534 
 
LIBRARY 
 
 OF Tin: 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
 , i8g 
 
 JAW 1895 
 
 Accessions No . 
 
&L <-u>j- *T-^ wW 
 
WOOD BLOOMS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN VANCE CHENEY 
 
 Author of "Thistle-Drift" 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES & BROTHER 
 MDCCCLXXXVIII 
 
COPYRIGHT. 1888, BY 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES & BROTHER. 
 
TO 
 MY FATHER 
 
THE SINGER OF TO-DA Y. 
 
 1\/TUCH as Calisto stood before 
 
 Diana s maids, the time she was 
 Heavy with child of Jupiter, 
 Stands Genius, great with thought, before 
 The reproving world. Whoso, indeed, 
 Dare not declare the gift from Heaven, 
 Must blush with a fair shame ; confused, 
 Must bring his little light as one 
 That bears a candle to the air 
 In the scant hollow of his hand. 
 Doubt follows like a shadow, faith 
 Does shake, troubles beset the way ; 
 And yet the son of song, true bom, 
 Holds onward. What he is, he is ; 
 And nurslings of a lesser breed 
 
 
 > 0* THDB 
 
 
 II7BRSIT7 
 
THE SINGER OF TO-DAY. 
 
 Cannot undo his birth, nor end 
 His -work. The harvest may be light, 
 But what is reaped will wear the gold : 
 This is enough. Nor let them chide, 
 His braivny brothers, called to put 
 The sickle in a fuller field : 
 Forsooth, stronger than they as they 
 Than he, have been. The ground is old; 
 Ay, what is left for any, now? 
 Simply to fitly echo pass 
 The great First Voices down the years. 
 Exceeding few may be far heard 
 Too true y still it is a brave reach 
 To sweetly take the nearest heart. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 I-TMJ 
 
 Hilda ! 
 
 St. Isophore ....... 3 
 
 Old Braddock 7 
 
 The Revenge I2 
 
 The Three Ages !6 
 
 Hokan, the Hermit 24 
 
 The House of Pleasure 26 
 
 The White Tower 32 
 
 Then 34 
 
 A P art 36 
 
 A Day Dream . 37 
 
 On the Wild Ways of the Night ... 39 
 
 Night Wind of Fall (I.) 40 
 
 " (ID . 40 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Song of the Sea 42 
 
 The Voice 43 
 
 Insane 44 
 
 The Shadow .46 
 
 The Shape Unseen ... 47 
 
 Back of it all is Fate 48 
 
 Bleeding Heart and Broken Wings . . 49 
 
 Dirge 5 O 
 
 Dear Maid, pale as the pale Wild Dove . 51 
 
 Voice of the Past 52 
 
 Memory . 53 
 
 Calm 54 
 
 The Strong 56 
 
 The Dead Hero (I.) . . . . .57 
 
 " " (HO 57 
 
 To the Bitter End 59 
 
 He that Hears the Voice . . . .61 
 
 Faith 6 3 
 
 At Last 64 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Use of Sorrow 66 
 
 Rest upon the Hill 67 
 
 The Glories of Two Worlds .... 68 
 
 My Children ....... 69 
 
 My Dreams 70 
 
 A Wish 72 
 
 My Choice 73 
 
 My Castle in the Air 74 
 
 Deep within the Forest Gray 75 
 
 In Twilight Land 76 
 
 Waiting 78 
 
 The Old 80 
 
 Our Mother 81 
 
 The Heart s Sovereignty .... 82 
 
 Death s 83 
 
 The Guest 84 
 
 The Confession 91 
 
 Who s for the Magdalen ? . . . -97 
 
 The Empty Arbor 101 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Wind 104 
 
 Song and Silence 106 
 
 The Trees I0 7 
 
 Spring Song (i) (My thoughts they swing;) . 108 
 
 " (2) (Now back again to brown, etc.) 108 
 
 " (3) (The maple and the birch, etc.) 109 
 
 Morning Song in Summer .... in 
 
 Summer Hours 113 
 
 The Brook IX g 
 
 Summer Noon uy 
 
 August Days IX 8 
 
 The Stranger-Days 120 
 
 Going of Autumn ...... 121 
 
 Death of Autumn 123 
 
 November 126 
 
 Fancy s Flock I2 y 
 
 On the Upper Ways 129 
 
 The Poet . . / , . . .132 
 The Pilgrimage . . P . . .134 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Sacred Veil 136 
 
 Toung Taloung *39 
 
 The Silent Blessing 142 
 
 In the Lane . *45 
 
 Good By (Song) 148 
 
 By and By (Song) J 49 
 
 What s in this Christmas Day ? . . .151 
 
 Great is To-day J 57 
 
 Every one to his own Way . . . *59 
 
 The Good Old-time IDI 
 
 Granther l6 4 
 
 A Saint of Yore l6 7 
 
 The Old Farm Barn *7o 
 
 Auto da fe J 73 
 
 An Epistle to a Bachelor . . . .179 
 Brother Bachelor Batrachian . . . .184 
 
 Our Ophidian Friend l8 9 
 
 Silver Bell *92 
 
 Helen 201 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 _ PAGE 
 
 Poetry made Practic 2O9 
 
 The Trapper s Sweetheart . . . .213 
 
 The Jockey s Soliloquy 2I5 
 
 Modern Progress .... ,218 
 
HILDA. 
 
 RAY Hilda to the churchyard came, 
 A withered gypsy, bent and lame ; 
 Straightway she struck her witches light 
 Three greenish flames, sharp-tongued and bright. 
 
 Next, she the magic circle drew, 
 
 Caught thrice three leaves the night wind blew ; 
 
 Then fixed, as in death, sat she 
 
 Among the graves all silently. 
 
 So sat she till the village clock 
 Struck twelve ; with its last, warning shock 
 She broke the charm sent back below 
 The dim shapes gliding to and fro. 
 
HILDA. 
 
 These passed, but till the darkness fled 
 Old Hilda sat among the dead ; 
 Where, overhead, night long a bough 
 Did sigh, and since has sighed till now. 
 
 At morn she rose, cried thrice aloud, 
 "Young Winsted, when she wears her shroud, 
 The fish shall feed ! " Then, thin and gray, 
 Like a live mist, she went her way. 
 
 God rest her soul old Hilda gray ! 
 The dreary morn they laid away 
 The maid beneath the churchyard tree 
 Curst Winsted s ship went down at sea. 
 
ST. ISOPHORE. 
 
 "\ T 7HO now serves the Master, 
 
 Heals the sick from door to door, 
 As did he God-fearing, 
 
 Faithful, brave Saint Isophore ? 
 
 "Healer, heal thy thousand" 
 
 Plain he heard the voice divine 
 " Lives a thousand, save them ; 
 
 One thereafter forfeits thine" 
 
 All but to the limit, 
 
 Firm he wrought his round two-score ; 
 Then the voice of warning, 
 
 Dost forget, good Isophore ? 
 
ST. I SOPH ORE, 
 
 Thoughtful, faintly smiling, 
 
 " I remember well," he said ; 
 " But one more one only, 
 
 And I number with the dead." 
 
 Calm he sat and questioned, 
 Took still counsel with his heart, 
 
 Whether it were better 
 He should tarry or depart. 
 
 Nature well he loved her, 
 Loved the forest and the field ; 
 
 These were lost forever 
 If again he touched and healed. 
 
 Now the king was stricken, 
 
 Isophore they sought to bring ; 
 " Nay," he answered, " life is 
 Sweet to beggar as to king." 
 
ST. ISOPHORE. 
 
 Fathers, mothers, children, 
 Rich and poor, and young and old 
 
 Gathered to the healer ; 
 " Nay," he said, " the scroll is rolled. 
 
 But, ere long one entered, 
 
 Beautiful as flesh may be ; 
 At his feet she threw her 
 
 " Man of God, Oh, pity me ! 
 
 " Faithful have I promised 
 
 One that lives beyond the sea ; 
 He is coming, father, 
 And I die. Oh, pity me ! " 
 
 Filled with fear and anguish, 
 Looked she in the healer s face ; 
 
 Like a marble statue, 
 Sat he, silent, in his place. 
 
ST. ISOPHORE. 
 
 White he sat, and silent, 
 
 Thinking backward on the years ; 
 Sudden to the maiden 
 
 Turned he, smiling, but in tears, 
 
 " Daughter, little dreaming 
 
 What thou askest, why I give, 
 Get thee to thy lover, 
 To thy mother ; go, and live ! " 
 
 Merry was the wedding ; 
 
 So the bride shone years before, 
 When was wed the mother, 
 
 Faithless to young Isophore. 
 
 Merry was the wedding 
 
 While the good ship stood off shore 
 At that hour the spirit 
 
 Passed from peerless Isophore. 
 
OLD BRADDOCK. 
 
 Fire in Allentown ! 
 The Women s Building it must go. 
 Mothers wild rush up and down, 
 Despairing men push to and fro ; 
 Two stories caught one story more 
 See see old Braddock s to the fore, 
 Braddock, full three-score. 
 
 Like a high granite rock 
 
 His good gray head looms huge and bare ; 
 
 Firm as rock in tempest shock 
 
 He towers above the tallest, there. 
 
 Conrad ! " Tis Braddock to his son, 
 
 The prop he thinks to lean upon 
 
 When his work is done. 
 
 TJFI7ERSITT 
 
OLD BRAD DOCK. 
 
 Conrad, the young and brave, 
 Unflinching meets his father s eye : 
 " Who would now the children save, 
 That they die not himself must die." 
 On his white face no touch of fear, 
 But, O, it is so sweet, so dear 
 Life at twenty year ! 
 
 41 Father Father ! " A quick 
 Embrace, and he has set his feet 
 On the ladder. Rolling thick, 
 The flame-shot smoke chokes all the street, 
 So blinds one only has descried 
 Her form that, thro its dreadful tide, 
 Springs to Conrad s side. 
 
 Strong she is, now, as he, 
 
 Throbbing with love s own lion might ; 
 
 Strong as beautiful is she, 
 
 And Conrad s arms are pinioned tight. 
 
OLD BRADDOCK. 
 
 Far thro the fire, sits God above " 
 In vain he pleads ; full does it prove, 
 Her full strength of love. 
 
 Too late she sets him free 
 
 High overhead his father s call : 
 
 From a height no eye can see 
 
 Calls hoary Braddock down the wall, 
 
 Old men are Death s, let him destroy. 
 
 Young men are Life s, Conrad, my boy 
 
 Life s and Love s, my boy ! " 
 
 Wilder the women s cries, 
 
 Hoarser the shouts of men below ; 
 
 Sheets of fire against the skies, 
 
 Set all the stricken town aglow. 
 
 With sweep and shriek, with rush and roar, 
 
 The flames shut round old Braddock hoar 
 
 Braddock, full three-score. 
 
OLD BRAD DOCK. 
 
 " Save, save my children, save ! " 
 " Ay, ay, all answer, speak as one, 
 " If man s arm can from the grave 
 Bring back your babes, it will be done ; 
 Know Braddock still is worth us all 
 Hark hark ! It is his own brave call, - 
 Back back from the wall ! " 
 
 God ! God, that it should be 1 
 
 As savagely the lashed wind veers, 
 
 Fiercer than the fiery sea 
 
 The frantic crowd waves hands, and cheers 
 
 An old man high in whirl of Hell ! 
 
 The children how, no soul can tell 
 
 Braddock holds them well. 
 
 Shorn all that good gray head 
 With snows of sixty winters sown ; 
 Griped around the children s bed, 
 One arm is shriveled to th bone : 
 
OLD BRADDOCK. 
 
 Old men are Death s, let him destroy. 
 Young men are Life s, Conrad, my boy, 
 Life s and Love s, my boy ! " 
 
 Fire ! Fire in Allentown ! 
 Though twas a hundred years ago, 
 How the babes were carried down, 
 To-day the village children know. 
 They know of Braddock s good gray head, 
 They know the last, great words he said, 
 Know how he fell dead. 
 
THE REVENGE. 
 
 r T^HE struggling stars dim light 
 The palace wall and pane ; 
 Why chafes the dog, to-night, 
 In bondage of his chain ? 
 
 He sees a pallid face 
 
 And spectral eyes that stare; 
 Quicker his restless pace, 
 
 Stiffer stands his hair. 
 
 Dear face ! he knows it well, 
 Knows, too, that vapor hand ; 
 
 He gives a grin of Hell, 
 He tries his brazen band. 
 
THE REVENGE. 
 
 Again once more ; he s free ! 
 
 The spectre beckons on, 
 And, swift as sight may be, 
 
 Both ghost and dog are gone. 
 
 It is a trackless way 
 Across the lowland hoar, 
 
 But, oh, the spectre gray 
 Has traveled it before ! 
 
 The clock has struck but twice 
 Since she was in her tower ; 
 
 And when it shall strike thrice, 
 Twill be the midnight hour. 
 
 She heard a voice below 
 Was like her lover s call ; 
 
 Soft thither did she go, 
 She passed the palace wall. 
 
i 4 THE REVENGE. 
 
 Down like a dove she flew, 
 All soft she fluttered down : 
 
 Cunning the craven drew 
 The gentle lady down. 
 
 God blot, blot out his sin 
 That lured the lady down 
 
 The moon is old and thin 
 In wilds beyond the town. 
 
 He s hid her body there, 
 
 The flesh is not yet cold : 
 " Let lady fair beware 
 
 That frowns on suitor bold ! 
 
 " Go, tell thy high-born folk 
 
 Whose quiet bride thou art " 
 Never more he spoke ; 
 The dog did lap his heart. 
 
THE REVENGE. 15 
 
 The cleared stars fling their light 
 
 On palace wall and pane : 
 What glistens there so bright ? 
 
 It is the empty chain. 
 
THE THREE AGES. 
 
 /^HEERLY greet me I am young ! 
 
 Never blithest poet sung 
 Of one that happier found his way 
 To golden gladness of the day : 
 With music meet me, play and sing 
 To give me merry welcoming ! 
 
 Life is fair, and love is sweet ; 
 Hardly may you see my feet, 
 So airy light, so fleet I come, 
 Henceforth to make the world my home. 
 Strew flowers, lift the ringing voice, 
 Sing songs with me rejoice, rejoice I 
 
THE THREE A GES. 17 
 
 Glad is youth, joyous and strong ! 
 Time has sworn to do no wrong ; 
 I take your hand come, let us run 
 With laughter in the open sun ! 
 Feel how I clasp you, hold you fast ; 
 For life is kind, and love will last. 
 
 Nay, shake not the doubtful head, 
 Withered Sorrow he is dead ; 
 Young Joy has buried him so deep 
 Never again shall mourner weep. 
 Yes, life is kind, will grow more dear 
 From day to day, from year to year. 
 
 Gaily greet me viols, play ; 
 Hours, go dancing down the day, 
 And I will with you laughing run 
 Like meadow-brook at rise of sun. 
 Ho, all come follow ; sorrow s past, 
 And life is sweet, and love will last ! 
 
i8 THE THREE AGES. 
 
 II. 
 
 Whither art faring ? Is one half 
 The road-room not enough ? You laugh ; 
 Tis a loon s answer. Do not stop, 
 Be off ! Ay, spin it like a top 
 The way they go that chase a smile ; 
 Till night is but a little while, 
 And Fool-town s east good twenty mile. 
 
 Twice I ve bid you be gone. You heard ; 
 But heavens ! a callow, limp-necked bird 
 Just out the shell, all belly, beak 
 Once more I 11 have compassion. Speak, 
 Then briefly ; Time, though old, is fast 
 And tireless. " Sorrow, it is past, 
 And life is sweet, and love will last." 
 
 Enough. You Ve yet hard hills to climb. 
 Your mother wasted nine months time 
 
THE THREE AGES. 
 
 Out of the twelve, the year she bore 
 A son. One word you 11 wish no more : 
 Play bubbles, blow, puff out of breath, 
 Hug life, swallow each word she saith 
 Boy, did you ever hear of death ? 
 
 I thought it gone. That last hard word 
 Pricked in the crop of my young bird. 
 How gay he skims it on to town ! 
 The jaunty twitching of his gown, 
 His curvets truly that is grace ; 
 And his as plump, ungrooved a face 
 As any s of the Fool-town race. 
 
 With savage thrust I shoved him by, 
 
 But such as he is, that was I : 
 
 All smirks and nods, and faith sublime 
 
 In every cruel trick that time 
 
 Did play me. Forty year at school, 
 
THE THREE AGES. 
 
 I measure with too ready rule 
 Ah, well, peace to the pretty fool. 
 
 III. 
 
 The sun is low, once more he nears his rest, 
 And dark, dulling the purple of the west, 
 Prepares the way of night. Upon the hill 
 The night-wind, loosed, now wanders at its will 
 With moaning. The clear call at break of day 
 Echos, a sigh, when night has passed away : 
 The dawn, the noon, then gloom upon the gold, 
 And music fallen a-wailing. I am old ; 
 Nature misleads me not as in my youth, 
 She pities me my years, and speaks the truth- 
 Wise mother, tend rest when the leaping heart 
 Is slowed, and Joy has played her careless part. 
 The wind is louder ; like a beast it growls, 
 Or, sweeping down the gorges, fitful howls ; 
 
THE THREE AGES. 
 
 The windows shudder, while the taller trees 
 Whip wildly in the wood : I take mine ease. 
 Old winds, roar on ! I am as grim and hoar 
 As are your eldest ; barred mine oaken door, 
 Ay, steel of years is barred across my breast : 
 Old winds, ye cannot touch an old man s rest. 
 Serene his spirit, steady is his head 
 That travels best the highway toward the dead. 
 To make this sober journey are we sent ; 
 If, chance, a momentary ornament 
 We be besides, tis but a fire-fly s glow, 
 A flash, which does not light the way we go. 
 For this, and only this, lives every one : 
 Calmly to work, to rest when work is done. 
 To-day, a youth passed by, singing along 
 The highway ; merry as a brook s his song ; 
 Where, caroling, he hastened into sight, 
 There shone a glistening mirror of delight : 
 So fair his face, so tuneful, smooth, his tongue, 
 I know not if he sweeter looked or sung. 
 
THE THREE AGJSS. 
 
 So did he look and sing, thoughtless and gay, 
 To-morrow to be sad as glad, to-day. 
 There met him as he, laughing, leapt and ran, 
 One come to middle years, a dark-browed man : 
 Matching his frown against the weanling s smiles, 
 With dagger words he stabbed at fortune s wiles 
 As they were bodies to be whittled down. 
 This man, years since, did win him high re 
 nown 
 
 As fame goes ; having won, he sudden paused, 
 Disowned his honors, saying they had caused 
 But loss. Angered he rose, without delay 
 Forever from old follies turned away 
 Away from olden follies unto new ; 
 For rage holds not the golden balance true. 
 
 But why, forsooth, sit I and muse on these ? 
 Impossible to share with them mine ease. 
 Indifferent, too, are old men, though we feel 
 Somewhat as into shadow slow we steal. 
 
THE THREE AGES. 
 
 Age is indifferent : in the eyes of Thought 
 There be few tears, his tightened lips smile not. 
 And yet, O Youth, all laughter Man, all war, 
 These white hairs, they must sk, What for What 
 for? 
 
HOKAN, THE HERMIT. 
 
 T HAVE not dwelt with men, but have held close 
 
 Unto thy breast ; Mother, remember this. 
 The earth is gray, and yonder climbing sun 
 Is old, but both keep yet the youthful green 
 And the young gold. These are my rightful kin ; 
 Why me, why cut me off and touch them not ? 
 If time s insidious chiseling mark my cheek, 
 If flood of years wash white these hairs to die 
 For that ! I say, I have not lived with men, 
 Why die with them ? Surely my shoulders hold 
 As they were set, unbent by packed care ; 
 I walk upright, my sleep is long and sound, 
 Rest lays her thighs to mine in my still bed. 
 Only dead hope should rot. Wait till I wail 
 
HO KAN, THE HERMIT. 35 
 
 For woe that flattens me like a great stone, 
 Bear with me till I rail against my lot, 
 Till first I whine. You take not yon gray rock : 
 He, too, is old. Mother, remember me. 
 Strike down the sapless oak, the spineless grass 
 Which withers ; ay, lick up the trickling stream, 
 But shall the sea be dried, wilt stop the stars ? 
 Older are these, older than I, and less ; 
 Take them or take not me. Th Etruscan king 
 Did bind the living hand to hand, and face" 
 To face, fast to the dead, there let them die. 
 You will not so. Mother, you are not hard, 
 Like kings, and I am not as other men. 
 Last night the moon did stop on yonder hill, 
 Did pause and gaze as one that looks her last 
 On the beloved : Mother, remember me. 
 
THE HOUSE OF PLEASURE. 
 
 I " HE sun burns not with purer gold 
 
 Than flamed that palace famed of old : 
 Proudest of all the gorgeous piles of slumber, 
 Around me shot its columns tall ; 
 Glory poured over floor and wall 
 Thick, dazing splendors without name or number, 
 
 Anon, rich singing rose and fell : 
 
 " O youth," it ran, "we love thee well, 
 
 We love thee well ! " And I could feel their 
 
 breathing, 
 
 So near the singing maidens drew 
 The winged maidens, as they flew, 
 Singing, dancing, their arms like wild vines wreath 
 ing. 
 
THE HOUSE OF PLEASURE. 27 
 
 Once, when the rapturous song ran low, 
 
 One pressed me to her breast, aglow, 
 
 Whereon I sank, bewildered, dizzy clinging ; 
 
 My face pressed hard its pillow warm, 
 
 While still swept on the blended storm 
 
 Of light and laughter, of dancing and of singing. 
 
 O, long and long there did I lie, 
 Until the day did fade and die ; 
 And when I v/oke, fled was the rapturous measure, 
 Not one sweet voice, not one lithe form ; 
 No more the live breast, soft and warm, 
 But cold dead stone the throne of the House of 
 Pleasure. 
 
 The throne it was, for through the night, 
 
 I read in letters burning bright, 
 
 Like low stars in the pine-tops, Thou beholdest 
 
 The king of the Realm of Pleasure the king, 
 
THE HOUSE OF PLEASURE. 
 
 High lord of youth and reveling, 
 
 Sovereign of sovereigns from gray years the oldest. 
 
 " Dread shape," I sighed, " art thou the king ; 
 
 To thee, at last, does Beauty bring 
 
 Her sons of mirth, her daughters dancing, singing ? " 
 
 Behold the King of Joy ! he said. 
 
 Lo, there were no eyes in his head, 
 
 And round him vapors of the vault were clinging 
 
 Vapors that made a dreadful veil, 
 And, as the light seeds start and sail 
 Along the summer wind, shape followed shape 
 About in it : with gesture slow 
 The king did sign, and they did go, 
 And a serpent looped, and swung from the king s 
 nape. 
 
 " Tore God," I cried, " thou king of bone, 
 Canst call this temple all thine own ? " 
 
THE HOUSE OF PLEASURE. 2 g 
 
 How old art thou ? he asked ; and the serpent 
 
 turning, 
 
 Reared its slim head as if to hear. 
 I answered, " Record me twenty year." 
 Tis done : behold the record, yonder, burning. 
 
 On the cold white steps, facing the throne, 
 I lay before the king of bone, 
 And counted the twenty tapers faintly burning : 
 Fixed in a glass of slipping sand, 
 Twenty pale shapes had them in the hand, 
 Who a noiseless march slow round and round gan 
 turning. 
 
 The first shape in his misty hand 
 
 Held up the taper, set in sand, 
 
 Whereat the king signed the sign there is no denying : 
 
 Upheld, I watched it prick the air, 
 
 I saw it drop to the sand, and flare, 
 
 And it was smothered ere I knew twas dying. 
 
THE HOUSE OF PLEASURE. 
 
 As the first shape came the second came, 
 
 And held on high the fated flame 
 
 Again the direful sign there is no denying : 
 
 The chilling, dim-lit stone was wet 
 
 As with the drench of the last sweat, 
 
 Where I stared, dumb, before the monarch lying. 
 
 Noiseless, the filmy shapes filed on 
 
 Till, all save one, the flames were gone : 
 
 A moment more the final sign would be given, 
 
 But one more wave of the fleshless hand, 
 
 And the last would sink to the slipping sand, 
 
 And my soul go forth and be as the leaf wind-driven. 
 
 I clutched at the cold glazed stone, and cried, 
 
 " Now, monstrous king, art thou defied, 
 
 Scorned in her name whose I am from the morrow ! " 
 
 I spoke her name, and, as I spoke, 
 
 In the ghastly place a great light broke, 
 
THE HOUSE OF PLEASURE. 
 
 And in the midst stood, bowed, the dark queen, 
 Sorrow. 
 
 I clung to her black robe, and prayed, 
 " Let yon sand slip not, bid the flame be stayed ! " 
 The sand slackened, and to a mournful measure 
 The flame spread bright and wide till, at last, 
 His pale train sank, and the crowned skull passed, 
 And the dropt snake writhed on the site of the 
 House of Pleasure. 
 
THE WHITE TOWER. 
 
 "D UILT in my dreams, a white tower rose, 
 
 And she that was its light stood at the door 
 The beams of moon and star fell pale around her, 
 The four winds silent gathered. 
 
 Ere long, slow floated tones far-borne, 
 As of a voice had wandered out of Heaven, 
 Burdened with melody no ear could reach to, 
 Only for spirits hearing. 
 
 Even as it came the wide air curled 
 Upon itself till, like a mighty shell, 
 Trembling, it swung and sweetly murmured mur 
 mured, 
 Filled with immortal music. 
 
THE WHITE TOWER. 33 
 
 Full in the white-tower door stood she 
 About whose feet the beams of moon and star 
 Fell wan as ashes ; motionless, unheeding, 
 She stood, as it were, the statue 
 
 Of some stopt soul held fast between 
 The seen and the unseen a spirit clothed 
 In radiant semblance of its mortal vesture, 
 Midway twixt earth and Heaven. 
 
 Now sped, swift as the hunter s shaft, 
 A cry from earth, her lover s cry of pain 
 Sent up from loss unutterable last anguish 
 Of a great heart, so broken. 
 
 Still stood, unchanged, the high white tower, 
 But in the door no more the shape of flame : 
 A track of fire ran from it, burning earthward 
 Spake Heaven, They come together. 
 
THEN. 
 
 TV T OT yet, O Love ! not yet. 
 
 Till from high brightness of the past 
 Not one sole beam of splendor last, 
 Lift not thine eyes to mine, 
 Take not my hand in thine. 
 O Love ! not yet 
 Not yet. 
 
 Not yet, O Love ! not yet. 
 Till in the future thou canst see, 
 In soulless thing or soul, but me, 
 Bid not my held heart break 
 Its fetters for thy sake. 
 
 O Love ! not yet 
 Not yet. 
 
THEN. 35 
 
 Not yet, O Love ! not yet. 
 
 Till the full present shut thee round, 
 
 Wall in thy soul from sight and sound 
 
 Between thy heart and me, 
 
 I must not follow thee. 
 
 O Love ! not yet 
 Not yet. 
 
 But when this is, Oh, then, 
 Though twixt us stretch the mighty sea, 
 Thine arms will feel they re folding me ! 
 Thy heart emptied, swept clean 
 As though love had not been, 
 My love, Oh, then 
 Then, Then ! 
 
APART. 
 
 A PART too hard that word to say. 
 ^^ Twere death to me to take away 
 What I do love ; myself were taken. 
 Never was love like mine forsaken : 
 When thou art gone, twill be too late 
 For me to feel my fate. 
 
 Thou going, I shall going be, 
 O Love ! beyond the loss of thee ; 
 Thou gone, I 11 not be left to grieve : 
 Love cannot true love living leave. 
 Apart to me twere idly said ; 
 They hear not that are dead. 
 
A DAY DREAM. 
 
 "HP WAS not neath spectral moon, 
 
 But in the day s high noon, 
 That, pillowed on the grass, 
 I saw a vision pass. 
 
 Strange quiet folded round, 
 Strange silence, close profound ; 
 Sweet peace, peace sweet and deep, 
 Bade every trouble sleep. 
 
 O Spirit ! stay with me, 
 Lying all quietly : 
 If this is death," I said, 
 Be my lot with the dead." 
 
38 A DAY DREAM. 
 
 The shape with others passed, 
 Each fainter than the last ; 
 And dreadful was the roar 
 I heard the day once more. 
 
ON THE WILD WAYS OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 A LAS, who did it, Fall wind, sighing ; 
 
 Who struck her cheek so white 
 That she walks there glides, a-dying, 
 On the wild ways of the night ? 
 
 Night wind, no longer let her wander ; 
 
 Poor ghost, that she should freeze ! 
 Call her, bid her over yonder 
 
 To the shelter of the trees. 
 
 The bitter, oh, th" unpitying weather ! 
 
 Ere moon and stars be dead, 
 Blow the yellow leaves together, 
 
 Night wind, make the maid a bed. 
 
NIGHT WIND OF FALL. 
 I. 
 
 nPO-NIGHT, the might of the wind ! 
 
 Let him listen that dare : 
 Hark hark the cry i the mind, 
 Like the wail in the branches bare ! 
 
 Each thought upcaught by the gale, 
 
 Torn from memory s mold, 
 The heart s dead wander and wail 
 
 With the flying leaves, a-cold. 
 
 II. 
 
 Hear the bare boughs sigh 
 As the winds go by : 
 
NIGHT WIND OF FALL. 
 
 Never more hopeless moan, 
 Lone, so lone ! " 
 
 See, the folding cloud 
 Is the dead moon s shroud : 
 Over and over the moan, 
 Lone, so lone ! " 
 
SONG OF THE SEA. 
 
 T) LACK is the night, the shore lights glare, 
 
 The cries at the hearthside what is the prayer? 
 Tis wind and darkness, tears and moan, 
 Tis waiting and wail on the shore, alone : 
 God be 
 With the ships at sea ! 
 
 Round the rock-lights and down the bay, 
 Why comes the wild wind, ay, what does he say ? 
 He comes to mourn with the souls on shore, 
 For those that will follow the waters no more : 
 
 Wail, wail 
 
 For the ships that sail ! 
 
THE VOICE. 
 
 TV T O birds sing, 
 
 Tranced the air ; 
 The lattice vines close cling, 
 Close keeps the shadow there. 
 
 Shade by shade, 
 
 Drifts of gray 
 Slow dull the footprints made 
 
 Where passed the golden day. 
 
 Earth and sky, 
 
 Deep their rest 
 Was that the wind went by, 
 
 Or a soul, escaped the breast ? 
 
INSANE. 
 
 TV /f Y darling hopes went sailing on a summer sea, 
 Went sailing, happy sailing, far away from 
 
 All in a shining boat, away away from me, 
 Far did my dear ones float along the summer sea. 
 
 O, then this hair was brown ; O, then this face was 
 fair ! 
 
 The boat danced up and down like a leaf upon the 
 air. 
 
 And bright was then my eye there could no bright 
 er be ; 
 
 I saw the black fiend fly, a-scowling on the sea. 
 
INSANE. 45 
 
 White as this hair is white, the white foam came 
 
 ashore ; 
 The boat passed out of sight, I heard the storm-beast 
 
 roar : 
 White as this hair is white, the white foam came 
 
 ashore, 
 The black fiend laughed outright my darlings come 
 
 no more. 
 
THE SHADOW. 
 
 T T ELEN, you once were young ; with viny grace 
 
 Enwreathed, the fairest of your gentle race ; 
 Now, Helen, in yon palace I may see 
 The prosperous sire, the children at your knee. 
 
 Perhaps my sight played false the night our last- 
 When in the bright moonshine a spectre passed ; 
 But, Helen, gentle Helen, is it peace, 
 Do no dreams come, no longings for release ? 
 
 Helen, our love went it like summer weather, 
 The golden dreams and golden days together ? 
 Soft mother, which the shadow, after all, 
 You or that following on your costly wall ? 
 
THE SHAPE UNSEEN. 
 
 "D ESIDE two lovers stands a shape, 
 
 A watchful shape, unseen ; 
 His ear is at their hearts, 
 His hands their hands between. 
 
 The sigh, the vow he heeds not these, 
 
 The heart is all his care ; 
 The lips that kiss may curse, 
 
 The heart he hearkens there. 
 
 Cry not to him ; as kind as wise, 
 
 He will not idly pain : 
 The hands he tears apart, 
 
 They should not clasp again. 
 
BACK OF IT ALL IS FATE. 
 
 HE son of strength may strike and win, 
 
 Or to the hungry dust go down ; 
 The full blood flows, and the toils begin, 
 To end God knows in rags or crown : 
 Early and late 
 Back of it all is Fate. 
 
 Love s high-born daughter like the rose 
 
 She plucks or passes, so is she ; 
 To be worn upon the breast God knows 
 Or under foot trod ruthlessly : 
 Early and late 
 Back of it all is Fate. 
 
BLEEDING HEART AND BROKEN WINGS. 
 
 A BARD, unheard, sang sweetest lay, 
 
 (Our life it is a little day ;) 
 The death-glaze made his bright eye dim, 
 When all the world called after him. 
 
 A maiden gave her heart away, 
 (Our life it is a bitter day,) 
 And there was scandal thro the town : 
 Only the bell-toll hushed it down. 
 
 The maiden loves, the poet sings, 
 (Dear bleeding heart, poor broken wings !) 
 Oh, that th indifferent grave could hear, 
 The living turn the heedless ear ! 
 
DIRGE. 
 
 O WEET flower in perfect bloom, 
 Thy leaves shall withered be ; 
 Lone winds above thy tomb, 
 
 Shall nightly sigh with me 
 
 Sigh with me. 
 
 Blithe brook of merry song, 
 Thy goal s the moaning sea ; 
 
 Thy laughter spent, ere long 
 Thou It mourn, ay, moan with me- 
 Moan with me. 
 
 All days, with love s short day, 
 Steal on to darkness deep : 
 
 Beauty shall pass away, 
 Nor mirth her measures keep- 
 Weep, oh, weep ! 
 
DEAR MAID, PALE AS THE PALE WILD 
 DOVE. 
 
 Tp\EAR maid, pale as the pale wild dove, 
 Wand ring the silent ways, alone, 
 Wide up and down the land of love 
 Why made you moan why made you moan? 
 
 My list ning heart, it ever hears, 
 
 As in the summers long ago : 
 Shy, sweet wild dove, flown from the years, 
 
 Oh, what strange hurt did grieve you so ? 
 
VOICE OF THE PAST. 
 
 T T AST heard the murmuring aves said 
 
 In forest cloister, overhead ; 
 Hast heard those voices low that fare, 
 Unpiloted, along the heights of air 
 
 Far melodies too faint for light, 
 
 On upper pathways of the night ? 
 
 The Past calls in so sweet a tone 
 
 These strive and die, nor make it once their own. 
 
MEMORY. 
 
 "I T 7OULD you Love s fairest daughter see, 
 
 Yonder she is sweet Memory : 
 A statue of unconscious grace, 
 She stands with bowed, averted face. 
 
CALM. 
 
 T T AST thou been down into the depths of thought 
 Until the things of time and sense are naught ; 
 Hast sunk sunk in that tideless under-deep 
 Fathoms below the little reach of sleep ? 
 
 Dark, there, and silence ; sound is not, nor sun ; 
 The heaving breast, the beating heart, have done : 
 They lie no stiller whose stopt pulse and breath 
 Respect the dread repose in realms of death. 
 
 Hast visited below, where he must go 
 That would wisdom s last-yielded secret know ? 
 Hast been a guest where, lost to smiles and tears, 
 The quiet eye looks on beyond the years ? 
 
CALM. 
 
 Hast thou been down into the depths of thought 
 Until the things of time and sense are naught ? 
 Then toil and pain blend sweet as evening psalm, 
 Then doubt is whelmed in hope and care in calm 
 
THE STRONG. 
 
 "|T\OST deem him weak that owns his strength is 
 tried? 
 
 Nay, we may safely lean on him that grieves : 
 The pine has immemorially sighed, 
 
 Th enduring poplar s are the trembling leaves. 
 
 To feel, and bow the head, is not to fear, 
 To cheat with jest that is the coward s art : 
 
 Beware the laugh that battles back the tear, 
 He s false to all that s traitor to his heart. 
 
 He of great deeds does grope amid the throng 
 Like him whose steps toward Dagon s temple bore ; 
 
 There s ever something sad about the strong 
 A look, a moan, like that on ocean s shore. 
 
THE DEAD HERO. 
 
 I. 
 
 1VT ATURE S large souls, like the large stars, are 
 few, 
 
 And he was of them ; cloud-crowned Thessaly 
 
 Bore not a truer, nobler son than he 
 That with great need in equal greatness grew, 
 
 Grappled with giant wrongs, and overthrew, 
 Then, in the peaceful days he made to be, 
 The war-born third of our immortal three, 
 
 Remembered not the dreadful sword he drew. 
 
 II. 
 
 In his strength a soldier, in his rest a sage ; 
 His youth went in war was it peace in his age? 
 
58 THE DEAD HERO. 
 
 The dead tell no tales, but a voice in my ears 
 Says, "Valor belongs to the noiseless years." 
 
 Honor to the dead ! A hero is gone. 
 Hang up his good sword, put his cerements on ; 
 Chance Yonder they know but how he fought 
 In the thick of peace, in the still of thought. 
 
TO THE BITTER END. 
 
 T EST they should mock his woe, he shed no tears, 
 Lest they should brand him coward, made no 
 
 moan ; 
 Mute as themselves, he did endure his years, 
 
 Eating his bread as it were not a stone : 
 Mute as themselves, he did endure his years 
 
 Ambition masked in tame humility 
 
 That yokes for equal draught the ox with man, 
 None heard him speak again of what might be : 
 
 True to his toil, with neither hope nor plan, 
 None heard him speak again of what might be. 
 
60 TO THE BITTER END. 
 
 Fate, yoked, and goaded by your vassals all, 
 You could not wring from him the craven s cry 
 
 Patient as are the cattle of the stall, 
 Dumb as the tumbled clods that on him lie, 
 
 So patient, dumb, he toiled so did he fall. 
 
HE THAT HEARS THE VOICE. 
 
 npHRICE blest is he that hears the voice 
 
 Above belittling strife 
 The rolling psalm as they rejoice, 
 Th exultant Sons of Life. 
 
 He does not doubt ; he seeth clear, 
 
 And walketh in his trust : 
 With neither faltering nor fear, 
 
 He meeteth what he must. 
 
 To him sorrow is sweet as mirth, 
 
 And toil is one with rest ; 
 The death groan is the cry at birth, 
 
 The grave the mother breast. 
 
6a HE THAT HEARS THE VOICE. 
 
 Through veil of darkness wasted thin, 
 To him the vision comes : 
 
 He sees them that pass out and in 
 The high, immortal homes. 
 
N 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 O help in all the stranger-land, 
 O fainting heart, O failing hand? 
 There s a morning and a noon, 
 And the evening cometh soon. 
 
 The way is endless, friendless ? No ; 
 
 God sitteth high to see below. 
 
 There s a morning and a noon, 
 And the evening cometh soon. 
 
 Look yonder on the purpling West : 
 Ere long the glory and the rest. 
 
 There s a morning and a noon, 
 And the evening cometh soon. 
 
AT LAST. 
 
 RIFTING slow and aimlessly, 
 
 A mist comes on across the sea ; 
 It floats against a sunny hill, 
 Folds round it, and is still. 
 
 Onward onward, reach by reach, 
 A great wave shoulders toward the beach 
 A mighty rush it gains the shore, 
 Nor roves nor moans it more, 
 
 Over field and steepled town 
 A bird goes flying up and down ; 
 Soon comes the friendly tv/ilight hour 
 It finds a quiet bower. 
 
AT LAST. 65 
 
 Knotted was yon sleeper s brow, 
 Lo, it is as the snowdrift, now : 
 Sweeter sleeps care by kind death kissed, 
 Than bird, or wave, or mist. 
 
THE USE OF SORROW. 
 
 TV 7 OT from Joy s hand the boons for aye ; 
 
 He gives but toys, pleasing, to-day, 
 To-morrow, willing put away : 
 Only wise Sorrow holds the heart, 
 Gives gifts with which we cannot part. 
 Best friend is Grief. Believe, believe 
 It is a blessed thing to grieve ; 
 Knowledge and pleasure dwell apart, 
 Wisdom mates with the broken heart. 
 Only the eyes cleansed oft with tears 
 Perceive the meaning of the years : 
 Unto the sight thus purified, 
 The gates of mystery open wide ; 
 And patient watching makes to know 
 This life and that to which we go. 
 
REST UPON THE HILL. 
 
 T^HE angle, multiplied, 
 
 Does in the circle cease ; 
 Life s thousand grievances 
 Round, by and by, in peace, 
 
 The dismal mist below, 
 Is radiant cloud above ; 
 
 The spirit darkened here, 
 Shall shine with heavenly love. 
 
 Skyward ascends the stream 
 That moves the humble mill ; 
 
 We that in valleys toil, 
 Shall rest upon the hill. 
 
THE GLORIES OF TWO WORLDS. 
 
 HE spirit that delights in visions fair, 
 
 Wherever it may seek, will find them there : 
 Mountain and valley, woodland, stream and field, 
 They touch the heart of care the hurt is healed. 
 
 T 
 
 Beauty is nature s Ruth ; close does she cling 
 
 Unto her mother, ever following ; 
 
 And yet to nature is there never given 
 
 One little downward look from eyes of Heaven. 
 
 Two glories not of earth, though deemed her own- 
 Are gazed upon from splendor of the throne : 
 We claim two shapes angels lean out to see 
 The aged saint, the child upon her knee. 
 
MY CHILDREN. 
 
 TV /T Y precious buds of flesh and blood, 
 
 That cling about my knee, 
 I dread the pressing thoughts that dwell 
 Upon the years to be. 
 
 They say, more kind the early blight 
 
 Than are the ripening suns ; 
 They say, to blossom is to fall, 
 
 My sweet unfolding ones. 
 
 Only the children s hidden hearts 
 Go down, unhurt, to rest " ! 
 
 I tremble at the voice, and hold 
 You closer to my breast. 
 
MY DREAMS. 
 
 A S I look forward down the years, 
 
 I see less smiling and more tears ; 
 I see the sunlight slip away, 
 And shadow wrap the shortened day. 
 Far, fitfully the hill-top gleams, 
 Fainter the music of the streams : 
 O Time ! take them the music, beams, 
 But leave my dreams my dreams. 
 
 Old friends, dear ones I may not say 
 When they shall tire, and drop away ; 
 I would not speak for mine own strength, 
 Nor fix the shadow s growing length. 
 
MY DREAMS. 
 
 I ask but that till, one by one, 
 Life s last flames flicker and are done, 
 Thou put not out mine old heart-gleams 
 O Time ! take last my dreams. 
 
A WISH. 
 
 /^VNE slowly toils his way to fame, 
 
 And wins, well earned, an envied name 
 One vaults into eternity 
 Got of the gods, strong-limbed is he. 
 
 A few do quench ambition s fire 
 
 With ample mantle of the sire ; 
 
 The thousands ask, when time s no more, 
 
 Safe guidance to the Golden Shore. 
 
 When my poor self is laid away, 
 I would the shepherd boy might say, 
 Tuning his pipe less merrily 
 A bough turns sere in Arcady. 
 
MY CHOICE. 
 
 T D rather be 
 
 Neath a greenwood tree, 
 With a song and a handful of daisies, 
 Than the darling of victory 
 In the blaze of the wide world s praises. 
 
 I d rather ride 
 
 On the wings inside, 
 
 Which waft where the world may not after, 
 
 Than fold fair Fame as a bride, 
 
 To feed on her sighs and her laughter. 
 
MY CASTLE IN THE AIR. 
 
 in the East or in the West, 
 
 Where shall I build my bird a nest; 
 Northward or southward whither roam 
 To build my little love a home ? 
 
 Up yonder, in the clean, sweet air 
 
 I think that I could keep her, there, 
 
 Too much an angel for the ground, 
 
 For Heaven somewhat too warm and round. 
 
DEEP WITHIN THE FOREST GRAY. 
 
 T^VEEP within the forest gray, 
 
 Sings a bird to the going day : 
 Tis her song, lost as she passed that way, 
 
 Hark, the low wind in the firs ! 
 
 In their tops it lightly stirs : 
 
 Tis her sigh ay, night, that sigh is hers. 
 
 Perfume gathers on the air, 
 
 Deep, rich heart of roses there 
 
 Tis her breath, sweet love herself, at prayer. 
 
IN TWILIGHT LAND. 
 
 A MOUTH like hers you cannot doubt 
 
 That Love himself designed ; 
 The lips alway a little out 
 From pushing sweet, behind. 
 
 The quiet moon rules yonder blue, 
 
 Love lights her bluer eye : 
 Which heaven, which choose betwixt the two ? 
 
 For me the nearer sky. 
 
 The face Hope sees leaned from above 
 
 That is her kind of face ; 
 Movement to music born of love 
 
 That may suggest her grace, 
 
IN TWILIGHT LAND. 77 
 
 Soft up and down the twilight land, 
 
 From all the world apart, 
 Although I hold her little hand 
 
 I lead her by the heart. 
 
WAITING. 
 
 E fields fold in silence the ripened sheaves, 
 The bright moon breaks on the swinging leaves, 
 The dark s great daisies are blowing above, 
 O, leap to my side, my Love my Love ! 
 
 You ve said not a gem in the blue below 
 But, on my neck, it would lose the glow J 
 You ve said no bloom in the blue above 
 Is fit for my bosom, Love my Love. 
 
 You ve likened my song to the song of the bird, 
 My sigh to the tree s by the night wind stirred : 
 Like the moan of the pine, of the lone wild dove, 
 My song, my sighing, to-night, my Love. 
 
WAITING. 7g 
 
 The fields fold in glory the golden sheaves, 
 The full moon silvers the swinging leaves : 
 As the white cloud waits for the wind above, 
 I m waiting for you, my Love my Love. 
 
THE OLD. 
 
 T T may be that the angels follow not 
 
 When we begin the varied round of days ; 
 While mothers lead along the early ways, 
 Not Heaven itself may add to childhood s lot. 
 Perchance God s envoys pass the viny spot, 
 The mossy couch, of youth heed not the maze 
 Of dances where the dappling moonlight plays, 
 No burden to be borne, no battle fought. 
 The child, the youth, the man, angels go by. 
 May be ; but when life s biding shadows fold, 
 It must be that they hear, then, every sigh, 
 And gather lovingly around the old : 
 The glories on the going summer lie, 
 On the spent sun attend the hosts in gold. 
 
OUR MOTHER. 
 
 T T 7HEN the first man stood forth in Paradise, 
 
 And the first woman came to grace her 
 
 bowers, 
 
 The conscious garden glowed with thousand flowers, 
 With light wild, laughing light, in thousand eyes 
 Of beauty. Lovelier than young morning lies 
 On hill-tops, hovered round the wondering hours ; 
 And splendors richer than the red west showers, 
 Fell wide on Eden, all glory and surprise. 
 And does Our Mother love us, now, the less, 
 And why we fail her does she understand ? 
 For him that comes with trust and tenderness, 
 Eden still blossoms from her very sand : 
 Some flower believe it blossoming but to bless, 
 Will wait to wither in the last man s hand. 
 
THE HEART S SOVEREIGNTY. 
 
 T TEACH my feet, and they go not astray, 
 
 My hands, and they reach not against my will *, 
 I can my eager ears with silence fill, 
 My tongue, so wayward it, too, will obey, 
 And fickle vision, flown beyond the day, 
 Comes back to me, submissive ; ay, I chill 
 Fair pleasure to the quick, rude check the thrill 
 Of hope, and crying sorrow thrust away. 
 The lusty senses, full of youth, do yield, 
 Even wild-born thought does learn to heed my 
 
 call; 
 
 Fancy will leave her ever-vernal field, 
 Imagination share the toiler s thrall. 
 Ah, mocking heart, why do you let me wield 
 This master might, at last to baffle all ! 
 
DEATH S. 
 
 "f T 7HEN hungry years youth s ruddy color drain, 
 Glut them on his plumpness, suck dry his 
 
 bones. 
 
 Choke laughter, song, with silence or with groans, 
 Put out his sight, over the jaded brain 
 Install disorder, break the old sweet strain 
 On his clogged tongue, what is it ? Death de 
 thrones, 
 
 But never honored age his sceptre owns : 
 Old men die not, they rest to rise again. 
 When lusty years youth s ruddy color feed, 
 Charge his clear eye with light, his veins with wine, 
 Honey his tongue, touch thought and feet with speed, 
 Build him, fill him, with shape and strength divine, 
 And he does drop and wallow, mire in greed 
 Him Death marks: "Yonder that one he is mine." 
 
THE GUEST. 
 
 A TRAVELER who had far countries seen, 
 
 One summer day went roaming. By his way, 
 At noon, school children leapt from books to play, 
 While the mistress looked adown the ringing green 
 After them : drawing near, the rider lent 
 His ready tongue to timely compliment. 
 
 At first the listener s thoughts fled in dismay, 
 But soon the old peace fell upon her deep 
 As on the flower before the Cave of Sleep ; 
 And of her neighbors and her flock at play 
 Familiar themes, indeed, but never old 
 In simple speech and fit the mistress told. 
 
THE GUEST. 85 
 
 Lastly of her old father : it was he 
 She felt the blushes start that stretched his hand 
 Cross broadest acres of the valley land. 
 The mistress answered all ; naught questioned she 
 More than the blossom asks whom it may greet 
 When the full air night-long unloads its sweet. 
 
 Whether the work of will or destiny 
 
 It boots not, nightfall found a stranger at 
 The farmer s table. Orator he sat 
 
 To beauty and gray hairs ; attentively 
 
 The old man listened, or in lusty tone 
 
 Matched some fine phrase with homespun of his own. 
 
 The morrow came, the guest arose to go. 
 
 Then spoke the hearty host, "A week lay by ; 
 
 Young man, tis but the winking of an eye. 
 Home bodies, little of the world we know ; 
 Stay, tell us of the wide world widely seen : 
 Just up and down these ways our feet have been, 
 
86 THE GUEST. 
 
 " You seek green pastures ; buy of me, and own 
 The richest in the valley. Price pay part 
 In money, part in cheer an honest heart 
 
 And seasoned wits withal, give mortals lone, 
 
 Tired of themselves. Acres, I say, for cheer ; 
 
 Lay by there s a good twelve month in every year." 
 
 Biding his promised week, the guest delayed, 
 And bought him lands, and told of other climes. 
 His tales of countries far would many times 
 Return in waking visions of the maid, 
 Bringing a tremor such as breezes bring 
 Upon a moth sunning its pictured wing. 
 
 " Not yet, but in the happy after years ; 
 
 She will be older, then," the wanderer said. 
 
 Like the hurt flower that shuts its leaves in dread 
 Of passing clouds, she shrank before her fears, 
 In answer to his thought. The hours went on, 
 The days, a rounded seven the guest was gone, 
 
THE GUEST. 87 
 
 One little week, but childhood s peace had fled ; 
 
 The many summer murmurs, wont to be 
 
 A ceaseless hymn of even harmony, 
 Now rose, unheeded. "Nay," the maiden said, 
 " I hear the pines only of all the trees, 
 Their moaning, and that blown across the seas." 
 
 The long, long summer went, and autumn came. 
 
 Thick in the field stood, ranked, the stately 
 sheaves, 
 
 And apples peered twixt glossy orchard leaves ; 
 Nightly the low sun hung the vale with flame, 
 While winds were silent, and the darkened rill 
 Slipt noiseless as the mist along the hill. 
 
 The mistress, eve to eve, gazed on the sky, 
 On its purple islands set in pearly seas, 
 Its rich ships, steered between the mountain trees, 
 And, last, on the molten gold when suddenly 
 Came blushing up a rush of color, massed 
 Swift, gorgeous ruin, and the daylight passed. 
 
THE GUEST. 
 
 The sunset spelled her, now, as never before : 
 Tvvas at this hour the stranger held her hand, 
 And loosed it, and went from her to the land 
 
 So far and strange. Oh, should she see him more ? 
 
 Would all be as it was ? What would he say, 
 
 Unsaid when like a king he strode away ? 
 
 With hope and doubt contending in her heart, 
 Striving so deep within they made no sound 
 Might pass her lips, she plied her daily round 
 Of cares, unswerving. All her daughter s part 
 She did ; and every little tongue would tell, 
 Unasked, she served the hamlet children well. 
 
 The days grew short, and round the cottage all 
 Was white but the dull gray barns and black-topt 
 
 wood: 
 Still she was silent. Humoring his mood, 
 
 The father, half in jest, one night let fall 
 
 Inviting words : she tried to tell him tried, 
 
 But only drew her closer to his side. 
 
THE GUEST. 89 
 
 The wind was up, th assaulted forest bowed, 
 And rose again, defiant ; at the eaves 
 Was fitful wailing like a voice that grieves 
 For life-long hurt, the sound was ; high and loud 
 The passing blasts a winter revel wild, 
 But cheerly by his hearth the old man smiled. 
 
 " Daughter/ said he, " the spring is not so far 
 Away but these blear eyes can see her green : 
 Across the barren patch of weeks between, 
 
 She sets her feet this way. God will, we are 
 
 To have the wandering scholar with us, then, 
 
 To brighten up us rusty farmer men. 
 
 "Suppose we keep him. Girls will hang the head 
 At old folks notions. Well, well, let it go ; 
 You are too young yet, girl, I know I know." 
 
 The other sought her chamber ; from her bed 
 
 She watched till the wind went down, and past the 
 pine 
 
 The foxes trotted in the white moonshine. 
 
go THE GUEST. 
 
 At last the dreary winter grays will go, 
 
 Bring what it may, the April green will come ; 
 Flowers for the altar, for the under home 
 
 They bloom for either, and we cannot know. 
 
 The mistress strange splendor hid her : so morn 
 ing light 
 
 Breaks round the star, and shines it out of sight. 
 
 The great sails filled along the windy main, 
 The homing ships rode toward the western shore, 
 But none there was the " wandering scholar " bore. 
 
 The spring, but not the stranger, came again ; 
 
 Ay, the May clouds came, and with the children 
 wept, 
 
 Fostering the blossoms where the mistress slept. 
 
THE CONFESSION. 
 
 LEATHER, thy face were not so pale 
 
 Did all thy flock together cry 
 Their sin. Is t, then, so hard a tale ? 
 God s servant, what if, when I die 
 And that, perchance, before the eye 
 Of morn, fixed on yon blue dome, 
 
 Again looks light across the sky 
 I should behold Hell s red mouth foam 
 With flutter of white souls thou hast chanted home ? 
 
 Hear me. The path in anguish trod, 
 
 That night, I once had loved it so ! 
 Now, every root, and stone, and sod 
 
 How it did sting me ! To and fro 
 
THE CONFESSION. 
 
 The strained trees gestured wild, as tho 
 To mock me. Repeating Arno s name, 
 
 Upon this knife long years ago 
 He gave it me my cold hand came, 
 And drew and aimed it. Instantly a flame 
 
 Of fearful brightness split the dark, 
 
 The heavy-treading thunder fast 
 Marched up the bright blade missed the mark. 
 
 Methinks it knew Arno had passed 
 
 That way, was by th avenging blast 
 Driven to the wood, the brand of Cain 
 
 Upon his forehead. Loud and fast 
 The thunder strode, while my crazed brain 
 Made the thick drops my tears dashed back again. 
 
 Dost catch it ? Now a half-score years 
 I ve heard that moan. Hear me : hear it all. 
 
 If Arno spilled my life in tears, 
 If I by Arno s hand did fall, 
 
THE CONFESSION. 93 
 
 Why my sin weigh me till I crawl, 
 And he stoop not ? What was t but wrong 
 
 For wrong ? And had he sipped the gall 
 I fed on, lost to the gay throng 
 Where only joy s unmurdered hearts belong, 
 
 I had not done it. I in my grave, 
 What did he ? Has the dove a wing ; 
 
 And Love will he be caged save 
 
 For first-love s hour ? Heaven ! there to fling 
 The flowers gathered of my Spring ! 
 
 The night the storm his daggers drew, 
 And I drew with him, she did cling 
 
 To Arno s neck. Oh, her breath blew 
 
 In my ears louder than the blast ! I slew 
 
 Hark hark ! Teach it to say amen 
 That long last moan the dying make : 
 
 Between the thunder again again ! 
 Nay, my good hand, you will not shake, 
 
94 
 
 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 And, my good limbs, you will not quake, 
 So firm thro all the storm s uproar. 
 
 Father, it is not fear does take 
 Such hold on me. Tis gone ; once more 
 I am the woman soldiers can adore. 
 
 I go a doubtful way, so lack 
 
 Thy blessing. Strive not ; so t shall be. 
 The night closed in. On darkening track 
 
 The storm rushed up, clutched savagely 
 
 The cow ring wood, wrenched the strong tree 
 Till it did writhe for very pain, 
 
 Moan, like a hurt beast, piteously ; 
 While the fierce thoughts in my poor brain, 
 Made the raindrops my tears dashed back again. - 
 
 But I have told thee, holding well 
 To truth ; I have not learned to lie. 
 
 Useful, belike, the tale to tell 
 Thy people, father, by and by. 
 
THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Make clean work : tell them plainly why 
 I did it, no less plainly how. 
 
 Say that I spoke unfalteringly, 
 That I kneeled not, nor once did bow 
 The head, nor on the lips take any vow. 
 
 I know tis rash. As well I know 
 
 Mark me when heaving earth shall thrust 
 Her dead up, and tossed coffins glow 
 
 In long, forgotten sun, thro rust 
 
 Of ages will their throbbing dust 
 Break, burst, into the quick ning air. 
 
 On that great morning, Arno must 
 Stand forth Arno, divinely fair 
 Expectant mong the millions summoned there. 
 
 Swiftly past her, past all, will leap 
 
 My lover, in his arms so strong 
 Once more to take me. Embraced, we 11 weep, 
 
 And all undo the olden wrong. 
 
g6 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Father, go back into the throng, 
 Tell them how brave was our good-by 
 
 Go back, and tell the coward throng 
 Thou saw st the good blade do it. Ay 
 Tis to the hilt so so. Thy hand ; I die. 
 
WHO S FOR THE MAGDALEN? 
 
 T T 7 HO S for the Magdalen, 
 
 Women and men ? 
 Hold hands up. One two. 
 Fine lady, no, not you 
 Who said hard things ; 
 Praise not her wings, 
 Now she s flown : 
 Remember you let her die alone. 
 
 11 Who s for the Magdalen, 
 Women and men ? " 
 You heard it twice, thrice, 
 Some weeks since ; but too nice 
 Those hands then. Breath 
 Gone, now blind Death 
 
g8 WHO S FOR THE MAGDALEN? 
 
 Sees you kind : 
 
 She s dead, Ma am pray keep the fact in mind. 
 
 Who s for the Magdalen, 
 
 Women and men f 
 
 What answer ? " Ay ! " " Ay ! " 
 
 Staunch churchman, tell no He ; 
 
 Sepulchre white, 
 
 Wail not her plight 
 
 Now she s gone : 
 
 You gave her no bed to die upon. 
 
 " Who s for the Magdalen, 
 Women and men ? " 
 You heard it days, weeks, 
 It is since. Kindness speaks 
 To live folk ; clay 
 Slights what you say, 
 Mocks your care : 
 That s only her body boxed, out there. 
 
WHO S FOR THE MAGDALEN? 99 
 
 Who s for the Magdalen, 
 
 Women and men ? 
 
 All hands up high, now 
 
 The death-damp s on her brow^. 
 
 Till she went hence 
 
 A pestilence, 
 
 So unclean, 
 
 Why, now, is she better than she s been ? 
 
 All for the Magdalen, 
 
 Women and men, 
 
 So sudden " Ay ! " " Ay ! " 
 
 There she goes, riding by, 
 
 Riding along, 
 
 She and her wrong, 
 
 Quite at ease ; 
 
 The coaches are empty look out, please. 
 
 Who s for the Magdalen, 
 Women and men ? 
 
WHO S FOR THE MAGDALEN? 
 
 As Heaven is true 
 
 Not one small soul of you ! 
 
 It takes His heart, 
 
 Takes His God part, 
 
 That of yore 
 
 Said to her, Go thou, and sin no more. 
 
THE EMPTY ARBOR. 
 
 /^vF a silent night in summer, 
 
 Through her viny arbor bars 
 Looked a maiden as, above her, 
 One by one, came out the stars. 
 
 While she gazed, a stealthy shadow 
 
 Halted at the arbor door ; 
 And the music of the river 
 
 Faltered, sank, and rose no more. 
 
 Raptured, she nor saw nor felt him, 
 That dread shadow, black and still ; 
 
 Nor were missed the gentle measures 
 Of the river neath the hill. 
 
THE EMPTY ARBOR. 
 
 All unnoticed were the lilies, 
 Leaned together on their "bed, 
 
 And the roses troubled slumber, 
 And the words the night winds said, 
 
 Past the arbor ran the river, 
 
 Round, the moon rolled up the sky : 
 Slowly creeping toward the maiden, 
 
 Closer did the shadow lie. - 
 
 As of old, the singing river 
 Past the garden goes to sea j 
 
 But forever and forever 
 Shall the arbor empty be. 
 
 Still the summer vines are winding 
 
 In and out the arbor bars 
 But the lifted face is missing 
 
 At the coming of the stars. 
 
THE EMPTY ARBOR. 103 
 
 Day to day the suns go over, 
 
 Rose and lily come and go ; 
 But the shadow won the maiden 
 
 For his bridal bed below. 
 
THE WIND. 
 
 r "T v !S told, long years ago 
 
 " The Wind" a maiden cried, 
 " Bespeak him merry wedding "; 
 That night the maiden died. 
 
 The Wind had won her spirit, 
 Bride of the Wind was she : 
 
 And every breath blew sweet, 
 The air grew melody. 
 
 O wondrous, wondrous night 
 
 For Wind and Spirit fair : 
 The moon, the stars, the music, 
 
 The bliss of the bridal pair ! 
 
THE WIND. 105 
 
 A life may all be lived 
 
 Twixt a sunset and a dawn ; 
 But pray for him that wakens 
 
 To find the dream is gone. 
 
 A band of angels came, 
 And bore the Soul away ; 
 
 On wings that none may follow 
 They fled at break of day. 
 
 The lonely, homeless wind, 
 He roves, bemoaning sore : 
 
 He seeks the Soul, a-roaming, 
 A-moaning evermore. 
 
SONG AND SILENCE. 
 
 T T is not on the evening air 
 
 The voice that day-long led the wind, 
 Trilling gay measures to the shades, 
 Laughing frolic brooks behind. 
 
 The greenest mead, the bluest sky, 
 Was brighter, warmer for its song ; 
 
 Time felt a quickening at his heart, 
 Lighter danced the hours along. 
 
 Fresh blossom-voice, song-flower of light, 
 God pity him it did not bless j 
 
 But Silence, Silence hear her, there, 
 Her eternal tenderness ! 
 
THE TREES. 
 
 "IT THAT other shapes so stand, so fall? 
 
 In every leaf uplifted, 
 Here greatness speaks, calm voices call, 
 With gray years vision gifted. 
 
 Men hope, and labor, and despair, 
 Laughter they have and sorrow ; 
 
 The trees their gods composure wear 
 To-morrow and to-morrow. 
 
SPRING SONGS. 
 I. 
 
 TV yfY thoughts they swing and chime 
 
 I sing the swallows joys 
 As sung, in olden time, 
 The Rhodian chorus boys. 
 
 And here the wild birds sing, 
 And there the wild flow rs blow : 
 
 My heart tis on the wing, 
 I know not where twill go. 
 
 II. 
 
 Now, back again to brown, gray hair, 
 And honeyed be my tongue ; 
 
SPRING SONGS. 109 
 
 "Years do but cheat," says. this sweet air, 
 Who breathes it he is young. 
 
 Hey, back again to brown, gray hair, 
 
 Not all the songs are sung : 
 A sweetheart for the sweet Spring air, 
 
 And my heart sweet and young ! 
 
 III. 
 
 The maple and the birch were gray, 
 
 I heard no happy song ; 
 The grass was yellow, yesterday, 
 
 Silence and dark were strong ; 
 
 But, now, the black sky hurries blue, 
 And brightness strikes the brown, 
 
 And dandelion s reaching thro 
 To take his golden crown. 
 
SPRING SONGS. 
 
 Ay, yesterday, I smelt the snow, 
 To-day, the brooks make merry ; 
 
 The white is in the lowly blow, 
 Tis hiding in the cherry. 
 
 The alders and the hazels know, 
 
 The violet understands : 
 On every side, above, below, 
 
 Love calls, and claps his hands. 
 
MORNING SONG IN SUMMER. 
 
 "V 1[ 7 HERE fairy fishers cast their net, 
 
 And flee before the dawn, 
 Wave, webby mead with diamonds set, 
 Shine wide the night is gone. 
 
 Both happy ways and haunts forlorn, 
 
 Hark, hear the woodland thrill ! 
 The black flower blossoms morn, new morn, 
 
 Blows on the eastern hill. 
 
 Croon at the breast, sweet child-brook, croon, 
 You re Summer s, and we love you ; 
 
 Sing, sing, for dreams will fall at noon, 
 From drowsy boughs above you. 
 
MORNING SONG IN SUMMER. 
 
 Sing, too, heart ; for when shadows come, 
 And touch and shut the daisies, 
 
 With very sweetness song falls dumb, 
 Singing the Summer s praises. 
 
SUMMER HOURS. 
 
 /^v WHAT bliss it is to be 
 
 Neath a green old forest tree; 
 There to lie with open eye 
 While the dreams go gliding by ! 
 Flit of wings and breath offawers, 
 Follow, follow, Summer Hours. 
 
 Under shade of playing leaves, 
 With the visions fancy weaves- 
 Wary thoughts you cannot capture, 
 O, the wondrous, subtile rapture ! 
 
 When the fitful breezes blow, 
 Tis the thrill that lovers know ; 
 
ii4 SUMMER HOURS. 
 
 Either place it well may be, 
 In your heart or in the tree. 
 
 One by one, the dreams come on, 
 Now they re glowing, now they re gone ; 
 Meet them, greet them, while you may, 
 They 11 not come another day. 
 Flit of wings and breath of flowers t 
 Follow , follow , Summer Hours. 
 
THE BROOK. 
 
 AILY from yon shady nook, 
 
 Hurry, laughing little brook ; 
 Thro the meadows, round the hill, 
 Twixt the willows by the mill, 
 Light and bright, and sweet and free, 
 Dance it, glance it, happily. 
 
 Not a trouble, not a care, 
 
 Finds you running running, there. 
 
 Take, O take, your singing way, 
 
 Fair to-morrow as to-day ; 
 
 Light and bright, and sweet and free, 
 
 Wimple, dimple cheerily ! 
 
n6 THE BROOK. 
 
 Gaily from yon shady nook, 
 Hurry, laughing little brook ; 
 Unlike you, neath golden sun, 
 Streams that in heart courses run 
 Run, O, run afar from me, 
 Purl it, twirl it, merrily ! 
 
SUMMER NOON. 
 
 E dust, unlifted, lies as first it lay 
 When on his dewy path came up the day; 
 
 The spider-web stirs not ; on seas of air, 
 The thistle-ship, becalmed, rocks idly there. 
 
 The fern leaves curl, the wild-rose sweetness spends 
 Rich as at eve the honeysuckle lends ; 
 
 The creeping cattle feed far up the hill, 
 
 The blithest birds have hid, the wood is still ; 
 
 On daisied dials, pointing flower to flower, 
 
 The shadow-hands have reached the Golden Hour. 
 
AUGUST DAYS. 
 
 Q* OFT and voiceless August days ! 
 Mute the ferny woodland ways, 
 Hushed the merry meadow lays ; 
 Stillness all and heavy haze 
 Of the charmed August days. 
 In the hollow, on the steep, 
 Dwells a silence long and deep ; 
 Hush of slumber, lustrous haze, 
 Mellow, yellow August days ! 
 Not the smallest whisper, now, 
 Of the secrets of the bough ; 
 In his glory hid, alone, 
 Sits the hill-god on his throne. 
 Voiceless August, soft and still ! 
 Come, sweetxkeams, and have your will 
 
A UGUST DA VS. 9 
 
 No more sighing, no more tears, 
 They are ours the Happy Years ; 
 Time s gone backward, and life strays 
 In the olden golden days. 
 
THE STRANGER-DAYS. 
 
 T) UT yesterday the spirit came 
 
 That sets the summer trees aflame : 
 I saw her fires when first they fell 
 On yonder flashing sentinel. 
 The gorgeous colorings that cloak 
 The sumach and the scarlet oak, 
 That in the ruddy woodbine glow, 
 That only lordly maples know, 
 Here, one by one, I stood to see 
 Them glance and catch from tree to tree. 
 And now, that pomp not kings put on, 
 As in a night has faded gone ; 
 And, motionless, a warning haze 
 Veils heavily the stranger-days. 
 
GOING OF AUTUMN. 
 
 r T^HE hearty portulaccas fade, 
 
 The scarlet salvias yield, 
 And soberest of hues are laid 
 On withered wood and field. 
 
 The first frosts at the wood s edge hold 
 
 Until the sun is high, 
 The golden-rod is waxing old, 
 
 Yes, dim the gentian s eye. 
 
 The kingfisher sits thoughtful, lone, 
 While, with a mournful smile, 
 
 The weak light leans on mound and stone 
 And dapple apple-pile. 
 
GOING OF A UTUMN, 
 
 No longer, now, the brooks rejoice, 
 The hours of joy are told : 
 
 Whither we list, a piteous voice 
 Says sadly, "lam old." 
 
DEATH OF AUTUMN. 
 
 *T^HEY have led her away, 
 
 Up the stairs of day ; 
 Step by step in the mellow light, 
 Have led her away 
 To the turret gray 
 Where morning meets the night. 
 The ruthless band 
 Loosing her hand, 
 
 She throws her gorgeous garment down, 
 And with naked foot on her fated crown, 
 Leans and looks from the windows of air. 
 Long she looks below, above, 
 Then, to a sorrowful song of love, 
 
i2 4 DEA TH OF A UTUMN. 
 
 Begins to bind her hair, 
 Strewn on her shoulders bare. 
 
 The keen winds cry, 
 As they cross the sky, 
 " Lo, our lady is nude, 
 And binds her hair in solitude ! " 
 The pitiless winds loud cry, 
 Round the turret whirling by ; 
 The withered leaves 
 And flowers as she grieves 
 She flings them forth 
 To the bitter North : 
 Her heart s blood stains them all, 
 Bleeding bleeding as they fall. 
 
 Tis night : the last pale leaf is kissed, 
 And cast down into the golden mist. 
 The keen winds cry, 
 As they cross the sky, 
 
DEA TH OF A UTUMN. 125 
 
 But Autumn has bound her hair ; 
 
 Ended her song of last despair, 
 
 And to and fro, 
 
 And to and fro, 
 
 Flit ghosts at the windows of air. 
 
NOVEMBER. 
 
 HP HE summer blooms are lying 
 
 Below the matted grass, 
 Through naked forest sighing, 
 The winds of sorrow pass ; 
 
 The birds their flight have taken, 
 
 No music by the way, 
 And each sweet haunt, forsaken, 
 
 Yields fragrance of decay ; 
 
 Last splendors on the river 
 Slow spread the parting sail, 
 
 Alone, the lank weeds shiver 
 Before the with ring gale. 
 
FANCY S FLOCK. 
 
 TTANCY S flock in dreamy close, 
 
 Soft they rise when darkness goes ; 
 Tasting sweets of sun and shade, 
 Down the meadow, up the glade, 
 Here the field, and there the grove, 
 Now they rest, and now they rove. 
 Up and down all happy ways 
 Fancy s flock at pleasure strays, 
 Up and down, and far and wide, 
 Pretty shepherds at their side, 
 Some before, and some behind, 
 Lest they meet the chilly wind. 
 
FANCY "S FLOCK. 
 
 Hark ! the little silver bell ! 
 Pretty shepherds, tend them well ; 
 See there be no missing one 
 When the sunny day is done. 
 
ON THE UPPER WAYS. 
 
 "\7OU VE climbed a steep, but have you gone 
 
 Up Atlas with Endymion 
 Been with him, there, as sung of old, 
 Moon-loved, herding his flocks a-cold ? 
 You ve seen the sun come up and bound 
 The east with belt of red and gold ; 
 You ve seen, but have you trod, that ground, 
 The dancing-ground of th early dawn ? 
 Have you won those heights next the sun, 
 Where the wild-haired Bacchantes run ? 
 You know the wood, but have you seen 
 Camilla in her tiger skin, 
 With arrow and with javelin ? 
 
i 3 o ON THE UPPER WAYS. 
 
 You know the green fields and the trees, 
 
 But know you their divinities ; 
 
 Do you draw close as mortal can, 
 
 Dance with the nymphs that dance with Pan ? 
 
 You know by note the wild bird s song, 
 
 Where shadows lay them deep and long, 
 
 But what of that one song that dies 
 
 Upon the grave where Orpheus lies ? 
 
 You know the dews that gem the grass 
 
 Where white feet of the morning pass, 
 
 But the amber that is wept upon 
 
 The body of young Phaeton ? 
 
 The lily and the violet 
 
 You ve seen, and plucked, and loved them, yet 
 
 There may be left the flowers to see 
 
 That on the plains of Enna be. 
 
 Ay, every field and every wood, 
 
 The gurgling stream, the murm ring hill 
 
 You love them as a lover should ; 
 
 But there be pleasures sweeter still 
 
ON THE UPPER WAYS. 131 
 
 Along the viewless Upper Ways 
 The poet trod in olden days. 
 There, never is a fair shape found 
 But music floats it round and round ; 
 And fairest things that eye can see 
 Aye come and go in melody, 
 Until the last dull, halting thought 
 Is by the rapture swift upcaught, 
 And we do come a part to be 
 Of what we feel and hear and see. 
 
THE POET. 
 
 "n*ORTUNE does less capricious prove 
 
 Than Nature : partial is Our Mother, 
 Making one poor to enrich another. 
 She gives a soul will no more move 
 Than it must with Tolling of the world, 
 Then a quick spirit that will be 
 Abreast with thought s infinity, 
 Urging, with colors wide unfurled, 
 The hard march starward. From above 
 This one, sky -got, son of her love, 
 A wilding love-flower, blown 
 Into sweetness all his own. 
 Gentle, but with strength to stand 
 And meet the landscape s large demand, 
 
THE POET. 133 
 
 The hills, towering upon his sight, 
 
 Lift him unto their noble height ; 
 
 The waters at his feet 
 
 Yield him their accent clear and sweet ; 
 
 His eye in darkness sightful is, 
 
 His ear can hear the silencies. 
 
 This is the poet, Nature s son 
 
 She sets her hope upon. 
 
 He knows where eyes are best, 
 
 There does most beauty rest ; 
 
 Therefore in forbidding places 
 
 Captures he most subtile graces. 
 
 The poet leaves no place the same 
 
 As when to it he came : 
 
 He something leaves, he something takes, 
 
 Now he destroys, now makes, 
 
 And all for truth and beauty, 
 
 To whom he owes perpetual duty, 
 
 To them and to no other. 
 
 Nature is a partial mother. 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 TT) ISE, soul ; we go to find 
 
 That quiet land and kind 
 Where world and worry cease, 
 And spirits be at peace. 
 The years that make men old, 
 The buyer and his gold ; 
 Parading fools of fame, 
 In feathers of a name ; 
 The rubbish of vain strife, 
 The litter of mean life, 
 All these will we forsake, 
 Our pilgrim s journey take. 
 Rise, soul ; we go to find 
 That quiet land and kind, 
 
. THE PILGRIMAGE. 135 
 
 Far from the curse of care, 
 From darkness of despair. 
 There shall we wake or rest, 
 As eagles soar or nest ; 
 Shall ripen like the grain 
 Beneath free sun and rain, 
 Our labor to believe, 
 Our privilege to receive, 
 We shall not search, but see, 
 That which we would be, be 
 Rise, soul ; the hours fly on, 
 Make haste, let us be gone ; 
 The good land lies afar, , 
 And we late pilgrims are. 
 
THE SACRED VEIL. 
 
 T^HE fretting thoughts of toil had fled, 
 And a vision stood beside my bed. 
 A stately shape he was, and hoar, 
 In his right hand a staff he bore ; 
 Fine as mist-wreaths his beard and hair, 
 Drifting with lightest pulse of air ; 
 While a sober mantle, ample, free, 
 Heightened his native majesty. 
 He spoke ; and, to this hour, I hear 
 The gracious accents of the seer : 
 
 Mortal, the light crowning this hoary head, 
 Down gleaming ages, numberless, is shed, 
 
THE SA CRED VEIL. . 137 
 
 It is the same that on creation s morn 
 Greeted your globe of night and chaos born : 
 I heard the star-song all that morning sung 
 That wondrous morn when Time himself was 
 
 young. 
 
 These hands, unlifted still thy race to bless, 
 Balanced the atoms struck from nothingness, 
 And gave them place ; when darkness opened 
 
 eyes 
 
 I calmed the startled deep, hushed its surprise ; 
 When silence spoke, and unborn workmen heard, 
 I answered, first to serve th Eternal Word. 
 We shaped the worlds, on paths of flaming gold 
 The distant suns into their orbits bowled ; 
 We fixed the limits of the reaching sea, 
 The wide air s boundary. As, to-day, they be, 
 In thy green earth these fingers set the seeds 
 Of life seeds of the trees, of the wayside weeds: 
 Still does the first far purpose firm prevail, 
 Each follows his own kind, and cannot fail. 
 
i 3 8 THE SACRED VEIL. 
 
 Mortal, to me fierce lightnings flash and die 
 Feeble and faint as glint of meadow-fly ; 
 The storm-voice whispers, the wild cataract falls 
 Like evening shadows on your cottage walls. 
 I know the ways of silence and of sound, 
 Of light and darkness on their ceaseless round ; 
 Th interminable fields of space I see, 
 And, face to face, I sit with mystery. 
 To-night, O man ! thy quiet bed beside, 
 Stands one from realms to mortal quest denied, 
 The well proved servant of creation s God. 
 He brings this message : 
 
 On the meanest clod 
 Is Nature s every secret careful writ, 
 And peer of mine is he that readeth it. 
 But mad the mind that, in its searching, dare 
 Seek deeper than the treasure buried there j 
 A fool s the fatal hope at last to part 
 The sacred veil before the human heart. 
 
TOUNG TALOUNG. 
 
 O TRANGER from banks of far Menam, 
 First guest from Asia s sacred shrine, 
 Shall jesters answer gray Siam, 
 The voice your land lifts up to mine ? 
 
 "Tis Ava s court, not Laos wood, 
 Whose solemn accent overawes ; 
 
 Proclaiming man s wide brotherhood, 
 His varied lot, his common cause. 
 
 It says, " Beneath this humble mien 
 (Hast not believed as hard a thing?) 
 
 His lofty spirit may be seen 
 That drank of wisdom at its spring. 
 
i 4 o TOUfr* TALOUNG. 
 
 " The patient one that went apart, 
 
 And, sorrowing, sought the Noble Way, 
 Victorious Buddha, peace at heart, 
 Here bides ere passed beyond the day. 
 
 " Shall ye his mysteries deny 
 
 That never have his virtues known ? 
 Well proved must be the wings that try 
 The upper air he made his own. 
 
 " Belief, long cherished, lends a power 
 The scoffer may not hope to touch : 
 Ye are the people of an hour, 
 
 Know, therefore, ye must judge as such. 
 
 " Your step is light, your heart is young, 
 Not yet tis steepest where ye climb : 
 Below us float the mists were hung 
 At morn of unrecorded time. 
 
TOUNG TALOUNG. 14 , 
 
 "Angkor when was it she did build, 
 
 Did all her thousand columns raise ? 
 Whose fingers, as the Tuscan s skilled, 
 There wrought, and shamed succeeding days ? 
 
 " Cambodia s grasses lo, they wave 
 
 Over splendors Memphis never saw ; 
 Nor moulds a hand in Theban grave 
 Could teach her genius beauty s law. 
 
 " Before our shrines ye need not bow, 
 To judge between us that defer ; 
 If ye are crowned with honor now, 
 Look back remember what we were. 
 
 " Look back, then forward cast your eyes : 
 Perchance when ye are worn and hoar, 
 An infant race will shameless rise 
 To mock the idols ye adore." 
 
THE SILENT BLESSING. 
 
 O thou and walk among the dead ; 
 Sweet as deep 
 Their endless sleep : 
 The hearts that erewhile, beating, bled, 
 Are stopt, by peace eternal tenanted. 
 
 So quietly they keep 
 Their lowly bed, 
 Go thou and walk among the gentle dead. 
 
 The bitter word is as unsaid, 
 
 ; 
 
 Evil thought 
 
 Can reach them not ; 
 If once in paths of error led, 
 Now are the mother arms of pity spread. 
 
 It is a blissful spot : 
 
THE SILENT BLESSING. 143 
 
 With reverent head 
 
 Go thou and stand beside the quiet dead. 
 
 The very light seems softer shed 
 
 On the tomb. 
 
 Its flowers bloom 
 
 As though the sleeper s soul, not fled, 
 But lingering near, their conscious colors fed : 
 
 They breathe as they perfume, 
 Soul-hallowed, 
 A precious message from the friendly dead. 
 
 O, last of all, rest-tenanted, 
 
 From this home 
 
 Will spectre come ! 
 
 Ghosts glide from out the live man s bed, 
 Not from their sleep untouched by joy or dread : 
 
 No, never more they roam 
 That lay the head 
 To rest on peaceful pillows of the dead. 
 
144 THE SILENT BLESSING. 
 
 Go, take the blessing of the dead ; 
 
 Draw thee near, 
 
 And, listening, hear 
 The brave words by the silence said 
 To still the soul elsewhere unanswered 
 Ay, heed that accent clear 
 With bended head 
 Receive the benediction of the dead. 
 
IN THE LANE. 
 
 A ND art thou then, my heart, too old 
 
 Ever to leap with love again, 
 To feel the strong blood-torrent rolled 
 
 Through heaving breast and teeming brain ? 
 Is it no more, my heart, for thee 
 Life s one unquestioned ecstasy ? 
 
 Are faded quite those dim, far days 
 When music mothered every sound, 
 
 When up and down youth s happy ways 
 Fared glories on eternal round ? 
 
 Has chill of years killed every joy 
 
 That blossomed for the wandering boy ? 
 
i 4 6 IN THE LANE. 
 
 These are the trees once known so well 
 We felt to them all but beknown ; 
 
 Their very shadow we could tell 
 From others by the forest thrown. 
 
 The same glad songs from bush and bough- 
 
 As once we heard, we hear them now. 
 
 And these sweet flowers beneath my feet, 
 Their young eyes greet us as of yore. 
 
 The hope, there ! Still they think to meet 
 Her glance that shall not answer more : 
 
 To us alone it cannot be 
 
 They re looking up so tenderly. 
 
 This is the same gray path we took 
 
 Behind the slowly going day; 
 As they do now, the light leaves shook 
 
 When evening breezes blew this way; 
 And there s the glow upon the dome, 
 And here the cows are coming home. 
 
IN THE LANE. 
 
 Ah, no, good heart, thou still canst stir, 
 Still lives the love first bid thee leap : 
 
 Still are we at the side of her 
 
 They laid away neath yonder steep. 
 
 Though clods be on her and a stone, 
 
 In the dear old lane we re not alone. 
 
SONGS, 
 i. 
 
 GOOD BY. 
 
 T T is late, they must not wait, 
 
 Standing by the wicker gate ; 
 So she gives her little hand, 
 Gives her little dimpled hand : 
 A kiss," he says, " pray, not a sigh, 
 And sweet, my girl, good by good by ! " 
 
 Night to night, and day to day, 
 Run the summer hours away ; 
 Moon to moon, and sun to sun, 
 Merry, merry do they run ; 
 
149 
 
 Still, still she answers with a sigh, 
 
 His, " Sweet, my girl, good by good by ! " 
 
 Light he said it, and was gone, 
 But she hears it echo on ; 
 She must hear it ever so, 
 Hear it though he never know ; 
 Ay, her last breath will, answ ring, sigh, 
 " Good by, my Love a long good by ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 BY AND BY. 
 
 *\ T 7HERE blossoms grow, 
 
 And winds are low, 
 And brooks run lightly by, 
 There would we be, 
 Neath a greenwood tree, 
 My Love and I 
 My Love and I. 
 
ISO SONGS. 
 
 But Fate says, " No "; 
 
 He hates us so 
 
 That it were vain to try. 
 
 We 11 never be 
 
 Neath the greenwood tree, 
 
 My Love and I 
 
 My Love and I. 
 
 But, O, one day 
 
 We 11 steal away ; 
 
 We ll cheat him, by and by, 
 
 Asleep all sound 
 
 Neath a mossy mound, 
 
 My Love and I 
 
 My Love and I ! 
 
WHAT S IN THIS CHRISTMAS DAY? 
 
 \ T THAT S in this Christmas day ? 
 
 Let Time s hoary warders say. 
 The Saxon grim 
 There s some of him ; 
 The Druid s hand is here, 
 The Greek and Roman cheer : 
 From East and West 
 Is gathered of the best, 
 From the new and from the old 
 All the glorious day will hold. 
 From whitest sands to lichened rock 
 The doors of Hope unlock, 
 The gates of Peace swing wide, 
 At coming of bright Christmas-tide. 
 
i 5 2 WHAT S IN THIS CHRISTMAS DAY? 
 
 Saturn s temples fair 
 Are glistening in the air, 
 Thor s huge torches flare 
 In the dark forest, there ; 
 And, hark ! from sea to sea 
 The rouse of Bacchus breaks 
 Upon the quiet till it quakes 
 With revelry. 
 From the olive to the oak, 
 With blithe and mighty stroke 
 Bells of the ages ring, 
 And the little children sing : 
 For the lifting of the yoke, 
 For the giving to the poor ; 
 For that all-excelling art, 
 The building of the heart ; 
 For the good that shall endure 
 For the sure and lasting good 
 Of a common brotherhood 
 The bells of centuries ring 
 
WHAT S IN THIS CHRIS TAT AS DAY? 
 
 In a song 
 
 Loud and long, 
 
 And the little children sing. 
 
 The bands of holly bound, 
 
 The wreaths of ivy wound 
 
 On brow and pillar ; pine 
 
 And fir all from the mother ground 
 
 That speaks of hope how they twine 
 
 It as they sing, 
 
 How proudly wear it as they bring 
 
 From heaven s height, 
 
 Tidings of delight ! 
 
 Wind the holly crown, 
 
 Bind the ivy down ; 
 
 From soul to soul 
 
 Send round the brimming bowl ; 
 
 Drink deep, and sing 
 
 As the proud bells swing, 
 
 As the loud bells ring : $ 
 
154 WHAT S IN THIS CHRISTMAS DAY 
 
 " Chime chime chime, 
 Tis Christmas-time ; 
 Over the earth 
 Mercy, hope, and mirth ! " 
 
 The pagan shut him not away ; 
 
 This is the wide world s day. 
 
 All have their part the dead, the live, 
 
 They that have striven, they that strive, 
 
 On rising wings, 
 
 Toward better things. 
 
 Day-long let joy go on ; 
 
 And when the splendid sun is gone, 
 
 Set the candle and the brand 
 
 Aflame from land to land ! 
 
 Hope all round us wide and high, 
 
 Clear and perfect as the sky 
 
 Hope, strong hope that cannot die, 
 
 Welcome the pagan to his part 
 
 In the building of the heart : 
 
WHAT i IN THIS CHRISTMAS DAY? 155 
 
 Nor time nor space shall dare divide, 
 Nor race nor faith, nor aught beside, 
 Children of men at Christmas-tide ! 
 
 Let help who can 
 That bears the name of man, 
 Help in his chosen way 
 To keep this festal day. 
 But over other glories all, 
 Shining high and far, 
 Lo, the stopt, regardful star 
 Above the cradle in the stall ! 
 Where the angels met together 
 With shepherds in the shining weather- 
 There s the fountain of this song, 
 Song of ages, sweet and strong ; 
 Thence the deathless voice 
 That bids the world rejoice, 
 Thence the loosing of the slave, 
 The conquering of the grave. 
 
i 5 6 WHAT S IN THIS CHRISTMAS DAY? 
 
 Who shall heed what Sorrow saith ? 
 
 Who tremble at the name of Death ? 
 
 Swing swing 
 
 Hear the great bells ring, 
 
 And the little children sing ! 
 
 The gates of Heaven are standing wide- 
 
 Tis glorious Christmas-tide ! 
 
GREAT IS TO-DAY. 
 
 /~\UT on a world that s gone to weed ! 
 
 The great tall corn is still strong in his seed ; 
 Plant her breast with laughter, put song in your toil, 
 The heart is still young in the mother soil : 
 There s sunshine and bird-song, and red and white 
 
 clover, 
 And love lives yet, world under and over. 
 
 The light s white as ever, sow and believe ; 
 Clearer dew did not glisten round Adam and Eve, 
 Never bluer heavens nor greener sod 
 Since the round world rolled from the hand of God : 
 There s a sun to go down, to come up again, 
 There are new moons to fill when the old moons wanr. 
 
158 GREA T IS TO-DA Y. 
 
 Is wisdom dead since Plato s no more, 
 
 Who 11 that babe be, in yon cottage door ? 
 
 While your Shakspeare, your Milton, takes his place 
 
 in the tomb 
 
 His brother is stirring in the good mother-womb : 
 There s glancing of daisies and running of brooks, 
 Ay, life enough left to write in the books. 
 
 The world s not all wisdom, nor poems, nor flowers, 
 But each day has the same good twenty-four hours, 
 The same light, the same night. For your Jacobs, 
 
 no tears ; 
 
 They see the Rachels at the end of the years : 
 There s waving of wheat, and the tall strong corn, 
 And his heart blood is water that sitteth forlorn. 
 
EVERY ONE TO HIS OWN WAY. 
 
 K leaves are big as the mouse s ear, 
 So, farmer, go plant. But the frost 
 Beware, the witch o the year 
 
 Her breast hath crost ! 
 The bee is abroad, and the ant, 
 Spider is busy : ho, farmer, go plant. 
 
 The wind blows soft from the sailless sea, 
 So, merchant, rig ship. But the wave 
 
 Beware, salt water can be 
 A cruiser s grave ! 
 
 Bring silks for milady, make trip 
 
 For wines and spices : ho, merchant, rig ship. 
 
160 EVERY ONE TO HIS OWN WAY. 
 
 I heard round oath at the churchyard door, 
 So, preacher, go preach. But the Book 
 
 Let net staff handle twist more 
 Than shepherd s crook. 
 
 A Heaven and a Hell within reach, 
 
 And time spares no man : good preacher, go 
 preach. 
 
 Go till the fields, and go ride the sea, 
 Go solace or torture mewed folk ; 
 
 From frost and storm be you free, 
 And Devil s joke. 
 
 I 11 sit in my doorway, God please, 
 
 Quietly looking between the green trees. 
 
THE GOOD OLD-TIME. 
 
 "\ T 7 HAT worth have your mansions, your gold 
 and your glory, 
 
 When the thought, the heart, is away, 
 Somewhere betwixt the lintel and shingles 
 
 Of a cot of a by-gone day ? 
 
 A gray old orchard, scarred as by battle, 
 
 Stiff poplars out there, before, 
 Dandelions, lilacs, and no-name roses, 
 
 And the pewee over the door ; 
 
 Staunch weeds, and grasses that challenge the winter, 
 
 Wild cherries, red ripe on the wall, 
 The song of the birds in the hush of the morning, 
 
 At evening, the low cattle-call ; 
 
1 62 THE GOOD OLD-TIME. 
 
 Savage paths a-bristle with burdock and thistle, 
 
 Strong sun, and shadow as strong, 
 Quick brooks that learn the song of the upland, 
 
 And sing it the still night long ; 
 
 Dewdrops and daisies, green grass and the robins, 
 
 All glitter and twitter and sweet 
 From the cloud and the mist that meet on the moun 
 tain 
 
 To the spider-nets under the feet ; 
 
 The clover, the laughter, the chat in the shadow, 
 
 The noon horn s lusty alarm, 
 The halting mower, with a stroke at the sweat bee, 
 
 Slow dropping his brown bare arm ; 
 
 What are your mansions when these come and fash 
 ion 
 
 Their dream wonders, day by day, 
 Weaving spring and summer and autumn together, 
 
 In their own dear wayward way ? 
 
THE GOOD OLD-TIME. 163 
 
 The march is forward, the past is in ashes, 
 From the old like a flame springs the new ; 
 
 But the boy in my heart with a shout will follow 
 Where the mowers swing out in the dew. 
 
A 
 
 GRANTHER. 
 
 GRAND old man, 
 Built after the olden plan ; 
 A muscular body, a massive head, 
 A man to be with till his years are fled, 
 A man to remember when dead : 
 His smile, the wise look 
 From the chimney nook, 
 Where he whiffs and he whews 
 While I read him the news ! 
 
 "Who skilled, to-day?" 
 
 He asks in his ancient way ; 
 "And what have they stolen, this time, my lad? 
 The rascals, they push it like pusley, egad : 
 Bad works, boy, bad very bad ! " 
 
GRANTHER. 165 
 
 The pipe gets a slide 
 
 To the other side ; 
 
 How he puffs it and whews, 
 
 Keeping up with the news ! 
 
 A character ! 
 
 When he opens, " I tell ye, sir, 
 There s nothing like knowing cheese from chalk," 
 Or, "Square-toed, young man, if you re goin to 
 
 walk," 
 It s none of your modern talk. 
 
 Run the text as it may, 
 
 He s something to say, 
 
 Be you never so clever, 
 
 Will squelch you forever 
 
 He s so complete 
 
 From the crown of his head to his feet, 
 Close grained, through and through of good oak 
 
 stuff. 
 
 1 Nonsense," he says ; " no trouble so tough 
 But good back-bone is doctor enough." 
 
166 GRANTHER. 
 
 He s the heart of the farm, 
 Still its strong right arm : 
 How he smiles and he smokes 
 Between sermons and jokes ! 
 
A SAINT OF YORE. 
 
 r T^HERE lived of yore a saintly dame, 
 Retired of life, unknown to fame, 
 Whose wont it was with sweet accord 
 To do the bidding of her Lord. 
 In quaintly-fashioned bonnet 
 With simplest ribbons on it, 
 The neighboring folk remember well 
 How prompt she was at Sabbath bell. 
 
 I see her, now, her decent shawl, 
 Her sober gown, silk mitts, and all ; 
 Again I see her with a smile 
 Pass meekly up the narrow aisle. 
 The deacons courtly meet her, 
 The pastor turns to greet her, 
 
1 68 A SAINT OF YORE. 
 
 And maid and matron quit their place 
 To find her fan or smooth her lace. 
 
 Of all the souls that worshipped there, 
 She best became the House of Prayer : 
 Her gracious presence from it beamed 
 The light that robes the Lord s redeemed. 
 That gentle mien did often 
 Some "hardened sinner" soften, 
 Whose thought had else turned light away 
 From rigid lesson of the day. 
 
 Her eyes, with reverent reading dim, 
 Sought neither chapter-page nor hymn, 
 She knew them both ; and as in song 
 Her voice kept evenly along, 
 Twas not so much like singing 
 As like the music clinging 
 About some sacred instrument, 
 Its lessening breath not wholly spent. 
 
A SAINT OF YORE. 1( 5g 
 
 Still, one by one, the good folk fill 
 The little church upon the hill 
 The little church with open door, 
 Just as it stood in days of yore, 
 The grass around it growing 
 For nearest neighbors mowing, 
 The row of battered sheds behind 
 Ready to rattle with the wind. 
 
 Old Groveland Church ! I mark it well, 
 From weathered steps to belfry bell. 
 Few changes, there ; but in yon ground 
 Have thickened fast the slab and mound. 
 Hark ! Shall I join the praises ? 
 Rather, among the daisies, 
 Let me, in peaceful thought, once more 
 Be silent with the saint of yore. 
 
THE OLD FARM BARN. 
 
 HPHE maples look down with bright eyes in their 
 
 leaves, 
 
 The clear drops drip from the swallow-built eaves, 
 The chickens find shelter, the cisterns fill ; 
 There s a busier whirr from the wheels of the mill, 
 The pond is all dimples from shore to shore, 
 And the miller smiles back from his place in the door ; 
 Slow mists from the mountains come drifting down, 
 The houses show fainter afar in the town, 
 The gust sweeps up, dies away again, 
 Then, loud and fast, the rap-tap of the rain : 
 For all yonder sun tis my heart s rainy day 
 In the old farm barn, with the children at play. 
 
THE OLD FARM BARN. 171 
 
 The oxen chew slowly, with sleepy eyes, 
 The huddling sheep shrink to half their size, 
 The dazed calves stare at the dingy wall, 
 Old Nancy looks soberly out from her stall, 
 Tiger Puss crouches close to the mouse s hole, 
 Caesar gnaws boldly a bone that he stole 
 Over all, the roof and the dance of the rain. 
 Not a sorrowing thought, not a touch of pain ; 
 The old farm barn is so dusk and still 
 The spiders sleep on the window sill : 
 Tis the hush, the drowse of the rainy day, 
 And I m leaping again from the beam to the hay. 
 
 Up, chunky George of the woodchuck race ! 
 Hist, withy Ben, with the chipmunk face ! 
 This way, broad Bill, with the trousers wide ! 
 Come, stumbling Tom, with the big toe tied ! 
 The scramble is made up the shaky stairs, 
 Hatless and breathless, we stand in pairs ; 
 Bawling Bob gives the word, and down we go 
 
i-/2 THE OLD FARM BARN. 
 
 From the cobwebbed beam to the bay below. 
 The sport is forbidden, hence double the zest ; 
 More risks than the damage to breeches or vest 
 Aha ! he s no coward gets sprout, to-day, 
 For bliss of the leap from the beam to the hay ! 
 
 Oh, the way of the world, its worry and strife 
 The wrestle, the battle, that men call "life " ! 
 On us all, at times, may the noon sun shine, 
 It may warm to your heart, may warm to mine, 
 But the joy long gone, though never so small, 
 Compared with joys present, is worth them all. 
 The future we know not, but safe is the past, 
 And the first we loved we love to the last ; 
 The dearer gifts, the longer we live, 
 Are the quiet joys our memories give : 
 Ay, back, my heart, to the rainy day 
 To the old farm barn and the children at play. 
 
AUTO DA FE. 
 
 T T EIGH-HO, a drowsy, drippy day 
 
 Suits well your single gentlemen 
 Whose locks begin to show the gray. 
 The grizzly drizzle round my "den" 
 Tis sent on purpose, I dare say, 
 For bachelor s A^^to da fe. 
 I have the ribboned missives, here, 
 The hearth flames flicker low, but clear, 
 The spell is on the savage spell 
 To do the burning quickly, well : 
 So, to it. 
 
 Heavens ! how old am I ? 
 It seems a hundred years since she 
 That inked this paper said to me, 
 You will be older, by and by." 
 
AUTO DA FJE. 
 
 I was a beardless rover, then, 
 With dreamy brain, and ready pen, 
 At sight of form or features fair, 
 To write a ditty of despair. 
 Well, Constance, I am older, now ; 
 And you ? The marble of that brow 
 Must have its channels deep and bold ; 
 High time that love twixt us was cold.- 
 Spring up, you little tongues of fire, 
 For I begin the precious pyre. 
 
 These ? These from stately Margaret. 
 I never loved her, never ; yet 
 There was a something us between 
 That keeps a spear of memory green 
 A plucky, strong, unbrothered blade, 
 Still smiling in its depth of shade. 
 Well trained the hand that down this page 
 Drew line to line ; each letter clear 
 
AUTO DA 
 
 And firm from " Honest John, my dear," 
 Far as the awkward word, "engage." 
 
 " Engage," again ! Did I propose ? 
 
 11 Engage " ! I 11 read on to the close. 
 Tall Margaret, if this be true, 
 In those young days what didn t I do ? 
 For shame ! Up, up, good flames ! To you 
 I toss this ample package, too. 
 
 There s nothing like a rainy day 
 When one would put old loves away : 
 Between the water and the fire, 
 The fated passions soon expire. 
 Ha, this snug bundle what an air 
 Of pride about it ! What a care 
 To make a fellow bite the dust : 
 " Down on your knee, you must, you must ! " 
 And probably I did go down, 
 General prostration seized the town 
 In fact, I know I did ; but, then, 
 
AUTO DA 
 
 Somehow I found my feet again. 
 
 A girl s a girl, a boy s a fool, 
 
 And life it proves a sorry school. 
 
 Imperial Fair (for thou wert fair 
 
 As any breathing lower air), 
 
 I do forgive all injury 
 
 Thou didst to either heart or knee. 
 
 I spy a word, now here, now there, 
 
 That shows you could a little " care "; 
 
 Right royal Lois, tis too late. 
 
 Receive these proudly, gentle grate. 
 
 And now, to Helen. Taste of wine 
 Is on my lips, and all sweet spices : 
 This dark-eyed one had been divine 
 But for some few mundane devices. 
 She traced these pages sharp and fast 
 As hailstones drive on the winter blast 
 Tame passion Helen never knew, 
 A very hurricane she blew, 
 
AUTO DA F. 177 
 
 Or sat in midst of awful calm. 
 
 No other ever sang a psalm 
 
 As she could sing it, on occasion ; 
 
 Another s eyes did never play 
 
 Such pranks after the operation. 
 
 Twas hard to know which way to take her, 
 
 But rare the wooer would forsake her 
 
 For charmer of a surer mind. 
 
 Angel with a dash of the tiger kind, 
 
 Love s leopard Helen, off and on, 
 
 We loved it madly, years agone ! 
 
 When you were married 
 
 Blaze, bright pyre ; 
 I add these, also fire to fire. 
 
 And still the rain, the gray, gray rain ; 
 And there s that last year s leak again. 
 Rustum, why can t you bring a pail 
 Twixt swings of that eternal tail ? 
 Tis almost done ; one offering more. 
 
AUTO DA 
 
 What says the clock ? Quarter of four.- 
 Rustum, old fellow, foul or fair, 
 You re right : we d better take the air. 
 These last these little yellow scraps, 
 Good fire, ere long, perhaps perhaps. 
 
AN EPISTLE TO A BACHELOR. 
 
 T3 ESOLVED, at last, to woo and wed : " 
 " This ill accords with what we said 
 In those triumphant days, old fellow, 
 When, with good " Park and Tilford " mellow 
 Health after health went round the "den," 
 
 " Here s to all single gentlemen ! " 
 
 Though not so strange as it first appears, 
 
 (Grave Horace fell at fifty years) 
 
 Still, as I read on, sombre hues 
 
 Did follow, bordering on the " blues," 
 
 And sounds, as when the late leaves stir, 
 
 Crept heartward from the days that were. 
 
i8o AN EPISTLE TO A BACHELOR. 
 
 The hint is dropt with caution nice, 
 You d not despise a bard s advice : 
 Accept some facts as one may hand em, 
 Not without thought, but still at random. 
 
 Sweet Eve, ensconced neath Eden s tree, 
 
 Inducted woman s ministry ; 
 
 Potent not only over Adam, 
 
 But, fast as after mothers had em, 
 
 Reaching each son of every race 
 
 Destined to grievance or to grace. 
 
 This doctrine courses Sacred Writ, 
 And pagan lore continues it : 
 Beloved of gods, high Hebe stumbled 
 Again was heavenly woman humbled. 
 Thence down, pursue her where you will, 
 The first grand failure follows still. 
 
 Let me be last to slight the pearl 
 That glistens in the dimpled girl ; 
 
AN EPISTLE TO A BACHELOR. 181 
 
 But, ah, it tarnishes with years, 
 
 At length in dullness disappears. 
 
 Ever from April to October 
 
 Does transient beauty hasten sober ; 
 
 And, finally, in dread November 
 
 Comes unconditional surrender. 
 
 The brightest shiner in the brook 
 
 Is an ugly wriggler on the hook ; 
 
 A star the fire-fly sparkles by, 
 
 Get fingers on it, tis a fly. 
 
 At least have cunning of your cat : 
 
 He s fond of fish, but, for all that, 
 
 No trout can tempt him in deep water 
 
 As you must wade for beauty s daughter. 
 
 O beatific solitude 
 
 Where only bachelors intrude, 
 While round the edges of your shade 
 Inspiring moves th occasional maid ! 
 
 William, so earnest, able, true, 
 I prophesied high deeds for you : 
 
182 AN EPISTLE TO A BACHELOR. 
 
 I deemed you would a banyan be 
 
 A noble forest in one tree, 
 
 Huge protest gainst all huddling men. 
 
 I thought you d teach the world that when 
 
 The solitary seeker calls, 
 
 Some Newton s apple timely falls, 
 
 That lamp of Galileo swings 
 
 For them that think, alone with things. 
 
 The wisest of all brutes that be, 
 
 breeds not in mean captivity : 
 
 Genius is not gregarious, Will. 
 
 And here a pause to point my quill 
 
 How villainous to so defame 
 
 Sweet innocents with touch of blame ! 
 
 I 11 play the hypocrite no longer. 
 
 Twas thus we put it only stronger 
 
 In days by-gone. Changed, changed since then 
 
 The tyros of the Broadway "den." 
 
AN EPISTLE TO A BACHELOR. 183 
 
 1 Onward, onward to something better ! " 
 Now cries the writer of this letter. 
 The dears shall be no more derided : 
 Say prayers, my boy, and do as I did. 
 
BROTHER BACHELOR BATRACHIAN. 
 
 " wears yet a jewel in his head." 
 
 TT O, hermit of the cellar wall, 
 
 If you are coming out at all, 
 Come now ; in thirty minutes more 
 The rain will trickle down your door. 
 Make haste, my boy ; this ceaseless drizzle 
 Would prove most friendship sheerest fizzle, 
 But we old jovies, once together, 
 Have nought to fear from wind or weather. 
 Come, come ; hurrah, there, bachelor lump ! 
 Betwixt a waddle and a jump, 
 Judge-like ascend your own toad-stool 
 Worked out last night by wizard s tool. 
 
BROTHER BACHELOR BATRACHIAN. 185 
 
 Ha, there you are, sedate as ever ; 
 Prodigious plain, but passing clever. 
 The years are twenty to a day 
 Since you and I first sat this way ; 
 How many more think you to squat, 
 Contented, on our pleasant spot ? 
 Be frank with me, you wily monk, 
 Impervious, solemn, clumsy chunk ! 
 
 What mischief are you plotting, now, 
 
 Squaring about Sou - West by Sou ? 
 
 A weather-cock with half the pains 
 
 Can nose precise a dozen rains. 
 
 Be seated. It is rather cold 
 
 Way down there in your stony hold? 
 
 Those dungeon vapors don t you think 
 
 They make the spirits sort of sink, 
 
 Partic larly when stingy fate 
 
 Too long withholds the cheery mate ? 
 
186 BROTHER BACHELOR BATRACHIAN. 
 
 Let go in peace that fiftieth fly ; 
 
 Another morsel, a nd you die ! 
 
 With your last testament unsigned, 
 
 How dare you gorge yourself stone blind? 
 
 A risky situation that 
 
 When toads are twenty-odd, and fat. 
 
 Feel nervous, fellow ? Pshaw ! lean back, 
 
 And from your buff aldermanic sack 
 
 Puff out the truth for once and all : 
 
 Your mind s made up to wed, this fall, 
 
 Good year ; whatever comes to pass, 
 
 The insects in the garden sauce 
 
 Alone, I 11 guarantee to load 
 
 With plenty all the tribe of toad. 
 
 My hand, old dumps ! a worthy wife 
 
 Will lift you to a higher life : 
 
 The dumb inflation of that cheek 
 
 Will yield to maxims Solons speak, 
 
 In pleas for daily peace and ease 
 
 You may prove second Socrates. 
 
BROTHER BACHELOR BATRACHIAN. 187 
 
 Why, one lone toad down in the wall, 
 Is a wart heap, no toad at all. 
 
 There don t repeat that deac nish wink ; 
 
 I know exactly what you think. 
 
 Somebody (not far off) has had 
 
 His youthful frolics, good and bad, 
 
 His salad antics : dare he vow 
 
 He s got well over em ? How s that how ? 
 
 Warm evenings, just outside the walk, 
 
 Those cooings by the cabbage stalk ! 
 
 Droll chap, I grant you re old and fat, 
 
 And may have nieces and all that ; 
 
 But when with her you claim relation 
 
 Blood ties remotest in creation, 
 
 I d have you know it won t go down 
 
 Though backed by every toad in town. 
 
 Sit still, no offence : I can t help joking, 
 Moment I see that stub nose poking 
 
x88 BROTHER BACHELOR BATRACHIAN. 
 
 Into the light. You take a mate 
 Prepost rous ! Certainly ; too late. 
 At your age, better a hangman s halter 
 Than the kind they re led with to the altar. 
 Heaven spare the storms that we can t weather, 
 We two old jovies, here together. 
 
 Heigh-ho, the gentle, misty rain 
 Is coming down the hill again. 
 Did you perceive just what was meant 
 Bout that Last Will and Testament ? 
 
 Grave Bachelor Batrachian, pray 
 What sense in sidling off that way ? 
 Ridiculous old rogue ! Turn round, 
 You baggy wag from underground ! 
 No other eyes see well as mine 
 How bright your inner riches shine : 
 Long may they live when you are dead 
 Leave me the jewel in your head. 
 
OUR OPHIDIAN FRIEND. 
 
 /CYLINDRICAL thing 
 
 Without leg, without wing, 
 Glazed membrane stuffed with motion,- 
 I hold the heretical notion 
 That because you crawl 
 Is no reason at all 
 For laying so odious stress 
 The length of your lowliness 
 
 A walk or a glide, 
 
 A stride or a slide, 
 
 A trip or a slip, 
 
 A skate or a skip, 
 
 It s one and the same to me, 
 
 Sly, India-rubber iniquity ! 
 
OUR OPHIDIAN FRIEND. 
 
 And as to your morals, there, too, I Ve suspicion 
 
 We harp overhard on the point of position. 
 
 I admit you do things not precisely right 
 
 It s rather erroneous, for instance, to bite 
 
 But we all have our lapses, perhaps full as serious 
 
 As those at your threshold, twister mischievous. 
 
 To travel way back to the start of the world, 
 
 When in grasses of Eden your ancestors curled, 
 
 Resurrecting malfeasance from time out of mind, 
 
 Limp ringler, I say it s a little unkind. 
 
 Suppose in snakeskin a wretch did deceive 
 
 The lady initial, ingenuous Eve ; 
 
 In their own skins, to-day, that s exact what men do, 
 
 Then put the whole blame (and the bludgeon) on you. 
 
 Your forefathers, likely, were up to their tricks, 
 
 But the fault, after all, was plainly Old Nick s ; 
 
 And if only your paths are sinlessly slid, 
 
 Why should we care a rap what your granddaddy did ? 
 
 Poor animate string of the glittering eye, 
 
 If you 11 look to your head, to my heels will I : 
 
OUR OPHIDIAN FRIEND. 
 
 As for me and my house, we 11 never inveigh 
 Gainst a ribbon that harmlessly garters our way, 
 Nor with cudgel from cactus or Calvin hewed, 
 Fall thwacking its limber longitude. 
 
 Abused, abjured Ophidian, 
 
 Bask on in peace meridian ; 
 The more of the tale of the Tempter they make, 
 The closer I 11 hold to the tail of the snake. 
 
SILVER BELL. 
 
 A FAR, in scarred Nevada, 
 
 There sat in the smoky gloom, 
 A group of riotous outlaws, 
 Round Rennigan s gambling-room. 
 
 They had won and lost and settled, 
 Forgot the dice and cards ; 
 
 And now they drank, and storied 
 Of foes and doughty " pards." 
 
 The storm was at the maddest, 
 With oaths and laughter-blast, 
 
 When into their midst ( twas morning, 
 Three o clock and past,) 
 
SILVER BELL. 193 
 
 An old man crept from his corner ; 
 
 Weighing each braggart word, 
 He sat there, bowed and silent, 
 
 A-nodding as he heard. 
 
 Sat silent till fierce Bigglin, 
 Glancing from guest to guest, 
 
 Cried, " Clash with me your glasses, 
 The shot of all the West ! " 
 
 Then spoke the old man, shaking 
 His long locks, loose and white, 
 
 Hold, there ! Bold words and hasty ; 
 Wait till the morning light." 
 
 1 Old chap, no more ; you re rattled, 
 
 There s dry stuff in your brain ; 
 Open and wet your whistle, 
 Nor let it blow again." 
 
194 SILVER BELL. 
 
 So jeered young yeasty Bigglin, 
 Filling the old man s glass. 
 " I 11 drink ; and you you will listen 
 To what once came to pass. 
 
 " Here s health to you, young Bigglin, 
 
 Live long till you be wise ! " 
 The old man drank, and faced them, 
 The fire tonguing up in his eyes. 
 
 " You ve heard of Battle Mountain, 
 
 The home of Silver Bell ; 
 Tis there they tell a story 
 And that s the tale I tell." 
 
 They stopt him, filled their glasses 
 " Both names we know em well. 
 
 The lass of Battle Mountain, 
 Drink, drink to Silver Bell ! " 
 
SILVER BELL. 195 
 
 " Ay, drink ; but had you known her, 
 Felt her black hair, wave on wave, 
 That caught with the crush of the serpent, 
 And held with the strength of the grave ! "- 
 
 "Hear him ! So you, too, loved her, 
 
 Before your pulse was gone. 
 And still on top and hearty : 
 Bravo ! old man, go on." 
 
 " The guess was easy. Loved her ? 
 
 I loved her, loved her well : 
 Love followed, close as her shadow, 
 Fawn-footed Silver Bell. 
 
 " But I must keep to my story 
 
 Of two, you understand, 
 Two lovers who, belting their pistols, 
 Went up to seek her hand. 
 
196 SILVER BELL. 
 
 11 What ! By blue heaven, exclaimed she, 
 
 Come you to shoot me down ! 
 I 11 whip my pretty pearl-hilt, 
 And march you back to town. 
 
 " Low bowed Nevada s Marksman, 
 
 We come to see how well 
 We can cut a gray hawk-feather 
 From the hand of Silver Bell. 
 
 " At the side of his haughty rival, 
 
 Low bowed young Shooting Star, 
 Safe the little brown fingers ; 
 You know what shots we are. 
 
 She took the gray hawk-feather, 
 
 And tossed her round, bare head, 
 1 What if you nick a finger ? 
 
 We Ve fixed that point, they said. 
 
SILVER BELL. 197 
 
 " She twirled and twirled the feather 
 In that small hand, like the cone 
 Of the fir in its turn and taper, 
 And brown as the brown madrone. 
 
 " Firm, then, the trim deer-ankles ; 
 
 With the feather at arm s end, 
 She stood and waved them backward 
 To the shade of Hazel Bend." 
 
 " I God s name, which first tried it?" 
 The Kid of the Cliff shrill cried. 
 
 " The lot fell to the Marksman 
 The girl s hand to her side." 
 
 " Coward ! he struck a finger." 
 
 Touched one ; but a coward stay. 
 The second shot he bettered 
 The aim at the feather gray : 
 
I9 8 SILVER BELL. 
 
 " He turned the muzzle homeward, 
 And like a clod he fell " 
 
 " By God " " Hold ! the feather, 
 Once more, for Silver Bell. 
 
 " Again tis floating ready ! 
 This time tis harder far : 
 See how the light thing trembles ! 
 Steady, Shooting Star. 
 
 Twas cut nice in the middle ; 
 
 And ere the slim tip fell, 
 Lithe as a hound leapt forward 
 The winner of Silver Bell : 
 
 Brown beauty, blind was the bullet- 
 
 A clumsy shot, he said ; 
 But my Marksman paid dear for it, 
 In the shade of the hazels dead. 
 
SILVER BELL. I99 
 
 " The stare of the girl was savage 
 As a panther s on the prey, 
 There s the hand : a wound, and no bleeding ? * 
 She had pressed the blood away. 
 
 " Slow back she stept, and halted, 
 And at her heart aimed well : 
 Will you give over or claim it 
 The prize of Silver Bell ? 
 
 "Go free, he said ; twas the other ! 
 
 I 11 take my way afar. 
 And never saw she thereafter 
 The face of Shooting Star. 
 
 " She never saw him thereafter, 
 
 Nor has he shot from the day 
 He cut the gray hawk-feather, 
 And took his lonely way." 
 
SILVER BELL. 
 
 The old man stopt, still eyed them, ] 
 
 Smoothing his weapon bright, 
 
 " As gray as the gray hawk-feather, 
 
 There comes the morning light. 
 
 " You all are young, all shooters 
 
 Let two come out the door 
 That think it safe to face him 
 Old Shooting Star, once more." 
 
 So passed he into the morning, 
 
 Still turning from afar ; 
 But no man chose to follow, 
 
 A target for Shooting Star. 
 
HELEN. 
 
 /^VN certing subjects I jest know : 
 There s gals an gals, I say, 
 An the purtiest don t care where you go 
 Lived yender, crost the way. 
 
 Them ankles, round as a rollin -pin ; 
 
 That braid which hung way down ; 
 All bright as if the day d struck in 
 
 A sky gal on the groun ; 
 
 A leetle color on her cheek, 
 
 Where the blood looks out o door, 
 
 Like them fust changes on the maples 
 From frost, the night afore 
 
HELEN. 
 
 No use in paintin a snowdrift white, 
 
 I needn t go no fu ther ; 
 God might, I s pose I s pose he might 
 
 But he never made another. 
 
 We warn t no more nor a year apart, 
 I d watched her from a chicken ; 
 
 I m there, right there, when you re talkin heart 
 An this ere women-pickin . 
 
 We learnt together. At a book 
 
 I hedn t no special sconce, 
 But in lickin s stead o her, I took 
 
 The ruler more than once. 
 
 I d danced long wi her rether reglar, 
 
 At most the scrapes in town ; 
 Fact, I hev heerd twas feared I d shake 
 
 The darned old tavern down. 
 
HELEN. 203 
 
 I d helped her folks at killin -time, 
 Or when hay was late in cuttin ; 
 
 An when their eatin warn t quite prime, 
 Swapt a bit of veal or mutton. 
 
 As I said, we started head an head, 
 But she kept gainin groun ; 
 
 At last, my dander up, I said, 
 " I 11 in, be it swim or drown." 
 
 So, rangin on t some evenin s prev ous, 
 One mornin I hitched the pair ; 
 
 An , riggin out my most mischievous, 
 Druv her, spinnin , to the Fair. 
 
 To this ere time, to put it nice, 
 There was nothin wuth declarin , 
 
 Cept I d kissed her onct or twice, 
 At a huskin or a parin*. 
 
204 HELEN. 
 
 The grays, I swings ! they made things whistle, 
 
 A-gittin to the Fair ; 
 An , like a gold finch on a thistle, 
 
 She sot beside me square. 
 
 As I was sayin , the grays warn t lazy, 
 
 We got there bright an early ; 
 The dew still glistenin on the daisy, 
 
 The hills with mist all curly. 
 
 It ain t my style doin things by halves, 
 
 I cut the entire figur ; 
 We took all in, from the colts an calves 
 
 To the patent thig-a-magigger. 
 
 Ball butter, punkins two foot thro , 
 
 Turnips, an cheese, an honey, 
 Pink-eyes, rag carpets, an patch quilts, too 
 
 We seen em ; an I slung some money. 
 
HELEN. 205 
 
 I scattered the coppers ; an my pile, 
 
 I remarked, I d willin risk it 
 That a gal I knowed could beat em a mile 
 
 On gingerbread and biscuit. 
 
 We heerd the speech an lots o the band, 
 See the trot an plowin matches ; 
 
 An I never so much as techt her hand 
 Though there was some close scratches. 
 
 We made a day on t : see all the stock, 
 
 The fruit, the home manufactur s, 
 An got away at eight o clock, 
 fc Thout any compound fractur s. 
 
 The air was closter than I need, 
 
 An gin me a sort o chokin ; 
 So I druv at no partic lar speed, 
 
 An tried to pluck up, jokin . 
 
206 HELEN. 
 
 The makeshift didn t take, somehow, 
 
 An , rether wuss than better, 
 Sez I, " I 11 bring things hum, right now ; 
 
 If she mittings me let her. 
 
 Helen," sez I, a-takin her hand, 
 
 " Anent the fire-fly s spark, 
 That s jest my fix you understand 
 
 A-burnin in the dark." 
 
 She sot as straight, sir, straight an still, 
 
 As a rabbit in the wood 
 On top the choke I took a chill ; 
 
 She certing understood. 
 
 The goldenrods are comin* on, 
 The sumachs growin brighter, 
 
 The singin birds hev quit, an gone," 
 I squeezed a leetle tighter 
 
HELEN. 207 
 
 "It s lonesome like (ez you be fair 
 
 I know you 11 be forgivin ), 
 An I Ve a castle in the air 
 Too big for one to live in. 
 
 " Since fust we played house-keep together " 
 
 Here come a flash o lightnin ! 
 My back-bone felt like a big wet feather, 
 But I kept my hand a-tightenin . 
 
 " Ever since that day " an there I broke. 
 
 So did a clap o thunder : 
 It seemed as if the hevings spoke, 
 An I could see it stunned her. 
 
 She dropt them long, thick, sweepin lashes, 
 And her face grew white all over, 
 
 Like where a sprinklin of wood ashes 
 Brings up the new white clover. 
 
2o8 HELEN. 
 
 I guess we 11 let the subjeck drop. 
 
 Do you hear that youngster yellin ? 
 When he begins I allers stop, 
 
 Give the floor to him an Helen. 
 
POETRY MADE PRACTIC. 
 
 (WITH APOLOGIES TO MR. STEDMAN.) 
 
 T^HE leaves are gettin sere, 
 
 The green is growin gray ; 
 It s been a tryin day 
 At turnin o the year. 
 
 My spritely little fire, 
 It frisks it brisk as though 
 It sort o seemed to know 
 A heart could kind-a tire. 
 
 I 11 hasp that swingin blind, 
 And pull the curting down ; 
 It s most too fur to town 
 Ag in a nippin wind. 
 
POE TR Y MA DE PR A CTIC. 
 
 I reck n I better read 
 A bit o poetry ; 
 A tech of love, may be, 
 To keep from goin to seed. 
 
 Hello, what s this chap at? 
 The Doorstep," eh. That s right ; 
 Not quite a doorstep night, 
 This ere, but what o that ? 
 
 Steady he s not there yet. 
 The snow all crispy good ! 
 Twixt " tippet " an the "hood " 
 There s suthin up, I 11 bet. 
 
 Her " hand outside her muff- 
 She s fixin plaguy quick ; 
 Well, now, that is, that s slick 
 A-hold on t ! Good enough. 
 
POETRY MADE PRACTIC. * 
 
 He s posted how things goes 
 With country folks, I see ; 
 Dern slumpy poetry 
 Onless a feller does. 
 
 Well said I do declare ! 
 
 The "old folks," "ringlets," "moon" 
 
 He s stickin to the tune, 
 
 And must be almost there. 
 
 A fiddle on his "sister" ! 
 Ef he should up and blunder- 
 No, by the jumpin thunder ! 
 He has he s kissed her ! 
 
 Thar s poetry. Down you, houn ! 
 
 It ain t so very late ; 
 
 I m goin to strike my gait ; 
 
 Yes, sir, I m off to town. 
 
POE TR Y MA DE PR A CTIC. 
 
 An Mr. Pole Git, Rover ! 
 Ef it would be amusin , 
 1 11 prove by me and Susin 
 Jest " who can live youth over." 
 
THE TRAPPER S SWEETHEART. 
 
 "\ 1 HDE awake, now, mind your eye, 
 She will think on t by and by ; 
 She will see perhaps she may 
 Gin to-morrer, not to-day. 
 
 " Be true to me, 
 
 Furgit," says she, 
 Jest as it may hit her fancy : 
 That s it zackly, that s my Nancy. 
 
 Take a squirrel up a tree, 
 Jest so frisky, sir, is she : 
 Now on this side, now on that, 
 You must watch her like a cat. 
 
 It s "No," it s "Yes, 
 
 I rather guess " 
 Jest as it may tech her fancy : 
 That s it zackly, that s my Nancy. 
 
214. THE TRAPPER S SWEETHEART. 
 
 You ve seen creeturs sudding lame, 
 Git too near em, an they re game ! 
 Her right over : an inch too near, 
 Up and off is Nancy dear. 
 " Yes, Jake," says she, 
 " Laws sake ! " says she, 
 Jest accordin to her fancy : 
 That s it zackly, that s my Nancy. 
 
 Whew, a gal s a cunnin thing ! 
 
 You must take em on the wing. 
 
 I 11 be goin ; fur, ye see, 
 Nancy, she s expectin me. 
 
 I 11 hit or miss her, 
 
 It s quit or kiss her ; 
 I m fur facts, while she s fur fancy : 
 That s us zackly me and Nancy. 
 
THE JOCKEY S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 T WONDER what s got in em all, 
 
 A-kitin arter one : 
 
 Whoa ! Young and old, and short and tall 
 To see em break and run ! 
 I vow, it s quite amusin , 
 Their thirty-gait enthusin 
 Come tip, old Daisy, gat, 
 Come up, old lazy gall 
 
 Gee off, I say, there out the track ! 
 Great turnpike, how they come ! 
 Haul in, and take an easy shack ; 
 Miss Susin ain t to home. 
 
2i6 THE JOCKE Y S SOLIL OQUY. 
 
 Sich drivin is abusin , 
 
 Sich thunderin enthusin 
 
 Come up, old Daisy, gal, 
 Come up, old lazy gal ! 
 
 Yes, sir, from gawky four-year old 
 
 To splinty, heavey hoss, 
 
 They ve struck a gait that they can t hold 
 
 On Susin s track / m boss. 
 
 P r aps hardly her own choosin , 
 
 Don t lay the blame on Susin 
 
 Come up, old Daisy, gal. 
 
 Come up, old lazy gal! 
 
 Now, she warn t made for no junk cart, 
 She d take the bit, you see ; 
 But I jest broke her colty heart 
 Thout scratchin the single-tree. 
 
THE JOCKEY S SOLILOQUY, 217 
 
 So, now, of course, no trouble 
 
 To take and hitch her double 
 
 Come up, old Daisy, gal, 
 Come up, old lazy gal ! 
 
 She ain t to home, boys out o town ; 
 
 Some silver plate, you know, 
 
 And ribbons Neighbor, good morn n : ride 
 
 down 
 
 As fur as the new de-po ? 
 Jehu ! this turnip s loosin ; 
 She whistles ! That means Susin 
 No dancin\ there : well, well, 
 You jealous Daisy, gal / 
 
MODERN PROGRESS. 
 
 A FEW TECHES ON T, BY AN OLD FOGY. 
 
 T ^1 7E RE livin , now, in most trimendious times, 
 Too wondersome for plain straight-furrid 
 
 rhymes, 
 
 But, I confess, my poor old fogy brain 
 It would jest like to ketch a glimpse, again, 
 Of some things they have whisked clean out of ken, 
 Upsettin Natur and my feller men. 
 The good old world, I s pose, is still a ball, 
 And keeps a-rollin ; pon my word, that s all 
 Remains o t nat ral. Once upon a time 
 Twas suthin of a trip from clime to clime ; 
 But any ninny, now, can stand right here 
 And holler business in a Hindoo s ear. 
 
MODERN PROGRESS. 219 
 
 With ingines, snapagraphs and howlephones 
 
 A-muddlin up the very poles and zones ! 
 
 Good Lord, is this still Adam s fallen race 
 
 So cool annihilatin time and space, 
 
 A-drivin of the coursers o the air 
 
 As sainted granther did his sorrel mare ! 
 
 But I would let old mother Natur go 
 
 If they would leave the folks I used to know. 
 
 Why, them nussed at the breast of my nativ Ian , 
 
 Half on em talks sost I can t understan ; 
 
 While them fresh critters from a furrin shore, 
 
 They d scared the geese at our old homestead door. 
 
 Now take, for inst , them rattin almond-eyed 
 
 I thought that sich lived clean on t other side : 
 
 Bless ye, there ain t no t other side, to-day, 
 
 Jess like s not Boston s sot on Bottany Bay. 
 
 The times is thunderin wonderful, I know 
 
 This ere a mixin up creation so ; 
 
 But, by my bones ! I d like once more t enjoy 
 
 Them blessin s I was riz to from a boy. 
 
MODERN PROGRESS. 
 
 I d like the reg lar old religeon back, 
 
 Which said we jest must walk the narrer track, 
 
 And there an end on t : now, where we re to go 
 
 (Maybe some folks are smarter) I don know. 
 
 My bible might as well be on the shelf ; 
 
 They ve found the world jest up and made itself, 
 
 And Christians, even, have fixed the Good Book over 
 
 Until there s lee tie left on t but the cover. 
 
 No, faith, I 11 keep the track my fathers trod, 
 
 For all their Sheols and their Nothin -God. 
 
 Great times, it seems, is made of rush and doubt, 
 
 But where the great comes in, I hain t found out. 
 
 If Natur s done for and religeon, too, 
 
 Pray leave me suthin a-ruther t won t slump thro ! 
 
 Leave, say, a man will find spare time to sit 
 
 Him down in his right mind, and chat a bit ; 
 
 A plain, old-fashioned, homespun, mortal man, 
 
 Who allers takes it easy when he can. 
 
 Leave me a woman tendin her own child, 
 
 A-lookin like they used to when they smiled, 
 
MODERN PROGRESS. 
 
 Not makin on it ; leave a good cart-load 
 
 Of children which is children till they re growed ; 
 
 Give me some gals, once more, can mind a kitchen, 
 
 And tend to suthin else besides bewitchin ; 
 
 Some women-folks whose art ain t quite so high 
 
 They re clamberin up, a-frescoin the sky ; 
 
 Leave boys not all base-ball, or else afloat 
 
 In tooth-pick of a college racin -boat 
 
 Some square-backed boys with heads on, not them 
 
 cranes 
 From York, with a teaspoonful of bran for 
 
 brains ; 
 
 Leave me a story-book, fore I begin it \ 
 I know for sure that there s a story in it, 
 And let me get at least a quarter through one 
 Before the feller comes out with a new one ; 
 And I d enjoy, once more, a poet s flutin 
 That warn t all zigzag, friskin , hifalutin . 
 Leave papers with some readin -matter in 
 Betwixt the murders and patent medercin , 
 
MODERN PROGRESS. 
 
 A room I dare set down in if a-faintin , 
 
 Some dinner-plates for puddin not for paintin ; 
 
 A doctor not so swamped in his M. D. 
 
 His stuff ain t wuth a pinch of raspberry tea. 
 
 And let me mention, lest I be forgettin , 
 
 Leave me at least one good old hen for settin : 
 
 Them han -made hens may hatch, but, for all 
 
 weathers, 
 
 I 11 stick to an old speckled hen with feathers. 
 Well, this will do ; with these I 11 get along 
 The few days left. If I have spoke too strong, 
 This mighty age it must be mighty kind, 
 And parding me for freein of my mind. 
 
UNIVEKSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, 
 BERKELEY 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 Books not returned on time are subject to a fine of 
 50c per volume after the third day overdue, increasing 
 to $1.00 per volume after the sixth day. Books not in 
 demand may be renewed if application is made before 
 expiration of loan period. 
 
 R * 
 
H 01682