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LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
 OF 
 
 aass 
 
UNIVERSITY 
 
POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 GEORGE CRAWFORD WILSON 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1904 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 I 
 
 Printed by the Stanley-Taylor Co., S. F. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Biographical Sketch ...... I 
 
 A Personal Letter to the Family from an Old Friend 4 
 
 His Mother 's His Sweetheart, by Frank Stanton . 5 
 
 The Inky Web ...... 9 
 
 IN WAR-TIME: 
 
 At Bordertown in '61 . . . 13 
 
 The Southern Trooper . . .46 
 
 A Personal Reminiscence of Shiloh . . 55 
 
 LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW: 
 
 An Idyl ....... 63 
 
 Laddie . . . . . . .65 
 
 Love's Tragedy . . . . .67 
 
 The Magdalen's Thanksgiving Day . . 71 
 Forgiveness . , . . . -75 
 The Mote and the Beam .... 76 
 
 The Final Gospel ..... 80 
 
 My Song That Is Never Sung . . .83 
 
 IN LIGHTER VEIN: 
 
 The Barn ...... 87 
 
 Upon Receiving a Birthday Bag from a Charity 89 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 RANDOM LINES: 
 
 While Talent Through the Gateway Crawls . 93 
 
 The Fire of Passion Fiercely Glows . . 94 
 
 The Virtues of a Friend He Saw . . 95 
 
 Those Well- Worn Words so Wondrous Dear 96 
 
 What Surgeon with His Searching Knife . 97 
 
 But Let the Spark of Genius Flash . . 98 
 
 Oh What a Laggard Foot hath Time . . 99 
 
 When We are Dead, what Care We then . 100 
 
 And when I Lie upon My Bier. . . 101 
 
 PORTRAITS: 
 
 In 1901 . . . . Opposite Title Page 
 
 At the Age of Fifteen .... 7 
 At the Age of Twenty-Six . . . -53 
 
OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY ] 
 
 OF 
 
 c/ 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 George Crawford Wilson was born in Indiana, 
 January 7, 1837, and died in Monrovia, Cali- 
 fornia, April 26, 1902. 
 
 At the age of fifteen he entered Asbury University, 
 which is now known as De Pauw University, in Green- 
 castle, Indiana. Five years later he completed his col- 
 lege course and was graduated from the University of 
 Indiana at Bloomington when but a few months past 
 his twentieth year. He then began the study of law, 
 and in a comparatively short time was admitted to the 
 bar. When in 1861 the Civil War broke out and threat- 
 ened the disunion of the States, George Wilson was 
 among the first to answer his Country's call and enlist 
 in defense of the Union. Although he had enlisted as 
 a private, he was soon given a commission, serving on 
 the staff of General Buford, and was at the front in two 
 of the great battles of the war, at Fort Donaldson and 
 on the hard-fought field of Shiloh. 
 
 After the close of the war he still gave his ener- 
 gies to the service of his country, and entered political 
 life, his grateful fellow-citizens electing him to the leg- 
 islature of Illinois. After serving with distinction his 
 
 1 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 term in legislative halls, he gave up political life to en- 
 gage in business and became a successful banker in 
 Illinois. 
 
 During the whole of this strenuous and exciting 
 portion of his life he found time to cultivate his special 
 fondness for literature; and on removing to Chicago, 
 he retired from active business and devoted some time 
 to literary pursuits, for which he had a natural inclina- 
 tion and special qualifications. 
 
 In 1897 he became a resident of California, where 
 he enjoyed the confidence of the entire community; 
 indeed, to know him was to love him; he was a splen- 
 did type of American gentleman; a brave soldier, mod- 
 est and unassuming in his public career, a thorough 
 business man, yet of a deeply religious nature and 
 possessed of many sympathetic and affectionate char- 
 acteristics. He never married, but with unswerving 
 fidelity and tenderest care gave the last ten years of 
 his life to close companionship with his dear mother, 
 who passed away just a short month before him, at the 
 age of ninety-one years. In his daily reading of the 
 Bible to her, they together had prepared for the Better 
 Land. 
 
 2 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 He died very suddenly in Monrovia while standing 
 talking to a friend. His death was a severe shock to 
 his remaining relatives and occasioned much sadness 
 to his many friends. The funeral services in Monrovia, 
 April 28, 1902, were of a peculiarly affecting character; 
 two poems written by Mr. Wilson, "The Final Gospel" 
 and "The Magdalen's Thanksgiving," were read by the 
 officiating clergyman, and in the purity of thought and 
 exaltation of life in the lines there was revealed to the 
 sorrowing listeners a view of the manly, unselfish spirit 
 of George Crawford Wilson. 
 
A PERSONAL LETTER TO THE FAMILY FROM 
 
 AN OLD FRIEND. 
 
 "A close association for over forty years with 
 George Crawford Wilson revealed the man; and the 
 revelation disclosed a character eminent for intelligence, 
 kindness and reliability. He was greatly good, evinc- 
 ing the broadest charity for his fellow-men, greeting all 
 men respectfully, and possessing the respect of all. 
 He made no criticisms and received none. His life was 
 one of love, and he was universally beloved. He ever 
 walked in peaceful paths, but in what was right he acted 
 without fear and without reproach. His mental vision 
 was clear, his judgment sound, and his counsels in- 
 valuable. He was a gentleman by nature, standing on 
 a higher plane than any ever reached by veneering 
 studies in etiquette. His kindly and thoughtful disposi- 
 tion gave surer guidance in this regard. He lived much 
 and taught us much in his allotted span, and he has left 
 us the most valuable of bequests a shining example 
 of right living. J. D. LONG." 
 
A friend, knowing of Mr. Wilson's devotion to his 
 mother, sent him these lines, and they were found 
 among the manuscripts of these poems: 
 
 HIS MOTHER 'S HIS SWEETHEART. 
 
 By Frank Stanton. 
 
 His mother 's his sweetheart the sweetest, 
 the best!" 
 So say the white roses he brings to my 
 
 breast; 
 
 The roses that bloom when life's summers depart; 
 But his love is the sweetest rose over my heart. 
 The love that hath crowned me 
 A necklace around me, 
 That closer to God and to Heaven hath bound me! 
 
 "His mother 's his sweetheart." Through all the sad 
 
 years 
 
 His love is the rainbow that shines through my tears; 
 My light in God's darkness, when with my dim eyes 
 I see not the stars in the storm of His skies. 
 When I bow 'neath the rod 
 And no rose decks the sod, 
 
 His love lights the pathway that leads me to God) 
 
 5 
 
"His mother 's his sweetheart." Shine bright for his feet, 
 O lamps on life's highway! and roses, lean sweet 
 To the lips of my darling! and God grant His sun 
 And His stars to my dutiful, beautiful one! 
 
 For his love it hath crowned me 
 
 A necklace around me, 
 And closer to God and to Heaven hath bound me! 
 
AT THE AGE OF FIFTEEN 
 
OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
T 
 
 he inky web wherein is caught 
 
 The viewless fly of human thought. 
 

IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 AT BORDERTOWN IN '61. 
 
 A Fragment. 
 
 A drum-call roused the village street, 
 And instantly a hundred feet 
 Went hastening tow'rd that martial sound, 
 With manly stride and youthful bound; 
 For beardless lads and bearded men 
 Alike were filled with ardor then. 
 A ready hand, a flag unfurled 
 The dearest flag in all the world 
 Then burst from lips that had been dumb 
 With waiting, tense and wearisome, 
 A cheer that shook the vibrant air 
 As if a thousand men were there. 
 Ere long there came a hundred more, 
 And some who had been youths of yore, 
 Whose whit'ning hair and dimming eyes 
 Showed youth and strength were memories: 
 E'en maids and mothers ventured near, 
 Unbonneted and pale with fear, 
 For they had heard the rumor dire 
 That chilled like ice, yet burned like fire. 
 O! ye who can no longer hide 
 
 13 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 Those marks which age has dignified 
 How well ye know and can recall 
 That day they fired on Sumter's wall! 
 That day the message northward Hashed 
 To tell the waiting lines had clashed; 
 The Nation's banner had been spurned 
 Then parley ceased and powder burned 
 And Peace, affrighted, fled afar 
 Before the awful frown of War! 
 
 A stalwart form stood quickly forth 
 
 A citizen of noble worth 
 
 Who, wishing silence, waved his hand 
 
 As one entitled to command. 
 
 "My friends" he said and then his tongue 
 
 A moment to his palate clung, 
 
 Unpracticed in the facile ways 
 
 Of those that turn the fluent phrase 
 
 "In futile speech 'twere wrong to waste 
 
 "The time we owe to helpful haste; 
 
 "This hour is eloquent you know 
 
 "Your country's peril who will go?" 
 
 Ah! who could know the swell of soul 
 
 They felt who signed that glory-roll, 
 
 14 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 Save one whose name was written there 
 His dividend of death to share? 
 So thought young Merwin, while his blood 
 Rushed hotly like a loosened flood 
 And drove like lightning through his brain 
 A panorama swift and plain. 
 A picture he could now recall, 
 Which hung upon the household wall, 
 Of battle fought for Freedom's cause 
 That won th' admiring world's applause. 
 'Twas there his father's grandsire bled 
 And on his name a lustre shed 
 That shone through all the distant haze 
 Of Revolutionary days. 
 To him that scene from history 
 Foretold what was again to be. 
 He saw the cannon flashing red 
 Beneath the smoke that rose o'erhead; 
 He saw the wounded upward drag 
 Themselves once more to cheer the flag 
 While, lying close, the bleeding corse 
 Was trampled by the flying horse. 
 Prophetic fancy now unrolled 
 A wider picture than the old, 
 
 15 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 And through the glass of magic power 
 
 She holds to Youth at such an hour, 
 
 He saw himself, with streaming hair 
 
 And fire-lit eye and bosom bare, 
 
 All dauntless face a hostile horde 
 
 Strike down its leader with his sword, 
 
 And vanquish him in single fight, 
 
 By dint of such God-given sleight 
 
 As David's, when his wondrous throw 
 
 For Israel laid Goliath low. 
 
 Then quivering with a double thrill 
 
 A flush of heat a sense of chill 
 
 He saw himself again appear 
 
 With bearded lip and brow severe, 
 
 A fine-clad hero of renown 
 
 Returning to his native town! 
 
 So fleets the action of a dream 
 
 When moments as long years may seem. 
 
 To see his duty and decide, 
 
 No time so short it could divide; 
 
 He sprang, all fervid, and enrolled 
 
 His name in letters clear and gold, 
 
 High on the bright, heroic page, 
 
 With those of neighbors twice his age; 
 
 16 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 For he was in his callow span 
 No more a lad nor quite a man. 
 At other times 'twere meet for jest 
 To note the bulging of his chest, 
 His pose erect and rigid spine, 
 The downward curving of the line 
 That marked the crescent of his mouth 
 And boded ill for all the South! 
 Elated and a trifle vain, 
 He turned to read his name again, 
 With pride unhid and pleasure keen 
 The round-writ name of Merwin Deane. 
 
 Thus while he flamed with open glow, 
 He had not guessed, nor could he know, 
 The tithe of what fair Blanche concealed, 
 And trembled lest she had revealed 
 Who watched with wav'ring, anxious face, 
 From distance meet for maiden's place. 
 She, too, that bold appeal had heard, 
 With all her loyal spirit stirred. 
 The scene his vision had foretold 
 She multiplied an hundred-fold, 
 And shuddered at the curdling sight, 
 
 17 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 As well a timid maiden might; 
 But when he leaped with purpose high 
 To bravely dare perchance to die 
 Her throbbing temples flushed and paled, 
 And self-control had well-nigh failed; 
 A current swelled through every vein 
 Surcharged with rapture and with pain; 
 She noted with a tell-tale start 
 The noisy tumult of her heart, 
 Whose beating sounded like a voice 
 That named the lover of her choice; 
 Then shaming lest her cheek confessed 
 The burning secret of her breast, 
 She fled and sought in safe retreat 
 Her close-embowered garden-seat, 
 Resolved, in silence and alone 
 To hide the secret all her own. 
 For ne'er had Merwin spoke the word 
 His glance had told but tongue deferred, 
 And maids must e'er their hearts deny 
 Till men beseech them, though they die. 
 Unconscious and uncaring, now, 
 What tales were told by cheek and brow, 
 Since others' eyes no longer viewed, 
 
 18 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 She paused in pensive attitude; 
 Her hair, unloosed ere she had stopped, 
 In tangle on her shoulders dropped; 
 A melancholy veiled her face 
 As 'twere of shadows wove in lace, 
 And for an instant halting there 
 She looked the statue of Despair. 
 But maidens' moods are wondrous brief 
 They change while falls the loosened leaf; 
 One breath was burdened with a sigh, 
 The next was ready to defy; 
 Her tardy lover she abused, 
 Then all his tardiness excused; 
 The right of usage now upheld, 
 Now 'gainst its tyranny rebelled; 
 At length with queries such as these 
 She softly plied the passing breeze: 
 "Oh! is it Nature's cruel plan 
 "That gives the choosing all to man? 
 "Should custom cramp the candid heart 
 "And make it but a thing of art? 
 "The modest flower its bounty free 
 "May offer to the favored bee; 
 The lowly vine, when it has found 
 
 19 
 
 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 "A way to climb up from the ground, 
 "Puts forth its tendrils and takes hold 
 "And Mother Nature does not scold; 
 "Yon robin, from the topmost bough, 
 "Is calling for a partner now 
 "With every sweet, impassioned note 
 "That shakes her ruddy little throat; 
 "While I must cower here alone 
 "And shun to make my fondness known 
 "Less free than flower, or vine, or bird, 
 "Must wait to hear the spoken word! 
 "Oh! is it right my Love should go 
 "And never of my love should know?" 
 A rustle checked the rising tear 
 A rapid footfall sounded near, 
 And Merwin bounded to her side 
 Aglow with passion and with pride 
 The martial and the am'rous flame 
 Enkindling all his youthful frame. 
 "My love!" he cried no more of speech 
 Was needed then, from each to each; 
 Unto his eager arms and brave 
 In swift embrace herself she gave 
 Their lips met in that bliss which rolls 
 
 20 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 Its welcome flood o'er love-drowned souls, 
 
 And mute with that ecstatic sense 
 
 They heard life's deepest eloquence. 
 
 Full well we know this humble line 
 
 Doth ill befit a theme divine 
 
 Which spurns low heights and, mounting, flies 
 
 To find expression in the skies. 
 
 But who could now such story tell 
 
 In better way, or half so well 
 
 As tongue and pen have told before 
 
 In strain seraphic, o'er and o'er? 
 
 Who, in its purpose, fails to trace 
 
 The germ eternal of his race? 
 
 The task were needless to portray 
 These lovers of a long-past day: 
 Tis naught to say the blissful pair 
 Were tall and lithe, or dark, or fair, 
 Or that in feature and in form 
 They were like statues living, warm: 
 They had not rank nor riches great, 
 Yet were they rich in that estate 
 Which aged kings, for chance to buy, 
 Would barter all their royalty 
 
 21 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 A queen of beauty, having lost, 
 
 Would purchase back at any cost 
 
 The miser, having cheaply sold, 
 
 To now regain would give his gold 
 
 The poet willingly bequeath 
 
 To Lethe's wave his laurel wreath 
 
 The statesman, hero, or the sage 
 
 Rub out his name on Fame's bright page; 
 
 Since they were in that fair Spring-time 
 
 When life is beautiful sublime 
 
 When it is ecstasy to live, 
 
 And Love is all superlative 
 
 The sweetest season ever sung 
 
 By voice or verse for they were young. 
 ****** 
 
 ****** 
 ****** 
 
 You would have searched throughout the land, 
 
 Nor found a more devoted band 
 
 Than that which rose at Bordertown 
 
 To put Disunion's menace down. 
 
 When first their thin but eager line 
 
 Absurdly long and serpentine 
 
 Marched proudly down th' admiring street, 
 
 22 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 With ready but unrhythmic feet, 
 The very ground could almost feel 
 The tremor of their untrained zeal; 
 The very air that fed their breath 
 Seemed burdened with contempt of death; 
 As if they had been bred to arms, 
 To marches, camps, and rude alarms, 
 To fierce foray and gory fight, 
 That sicken the unseasoned sight. 
 But these were children of a time 
 When war seemed needless as a crime, 
 And peace had nurtured softer ways, 
 Like those of bland Arcadian days. 
 What magic is it that transmutes 
 Mild reason's force to that of brutes? 
 Why should her throne be overset 
 By logic of the bayonet? 
 Are we not Christians? Much we pray 
 For Heaven's benign, pacific sway, 
 And petty striving we abhor 
 But rush into the hell of war! 
 Deep-rooted in the human breast 
 One love encircles all the rest: 
 'Tis love of country which abides 
 
 23 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 -^5 -! ^ 
 
 Through every change, whate'er betides, 
 And makes the land that gave us birth 
 The best-loved portion of the earth. 
 The exile cursed by cruel fate, 
 Through some harsh policy of state 
 Unsolaced for his birth-land longs, 
 His native scenes and native songs; 
 The wan and wretched fugitive 
 In banishment constrained to live, 
 Lest on his head his guilt may draw 
 The vengeance of a broken law 
 Through dismal years of shame and grief 
 Still hugs one prospect of relief: 
 To reach once more the land he craves, 
 And lie at last amid its graves; 
 The idler led by pleasure's wiles 
 To far-off seas and shores and isles 
 The student leaving ease behind 
 To garner treasures of the mind, 
 His life-long purpose deep to probe 
 The widest wisdom of the globe 
 May tarry 'neath an alien sky 
 Untroubled by one homeward sigh, 
 Until that moment when he sees 
 
 24 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 His country's banner in the breeze 
 Then thrills again that kind of joy 
 That swelled his bosom when a boy, 
 And though it slept a score of years, 
 'Twould wake and wet his cheek with tears. 
 The modest million loving home, 
 Nor driv'n in distant lands to roam 
 Through state's decree, nor felon's dread, 
 By leisure lured, nor learning led 
 Still cherish, mid their tasks of toil, 
 A passion for their native soil, 
 Which, grafted in their being, grows 
 From life's beginning to its close. 
 'Tis woven with their family ties, 
 The sports of childhood and its cries; 
 It mingles in their later days 
 With all their lives in myriad ways 
 'Tis on the landscape in the air 
 In work in worship everywhere. 
 And these are patriots aye, for these 
 Demand no honors nor degrees, 
 But, like their fathers in the past, 
 They'll serve their country to the last; 
 When duty calls to danger's post, 
 
 25 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 These are her safe-guard these her boast; 
 From mill and workshop, forge and field 
 A phalanx quick to warfare steeled 
 They come unhalting to debate 
 Their dole of fortune or of fate; 
 To live and wear an honored name, 
 Partaking of the nation's fame 
 Or lie beneath some sculptured stone 
 Or, mayhap, fill a grave unknown. 
 
 An artist hand should paint the scene 
 
 So proud so glad so sad between 
 
 When these crude warriors bade adieu 
 
 And marched away to rendezvous. 
 
 Those lovers of the common-weal 
 
 The country-folk on hoof and wheel 
 
 At early hour came gathering in, 
 
 With clatter and rumble and hurry and din,- 
 
 For, in the conflict now begun, 
 
 The town and country were as one, 
 
 And rustic fervor equaled quite 
 
 The valor of the village knight. 
 
 Ere long all round the public square, 
 
 From cart and wagon, here and there, 
 
 26 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 The drowsy plough-horse munched his feed, 
 Untaught to play the warlike steed 
 Or drag the cannon at his heels 
 Or stand with its unlimbered wheels, 
 Unscared the while it belched and roared 
 And bolts of murderous thunder poured. 
 The faithful farm-dog lay beneath, 
 Alert to growl and show his teeth, 
 Or oft, with anger bristling large, 
 Arose and circled round his charge 
 With tail erect and stiffened leg 
 And step so light 'twould spare an egg. 
 All noise of daily toil was still 
 Except the droning of the mill, 
 Whose busy wheel had never missed 
 To promptly grind the waiting grist. 
 The keepers of the village stores 
 Had closed their blinds and locked their doors 
 They could not think of sordid gains 
 With blood a-tingling in their veins. 
 To-day no anvil stroke was heard 
 A sound familiar as a word 
 To every ear the village round, 
 And e'en beyond its farthest bound. 
 
 27 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 The vacant shop told all the tale; 
 
 An apron hung upon a nail 
 
 There was no fire to gleam and glow, 
 
 No hand to make the bellows blow; 
 
 The brawny tenant loyal soul! 
 
 But yesterday had "signed the roll." 
 
 Up on a flag-pole staunch and high 
 
 In billowy curves against the sky 
 
 Resplendent in the lucent air 
 
 A starry banner floated fair; 
 
 And where its wavering shadow fell 
 
 Beside the old-time public well, 
 
 The fife and drum with clangor loud 
 
 Had gathered all the feverish crowd. 
 
 No bosom then but felt the stir; 
 
 Yet, many an eye looked through a blur 
 
 Upon a show to others gay 
 
 As any common holiday. 
 
 The deeper touches of the heart 
 
 Were in those circles drawn apart, 
 
 Like eddies when they ofttimes seem 
 
 Divided from the flowing stream. 
 
 Just here, in wildering shyness, stood 
 
 A group from rural neighborhood 
 
 28 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 A son, strong-limbed, coarse-clad, and tanned, 
 
 With labor's hardness of the hand 
 
 And manner lacking townly grace, 
 
 But wearing truth upon his face 
 
 Where honesty was writ so plain, 
 
 That if you'd split his heart in twain 
 
 And lay it open like a book 
 
 You'd read the same as in his look; 
 
 His patriot father, proud to spare 
 
 His manly and ambitious heir 
 
 To serve the flag, as well became 
 
 A scion of his loyal name; 
 
 The mother, having equal pride, 
 
 And that unfathomed love beside 
 
 Vouchsafed unto the honored wife 
 
 Who brings into the world a life: 
 
 Behold her now while there she stands 
 
 With furrowed brow and folded hands 
 
 And smile so full of sacrifice 
 
 'Twould melt the lock of Paradise. 
 
 But she is a patriot mother, true, 
 
 And, as historic mothers do, 
 
 She tries to deem it only joy 
 
 To thus devote her stalwart boy; 
 
 29 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 ==- 
 
 The trial all her duty strains, 
 But what she cannot feel she feigns, 
 And falsely says that she is glad 
 The lie's too sacred to be bad! 
 Outside the crowd that clamored by, 
 One well-known figure filled the eye 
 The blacksmith big, robust, and red, 
 With locks crisp-curling round his head 
 With Vulcan's visage and his arm, 
 And bust that would old Phidias charm; 
 Up to his gaze his fragile spouse 
 Reluctant raised her timid brows, 
 Where plaintive shadows now displayed 
 The ravage that a day had made. 
 With all the pathos of the poor, 
 To please his eye that day she wore 
 His favorite and her choicest gown, 
 Of awkward cut and faded brown; 
 But yet, though poor, one gem she had 
 Might make a royal princess glad 
 One priceless jewel on her breast 
 The darling infant that she pressed: 
 She joyed to feel its hearty tug 
 The while it fed beneath her hug. 
 
 30 
 
umvcKoi I T 
 
 OF 
 
 IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 The sinewed Samson dared not speak, 
 Lest tears betray his courage weak; 
 This moment he could only yearn 
 For that sweet day when he'd return. 
 Alas! ere half a year was gone 
 The roll-call missed the man of brawn 
 The wife put on the widow's veil 
 The babe knew not its loss to wail. 
 While other hearts their feeling proved, 
 Why seemed young Merwin so unmoved? 
 Why lingered Blanche so far aloof, 
 And, if she sorrowed, gave no proof? 
 The secret they could hide so well 
 The mute, eaves-dropping stars might tell. 
 Last evening, ere the shadows dim 
 Had robbed the gold from daylight's rim, 
 He hasted through the silent street 
 Unto that hallowed garden-seat 
 Where bided now his bosom's mate, 
 Reproachful that he came so late. 
 At first her chiding made him vain; 
 It wounded with a welcome pain, 
 Until he sweetly stopped her speech 
 In that old way no art doth teach 
 
 31 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 But lovers know so well to use 
 And red-lipped maids can scarce refuse. 
 Too soon again her murmurs rose 
 O'er silly fears and fancied woes; 
 She listened to his fondling phrase, 
 But answered with o'er-painted praise; 
 Her fear of rivals took alarm; 
 She was so plain, so poor of charm, 
 And he so god-like, ah ! she knew 
 He never, never could be true! 
 Each needless pang, each new distress, 
 He softened with a new caress, 
 Till harshly on his hearing smote 
 The jarring of a jealous note! 
 Disdainful silence woke her ire; 
 Denial only added fire; 
 Anon, with pique and spirit stung, 
 They loosed the lightning of the tongue 
 And quarreled, with a passion fine, 
 Despite that other called divine. 
 Bewildered youth! how could he know 
 That which has puzzled sages so? 
 That she who can so fondly love 
 With equal fondness can reprove. 
 
 32 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 For it is true the wise ones say 
 That it was always woman's way 
 By turns to gratify and grieve, 
 Since Adam heard the voice of Eve. 
 Alas! that love's keen dart should be 
 So keenly barbed with jealousy! 
 And yet although it oft may sting 
 Without the barb it would not cling. 
 Forgiving is the sweetest balm 
 That ever heals 'twixt palm and palm; 
 And oh! what balm celestial drips 
 From the forgiving lover's lips! 
 Down from the cloud of their distress 
 A deluge dropt of tenderness; 
 Quick rose again upon her sight 
 The carnage of the coming fight; 
 Upon some red and war-drenched plain 
 She pictured Merwin mangled, slain! 
 And piteously she begged him now 
 That he'd revoke his soldier's vow 
 And free her from the torturing dread 
 Of living on if he were dead. 
 He sternly loosed his fond embrace, 
 And in his valor-lighted face 
 
 33 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 Despite that she had pleaded so 
 She gladly read his manly "No!" 
 For beauty from the coward flies, 
 And love decays when honor dies. 
 
 No more she falteredcalm, serene, 
 
 She played the parting like a queen 
 
 "Farewell, my hero! go be brave! 
 
 "To-morrow, from the hill-top, wave 
 
 "Your final signal back to me 
 
 "I shall not weep, but I shall see." 
 
 And so, to-day their farewell said 
 
 No childish tears they weakly shed, 
 
 But, like young Spartans, hid the ache 
 
 That pulled their heart-strings nigh to break. 
 
 What new-born Muse, in fitting rhyme, 
 Will sing the urchin of that time? 
 Who nightly battled in his sleep 
 And saw his countless victims weep; 
 Who daily with his sword of wood 
 O'ercame a fancied multitude; 
 An hundred times made mimic war, 
 An hundred times was conqueror! 
 
 34 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 No mystic ray need search him through 
 
 To find his loyalty true-blue; 
 
 His screaming treble made it known 
 
 As if 'twere by a bugle blown. 
 
 His wiser seniors all confessed 
 
 Their boyhood's age the blessedest 
 
 Yet by such blessing he was curst, 
 
 'Twas fate the wretchedest and worst! 
 
 Bewitched by glamour of the strife 
 
 He would have pawned the future life, 
 
 With all its promises of bliss, 
 
 To be a soldier now in this. 
 
 What though a lad of larger growth 
 
 With perjured conscience took the oath 
 
 And fought where veterans might have feared, 
 
 Ere yet his cheek had grown a beard? 
 
 God measures by no iron gauge; 
 
 Upon the great accusing page 
 
 Some holy sins, we're fain to think, 
 
 Are not writ down in fadeless ink. 
 
 Adown the ranks came one whose name 
 Had felt the touch of martial fame 
 In that far day a rare renown, 
 
 35 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 That shed its lustre on the town, 
 Whose very place was known, perhaps, 
 More by his name than by the maps. 
 A man he was of sturdy mould, 
 Of that good age nor young, nor old 
 When well-knit strength and wisdom join- 
 The manful prime of brain and loin. 
 Schoolboys had read and oft declaimed, 
 How, midst the dying and the maimed, 
 He'd bravely faced his country's foe 
 One bloody day in Mexico. 
 'Twas said on Buena Vista's field 
 When one who bore the colors reeled 
 And fell, this hero sprang and gripped 
 The staff as from his hand it slipped, 
 And saved it from dishonoring dust; 
 A lance had given his thigh a thrust; 
 A sabre-blow had split his cheek; 
 From plenteous bleeding he was weak, 
 Yet, like a lion newly hurt 
 And so enraged, with sudden spurt 
 He fiercely seized the hostile blade 
 Whose edge the angry gash had made, 
 And tearing it from the foeman's hand 
 
 36 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 He flashed aloft the captive brand; 
 A second lance was at his throat 
 The threat'ning shaft he deftly smote 
 And turned its gleaming point aside, 
 Then waved his colors high and wide; 
 His fainting comrades rallied then 
 And fighting madly one to ten 
 They held the red and slippery ground 
 Which, ever since, was glory-crowned! 
 Ah! surely this good blade must be 
 A talisman of victory, 
 If its brave captor will but lead; 
 And even so it is decreed 
 This is the Captain one whom Fate 
 Reserves and destines to be great; 
 His shoulder bears no strap or bar 
 He wears that sabre and a scar. 
 Where'er he halts, or walks along, 
 He wins the homage of the throng; 
 The waiting ranks impatient stand 
 To catch the throb of his command; 
 At length 'tis sounded "Forward! March!' 
 As if it fell from Heaven's arch; 
 With worthier impulse forth they start 
 
 37 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 Than ever fired crusader's heart; 
 And mark how well, though little wont, 
 To-day they keep their eyes a-front, 
 Unswerved by all the loud huzzas 
 That fill their ears with fond applause; 
 Bright kerchiefs wave and hats are swung 
 With every burst of lip and lung 
 They march right on with rigid pride, 
 That will not cast one glance aside. 
 They pass the mill whose well-known pile 
 From every window seems to smile; 
 They file below the rocky ledge, 
 Where halts the crowd upon the edge; 
 They cross the brook, beside whose bank 
 They oft have waded and have drank; 
 They take the winding road beyond, 
 Mid scenes to recollection fond 
 The field, the orchard, and the woods, 
 The meadow sweet in all its moods 
 Where oft in summer morning blithe 
 They've heard the whetting of the scythe; 
 Where flits and sings the meadow-lark, 
 A glint of yellow like a spark 
 And song that stirs the human deeps 
 
 38 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 Where Memory dwells and Pathos sleeps. 
 
 Anon on fitful breezes come 
 
 The echoes of the fife and drum; 
 
 Where'er in sight the roadway bends, 
 
 The watching throng a greeting sends; 
 
 But all save breathing, now, is still, 
 
 For see! they're climbing Byron's Hill, 
 
 Whose wooded top and farther side 
 
 From further view will soon divide; 
 
 They round the verge they reach the crest- 
 
 And with emotion in each breast 
 
 They face about and give a cheer 
 
 That flies across the atmosphere; 
 
 They wheel again they're marching on 
 
 A moment more and they are gone! 
 
 The latest signal that was seen, 
 
 Was waved by gallant Merwin Deane; 
 
 The eye that saw it latest there 
 
 Was that of loving Blanche Adair. 
 ****** 
 
 ****** 
 
 No blither morning ever broke 
 Than that when Merwin first awoke 
 To hear the camp's loud reveille, 
 
 39 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 As dawn spread over tent and tree. 
 His wont had been at that rare hour 
 When sleep still wields a waning pow'r, 
 To linger, lock'd in slumb'rous ease, 
 And drift away on dream-land seas 
 Through Fantasy's illusive realm 
 In bark bereft of keel and helm 
 Or else, half -waked, with drowsy ear 
 To note the crow of chanticleer 
 The pigeon's coo the bob-white's call 
 The horses neighing in their stall 
 The lowing of the hungry kine 
 His faithful spaniel's coaxing whine, 
 Which waited for him at the door 
 To lick his hand and run before. 
 But scorning weak indulgence now 
 He brushed the dullness from his brow 
 And bounded forth with agile haste 
 Wide-eyed, alert, and eager-faced 
 As radiant in this school of war 
 As children in their primers are. 
 He heard the sergeant's warning shout 
 "Turn out for roll-call, men, turn out! ' 
 Right promptly into line he came, 
 
 40 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 And when the sergeant called his name, 
 
 He made his answer deep and hoarse, 
 
 To give his voice a manlier force. 
 
 Thus ere the rising of the sun 
 
 His new career was well begun. 
 
 It were a task for tardy prose, 
 
 Which in more leisure current flows, 
 
 But much too tedious and too long 
 
 For hastening rhyme and hurried song 
 
 Nor would it aught of worth avail 
 
 To loiter over each detail 
 
 Of duty and of discipline 
 
 He took his daily lessons in; 
 
 To load, to aim, to fire, to charge 
 
 With eye ablaze and nostril large, 
 
 And all of battle's alphabet, 
 
 Which spelleth blood when foes are met. 
 
 This stripling reared mid peaceful fields, 
 
 Where savageness to softness yields 
 
 Who oft had rambled through the dells 
 
 And heard the distant village bells, 
 
 But rarely ranged beyond the hills 
 
 Whose ridge barred out the world's great ills 
 
 And circled with its far outline 
 
 41 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 The spot which was to him divine: 
 
 Who ne'er had felt severer pain 
 
 Than ache of tooth or ankle-sprain, 
 
 Nor ever looked on carnage red 
 
 Save in the village butcher's shed 
 
 In garb and bearing now transformed, 
 
 With war's mere foretaste heaved and warmed. 
 
 So men in every clime and age 
 
 Have swelled and flamed with martial rage: 
 
 The haughtiest and holiest, 
 
 The lordliest and lowliest, 
 
 Have worshiped the heroic heart 
 
 And flock to pay their homage still 
 
 Unto the great enduring art 
 
 Of how to conquer or to kill. 
 
 If wars must come, as once foretold 
 
 By HIM who came to earth of old, 
 
 All heralded the Prince of Peace, 
 
 To win from woe a world's release 
 
 Then honor and all sweet applause 
 
 To him who fights for worthy cause; 
 
 But some have worn the plumes of war 
 
 Scarce heeding what they battled for. 
 
 One thing he learned without delay, 
 
 42 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 - 
 
 The chiefest duty: to obey. 
 It is but loyal to the truth 
 To say he was no spineless youth 
 Who brooked abuse or studied slight 
 When honor whispered him to fight; 
 Yet he was of that gentle mould 
 That dares in danger to be bold 
 But shrinks from word or look austere 
 From finer sense than that of fear. 
 By reason of unknown delays 
 That hindered in those troublous days, 
 Long time he had no uniform 
 To nurse his pride and keep it warm; 
 No warlike weapon graced his hand 
 To flourish with defiance grand. 
 No soul is fired to fight and bleed 
 In sober and unmartial tweed 
 As when in panoply arrayed, 
 To dazzle and to make afraid. 
 And, oh! what keen delight he knew 
 The day he donned the brass and blue! 
 How like a fierce destroyer he felt 
 With musket, cartridge-box, and belt, 
 And thought what privilege 't would be 
 
 43 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 If those at home could only see! 
 With bent for training aptly turned 
 By patient drill, ere long he learned 
 To face, to march, to wheel, to stand, 
 Obedient to the sharp command 
 To hear unvexed the brusque reproof 
 And recognize its plain behoof. 
 His tender flesh could well avouch 
 The hardness of his soldier-couch; 
 But youth and usage put to shame 
 The mind to murmur or to blame. 
 Though oft those dainties he deplored 
 That heaped at home the bounteous board, 
 His sharpened palate relished soon 
 The coarsest fare of pot and spoon. 
 The days of storm and nights unstarred 
 As sentinel he stood on guard 
 And held his post with such a sense 
 Of worth and mighty consequence 
 That neither bribe of tempting gold, 
 Nor fearsome threat, nor flattery bold, 
 Nor comrade's plea, nor smile of lass 
 
 Could wring from him the right to pass. 
 ****** 
 
 44 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 At midnight on the picket line 
 The reigning stillness gave no sign 
 That aught of danger hovered near 
 That e'en a timorous heart might fear. 
 At break of day a shot was fired, 
 And ere the echo had expired, 
 A clear and ringing shot replied 
 Which soon was tenfold multiplied; 
 As from a drop the shower grows 
 The brisk and rattling skirmish rose. 
 Not long the pickets bore the brunt 
 Of pressure on their scattered front, 
 But stubborn still they still gave way 
 Before the impetuous line of gray, 
 Nor halted till they held in view 
 The swiftly forming ranks of blue. 
 A yell broke on the sulph'rous air, 
 Enough to raise each bristling hair; 
 Then broke the battle's pent-up wrath, 
 As tempests break upon their path, 
 And that which was but din before 
 Was now a wide-spread deafening roar; 
 While hoarse with slaughter's awful thirst 
 The cannon gave its opening burst. 
 
 ****** 
 
 45 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 THE SOUTHERN TROOPER. 
 
 Far down in the Southland, where flowers were 
 blooming 
 And breathing their sweets on the soft April 
 
 air, 
 An old negro bondman a war-steed was grooming, 
 
 To bear his young master bold Allen Sinclair. 
 The slave had been born to his bondage a chattel, 
 A thing to be trafficked and holden like cattle; 
 His light-hearted master was fated to battle 
 
 As Slavery's defender, though Liberty's heir. 
 
 The century's laws to the white man had granted 
 A license that rested on barbarous might; 
 
 He took from the black what his labor had planted, 
 And deemed that law's sanction had made it his 
 right. 
 
 He scouted all threat of a reckoning season; 
 
 Environed like him, could we challenge his reason? 
 
 With a patriot's fire, though guilty of treason, 
 He rode forth a cavalier burning to fight. 
 
 46 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 The Southron was valiant but haughty, and scorning 
 
 The name of the foe he was destined to meet, 
 He galloped away in the fine April morning 
 
 Full sure of his prowess and firm in his seat. 
 In spirit superb and by ancestry flattered, 
 He fell into dreaming as onward he clattered 
 He saw the invaders all vanquished and scattered 
 He dreamed but of triumph not once of defeat. 
 
 A moment he halted where dwelt a rare beauty 
 A belle of the Southland his fair lady-love; 
 
 As mark of her favor and meed of his duty 
 
 She leaned from the window and threw him her 
 glove. 
 
 "Adieu! " sang the rider away he went flying 
 
 To fields that ere long would be strewn with the dying; 
 
 "Adieu ! " cried the maid more sanguine than sighing 
 As proud as a princess and pure as a dove. 
 
 47 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 The hoof -beats grew fainter she lingered and 
 listened 
 
 Her breathing more soft than the breath of a bird 
 Till on her dark lashes the rising drops glistened, 
 
 And only her heart-beat was all that she heard. 
 "Thank Heaven!" she cried, "that Allen departed 
 "Before this weak flood from my eye-lids had started 
 "He went as he should, like a knight lion-hearted, 
 
 "Unsoftened by tears and unchecked by a word." 
 
 The steed and his rider in sympathy blended 
 Had sped o'er the road as if racing for gain ; 
 
 Their mood was now cooler, and Allen, low-bended, 
 Slacked rein while he fondled the long, flowing 
 mane. 
 
 "Well done!" said he gaily, "my fleet-footed Golder! 
 
 "Fair Evlyn shall know, before time is much older, 
 
 "That none in the fray can be swifter and bolder 
 
 "Than thou and myself, till we're sundered or slain." 
 
 48 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 What further he spoke had the accent of sadness, 
 But anger shone hot in the glance of his eye ; 
 "My grey-headed sire declares it is madness 
 
 "To take up the sword, but the charge I deny. 
 "He loves the old flag; in the day of its splendor 
 "The South was its truest and bravest defender; 
 "Usurped by a foe that would ravage and rend her 
 "She guards it no longer, but stands to defy." 
 
 "My State is a sovereign, in league with 'King Cotton* 
 "Not a vassal to serve the 'Dominion of Corn'; 
 
 "I hail our new flag let the old be forgotten! 
 "My homage I give to a Power new-born. 
 
 "We've cast off the Union our burden unloading; 
 
 "We've done with the fret of the yoke, and the goading; 
 
 "Away with regret, and with craven foreboding 
 
 "Good-bye to old yesterday welcome the morn!" 
 
 49 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 From camp in the distance a signal is sounded 
 His answering yell made the wide forest ring; 
 
 A touch of the spur and forward he bounded 
 
 As quick as an arrow let loose from the string. 
 
 In the light of Ambition a glamour deceiving 
 
 The loom of his fancy a fabric was weaving 
 
 Whose warp is of glory whose woof is of grieving- 
 Whose purple is deeper than covers a king. 
 
 k. 
 
 O, treacherous war! No word was e'er spoken 
 
 More fair, when thine to the Southland was said; 
 
 But when her brave armies were riven and broken, 
 And women were sobbing with anguish and dread 
 
 How changed was thy visage! How grievous and gory! 
 
 The pen that records and illumines thy story, 
 
 Is plucked, not alone from the pinion of glory, 
 
 But as oft from the vulture that feeds on the dead! 
 
 50 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 At twilight all bleeding we lay side by side, 
 
 My gallant young foeman and I, 
 On the field where we fell when the battle's red tide 
 
 Like a wave of destruction rolled by. 
 All the hate I had felt in the heat of the strife 
 
 Had vanished and gone like a breath, 
 And I fain would have shared my own poor chance of 
 life 
 
 To rescue the trooper from death. 
 
 "I'm dying," he whispered, "no comrade is near 
 
 "But chivalry ever is true 
 "The secret I hold that none other can hear 
 
 "I trust it, my foeman, to you; 
 "See here on my breast a poor tattered glove 
 
 " 'T was a maiden as fair as the day 
 "Who threw from her window this token of love 
 
 "The morning I galloped away. 
 
 51 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 "I've worn it with honor, as her lover should, 
 
 "Where danger fell thick as the rain; 
 "And though it is blotted to-day by my blood, 
 
 "It carries no uglier stain. 
 "I pray that if ever a chance should betide 
 
 "You'll kindly bring back to her hand 
 "This pledge of her faith and proof that I died 
 
 "All worthy and shell understand. 
 
 "She lives where the river sweeps round a wide bend 
 
 "In a mansion whose fashion is past; 
 "A window swells out from the far eastern end 
 
 "Where Evlyn" that word was his last. 
 The wound of that night has hindered me long 
 
 From keeping true faith with my foe; 
 Fair stranger, take note of the quest in my song 
 
 Do you know the fair maid do you know? 
 
 52 
 
AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-SIX 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 A PERSONAL REMINISCENCE OF SHILOH. 
 
 The firing slacked a little while, that fateful 
 Shiloh day, 
 Their line fell back within the woods and left 
 
 us there at bay; 
 The smoke was slowly lifting, but the soil was red and 
 
 wet 
 Where in the combat's deadly rage our lines had lately 
 
 met. 
 Beyond our front, upon the ground which battle's breath 
 
 had fanned, 
 
 Upraised and feebly beckoning, we saw a single hand. 
 "See! Sergeant!" said a comrade near "that signal 
 
 of distress! " 
 
 With impulse born of sympathy and youthful eagerness 
 I sprang out through the opening, and swiftly reached 
 
 the spot 
 
 Where lay one of the enemy, pierced by a fatal shot. 
 "Water! " said he plaintively and quick from my 
 
 canteen 
 
 He cooled the thirsty agony which dying made so keen. 
 "God bless you, friend! there's danger here make 
 haste! be quick and go! 
 
 55 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 "They'll soon come back my regiment they'll charge 
 
 again, I know! " 
 But yet his hand lay on my arm once more his fevered 
 
 lips 
 
 Drank eagerly a sweeter draft than e'er th' undying sips. 
 Then, smiling, tried but tried in vain to say the word 
 
 "Good-bye " 
 
 I heard my comrade's warning shout and left him there 
 to die. 
 
 The patter of the skirmish line the thick and madden- 
 ing roar 
 
 Swept swiftly o'er the scene again, more deadly than 
 before. 
 
 Scant time for human sympathy scant time for pity 
 then 
 
 The frenzy of the fighting soon made demons out of 
 men; 
 
 A kind of savage rapture through the soldier's bosom 
 
 thrills 
 
 When carnage rules his spirit and he pities not, but kills. 
 Say not that men were braver in some far-off, by-gone 
 
 age 
 My eyes saw deeds of valor there would shine on 
 
 Homer's page. 
 
 66 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 Ah! I had many a comrade then whose over-flaming 
 ire 
 
 Relighted my own waning torch with his contagious 
 fire; 
 
 For oft I felt my courage sink but bolstered it with 
 pride, 
 
 And in those swelling moments I could manfully have 
 died. 
 
 In battle's bloody ordeal that fierce and cruel game 
 Does not the fear that faces it deserve a fairer name? 
 
 You all know well the history of that disputed field; 
 
 Before a fiery avalanche our left was forced to yield, 
 
 And miles of dead at night lay hi the sombre, southern 
 wood, 
 
 Where miles of wavering battle-lines that day had 
 swayed and stood. 
 
 And Oh I that night of agony 1 the wretchedness and 
 pain 
 
 Which made the wounded envious of those who had 
 been slain! 
 
 While through the age-long interval of deep and dread 
 suspense 
 
 A load of more than mountain's weight bore on the ach- 
 ing sense, 
 
 57 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 As if a fiend were torturing each bare and quivering 
 
 nerve 
 'T would shake the sullen savage, aye, 'twould make a 
 
 stoic swerve! 
 Will time e'er bring the fruitage of that hope now in 
 
 the bud, 
 When men will cease from laureling the fame that feeds 
 
 on blood? 
 
 At dawn a burst of fury came like that of yesterday. 
 
 But Buell's men stood with us now, in bold and stern 
 array; 
 
 Like flames in stubble newly spread afresh our spirits 
 burned, 
 
 And ere the sun had quit the East their columns back- 
 ward turned; 
 
 Then loud and long our cheers rang out more tame 
 their answering yell 
 
 Their fierce but fitful firing yet more faint and fainter 
 fell, 
 
 Until the distant booming of the far retreating gun 
 
 Proclaimed we were the victors! the gory field was 
 won. 
 
 V 
 
 58 
 
IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 The story of that battle-field seems never to grow old; 
 Nay, it was only yesterday again I heard it told. 
 'T was in a group of veterans a gray and grizzly group, 
 Whose steps had lost their measured spring, whose 
 
 shoulders had a stoop- 
 And when the rousing climax came that overflowed 
 
 each breast, 
 
 I felt the rush of memories and shouted with the rest. 
 But I did no deed of valor there to honor or to boast; 
 He only does his duty well who only holds his post, 
 And chaplets are not fashioned for the common soldier's 
 
 brow. 
 But there's one thought that warms my heart and swells 
 
 my bosom now, 
 
 When I recall the vision of that famous battle-scene: 
 'Tis just that gift of water from my battered old 
 
 canteen. 
 
 59 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW, 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 AN IDYL. 
 
 Deep in a wood, where boughs o'erhung its rounded 
 shore, 
 A smiling lake was hid. Drawn by some view- 
 less thread 
 Of chance, one summer morn, my footsteps thither 
 
 came. 
 
 The sun had climbed half-way to noon and roving bees 
 Robbed wantonly the waiting flowers, while bird-notes 
 
 filled 
 
 The echoing woods with sound. As pensively I leaned 
 Against a friendly oak, a nimble-footed fawn 
 Still faintly marked with many a finger-touch of white 
 Upon its silky coat of tan stole shyly from 
 The leafy shade and stood upon the lake's moist rim; 
 There, as it dipped its dainty head, I saw its nether 
 Twin in counter movement rise, till lip met lip 
 Just on the water's face, and circling ripples broke 
 The shadowy counterfeit. Thence bending slow on me 
 Its curious gaze with alternating start and pause 
 The timorous thing drew near and touched my offered 
 hand. 
 
 63 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 That moment a soaring vulture's shadow chanced to fall 
 Athwart my breast, and, on the instant, seized with 
 
 fright 
 The fawn fled wild-eyed from my sight, nor once looked 
 
 back. 
 
 It seemed but childish fancy, yet I felt a pang, 
 As of a broken trust, or severed sympathy. 
 On many morrows yearningly I came unto 
 That spot, but nevermore found fawn or foot-print 
 
 there. 
 'Twas late I learned how true my life was symbol'd 
 
 there. 
 
 ******** 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 LADDIE. 
 
 (Written for a Ballad Singer, Mrs. J. M. P.) 
 
 Omy laddie! my dearie! 
 Ye dinna ken how weary 
 The day is gaun wi'out ye, 
 For I'm thinkin' aye about ye; 
 I pine to hear ye whistle 
 
 Like larks aboon the thistle 
 I'm nigh to greet while here my lane, 
 I bide, I bide for ye, my ain! 
 
 Oh! how brawlie and cantie 
 
 Wi' arm baith strang and tentie 
 Ye bore me o'er the heather 
 
 Just as light as ony feather; 
 Your plaidie was around me 
 
 But anither fetter bound me 
 For, Oh! how gladsome I had seen 
 
 That leuk that leuk frae out your een. 
 
 O, my laddie! my laddie! 
 
 I lo'e your very plaidie 
 I lo'e your very bonnet 
 
 65 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 Wi* the silver bickle on it; 
 I lo'e your collie, Harry, 
 
 I lo'e the kent ye carry 
 But Oh! I hae nae pow'r to tell 
 
 How much how much I lo'e yersel'! 
 
 66 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 LOVE'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 You ask me why I am still unwed; 
 I do not know, 
 Unless, in truth, it must be said 
 That by some unseen guidance led, 
 Since Love was strangely numb or dead, 
 'T was fated so. 
 
 For I have never scorned the power 
 
 By all confessed 
 
 Of womankind the human flower 
 Whose petals oped in Eden's bower 
 And ever since that natal hour 
 
 The world has blessed. 
 
 There was a maid of seeming trust 
 
 And Eve-like form 
 Of spirit rare and swelling bust 
 And I was a lad of motive just; 
 So passion rose as passion must 
 
 When youth is warm. 
 
 67 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 I did what youth has always done 
 
 Since Adam fell; 
 I swore she was the only one 
 Beneath the circle of the sun 
 Whose worth defied comparison 
 
 And words to tell. 
 
 With burning cheek, and burning speech, 
 
 And heart aflame 
 All hot as lava from the breach 
 Which earthquakes rend, I did beseech 
 One tender word, and thought to reach 
 
 My fervid aim. 
 
 Her soul was stainless as the wave 
 
 That washes sin: 
 Or as some streamlet fit to lave 
 Diana's hand her honor brave 
 As this fair, honest speech she gave 
 
 Her answer in: 
 
 "I know not the deceiver's art, 
 
 "Nor will I try 
 
 "To play so false and base a part; 
 
 68 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 "If I should say, with feigned start, 
 "Your answer does not touch my heart 
 "My lips would lie. 
 
 "Within my breast there is no dearth 
 
 "Of fond desire 
 
 "Which even now is waked to birth: 
 "But it is held in firmer girth 
 "Than that by which th' incrusted earth 
 
 "Holds hidden fire. 
 
 "A shadow dark, immovable, 
 
 "Is fixed within 
 
 "My bosom's inmost, secret cell: 
 "You cannot know, nor may I tell 
 "Aught, save that you shall know this well- 
 
 "It is not sin. 
 
 "At least 'twas never sin of mine; 
 
 "But yet a trace 
 "As fateful as the curse Divine, 
 "Is like an evil, pois'nous vine 
 Forever running through the line 
 "Of my doomed race. 
 
 69 
 
 " 
 
 Of THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 "'Twere crime if I should ever link 
 
 "Another's life 
 
 "To mine my soul would shrink 
 "As from the pit's eternal brink! 
 "Of Love's sweet cup I ne'er can drink, 
 
 "Nor be a wife." 
 
 Adown the pathway through the wood 
 
 She hasted on, 
 
 A thing Divine in maidenhood! 
 From that loved spot where she had stood- 
 A desert now a solitude 
 
 Forever gone ! 
 
 I call her name amid those trees 
 
 She is not there 
 
 Vain echo rides the answ'ring breeze: 
 But, mystery of mysteries 
 She evermore pursues and flees 
 
 Me everywhere. 
 
 70 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 THE MAGDALEN'S THANKSGIVING DAY. 
 
 Thanksgiving Day had come and gone with all 
 its festal cheer, 
 And Love had knitted up again the ravel of a 
 
 year; 
 The night fell soft o'er happy homes to me it brought 
 
 unrest 
 
 The ghost of a long-buried grief was my untimely guest. 
 An air of comfort filled my room it glowed with 
 
 warmth and light, 
 But, turning from its open door I went forth in the 
 
 night. 
 
 My wandering steps ere long had reached an old 
 deserted pier, 
 
 And, as I stood in silence wrapped, a woman hurried 
 near. 
 
 Why came she there? My heart divined the truth she 
 dared not give 
 
 She sought to end a shameless life she could no longer 
 live. 
 
 I felt a touch of pity for the outcast thus forlorn 
 
 Bereft of Christian sympathy and damned by Christian 
 
 scorn; 
 
 71 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 Quick on my sight a vision flashed a home-scene far 
 away, 
 
 Where anguished hearts had grieved afresh for one not 
 named that day: 
 
 Ah! mine seemed but a shallow grief these hearts 
 
 more deeply bled 
 For a loved one lost though living yet, while mine was 
 
 only dead. 
 If Christ the Pure, the Perfect One could brook the 
 
 sinner's touch, 
 Should I one of the self-condemned be loth to do as 
 
 much? 
 Impelled by Christian chivalry tow'rd one so shunned 
 
 and banned, 
 I spurned the folly of preaching then, but offered a 
 
 friendly hand. 
 
 God! how she that token seized with glad, exultant 
 
 grip, 
 
 Like one who holds the life-line fast on board a sinking 
 ship; 
 
 A sudden burst of moonlight came and swept the 
 shadow past 
 
 1 saw a face beatified with hope-light on it cast; 
 
 Then under frailty's ashes quick the spark repentant 
 shone 
 
 72 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 The Magdalen was sobbing and her tears fell with 
 my own. 
 
 What need to tell again the tale the world has learned 
 so well? 
 
 How innocence though warned so oft by too much 
 
 trusting fell; 
 
 A lover's vows a secret flight man's perfidy and then 
 The cloud of shame the reckless plunge the scoff and 
 
 sport of men! 
 I listened, though the outward ear played but a minor 
 
 part, 
 Her piteous wail for rescue pierced like a needle through 
 
 my heart. 
 "Oh! is there not on this broad earth one fair and 
 
 friendly spot, 
 "Where sheltered by sweet purity, the past may be 
 
 forgot? 
 'Twere worth the world and all its thrones to wear 
 
 one hour, now, 
 "The jewel of honored womanhood ah! show me where 
 
 and how ! " 
 
 The House of Rescue swung its door on willing hinges 
 
 wide, 
 
 73 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 And she who fled a scorning world found welcome 
 
 warm inside. 
 At midnight in my silent room childless, alone, and 
 
 gray 
 (For chance had robbed my mateless heart in life's 
 
 romantic day) 
 
 I sat in soothing reverie, and ceased to question why 
 The stricken one should still live on, or why the blest 
 
 should die; 
 My murmuring changed to music now, like strains of 
 
 long ago 
 My grief had ebbed and vanished in another's flood 
 
 of woe. 
 The flame within my lamp was dead dead embers 
 
 filled the grate, 
 
 But I had led a fallen one from Ruin to Rescue's gate, 
 And that sweet thought so filled my breast I felt nor 
 
 chill nor gloom 
 It seemed that Christ in spirit came to bless my 
 
 lonely room. 
 
 74 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 FORGIVENESS. 
 
 ut yesterday I did a grievous wrong 
 Unto a friend who loves me well; 
 Last night I sought and pondered, late and long, 
 How I my penitence should tell. 
 
 B 
 
 This morn the way was plain, for then I held 
 
 The rein of Duty over Pride; 
 At noon, again, my stubborn heart rebelled, 
 
 And scorned to be so crucified. 
 
 This eve we met in twilight's tender glow: 
 His loving face bent tow'rd the west 
 
 The heav'ly radiance reflected so 
 
 All shadow fled and I confessed. 
 
 How sweet his pardon was! His eyes, suffused, 
 Looked all the while upon the ground 
 
 As if he were the culprit I th* abused 
 Ah ! mine was much the deeper wound. 
 
 Nor did he leave me with an aching sense 
 
 Of guiltiness his love sufficed 
 To comfort me, and show my recompense 
 
 Complete ; 't was like the love of Christ. 
 
 75 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 THE MOTE AND THE BEAM. 
 A Fragment. 
 
 Ah, me! how swiftly we condemn 
 Our fellows all the best of them 
 In bigotry with flippant phrase, 
 Abusing oft their better ways; 
 As scripture hath it prone to note 
 The presence of our brother's mote, 
 Ignoring that so snugly hid 
 Beneath our own unwinking lid. 
 His fancy sees some doubtful good, 
 And, wavering 'twixt should not and should 
 Till weakened will no more deters, 
 His faltering judgment yields and errs. 
 But we more righteous, you and I 
 In virtuous anger may decry 
 His act for which we have no mind, 
 Being to its allurement blind, 
 And yet accept without a qualm, 
 With forward step and outstretched palm, 
 Some sweetened vice which he'd resist 
 With firm-set foot and lifted fist. 
 Now there's my neighbor o'er the way: 
 
 76 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 In confidence I'm free to say 
 That for a bigot, narrow, mean, 
 His like was scarcely ever seen. 
 His faith and he are joined as well 
 As periwinkle to his shell; 
 To see him wriggle in and out 
 And note the rare and wondrous fit, 
 The world could never have a doubt 
 'T was made for him and he for it. 
 His twin for meanness lives next door, 
 A miser rich and wanting more; 
 I oft had clearly marked the curse 
 Imprinted on his face of greed, 
 And knew his long and lengthy purse 
 Would never ope to others' need. 
 A scholar fond of books and ease 
 Secluded lives beyond those trees, 
 From men apart. 'Tis often said 
 He robs his heart to enrich his head, 
 And though reputed very wise, 
 He lacks all human sympathies. 
 That cottage yonder where the vine 
 Has clambered to the very eaves 
 And hid the architect's design 
 
 77 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 Behind its fresh and looming leaves, 
 
 Is where a blatant preacher dwells 
 
 And cons all week the things he tells 
 
 On Sunday to the flock, who toil 
 
 To fill his cruse with unearned oil. 
 
 I'd shame to tell you all I could 
 
 Of each house in this neighborhood. 
 
 But there is one that heretofore 
 
 We Ve all agreed is its eyesore: 
 
 You see below there on my side 
 
 Where the gate swings latchless loose and wide 
 
 And the boards are broke from the reeling fence, 
 
 Which fails to hide the brambles dense 
 
 In the choking yard? You note how brown 
 
 The house as if it wore a frown; 
 
 It seems to shrink from ground to roof, 
 
 As if from its neighbors it held aloof. 
 
 Sometimes you may see at the door a face 
 
 Well framed in the woe of the desolate place: 
 
 Tis the once proud wife whose pride is crushed 
 
 By that for which she has often blushed 
 
 Till her cheek was bleached with the bitter tears 
 
 That washed it white in the hopeless years. 
 
 That is the deepest, darkest blot 
 
 78 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 For there lives an outcast, hopeless sot. 
 ****** 
 
 ****** 
 
 His bosom heaved 'neath his rusty coat 
 
 And he swallowed hard in his swelling throat; 
 
 Tho* he grieved not in words as others grieve, 
 
 A tear-drop fell on his tattered sleeve. 
 ****** 
 
 ****** 
 ****** 
 
 79 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 THE FINAL GOSPEL. 
 
 What matter if we search for God 
 In ways no other foot hath trod? 
 What though we deem He hears our call, 
 Or doubt if he hath heard at all? 
 It is the striving of the soul 
 That is, itself, the very goal; 
 Who yearns for Him, unceasingly, 
 Shall find hath found for that is He. 
 Whoever tries to thread the maze 
 Of churchly doctrines, or essays 
 To prove one absolutely true 
 To men of every clime and hue 
 Resolved to cast all others out 
 Must learn to honor honest doubt; 
 For, though we sit in neighboring pews, 
 We hold diverse and warring views 
 Scarce two agreeing, dot for dot, 
 What is God's meaning, or is not. 
 One sees a God whose vengeance dire 
 Foredooms the babe to endless fire; 
 One sees a gracious, pard'ning smile 
 
 80 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 For all mankind, despite its guile; 
 One holds the hampered human will 
 Accountable for every ill; 
 And One e'en doubts if Chance or God 
 Created him a soul, or clod. 
 But best of all is he whose deeds 
 Are just and right by all the creeds 
 Whom Christian, Moslem, Pagan, all 
 Approve, whate'er his name they call; 
 Who grants that creeds, howe'er received, 
 Are but beliefs, howe'er believed; 
 Who hath no quarrel with his friend 
 About his faith or final end, 
 Nor seeks to pry conviction loose 
 Upon the fulcrum of abuse; 
 Who neither boasts himself a saint, 
 Nor damns the world with loud complaint; 
 Who meets contention, when he must, 
 With valiant front and manly thrust, 
 But trains his hand and heart and mind 
 In love's sweet art of being kind; 
 Whose footsteps part not from his speech; 
 Who lives what others only preach 
 Content to leave the rest to Him 
 
 81 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 Who purposely hath made it dim. 
 
 He frets not that he cannot show 
 
 Those things which none can surely know; 
 
 But strives to do as best he can, 
 
 His duty to his fellow-man 
 
 And waits not for some future sphere, 
 
 But tries to make a Heaven here. 
 
 82 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 MY SONG THAT IS NEVER SUNG. 
 
 There comes to my spirit's ear, sometimes, 
 A deep, unworded lay, 
 Whose cadenced flow of unwrit rhymes 
 
 Keeps ringing the live-long day. 
 I awake at morn it rises then, 
 
 But eludes my faltering tongue; 
 It swells and dies unheard by men 
 My song that is never sung. 
 
 I wend my way through the crowded street 
 
 I trudge through lonely lanes 
 I stand where genial spirits meet, 
 
 Or where dumb sorrow reigns; 
 It ripples along like a brook at play 
 
 It grieves like the ocean's moan 
 My lips are mute, but I hear alway 
 
 A tale in the undertone. 
 
 While musing thus I meet my friend 
 
 And pass unseeing by, 
 Then rouse me later and, shaming, send 
 
 A regret for my careless eye; 
 
 83 
 
LIFE'S FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 But he hath a heart that exults in strife 
 
 In marts or arms he is king; 
 He pities the soul in the warfare of life 
 
 That halts to listen or sing. 
 
 Ah! surely, each thought that our bosoms bear 
 
 Sometime we shall unfold; 
 There's an ear that waits in the great Somewhere 
 
 To hear my story told. 
 Will the pent-up strains that seem accurst 
 
 By lifelong silence here, 
 From lips unlocked by angels burst 
 
 On Heaven's atmosphere? 
 
 84 
 
IN LIGHTER VEIN. 
 
IN LIGHTER VEIN. 
 
 THE BARN. 
 
 (To My Young Nephew, R. V. W., 
 2400 Ridge Road, Berkeley.) 
 
 It isn't so bad to reside in a stable, 
 When you think of the Centaurs of ancient Greek 
 fable, 
 Who held high their heads, on those far classic 
 
 shores, 
 Although they wore hoofs, and roamed round on 
 
 "all-fours." 
 Should you fear that distinction would shun such 
 
 a home, 
 
 Remember, a horse was once Consul at Rome; 
 Nor can you forget what truth could be stranger? 
 The Light of the World first shone from a manger. 
 
 Of course you'll be careful in guarding your manners, 
 And see that your harness don't smell of the tanners; 
 If at table you find in your oatmeal some chaff, 
 And it tickles be gentle avoid a horse-laugh. 
 There's danger in straps for yearlings that flare up 
 And forget that good rearing don't mean simply 
 
 "rear up." 
 
 87 
 
IN LIGHTER VEIN. 
 
 Your father won't kick, if, in French, you say "Pere," 
 But you'd better use English in addressing your 
 mother. 
 
 On the race-course (that's school) just get up and strive 
 To "get there" or (a word that sounds better) arrive: 
 If you're classed with slow-trotters, of two-forty gait, 
 And find you can beat 'em just go! and don't wait. 
 Columbus showed how he could stand up an egg 
 On its one little end, with no foot and no leg. 
 Who knows but you'll learn to combine, by some 
 
 plan, 
 The strength of a horse with the mind of a man? 
 
 88 
 
IN LIGHTER VEIN. 
 
 UPON RECEIVING A BIRTHDAY BAG FROM A 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 When this all-conquering scourge of sneeze 
 Has bowed one's head and bent his knees 
 Until he knows he must have shrunk 
 In longitude as well as spunk 
 'T would be unfair at such a time 
 To save, perhaps, a paltry dime 
 By taking measure of himself 
 And gauging thus his gift of pelf. 
 One might in such a state of sag 
 Feel mean enough to keep the bag. 
 In normal days my honest height 
 Was five feet seven stretched up tight; 
 The pleasure promised by your card 
 (From which I fear myself debarred) 
 Should put one on tip-toe, I know; 
 And willing to be measured so 
 I stretch myself and do not count, 
 But send a coin for due amount 
 
 Monrovia, Calif., 
 Jan. 2, 1901. 
 
 89 
 
RANDOM LINES. 
 

 RANDOM LINES. 
 
 \ 
 
 While Talent through the gateway crawls, 
 Swift Genius soars above the walls 
 So man with limping Logic halts 
 While woman's mind, more nimble, vaults 
 To ripe conclusions just and fair 
 And ends contention with "So, there ! " 
 
 93 
 
RANDOM LINES. 
 
 
 The fire of passion fiercely glows 
 Just while the faithful bellows blows, 
 But turns to ashes cold and grey 
 Before the ending of the day 
 Or, if neglected, e'en more soon: 
 'T is dead before the heat of noon. 
 
 94 
 
 
RANDOM LINES. 
 
 The virtues of a friend he saw 
 So large they well-nigh broke the law; 
 His vices, though of every kind, 
 He would not see there he was blind. 
 
 95 
 
RANDOM LINES. 
 
 Those well-worn words so wondrous dear 
 When spoken to the waiting ear, 
 Though by a seraph sung or read, 
 Are sweeter by the loved one said. 
 
RANDOM LINES. 
 
 What surgeon with his searching knife 
 Has found the principle of life? 
 What surpliced surgeon of the soul 
 Can probe the source of life's control 
 And find where impulse takes its rise 
 And why 'tis good or otherwise? 
 
 97 
 
RANDOM LINES. 
 
 But let the spark of Genius flash 
 And whipt o'er wire by lightning's lash 
 It thrills the world on every side, 
 Tho' seas and continents divide; 
 A mile 's an inch, an hour 's an age, 
 At eve we scorn the morning page. 
 
 98 
 
RANDOM LINES. 
 
 Oh what a laggard foot hath Time 
 When Youth awaits him! In our prime 
 He soon outruns our fleeting powers, 
 With whip in hand to urge the hours; 
 When we are old he flies so fast 
 That ere we reckon he has passed 
 His streaming robe we fain would clutch, 
 But hobble on with cane and crutch. 
 
 99 
 
RANDOM LINES. 
 
 When we are dead, what care we then 
 For all the sighs and songs of men? 
 The part we save for future days 
 Is lost to present and always. 
 Give me this year, this day, this hour 
 The fruit may fail, I'll take the flower. 
 Bitter fortune teaches me 
 I may outrun slow destiny 
 And slip beyond the closing gates, 
 While he 's shut out who halts and waits. 
 
 100 
 
RANDOM LINES. 
 
 And when I lie upon my bier, 
 If Poverty will drop a tear 
 In silent homage to my worth, 
 I ask no better fame of earth. 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 101 
 

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