OUTCROPPINGS: BEING SELECTIONS OF CALIFORNIA VERSE. SAN FRANCISCO: A. ROMAN AND COMPANY. NEW YORK ! W. J. WIDDLETON. 1866. ALVORD, PRINTER. PREFACE. N presenting to the public u volume of" this character, few words of explanation are re quired. Its contents have been selected partly from contributions by local poets to the Cali fornia newspapers during the past ten years, and partly from material collected three years ago for a similar volume, by Miss M. V. TINGLEY. It might be expected that a country whose scenery is remarkable for sublimity and grandeur would have inspired some suitable expression here. But the at tempts at descriptive and pastoral poetry have n^t been generally successful : perhaps a monotonous cli mate, lacking those vicissitudes of seasons which else where inspire the imagination, has obliged the poet to look oftener in his own heart for that Spring and Au tumn from which so much imagery is supposed to flow, or in the fortunes of his fellow-men, which are mostly exempt from this climatic influence. It has therefore been thought preferable to select poems re lating to a lower plane of incident and experience, as less likely to exhibit a contrast between the subject and its treatment than more ambitious efforts. For these reasons, some verses have been excluded from this work for which many readers will confi dently look, and some admitted which will be equally unexpected. While it is not probable that the rejec tion or selection of any poem will affect the reputation of the poet, it cannot be denied that the performance of this duty is one attended with some responsibility and peril. " ( .i CONTENTS. EDWARD POLLOCK: THE CHANDOS PICTURE . . 9 EVENING ... . 15 LYMAN R. GOODMAN: IN THE SWING ... . . 18 THE BROKEN ROSE ..... 23 E. G. PAIGE ("Dow, JR."): THE APPROACH OF AUTUMN . . . .26 EMILIE LAWSON : BLOSSOM AND FRUIT . . . . 31 WINTERING . . . . . -34 PARTING ...... 38 THE LARK AND THE POET . . . .40 Two COMRADES IN ARMS 4 2 PACK INA D. COOLBRITH : CUPID KISSED ME . _ . . . .45 THE MOTHER S GRIEF . , . . 48 A LOST DAY . . . . . .50 "IN THE POUTS" . . . . . 53 C. H. WEBB: THE JUNE MONTH . . . . 55 DAS MEERMADCHEN . . . . 57 THE GOING OF MY BRIDE . . . .60 MY RIVAL ...... 62 UNDER THE STARS . . . . .64 CHARLES W. STODDARD : AT ANCHOR ..... 66 A FANCY . . . . . .68 THROUGH THE SHADOWS ... 70 MARS ..... 72 W. A. KENDALL: TERRAQUEOUS . . , . . . 74 MERIDIEM . . . . . - . 78 TRANSITION . . . . 82 M : TRIAL ...... 86 TRUST . . . . . . .88 J. F. BOWMAN : THE LAKE OF THE LILIES .... 90 THE WHOLE STORY . . . . .96 WAITING ...... 98 H. C. B. : THE OMEN .... .100 CARRIE CARLTON: THANK GOD FOR RAIN . . . . 103 ANNIE A. FITZGERALD: WAITING FOR THE RAIN . . . .106 B. P. AVERY: ALONE IN THE WOODS . . . . 1 10 THE LONE PINE . . . . 1 1 7 L. F. WELLS : TOM DARLING . . . . .120 MARY BROWN 126 130 8 MRS. A. M. SHULTZ : THE SONG OF THE FLUME J. R. RIDGE: ER.INNA . . . . . . 1 24 J. C. DUNCAN : THE INTAGLIO . . . . . .118 JAMES LINEN : I FEEL FM GROWING AULD, GUDE-WIFE . . 143 i> pollock. CH4NDOS PICTURE ^TT^HE bell far off beats midnight ; in the dark -* The sounds have lost their way and wander slowly ; Through the dead air, beside me, things cry, " Hark !" And whisper words unholy. A hand, as soft as velvet, taps my cheek ; These gusts are from the wings of unseen vampires. How the thick dust on that last tome doth speak Its themes, dead Kings and Empires! 10 This is the chamber ; ruined, waste, forlorn ; Shred of its old-time gilding, paint, and splendor ; And is there none its dim decay to mourn, In mystic strains and tender"? Why waits no harper gray, with elfin hand On tuneless chords to harshly hail the stranger Who treads the brink of an enchanted strand In mist, and midnight danger ? I watch, and am not weary ; all night long The stars look shimmering through the yawning casement ; And the low ring of their unvarying song I hear without amazement. How the hours pass ! with that low murmur blent, That is a part of time, yet thrills us only When all besides is silent, and close pent The heart is chilled and lonely. 11 I watch, and am not weary : I have heard Light steps and whispers pass me, all undaunted : Have seen pale specters glide, where nothing stirred Because the place is haunted. And wherefore watch I fearless ? Wherefore come These things with windy garments hovering round me? Whence are the tongues, the tones, the stifled hum. That welcomed, and have bound me ? Lo ! on the wall, in mist and gloom high reared, A luminous Face adorns the structure hoary : Light-bearded, hazel-eyed, and auburn-haired, And bright with a strange glory. Tis but the semblance of a long dead one A light that shines, and is not; clouds are oVr it: Yet, in the realm of thought, it beams a sun, And stars grow pale before it. 12 There tend the tones ; through that wan atmosphere Glide the faint specters with a stately motion ; Slowly, as cloudy ships to sunset steer Along the airy ocean. Shades of the great, but unremembered dead, Mourn there, and moaning, ever restless wander; For in the presence of that pictured head Their waning shapes grow grander. And here watch I, beneath those eyes sublime, A listing to the soft, resounding numbers, That float like wind along the waves of time, And cheat me of my slumbers. But who shall calm the restless sprites that rove In the mute presence of that painted Poet ? In vain their triumph in old wars or love ; No future times shall know it. For, " Oh !" they cry, " his song has named us not ! He stretched no hand to lift the pall flung o er us." And still they moan and shriek " Forgot forgot !" In faint and shivering chorus. Mightiest of all my master ! Dare but I Touch the shrunk chords thy hand divine hath shaken, How would the heroes of the days gone by Throng round me, and awaken ! Oh ! many a heart the worthiest many a heart- Cold now, but once an angel s warm, bright dwelling, Waits but the minstrel s wizard hand, to start With life immortal swelling ! And thou, so missed where art thou ? On what sphere Of nightless glory hast thou built thine altar ? H What shining hosts bow down, thy song to hear Thy heart, the harp and psalter ? Thy dust is mingled with thy native sod : Exhaled like dew thy soul, that ranged unbounded :- But who shall dare to tread where Shakespeare trod, Or strike the harp he sounded ? EVENING. air is chill, and the day grows late, And the clouds come in through the Golden Gate : Phantom fleets they seem to me, From a shoreless and unsounded sea ; Their shadowy spars and misty sails, Unshattered, have weathered a thousand gales : Slow wheeling, lo ! in squadrons gray, They part, and hasten along the bay ; Each to its anchorage finding way. Where the hills of Saucelito swell, Many in gloom may shelter well ; And others behold unchallenged pass By the silent guns of Alcatras : No greetings of thunder and flame exchange i6 The armed isle and the cruisers strange. Their meteor flags, so widely blown, Were blazoned in a land unknown ; So, charmed from war, or wind, or tide, Along the quiet wave they glide. What bear these ships ? what news, what freight, Do they bring us through the Golden Gate ? Sad echoes to words in gladness spoken, And withered hopes to the poor heart-broken : Oh, how many a venture we Have rashly sent to the shoreless sea ! How many an hour have you and I, Sweet friend, in sadness seen go by, While our eager, longing thoughts were roving Over the waste, for something loving, Something rich, and chaste, and kind, To brighten and bless a lonely mind ; And only waited to behold I? Ambition s gems, affection s gold, Return as " remorse," and " a broken vow," In such ships of mist as I see now. The air is chill, and the day grows late, And the clouds come in through the Golden Gate, Freighted with sorrow, heavy with woe ; But these shapes that cluster, dark and low, To-morrow shall be all a-glow ! In the blaze of the coming morn these mists, Whose weight my heart in vain resists, Will brighten, and shine, and soar to heaven, In thin white robes, like souls forgiven; For Heaven is kind, and every thing, As well as a winter, has a spring. So, praise to God ! who brings the day That shines our regrets and fears away ; For the blessed morn I can watch and wait, While the clouds come in through the Golden Gate. Cymcin H. (Sooftman. /A" THE SWING. f TXDER the apple-blossoms, from the time ^~~^ The sun mistook her dimpled cheeks for roses, And printed sunset kisses upon each, I swung the farmer s only daughter, Nora. Oft, as she rose among the purple boughs, Then, dipping gracefully, swept by me like A spirit in a dream, the blossoms sent Such wealth of fragrance after her, I timed My breathing to the motion of the swing. And when I told the boyish fancy, Nora Shaking the tangled sunbeams from her hair 9 Laughed outright, till she would have fallen, Had I not caught the rope and held it fast. Sifting a pretext from the circumstance, I quickly said she must not swing alone. My meaning fluttered till it lightly touched Upon an echoing chord within her breast, And, smiling, she economized the space, And so made room for both. And soon, self-swung By easy art, we swept in airy cycloids- Each oscillation weaving some new thread Into the mottled tissue of our talk : As, who was dead who married who, perchance. Was like to be ; and whether Emma Lyle Would wed the merchant s or the doctor s son. Somehow, the subtle thread that tangles hearts- Blind butterflies ! spun out its golden length Until it formed the widest stripe of all. Nora and I had swung before olttimes ; Then, strange not very strange to say, our love 20 Too took a swing, until we quarreled sadly. The breach had nearly healed, so far w r e now Regarded it as but an episode Peculiar to love s growth and history. So, laughing over it, and running on From this to that, now angling in the past For sunny recollections, half forgotten ; Now throwing out our lines into the future For fair uncertainties ; and finally, Wrapping the present round us, time, and space, And change, all but each other, we forgot. And when the vesper-light, for lovers lit, Burned to its socket in the western hills, The swing had stopped how long we could not tell, And vaguely guess ; nor knew we until then How chill the air was blowing from the sea. Knitting her hair with crimson blooms, I said : " May apple-blossoms form the bridal-wreath !" Then blessing twice and thrice the swing that rocked 21 The discord of our souls asleep, we parted. And as her feet, like silver rain-drops, tinkled Along upon the steps, I faintly heard Her humming to herself a stanza from The song I wrote her scarce a year before : " True love is quickened once a year, When vernal buds are swelling; And warbling tongues are hushed to hear The tales their mates are telling : The heart that knows no winter s storm Can feel no summer s gladness ; And beauty shows its fairest form Smiling through tears of sadness." Then to my home, and with a sweet " God bless her ! Fainting upon my lips, I fell asleep. But still the half-heard melody flowed round My soul unceasingly, until it grew 22 Into a radiant form, whose every word And motion, like itself, seemed music-born And in my sinless dreams I worshiped it, Until it faded in a rosy dawn. THE BROKEN ROSE. ^T^HE meadow s breath comes cool and sweet ; -*- A light wind blows Day s pyre into a purple flame : A time-worn mound is at my feet, And on the stone a cherished name, And broken rose : Self-broken from its parent stem, While yet the dew And flush of morn lay on its cheek ; For Love had brought a diadem As false as falsest tongue can speak A wreath of rue. 24 You blame her, you who never felt The weight that lay Like heated lead upon her soul, The leaden mass that would not melt, Which death s stern hands alone could roll, And lift away. God holds the key to human hearts ; We only heed The surface bubbles, bright and thin, Or broken, fragmentary parts ; The strange, sealed mystery within We cannot read. Enough for me that Saints conformed To mortal molds, With human imperfections rife. I loved the grace and virtue, warmed By Charity, that wrapped her life In saintly folds. I lay my face among the flowers, To weep for her : The violets all whisper No ! The merle rebukes from leafy bowers, The lindens, bathed in sunset glow, With chidings stir. All nature cries: " She doth not sleep Beneath the sod ; Her feet have left the shores of time, And now her angel fingers sweep, Mid swelling anthemings sublime, The harp of God." . <S. Paige. THE APPROACH OF AUTUMN. T3 LOOMING Summer s dead and buried *~* Let the mournful cypress wave ; Sad September now is strewing Faded garlands on her grave. Autumn comes, downcast and lonely ; Silently she seems to mourn For the gray hairs in her tresses, And her mantle ripped and torn. In the corner of the door-yard Sighs a clump of withered reeds Pinks and tulips all have perished, And the garden dons its " weeds." 27 Where the blue-eyed morning-glory In its hammock swung on high, There the yellow-bellied squashes Hang them ! hang themselves to dry. Golden butter-cups and pansies Now no longer gem the field, While the blossoms that still linger, Not a "smell" of perfume yield; Gaudy dahlias without odor With the Autumn days have come, Stiffly nodding, proudly asking " Stranger, don t you think we re some Frogs have ceased their nightly peeping; Pollywogs have dropped their tails, And are grown to great big bullies, Croaking in the gloomy vales ; 28 By the pond where hangs the hazel Sits a "green-eyed monster" there, Groaning like a tortured demon, In the anguish of despair. On the pine-top stands a preacher Known as Reverend Mr. Crow, Dressed in black, and preaching patience To a hungry flock below ; But in vain the exhortation Rather heed they Nature s laws ; So they leave the lonely Parson, Persevering in his caws. Though Pomona glad the market With her bounties for the time, What are apples, pears, and peaches To a chap without a dime *? 2 9 To a poet, who, like Autumn, Goes in very seedy clothes- Down at mouth and out at elbow- Down at heel and out at toes ? Now the day and night are even ;- Na f-an -a f, like Johnny s beer ; And ^Eolus gives his "blow-out" At this season of the year. But the winds will sadly murmur When the Equinox is o er, And the dead leaves lightly rustle Past the woodman s cabin door. Mournful are thy days, O Autumn, Robbing flow rets of their bloom; Few, ah, few are left to blossom In the shadow of the tomb ! 3 Still Life s pleasures, green as ever, Must not fade and fall till ripe ; So, September, swing thy sickle, While I calmly smoke my pipe ! (Emilie BLOSSOM AND FRUIT. YT THY weep for childhood s joys ? What are they but a round of tricks and funning, A vast bazar of toys, And hide-go-seek, and laughs, and cries, and cunning ? As well grieve for the noise The brooklet makes, when to the river running ! When fruit is in its prime, Who cares for petals dropped in fragrant flutter In the sweet blossom-time ? 3 2 Or, when the strong man burning thoughts doth utter, Who sighs for the droll chime When his queer baby-tongue began to stutter 2 Never doth noonday sigh To be the dawn again with crimson flushes ! No oak-tree towering high Would be a bush again among the bushes ! Only weak man doth cry For babyhood, and nursery tales and hushes ! Our brightest hours fly fast ! And if we pine for Life s poor frail beginning, The golden Now is Past, While we look backward in regretful sinning : Joy waits, and Heaven is vast ! And both are for our seeking and our winning. 33 And Time is but a school, Where all great souls to some broad truth awaken ;- A mighty vestibule Where from fur feet the mortal, dust is shaken, And where from ceaseless rule The hungering, thirsting heart at last is taken. WINTERING. T KNOW of a quaint old farmer, *" More than threescore years and ten, With a lighter heart and warmer Than the most of younger men ; One blithesome and free as the brooklet That gurgles through the glen. He rises at the peep of day With the very earliest bird, And leads his cows to pasture With some magical, queer word ; And the scented dew of the clover Is first by his brisk feet stirred. 35 He has a child s complexion, Like delicate tinted wax ; But the limbs are rough and hardy That shoulder the old ax, And the hair that drifts o er his forehead Is bleached like the threads of flax. The young trees fall a-quivering, The chip-pile grows anew, Though he says he will never burn them, Or, if any, very few ; For he thinks he will never winter Another season through. You may see him in the spring-time, When the first young violets peep, Preparing seed for a harvest For other hands to reap ; For he knows the snows of winter Will find him fast asleep. You may find him in the summer-day Before the noontide heat, With birch and spice-wood leaves, and flowers, And berries on strings of wheat ; And crowds of children, crazy with joy, Dancing around his feet. Oh, lightsome, happy, happy hours, When such a little thing As strawberries in a birch-bark cup, Or raspberries on a string, Can set the young feet wild with glee, And the young heart fluttering. You may see him in the autumn, When the hickory-nuts hail down, And chestnuts open their burry lips And show their teeth of brown, Gathering herbs for the sick, or nuts For the children of the town. 37 Passing a field of yellow corn He will heave a little sigh, And say he thinks his husking-time Is very, very nigh, When the Angel of Death shall take his soul And throw the old husk by. I think you will see this good old man Full ten long years from now, Just ready to go as soon as the hay Is gathered in the mow, Or, at farthest, when the apples Are shaken from the bough. Ever wearing the trusting look Of a little child at prayers ; And when the noiseless messenger Steals on him unawares, It will only seem like a toil laid by, And a dying away of cares. PARTING. F I ^HE sun is lying in his western chamber, -*- The stately ships are sailing on the bay, And cloud-hands spread a coverlet of amber, Bordered with brown, above the drowsy day : The opaline skies will shine the same to-morrow, And white sails pass gilded with amber light ; But the coming shadow of a parting sorrow Shall dim the glory of to-morrow night. Now, in the West, the radiance grows dimmer, The first faint star comes, shining tremulously, And red rays from the distant light-house glimmer Across the foam-capped waters of the sea ; 39 Tomorrow s dusk will bring the trembling starlight, The wind will chase the white waves to the shore, And fitfully again will come the far light Of warning lamp but thou wilt come no more. Ever and everywhere specters of parting Stretch forth their weird hands, saddening our mirth ; Ever and everywhere hot tears are starting, Where stands the empty chair upon the hearth : But Nature brightly smiles though hearts are broken, Taking at last her children to her breast, And kindly hides in her mute mounds all token Of the great heart-throbs of a life s unrest. THE POET. \ YOUNG bird rocked on an apple spray, ^ -^ A-trilling a little lay; Not full-grown was the yellow coat Wrapping his slender throat, And the piping notes had not grown strong, But trembled in the song. A school-boy cried, with thoughtless glee, " I will try my skill on thee ;" And the apple-blooms with blood grew red, Where the poor heart quivering bled. Now, sad winds through the branches mourn For the song that died unborn. 4 l A poet sat in a solitude, Playing a faint prelude- Snatches of tunes and faltering words, And one or two grand chords And angel lips to his young ear bent As he touched the instrument. A critic, skilled, and learned, and strong (But who never sang a song), Aimed a cruel arrow carelessly As the shy strain floated by ; It brushed the whispering spirit s wing, It broke the best and finest string, And sent the young heart sorrowing; And angel songs, that the poet heard, Never found tune or word. TWO COMRADES IN ARMS. u /COMRADE! I hear the beating of a drum, ^^ Have re-enforcements come 9" " There is no sound, save a lost whippowil Crying from yonder hill." - 4 Comrade ! I see a spacious mansion stand, Built by my grandsire s hand." a No honored ancestry have left a stone That I may call my own." " Beside its hearth my gentle lady warms The sweet child in her arms." " No tender wife upon her loving breast Lulls babes of mine to rest." 43 44 See ! how her bright hair falls in golden showers, Twined with autumnal flowers." 44 No waving hair, by fragrant flowerets pressed, Has my rough hand caressed." 44 On what enchanted wings the swift time flies, Charmed by those heavenly eyes." " How dreary, and how long, the sad hours seem ! Alas ! / cannot dream." * 4 Again I hear the beating of a drum : Comrade, has the foe come ?" 44 Yes, that great foe or friend we all must meet, Who never knows defeat." * ::- -x- * On the battle-ground, at the break of day, Two lifeless soldiers lay ; One face looked pitiful with yearning pain, As one who prays in vain ; 44 The other wore a look divinely blest. And, from his pulseless breast, The picture of a lady and a child Looked up to him and smiled. 3na D. aolbritb. CUPID KISSED ME. T OVE and I, one summer day, *^ Took a walk together : Oh, how beautiful the way Through the blooming heather ! Far-off bells rang matin-chimes. Birds sang, silver-voicing; And our happy hearts beat time To the earth s rejoicing. Well-a-day! ah, well-a-day! Then pale Grief had missed me. And Mirth and I kept company. Ere Cupid kissed me. 46 Love ran idly where he would, Child-like, all unheeding; I as carelessly pursued The pathway he was leading, Till upon the shadowed side Of a cool, swift river, Where the sunbeams smote the tide Goldenly a-quiver : Well-a-day ! ah, well-a-day ! i4 Love," I cried, " come, rest thee. Ah, but Heart and I were gay, Ere Cupid kissed me ! Shadows of the summer-cloud Fell on near and far land, Fragrantly the branches bowed Every leafy garland ; While, with shining head at rest, Next my heart reclining, 47 Love s white arms, with soft caress, Round my neck were twining; Till ah, well ! ah, well-a-day ! Love, who can resist thee *? On the river-banks that day, Cupid kissed me. Woe is me ! in cheerless plight, By the cold, sad river, Seek I Love, who, taken flight, Comes no more forever- Love, from whom more pain than bliss Every heart obtaineth; For the joy soon vanishes, While the pang remaincth. Well-a-day ! ah, well-a-day ! Would, Love, / had missed thee ! Peace and I are twain for aye, Since Cupid kissed me ! THE MOTHER S GRIEF. OO fair the sun rose, yester-morn, The mountain-cliffs adorning ! The golden tassels of the corn Danced in the breath of morning ; The cool, clear stream that runs before, Such happy words was saying ; And in the open cottage door My pretty babe was playing. Aslant the sill a sunbeam lay I laughed, in careless pleasure, To see his little hand essay To grasp the shining treasure. 49 To-day no shafts of golden flame Across the sill are lying; To-day I call my baby s name, And hear no lisped replying : To-day ah, baby mine, to-day God holds thee in His keeping ! And yet I weep, as one pale ray Breaks in upon thy sleeping ; I weep to see its shining band Reach, with a fond endeavor, To where the little restless hands Are crossed in rest forever ! A LOST DAT. TT^ROM the shadowy shores of Dreamland, ^ In a far and ethereal zone, I have come unto earth ; and I know not Where the beautiful Day has flown ! For gazing, at early dawning, Where bright in the radiant East The glittering sun swam, golden, Through billows of crimson mist My soul floated out on the ether, Swift-winged and free as the Light Nor ever, till dawn grew to darkness, Returned from its airy flight. I never shall know of its journey : I have questioned, all in vain, The source of the wonderful visions That are thronging my puzzled brain. Strange voices; strange, beautiful faces; Strange fashions of mien and dress, And words whose mystical meaning I have striven in vain to guess ; ^ Strange cities, that mirror the sunlight" 7 < From minaret, mosque, and dome ;^ <Ancl tropical islands, up-springing> <Z From couches of feathery foam > All glimmer, and gleam, and glisten, Floating on in a magical stream, Yet shadowed, and vague, and misty As the memory of a dream. And I stand, as at early dawning; But where, in the radiant East, The glittering sun swam, golden, Through billows of crimson mist, There is only this soft, white crescent, And the daisy-faced stars, full-blown In the garden of Night ; and I know not Where the beautiful Day has flown. "IN THE PO UTS." HEEKS of an ominous crimson, Eyebrows arched to a frown, Pretty red lips a-quiver With holding their sweetness down Glance that is never lifted From the hands that, in cruel play, Are tearing the white rose petals, And tossing their hearts away. Only to think that a whisper, An idle, meaningless jest, Should stir such a world of passion In a dear little loving breast. 54 Yet ever for such light trifles Will lover and lass fall out, And the humblest lad grow haughty, And the gentlest maiden pout. Of course, I must sue for pardon ; For what) I can hardly say ! But, deaf to opposing reason, A woman will have her way. And when, in despite her frowning, The scorn, the grief, and the rue, ,She looks so bewitchingly pretty, Why what can a fellow do ? . . tlkbb* THE JUNE MONTH. F I ^HE waning of the sweet May moon June s laughing face discloses; Her apron filled with butter-cups, Her bosom red with roses. The blossom and the bursting bud Are woven in her tresses ; And every breeze that fans her cheek Comes laden with caresses. The birds all leave the open plains, And seek the hazel covers Some months were meant for married life, But June was made for lovers ! Perhaps you ve seen a little maid, With lips like rare-ripe cherries ? We re going down the meadow path This afternoon for berries. I ll tell you more about our walk Before the summer closes ; So fill a cup to laughing June, And wreathe its brim with roses. DAS MEERMADCHEN. , Spring it is blithe, and Summer is gay The Autumn golden, and Winter gray ! But the seasons come and the seasons go, All alike to me in their ebb and flow, Since the day I rode by the cheating sea, And one of its maidens had speech with me. Her skin was whiter than words can speak, The blush of the sea-shell lit her cheek. Her lips had ripened in coral caves, And her eyes were blue as the deeper waves. 5 58 Her long yellow hair fell soft and free, Like a shower of amber upon the sea. " Knight ! gallant Knight ! a boon I pray- Give me to ride thy charger gray !" 44 Oh ! ships for the sea, but steeds for the shore- I ll give thee a boat with a golden oar !" " Nay, gallant Knight ! no charm has the sea I would dwell on the green earth ever with thee ! For her words were fair as her face was fair ; Had she asked my soul, it was hers, I swear ! And I led her, light as sea-birds flit, Where my steed stood champing his golden bit. The stirrups of silver were wrought in Spain, My hand into hers put the silken rein. 59 And that was the last, though the stars are old, I saw of my steed with his housings of gold. Was ever such folly in all the world wide ? But who would have thought a mermaid could ride Or a maiden of earth, of air, or the wave, Should fly from her love with the wings he gave *? Faithless and loveless I walk by the shore Never a mermaid has speech with me more. But this brings not back my charger gray, Nor the false, false love who rode him awav ! /> , O-T THE GOING OF MT BRIDE. BY the brink of the River our parting was fond, But I whispered the words soft and low ; For a band of bright angels was waiting beyond, And my bride of a day was to go : Was to go from our shore, with its headlands of years, On a water whose depths were untold ; And the boat was to float on this River of Tears, Till it blent with an ocean of gold. Our farewell was brief as the fall of a tear The minutes like winged spirits flew, When my bride whispered low that a shallop drew near, And the beck of the Boatman she knew. 6i Then I spoke in one kiss all the passion of years, For I knew that our parting was nigh ; Yet I saw not the end I was blinded by tears, And a light had gone out from the sky. But I caught the faint gleam of an outdrifting sail, And the dip of a silver-tipped oar ; And I knew by the low rustling sigh of the gale, That a spirit had gone from the shore. All alone in my grief I now sit on the sand, Where so often she sat by my side ; And I long for the shallop to come to the strand, That again I may sit by my bride. MY RIVAL. OOFT music swells out on the night, ^ The air is a-throb with perfume, And the feet of the dancers fall light Yet Death crouches low in the room. One stands him, all smiling and bland, Just there where the tapestries fall ; The wine-cup he holds in his hand Throws a dabble of red on the wall. His fool-face hot flushes with love, And he whispers a name in his wine The white moon that looked from above And the stars know the woman is mine. 63 It were better he said him a prayer : Were the man not a fool, he would feel A shudder of death in the air, And the sharp, sudden tingle of steel. See ! he smiles to himself as he sips Of his, wine in the alcove apart ; Will he smile when my dagger s thin lips Shall drink the red wine of his heart *? v UNDER THE STJRS. T OW and dark are the brows of night, *" - The dews drip dank from the skies Warmer than rain, but colder than tears Over there where the dead man lies. Last evening the light of the moon Floated down like her yellow hair ; And Earth lay asleep, like a bride, With shoulders uncovered and bare. But to-night the moonbeams fall, All shorn of their golden grace, Like a grave-cloth, white and thin, Folded over the dead man s face. 65 Warm and strong is the clasp of love Stronger still is the blow of hate : Why should one care, when all is paid, Whether the reck ning come early or late ! How it glitters a sharp-edged knife ! The stars looked wondering down ; But never a tap of their silver bells To waken the slumbering town. He was pious and good, she said : Was it wrong by the churchly code, When the man was bound for heaven, That I helped him along the road *? He was my rival once Whose is the better fate ? He married the girl of his love I murdered the man of my hate ! tDarren AT ANCHOR. \ SAILOR by the green home-shore, While seas are ebbing from his view, Doth all his early joys renew : He sings the songs he sang of yore ; He spies his little cot, he smiles With a full joy ne er felt before : He holds that one bare prospect more Than all the Summer of the isles. The quiet home is his ; the trees Sprang from the seeds his grandsires laid 67 Among the mold ; within the glade The myrtles rustle in the breeze, Above a treasured little grave, His early loss, his first deep woe ; Not any land that he may know Beyond the purple of the wave Hath such a jewel in its breast. He loves each rock, and stream, and dell Tis here he only cares to dwell, Tis here he ever longs to rest. This is his home of joy and ease ; And better is the myrtle tomb Than all the heavy dusks that gloom The groves of spice beyond the seas. A FANCY. YT THAT would you call the Sun, as he falls Out of the heavens, while shadows dim And rosy are draping the broad sky-walls What would you call the Sun, as he falls Far down to the ocean s rim ? All of the sky is gathering webs Of shadow about it, and the tide The lazy tide as it flows and ebbs, Is quite entangled with crimson webs, And with crimson bloom is dyed. 69 Perhaps the Sun is an egg of gold In a nest of cloud, and Night must be A fidgety hen for, look ! she has rolled Out of the nest the egg of gold, And spilled the yelk in the sea ! THROUGH THE SHADOWS. \ LL in a dream i the twilight, Stars glimmer out in their glee ; I hear the low murmur of far-off Ripples of tropic sea. The sorrowful Sun, in the west, Is bleeding to death in the wave, Sraining and tinting with crimson The corals that fashion his grave. Out through the mists and the vapors, The cloudy wreaths and the rings, The sunlight has flown like a butterfly Brushing the gold from its wings. A quiet is coming and folding Our troubles away, and our woes Are hushed in the cool, fragrant shadows, Like bees in the heart of a rose. Come on, little stars, all silver, For the terrible Sun has gone, And forth from the castle of shadows The Moon has set sail for the dawn. Pale are the stars, for the morning Is dawning fresh as the May So through the shadows we wander forth, Seeking the perfect day. MARS. IV TOW Mars steals over the water ; ^ He is marching down from the sky- Great Mars, with his golden helmet, And the golden flame in his eye. The sea is still, for the ripples Are hushed at the god s slow tread ; And a line of lights is trailing The wave, like a burning thread. Sad Mars ! he is wearied with marching And wandering off is he, While he nods his yellow helmet And thrusts his lance in the sea. 73 Faltering Mars ! with his marching Wearied he seems to be ; While he tips his helmet, and merges His golden lance in the sea. 3L KftttinU. TERRAQUEOUS. [From "ANSTED S GREAT STONE BOOK."] FIRST PERIOD. BARE rocks and vacuous water Liquid and solid wastes alternate span Primeval Earth about No Plant, no Beast, no Man. SECOND PERIOD. Cycles of unrecorded time Slow transmutations, vast upheavals, shocks Dawning of vegetable life- Lichens upon the rocks. THIRD PERIOD. Centuries of rain and sunshine- Fins flash the ocean-depths, the land Teems with crude animation- Brutes wallow on the sand. FOURTH PERIOD. More sluggish centuries lapse- Forests surmount the hills umbrageous gloom Incense exhales and melodies are piped Birds twitter Flowers bloom. FIFTH PERIOD. The age of final preparation wanes- Declared the consummation of the Plan ; The House is ready lo, its master comes The "Jack of all Trades" Man! 7 6 A link discovered wanting A section to complete the circlet human ; The Man is less a rib, and straightway finds Himself plus Woman ! SIXTH PERIOD. Generations of masters come and go The house absorbs its tenants all is mystery ; Reason toddles a-pace, babbles, and founds Traditional History. SEVENTH PERIOD. Inventions and contentions Wars, famines, feasts, and plagues ; Prophets and puppets ; crucifixions, trinkets Reformers on bow-legs. Not yet the end perhaps not yet the middle 77 Uncertainty its fullness still retains ; Yet, for their derivation stone and water- How wonderful are brains ! MERIDIEM. TTMLL once again with wine, the best and last, *" The hour has come the dregs are to be cast- The regal opulence of Youth is past. Here let dear memories mingle, as is fit The tunes of Song, the genius-gleams of Wit ; The glow of embers ne er to be relit. Fill, fill ! fill high ! Fill to the crystal brim ! And while the sparkling bubble-jewels swim, Drain to the echo of a dying hymn. 79 Drain to the murky bottom of the glass Drain while the Noon of Life is at high mass The shiver of the cups shall cry " Alas !" Join in with reckless tongues of hopeless men, The closing cadence of the grand HAS BEEN Ring out this requiem of a Soul s amen ! Oh, for the supple bow for aye unbent ! Oh, for the jocund sense of young content! Oh, for the star-designs the storms have rent ! Oh, for the passion-second s crimson flight ! Oh, for the moments of supreme delight ! Oh, for the full moon and the honey night ! Oh, for the red, red draught of drunken blisses ! Oh, for the aromatic rapture kisses ! Oh, for the love-blooms and the dream abysses ! 8o Oh, a million times ! and all in vain The Spring will ne er return to me again, With dappled skies and balmy drops of rain. The lustrous fires that flushed me full of zest, The amplitude of warmth that overblest, Have flamed ! and sunk to everlastin^ rest. In Indian Summer retrospect I view The gorgeous hours my wanton luxury slew, The while their velvet lips were wet with dew Dash down the glasses ! Let the fragments lay Come, penance of exhaustion and decay, This, this is Pleasure s terrible death-day ! O vanished fragrance of the morning air! O torrid splendors, lost beyond repair ! The icy night-winds cut me to despair ! 8i And why do I despair ? Tis that I think I never more will hear god-glasses clink, And never more of Nature s blood-wine drink. But say you, when I m gone, " His heart was bold ; And say you, too, " He was no slave to gold, And laid no joys away to rust and mold." Now with the glinting fragments at my back, I face the Sun upon his paling track, Declining swiftly into darkness black. Come others to the revel s vacant seat, With glasses brimmed, and lips of virgin sweet- After the carnival we ll fitly greet. O Spring! O Summer! O unsunned decline! Sad season of dead thirsts, I now am thine At last the Flagon-World is drained of wine J TRANSITION. WHEN leaves grow sear, all things take sombre hue, The wild winds waltz no more the wood-side through, All day the faded grass is wet with dew. A gauzy nebula films the pensive sky, The golden bee supinely buzzes by, In silent flocks the blue-birds southward fly. The forests cheeks are crimsoned o er with shame, The cynic Frost unlaces every lane, The ground with scarlet blushes is a-flame ! 83 The one we love grows lustrous-eyed and sad, With sympathy too thoughtful to be glad, While all the colors round are running mad. The sunbeams kiss askant the sombre hill, The naked woodbine climbs the window-sill, The breaths the noons exhale are faint and chill. The ripened nuts drop downward day by day, Sounding the hollow tocsin of decay, And bandit squirrels smuggle them away. Vague sighs and scents pervade the atmosphere, Sounds of invisible stirrings hum the ear, The morning s lash reveals a frozen tear. The hermit mountains gird themselves with mail, Mocking the thrashers with an echo-flail, The while the afternoons grow curt and pale. 84 Inconstant Summer to the tropics flees, And, as her rose-sails catch the amorous breeze, Lo ! bare brown Autumn trembles to her knees. The stealthy nights encroach upon the days, The Earth with sudden whiteness is a-blaze, And all her paths are lost in crystal maze ! Tread lightly where the dainty violets blew, Where to Spring winds their soft eyes open flew, Safely they sleep the churlish Winter through. Though all Life s portals are indiced with woe, And frozen pearls are all the world can show, Feel ! Nature s breast is warm beneath the snow. Look up, dear mourner ! still the blue expanse, Serenely tender, bends to catch thy glance ; Within thy tears sibyllic sunbeams dance ! With blooms full lapped again will smile the land ; The pall is but the folding of His hand, Anon with fuller glories to expand. The dumb heart, hid beneath the wintry tree, Will throb again, and so the torpid bee Upon the ear will drone his drowsy glee. So shall the truant blue-birds backward fly ; And all loved things that vanish or that die, Return to us in some sweet by-and-by. TRIAL. \\ 7HAT! pouting and cross? What is it, love? Only a frown, and not a word ?" Pray, had I angered her, or perchance The depths of her little being stirred? Cross, so cross and a great, dark frown There, where the sunshine always lingers; Spitefully sewing, she doesn t heed The needle that pricks her restless fingers. Pray, can I smooth out the frowns, or bring The sunshine back to her face to stay ? 8 7 Ah ! thunder will come to the clearest sky, And love can t escape the earthquake day. Kisses I ll give her I know they serve To smooth out the ruffles in roughest lives; Kisses will cure all the infant s ills, And kisses the little griefs of wives. So I said : " Come, love, kiss and make up !" She stirred, and her passion I thought I d routed ; " Kiss me !" she frowned still " Kiss me, love !" Ah ! she put up her lips but only pouted ! TRUST. TV /TY love is little, but she s very wise, * And sometimes she my little patience tries : Whene er she kisses me, she shuts her eyes. When first I noted it, I, silent, thought, " Tis a new trick my wizard love has caught ; It may not be she shuts her eyes for naught." And then I said, " What can the reason be ? My love is mine, and few can love as we ; There s naught but love between my love and me." My self-love whispered, " Here the reason find : She d be like Cupid, truest Love when blind. As she is wise, my winsome love is kind." Still, not contented, twere a pleasure new If that my love herself would whisper too, And tell my sell-love what it told was true. And so I said, " My love must make me wise, And tell me this, which all my wit defies : Why, when she kisses me, she shuts her eyes." " You must not ask me." " Nay, love, but I must Love is not love without supremest trust. As you are wise and kind, you will be just." So, smiling: "Then tis, you ve so plain a face, I could not, darling, kiss you else with grace ;" And hid herself, nor blushed at my disgrace. 3L jf. Bowman. THE LAKE OF THE LILIES. TT^WAS October bluer, brighter ^ Ne er was sky than o er us bent ; Through the woods, all gold and crimson, Wound the path by which we went ; Till beside the sylvan \vater Where the white pond-lilies float, Hid by flags and flaunting rushes, We espied a tiny boat. In we stepped : with slender fingers Flushing sweetly, laughing low Still the gentle echo lingers Of that laugh of long ago Echo sad that haunts my slumbers, Falling faint on brain and ear, While I listen, wondering, doubting If I only dream or hear. With those slender rose-tipped fingers, Boasting all her skill the while, She adjusted helm and tiller, Took the cords with archest smile ; Bade me ply the oar with vigor- She the shallop s course would guide. From the sedge-lined shore we parted Floated o er the dimpling tide. Bright the blue sky of October Bent above us gleamed below- Mirrored in the sylvan water 9 2 Where the fragrant lilies grow. Lost to me the tranquil beauty Of smooth lake and arching skies ; I beheld a brighter heaven In the depths of azure eyes. O er the shallop s side I bent me, Plucked the lily floating there ; Bade her note its star-like fashion, Bade her taste its fragrance rare. Beautiful the maiden blushes, Which with smiles she strove to hide, When I said " These Nature fashions For the tresses of a bride." " Yes," she said, " for raven tresses Fairest lilies purest pearls !" Then her laughing eyes she lifted Shook her wealth of golden curls, 93 And a glory seemed to crown her, Such as the old masters paint, In the soft, yet dazzling halo Round the brows of pictured saint. Now our words are low and murmured, And the hours unheeded go, As we drift among the shallows, Where the fairest lilies grow. Now no more her eyes are lifted, Paler grows her flushing cheek, And the tender, pensive silence Bids me win her, bids me speak. And I spoke in words impassioned - All my secret soul revealed, All the boundless love I cherished, Cherished long so long concealed. Slowly rose those silken lashes, And those clear and candid eyes 94 Looked in mine serene and tender As the depths of April skies. And that angel head declining For an instant seemed to rest, A beloved and lovely burden, On my wildly throbbing breast. For one brief, ecstatic moment Half she sank in my embrace, While those soft and waving tresses Swept my bosom touched my face. Floating there among the lilies, Neath October s sapphire sky, Freely, fondly, then we plighted Vows of love that ne er should die. Ere in April s sun the snow-wreaths Vanished from the mountain s side, I beheld her at the altar Stand a victim and a bride. 95 Long in stranger lands I ve wandered, And no more my feet shall roam Through the woods beside the waters Of my far New England home ; And its hills and pleasant valleys Never more shall glad these eyes, Dim and weary grown in viewing Tropic landscapes tropic skies. Long has ocean s waste of waters Rolled between my love and me, And a vaster gulf divides us Than the darkest depths of sea. But in visions sad, yet welcome, Oft that autumn landscape gleams, Oft that gracious presence greets me In the moonlight realms of dreams. THE WHOLE STORK \\ 7HEN Jones was sixteen, he was bent * ^ On one day being President. At twenty-five, Jones thought that he Content as District Judge would be, At thirty, he was much elated When Mayor of Frogtown nominated. But bootless all the nomination His rival Tompkins graced the station. At forty-five, his dreams had fled ; Hope and Ambition, both were dead. 97 When from his toils he found release, He died a Justice of the Peace. O youthful heart, so high and bold, Thus is thy brief, sad story told ! WAITING. (AFTER THE GERMAN.) ^ I^HE full moon appeareth A The headland above ; Tis the hour of meeting Where lingers my love ? The summer night sheddeth Its magical spell O er forest and ocean, O er mountain and dell. The summer wind sigheth In voluptuous strain; And my heart is dissolved In sweet longing and pain. 99 The nightingales murmur Their loves in soft trills, And the little leaves shiver With passionate thrills. In earth, air, and ocean, Around and above, Throb the pulses of passion, Breathes the music of love. But hark ! tis his footstep ; And soon in his eyes I shall read the sweet lesson Of the earth and the skies. . C B, r# OMEN. T3 ENEATH the mellowing Autumn sky *^* We walked the shore, my wife and I : The tints October s woods that dyed, The sigh of the retiring tide, The sun just sinking in the west, Roused the old longing in her breast " Which first shall Death to glory bear *? Which, lonely, weep and wander here ?" Two scallop shells arrest my eye : " With these will I the omens try ; 101 Conjoined they grew beneath the sea, Paired and complete and one as we ; That, white and fair, is thine alone ; This, brown and rugged, is my own ; I launch them thus upon the tide, Which first shall sink, let Fate decide !" Thus, half in terror, half in mirth, I launched the graceful shallops forth. The wimpling tide retiring bore Them farther, farther from the shore- While she pressed closer to my arm, Hushed breath and heart in sweet alarm ; And cried, as either disappeared, " Ah, thine is gone : twas that I feared !" But still, along the dimpled sea, Tilted our life-boats buoyantly, Till, side by side, beyond our sight, 102 They floated forth into the night. Then, baffled, awed, rebuked, and still We stood ; and my rebellious will Felt, mid the hush on sea and shore, A Presence all unfelt before. " Forgive, O God ! Forgive !" I cried, " That we have sought what thou dost hide Thy secret purpose we would scan, Distrustful of thy love to man. Led by thy love our life hath been By waters still, through pastures green : Led by thy love our life shall be ; We trust, O God, that life to Thee !" (ftcirric Ccirlton. THANK GOD FOR RAIN. God for rain ! The parched and thirsty earth Lay panting neath the glare of cloudless skies: The sultry air seemed almost luminous with flame, Save when anon fresh ocean-breezes rise. Fair Plenty s ruddy form grew strangely thin ; All pinched and shrunken seemed her kindly face, Till, when men viewed her, with blanched lips they cried : "Gaunt Famine stalketh through our market-place !" The streams and rivulets had long since died, Their life too feeble for the sun s fierce ray ; 104 The beasts, and kine, and faithful steed as well, Sought vainly for some stream their thirst to stay ; Sweet verdure, that had just sprung into life, Grew faint for lack of nourishment, and died. The young grain, conscious of its own great work, Clung feebly to its life, but drooped and sighed. All men looked vainly for the coming cloud The poor, with what deep prayer God only heard ; But in His ear were poured ten thousand prayers, From hearts that never breathed the fearful word Famine. " O God, in mercy save ! Must we thus perish of this awful death *? In pity send the rain the blessed rain Or smite us with thy lightning from the earth." Relenting Heaven smiled on the kneeling earth The scattered clouds in one dark mountain blend The cooling winds blow fresh from off the sea, And, God be praised ! the gentle rains descend. "Thank God for rain!" the field and herbage sing: * Thank God for rain !" ten thousand souls reply. O er all this land rings out a song of praise, That to its center shakes the blue-arched sky. ITIXG FOR THE R J I X. H ! the Earth is weary waiting, Waiting for the rain Waiting for the fresh ning showers, Wakening all her slumb ring powers, With their dewy moisture sating Thirst}* hill and plain. Oh ! the Earth is weary waiting, Waitin for the rain. Oh ! the Earth is weary longing, Longing for the rain io 7 I/jnging for the cloud-wrapt mountains. Longing for the leaping fountains, With their clamorous murmurs thronging To the silent plain. Oh ! the Earth is wean* longing, Longing tor the rain. Oh ! the Earth is pained with throbbing. Throbbing for the rain- Pained to see the valley lading Pained to see the frost s red braiding And the with ring north winds sobbing O er her fields of grain. Oh ! the Earth is pained with throbbing. Throbbing lor the rain. Oh ! the Earth is sore with sighing, Sighing for the rain- Sighing for the green grass springing, io8 And the fragrant wild flowers bringing Beauty ere the clover dying Sear the waiting plain. Oh ! the Earth is sore with sighing, Sighing for the rain. Sore with restlessness and throbbing, Throbbing for the rain While along the upturned furrow Busy rooks and blackbirds burrow, From her wide-spread gardens robbing Wealth of scattered grain. Oh ! the Earth is very weary, Waiting for the rain. Waiting restlessly yet weary Waiting for the rain, For the crystal tear-drops clinging To the wild oats, fresh upspringing, log And the voices blending cheery With the wild-bird s strain. Oh ! the Earth is sad and weary, Waiting for the rain. And our human hearts grow weary, Throbbing day by day- Thirsting for the fresh ning showers O er the dreams of future hours, While the present, never sating, Glides unfelt away. Oh ! the heart is weary, weary, Through its life-long day. ALONE IN THE WOODS. from the busy world rejoiced I come To court your influence, ye verdant woods, Whose templed shades have never caught the hum Of odious traffic, nor your solitudes Been saddened by the suffering that broods Like some dark spirit o er the haunts of men. Here, on some hill-top, gazing at the sky, Or slowly idling through each flowery glen, Cooled by the singing brook that ripples by My soul can meditate in peace, or smile, or sigh. Ill Here, while I roam, a thousand centuries seem To look on me poor mortal of an hour ! Yon bounding river, sparkling with a gleam Of mid-day light ; the granite mounts that tower So far above me ; and the cliffs that lower Forever o er the depths of cailons wild, Where savage beings dwell in loneliness, And mossy bowlders high towards heaven are piled ; All these betray a secret mightiness That makes all human greatness seem but nothing ness. Here, while I catch the spirit of the scene, Rise in my soul traditions of past ages, Great as the present but forgot, I ween, Save for the art of old historic sages Or time-enduring verse of poets pages ; Majestic empires crumbled to the earth, A city s ruins buried neath the- sea, 112 With only speculation for their birth ; Their rise and failure wrapt in mystery Fathomless as the depths of vast eternity. Now, like a requiem for grandeur past, Floats through my soul some fragment of a song, Plaintive and low as sounds the piny blast When zephyr gently sighs the trees among And groweth sadder as he moves along. Thus Nature wakes to melody the soul That woos her charms in solitude retired ; Thus brings the spirit under the control Of noble thoughts and yearnings, till tis fired With poesy, and breaks forth in a song inspired. Thickly around me, piercing to the blue, The living columns of the forest stand. Glimpses of heaven seldom tremble through Their verdant capitals, by breezes fanned "3 And breathing melody, supernal, grand. No trifling thoughts can start to being here. My breath is hushed beneath a solemn spell, As though I trod in some unearthly sphere : My quick heart beats each passing second s knell, Save when, oppressed, the long-drawn sigh doth from it swell. In scenes like this blind Ossian raised the note Of old, heroic, plaintive northern song, Whose moving strains to latest times shall float, In rich, immortal numbers, wild and strong. In scenes like this the spirit goes along A dim perspective, backward, to the time When giant warriors through the forest trod, Intent on deeds that seemed to them sublime; When every grove contained a heathen god, And mounds o er slaughtered heroes swelled above the sod. 114 Lo ! here about me, like those mounds of old, Are swelling hills no, billows of the main, Against the rugged mountains softly rolled, But turned to land, and clad with ripening grain, Or clover beds, and fragrant blooms whose stain Was from the rainbow caught, or from the soil That hides in stony strata, fathoms deep, The yellow seeds of wealth : these brawny toil Hath come afar to seek, and now each steep Or gentle hill its beauty can no longer keep. Thou God of Nature ! Hadst thou but imbued My yearning spirit with the noble gift, Enjoyed by some, of turning every mood The being feels to poetry, I d lift The thoughts of men above mere sordid thrift ; For ah ! too much by that mankind are bound, Too much of earthiness their course reveals ; Their plodding souls rise seldom from the ground ; Too seldom tread they o er the blooming fields, Courting the purity their beauty freely yields. But me a barren shrub fixed in the earth Thou st blest not with ability to bloom. Cursed in my later growth as in my birth, Unfruitfulness my melancholy doom, I pine in solitude and rayless gloom. Like one in deathly trance, speechless I lie, All things perceiving, but expressing naught ; Creation s loveliness enrapt espy, My swelling soul with great emotions fraught, While chill incompetency freezes every thought. Yet am I thankful thought is not denied, As tis to some, unfortunates, who spend The precious coin of life on joys allied To low bestiality ; who never wend With glad yet reverent feet to where ascend The fanes of Nature in the shady grove. Yet am I thankful for the melody Of morning birds, who, fluttering, sing of love ; Thankful my heart can throb with sympathy, And sip from every blossom treasures, like a bee. THE L ONE PINE. SWAY thy top, thou ancient pine- Warrior of the storm commanding ! Lone upon the mountain standing, Whom no ivy s arms entwine. Melancholy souls like mine, Neath thy shadow passing slow, Love to hear thy plaintive moan; Tis an echo of the woe Found in human breasts alone. Mournfully amid the ruins Of thy fellows standest thou, Like a column of some temple Living but in story now ; All around it, wildly scattered, Fallen walls and pillars shattered. Softly sighing through thy branches Sounds the wind, with fall and swell; Now retreats, and now advances, Rousing fancy with its spell, Like the melody that chances On the ear from distant bell, Or the murmur that entrances Of the tinted sea-side shell. Lo ! musing on thy loneliness, Thy brethren seem again to rise : On every hand a wilderness Shuts out the prospect of the skies. Tis verdure all, and deepest shade. No sound Disturbs the thoughtful silence, save A murmur such as rolls through ocean cave, And rustling of dry leaves upon the ground. But while I listen with an awe profound, A glance dispels the visionary wood A single tree remains where late ten thousand stood. rOJ/ DARLING. T^OM Darling was a darling Tom (Excuse all vulgar puns) ; A type of California s bright Rising and setting sons. His father was an austere man An oyster-man was he, Who opened life by opening The shell-fish of the sea; 121 But hearing of a richer clime, He took his only son, And came where golden minds are lost. While golden mines are won. They hoped to fill their pockets from Rich pockets in the ground : And midst the bowlders of the hills None bolder could be found. For though a mining minor, Tom Was never known to shirk ; And while with zeal he worked his claim. His father claimed his work. Time s record on his brow now showed A fair and spotless page : And, as his age became him well, He soon became of age. 9 122 Thinking that he was up to all The California tricks, He now resolved to pick his way Without the aid of picks. In less than eighteen circling moons Two fortunes he had made ; One by good luck at trade in stock, And one by stock in trade. With health and wealth he now could live Upon the easy plan ; While everybody said, of course, He was a fine young man. But Thomas fell, and sadly too Who of his friends would thought it ? He ran for office, and, alas For him and his ! he caught it. 12 3 Mixing no more with sober men, He found his morals fleeing ; And being of a jovial turn, He turned a jovial being. With Governor and Constable His cash he freely spends; From Constable to Governor He had a host of friends. But soon he found he could not take, As his old father would, A little spirits, just enough To do his spirits good. In councils with the patriots Upon affairs of State, Setting no bars to drinking, he Soon lost his upright gait. 12 4 His brandy straightway made him walk In very crooked ways ; While lager-beer brought to his view A bier and span of grays. The nips kept nipping at his purse (Two bits for every dram) While clear champagne produced in him A pain that was no sham. His cups of wine were followed by The doctor s painful cup ; Each morning found him getting low As he was getting up. Thus uselessly and feebly did His short existence flit, Till in a drunken fight he fell Into a drunken fit. The doctors came, but here their skill They found of no avail ; They all agreed, what ailed poor Tom Was politics and ale. MART BROWN. HE dwelt where long the wintry showers Hold undisputed sway, Where frowning April drives the flowers Far down the lane of May. A simple, rustic child of song, Reared in a chilling zone, The idol of a household throng The cherished one of home r None sang her praise, or heard her fame Beyond her native town ; She bore no fancy-woven name, Twas simply Mary Brown. 12 7 Her eyes were not a shining black, Nor yet a heavenly blue, They might be hazel, or, alack ! Some less poetic hue ; Indeed, I mind me, long ago, One pleasant summer day, A passing stranger caught their glow, I think he called them gray. Yet when with earnestness they burned Till other eyes grew dim, Their outward tint was ne er discerned The spell was from within. A novelist, with Fancy s pen, Would scarcely strive to trace From her a fairy heroine Of matchless mien and grace A model for the painter s skill, Or for the sculptor s art, 128 Her form might not be called; yet still It bore a gentle heart ; The while it fondly treasured long Love s lightest whispered tone, In other hearts she sought no wrong She knew none in her own. Though never skilled in Fashion s school, To sweep the trembling keys, Or strike the harp by studied rule, A listening throng to please : Yet still, when anguish rent the soul, And fever racked the brain, Her fingers knew that skillful touch Which soothed the brow of pain And widow thanks, and orphan tears Had owned her tender care, While little children gathered near, Her earnest love to share. 12 9 I might forget the queenly dame Of high and courtly birth. Descending from an ancient name Among the sons of earth ; I scarce recall the dazzling eyes Of her, the village belle. Who caused so many rural sighs From rustic hearts to swell ; Yet never can I cease to own, While future years shall roll. Thy passing beauty. Man" Brown- The beauty of the soul. JHr0. X JHL Sljult?. THE SONG OF THE FLUME. \ WAKE, awake ! for the flaming east Is red with the coming day ; My struggling breast disdains its rest, And I haste o er the hills away. Up from the valley ! up from the plain ! Up from the river s side ! For I come with a gush, and a torrent s rush, And there s wealth in my swelling tide. I am fed by the melting rills that start Where the sparkling snow-peaks gleam ; My course is free, and with greatest glee I leap in the sun s broad beam. Though torn from the channels deep and old I have worn through the craggy hill, Yet I flow in pride as my waters glide, And there s mirth in my music still. I sought the shore of the sounding sea From the far Sierra s hight, With a starry breast and a snow-capped crest, I foamed in a path of light; But they bore me thence in a winding way They fettered me like a slave, And as serfs of old were sold for gold, So they bartered my soil-stained wave. Through the dim tunnel, down the dark shaft, Search for the shining ore ; Hoist it away to the light of day 132 Which it never has seen before ! Spade and shovel, mattcck and pick Ply them with eager haste ; For my golden shower is sold by the hour, And the drops are too dear to waste. Lift me aloft to the mountain brow ! Fathom the deep blue vein ! And I ll sift the soil for the shining spoil, As I sink to the valley again ; The swell of my swarthy breast shall bear Pebble and rock away, Though they brave my strength, they shall yield at length, But the glittering gold shall stay. Mine is no stern and warrior march, Nor stormy trump and drum ; No banners gleam in my darkened stream, 133 As with conquering step I come ; But I touch the tributary earth Till it owns a monarch s sway, And with eager hand, from a conquered land, I bear its wealth away. Awake ! awake ! there are loving hearts In the land you left afar ; There are tearful eyes in the homes you prize, As they gaze on the western star. Then up from the valley! up from the hill ! Up from the river s side ! For I come with a gush and a torrent s rush, And there s wealth in my swelling tide ! 3. ft. ftt&ge. ERINNJ* TMAGINATION! rouse thee from repose, And to our eyes Erinna lost disclose ; Since, from the living voice of time is gone Her genius-gifted and melodious tone, And from his star-lit page the words are fled She from her early lyre in wonder shed ! Arouse thee ! fling around her fancied form A glorious hue a beauty rich and warm. 1 Erinna, a native of Lesbos, and friend of Sappho, died at the early age of nineteen. She is described as a girl of extraordinary beauty and genius ; but her works, all except two or three epigrams, have unfortunately perished. Poets and Poetry of the Ancients, by WILLIAM PETER, A. M. 135 Tis done : alone, by Lesbos wave-washed strand, I see her in the pride of beauty stand, Far gazing where the ^Egean waters smile Around her native home and classic isle. Soft blow the breezes on her snowy brow, And stir the folds around her limbs that flow ; Her golden hair s luxuriance on her neck Falls unregarded down ; it needs no check For who would comb the plumage of the bird, Or smooth the dimpling waves by Zephyr stirred ? Her small white hands are linked beneath her zone, And tween her sweetly rounded arms are shown Twin spheres of Love, and Pleasure s burning throne ! A glow is on her cheeks, and fresh her lips As evening cloud the Sun s vermilion tips ; Her clear bright eye wild wanders o er the main, That, rolling its blue waves along, a strain Eternal utters, and sublime, to charm The fair green isles that o er its bosom swarm. 136 Ah ! beautiful indeed ! What magic gives The grace that in her every movement lives ? What power, unseen, is breathing o er her face, Where every lineament divine we trace ? It is the magic Sorcerer, never stole From Science dread the magic of the Soul ! It is the power of genius Heaven-conferred, Which, voiceless though it be, and aye unheard, Imparts its own true beauty to the face, And lends unto the form its bloom and grace. Erinna ! mid the objects Time has cast His hand upon, thou stand st within the past In lonely and peculiar loveliness ! The child of song, with Nature s own impress Upon thee yet thy harp is hushed, and no Sweet strains of thine through distant times shall flow Thy voice has perished, sweetly though it sung, And perished those who on its accents hung ; 1 37 Thou wert a bird, that breathed its soul away In song, and died but Echo lost the lay; Thou wert a star, which shone a single night, And set, to bring no more its worshipped light. Thou t //7 a glorious image of the mind, Seen through the depths of ages, far behind, Round which our fancy flings her brightest beams. While ancient story faintly aids her dreams. The friend of Sappho linked together be Those names, and never wrecked on Time s wide sea And when we read the passion-wildering strain. Ot Sappho s muse, that charms the listening brain. We ll feel Erinna s voice our hearts inspire, And dream her lovely hand is on the lyre. 10 H. . Duncan. THE I X r A G L I O. LINL5 ON A BEAUTIFUL ANTIQUE. ON the temple-crowned summit, O er the waters of the bay, Lingered yet the rosy sunlight, Lingered yet the dying day ! O er the Pantheon s sculptured beauties Light and shade were playing still, Matchless statues, life-like tinted. Stood upon Minerva s hill. Gazing on his work completed, Carved upon a sparkling stone, 139 Sat an artist in the twilight, Like a monarch on his throne ! And his subjects were around him, Called forth by a master s power- Genius, with its bright creations, Peopled there the passing hour. But a face of rarer beauty On his dreams had never shone. Than the one his hand had graven Deep within the gem-lit stone. From the Past that face was chosen ! There its gaze still seemed to be- Flashing by the dying sunlight Shone the word MNEMOSYNE ! Full two thousand years their changes Mark upon the sculptured wall ; 140 Ruins, mighty in their ruin, Spread o er Greece a nation s pall ! Full two thousand years are numbered Since that artist s task was done Since in glory Athens sparkled, Lit up by that setting sun. Yet the carved gem remaining Tells us of that golden age, And bids Memory s face restore us Light to read her brightest page. # -:? # i On the temple-crowned summit Breaks again the rising day, Streaming with its dawning brightness Down the waters of the bay ! See, the centuried mist is breaking ! Lo, the free Hellenic shore ! Marathon Plarsea tell us Greece \s living Greece once more. O er the island-gemmed yEgean, By the zephyr borne along, List the muse of plaintive Sappho- Hear Anacreon s wine-pressed song. Stately temples stand before us, Where the wisest masters taught Fairest in their fair proportions, Columned halls where Phidias wrought. Hark ! a voice from the Agora Bids a thousand voices cease- Pericles, the lord of language, Stirs to war, or soothes to peace ! Painting, by her rival sisters, Stands in her meridian day; Rivaling Nature by her semblance, Bidding Nature homage pay! 1 See those gilded letters glowing Mark that laurel wreath of fame .Eschylus, they give &\ verses ; Sophocles, they wreathe tkr name ! * * * * Lo, the mist again is closing O er the waters of the bay Night, her mantle now enfolds it; When will come again the day? Full two thousand years are numbered Since that artist s task was done Since in gkxy Athens faded, Lit up by that setting son! 3amcs Ciucn. / FEEL PM GROWING AULD. T FEEL I m growing auld, gude-wife, I feel I m growing auld ; My steps are frail, my een are bleared, My pow is unco bauld. I ve seen the snaws o fourscore years O er hill and meadow fa , And, hinnie ! were it no for you, I d gladly slip awa . I feel I m growing auld, gude-wife, I feel I m growing auld ; Frae youth to age I ve keepit warm The love that ne er turned cauld. 144 I canna bear the dreary thocht That we maun sindered be ; There s naething binds my poor auld heart To earth, gude-wife, but thee. I feel I m growing auld, gude-wife, I feel I m growing auld ; Life seems to me a wintry waste The very sun feels cauld. For lang, lang years ye ve been to me O warldly friens the best ; Now, I ll lay down my weary head, Gude-wife, and be at rest. 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. f to recall after LD21-35m-8, 72 (Q4189S10)476 A-32 General Library University of California Berkeley