 
 By the sacrifice you've made ? 
 Would you know the countless burdens, 
 
 Grievous to be borne, at best, 
 Would you know what weary toiling, 
 
 Must precede the promised rest ? 
 
 Would you know in lieu of favors, 
 Scorn will sometimes be bestowed? 
 
 Know that those with power to lighten, 
 Will still heavier make the load ?
 
 12 WOULD YOU KNOW? 
 
 Would you know when joy is present, 
 When supreme the reign of bliss, 
 
 That there comes no happier season, 
 That the merriest time is this ? 
 
 Would you know when ample sources 
 
 That you never dreamed could fail, 
 Had their stores of sweetness yielded, 
 
 And would evermore be stale ? 
 Would you know when loved ones leaving, 
 
 When bright e} r es with moisture fill, 
 Whose in death shall first be sleeping, 
 
 Whose fond heart forever still ? 
 
 Would you, think, accept the teaching, 
 
 Lessons such as these could give ? 
 In a land where all are dying, 
 
 Are you learning how to live ? 
 Would you know of paths inviting, 
 
 Which is best for you to take ? 
 Would you know the awkward failures 
 
 You are destined yet to make ? 
 
 Would it make you aught the wiser, 
 
 Would it aught your joy enhance, 
 Could you earlier see what's mirrored, 
 
 In a retrospective glance ? 
 Would you know the hopes whose budding 
 
 You have watched with beaming eye. 
 Soon shall blossom for another, 
 
 Or, before the blossoming, die ? 
 
 Would you know the sore temptations, 
 Still resisting, you must meet? 
 
 Know how hard 'twill be avoiding 
 Well laid snares to lure your feet?
 
 WOULD YOU KNOW? 13 
 
 Would you be more truly grateful, 
 
 Since of so much woe bereft, 
 Would you bear with greater patience, 
 
 Whatsoe'er of trials left ? 
 
 Know you not that all sufficient 
 
 Is the evil of to-day ? 
 Only step by step we're bidden 
 
 To go up life's rugged way. 
 One there is who'll safely lead us, 
 
 If His guardianship we '11 take, 
 One on whom to cast our burdens, 
 
 One who never will forsake ; 
 
 He will grant us all of pleasure 
 
 Faultless wisdom can bestow, 
 Duly check the angry tempest, 
 
 Nor too rudely let it blow. 
 Though He moves in ways mysterious, 
 
 Though we're powerless to tell 
 What, for us, His purpose may be, 
 
 Yet, "He cloeth all things well."
 
 THE CHILD AND THE ROSE. 
 
 'Twas the morn of a day in the summer, 
 
 Though the morn was fast n earing its close, 
 That a little girl came to my window, 
 
 And timidly asked for a rose. 
 She wasn 't a common street beggar, 
 
 Though 'twas plain she was Poverty's child, 
 Her brown eyes were pensive and tender, 
 
 And even looked sad when she smiled. 
 
 Her bonnet was simply a shaker, 
 
 To shield from the sun's scorching rays, 
 Her dress threatened soon to forsake her, 
 
 And had long ago seen its best days. 
 I was ready and willing to grant it, 
 
 As soon as she made her request, 
 But her face told me something of sorrow, 
 
 And I wished her to tell me the rest. 
 So I said : "Where 's your home, little stranger ? 
 
 And who are your parents ? pray, tell, 
 And why in the street you 're a ranger, 
 
 And why you like roses so well ?" 
 "My mother, alas, is a widow, 
 
 My father and brother are dead ; 
 I live all alone with my mother, 
 
 And they call me an orphan," she said. 
 
 And then she stopped talking a moment, 
 
 As if she suspected, or knew, 
 I would say " 'Tis an everyday story. 
 
 And probably wholly untrue."
 
 THE CHILD AND THE ROSE. 15 
 
 But I smiled, so she ventured to do so, 
 And her smile was engagingly sweet, 
 
 And she finished the tale she was telling, 
 Nor faltered till it was complete. 
 
 "There's only one room in our dwelling, 
 
 A safe and a quiet retreat, 
 But there's no pleasant garden about it, 
 
 And so I must play in the street. 
 And I always go nearest the roses, 
 
 For, though I am fond of the rest, 
 And think other flowers are lovely, 
 
 I somehow like roses the best. 
 
 "A bud was the gateway adorning, 
 
 And now it is only half blown, 
 I've watched it, close by, all the morning, 
 
 O, may I not call it my own ? 
 I'll take it light home to my mother, 
 
 Who sits by the window and sews, 
 I know she will bless you kind lady, 
 
 For sending this beautiful rose. 
 
 "And she'll tell me again the sad story, 
 . She 's told me so often before 
 How father went out with the army, 
 
 And never came home any more. 
 Yes, mother likes roses, though sometimes, 
 
 The sight of them quickens her grief, 
 For once, as she held one I gave her, 
 
 A tear trickled down on the leaf. 
 
 "From her cheeks, too, the roses are fading, 
 
 And paler are growing each day ; 
 It must be, (so often she's weeping), 
 
 The teardrops have washed them away."
 
 16 THE CHILD AND THE ROSE. 
 
 Then I gave her a cluster of r6ses, 
 
 And the one she had asked for beside, 
 
 And bade her ask more when she wished them, 
 Nor fear she would e'er be denied. 
 
 Just a moment she waited to thank me, 
 
 And give me one smile of delight, 
 Then darted away round the corner, 
 
 And was suddenly lost to my sight. 
 Though I never again should behold her, 
 
 Through life, now and then, to its close, 
 I shall think of that child, and how happy 
 
 She looked when I gave her the rose. 
 
 And reader, if yours is the spirit 
 
 To soften or lessen life's woes, 
 Don't laugh at an offering so simple, 
 
 Or scorn to give even a rose. 
 For, "Even a .cup of cold water," 
 
 So said our Redeemer and Lord, 
 "If in a disciple's name given, 
 
 Shall never be wanting reward."
 
 IN YOUR FOOTSTEPS. 
 
 When little Ida, eagerly, 
 
 Her father's presence sought, 
 And smiled as in the garden grounds 
 
 A glimpse of him she caught, 
 The father's welcome caution spake, 
 
 "Be careful where you tread, 
 "Come this way, in the path, my child, 
 Don't walk upon the bed." 
 
 And joyously the happy child 
 
 As she was bidden came, 
 Content to linger at his side, 
 
 And calling oft his name. 
 But when the parent found it good, 
 
 Forbidden ground to take, 
 And stepped upo-n a blooming bank, 
 
 Some needed change to make, 
 
 A cloud fell o'er the baby brow, 
 Checking her flow of mirth, 
 As soberly she looked upon 
 
 His footprints in the earth. 
 And then, with brightening, wishful eye, 
 
 And pleading tone she said, 
 "Dear father ! may I follow you 
 
 If in your steps I tread ?" 
 "Heaven bless my child !" (the fervent words 
 
 Blended with fond caress) 
 "And lead me only by a way 
 Her tender feet may press."
 
 18 /-A" YOUR FOOTSTEPS. 
 
 Happy the child that's gently led, 
 
 Not forced to love the right, 
 Happy the mother who thus wins 
 
 By an example bright. 
 Alas ! too many a weeping one 
 
 In bitterness hath said, 
 "How shall I blame the wayward one ? 
 
 Hither my footsteps led." 
 
 "There is a way that seemeth right, 
 
 The ends of which are death ;" 
 Hidden at first the serpent there, 
 
 Unfelt his poisonous breath ; 
 Sad the response by eager youths 
 
 Forbidden there to tread, 
 "Father, I 'm safe ! I 'm following you ! 
 This way your footsteps led."
 
 LEOTA; 
 
 When the earth into new life was springing, 
 And song birds in companies came, 
 
 In the home nest a sweet one was singing, 
 Leota the fair birdling's name. 
 
 In our joy at the newly sent blessing, 
 
 We forgot that 'twas only one lent, 
 Forgot till was stayed our caressing 
 
 By the death angel, suddenly sent. 
 
 How dark was the gloom not yet vanished, 
 
 How bitter the tears that we shed, 
 When we saw the destroyer had finished, 
 
 When we knew that Leota was dead. 
 
 How brief was the time of our keeping 
 This treasure, we named for our own ; 
 
 When the flowers next awoke from their sleeping, 
 And the birds came, our birdling had flown 
 
 Gliding in as the pearty gates parted, 
 
 To go no more out but to dwell 
 Where earth's sad ones are made joyous hearted, 
 
 And friends never murmur farewell. 
 
 He who gave to the little ones blessing, 
 Who with His hands refused not to touch, 
 
 Is to-day our Leota possessing, 
 
 And His heavenly kingdom of such. 
 
 By the grace now for which we have striven, 
 All blessed, thrice blessed, we say,
 
 30 LEOTA.. 
 
 Be the name of our God who hath given, 
 Hath given, and taken away. 
 
 As roughly we toss on life's ocean, 
 
 What comfort this knowledge may yield, 
 
 She is safe from the pain and commotion 
 From which earthly love could not shield. 
 
 We could not cross over the river, 
 
 Nor lead through death's shadowy gate, 
 
 She has distanced to repass it never, 
 While this side we wander and wait. 
 
 In the mansions of God we are nearing, 
 We may see our Leota once more, 
 
 Christ, and all those who love his appearing, 
 And die not, but live evermore.
 
 THE YOUNG WARRIOR'S DREAM. 
 
 In slumbers of midnight the soldier boy lay, 
 
 His head on his well laden knapsack reclined, 
 While foot-sore and weary from marching all day, 
 
 Sleep gladdened his heait and unburdened his 
 
 mind. 
 The night breeze is tossing his blanket there, now, 
 
 And turning the corners up over his eyes, 
 The dewdrops are kissing the dust from his brow, 
 
 And the stars light them down from their home 
 in the skies. 
 
 He dreams of his home, of his home by the sea, 
 And enters it gaily, his battle-race run, 
 
 Discharged from the service, and honorably free, 
 His gray-headed father now welcomes his son. 
 
 He dreams of his mother; her tearful embrace; 
 
 Of a brother's glad shout, and a sister's fond kiss, 
 He takes by the fireside his long vacant place, 
 
 And naught for a season o'ershadows his bliss. 
 
 * 
 He dreams that he tells them the war cloud is past ; 
 
 Triumphant again are the stripes and the stars, 
 His honor untarnished has been to the last, 
 And over his shoulders the two little bars. 
 
 How changed is the picture ! By morning's first 
 beams 
 
 The camp in confusion, surprised by the foe ; 
 The soldier boy starts in alarm from his dreams, 
 
 And forward in battle is foremost to go.
 
 22 THE YOUNG WARRIORS DREAM. 
 
 All day raged the conflict ; and when it was done, 
 The sun in his setting shone bright o'er the plain, 
 
 The foe had deserted ; the blue coats had won, 
 
 But hundreds lay wounded, and many were slain. 
 
 O, soldier boy ! woe to thy dream of delight ! 
 
 And woe to the kindred who wait thy return; 
 O, heavy the shadow of sorrow's dark night, 
 
 To close around them when the tidings they learn. 
 
 Sleep, soldier, where sweet was thy slumber in life ; 
 "Discharged from the service," may truly be said, 
 No. battle-cry ringing wins thee to the strife, 
 
 Discharged with true honor the soldier boy 's dead.
 
 SAVE A TEAR. 
 
 Once, as two mutual friends engaged 
 In writing letters side by side, 
 
 To kindred ones who from themselves 
 By sea and land were parted wide, 
 
 The elder to the younger said, 
 "Your letter send with my address, 
 
 'Twill safefy reach its destined home, 
 And then for you the cost be less." 
 
 "Ah, no ! the beauteous answer was, 
 
 These lines penned to a mother dear, 
 Will soonest reach her sent direct, 
 
 And then, besides, may save a tear !" 
 Save her a tear ! What wealth of heart ! 
 
 The rarest gift God ever gave, 
 What loving care and tenderness 
 
 That thought a mother's tear to save. 
 Blest mother ! Could she, far away, 
 
 Her darling's ready answer hear, 
 Its memory, in a darksome hour, 
 
 Might save her many a bitter tear. 
 To save a tear ! Tis not a small, 
 
 Or trifling deed of little worth, 
 And, in the multitude of hearts, 
 
 What pity there is such a dearth 
 
 Of this same tenderness and care 
 For those we have the power to cheer, 
 
 The power to gladden and delight 
 And save where we create a tear.
 
 24 SAVE A TEAR. 
 
 And woman's life much sorrow knows 
 That she must deeply buried keep, 
 
 A sacred trust, a constant charge, 
 O'er which in secret she may weep. 
 
 And thought hath sometime said to me, 
 
 If tears could serve to wash out sin, 
 And purchase immortality, 
 
 What bliss a woman's tears might win. 
 And if you say a woman's face 
 
 Is like the earlier springtime sky, 
 Revealing sunshine of sweet smiles 
 
 Ere the light showers of tears are dry, 
 
 Know too, that drops from April clouds 
 
 Are genuine raindrops, none the less 
 And woman's easiest bidden tears 
 
 The moment's real heart pain express. 
 If I might choose a lifelong friend, 
 
 I 'd seek amid the true and brave, 
 Nor rest me short of one like him, 
 
 Who thought a mother's tear to save.
 
 SWEET VOICES SINGING. 
 
 I have heard sweet voices singing : 
 
 Once, as the morning light 
 Proclaimed the glad departure 
 
 Of the long, wearying night, 
 And I gazed from my couch in longing 
 
 With the flood of sunlight's gold, 
 A wave of low, sweet music 
 
 Into the sick room rolled. 
 And again in the hush of evening, 
 
 That followed the restless day, 
 As, dreading the hours of darkness, 
 
 Impatiently I lay, 
 The same sweet music floated 
 
 Up from a garden bower, 
 A balm to the troubled spirit, 
 
 Soothing my soul that hour. 
 
 To me they were strangers' voices, 
 
 Unknow r n both form and name 
 Of my unseen evening charmers, 
 
 But I bless them all the same 
 ' For the comfort that they gave me 
 
 Though by them undreamed, unthought, 
 The lesson of hope and patience, 
 
 So beautifully taught. 
 
 I have heard sweet voices singing: 
 
 Oft, in the recent years, 
 A tender voice hath reached me, 
 
 Its tones suggesting tears ;
 
 26 SWEET VOICES SINGING. 
 
 As the loved "Sweet Home" was gently 
 
 And tremblingly expressed, 
 I recognized its meaning 
 
 To the sorrowing singer's breast ; 
 For I knew that the dearest idol 
 
 That had made her "sweet home" sweet, 
 Had passsed from earth to the heavenly. 
 
 To its rest and joy complete. 
 
 I have heard sweet voices singing : 
 
 This time 'twas an infant's voice, 
 In silvery, bird-like accents, 
 
 Making the soul rejoice ; 
 And, sung in her winning manner, 
 
 The baby's song I heard, 
 Catching her joyous spirit, 
 
 And now and then a word : 
 Something about a temple fair 
 
 "That hath no room for sin, 
 Something about a little child 
 
 And the way of entering in." 
 And I kissed the lovely songstress, 
 
 For remembrance brought- to me, 
 That of such is Heaven's kingdom, 
 
 And longed to humble be. 
 
 I have heard sweet voices singing : 
 
 Feeble, and gray, and old, 
 The singer's words and music 
 
 Were faint and faltering told ; 
 But the song in the heart unfailing, 
 
 Essayed the lips their best, 
 To render to Him just praises, 
 
 Who comforteth those oppressed ;
 
 SWEET VOICES SINGING. 27 
 
 Who giveth to His beloved 
 
 Sufficient for each day, 
 Peace as the world ne'er giveth 
 
 Neither can take away. 
 And knowing that many burdens, 
 
 And grievous to be borne, 
 Had rested on her spirit, 
 
 And sorrows made her mourn, 
 It silenced the useless murmurs 
 
 Which had been my lips upon, 
 And bade me hope through clouded ways, 
 
 It is better farther on. 
 
 I have heard sweet voices singing : 
 
 Sometimes, kind friends beside, 
 Waking the happiest echoes, 
 
 My own to join hath tried ; 
 But new leaves in th6 story 
 
 Of life, the scenes have changed ; 
 For Death his own hath taken, 
 
 And distance some estranged ; 
 But some one shall hear their voices, 
 
 To gladsome melodies lent, 
 Thankful that ever the blessed, 
 
 Sweet mission of song was sent.
 
 PICNIC CAROL. 
 
 Mom at Casadaga ! 
 
 Morn of perfect day, 
 Answered we the summons, 
 
 "To the woods away !" 
 Welcome ! lovely morning ! 
 
 Welcome ! and all hail 
 To this beauteous island, 
 
 Charming Lily Dale ! 
 Sweetest breath of summer 
 
 Meets us entering here, 
 Sweetest bird-voice music 
 
 Falls upon the ear ; 
 Fragrant shrubs and flowers 
 
 Gemmed with Heaven's dew, 
 Glowing in the sunlight, 
 
 Green leaves struggling through ; 
 Skies of purest azure 
 
 Now and then are seen, 
 Showing through the tree tops 
 
 Earth and sky between ; 
 Birds among the branches, 
 
 Ready to take wing, 
 Won't you go to meet them, 
 
 In this pleasant swing ? 
 Fanned by gentlest breezes 
 
 In this fair retreat, 
 Waves of Casadaga 
 
 Breaking at our feet,
 
 PICNIC CAROL. 29 
 
 Here we rest and linger 
 
 Cares all throw away, 
 All, save joy, forgetting, 
 
 For one glad, free day. 
 
 Soon, a group, with footsteps 
 
 Anything but slow, 
 Reach a boat in waiting, 
 
 Take an early row. 
 Watch those merry maidens 
 
 As the oars they take, 
 Here's "A pleasant voyage I 
 
 Lady of tHe Lake !" 
 "O ! the lovely lillies !" 
 
 Joyously they cry ; 
 "O ! those waxen beauties ! 
 
 Do not pass them by." 
 Floral treasures taken, 
 
 Lavish praise on each, 
 But of course lamenting 
 
 Those beyond their reach. 
 Ever so with pleasures 
 
 Found so hard to grasp, 
 Won we're still regretting 
 
 Those we cannot clasp. 
 
 What a time they 're having 
 
 Playing olden games, 
 Spying out the hidden, 
 
 Calling out the names ; 
 These around the corner 
 
 Very humbly bent, 
 What a funny tableau 
 
 Some of them present.
 
 PICNIC CAROL. 
 
 Noon at Casadaga ! 
 
 All come thronging in : 
 Favorite game is dinner, 
 
 All may hope to win. 
 Bring the pond'rous baskets 
 
 And the feast prepare ; 
 What a room for dining 
 
 Is the open air. 
 This is "Lookout Table" 
 
 Looking o'er the lake 
 Bill of fare 's before you, 
 
 Pray what will you take ? 
 
 One, now worn and weary, 
 
 Sleeps beneath a tree ; 
 Slumber on, fair dreamer, 
 
 Naught shall hinder thee. 
 Lounging on the green sward, 
 
 Many idly muse ; 
 Others more sedate ones 
 
 Going through the news ; 
 Perched upon a tree stump, 
 
 Naught around they heed, 
 Satisfied each longing, 
 
 Dailies fresh to read. 
 Others take a carriage, 
 
 Leaving all behind, 
 Seek another region, 
 
 Other joys to find. 
 Some prefer to ramble 
 
 Wildest wildwood through, 
 Pathway hidden, narrow, 
 
 Room enough for two. 
 Still the balls are rolling 
 
 Such a fearful wnv.
 
 PICNIC CAROL. 
 
 "Tisn't strange the singer 
 
 Called it '"queer croquet." 
 Dulcet sounds are wafted 
 
 To us o 'er and o 'er, 
 By those happj' rowers 
 
 Near the other shore ; 
 Louder, clearer, sweeter, 
 
 Comes the glad refrain, 
 Singers on the island 
 
 Join the happy strain. 
 Ever, on life's voyage, 
 
 Singing as they sail, 
 May the istes be lovely 
 
 As this Lily Dale. 
 
 Night at Casadaga ! 
 
 Lo, the waiting train ; 
 Farewell, lake and island, 
 
 Till we come again. 
 Leave we woodland fairies 
 
 Undisputed right 
 To sport away with naiads 
 
 The witching hours of night.
 
 MUSINGS. 
 
 [Written upon a sick bed.J 
 
 O, earth hath many a tempest, 
 
 And many a raging storm, 
 Which beat at times so heavily 
 
 Upon the human form, 
 That life itself a burden seems. 
 
 Instead of precious boon, 
 And we in bitterness exclaim 
 
 Death cannot 'come too soon. 
 
 Yet, if that angel should appear 
 
 While we are musing so, 
 And hasten us to worlds unknown 
 
 Should we not grieve to go ? 
 The happy land is far above, 
 
 And all who dwell below, 
 Must find this world a wilderness 
 
 And have a taste of woe. 
 
 Sunbeams and shadows all the way 
 
 Alternately appear, 
 Each pleasure hath its rival pain, 
 
 Each smile, a rival tear. 
 When all is well how strong we are, 
 
 Unmindful of His care 
 Who noteth every sparrow's fall, 
 
 And numbers every hair 
 
 Upon the heads of those He makes 
 The children of His trusfc,
 
 MUSINGS. 33 
 
 And sends the sun to shine upon 
 
 The evil and the just. 
 How often do we think from whom 
 
 Our blessings flow so free ? 
 Or feel if earth is ever fair, 
 
 How glorious Heaven must be ? 
 
 Each heart hath its own bitterness, 
 
 And all of us are prone 
 To think the heaviest load of grief 
 
 Is that which we have known ; 
 We do not fully prize the rose 
 
 Till we have grasped a thorn ; 
 And who that hath no darkness known, 
 
 Would hail the light of morn ? 
 
 One-half of all our miseries, 
 
 Unhappily we borrow ; 
 As if to-day's were not enough, 
 
 We seek some for to-morrow. 
 Our happiest hours are seldom known 
 
 Till buried with the past ; 
 No thanks have we we only groan, 
 
 Because they did not last. 
 
 We read, upon the sacred page, 
 
 That by grief's sombre shade, 
 Seen often on the countenance, 
 
 The heart is better made; 
 And we may learn in hours of woe 
 
 The hand of Him to trace, 
 
 
 
 Who " 'neath a frowning providence 
 Hides still a smiling face." 
 
 The cup of sorrow often proves 
 A blessing in disguise ;
 
 34 MUSINGS. 
 
 And we should drink it as the flowers 
 Drink rain-drops from the skies. 
 
 The sum of all our sufferings 
 Cannot with His compare, 
 
 Who hung upon the cross for us, 
 And breathed His life out there. 
 
 Then when the hour of trial comes 
 
 When health and strength forsake 
 We need to gird our souls anew, 
 
 And added courage take. 
 And when the path's a rugged one, 
 
 Why must we fret and frown? 
 Forgetting that 'twas cruel thorns 
 
 Made up our Savior's crown. 
 
 O, if we ever enter Heaven, 
 
 Around the great white throne, 
 Where all the mysteries of time 
 
 Are finally made known, 
 Shall we not think, if we recall, 
 
 The sufferings here we bear, 
 But "light afflictions, which work out 
 
 Eternal glory there?"
 
 MARKS OF MYSTERY. 
 
 Little Flora, aged four, 
 Slipping through the half-closed door, 
 Finds a book, whose open page, 
 Seems to all her thoughts engage ; 
 Finds the pen, by some one left, 
 So, with dimpled fingers, deft, 
 And with wise and happy look, 
 Flora writes within the book. 
 
 Seven little faltering marks, 
 Penned by a baby's hand ; 
 
 Seven faintly shaded lines ; 
 Ah ! who can understand. 
 
 And then drawn near to these, 
 Find some half dozen more ; 
 
 One, pausing just in time to form 
 A gateway, or a door. 
 
 I cannot make it out, I'm sure, 
 This infant's puzzling scrawl, 
 
 I know not how to choose the words, 
 Nor what the whole to call. 
 
 Her baby face I've never seen, 
 Yet I am forced to doubt, 
 
 If her own eyes, beholding this, 
 Would fullv make it out.
 
 36 MARKS OF MYSTERY. 
 
 A pleasing mystery remains, 
 
 Ne'er to be fathomed quite, 
 All undivulged her childish thoughts, 
 
 And what she meant to write. 
 
 They might be meaningless to you, 
 
 A "trifle light as air," 
 Or you might think their presence marred, 
 
 And frown to have them there ; 
 
 But this I know, I would not have 
 These lines the darling traced, 
 
 For any other hand on earth 
 Rejected or effaced. 
 
 This page her lines must ever bear, 
 The light ones and the dark, 
 
 If Flora did not sign her name, 
 She made for me her mark.
 
 A BUNCH OF WILD GRASSES. 
 
 "A thing of beauty is a joy," 
 
 This was the poet's thought, 
 And so I said when this bouquet 
 A friend in kindness brought 
 
 'T was not in cultured garden ground 
 These buds and blossoms smiled, 
 
 On the rich prairies they were found, 
 And in the forest wild. 
 
 The many would have passed them by, 
 
 As born to bloom unseen ; 
 Or formed to flourish and to die, 
 
 With but a breath between. 
 
 But one beheld them and admired, 
 Where others had despised, 
 
 With paint she some of them attired, 
 And some she crystallized. 
 
 With skillful hand and practiced eye, 
 She placed each leaf and blade, 
 
 Soft hues that with each other vie, 
 And those of deeper shade. 
 
 Of barley, and of wheat, a spray, 
 
 To each a place assigned, 
 And thus the useful with the gay 
 
 Are tastefully combined. 
 
 Enough of nature to be real, 
 
 Enough of art to stay, 
 Their beauty, such, I joy to feel, 
 
 As knoweth not decay.
 
 IN AN OLDFASHIONED ALBUM. 
 
 When I have looked this volume through, 
 
 And scanned its storied leaves, 
 Where love and friendship for so long 
 
 Have garnered up their sheaves, 
 And thought of all those early friends 
 
 Whose names, recorded here, 
 Evince how many were the hearts 
 
 That held thine own so dear, 
 
 I 've backward glanced adown time's stream, 
 
 And asked : "Would they, who live, 
 If suffered to behold ni} 7 verse. 
 
 A welcome to it give?" 
 The very years this book hath known 
 
 Make it a sacred thing 
 A relic of the past ; and joys 
 
 That one by one took wing. 
 
 As usual, in a book like this, 
 
 The wish is oft expressed, 
 That time would bring thee joys, alone, 
 
 The dearest and the best. 
 And could kind friends keep back life's ills, 
 
 Thou hadst been free, indeed ; 
 No earthly comfort languished for, 
 
 Of pleasure felt no need. 
 
 Yet, while so many blessings rare 
 Along thy way have lain,
 
 IN AN OLD FASHIONED ALBUM. 39 
 
 The same kind hand that gave thee these, 
 
 Bade Sorrow have her reign. 
 And thou hast learned the lesson well, 
 
 That comes betimes to all, 
 That into brightest, sunniest lives 
 
 The rain must sometimes fall. 
 
 The hearts that loved thee would have wreathed 
 
 A wreath for thee to wear ; 
 'Tis done no fitter could be twined 
 
 Than these full pages bear. 
 But some who left their offerings here, 
 
 To-day are written dead ; 
 Others, who climbed with thee life's hill, 
 
 The other side now tread ; 
 
 And silvery locks above thy brow, 
 
 To all this truth attest, 
 That nearer draweth year by year, 
 
 The ransomed spirit's rest. 
 And if by early friends beloved, 
 
 It is but just to say, 
 Others are thine enough to fill 
 
 A larger book to-day. 
 
 And ere I lay this volume down, 
 
 To me it seems but meet 
 That I should leave within its lids 
 
 What I so oft repeat : 
 O'er all the pathway thou hast trod, 
 
 Thy sterling virtues shine, 
 While thy good words and noble deeds 
 
 Have shed a light on mine.
 
 THREE YEARS. 
 
 I've wandered by the schoolhouse, Kate, 
 
 I've looked in at the door, 
 Where you and I together sat, 
 
 And searched for hidden lore. 
 But I could not bear to linger long, 
 
 My heart was grieving so, 
 To see how sadly all had changed, 
 
 Since three short years ago. 
 
 The old High School is altered now, 
 
 Our places there are filled 
 By schoolgirls somewhat like ourselves 
 
 And maybe better skilled ; 
 But the same old stairs are in the hall, 
 
 And maidens come and go, 
 With hearts as light, and hopes as bright 
 
 As ours, three } 7 ears ago. 
 
 The trees are just as green, dear Kate, 
 
 The flowers still bloom as fair, 
 The birds sing just as sweetly now, 
 
 As they did when we were there ; 
 But the master's gone a captain brave, 
 
 To meet the southern foe ; 
 And a stranger fills the honored place 
 
 He filled three years ago. 
 
 Yes, strange to us, though kind his voice, 
 And winning be his smile ;
 
 THREE YEARS. 41 
 
 Sweet mein'ries of the absent one 
 
 Float 'round us all the while. 
 He may be wise, and learn'd and good, 
 
 We ne'er could love him though, 
 As we loved the one who taught us there, 
 
 Some three short years ago. 
 
 The ball and bat rest side by side, 
 
 Within the playground wall, 
 Their owners have exchanged them, Kate, 
 
 For sword and minie ball ; 
 The} 7 left their homes and volunteered, 
 
 A warrior's life to know ; 
 And soldiers now, were schoolboys then, 
 
 Just three short years ago. 
 
 Yet no ! not all for some are missed 
 
 From out that noble train, 
 Their comrades left them sleeping 
 
 With the hosts of noble slain; 
 And some are sick and languishing, 
 
 Longing in vain, we know, 
 For a touch of the hands that cared for them 
 
 Some three sad years ago. 
 
 Of all the girls in our old class, 
 
 Not one remains the same, 
 For some are changed in nature, now, 
 
 And more are changed in name ; 
 And one has fallen asleep, dear Kate, 
 
 'Neath the blossoms she loved laid low, 
 Ah ! little thought we of a grave for Maud, 
 
 But three short years ago. 
 
 Tears for the loved ones taken, Kate, 
 But hope with earnest cheer,
 
 43 THREE TEARS. 
 
 Hope, yet again to meet with those 
 Who leave us wondering here ; 
 
 By the river of life to gather, 
 Where living waters flow, 
 
 And love them there as we loved them here, 
 Some three short years ago.
 
 HAPPY HUSKERS. 
 
 [During the War, when the demand for farm labor greatly exceeded the supply> 
 women and girls and even small children, went into the fields to help gather and 
 store the crops. Tne writer, with her mother and sisters, bore a part in the various 
 kinds of field work. . "Woman's Work m the Civil War."] 
 
 Let others sing of grander deeds, 
 
 The mighty and sublime ; 
 Be mine the humbler task, just now, 
 
 To sing of the husking time. 
 When off to the fields each morn alike, 
 
 We took the easiest way, 
 Till night from morn, we gathered the corn, 
 
 Through many an autumn day. 
 
 'Tis true we often weary were 
 
 Before the noon bell rang, 
 But still we halted not for this, 
 
 And this is the song we sang : 
 "We've worked long in the field, 
 
 We've handled many an ear, 
 We'll finish the row, before we go, 
 
 And leave no gleanings here." 
 
 What though the northern breeze 
 
 Swept over plain and hill, 
 And sought to sweep us in its path, 
 
 As northern breezes will ; 
 We only worked the faster then, 
 
 Proud dwellers on free soil, 
 We chose the task, nor scorned to ask, 
 
 A respite from our toil.
 
 44 HAPPY HU8KERS. 
 
 What if the golden corn was hid, 
 
 Beneath the frost and sleet ; 
 Our fingers aching with the cold, 
 
 And just the same our feet ; 
 What if the angry clouds above, 
 
 Frowned on us to our sorrow, 
 Xo tears we shed, but laughing said, 
 
 "The sun will shine to-morrow/' 
 
 But some, we knew, despised the toil, 
 
 Such health and vigor giving ; 
 They could not think of husking corn, 
 
 To gain an honest living. 
 We heeded not their idle scorn, 
 
 But toiled on, singing gaily, 
 No sweeter rest can be possessed, 
 
 Than when we labor daily. 
 
 And when our healthful task was done 
 
 Crosslots, our homeward way, 
 We went beneath the evening stars, 
 
 Or in the twilight gray. 
 Or when the wagon-box was filled 
 
 With corn to overflowing, 
 Sometimes we rode upon the load, 
 
 And sang these words while going: 
 
 "Fathers and brothers far away, 
 
 Hungry, and lacking bread, 
 Nothing to lose, or wasted be, 
 
 Save all the corn, we said. 
 We'll handle the hoe, the spade, the rake, 
 
 We'll plant, and gather the grain, 
 This be our share, to do and dare, 
 
 Till peace once more shall reign."
 
 PLEA TO FASHION. 
 
 Are they finished, Dame Fashion? are they all complete? 
 
 Is everything lovely, and everything neat? 
 
 Are they just what we want, and you wish them to be? 
 
 The fashions, I mean, for seventy-three. 
 
 And, lovely or not, must they still be our fate? 
 
 Your pardon, dear madam, if 'tisn't too late, 
 
 I would give a suggestion would venture a plea 
 
 For the sake of the fair, will you listen to me? 
 
 The soft airs of springtime are coming, they say, 
 
 A few idle ones have been floating this way ; 
 
 And there rose to my view at the sound of their wings, 
 
 Visions of O, the most beautiful things ! 
 
 Which we hope may be ours when the Maytime we see, 
 
 With her wonderful styles for seventy-three. 
 
 Believe me, dear Fashion, I don't want to scold, 
 
 About what you have sent, and now growing old ; 
 
 But the task is a great one for even your brain, 
 
 Always bringing forth styles that are new, in the main, 
 
 So I thought to relieve you, and only suggest 
 
 Some thoughts for disposal as seemeth you best. 
 
 To begin with the bonnets: Most wonderful shapes 
 
 Without any strings, and without any cape?, 
 
 The soup-plates and saucers, work-baskets and mats, 
 
 All sorts of arrangements called bonnets and hats, 
 
 We've bravely met all ; we've tried the whole crew ; 
 We can wear what you please so the fashion is new;
 
 48 PLEA TO FASHION. 
 
 ^ 
 
 But the prices of these have been ranging so high,, 
 It wants a small fortune these beauties to buy. 
 Now we ask that this season, this once, if you can. 
 You'll manage affairs on a different plan. 
 Let the bonnet be everything charming and nice, 
 Don't rob it of anything more than the price 
 
 Have as many fine flowers as ever upon it, 
 And give us a cheap, bat a love of a bonnet. 
 Don't give us front ringlets down over our eyes, 
 Nor coronets soaring aloft toward the skies, 
 Nor back curls so many, so massive and long, 
 As to burden the fair ones not overly strong. 
 And as for the bustles, the panniers and such, 
 We are free to confess we have never liked much ; 
 
 So high they've been running for more than a year, 
 
 That even the newspapers now have grown dear. 
 
 We cannot feel sorry to see their decline, 
 
 And we beg you to send nothing more in that line. 
 
 Nay, more, let us hope that at least for one year, 
 
 With no sham deformity we may appear 
 
 Don't give us short dress-waists, quite under the arm, 
 
 Nor lengthened the same till lost to all charm ; 
 
 Nor skirts trailing more than the width of a street, 
 Nor shortened to make a display of our feet. 
 And speaking of feet, I declare what is true, 
 That we need a reform in the shape of a shoe. 
 Don't give us a boot lacing quite to the knee, 
 Impeding the blood which should circulate free, 
 The lacing a tiresome task every day, 
 Consuming our strength in a frivolous way. 
 
 Don't settle us down in those little strips 
 
 Of leather and cloth, called slippers and slips,
 
 "PLEA TO FASHION. 47 
 
 Made up of a sole and just enough toe 
 To be caught by a buckle, a tassel, or bow ; 
 Wearing these and these only, who is there but knows, 
 We should have to be dreadfully careful of hose. 
 We may button our shoes but the trouble with these, 
 They cannot be buttoned with swiftness or ease, 
 
 And the buttons fly off, and we've too much to do, 
 
 To waste any time on a buttonless shoe. 
 
 And the Congress (I should like to know if the name 
 
 Of this once worthy shoe is really to blame), 
 
 Concerning this subject we might be in doubt, 
 
 Were it not that the Congress is first to give out ; 
 
 And we know that in buying, though both promise fair, 
 
 We're sure to be humbugged by one of the pair. 
 
 Now you must be convinced that the saying is true, 
 We need a reform in the shape of a shoe. 
 Remember, dear fashion and count it not strange, 
 There are those not quite overstocked with small change, 
 Who, withal, would dress comely and not so much worse 
 Than others who sport a more plethoric purse. 
 We weary of having this taunt at us hurled, 
 "It is woman's extravagance ruins the world." 
 
 Men frown if we don't dress and frown if we do ; 
 And wonder to see us lack anything new. 
 Our husbands and brothers would have us well dressed, 
 And we like to please husbands, as well as the rest 
 Of our gentleman friends, and with all the tirade, 
 We fly to headquarters and summon your aid. 
 Now, why not let calico have a fair show, 
 And be called very good, as it was years ago. 
 
 Why need we in dress goods all fabrics discard 
 
 Which perchance may not sell for one dollar per yard?
 
 48 PLEA TO FASHIOK. 
 
 Let the patterns for making be few at a time, 
 Arid these be at least for six months in their prime. 
 In closing, I pray you, whatever our fate, 
 Send something the men cannot easily mate ; 
 For you know that whatever you conjure for us, 
 About it, some man will of course make a fuss, 
 And call us proud creatures (it's just like a man) 
 Then follow the fashion as close as he can.
 
 BRIGHT BEYOND. 
 
 A youthful wife was dying, 
 
 In her own home so fair, 
 While parents, husband, children, 
 
 Were gathered 'round her there ; 
 And while they weeping, listened 
 
 For the last whisper fond, 
 "Jesus," she said, "is precious ; 
 
 "Yes, all is bright, beyond." 
 
 O, that beyond ! how many 
 
 Are gathering over there ; 
 Friend after friend departing, 
 
 In its sweet rest to share.. 
 And never can be pictured, 
 
 Not in our brightest dreams, 
 The glories of that resting place, 
 
 That near and nearer seems. 
 
 Sometimes it seems so near us, 
 
 \Ve almost catch a ray 
 Of brightness, through the portals 
 
 That lead to perfect day. 
 Only the silent river, 
 
 Rolls earth and Heaven between, 
 The "valley and the shadow," 
 
 This side the "living green." 
 
 This side the tearless temple, 
 Knowing no grief or sin,
 
 50 BRIGHT BEYOND. 
 
 And where Christ's righteousness adorns, 
 
 All who are ent'ring in. 
 O, lovely are the homes of earth, 
 
 And some, so full of bliss, 
 We venture to compare them 
 
 With fairer worlds than this. 
 
 But none of them so favored 
 
 That Death may not invade, 
 And where the sunshine's brightest, 
 
 He sends the deepest shade. 
 One of these homes so lovely, 
 
 Long free from death's alarm, 
 He finds at last, and choosing, 
 
 Bears off its sweetest charm. 
 
 He leaves a loving husband 
 
 In deepest grief to bow, 
 And children, sweet and loving, 
 
 Motherless, written now. 
 Brothers without a sister, 
 
 And parents crushed and sad, 
 Mourning an only daughter, 
 
 Whose love their life made glad. 
 
 For He with love excelling 
 
 All human love so fond, 
 Has bidden her "up higher," 
 
 Up to the Bright Beyond. 
 For them, on all things earthly, 
 
 A darkling shadow lies, 
 Xot here to be uplifted, 
 
 Not here to fully rise. 
 
 Yet, Christ their certain refuge, 
 Firm in His strength they stand,
 
 BRIGHT BEYOND. 
 
 The "shadow of a mighty rock, 
 
 Within a weary land." 
 He comes to heal their sorrows, 
 
 Nor leaves them to despond, 
 He'll gently guide their footsteps 
 
 Safe to the Bright Beyond. 
 
 How wise, so to be living, 
 
 Ready, each passing day, 
 Ready, these words so precious, 
 
 With confidence to say. 
 Shall you and I, dear reader, 
 
 With dying breath respond, 
 To some one's latest question, 
 
 That all is bright beyond ? 
 
 It recks not when we're bidden, 
 
 Upon the land or sea, 
 Alone, with friends, or strangers, 
 
 Or wheresoe'er are we, 
 If we our Lord obeying, 
 
 Christ's righteousness have donned, 
 His presence through the valley 
 
 Will make all bright beyond.
 
 THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER. 
 
 [Alfred Steele Handy, of Co. B., 2d Regt.. Mich. Vols. Killed at Fair Oaks. Aged 
 17 years. 1*he young volunteer, but a short time in the service, had expressed his 
 eagerness to see and take part in a battle. His brother, passing just after the engage 
 ment opened, hailed him, asking if a battle was anything as he expected. Steele only 
 turned and smiled upon his brother in answer, and a few moments later word came 
 of his death.] 
 
 In that sunny land, Virginia, 
 
 Where repose so many brave, 
 'Neath an oak tree's spreading branches, 
 
 There's a soldier's lonely grave. 
 
 There our noble Steele is sleeping, 
 Closed in death his radiant eyes, 
 
 Gone from us, O, may we meet him, 
 In that home beyond the skies. 
 
 Cannon's roar or musket's rattle 
 
 Ne'er shall greet his ear again, 
 For the fiery Fair Oaks' battle 
 
 Closed for him the war's campaign. 
 
 Friends at home, who dearly loved him, 
 Could not make his last cold bed ; 
 
 Could not gaze upon his features 
 When they learn'd that he was dead. 
 
 May not come to weep and linger, 
 Where they've laid him down to rest, 
 
 But a patriot mother mourns him, 
 With an ever sorrowing breast. 
 
 Sisters too, whose hearts were gladdened 
 By his smile so kind and sweet, 
 
 Now, with life so strangely saddened, 
 Wait in vain his form to greet.
 
 THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER. 
 
 And the Captain, his dear brother, 
 On his memory loves to dwell, 
 
 How Steele smiled amid the conflict, 
 Smiled on him his last farewell. 
 
 Loving friends will not forget him, 
 Though his tomb they may not seek ; 
 
 Tenderly they will regret him, 
 And his praises oft shall speak. 
 
 Sleep, to-day, O, loved and lost one, 
 'Neath the friendly old oak tree ; 
 
 Requiems of the evening zephyrs, 
 Mingle with our tears for thee.
 
 GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 But stay, good wife, a moment stay, 
 
 And list what I would say ; 
 The lover should a hearing have, 
 
 Upon his wedding day I 
 And this our wedding morn is, wife, 
 
 The golden one 'tis known, 
 For since our youthful bridal day 
 
 'Full fifty years' have flown. 
 
 Ah ! on what rapid wing flown by r 
 
 These fifty freighted years ! 
 And yet, in looking o'er them now, 
 
 Their measured length appears ; 
 Yes, since we sat in our own room, 
 
 When guests had gone away, 
 We two, a happy bridal pair, 
 
 'Tis fifty years to-day ! 
 
 We knew, life granted, that the trip 
 
 Was long, yet for love's sake, 
 We wisely thought, Hfe's journey through, 
 
 Together we might take. 
 And with its toils and burdens too, 
 
 Each year has brought its May, 
 The sunshine of God's love been ours, 
 
 Down to this golden day. 
 
 Yes, every year has had its May, 
 And every cloud of care
 
 GOLDEN WEDDING. 55 
 
 Or grief that we have ever met, 
 
 Has had its lining fair. 
 Your smiles have heightened every joy, 
 
 And lessened all my fears, 
 And, best of all, your faithful love 
 
 I've had these fifty years. 
 
 Your' hands have helped me build this home, 
 
 We sought for our repose, 
 And helped the wilderness that was, 
 
 To blossom as the rose. 
 For while we have been living on, 
 
 And growing old, 'tis true, 
 The country, beautiful when wild, 
 
 Is now no longer new. 
 
 Around us fruitful orchards stand, 
 
 And vineyards on each side, 
 And pleasant homes before us lie, 
 
 E'en down to Erie's tide. 
 The locomotive, grand and swift, 
 
 Before its mighty train, 
 Full-viewed from out our farmhouse door, 
 
 Sweeps o'er our orchard plain. 
 
 We know that of the happy nine 
 
 That gathered round our hearth, 
 And were so much of life to us, 
 
 Three are no more of earth. 
 Our oldest early found a home, 
 
 Then died, away out West ; 
 Our youngest, in the churchyard near, 
 
 For years has been at rest. 
 
 And one to Colorado's hills, 
 By roving fancies led,
 
 56 GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 Thought there to find the shining gold, 
 And found his grave instead. 
 
 But when our earthly props must fail, 
 Still closer let us cling 
 
 Unto each other's love and faith, 
 And trust what Heaven may bring. 
 
 Blessed are they, the record reads, 
 
 That His commandments do, 
 They shall have right to life's fair tree, 
 
 And pearly gates pass through, 
 Into that city where no more 
 
 In wedded bonds we 're given, 
 But through the blissful ages are 
 
 As angel ones in Heaven.
 
 THE RAGE FOR THE RINK. 
 
 The rink ! the rink ! the wonderful rink ! 
 It flurries one's heart and one's brain to think, 
 Of the fun and the frolic, the glitter and glare, 
 That the old and the young are feasting on there. 
 
 The town is astir! and the people, so gay, 
 
 Unheeding the hours they are whiling away, 
 
 Too eager to pause, and too crazy to think, 
 
 They are spending their strength and squand'ring 
 
 their chink, 
 Half wild in their joy, at the wonderful rink ! 
 
 When the skaters en maske, in outlandish array, 
 And the band, in the torchlight, beginning to play, 
 ("Too lovely for anything !" as the girls say) 
 When even beholders bewilderingly gaze, 
 Till seemingly whirled in the same giddy maze, 
 All other attractions mere nothings must sink, 
 Only this fount of pleasure allures them to drink, 
 No, there's nothing in town but the wonderful rink. 
 
 Once, I a masker was, too, but I fell ; 
 Fell like a groceryman's basket pell-mell ; 
 My mask flying off, and my arms flying high, 
 I went without murmuring a tender good-bye. 
 
 Yes, I'd fallen before, but then, to fall there ! 
 My head on the ice, but my mask in the air, 
 Unmasked ! before those who so cruelly stare ; 
 Like one toppled over the brink of despair 
 'Twould be better, I thought, to be even nowhere.
 
 58 THE RAGE FOB THE RINK. 
 
 Fainting, freezing, sighing, trying in vain, and alone, 
 To be patient and brave, and smother a groan, 
 Too angry to weep, and too frightened to think, 
 They bore me away from the wonderful rink. 
 And with badly sprained ankle, and badly bruised 
 
 head, 
 I am resting at last on my own little bed. 
 
 'Tis terrible ! being shut up in this state, 
 
 When I had such high hopes of learning to skate ; 
 
 But the doctor (God bless him) with fervor declares 
 
 That a week or two more will suffice for repairs. 
 
 So I'm counting the days and the hours I must wait, 
 
 Submitting, although with bad grace, to my fate, 
 
 And painting the pleasures by da} r and by night, 
 
 Which I know I shall have when my ankle's all right 
 
 How it strengthens my spirits when ready to sink ; 
 
 How it softens the pain from which erst I should 
 
 shrink ; 
 
 Soon again with the skaters ! How blissful to think ! 
 On the wonderful ice, at the wonderful rink !
 
 THE FORCED RECRUIT. 
 
 [Written during the Rebellion.] 
 
 The afternoon departing sun shone 'round the farmhouse 
 old, 
 
 And fell on the cornfield's harvest ears, touching them 
 all with gold. 
 
 A man was there, with kind, blue eyes, and hair of chest 
 nut brown, 
 
 His handsome face, the home of smiles, now shaded 
 by a frown. 
 
 And though Virginia was his home, no rebel heart had he, 
 
 Dearly he loved his country's flag, the old flag of the free. 
 
 He had almost filled the basket with yellow corn but 
 
 hark ! 
 There was a distant rifle-shot and still his brow grew 
 
 dark. 
 They were drafting for the army, and he might have to 
 
 go, 
 
 To fight his brother patriots; no enemy or foe. 
 How hard it seemed to that proud heart, there in Seces- 
 
 cia's land, 
 How longed he but to volunteer, in that bold Federal 
 
 band. 
 
 'Twas hard to feel the dear old flag so far away unfurled, 
 Where he might never see it wave. Had God forgotten 
 
 the world ? 
 Then, through the waving, tasseled corn, there beamed 
 
 a smiling face,
 
 60 THE FORCED RECRUIT. 
 
 With azure eyes, and sunny curls, and form of childish 
 
 grace ; 
 His darling Ma}-, his promised bride, so happy and 
 
 bright, the while, 
 
 Her glad face banished the heavy frown, causing his own 
 to smile. 
 
 He bade her sit beside him, on a large stone lying there, 
 And the soft south breeze and sunset light played with 
 
 her curling hair. 
 
 And calmly, as he might, he told her they must part ; 
 And soon, he feared ; this* was the grief that burdened 
 
 now his heart. 
 
 And were it hot for you, dear one, I'd fly without delay, 
 To the Union lines, the stars and stripes, I'd go this very 
 
 day. 
 
 I'd brave all dangers gladly, these traitorous men to 
 
 leave, 
 But I could not take you with me, nor leave you, alone 
 
 to grieve. 
 "If troubles, as they must, shall come, all, patiently I'll 
 
 bear," 
 He said, "for your sake, only yours," smoothing her 
 
 sunny hair. 
 "But what if you are drafted, George?" she said, with 
 
 tearful eye ; 
 "I will never shoot a Federal ; no ! sooner I would die. 
 
 I envy the brave Northern boys, who for the right can 
 
 fall, 
 I curse these wicked rebels ! though men themselves 
 
 they call." 
 , May whispered words of comfort and hopefulness, but 
 
 brief, 
 In vain were all her efforts to hide her own deep grief.
 
 THE FORCED RECRUIT. 61 
 
 With silent lips and heavy hearts, they walked to the 
 
 farmhouse low, 
 A cloud was over their spirit's sky, hiding the sun's 
 
 bright glow. 
 
 Alas ! the evil hour they dread, is coming, all too fast ; 
 
 One meeting more is left for them, one parting, now, 
 the last. 
 
 A few days more have come and gone of autumn sun 
 shine bright, 
 
 And George is hastening home alone, alone in the eve 
 ning light. 
 
 He knows that he is drafted ; to-morrow he must go ; 
 
 To-morrow leave his home and May, to join his coun 
 try's foe. 
 
 Was there no help for him from God, to whom he ever 
 
 prayed ? 
 God of his childhood's love and trust, would He not 
 
 surely aid ? 
 Should freedom's gallant followers grope after light in 
 
 vain ? 
 
 He gazed upon the quiet stars with weary, heartfelt pain. 
 To make men fight 'gainst freedom's cause, could this 
 
 be just and right? 
 Must he, without one struggle, yield to the conqueror's 
 
 might ? 
 
 Just then he heard a low, soft voice call him across the 
 
 way, 
 
 And looking up, he there beheld his faithful little May. 
 Her well known voice is altered now, mournfully low and 
 
 sweet, 
 As by her home-gate ling'ring her gallant love to 
 
 greet. 
 "Nay, speak it not, she sadly said, "father has told me all,
 
 62 THE FORCED RECRUIT. 
 
 Our fears were right ; too soon, alas ! the dreaded storm 
 must fall." 
 
 "0 ! must I spurn the dear old flag, our own red, white 
 
 and blue ?" 
 "Go ; trust in childhood's God," she said, "and he will 
 
 care for you." 
 "But would you have me fight, dear one, 'gainst freedom 
 
 in the strife? 
 
 Turn traitor to my country ? just to preserve my life?" 
 May hesitates ; what shall she say ? Her heart is sorely 
 
 tried. 
 And what was liberty to her, if he, her lover died ? 
 
 He saw the struggle, took the flag, a silken one she'd 
 
 given, 
 The clear, bright stripes and tiny stars shone in the light 
 
 of Heaven. 
 "Shall I fight against this emblem? this dear flag of the 
 
 free ?" 
 "No, no !" she answered quickly, then, "not that, not that, 
 
 for me." 
 
 "God bless you, little brave one, just as I knew you'd say, 
 I'll go, but fly ere battle, to the Yankees make my 
 
 way." 
 
 "And if you fail ?" said May, again, as if the worst to 
 
 know, 
 
 "I am dying for my country, then, yes, God will call it so." 
 May took a little Bible, that long had been her own, 
 And opening it, the starlight upon its pages shone. 
 Then she placed the silken flag within and bade him 
 
 keep it there, 
 The stars of hope were pointing to this, her parting 
 
 prayer:
 
 THE FORCED RECRUIT. 63 
 
 George took the book and read therein, by the dim feeble 
 rays, 
 
 "He shall give His angels charge o'er thee, to keep thee 
 in thy ways." 
 
 The last good-bye is spoken ; given the last kind word, 
 
 Never again, the one loved voice, to be by either heard. 
 
 The gloom of midnight's mantle falls o'er the silent camp ; 
 
 No sound upon the cool, night air save that of the sen 
 tinel's tramp. 
 
 The eve of a coming battle ; and thousands sleeping 
 
 now, 
 Will lie asleep on the morrow with the death damp 
 
 on their brow. 
 And where is George? Not sleeping ; there is for him 
 
 no sleep ; 
 He sits alone with his bitter thoughts, his anxious 
 
 watch to keep. 
 
 To enter the coming battle, and orders disobey, 
 Would be but certain death he knew ; escape, the only 
 
 way. 
 
 By daylight it was useless the dangerous plan to try ; 
 The rebel pickets guarded him with ever watchful 
 
 eye. 
 Full well they knew no uniform, though rebel marks it 
 
 bore, 
 Could change the loyal beating of the heart it covered 
 
 o'er. 
 
 George listened to the sound of the sentry's heavy tramp, 
 Then stealthily he made his way along the silent camp. 
 
 Down to a dark and dismal swamp, he eager and tremb 
 ling went, 
 
 A dread, forbidding place it was, where guards were sel 
 dom sent.
 
 6* THE FORCED RECRUIT. 
 
 And, wrapped in misty darkness, he reached the dismal 
 
 ground, 
 
 He saw no savage sentinel, he heard no warning sound; 
 The brave boys of the Potomac, almost, he seemed to 
 
 see, 
 Could see himself among them he felt already free. 
 
 But ah ! he is discovered ! "Halt!" fell heavily on his 
 
 ear, 
 
 And breathlessly he waited the click of the gun to hear 
 Should he go on, and heed it not? 'Twas dark, the shot 
 
 might miss ! 
 Yes ; on, to freedom and the right, he would not turn 
 
 for this. 
 There was a flash a rifle-shot the martyr's funeral 
 
 knell, 
 And the sentinel turned away with an oath, as the dying 
 
 patriot fell. 
 
 O, wearily the night wore on, and wearily passed away ; 
 
 Alone, in the damp grass, bathed with blood, the help 
 less suff'rer lay. 
 
 He thought of the far-off Sabbath bells, and heard their 
 silvery chime, 
 
 And said his prayers at his mother's knee, as in the 
 olden time. 
 
 And vaguely he would picture, too, the sun-bright curls 
 of May ; 
 
 His heart too chill to feel the warmth of the one that 
 near it lay. 
 
 He had never killed a Federal, he was glad he had kept 
 
 his oath, 
 He sought his Bible and tiny flag, and feebly clasped 
 
 them both.
 
 THE FORCED RECRUIT. 65 
 
 He breathed a prayer for freedom's cause, that victory 
 
 might betide, 
 Then, with a last prayer breathed for May, the patriot 
 
 martyr died. 
 The low wind moaned through the dismal swamp, and 
 
 with tender and light caress, 
 Touched lightly the pale and marble brow, as a mother's 
 
 kiss to bless. 
 
 Over his form the tall grass bowed, his only funeral pall, 
 And a sobbing rain bathed the manly cheek, the only 
 
 tears to fall. 
 
 The setting sun is lingering half sadly round the place, 
 Where May is watching silently, with pale and anxious 
 
 face. 
 Her cheek is blanched with sorrow, and her eyes are 
 
 dimmed with tears, 
 
 Her heart is almost breaking with agonizing fears. 
 To every evening's stillness, to every morning's dawn, 
 She pleads in vain for knowledge, till every hope is gone. 
 
 No one to tell her that he lives, to her 'tis all unsaid ; 
 Xo voice from the floating clouds descends to whisper 
 
 "he is dead ;" 
 
 To all her earnest pleadings the bright blue sky is deaf, 
 And the childish face is written with the mystery of 
 
 grief. 
 
 "Only a Yankee deserter," the rebel sentry said, 
 "And the world is better off that the Lincolnite is dead."
 
 WHAT SHE HAD ON. 
 
 [Summer of 1874.] 
 
 She was young, she was fair ; 
 
 And her beautiful hair 
 Wandered carelessly over her shoulders, 
 
 While the ruff neath her chin, 
 
 So airy and thin, 
 Was a marvel to all new beholders. 
 
 Her hat, it was high, 
 
 And the part next the sky 
 Half buried in feathers and laces, 
 
 And the brim it was wide, 
 
 Turned up on one side, 
 Away from the fairest of faces. 
 
 A sword somewhere there, 
 
 And an arrow beware ! 
 As if wandering from Cupid's own quiver, 
 
 And the glory of that 
 
 Lit up the whole hat, 
 As the, moonlight illumines the river. 
 
 And caught up by these, 
 (As well as the breeze,) 
 Was a veil, in such charming disorder, 
 
 If I were a bird, 
 
 I would not be deterred 
 From building my nest in its border. 
 
 But this was not all ; 
 A piece called a "fall,"
 
 WHAT SHE HAD ON. 67 
 
 Of lace with her hair was entwining, 
 
 And the jets scattered there, 
 
 In the lace not the hair 
 Like stars in the heavens were shining. 
 
 Her dress, it was green, 
 
 And the surface between 
 The waist and the part that was trailing, 
 
 Was covered, almost, 
 
 With puffs, such a host, 
 In a style which they call the prevailing ; 
 
 But this not enough, 
 
 Each identical puff , 
 
 Had bows 'long the lower edge skimming, 
 
 Till a lawyer, I vow, 
 
 Would scarcely know how 
 To decide 'twixt the dress and the trimming. 
 
 Would I tell how 'twas made ? 
 
 I should fail, I'm afraid, 
 For the names are so strange and so many ; 
 
 But I heard some one say 
 
 It was called a "polenay," 
 And I think that as fitting as any. 
 
 But I might as well say, 
 
 After all this array 
 Of fluting, and puffing and stitching, 
 
 It was looped up behind, 
 
 In a way that inclined 
 The whole suit to seem quite bewitching. 
 
 And above this was placed, 
 A sack, or a waist, 
 A Spanish, or some foreign jacket, 
 Bare of neck, bare of sleeves,
 
 68 WHAT SHE HAD ON. 
 
 As a tree without leaves, 
 And suggested a toy on a bracket. 
 
 And the scarf that she wore 
 Her slight form fell o'er 
 
 Like a cloud of the soft summer twilight; 
 It was stayed with a "charm," 
 And dropped under one arm, 
 
 As sunbeams fall in through a skylight. 
 
 Such a buckle ! and belt ! 
 They were needed I felt, 
 To keep her and her treasures together ; 
 Her fan from this swung, 
 And an umbrella hung, 
 To keep off the sun, and damp weather. 
 
 At my comments on these 
 You may laugh, if you please, 
 
 Or say from the truth I would vary, 
 But that fan (it is said,) 
 Would cover when spread, 
 
 An emigrant train on the prairie. 
 
 Now, what mustn't be missed, 
 
 She wore at each wrist, 
 Fairy charm-bells that gave a soft jingle, 
 
 Till I felt I could weep 
 
 Or be soothed down to sleep, 
 As I thought of the rain on the shingle. 
 
 I considered her youth ; 
 
 And wondered in truth, 
 If aught in the world were denied her ; 
 
 But my eyes opened wide 
 
 When I suddenly spied 
 A something, now swinging beside her.
 
 WHAT SHE HAD Otf. 6& 
 
 It was "got up" in black, 
 
 This wee sachel, or sack, 
 And it shone like the eyes of the maiden ^ 
 
 How I longed just to know 
 
 If 'twas placed there on "show," 
 Or w r ith candies and peanuts was laden, 
 
 I should never have guessed, 
 
 And I called it a jest 
 When my "Ma" said (I scarce could believe her), 
 
 But she said it was true, 
 
 And she knew that she knew, 
 It was only a 'kerchief receiver. 
 
 As homeward I strayed 
 
 I thought of that maid, 
 Of her dress and the wondrous "attaches", 
 
 And I murmured Ah ! me ! 
 
 For my life I can't see 
 How poor men can ever "make matches I" 
 
 Such rare suits I knew, 
 
 She must sport not a few, 
 And my fortune, alas ! could not buy her, 
 
 Yet I sighed, "As I live ! 
 
 What would I not give 
 If in Hymen's knot I could but tie her." 
 
 I thought of that hat, 
 
 The bells, and all that, 
 And fancied I heard their soft jingle, 
 
 And sadly I w r ept ; 
 
 Yes, hours ere I slept, 
 Because I had sworn to live single.
 
 HER FATHER, 
 
 He was old, he was poor ; 
 
 And his face, to be sure, 
 Might never have charmed the beholder r 
 
 But if this were so, 
 
 'Twas years long ago, 
 Ere Time laid a hand on his shoulder. 
 
 He was old, he was thin, 
 From his brow to his chin, 
 
 The wrinkles of age on each feature; 
 And so hollow each cheek, 
 Lips thoughtless might speak, 
 
 To call him a "horrid old creature !" 
 
 He was old, he was gray, 
 
 And his dress, I may say, 
 With the dress of the times not in keeping ; 
 
 Best of all was his hat, 
 
 And even from that 
 The dust of the years needed sweeping. 
 
 His threadbare old coat, 
 
 Scarce worthy of note, 
 And a vest with the former comparing, 
 
 Both minus the hue 
 
 I suppose they once knew, 
 Must have been for a life-time in wearing. 
 
 He was old, he was poor ; 
 Too old to endure 
 The burdens he once lightly carried,
 
 HER FATHER. 71 
 
 His footsteps were slow, 
 And he seemed loth to go, 
 And now and then faltered or tarried. 
 
 Yet for all this I ween, 
 
 There was that in his mien, 
 Respect, even rev'rence commanding ; 
 
 And I saw in his look 
 
 What is called in the Book, 
 The peace "passing all understanding." 
 
 In his heart was the love 
 
 Of the Father above ; 
 And for this I alone could revere him, 
 
 For he stooped down and smiled 
 
 On a dear little child, 
 That wandered in innocence near him. 
 
 Then he asked her her name, 
 
 And repeating the same, 
 Laid his hand in the gentlest caressing 
 
 On the sweet, baby face, 
 
 But his fond smile gave place 
 To a look only sorrow expressing. 
 
 And I wondered in vain 
 
 What it was the heart-pain 
 That suddenly banished his pleasure? 
 
 Yet no answer I gave 
 
 Only this that the grave 
 Had taken from him such a treasure. 
 
 But I saw him once more, 
 
 When, the day's labor o'er, 
 
 He homeward walked, even more slowly 
 
 Than he had in the morn,
 
 88 HER FATHER. 
 
 And he seemed more forlorn 
 And his manner more humble and lowly. 
 
 And he met on the way, 
 
 At the close of the day, 
 A maiden, with other maids walking, 
 
 In a wonderful dress 
 
 You have heard of I guess, 
 And merrily laughing and talking. 
 
 But this beauty so proud, 
 
 Only frowned when he bowed, 
 The cause of which gave me much bother ; 
 
 But my eyes opened wide 
 
 When a friend at my side, 
 Said he was the lady's own father ! 
 
 Now, all was made clear, 
 His grief and his tear 
 
 When he blessed the sweet child of the morning, 
 Twere better, I said, 
 . His darling were dead, 
 Than he be her object of scorning. 
 
 I thought of the maid 
 
 In fine toilet arrayed, 
 All of which his hard earnings had bought her, 
 
 And I whispered, ah ! me ! 
 
 What a joy it must be, 
 To care for and bless such a daughter ! 
 
 And thought turned to prayer 
 
 That Heaven's kind care 
 Might yet better blessings bequeath him ; 
 
 And bereft of life's woes, 
 
 He might pass to its close, 
 With "the arms everlasting" beneath him.
 
 THE IMMORTAL. 
 
 "There are tones that will haunt us forever ; 
 
 Though lonely our way o'er mountain and sea, 
 There are looks that will pass from us never, 
 Till memory ceases to be." 
 
 There are smiles that will live, and grow brighter, 
 As thought brings them back to our view, 
 
 Kind deeds that have power to make lighter 
 Life's burdens the whole journey through. 
 
 There are words, (O, that more such were spoken), 
 Heard again in their own native voice, 
 
 Matters not if the accents were broken, 
 They bid us in sorrow rejoice. 
 
 There are tears, like crystallines gleaming, 
 In the eyes of the loved we have known, 
 
 In our own are their counterparts beaming, 
 Because we have wept not alone. 
 
 There are songs whose deep music still swelling, 
 
 Is borne to the apt, listening ear, 
 Giving joy that's beyond our poor telling, 
 
 Only known to the blessed who hear. 
 
 There are prayers like sweet incense ascending, 
 Even murmurs the faintest expressed, 
 
 Such strength in our weak moments lending, 
 Such comfort, such peace, and such rest.
 
 SUNSHINE AGAIN. 
 
 There's hanging a picture on the wall, 
 Where often and often my pleased eyes fall, 
 With a lingering gaze that fain would stay, 
 Still wandering back when they've turned away. 
 
 A stubbled field and a shock of grain ; 
 
 Above, dark clouds that have opened rain ; 
 
 Low, straggling fence that long hath stood, 
 
 And over beyond it a bit of wood. 
 
 And down by the side of the shock of wheat, 
 
 With heads uncovered and bare, brown feet, 
 
 Lo, three dear children, side by side, 
 
 Who have crept in there from the storm to hide. 
 
 A safe and a sure retreat they've found, 
 
 By the golden grain upright and bound. 
 
 This is the picture (pardon my pen) 
 
 And the name of the piece is, "Sunshine Again." 
 
 Two of the trio are sisters fond ; 
 A bright brunette and a dimpled blonde. 
 While snugly nestled the two between, 
 The chubby form of a boy is seen ; 
 The roguish smiles on whose face declare 
 There is seldom aught but the sunshine there, 
 And showing the thought of his heart to be : 
 "My sisters good will take care of me." 
 Brave little ones all of them under ten 
 They are patiently waiting for sunshine again. 
 
 The elder maiden, so noble browed, 
 
 With eyes as dark as the sable cloud, 
 
 Looks heavenward now, with questioning eye,
 
 SUNSHINE AGAIN. 75 
 
 To know if the storm has all gone by. 
 
 And, fearing but transient may be the* calm, 
 
 Her upraised hand, with its open palm, 
 
 Is waiting the veriest drop of rain 
 
 Which shall bid them stay by the gathered grain. 
 
 Perhaps to the harvest they came to glean : 
 To pick up the handfuls too small and mean 
 For the busy laborers hurrying through, 
 To the fields beyond that were waiting too. 
 Such a treasure of these the younger holds, 
 That the straws peep forth from her apron folds. 
 Perhaps to the reapers a lunch they brought, 
 And so by the storm surprised and caught; 
 Or, maybe from school only just turned out, 
 And are crossing the fields for a nearer route 
 To the distant home they had hoped to gain 
 Just a little ahead of the driving rain. 
 
 And I look at the threatening clouds o'erhead, 
 Filling ever the heart of a child with dread, 
 And no visible reason for hope or joy, 
 (Except in the smiles of the happy boy) 
 Till some one I almost dare to blame, 
 For giving the picture too bright a name. 
 
 But chiefest to me of the picture's charm, 
 That calm, child-watcher with lifted arm, 
 Who trusts e'er the skies are beginning to clear, 
 That the glorious sunshine is drawing near. 
 And herein a lesson to me is read : 
 When life-clouds thicken above my head, 
 And the rudest lodge by the roughest field, 
 Is the best that the earth for the hour may yield, 
 Through wildest tempest I still may ken, 
 The sunshine of heaven will come again.
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Beyond the glorious western hills, 
 Beyond the grand old mountains, 
 
 Where strange bright birds their music blend 
 With softly murmuring fountains, 
 
 Lies one who from his gentle sleep, 
 
 Their songs woo not to waking, 
 Far from his boyhood's happy home, 
 
 And hearts so near to breaking. 
 
 Asleep ; but not in bivouac rude, 
 
 Or camp beside the river, 
 Securely in his blanket wrapt, 
 
 Dreaming of distant giver ; 
 
 Asleep ; but not in hammock couch, 
 Its light folds round him clinging, 
 
 But "low, green tent, whose curtain, close, 
 Is never outward swinging." 
 
 Beyond Chautauqua's pleasant hills, 
 
 Beyond her blue lake's border, 
 Where blossoming groves look up to heaven, 
 
 How beautiful the order ! 
 
 His childhood's joyous years were passed ; 
 
 And here, in halls of learning, 
 Early he won the victor's wreath, 
 
 His laurels richly earning.
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 77 
 
 A few brief months ; winter's mild reign, 
 
 And springtime scarcely over, 
 And Death, not health, in his embrace, 
 
 Held the young student rover. 
 
 Helpless, alone ; no loved one nigh, 
 
 To hold the hand when dying, 
 No one to whisper fond farewells, 
 
 Or catch the faint replying. 
 
 Gathered his wealth of mountain gems, 
 
 And penned the last home letter, 
 No white-winged message earth-bound leaves 
 
 The Land we call "The Better." 
 
 Beyond this vexed and fettered life, 
 
 Where sorrow's darts assail us, 
 Beyond the clouded river's brink, 
 
 And shadowy mists that veil us, 
 
 Upward the eager student steps, 
 
 A new promotion given, 
 Only first gone to learn the lore 
 
 And tread the hills of Heaven. 
 
 Guard well the precious dust, proud hills, 
 And sing, bright birds, above him ; 
 
 And crystal fountains give your tears, 
 For aching hearts that love him.
 
 SONG OF WELCOME. 
 
 [Sung at the reception given Kev. H. H. Leamy, of the Warren, (Pa.) Baptist Churcb, 
 January. 1879.] 
 
 Welcome ! welcome ! worthy steward, 
 
 Servant of the Lord, 
 You and yours, a joyous welcome, 
 
 Gladly we accord. 
 Chwus. : Hail ! and welcome to this vineyard, 
 
 Servant of the Lord, 
 One and all a joyous welcome, 
 
 Sing with glad accord. 
 
 Oft we've prayed Jehovah's blessing 
 
 On our feeble band, 
 Prayed for patience till the leading 
 
 Of His guiding hand. 
 
 Prayed we for an under-shepherd, 
 
 Worthy, kind and strong ; 
 And as such, we give you welcome 
 
 With our greeting song. 
 
 Here no costly temple waited 
 
 For your coining feet, 
 Nor with coffers of the wealthy, 
 
 We your presence greet. 
 
 Boast we not the power and greatness 
 
 Kings and princes knew, 
 Claim we not a greater title 
 
 Than the faithful few.
 
 SONG OF WELCOME. 79 
 
 Pray we now, God's gracious favor 
 
 On you here to rest ; 
 All your labors in this vineyard 
 
 Be divinely blest. 
 
 One our object, one our longing ; 
 
 One our faith and trust ; 
 Higher be Immanuel's banner 
 
 Lifted from the dust. 
 
 Welcome ! welcome to this vineyard, 
 
 Servant of the Lord, 
 You and yours, a joyous welcome, 
 
 Gladly we accord.
 
 THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN. 
 
 There is a Heaven. 'Tis good to know, 
 That when from earth we are called to go, 
 A beautiful world replete with bliss, 
 Is opened to us as we pass from this. 
 It is not fancy or night's vain dream, 
 That flies like a phantom at morn's first beam, 
 "I go to prepare a place for you," 
 Were the words of Christ. Heaven must be true. 
 
 In fancy its glories we often see ; 
 And only in fancy shall ever be 
 To our mortal eyes a glimpse revealed, 
 Of what is in wisdom now concealed. 
 What are those streets, compared to gold, 
 We may not know till we behold 
 The city itself unused to night, 
 Where all is joy, and love, and light. 
 "Dreams cannot picture a world so fair, 
 Sorrow and death may not enter there." 
 Afar off, indeed, it may sometimes seem, 
 But it is not fancy, nor yet a dream ! 
 
 There is a Heaven ; a white-robed throng ; 
 
 With them are the loved we have missed so long ; 
 
 We shall find them there ; and O, beside, 
 
 We shall meet our Lord, the crucified. 
 
 We shall see Him there "as He is," we read, 
 
 And like Him be, from sin once freed.
 
 THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN. 81 
 
 We shall know all things all mysteries now, 
 When there, by the great white throne we bow, 
 Just how, for our good we were sometimes told 
 To give back the treasures we loved to hold. 
 And how, it was just as the Book did tell, 
 Our Father "doeth all things well." 
 The bridgeless river this side may stretch, 
 But Heaven is true ; no fancy sketch. 
 
 There is a Heaven. O, who would fail, 
 To be safely sheltered within its pale. 
 To rest in its sunlight ; best of all, 
 To go no more out from its jasper wall. 
 Sinner, will you, till all too late, 
 Despise the path that 's narrow, straight ? 
 
 thou who art weary tired of sin 
 Shall the Savior's words fail yet to win : 
 
 "The accepted time is now to-day 
 
 1 am the life, the truth, the way." 
 
 There is a Heaven. It matters not, 
 
 If lowly and toilsome be my lot. 
 
 If tears do blot out the sunniest smile, 
 
 It matters not for a little while. 
 
 What if I never have here a home ; 
 
 What if a stranger through earth I roam ; 
 
 What if I carry a burdened heart, 
 
 What if with fondest friends I part ; 
 
 What if the blessings I wish for most, 
 
 Seem mine to be, and then are lost ; 
 
 'Tis but for a season ; I can bear 
 
 To prove all things false while seeming fair, 
 
 If my soul is singing hope's sweet song, 
 
 When skies are heavy and storms are long, 
 
 If the sunlight still showers its rays divine
 
 82 THOUGHTS OF HE A YEN. 
 
 O'er paths that are smoother and fairer than mine, 
 If somewhere, in beauty, God's green hills stretch, 
 If Heaven be true, and no fancy sketch. 
 
 I am a pilgrim, still called young ; 
 
 Yet often the joys of Heaven I've sung, 
 
 And it comforts me, when I might despair 
 
 Had I no hope of a mansion there. 
 
 And I've ardently longed from time to time, 
 
 For the coveted rest of that sun-bright clime. 
 
 Skeptics may call it a dream a cheat 
 
 But it makes no change in the promise sweet. 
 
 If sooner or later, I would not know, 
 
 Just how or when, I am called to go, 
 
 I shall know when I enter a pardoned wretch 
 
 My Heaven is true ! and no fancy sketch !
 
 LITTLE CARMEN. 
 
 "Go to thy rest, fair child, 
 
 Go to thy dreamless bed ; 
 Lovely, and undefiled, 
 
 With blessings on thy head." 
 
 Pure as the floral gems 
 Which thy last pillow graced, 
 
 And bright as morning's dewy rose, 
 By loving hands there placed. 
 
 Sweet was thy seraph smile, 
 
 Labor, for thee was light, 
 And each maternal, tender care, 
 
 Was such a dear delight. 
 
 The pressure of thy head, 
 
 My breast shall ever miss ; 
 And my fond lips through weary years 
 
 Be burning for thy kiss. 
 
 Go, join the loved ones gone, 
 
 And sweet be thy repose, 
 While my poor heart beats sadly on, 
 
 Crushed by its weight of woes.
 
 "PERFECTLY HORRID." 
 
 She said it was "perfectly horrid !" 
 
 To think that train was late 
 It was just her luck ! and the depot, too, 
 
 Was a horrid place to wait. 
 
 And she knew it would rain 
 
 It always did if she wanted to go away, 
 And would be (if she saw the veriest cloud), 
 
 A perfectly horrid day. 
 
 A dress pattern brought from the city, 
 
 Was of really handsome design, 
 But she said the "old gold" was just horrid ! 
 
 And they knew that she liked "dregs of wine." 
 
 Was the party last evening a pleasure ? 
 
 No, indeed ! It was not nice at all ! 
 And she wanted another one never ; 
 
 Such a perfectly horrid ball ! 
 
 The sermon was perfectly horrid, 
 
 Since nothing at which she could laugh ; 
 
 She had rather stay home on a Sunday, 
 Than hear such discourses, by half. 
 
 When she has been out all the morning, 
 
 And leisurely spending the day, 
 And her mother would snatch a brief visit 
 
 With a neighbor just over the way, 
 
 It is perfectly horrid if Clara 
 Must over the household preside,
 
 " PERFECTL T HORRID." 85 
 
 She wanted to go out that evening, 
 Just her luck to be always denied. 
 
 It is horrid to be disappointed, 
 
 When she promised a friend to be out, 
 
 It is horrid shut up with the children, 
 And horrid to have them about. 
 
 And so with this foolish grumbling, 
 
 This otherwise pleasant girl, 
 Is giving her friends a sore trial, 
 
 And grown to be almost a churl. 
 
 Whatever her fancy displeases, 
 
 Is perfectly horrid to view ; 
 Whatever involves self-denial, 
 
 Is perfectly horrid to do. 
 
 Her parents and friends seem created 
 
 This maiden imperious to serve ; 
 And never from her line of duty 
 
 Must show inclination to swerve. 
 
 If Clara, herself once forgetting, 
 
 Would summon her best thoughts astir, 
 
 She would know they had often and kindly, 
 Done things that were "horrid" for her. 
 
 And soon this imperious lady, 
 
 To her sorrow and shame may have found 
 That her best friends in silence are thinking 
 
 It is horrid to have her around.
 
 MEMORIAL DAY. 
 
 In a quiet, eastern village, 
 
 And near to Hudson's Bay, 
 On a couch, in smiling languor. 
 
 A patriot mother lay. 
 And felt through the open lattice, 
 
 The wandering breezes, cool, 
 Which bore on their wings the voices 
 
 Of the children just from school. 
 
 And when, so closely passing, 
 
 She heard their lightsome tread, 
 She beckoned them near to listen ; 
 
 And these are the words she said : 
 "To-morrow, my little children, 
 
 The thirtieth day of May, 
 Is the nation's In Memoriam, 
 
 Our own memorial day. 
 
 "To visit the silent cities, 
 
 To find 'mid myriad graves, 
 And honor with spring's first blossoms 
 
 The mounds of our fallen braves. 
 I have pictured the scene of to-morrow, 
 
 And can see and hear to-night, 
 The martial music playing, 
 
 And the little girls in white. 
 
 "But the flags at half-mast hanging, 
 The crape by the children worn, 
 And the low, sad notes of music, 
 All tell of a time to mourn.
 
 MEMORIAL DAT. 87 
 
 Will you take my flowers to the graveyard, 
 
 And strew, as I tell you how? 
 My own hands crave the office, 
 
 But they cannot perform it now. 
 
 "Here are flowers in my garden growing, 
 
 And some from the wild wood shade ; 
 With an evergreen wreath I give you, 
 
 That here on my couch I made. 
 And if one, lone grave, unnoticed, 
 
 You find, where no tears fall, 
 Strew there, with reverent fingers, 
 
 The choicest of them all. 
 
 "I've kindred forms there lying, 
 
 Of earth gone all the way ; 
 Though years have passed since parting, 
 
 How near they seem to-day ! 
 But Oh ! my angel soldier, 
 
 The youngest of two I gave, 
 Found rest in a stranger country, 
 
 Was laid in a stranger's grave. 
 
 "They buried him after the battle, 
 
 The federal soldiers did, 
 But I know not where, in that far land, 
 
 The sacred dust is hid. 
 Or whether the simple head-stone, 
 
 Is standing now or not, 
 His comrades carved and planted 
 
 To mark the narrow plot. 
 
 "But maybe some one in kindness, 
 
 For the love of a mother, will 
 Keep watch o'er the hidden ashes, 
 Secure their reposing still.
 
 88 MEMORIAL DAY. 
 
 Will know by its own heart's telling, 
 'Tis heeding a mother's prayer : 
 
 'Tread lightly, o'er the sacred soil, 
 A loved one's buried there.' 
 
 "And some of the wildwood blossoms 
 
 The Father above will send, 
 To cover the grave with beauty, 
 
 And tenderly over it bend. 
 There strew your fair flowers children, 
 
 Though they but faintly tell 
 Of an unassumed devotion 
 
 To a country loved so well. 
 
 "I am glad that the nation honors 
 
 In this her lamented slain, 
 And hope for the day's observance 
 
 In the years that to you remain. 
 O, think of the sacrifice, children, 
 
 So freely for liberty made ; 
 Remember, the war was cruel, 
 
 And great was the ransom paid."
 
 A VISION. 
 
 [Hop Vineyards of Wisconsin.] 
 
 Tis twilight, and this summer day, 
 The idle winds about me play, 
 In gentle zephyrs, such as stray 
 
 From fields elysian ; 
 While to me comes a scene so bright, 
 So vivid to my spirit's sight, 
 I fain would stay its certain flight 
 
 The lovely vision ! 
 
 I see fair maidens hastening down, 
 In garden hat and peasant's gown, 
 From Werner, and from Germantown, 
 
 Their sweet songs singing ; 
 From Lyndon, and from Mauston, too, 
 From Reedsburg and from Baraboo, 
 Who e'er beheld a merrier crew 
 
 Than they are bringing ? 
 
 They come from schools, from stores, from shops, 
 From valleys 'twixt the mountain tops, 
 All coming down to gather hops 
 
 From one plantation. 
 They've traversed many a long, long hill, 
 Have drunk from many a way-side rill, 
 And now arrived at Loganville, 
 
 Their destination.
 
 90 A VISION. 
 
 I see them make the first grand charge 
 Upon the hop vines full and large, 
 Already they might load a barge, 
 
 With half their treasure. 
 I hear the merry jokes they crack, 
 The gay rejoinder ringing back, 
 Ah ! now some rogue is in the sack, 
 
 To pine at leisure. 
 
 I hear the rustling of the vines, 
 Which round the poles so closely twine, 
 While many voices now combine, 
 
 The hop cry sounding. 
 I hear them chant some wild refrain, 
 Till distant damsels catch the strain, 
 And echo gives it back again, 
 
 In glad resounding. 
 
 I see them coupled side by side, 
 
 For evening walk, or moonlight ride, 
 
 Like fairies here and there they glide, 
 
 All, pleasure gaining, 
 Or, gathered in the village hall, 
 Some join the merry harvest ball, 
 And dance until the hours grow small, 
 
 And night is waning. 
 
 And others at the close of day, 
 Into the village graveyard stray, 
 Along the many mounds of clay, 
 
 Each side the alley. 
 
 I think, while passing green banks low, 
 With thoughtful look and footstep slow, 
 Who first of these shall slumber so, 
 
 Low in the valley ?
 
 A VISION. 91 
 
 What fair fields in the future lie ! 
 They trace them out in evening's sky ; 
 Nor dream they paint a shade too high, 
 
 Some bright to-morrow. 
 And have they, then, no doubts, no fears? 
 No thonght of future griefs, nor tears ? 
 'Twere well for in the happiest years 
 
 Are hours of sorrow. 
 
 I see them on their farewell night, 
 And hear the friendly vows they plight, 
 While down from tender eyes and bright, 
 
 The tears are starting. 
 Hushed every song; they cannot sing, 
 As round this fact their kind thoughts cling, 
 The early morn too soon must bring 
 
 The hour of parting. 
 
 I know that ne'er again may meet, 
 The pleasant throng, as now, complete, 
 That Hope, too, sometimes loves to cheat 
 
 The fair beholder 
 That they will learn in ways not few, 
 Some things are false, while seeming true, 
 And take of life a broader view 
 
 When they are older. 
 
 O, when life's tiresome race is run, 
 Its pleasures past, its vict'ries won, 
 May they be guided one by one, 
 
 Beyond the river, 
 
 Up to "that house not built by hand," 
 Ages eternal through, to stand, 
 And go out that from beauteous land, 
 
 No more forever.
 
 FINDING PAPA. 
 
 Just as the sombre veil of night 
 
 Was falling softly down, 
 Draping beneath its phantom folds 
 
 The beauties of the town, 
 A wee, sweet child, and all alone, 
 
 Across the pavement stepped, 
 A sorrowing little wayfarer, 
 
 The while she sobbed and wept. 
 
 "What is your trouble, little one ?" 
 
 A gentle stranger said, 
 In pity for the winsome one, 
 
 And for the tears she shed, 
 "Where are you going all alone?" 
 
 The sobbing answer came, 
 "I'm going down to find papa ;" 
 
 "But what's your papa's name ? 
 
 "And what does mama call him, child ? 
 
 Why do you go to find 
 Your father in the dark to-night ?" 
 
 These were the questions, kind. 
 "His name is papa; that is all; 
 
 My mama calls him so, 
 Just calls him papa" and her tears 
 
 Began anew to flow. 
 "What do you want to find him for? 
 
 Say, darling, tell me this :"
 
 FINDING PAPA. 
 
 "I want to find papa," she said, 
 
 "To give him baby's kiss." 
 "Come then, with me," the lady urged, 
 
 "I think the way you've lost ; 
 I'll take you safely back again ;" 
 
 But ere the street was crossed 
 "No, no ; not that way," plead the child, 
 
 "Not that way, now, but this ; 
 I want to find my papa, first, 
 I want him now, to kiss." 
 
 Dear child ! The lesson sorrow gives 
 
 Is one so hard to teach ; 
 The little arms in loving search 
 
 The grave's depths cannot reach. 
 The lips her own were won't to meet, 
 
 Whose touch she grieved to miss, 
 Are silent by the touch of Death 
 
 Sealed with his icy kiss. 
 
 Three days the patient little brave, 
 
 Of summers less than three, 
 Had waited at the eventide, 
 
 Her father's form to see. 
 Then, sorrowing lest he too, should mourn 
 
 Her light caress to miss, 
 Had wandered out to find papa, 
 
 And give him baby's kiss.
 
 ALWAYS THERE, 
 
 It is always there, the same old song, 
 
 Though new the measure and new the word r 
 If we listen to liear the singer through, 
 
 The old-time melody may be heard. 
 No other fields so fair as those, 
 
 Where "the. barefoot maiden raked the hay," 
 And no other brooklet so bright as that 
 
 Where Katy lingered with Willie Gray. 
 
 The prince may tell it in princely style, 
 
 In my lady's bower, as the hour grows late, 
 But how much better for her who hears, 
 
 Than the savage, wooing his dusky mate ? 
 'Tisn't all for the sake of the scattered flocks, 
 
 The horn's merry music through glen and glade, 
 There's a cot in the vale, not far below, 
 
 And the shepherd boy worships the mountain 
 maid. 
 
 One sings the praises of fatherland, 
 
 Of a graceful river flowing there ; 
 A river running as straight, he says, 
 
 As the parting line of a maiden's hair. 
 And then, just there, he will chance to think 
 
 Of the old, loved days, and Bonnie Doon, 
 And how on its banks with his love he strayed, 
 
 In the -witching light of a silver moon.
 
 ALWAYS THERE. 95 
 
 Or how on its bosom, with resting oar, 
 
 He heard the sweetest of wild bird's note, 
 While a sweeter voice, and a brighter bird, 
 
 Made Heaven to him, of a painted boat ; 
 The old man musing beside the hearth, 
 
 Recalling his rollicking boyhood times, 
 Will give you a glowing picture there, 
 
 And his apt descriptions are all in rhymes. 
 
 Of a schoolhouse crumbling cabin now 
 
 He tells, and all of us love to hear, 
 But it lures him to speak of a brown-eyed girl, 
 
 That was once, and to him, forever dear. 
 He has hidden the secret long and well ; 
 
 A rival Death won the brown-eyed girl, 
 But I thought he would tell us before he went, 
 
 The story entwined in that shining curl. 
 
 And one, of old ocean grandly sings, 
 
 Of the freighted ships on the bounding sea ; 
 
 Of a sailor's venturous life, and one 
 Who is waiting a sailor's bride to be. 
 
 We are told how the battle at length was won, 
 By the bravest of heroes, who knew no fear, 
 
 But softly we whisper his dying words : 
 "Take back to my Mary these keepsakes here." 
 
 Then the poet sings you of earth and heaven, 
 
 With all the pen eloquence in his power, 
 Of the manifold lessons in nature taught, 
 
 And the beauties of summer after a shower. 
 The freshness and fragrance of rain-bathed wood, 
 
 Of rippling river and smiling sky, 
 Of soft, bright clouds where we long to rest, 
 
 And the shadows that over the meadows lie.
 
 96 ALWAYS THERE. 
 
 He mentions the orchard and farmhouse, too, 
 
 And remembers the plough-boy's happy shout, 
 And you smile, as you think he is almost through, 
 
 And this time it surely will be left out. 
 But wait there is something he yet would say, 
 
 And look ! there is room in one line more, 
 I knew there were more than the roses there, 
 
 Two lovers beside the open door. 
 
 And what if it is told o'er and o'er, 
 
 In different measure, by different muse, 
 As the morning light and the evening air, 
 
 We take it ever as latest news. 
 In the story that charms of an eastern clime, 
 
 The beautiful garden and rivers there, 
 What to us were the glory of fruit and tree, 
 
 Were no record kept of its happy pair.
 
 WHEN. 
 
 'At even, or at midnight, or at the cock-croiving, or in the morniny." 
 
 It may be in the evening, 
 
 When the long day's work is done, 
 And you sit for a quiet resting, 
 
 And gaze at the setting sun ; 
 Feeling so sure of to-morrow's light, 
 
 And many bright days to be, 
 And hours of pleasure, and scenes of joy 
 
 To be lengthened out to thee ; 
 Thinking how many cherished plans 
 
 Shall shine as a perfect whole, 
 Wrought out by your patience and skill and 
 strength, 
 
 E'er required of thee thy soul. 
 Watch ! for I may be drawing near, 
 
 Of your thoughts, pray, give me some, 
 For it may be in an hour like this, 
 
 In the evening, I will come. 
 
 Or you sit alone in the twilight, 
 
 And remember a sainted friend, 
 You were won't to meet at the trysting-place, 
 
 The twilight hour to spend ; 
 And you look away o'er the river's breast, 
 
 To the white stones on the hill, 
 The towers of the silent city, 
 
 So peaceful, and fair and still,
 
 98 WHEN. 
 
 And think of the many funeral trains 
 
 That have recently there been led, 
 And wonder who next shall be thither borne- 
 
 Who next shall be numbered dead. 
 Watch ! for your eyelids next may close, 
 
 And your lips be chill and dumb ; 
 It may be in an hour like this, 
 
 In the twilight, I will come. 
 
 Or it may be at the midnight, 
 
 When one of a brilliant band, 
 Drinking deep draughts at pleasure's fountj 
 
 Th.e gayest of all you stand ; 
 Or, wakened from sleep at the midnight hour, 
 
 By music's resistless call, 
 The tones of a harp, and a well-known voice, 
 
 On your raptured ear may fall ; 
 Remember, it may be the last of earth, 
 
 Attuned by a friendly hand, 
 The music of angels may gladden you next, 
 
 And the harps of the Heavenly Land. 
 Or, you stand with some late retiring guest, 
 
 Reluctant to say good-bye, 
 And the queen of night looks calmly down, 
 
 And the stars in a quiet sky ; 
 Keep it not back, the one good word, 
 
 Nor wait for an hour more blest, 
 To-morrow may be written of you, 
 
 "Has entered eternal rest." 
 Watch ! for my shadow may circle you soon, 
 
 Of your thoughts still leave me some, 
 For it may be "as a thief in the night," 
 
 At midnight, I will come. 
 
 It may be at the cock-crowing, 
 Between the night and day,
 
 WEEN. 99 
 
 When wearily upon your couch 
 
 You have worried the hours away, 
 And all save you in the household 
 
 Are buried in slumber deep, 
 And you long for the light of the coming morn, 
 
 Which shall bring you rest and sleep. 
 With all your waking, anxious thoughts 
 
 Remember to give me some, 
 Perhaps in the early morning 
 
 The cock-crowing I will come. 
 Or, remembrance of wrong you have done to a 
 friend, 
 
 May trouble or hinder your rest, 
 As you think of forgiveness which might have 
 been yours 
 
 Long ago, had you only confessed ; 
 Do not reckon too much on your portion of time, 
 
 Nor proudly yet longer delay, 
 "The Son of Man cometh you know not the hour," 
 
 Maybe 'twixt the night and the day. 
 
 Or it may be in the morning, 
 
 When the wind is fresh and strong, 
 When the dew-gemmed flowers are smiling, 
 
 And the air is full of song ; 
 And you rise up earlier than your wont, 
 
 And answer the song-bird's lay, 
 With the song of hope, for the absent one 
 
 Is coming home to-day ; 
 And you think how sweet to have a home, 
 
 From the weary world aside, 
 A rest, a refuge, a home like yours 
 
 Where peace and love abide. 
 And you say that this beautiful home of yours 
 
 Must nothing of comfort lack,
 
 100 WHEN. 
 
 For the absent one who enters to-day, 
 
 With the friend he is bringing back. 
 Remember, while waiting the journeying ones, 
 
 My shadow may hasten before, 
 Unbidden, 'tis true, yet nevertheless, 
 
 I, soonest may enter your door. 
 Watch ! always and ever, in joy or fear, 
 
 Of your thoughts still give me some, 
 For it may be in an hour like this, 
 
 In the morning, I will come.
 
 THE OLD SETTLER'S LETTER. 
 
 I Written for the Reunion of the Old Settlers of Chautauqua County, N. Y., held in 
 Fredonia, June, 1873.] 
 
 I've wandered through Chautauqua, Jim, I've been where 
 
 stood the tree, 
 
 That in the years of long ago, oft sheltered you and me ; 
 But few were left to greet me, Jim, and few on earth re 
 main 
 Yes, fewer than the grand old trees once covering hill 
 
 and plain 
 Are the dear forms we learn 'd to love, here on Chautau- 
 
 qua's soil, 
 Whose sympathies alike were ours, in pleasure, grief and 
 
 toil. 
 Chautauqua's just as lovely, Jim, aye, lovelier too, I 
 
 ween, 
 Than when we first pronounced her fair fairer than we 
 
 had seen. 
 
 And what a change ! 'tis greater far than we can com 
 prehend ; 
 
 Beyond the pictures of to-day that fancy used to lend, 
 
 When we sat down to think and talk in our new settler's 
 home, 
 
 Of what this country might be, Jim, in the long years 
 to come. 
 
 For we were pioneers then, just from the old Bay State ; 
 
 We left the old folks watching us beside the old farm 
 gate.
 
 102 THE' OLD SETTLED S LETTER. 
 
 But bye and bye, they too, set out, the long, slow march' 
 to take, 
 
 And came "out west to die," they said, "just for the child 
 ren's sake." 
 
 We pitched- our tents here side by side, o'erlooking Erie's : 
 
 breast, 
 
 And thought to spend our days here, Jim, and go no- 
 farther west. 
 And Heaven was kind, and prospered us ; we had our 
 
 ups and downs, 
 And fortune's share of smiles for us was interspersed 
 
 with frowns. 
 Wo did not have our coffers then filled yearly to the 
 
 brim, 
 Somehow we didn't need so much as folks do nowdays, 
 
 Jim, 
 
 For people didn't live so- fast in good old-fashioned days r 
 And for their money didn't have so many thousand 
 
 ways. 
 Our young folks little know to-day what toil or hardship 
 
 means, 
 Compared with we old settlers, Jim, we've been behind 
 
 the scenes. 
 We struggled on when times were hard, and yearly, as 
 
 a rule, 
 Contrived to spare some time and means to get the boys 
 
 in school. / 
 
 For often we lamented that in old New England, Jim, 
 Our chances for book learning were, at best but very 
 
 slim. 
 The old Academy still stands where we our children 
 
 sent, 
 And where, upon commencement day, we country gentry 
 
 went.
 
 THE OLD SETTLERS LETTER. 103 
 
 Well, when our boys were grown-up men, the spirit of 
 unrest 
 
 They caught, as we before them did, and settled in the 
 west. 
 
 And so in time we followed on, our farewells loth to take, 
 
 And once more we were pioneers "just for the child 
 ren's sake." 
 
 Since then we've had -a war you know, rebellion, dark 
 and deep 
 
 For four, long years the contest was, which made a 
 nation weep. 
 
 It slew an arm} 7 of brave boys, and with them yours and 
 mine 
 
 Laid early in the sacrifice their lives on freedom's shrine. 
 
 Some- breathed their last on battle-fieldsno friend or 
 
 kindred nigh, 
 And some were maimed forever, Jim, and some brought 
 
 home to die. 
 
 Others in army hospitals were dying sure but slow 
 While some in rebel prison pens were starved to death 
 
 you know. 
 Ah ! well ! we could not know that God our prayers 
 
 would answer thus, 
 That slavery in its fearful death would come so near 
 
 to us. 
 
 Our flag? new glory gilds the stars upon a field of blue, 
 The stripes baptized in martyrs' blood wear deeper 
 
 crimson hue ; 
 
 And we rejoice in our old age that we have lived to see 
 Columbia's banner o'er a land from dread oppression free. 
 
 But to return : my coming here the time how oppor 
 tune ! 
 
 The gath'ring of old settlers of Chautauqua, Jim, in 
 June.
 
 104 THE OLD SETTLERS LETTER. 
 
 Fredonia ! lovely, charming town, the pioneer's just 
 
 pride, 
 Her every home, and heart, and hand, and purse were 
 
 opened wide 
 To give the settlers welcome, Jim, in every place and 
 
 way, 
 To make the old folks young again, just for a night and 
 
 day. 
 
 On ample tables long and broad, a sumptuous feast was 
 
 spread, 
 And with the modern dainties there, were "loaves of 
 
 mother's bread." 
 And food was served on old-time wares, with handles 
 
 quaint and lid, 
 To make the place look home-like, Jim, as mother's 
 
 kitchen did. 
 
 And if these relics gave us power the old times to recall, 
 Much more did ancient ornaments displayed in Union 
 
 Hall. 
 In vases of the olden ware were flowers our country 
 
 maids 
 On summer evenings long ago twined in their curls and 
 
 braids. 
 
 Old-fashioned blossoms, small, but sweet, were gathered 
 
 with the rest, 
 Like those worn in the button-hole of our old-fashioned 
 
 vest. 
 With these, have you forgotten, Jim, how grand we were, 
 
 and gay, 
 
 To have a shilling all our own, on general training day? 
 Or, with our sweethearts pretty girls we wandered 
 
 'neath the stars, 
 And parted slowly at the stile, or "kissed 'em through 
 
 the bars?"
 
 THE OLD SETTLERS LETTER. 105 
 
 And when beneath the old home roof we wed a bonny 
 
 bride, 
 We didn't sail for Europe, Jim, we took a horse-back 
 
 ride. 
 
 It's done my old eyes good to see, as well as heart to 
 
 hear, 
 The smiles of joy that greeted me, the words of hearty 
 
 cheer. 
 Then, too, at eve those dear old hymns and melodies 
 
 were sung 
 The very words we sang ourselves wheu you and I were 
 
 young. 
 There was a time I'd blush to weep, so womanish ! and 
 
 weak ! 
 But something something from my eye came stealing 
 
 down my cheek ; 
 Ah ! 'twas a tear-drop, not just one, there came a shower 
 
 of tears, 
 And mirrored in the liquid gems I saw the long gone 
 
 years. 
 
 A hundred recollections, Jim, seemed forming into line, 
 A hundred strange emotions felt, I cannot well define ; 
 I thought of all the hopes and joys of youth's bright 
 
 morning brief, 
 Their memory filled my spirit with a kind of nameless 
 
 grief; 
 I thought of those we hope to meet in that "sweet bye 
 
 and bye," 
 Where we shall never weary be, and ne'er grow old and 
 
 die. 
 
 It can't be very distant now, my senses fail me, Jim, 
 I scarce can find familiar texts or read my favorite hymn :
 
 106 THE OLD SETTLERS LETTER. 
 
 I love to think life's blessings o'er, not far between nor 
 few ; 
 
 And one is, Jim, with all the change I've found no 
 change in you ; 
 
 We've entered on life's winter, and when dawns immor 
 tal spring, 
 
 We'll join the glad reunion of the children of the King.
 
 IF I COULD. 
 
 If I could call my darling back, 
 
 From out the realms of light, 
 Could lay her silken, shining head 
 
 Beside my own to-night, 
 Could feel one little hand in mine, 
 
 And one upon my cheek, 
 And catch the sweet words from her eyes, 
 
 Lips do not always speak, 
 Ah ! if I could ! don't say me nay 
 
 Nor question if I would, 
 Tis better I have not the power, 
 
 Had I, I fear I should. 
 
 I know the blissful life above, 
 
 That pure and sinless state, 
 Is better far than life on earth, 
 
 Where death for all doth wait ; 
 I know she went ere her fair soul 
 
 With evil had a part, 
 Or sins had dreamed of which I own 
 
 Lie heavy on my heart. 
 All this I know, yet chide me not, 
 
 Nor blame me if I would, 
 Call back to earth-life, and to me, 
 
 My Katie if I could. 
 
 I thought I could not live my life 
 Without the precious child,
 
 108 IF I COULD. 
 
 Without the childish graces which 
 
 My heaviest hours beguiled. 
 I do not live I only dream 
 
 Save when some voice of hers, 
 Or word, or deed with magic touch, 
 
 My slumbering being stirs. 
 Then with my starving heart I cry : 
 
 I'm glad I've not the power, 
 Lest I might bid to bloom on earth 
 
 Once more, the lovely flower. 
 "No other gods before me," saith 
 
 The High and Holy one, 
 I see and hear the words, and feel 
 
 'Tis this that I have done. 
 She was my idol Katie, sweet, 
 
 To worship her seemed good ; 
 Nor dare I say, I'd nevermore 
 
 So worship, if I could. 
 It may be I at ease should tread 
 
 A narrow, selfish sphere, 
 Contented with her love alone, 
 
 Had I my idol here, 
 Unworthy was I of the charge 
 
 O'er this bright jewel rare, 
 Heaven saw my weakness, and the need, 
 
 And so preferred the care. 
 Yet, there are hours I cannot stay, 
 
 Nor hinder .if I would, 
 When I would gladly take again 
 
 My Katie, if I could. 
 How small a spot of this green earth 
 
 Holds all the world to me ! 
 How small the charms of all the world 
 
 Without her seem to be.
 
 IF I COULD. 
 
 Stretching my hands above her grave, 
 
 The Giver of all Good, 
 I pray to pardon for the wish 
 
 To claim her if I could.
 
 GIRLS OF NUMBER TEX, 
 
 In my fireside dreams and musings, 
 
 Oft a picture comes and goes, 
 Turning all the gloom to brightness 
 
 By the mellow light it throws. 
 Turn I now to my portfolio, 
 
 Turn to catch it with my pen; 
 I will captive take and name it 
 
 Name it Girls of Number Ten. 
 Carrie, sweet-voiced, gentle Carrie, 
 
 With her kindly, thoughtful face, 
 Ella, with her fun and frolic, 
 
 Ada with her queenly grace ; 
 Hattie, with her dark eyes gleaming. 
 
 Hannah with her loving ways, 
 Frankie, with her voice melodious, 
 
 Singing now some song of praise, 
 Frankie, sing my song this evening. 
 
 And the chorus (tell me when) 
 I will join and sing it with you, 
 
 As we did at number ten. 
 Now around the tempting table, 
 
 This fair group disposed, I see ; 
 Where's a brighter group, or merrier? 
 
 Telling tales and taking tea. 
 Tea-time over, then to study 
 
 Some will hurriedly repair, 
 Others to the post are strolling, 
 
 This, vou know, to "take the air."
 
 GIEL8 OF NUMBER TEN. Ill 
 
 Then return, their tasks resuming, 
 Sobering down o'er book and pen, 
 
 What a wealth of lore they're gaining, 
 Studious girls of number ten. 
 
 But the scene is changed what is it? 
 
 Sweet sounds on my ears now fall ; 
 Ah ! 'tis only Hannah, laughing, 
 
 Hannah, laughing through the hall. 
 Did I? yes, I heard the door-bell ; 
 
 Some one calls of course, a friend ; 
 Ella's wanted in the parlor, 
 
 Wit and graces both to lend. 
 Hattie (Dodge) in such a hurry ! 
 
 Dodging up and down the stairs, 
 Dodging through the door half open, 
 
 Comes on Frankie unawares. 
 Frankie, busy with a letter, 
 
 Rather wishes none to see, 
 Strange, now, that the child should blush so, 
 
 Dear ! who can the author be ? 
 And the girls below how quiet 
 
 Seem they, every now and then, 
 Must be there's some mischief plotting ; 
 
 Roguish girls of number ten. 
 
 But again ; another evening ; 
 
 Books and lessons all laid by ; 
 And the girls in great commotion, 
 
 All about the house they fly. 
 There ! you needn't tell, I've guessed it, 
 
 And I'm pretty sure I'm right, 
 There's a social, or a soiree, 
 
 And the girls must dress to-night. 
 Laughing, chatting, coaxing, teasing, 
 
 Braiding, puffing, crimping hair,
 
 113 GIRLS OF NUMBER TEN. 
 
 Turning o'er the lovely garments. 
 
 Scarcely knowing which to wear. 
 "Hattie, shall I wear this costume?" 
 
 "No ; not that ; 'tis such a fright ; 
 Have on something brighter, gayer, 
 
 Don't wear drab, or grey, to-nigh t.' r 
 "Frankie, do, just fold these laces 
 
 (What a handsome suit you've made I 
 Mine will not be half so taking) 
 
 Pin these buds beside my braid. 
 Some one praised my hair in flowers 
 
 (Let me draw again this bow) 
 What? 'may serve to draw another? 7 
 
 Yes, the other kind, you know." 
 Farewell glances in the mirror, 
 
 Farewell touches each, and then, 
 Off to make a new sensation, 
 
 Charming girls of number ten. 
 
 Yet once more, the panorama 
 
 Will another coloring bear, 
 For the vesper bell has sounded, 
 
 Calling all to evening prayer. 
 Ella reads to-night the chapter, 
 
 Chosen from the sacred word, 
 Then a melody of voices 
 
 In a hymn of praise is heard. 
 Then a prayer a supplication 
 
 To our Father, God, addressed ; 
 Giving thanks for all His favors, 
 
 Craving blessings on their rest. 
 O, in this loved hour of worship, 
 
 Sometime, ere } T OU say amen, 
 Let my name be unforgotten 
 
 In the prayers of number ten.
 
 GIRLS OF NUMBER TEN. 113 
 
 Weary now with school and study, 
 
 Weary at the evening's close, 
 Welcome is the rest of dreamland, 
 
 Welcome quiet and repose. 
 Late ! the lights are out but listen ! 
 
 Something moves across the room ; 
 And I hear a stealthy stepping 
 
 Stepping ghost-like through the gloom ; 
 Soon a gentle voice assures me 
 
 'Tis no spectre to affright, 
 Only Hannah, snowy vestured, 
 
 Comes to say a last good-night. 
 Absent now from this glad circle, 
 
 Favors friendly oft I miss, 
 And when'er I sink to slumber, 
 
 Wish for Hannah's good-night kiss. 
 Schoolday hours will soon be over, 
 
 Broken this gay band, and then ? 
 Bear, O Time, a useful future 
 
 To the girls of number ten.
 
 I'LL MEET .HIM AT THE GATE. 
 
 [A young wife was dying. It was impossible for her husband in a distant State, to 
 arrive before her death. She asked repeatedly if he would come, and at the last 
 moment said : "I should like to have seen Edwin ; tell him I'll meet him at the gate."] 
 
 Is he coming, sister, coming? Will my husband come 
 
 once more ? 
 0, I've longed this night to see him, as I never longed 
 
 hefore ; 
 And I've thought of all the kindness which his patient 
 
 love hath shown, 
 How like tenderest caresses seemed each look and touch 
 
 and tone. 
 O, if I could once more thank him, once more for one 
 
 moment rest, 
 By his gentle arms enfolded, pillowed on his faithful 
 
 breast 
 
 How I long to reassure him, lest he may not understand ; 
 How I'd love good-bye to tell him, how I'd love to take 
 
 his hand. 
 I am dying, sister, dying ; he will come, but come too 
 
 late, 
 Not this side of Heaven I'll see him, but I'll meet him 
 
 at the gate. 
 
 At the gate which oft we sang of mercy's gate, ajar for 
 
 him ; 
 He will sing it now without me, softly in the twilight 
 
 dim;
 
 I'LL MEET HIM AT THE GATE. 115 
 
 Nearer '11 seem the gate of Heaven than it ever yet hath 
 
 seemed, 
 When I've passed beyond its portals, when I'm with the 
 
 Lord's redeemed. 
 0, if I myself might tell him, but I must not, cannot 
 
 wait, 
 Tell him, sister, all I've told you, say I'll meet him at 
 
 the gate. 
 
 *Ah ! how well do I remember days and hours ere we 
 
 were wed ; 
 How I watched the gate and pathway which unto the 
 
 old home lad. 
 Often, in the hush of evening, waited for him, never 
 
 late ; 
 Joyous was our vesper meeting, always meeting at the 
 
 gate. 
 
 He will lonely be, so lonely ; and 'tis this that makes me 
 
 grieve ; 
 Yet not all alone, for with him our two darling babes I 
 
 leave. 
 And I know they'll comfort give him in their blessed, 
 
 childlike way, 
 Happy, smiling, little Edith, and our blue-eyed baby 
 
 Ray. 
 Other two the Father gave us, two that were our joy and 
 
 pride, 
 Angel Minnie, darling Lester, will be mine the other 
 
 side 
 Of that gate I soon shall enter, and for him beside it 
 
 wait, 
 Not this side of Heaven I'll see him, but I'll meet him 
 
 at the gate.
 
 116 I'LL MEET HIM AT THE GATE. 
 
 When the shadows round him gather, when oppressed 
 with grief and pain, 
 
 Earth-sick, desolate and weary, when his life seems all 
 in vain, 
 
 Hoping Heaven's gate to enter, he will never quite de 
 spair, 
 
 Comforted because a loved one waits and watches for 
 him there. 
 
 Tell him this, all this, my sister ; he will come, but come 
 too late, 
 
 Not this side of Heaven I'll see him, but I'll meet him 
 at the gate.
 
 TILL YOU PASSED BY. 
 
 O, darkly frowned the angry sky, 
 
 And wildly blew the wintry blast, 
 As through the city's crowded street, 
 
 A little newsboy slowly passed. 
 The passers-by seemed slow to heed 
 
 His urgent calls to buy the news ; 
 In vain he looked, if one did turn, 
 
 'Twas only that he might refuse. 
 
 At length, a lady, lovely, young, 
 
 Adown the pavement pressed her way, 
 Who smilingly a paper took, 
 
 And paused the simple price to pay. 
 And viewing there his scanty dress. 
 Scarce half sufficient for his need, 
 "Poor little boy !" she gently said, 
 "Are you not very cold indeed ?" 
 
 Then quickly, brightly looking up, 
 How gallant was the boy's reply : 
 As if a charm her presence bore, 
 
 "I was," said he, "till you passed by !" 
 "Till you passed by !" How beautiful 
 The compliment he thus expressed ; 
 What eloquence in his response 
 To her his hapless lot had blest. 
 
 "Till you passed by !" Which of the two, 
 Think you was thus the happier made?
 
 IIS TILL YOU PASSED BY. 
 
 The boy, at finding such a friend, 
 
 Or she, who gave him timely aid? 
 "Till you passed by !" Angels indeed. 
 Still walk the earth in human guise r 
 
 To bless the wean* helpless ones 
 To wipe the tears from sorrow's eyes. 
 
 "Till you passed by I'' Have we not all 
 
 These angel spirits sometime known, 
 Who met us when our way was dark, 
 
 With gracious smile and gentle tone? 
 And though our pathways nevermore 
 
 May cross, but wide apart must lie, 
 Still, in our inmost heart live thoughts 
 
 To bless them e'en for passing by. 
 
 And has the earth some favored ones, 
 
 To whom the world grows never dark ? 
 Whose sea of life unchanging, smooth, 
 
 Bears gaily on their prosperous bark? 
 To whom there never comes a time 
 
 When pleasure's sun for aye seems set ? 
 When long they for some passing charm 
 
 To make them all the world forget? 
 
 "Till yon, passed by !" I'd rather have 
 
 Such words as these fall on my ear, 
 From lips of those I've tried to bless, 
 
 Than flattery's fairest speech to hear. 
 Reader, shall you and I not live 
 
 So 1hat of all we come so nigh, 
 Some few at least, may own themselves 
 
 The happier for our passing by?
 
 DRESSMAKING. 
 
 If ever by mortal was needed 
 
 Of hands just a pair or two more, 
 'Tis the toiler within at the dwelling 
 
 Where "Dressmaking" 's over the door. 
 And if any there be who are gaining 
 
 By moisture of cheek and of brow, 
 The bread upon which they're subsisting, 
 
 It is dressmakers, you will allow. 
 
 Just look at my tables and counters, 
 
 And see all this work to be done ; 
 All finished by Saturday evening, 
 
 And some of it scarcely begun. 
 This pink dress 'twere proper to worship 
 
 Since like unto nothing at all, 
 It will meet with adorers I fancy. 
 
 When worn at the fancy dress ball. 
 
 This pearl-colored one so bewitching 
 
 With trimmings of lace at the side, 
 Has only one rival for beauty 
 
 Its owner a beautiful bride. 
 This brown suit, you know, is for traveling, 
 
 For a voyager over the wave; 
 And this snowy robe I am stitching, 
 
 For another fair bride of the grave.
 
 120 DRESSMAKING. 
 
 From morning till evening I'm hurried 
 
 And worried half out of my wits ; 
 Till it seems in some hours of distraction, 
 
 I shall die in convulsions or fits. 
 Till I long to be strolling,- a gipsy, 
 
 Or an Islander over the sea ; 
 Ajiyhow, ain'thing, anywhere, 
 
 From this dressmaking once to be free. 
 
 I can't quite believe in the sayings 
 
 Of Britishers out on a tour, 
 That America has no dependent, 
 
 And American cities no poor. 
 I know we're a prosperous nation, 
 
 But I think the arrangement is bad, 
 When a shoemaker's wife must go barefoot, 
 
 And a dressmaker only half clad. 
 
 My own dresses lie in the bureau, 
 
 Un trimmed and uncut and unmade ; 
 And the new ones I make for my neighbors, 
 
 Throw old ones of course, in the shade. 
 And my customers smile when they pass me, 
 
 And think I am shabby, no doubt, 
 To be out in a cut-away jacket, 
 
 When cut-away jackets are out. 
 
 I wonder if gay Mrs. Grundy, 
 
 As she enters her velvet-lined pew, 
 In a wonderful dress of my making, 
 
 Thinks /may want anything new ; 
 E'er /shall be fitted to enter 
 
 My name on the suppliant's roll, 
 Or if /need a moment of leisure 
 
 To attend to the wants of my soul.
 
 DRESSMAKING. 121 
 
 You may smile, if you will, when I tell you, 
 
 But to me it is scarcely a joke, 
 When I cannot mend even my stockings, 
 
 Or make my own baby a cloak. 
 When others for health or for pleasure, 
 
 A day or a half-day may spend 
 In riding or walking at leisure, 
 
 I, still to my task must attend. 
 
 When others grown weary are taking 
 
 In sleep needed rest from their toil, 
 I, their beautiful dresses am making 
 
 Am burning at midnight the oil. 
 And when in the small hours of morning 
 
 My head on the pillow is pressed, 
 Unquiet at best is my slumber, 
 
 Uneasy and troubled my rest. 
 
 My hands are still shaping the ruffles 
 
 Or basting the trimming between, 
 My feet are still nervously treading 
 
 The untiring sewing machine. 
 And so I must work without ceasing 
 
 Till Death's kindly hand sets me free, 
 And some one that's new in the business 
 
 Shall stitch the last garment for me. 
 
 There are some good people I read of, 
 
 (I hope they may all be forgiven) 
 Who think that our work on God's footstool 
 
 Shall be our employment in Heaven. 
 Away with the empty delusion ! 
 
 I should be in the depths of despair, 
 Concerning those beautiful mansions 
 
 If I thought they made dresses up there !
 
 1-22 DRESSMAKING. 
 
 I cannot help thinking, however, 
 
 When sometimes I think at my task, 
 And asking myself many questions, 
 
 And this one I frequently ask : 
 Who, of all my gay, dress-loving patrons, 
 
 With toilets so faultless and fair, 
 If called to the upper assembly 
 
 Would have a dress ready to wear? 
 
 There is to be one day a banquet 
 
 A wedding at which every guest, 
 For a seat at the great marriage supper, 
 
 In a glorious garb must be dressed. 
 'Tis an ancient, old-fashioned garment. 
 
 Described in an old-fashioned book ; 
 'Tis priceless ; the longer the wearing, 
 
 The brighter and purer 'twill look. 
 
 It's worth is beyond comprehension ; 
 
 It cannot be purchased with gold, 
 But given to all who will wear it, 
 
 Designed for the young and the old. 
 Alike unto all 'tis becoming 
 
 Made white in the blood of the Lamb ; 
 To be worn at the final reception 
 
 Of Jehovah the mighty I Am.
 
 A REVERIE. 
 
 ["A stranger in a strange land." Among the writer's earliest rhymes.] 
 
 Again with strangers! Shall I grieve? 
 That, for the new, old friends I leave, 
 Or that the glances I receive, 
 
 Are stranger glances? 
 Morn, noon and night, I daily meet 
 Strange forms and faces on the street, 
 Wondering if e'er as friend they'll greet, 
 
 As time advances. 
 
 My lot it seems, where'er I dwell, 
 Only to stay till friendship's spell 
 So binds me, that to say farewell 
 
 Brings thoughts of sorrow ; 
 And while to roving I'm inclined, 
 Tis hard to part (and be resigned), 
 With friends to-day, only to find 
 
 Strangers to-morrow. 
 
 Yet these same strangers, I confess, 
 May cheer me by their kind address. 
 And I may yet have cause to bless 
 
 Their kindly faces. 
 So, from all murmurs I refrain : 
 Too glad am I to once complain 
 Glad that for me the lines have lain 
 
 In pleasant phi.
 
 134 A REVERIE. 
 
 A year ! O, is it then a year, 
 
 Si nre Mississippi's waters N clear ( ?) 
 
 Bore me afar from friends so dear? 
 
 Ah ! time is gliding. 
 On fair Wisconsin's soil they stay, 
 Where song-birds 'mid the maples play, 
 While I in this great Iowa, 
 
 Am now residing. 
 
 Others, in pleasant Illinois, 
 Earth's purest, sweetest gifts enjoy, 
 I'd fain with them my tongue employ 
 
 In social psean. 
 
 Still, wandering here and there, I've met 
 With those I love to think of yet, 
 Aye, those I never shall forget 
 
 And some in Leon. 
 
 And if the friends I here may find, 
 Should be in any way less kind, 
 Less true than those I leave behind, 
 
 And less alluring, 
 I'll oftener in remembrance hold, 
 While with the new, the absent old, 
 Affection too, though never cold, 
 
 Be more enduring. 
 
 But in the sacred evening hour, 
 When joy pervades the social bower, 
 Or music lends her magic power 
 
 The heart to soften, 
 Let mine be one song, I entreat, 
 The favorite one, both sad and sweet, 
 And my name at the mercy seat 
 
 Be mentioned often.
 
 A REVERIE. 125 
 
 Be this boon granted, and content 
 Is mine where'er my steps are bent ; 
 And may my life, as one well spent, 
 
 Bear no repining, 
 That grace sufficient be allowed, 
 And faith e'en when by sorrow bowed, 
 To find beneath the darkest cloud 
 
 A silver lining.
 
 PRAYER OF THE BEREAVED: 
 
 O, Thou that hearest prayer, 
 
 Help me this hour to pray ; 
 "Thy will, not mine be done," 
 
 Help me, O God, to say ; 
 Help me in Thee to trust 
 
 Yea, trust, "though Thou shouldst slay."" 
 
 Though Thou shouldst slay me quite, 
 
 And all my treasures wrest 
 From out my clinging clasp, 
 
 My well beloved and best ; 
 And leave my bleeding heart 
 
 Fainting, and sore oppressed. 
 
 O, Thou that answerest prayer, 
 
 Help me Thy voice to hear ; 
 Help me to know Thou chasteneth 
 
 Souls unto Thee most dear, 
 Help me through sorrow's waves 
 
 To feel that Thou art near. 
 
 Near to support Thine own 
 
 With never failing might; 
 Near to bid darkest gloom 
 
 Give way to morning light; 
 And turn the mourner's cry 
 
 To songs, throughout the night. 
 
 Did I not often pray 
 That Thou my boy wouldst take?
 
 PBA YER OF THE BE RE A VED 121 
 
 Woulclst of my darling- child, 
 
 Thy dear disciple make? 
 Dear Lord, did I not ask 
 
 All this for Jesus' sake? 
 
 God, I could not know 
 This would the answer be ; 
 
 1 did not think to have him go 
 So soon, to Heaven and Thee, 
 
 I thought to have him mine and Thine 
 But here on earth with me. 
 
 But I remember, Lord, 
 
 Thou hast not taken all ; 
 If, quivering neath the blow, 
 
 Crushed to the earth I fall, 
 Others, and precious ones, 
 
 Still live mine own to call. 
 
 Within my lonely room 
 
 I muse upon the past ; 
 Living again in thought, 
 
 The years that all too fast 
 Flew by, and though on gilded wings, 
 
 Some sombre shadows cast. 
 
 Thrice have I felt the chill, 
 
 Dread touch of sorrow's wave, 
 I laid my babe first-born 
 
 In but a fairy grave, 
 But blessed knew Thy hand, O God, 
 
 Blessed, as when it gave. 
 
 Then, my companion dear 
 
 Was summoned from my side, 
 And bidden to that higher life, 
 
 E'en with the glorified.
 
 128 PRATER OF TEE BEREAVED. 
 
 Three of the home group now are there, 
 And three on earth abide. 
 
 And I had hoped that George 
 Would cheer my life's decline ; 
 
 And though my fondest hopes are dead, 
 Lord, let me not repine, 
 
 Thy rod, Thy staff, let comfort me, 
 And, in Thy hand keep mine. 
 
 Sometimes, J fain would leave 
 The changing scenes of earth, 
 
 Of all that's good, and real, and pure, 
 There's such a sickening dearth, 
 
 And lives the fullest most complete, 
 Seem of such trifling worth. 
 
 I know not what Thou doest, now, 
 
 m Yet no complaint I bring, 
 I shall know T , when in worlds of light 
 
 The glad, new song I sing, 
 And my worn feet find rest within 
 
 The Palace of the King. 
 
 Till then, while life is given, 
 Which may at best be brief, 
 
 Let me to other wounded souls 
 Afford some sweet relief, 
 
 And, easing heavier burdened ones, 
 Mourn less my weight of grief.
 
 DEAR OLD MOTHER. 
 
 Honor the dear old mother ! 
 
 Feeble, and trembling and bent, 
 She is but a step from the farthest bound 
 
 Of the years which the Master lent. 
 
 Time's frosts are gathered upon her brow. 
 
 But her great heart lies below; 
 Only once in a life a friend like her. 
 
 Ol5e heart like her's you may know. 
 
 You never will know the sacrifice 
 
 Made over and over for you, 
 That her boy have this and that for his good, 
 
 That her child be honored too. 
 
 Honor the dear old mother ! 
 
 Life's battle, so long and tough, 
 She has nobly, patiently, cheerfully borne, 
 
 Nor murmured "The way is rough !" 
 
 The hands of the dear old mother, 
 
 Withered, and skinny and spare, 
 Are the first that fondled your infant brow, 
 
 And smoothed back your b;iby hair. 
 
 Honor the dear old mother ! 
 
 Faded, and thin, and meek, 
 Are the lips that taught you your childhood's 
 prayer, 
 
 And kissed the hot tears from vour cheek.
 
 130 DEAR OLD MOTHER. 
 
 Her hair is snowy ; her beautiful ej r es 
 Are faint in their lustre to-day, 
 
 But these have given their measure of tears 
 That yours might be driven away. 
 
 Her children never grow old to her, 
 Though turning the brow of the hill, 
 
 Her tender watch-care is just the same, 
 To her they are children still. 
 
 Going, her blessing is always yours, 
 
 And coming, 'tis ever the same, 
 And when you are gone 'tis only with praise 
 
 The dear mother mentions your name. 
 And when on some garment you used to wear, 
 
 The dear mother's eyes may rest, 
 She folds it away with a kiss and a"*tear, 
 
 And wonders if you are blest. 
 
 In the drama of life dishonored you fall, 
 And naught of the world's honors wrest ? 
 
 She will gather you up in her arms again, 
 And call you her dearest and best. 
 
 She will welcome you back to the old fireside. 
 
 To rest in her old arm-chair; 
 Though bitterly all the world may hate, 
 
 There's nothing but love for you there. 
 
 Honor the dear old mother ! 
 
 Old-fashioned, simple, and plain, 
 Some day your heart will long for a sight 
 
 Of the old-fashioned mother, in vain. 
 
 Some day, and soon; it will have to come, 
 
 Ere many a day and night, 
 Will the tender eyes and the folded hands 
 
 Be buried beyond your sight.
 
 BEAUTIFUL RAIN. 
 
 Ah ! the rain ! the beautiful rain ! 
 We waited its coming so long, and in vain. 
 How we longed, how we hoped, how we hailed every 
 
 sign 
 
 Bearing promise of rain, till forced to resign 
 Each fond hope in turn, as we said with a sigh, 
 Truly, "All signs may fail when the weather is dry ;" 
 But now there's no reason to longer complain, 
 Once more it has come to us -beautiful rain. 
 
 Ah ! the rain ! the beautiful rain ! 
 It seemed that on high 'twould forever remain. 
 We looked at the meadows and thought of their need, 
 And wondered if God had forgotten to heed 
 The cry of His creatures whose want was so sore, 
 Since the beautiful rain fell upon them no more, 
 Yet knew, while we doubted, that we were secure, 
 Secure by that word through all time to endure, 
 That naught upon earth 'gainst that word could pre 
 vail, 
 
 That seed-time and harvest should never once fail, 
 Once more have we proven to trust is not vain, 
 For the early, and latter, the beautiful rain. 
 
 Ah ! the rain ! the beautiful rain ! 
 It came to my window and tapped on the pane, 
 So loudly I woke from my sleep with a stare. 
 To see who had ventured that hour to come there ;
 
 132 BEAUTIFUL RAIN. 
 
 Then listened again ; was I hearing aright ? 
 T was n't anything stealing around to affright, 
 I could not mistake it, the voice was too plain, 
 The loved, though long silent, sweet voice of the rain. 
 
 Farewell to my dreams, and my slumbers so sweet, 
 If late be my guest, greater welcome is meet, 
 And turned from my couch where I'd wearily lain, 
 To welcome the blessed, the beautiful rain. 
 
 I opened the window to catch a bright drop, 
 Half trembling for fear it might very soon stop, 
 And breathlessly listened 'twas falling so still 
 So gently, just then, but just heard on the sill, 
 And before this, you know, we ; d had a slight fall 
 Once or twice, a few raindrops, a few that was ail- 
 But still it fell softly on lattice and pane, 
 The musical, murmuring, beautiful rain. 
 
 I sat by the window and leaned forth my head, 
 
 That some precious drops upon me might be shed, 
 
 And wished that I too, with the trees and the flowers, 
 
 Might indulge a full bath in the health-giving showers. 
 
 Then my heart in deep gratitude turned, as it should, 
 
 To the All-wise, the bountiful Giver of Good, 
 
 Who supplies from His fullness our wants that annoy, 
 
 Who giveth us richly all things to enjoy, 
 
 And thought what unsatisfied creatures are we, 
 
 Blind, self-loving mortals, unwilling to see 
 
 His banner of love, too often repelled, 
 
 Unprizing His favors till they are withheld, 
 
 And thanked Him for blessings a numberless train, 
 
 And withal for the gracious, the beautiful rain. 
 
 Then I wondered who else, with spirits as light, 
 
 Was hailing the rain coming down in the night ;
 
 BEAUTIFUL RAIN. 133 
 
 And thought of the farmer, and wished I might go 
 To tell him 'twas come what he 'd murmured for so. 
 I knew he had looked his broad fields o'er and o'er, 
 And felt they were never so withered before, 
 .Did he know 'twas wat'ring hill, valley and plain ? 
 The wonderful, bountiful, beautiful rain ? 
 
 At morn again, turning my steps to the street, 
 Resuming as usual my every-day beat, 
 How pleasing the change to my quick notice brought, 
 Which the rain, falling down in the darkness, had 
 
 wrought. 
 
 The trees were all sparkling and washed of their dust, 
 Green leaves were repolished, beginning to rust, 
 Tender plants seemed to say, "We are living again, 
 It has saved us from dying the beautiful rain." 
 
 The clear sky o'erhead was more beautiful, too, 
 And seemed to be painted a new coat of blue, 
 The song of the birds, the sweetest heard yet, 
 For the throat of each gay little warbler was wet, 
 And its plumage relieved of each tarnish and stain, 
 By a dash of the beautiful, life-giving rain. 
 
 ( ll;id children were sporting along the clean walk, 
 The hous; -wives met out in their gardens to talk, 
 And grandfather said, as he leaned on his cane, 
 "It is good to be out since the beautiful rain." 
 
 I thought I was weary ; last night through the heat, 
 As homeward I dragged my slow, dust-laden feet, 
 And craving relief for my dull, aching head, 
 All earth was a desert, all toil was a dread. 
 But now with new life seemed my being to fill, 
 As I walked to my labor with perfect good will,
 
 134 BEAUTIFUL RAIN. 
 
 It hath soothed, it hath charmed, it hath rested me 
 
 quite, 
 
 The beautiful rain that I welcomed last night. 
 And then, all unbidden, there came without call, 
 A thought of another rain suffered to fall 
 On the just and the unjust, I need not define, 
 It has been upon your path and been upon mine ; 
 When our hearts catch the droppings of sorrow and 
 
 pain, 
 What is there to make it a beautiful rain ? 
 
 But one, our Creator, who knoweth our frame, 
 "Yesterday, now, and forever the same," 
 Who, seeing our life from beginning to end, 
 Best knows when the sunshine and showers to send ; 
 And sometime beyond all this tumult and strife, 
 This fettered existence we only call life, 
 In the sunlight of Heaven, all things rendered plain, 
 We may find even this was God's beautiful rain.
 
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 2li3li Rhymes of 
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