AND (>' 1 .... POEMS THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES OF OVER THE RIVER OTHER POEMS BY MRS. N. A. W. (PRIEST) WAKEFIELD BOSTON LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS NEW YORK CHARLES T. D1LLINGHAM I88 3 COPYRIGHT, 1882, BY S. B. PRIEST. Ail rights reserved. PREFATORY NOTE. THE reader will kindly allow a few moments by way of introduction to this volume of poems. It comes not de manding attention and challenging fame, but shrinkingly yielding to the solicitation of friends. Mrs. S. B. Priest, the mother of the author, has cherished the purpose of giving her daughter's writings to the press for several years, as she has always felt a warrantable pride in these productions. This purpose has been stimulated by the frequent request of relatives and other friends, far and near, that they might have an opportunity of owning a collection of the poetical works of " Nancy Priest " in the form of a printed volume. So large a number have sig nified their intention to take one or more copies, that the mother feels warranted in making this venture, hoping that the expense of publishing may at least be reim bursed by the sale of the volume. The writer of this note, by earnest request, has been induced to undertake the task of arranging the papers, and preparing a brief UBUIT 4 PREFATORY NOTE. memoir of the author, though sincerely desiring that the work might be placed in more competent hands. If the fame of Mrs. Wakefield had been the chief object in this publication, the number of the pieces would have been considerably less. Only a few of these fugitive verses will become classics and survive the fash ion of the year, though very few have been admitted which are unworthy of reprint. But it is true that the collections of our popular poets contain many titles which are short-lived, though pretty, elegant and interesting. However, being composed for an occasion, or springing from the pressure of current events, they are not made for all time, or even for the next generation. But there are some specimens of poetry in this collection which bear the stamp of genius, and have already found their appropriate place in the great repositories of selected poetical inspiration. The best known of this class is entitled " Over the River," and has been read with tearful eyes and admir ing taste by uncounted thousands in our own and other lands. It is many years since the words had been set to music by six or eight different composers. From the nature of its subject, it appeals to the universal heart of mankind, while its form and language are the perfect vehi cle of the sentiment. One cannot conceive that any thing can make it less popular a hundred years hence PREFATORY NOTE. 5 than it is to-day. Though it cannot compare with Gray's " Elegy " in finished elegance of expression, yet it has a music, a rhythm, a pathos which is unsurpassed. Its consoling power has been tested in the experience of a great multitude of bereaved families, and its healing power is not lessened by time. Surely one has not lived in vain to whom it has been given to speak words of solace, comfort and hope to millions of aching hearts, in measures which cling to the memory and infuse the soul with a heavenly calm. There are other poems in this volume which evince equal genius, though, perhaps, no other has such elements of enduring popularity. The one entitled " Heaven " has been much admired, and has found its place in one or more collections of the choicest poetry in the English language. Without specifying, it may be said that there are between ten and twenty poems in this book which cannot be read without deep emotion. But, as the design of this publication was to please friends, many pieces have been inserted, whose interest and value are chiefly personal or local, or both combined. The local and personal associations will pass away, when the poems will cease to have many readers ; yet these poems have great merit, nevertheless They have pleased and cheered and charmed those who were dear to the author, and so have proved their worth. They are re- 6 PREFATORY NOTE. plete with sense and sensibility. There is not a silly or soft line in them all ; they are the outpourings of a strong mind and passionate heart, all under the control of high moral and religious principle. It was a question whether the poems should be arranged in any particular order, or thrown into a mass without any plan of combination. If the date of each could have been determined, probably they would have been placed in chronological order, and thus left to ex hibit the growth and the tone of the writer's mind in successive years. But this was impossible. It was then concluded to make an effort at assortment, and arrange the poems under several heads. The result is shown in the following pages. It was soon found to be impossible to make a perfect classification, as several pieces under the divisions of " Religious," " Love and Friendship," "Elegiac Poems," and perhaps some others, are inter changeable. Still, it is believed that the greater number are in their appropriate sections. One trait of Mrs. Wakefield's mind will attract the attention of every intelligent reader. It was her power of entering into the spirit and the surroundings of her imaginary characters. This is evinced in numerous cases ; but the powe^of putting herself in another's place is seen in "The Hour before Execution," in "The Mag dalen," in " The Midnight Bivouac," and many others, PREFATORY NOTE. 7 with special distinctness. The greater part of the " Patri otic " pieces show how Mrs. Wakefield entered into the very life and spirit of the soldiers, and how deeply she sympathized with the anxious ones at home. The poem entitled " War to the Knife, and the Knife to the Hilt " cannot be read without a shudder. It is an heroic and awful strain, as terrible as the fiercest lines in the " Mar seillaise Hymn." The reader must remember that it was written in the darkest hours of the war, when the very life of the nation was in peril. The writer felt no per sonal animosity ; but she loved her country and longed to see its assassins smitten. Her heart was one of peculiar tenderness, and she would have ministered to a wounded foe with gentle helpfulness. The songs of patriotism are alone sufficient to recommend the whole volume to those who fought our country's battles, and all those who re joiced in the triumph of freedom. The " Miscellaneous Poems " which fill the closing pages are of varied merit, and, except a few amusing trifles, are worthy of a place. See, for example, " Katie blowing Bubbles," " Bertha's Christmas," and others. With these explanations and remarks, the volume is left to its fortunes, with the assured belief that many will give it a warm reception, and cherish it as a peculiar treasure. A. P. M. LANCASTER, MASS., September, 1882. CONTENTS. PAGE MEMOIR 13 RELIGIOUS POEMS 29 OVER THE RIVER 31 THE SPIRIT-LAND 35 SHALL WE KNOW EACH OTHER THERE ? . 38 HEAVEN 41 THE ANGEL AND THE MAIDEN 44 THE EVENING LESSON 47 HOPE AND WAIT 51 OUR SHEPHERD 53 LlFE 55 LINES ON MY LAST BIRTHDAY 58 "A STILL, SMALL VOICE" 61 JUDGE NOT 63 POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP ... 67 To MY HUSBAND 69 BABY ASLEEP 72 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKINGS 75 HATTIE . 79 LAST WORDS 81 A PICTURE 84 SCHOOL-CHILDREN .88 APRIL RAIN 92 IO CONTENTS. PAGE BE KIND 96 "TELL THEM I AM NO MORE" 98 ESTRANGEMENT 100 WANDERINGS AND THOUGHTS ON A SUMMER DAY, 103 CROSSING THE RIVER 106 LINES TO L. L. H 113 THE WAY OF THE WORLD . . . . . .116 REMEMBER THE ABSENT 119 LINES WRITTEN TO HER SCHOOLMATES . . .121 ADDITIONAL LINES TO HER SCHOOLMATES . . 124 Too LATE 126 ONE YEAR AGO TO-DAY 129 ELEGIAC POEMS ........ 133 UNDER THE RIVER 135 DOWN BY THE RIVER 138 THE DYING GIRL'S LAST WISH .... 141 LINES WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF MR. AND MRS. HALE 143 HOME 145 LITTLE EVA 147 THE SOLDIER'S DEATH 150 APRIL DAISIES 153 THE MESSENGER 155 LITTLE NELLIE 157 IN MEMORIAM 160 IN MEMORIAM 163 THE LOST CHILD 166 ELEGIAC LINES 171 THE SNOW . 173 OUR LILY 176 CONTENTS. 1 1 PAGE PATRIOTIC POEMS 179 RALLYING SONG 181 A VOICE FROM " OUR BOYS" 184 GOD BLESS OUR SOLDIER BOYS .... 188 THE COMING OF FREEDOM 192 OUR FLAG .* 195 Kiss ME, MOTHER, AND LET ME GO .... 199 FIGHT FOR THE FLAG 202 A BALLAD OF THE WAR 203 BE TRUE TO THE FLAG OF THE UNION . . . 207 BE FIRM IN THE BATTLE FOR THE UNION . . .211 THE MIDNIGHT BIVOUAC 213 THE CAPTAIN'S LETTER 215 CARRIE 221 A DREAM OF THE BRAVE . . . . . . 223 MOONLIGHT 228 THE BALL AT THE WHITE HOUSE .... 232 MASSACHUSETTS TO CALIFORNIA .... 236 LEVEE 239 EXPOSURE TO A " DRAFT " 244 WAR TO THE KNIFE 248 OUR VICTORY __ 252 LAUS DEO 256 HYMN 261 POEMS OF NATURE . 265 INVOCATION 267 NATURE 269 COMFORT IN NATURE 271 LIFE 273 FLOWERS 275 12 CONTENTS. PAGE SPRING MEMORIES 278 THE VOICE OF SPRING 281 IMPATIENCE . . . 284 WHIMS 287 THE WINTER RAIN 290 A GLIMPSE FROM MY WINDOW .... 293 FLOATING DOWN THE RIVER 295 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 299 KATIE BLOWING BUBBLES 301 LOOKING BACK 304 THE POOR MAN 307 A LEGEND 311 THE CARELESS GIRL 322 THE CHILD AND ROSE 324 To SMOKERS 325 THE BRIDAL 327 THE FISHER 330 WOMAN'S RIGHTS 332 BORROWING TROUBLE 334 THE HOUR BEFORE EXECUTION .... 336 MAGDALENE 341 WAITING FOR A FRIEND AMONG BEASTS OF PREY. 345 PLEASURE OF RAILROAD TRAVELLING .... 350 ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO ...... 356 OLD AND NEW SCHOOLHOUSE 360 MY DREAM 367 INVOCATION 373 BERTHA'S CHRISTMAS 376 THE OUTCAST . .381 THE OLD AND THE NEW YEAR .... 385 THE DEATH OF KANE 389 MEMOIR. THE events in the life of Mrs. Wakefield may be re lated in a few words. She was born on the seventh day of December, 1836. Her full maiden name was Nancy Amelia Woodbury Priest. Her father, Francis Dana Priest, was a native of Gardner, Mass., and of respectable parentage. The mother of Mr. Priest was the daughter of Col. Jacob Woodbury, a leading man in Winchendon, Mass., and famous in his day as a Revolutionary veteran, and for his exploit in pursuing and slaying a wolf. Mrs. Sophia B. Priest, the mother of Nancy,, is a member of the Hale family, numerous and respected in every generation since the settlement of the town. Though the home of the family was in Winchendon during nearly the whole of their early and their married life, yet it so happened that Mr. and Mrs. Priest, who were united in marriage in February, 1835, move d into the easterly edge of Royalston a few months before the birth of their gifted child. Thus Winchendon lost the '3 14 MEMOIR. honor of being the birthplace of Nancy Priest. After two or three years, the family returned to Winchendon, where they have continued to reside, with the exception of three or four years in Hinsdale, N.H., between 1851 and 1855. Nancy never attended school after leaving Winchen don, when in her fifteenth year, except for a term or two in Bernardston in 1858. "She was never from home," says her mother, " any length of time till married, which took place December 22, 1865." Her husband, Lieut. Arrington Clay Wakefield, had made an honorable record in the war of the Rebellion, then brought to a triumphant close by the success of the national arms. They had three children. The eldest, Francis Arrington (born July 6, 1867), and their second, Harry Cavino (born May 28, 1869), are still living (1882) with their father. Their only daughter, Alice Emma (born on the 2?th of August, 1870), died on the isth of the following September. Six days later Mrs. Wakefield followed her child into the fold of the Good Shepherd. Such are the outline facts in the life of one who lived about thirty-four years in the privacy of home, and never attracted notice except by the publication of an occa sional poem. And, as these were generally anonymous, the author was heard of by few outside of her immediate neighborhood until after her lamented decease. " Lizzie MEMOIR. 15 Lincoln," an alliterative pseudonyme, after the fashion of the time, became familiar to a portion of the reading public, while the name of the real author was unknown. Yet that quiet life was full of an inner history, the history of a mind, heart, and soul, which labored with a peculiar intensity, as is proved by nearly every thing which found expression in verse. The life of the author, in this case, is to be read in her writings. Judged by these, she had a strong, clear mind, a heart full of the deepest and sweetest sensibilities, and a moral and spiritual nature of the purest and most elevated type. Without being a precocious child, she evinced supe riority to the ordinary run of children in many ways which mothers and other members of a family are apt to observe, " She learned all the letters of the alphabet, great and small," writes her mother, " in the summer before she was two years old." As she was born in December, we are left to infer that she had learned the alphabet when not much over a year and a half in age. At this early date she would "tell her age, and repeat short verses." It is reported of her, when about two years old, that " nothing ever pleased her like hearing reading and singing." No instance is remembered when she ever tore a good-looking book, articles which most chil dren treat with little regard. While still in childhood l6 MEMOIR. she "used to write poetry on her slate, and rub it out quickly if it was likely to be read." This shyness about exposing her lines to the eyes of others, characterized her through life. Her facility in making rhymes was soon found out by her schoolmates, who used to coax her to make poetry for them. And in this way much was extorted from her in after years, for particular occa sions, and sometimes for the press. Something of her peculiarities may be learned from the following extract of a letter written by a respected Baptist minister, the pastor of her parents, the Rev. Andrew Dunn : " She showed in early life a strong desire for books, and made them her companions by giving herself to reading and meditation. A slight acquaintance with her in her childhood, would fail to impress any one with the idea that she possessed peculiar traits of mind, which betokened future greatness, as she was retiring in her habits, and very reserved in the presence of strangers; being rather indifferent to the common affairs of every-day life, willing that other members of the family should work or play, if she could be left undisturbed in her reading and meditations. Her love of books conduced to make her in school one of the best scholars of her age. Her readiness to acquire knowledge, and to comprehend the reason of things, while quite young, showed the careful observer that she possessed powers of mind above mediocrity. She seemed to know, as by intuition or abstract thought, what others acquired by hard study." MEMOIR. ij The independent working of her mind was observable in her childhood. Mr. Dunn, who knew her in school, as well as in the family and the church, continues, "She was truly self-made according to hef own ideal type, as she would make no one her model of imitation. It was early manifest that the Muses charmed her ; for, as she mused, the fire burned in her mind to express her thoughts in verse. Those who peruse the productions of her pen, and consider the disadvantages under which she labored, will be convinced that she was a natural poet; and, had her life been continued a few years longer, her poetical works would have been greatly augmented and enriched." She enjoyed the usual advantages of common-school education in a town where the schools held a high rank in comparison with those of other places. During the latter part of the time, she attended the academy, then taught by the Rev. Mr. Wilmarth, and made good im provement of her time as a diligent and conscientious girl. In 1851, when she was about fifteen, the family, as said above, removed to Hinsdale, N.H., from which time she ceased to attend school, except for a short period at Bernardston, under Professor Ward of Powers Institute. In the following collection of poems, two will be found relating to her removal from Winchendon to Hinsdale. One of them purports to have been written at the age of fourteen. These little poems have no special merit, but are inserted as a part of her autobiography, and as l8 MEMOIR. evincing her varying moods of mind in view of moving away from the scenes and the friends of her childhood. The poem entitled " Over the River," which has car ried the author's name wherever the English language is read, was written while the family was living in Hinsdale, and probably not long before their return to Winchendon. This would fix it at about her twentieth year. -At the time she was living at home and working in a paper-mill. One day at the noon closing, while the hands were gone to dinner, she remained, as usual, because the family resided at some distance. As she sat on a sack of rags, looking across the Ashuelot which flows through the village, the impulse in her breast mpved her to write. The origin of the poem is given in an article prepared for a magazine by the Rev. E. S. Best, a Methodist clergyman, who once had an appointment in Winchen don. According to him, the poem was put to paper in a stormy day, while the author was gazing through the dusty window-panes. " Over the misty current her dark eyes gleam with a mysterious brilliancy. She picks up a piece of paper, and with her pencil writes rapidly for a few minutes : but the bell rings ; the machinery begins to clatter; she thrusts the paper into her pocket, and resumes her work. On that crumpled paper is written the first sketch of a poem which has gained a \vell- de erved renown." The author of the poem, in a letter MEMOIR. ig to the brother of a musical composer who desired to set it to music, gave the following account of its origin : " The little poem to which he purposes to give musical expres sion was written originally on a sheet of brown wrapping-paper, in the ' hour's nooning ' at the mill, and then carried home, thrown in with other loose papers, and entirely forgotten until I came across it by accident again, while looking for something else, more than a year after." It is stated in addition, by her mother, that the manu script came near being destroyed soon after it was written, but was happily rescued from an inglorious fate. It was left in a dress which was about to be washed, when Mrs. Priest, in emptying the pocket, found the bit of crumpled brown paper, and so saved the priceless poem which the author so strangely forgot. It has been suggested, that she may have written other poems equal or superior to the one which made her name famous, because she destroyed very many which were never seen by any eyes but her own. " Several times she has gone to her desk, gathered up all her papers, and cast them into the fire." She did not seem to appreciate her own writings, and could not be con vinced that they had any special merit. The fact that she forgot all about " Over the River " makes it credible that other flashes of inspiration passed through water or fire. But whatever Miss Priest wrote was her own. She 2O MEMOIR. never consciously plagiarized a line, or borrowed an idea or an image. Her measure, also, was the vibration of her own exquisitely strung organization. A controversy which arose in regard to the originality of " Over the River " gave her great pain. The poem first appeared in "The Springfield Republican," August 22, 1857, when she was in her twenty-second year. The editor was in formed that the reputed author, " Lizzie Lincoln," had imposed upon him by sending him the production of another writer. When the question was put to her as to the originality of the poem, her reply was that she could not tell : " she only knew that she had written it." When the imputation of .untruthfulness and of literary piracy first came to her knowledge, she burst into tears, and " expressed regret that she had ever written a stanza." The editor of the Western paper who had started the accusation was obliged, on examination, to confess his mistake. The reputation of the author was vindicated ; but a wound had been inflicted which was never entirely healed. She could not be persuaded to enter upon a course of authorship, or even, except by strong persua sion, to write occasional pieces for the press. The writer of these pages recalls a fact which fairly exhibits the extreme modesty of Miss Priest. In making preparation for the centennial celebration of the incor poration of the town of Winchendon in November, MEMOIR. 21 1864, by which time our poetess had become widely and favorably known to the public, she was requested to write a hymn to be sung on the occasion. It is repub- lished here in the " Miscellaneous " division. As she felt a deep interest in the event, the request was readily com plied with ; and the citizens were more than satisfied with the production. When I took the poem, after looking it over, I gave her two dollars as compensation, but with a sense of mortification that I was not able to give a larger sum. But she was surprised at the liberality of the offer, and, with difficulty, was induced to accept the money. She blushed like a child at the thought that her trifle was so highly appreciated. The occurrence, which I have often recalled with amused interest, was recently confirmed by her mother, after eighteen years have inter vened, by informing me how surprised Nancy was at receiving such compensation for what she had scribbled off at a sitting. A writer in "The Springfield Republican," soon after the decease of Mrs. Wakefield, recalled a scene in the girl hood of one whom so many had learned to love, through her writtings, who had never seen her face. He says, " I was more than sorry to hear that the gifted author of 'Over the River ' had passed ' From sight with the boatman pale To the better shore of the spirit land.' 22 MEMOIR. I knew her when, in 1858, she was a pupil of Professor Ward, at Powers Institute, Bernardston, Mass. She was rather a shy, quiet girl, very much absorbed in her studies, but always pleasant and obliging. My most prominent recollection of her is of a grave little figure bending persistently over a book, with a profusion of black curls falling around, and almost hiding, her intellectual face. I had always the impression that she had a different motive fur study from many of her younger and gayer companions ; that she either loved knowledge for its own sake, or had reached that age of experience where she realized the true value of education and culture. I think few of the scholars knew of her literary reputa tion. The first intimation I had of it was at the close of the fall term. Hon. H. W. Cushman, at one time lieutenant governor of Massachusetts, had offered the young ladies connected with the school a prize for the best original essay, and she was one of the competitors. Rev. Mr. Ranney, in his speech before awarding the prizes, said it was honor enough for the writer of ' Schoolhouses, Primitive and Modern,' to be the ' Lizzie Lincoln ' of ' The Repub lican.' I shared the genuine surprise of most of her fellow- students. We all knew ' Lizzie Lincoln's ' poetry, but had not dreamed that she was one of our happy band. I remember how the blood crimsoned her face and neck as all eyes turned towards her, and what a new interest the familiar face had for me. I felt that, although we had all loved and respected, few of us had ap preciated her at her real worth. She has found appreciation since in thousands of hearts and homes." From the time of leaving the school in Bernardston her home was with her parents in Winchendon, and the years passed by, without any event of special interest, MEMOIR. 23 until her marriage, near the end of 1865. She was en gaged in the duties of the family ; and, being the eldest of the children, was helpful as a daughter and sister. At times her life was varied by occupation in a millinery store, and perhaps in other employment. During all these years she was a diligent and thoughtful reader, having access to a well-selected library which had been established in the village. The following passages from a letter of Rev. G. A. Litchfield, formerly pastor of the Baptist church in Win- chendon, gives his impression of her character in the closing years of her life. He writes, " I knew Mrs. Wakefield well for several years, and officiated both at her marriage and her funeral. I knew her in health and in sickness. I met her often in public, but oftener in the quiet of her maidenhood home, and later in that of her own home, when she had become the wife and mother. She was of a singularly modest and retiring nature. She always underrated her own ability. " In presence of strangers she withdrew within herself ; in presence of those whom she trusted as friends, she would often reveal her inner self, and charm the listener, not less by her char acteristically original and imaginative mode of expression than by the choiceness of the thought expressed. . . . She was extremely happy in her use of language." Mr. Litchfield then alludes to the fact that she had offers of assistance in extending her education, and states that it was a source of regret to those who knew 24 MEMOIR. her rare poetical genius, that her extreme self-distrust and dislike of notoriety induced her to decline all over tures of the kind. But there is reason tb believe that other causes, highly creditable to her character, led to this decision. In one case a lady of wealth, with rare generosity, offered to give her a finished education, and wished to treat her as an adopted daughter ; but, how ever desirable the literary advantages, she could not endure the thought of forming any connection that would come between herself and the loved ones of her own home. She chose wisely ; and her heart had its reward in the love of her nearest kindred, and, later, in the cherished affection of husband and children. How much her heart was bound up in the little ones is apparent from the two poems which will be found in the division entitled " Love and Friendship." One is headed " Baby asleep," and the other, " Christmas Stockings." These were found by Mr. Wakefield, after her decease, written carelessly in pencil, as if under sudden impulse of the heart. Another piece was found by him enclosed in an envelope, and reserved for his own eye, after she was gone. It is entitled " A Fancy," and is a priceless legacy to a bereaved husband. One verse is among the most touching in the language ; and the thought seems to have escaped expression hitherto, though it immediately finds an echo in all delicately tender souls : MEMOIR. 25 " Forever in my quiet grave (Albeit they say the dead Know nothing of the busy world That whirls above their head), I think my sleep would be less deep It any but thine own Were the last earthly touch I felt Ere I was left alone. " The whole poem bears witness to the happiness of her married life. Nothing more needs to be said of her life, except to refer briefly to her last days. Mrs. C. P. Fairbanks, an intimate friend of Mrs. Wakefield, wrote to me, a few weeks after her decease, stating some items of interest : " She did not expect to get well, but she said nothing about the future. The day she died she seemed very cheerful. After she could not speak, she frequently smiled. Her sister asked her if it was her happy thoughts that made her smile so often. She bowed to her, and looked at her and smiled, so that her sister was fully satisfied. No one who has known her for the last few years has any doubts but she was a Christian. . . . You know we always called her very plain ; but in death her face was beautiful, and still she looked perfectly natural. I never can understand how it could be. On her pale brow, with reverent hands and tearful eyes, I twined the laurel wreath, and folded the 'pulseless hands,' and gently laid her down for that dreamless sleep which knows no waking, more beautiful in death than ever I had seen her in life, and to-day I mourn her loss as the dearest friend I ever 26 MEMOIR. had. There is none that can ever fill her place ; but there is light and hope 'just beyond the veil.' There is a new attraction 'over the river.' " The memory of " Nancy Priest " is still kept as green as on the day of her death in many " hearts and homes," outside as well as within the bounds of the family circle ; and the mention of her name calls up tender and grate ful feelings in thousands of bereaved ones, who have derived consolation and strength in their griefs, from her best-known poem, " Over the River." Notices of the press, private letters, and oral communications, in great number, have expressed the general sorrow for her early departure, and the warmest sympathy with her stricken friends. This imperfect Memoir may be fitly closed by the fol lowing extract from an article in " The Congregation- alist," dated Nov. 3, 1870 : OVER THE RIVER. " Our readers will have noticed that Mrs. Wakefield (who wrote the beautiful lines with the above-named title) has recently passed away by death. As nearly as we recollect the facts, these lines were first published to the world some fifteen years ago ; and, what is remarkable in them, they have such a charm for the people as to keep them in constant circulation ever since. It may be doubted whether a single week has transpired, in the last ten years, when these verses might not have been picked up from one or MEMOIR. 27 more of our American newspapers in their issue of that week. We know, indeed, of no bit of poetry of late, from any pen, that has struck the popular mind so exactly. This is due, in a measure, to the facts that death is ever busy in these human households; and little children, in all their early brightness and beauty, are con stantly passing out of their earthly to their heavenly home : and these lines contain the very balm of consolation for such wounded and bleeding hearts. But, aside from the subject-matter (for that is common to a great multitude of little poems in our language), there is in this a glory of conception, a beauty of language and of imagery, a burning glow of genius, such as are altogether remark able." RELIGIOUS POEMS. OVER THE RIVER. OVER the river they beckon to me, Loved ones who've crossed to the further side ; The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; He crossed in the twilight, gray and cold, And the pale mist hid him from mortal vj.ew. We saw not the angels who met him there; The gates of the city we could not see ; Over the river, over the river, My brother stands waiting to welcome me. 3' 32 OVER THE RIVER. Over the river the boatman pale Carried another, the household pet ; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; We felt it glide from the silver sands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. We know she is safe on the further side, Where all the ransomed and angels be ; Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores, Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a gleam of the snowy sail ; OVER THE RIVER. 33 And lo ! they have passed from our yearning hearts, Who cross the stream and are gone for aye ! We may not sunder the veil apart That hides from our vision the gates of day ; We only know that their barks no more May sail with us over life's stormy sea ; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore They v/atch and beckon and wait for me. And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold Is flushing river and hill and shore, I shall one day stand by the water cold And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale To the better shore of the spirit-land ; 34 OVER THE RIVER. I shall know the loved who have gone before, And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river, The angel of death shall carry me. [We doubt not, with the dear ones who welcomed her to the heavenly shore, she waits for the loved ones yet left behind. MARVIN.] THE SPIRIT-LAND. BEAUTIFUL country ! oh, when shall I see thee ? When will my sinning and wandering be o'er? When shall my feet, wounded, earth-stained and weary, Bathe in the river that laves thy green shore ? Beautiful country ! the land of the angels, When shall I reach, and wander no more ? Beautiful city ! how long ere the portals Of thy pearly gates shall be opened to me ? When shall I join in the songs of immortals, Praising the love that has brought me to thee ? 35 36 THE SPIRIT-LAND. Beautiful city, bright home of the blessed ! When shall I stand by thy crystalline sea? Earth's joys are sweet, but they lure me from duty ; Earth-loves are strong, but they bind like a chain ! Sometimes my heart clings to life and earth's beauty With a wild yearning that grows into pain ; And I forget the- bright glories that wait me Over the river on heaven's happy plain. There bloom the flowers that wither, ah never ! There live -the loved ones who've passed from my sight; There ring the anthems that sound on forever ; There walk the saints in their garments of white ; THE SPIRIT-LAND. 37 There from God's throne floweth life's crystal river ; There shines the day that will end not in night. Beautiful city, sweet rest for earth's weary ! When will life's pilgrimage journey be o'er ? Beautiful country ! ah, when shall I see thee ? When shall I stand on thy evergreen shore ? Beautiful gate ! through thy opening portals, When shall I enter, to pass forth no more ? SHALL WE KNOW EACH OTHER THERE ? WHEN we meet in fields elysian, Freed from this world's pain and care, Shall we, with our spirit vision, See and know each other there? Can it be that death wiir sever All life's dearest, holiest ties ; Do we look farewell forever When we close these mortal eyes ? Shall we in their angel plumage Know the loved of many years ? Lips that smiled when we were happy, Eyes that wept for all our tears ? SHALL \YE KNOW EACH OTHER THERE f 39 Ah, how drear would be e'en heaven Did not hope, with glances bright, Whisper that the hearts now riven In that world shall re-unite ! As we know the lambs we tended, When they came from pastures chill, Bleating to the fold for shelter From the bare and frosty hill, By the ribbon red or azure, That we tied long months before, And we lift the gates with pleasure To receive them home once more, So shall they who've gone before us Ope for us the gate of light ; Kiss away our fears and trembling, Put on us the robe of white ; 4O SHALL WE KNOW EACH OTHER THERE? Lead us through the pastures vernal,- By the feet of angels trod, To the stream of life eternal, Flowing from the throne of God. HEAVEN. BEYOND these chilling winds and gloomy skies, Beyond Death's cloudy portal, There is a land where beauty never dies And love becomes immortal. A land whose light is never dimmed by shade Whose fields are ever vernal, Where nothing beautiful can ever fade, But blooms for aye eternal. We may not know how sweet its balmy air, How bright and fair its flowers ; 4 1 42 HEAVEN. We may not hear the songs that echo there Through those enchanted bowers. The city's shining towers we may not see With our dim, earthly vision ; For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key That opes those gates elysian. But sometimes, where adown the western sky The fiery sunset lingers, Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly, Unlocked by silent fingers. And while they stand a moment half ajar, Gleams from the inner glory Stream lightly through the azure vault afar, And half reveal the story. HEAVEN. 43 O land unknown ! O land of love divine ! Father all-wise, eternal, Guide, guide these wandering way-worn feet of mine Unto those pastures vernal. THE ANGEL AND THE MAIDEN. As I rested under the greenwood-tree, The angel Azrael came to me ; He said, " The Eden land is fair ; Thou art weary of earth, shall I waft thee there ? " But, though I had longed for the grave's still bed, My spirit sank with a nameless dread ; I could not motion, I could not speak, The spirit was willing, the flesh was weak. " I hoped," he said, " to have seen thee wear The conqueror's crown on thy flowing hair ; 44 THE ANGEL AND THE MAIDEN. 45 I hoped to have given thee a golden lyre, And heard thy voice in the heavenly choir." But thou art weak and of mortal birth, And thou clingest yet to the things of earth ; And longer still must thou tarry here, Ere thou art fit for a higher sphere. Yet look, O maiden, thine eyes shall see A glimpse of the land of purity, That thy soul may turn from these glittering toys To the crystal fountain of purer joys. Then the pale mist parted before my view, And I saw the skies that are ever blue ; I caught a glimpse of the valleys green And the river of life that floweth between ; 46 THE ANGEL AND THE MAIDEN. I saw the gate to the realms of light ; I saw the choir in their robes of white, And the gleam of the city's golden spires, Like the glimmering lights of a thousand fires ; And I heard such music, so rich and clear, As never fell on a mortal ear ; For one more note of that dulcet strain I'd live a lifetime of care and pain. Then mist spread slowly before the scene ; It hid the skies, and the valleys green ; The song of a bird on the still air broke ; The angel left me, and I awoke. THE EVENING LESSON. COME to my knee, my darling ! The long summer day is done ; And low to his rest in the crimson west Sinketh the fiery sun. Come, and we'll watch together To see the first star appear, And I'll tell you a beautiful story : Listen, and you shall hear. Shall I tell you of wicked "Bluebeard," Or of merry "Robin Hood"? Of the wonderful " Lamp of Aladdin," Or the hapless " Babes in the Wood " ? 47 48 THE EVENING LESSON. Nay, my darling knows them already : She wishes for something true ; So I'll tell her a sweet, strange story, Old, yet forever new. Once, in the past's dim ages, In a country far away, On just such a starlit night as this, An Infant in slumber lay. But not in a costly cradle Was the Baby hushed to rest ; Not on a downy pillow Was his pure white forehead pressed. It was a dismal stable ; Nestled upon the hay, In a dark and narrow manger, The new-born Infant lay ; THE EVENING LESSON. 49 And his mother stood beside him And watched him with tender eyes, While the patient cattle stood around And looked their mute surprise. And yet this lowly Infant Was the Lord of heaven and earth ; And angels came from the shining choir To sing the Redeemer's birth ; And shepherds from plains of Judah, And wise men from afar, Came with gifts to the holy Child, Led on by a guiding star. Now in the highest heaven, Glorious all thought above He liveth and reigneth ever, And his holiest name is Love. 5 Their happy lot is cast. HOME. THY home is sad and desolate : no father now is there To greet thee with a welcome home ; no mother's tender care And sympathy to lighten thy every toil and pain, And nevermore that much-loved voice shall greet thy ear again. And never canst thou receive their blessings and their prayers : Thy home is still unchanged, but, oh ! trie loved ones are not there ; '45 146 HOME. And other feet will tread the paths that they so long have trod, While their freed spirits gladly dwell before the throne of God. Yet upward look, midst all thy grief and anguish and distress, Unto the gracious Father of those who're fatherless ; And think, oh, think ! when thou art free from all life's care and pain, In a world of ransomed spirits thou shalt meet them both aerain. LITTLE EVA. PART the damp curls from the forehead, For the spirit has flown to the skies ; Press down the darkly fringed eyelids Over the beautiful eyes ; Fold the white hands on her bosom ; Place a white rose by her side : Just as our darling one blossomed, Just so our darling one died. Naught cares she now for our weeping : Tears like the raindrops may fall ; Calmly our Eva lies sleeping; Happiest is she of all. 147 148 LITTLE EVA. Forth come ye now to behold her ; Take a last look while you may ; Then to green, quiet churchyard, Bear on the beautiful clay. Lower ye lightly her coffin ; Press the green turf on her breast ; Then, 'neath the boughs of the willow, Leave we our Eva to rest. What though our home may seem dreary ? What though the tears fill our eyes ? Her tiny feet were earth-weary : Now she has gone to the skies. Plant ye the locust-tree o'er her; There let the violet wave, Every thing transient and lovely Grow o'er her tear-watered grave. LITTLE EVA. 149 There let the first sunlight glimmer ; There let the last sunbeam rest, And the pale, silent moon shine upon it, Like a "smile from the land of the blest." THE SOLDIER'S DEATH. THEY bore him to a cool and grassy place, So motionless they almost deemed him .dead ; And fanned with tender care the pallid face, And with pure water bathed his drooping head, Till his eyes opened, and a languid smile Played round his dying lips ; and, when he spoke, They hushed their very breath to listen, while That low, faint murmur on the calm air broke. 150 THE SOLDIER'S DEATH. 151 " Comrades, my waning life is almost fled ; Death's dampness gathers on my brow and cheek, And from this gaping wound the bullet made The crimson life-blood oozes while I speak. I shall be resting quietly ere long, And shall not need your love and tender care : Your hearts are valiant, and your arms are strong, Go back, my comrades! you are needed there. " But bear me first to yonder grassy sod, Whence I can turn my eyes upon the fight. Gently, there ! Leave me now alone with God, And go you back to battle for the right." Then his mind wandered; and the beating drum, The roar of cannon, and the din of strife Changed to familiar, far-off sounds of home, Or sweet, low tones of mother, child, or wife. 152 THE SOLDIER'S DEATH. And the receding battle's frequent shocks, Softened by distance, coming on the breeze, Seemed to him like the bleating of the flocks, Or hiveward murmur of the laden bees ; Until there came a mighty shout at length, A cry that rose and swelled to "Victory!" And, opening his dim eyes with sudden strength, He saw the foemen's ranks divide, and fly. He rose ; he sat erect in his own blood ; His heart throbbed joyfully as when a boy : "They fly! they fly!" he cried, and up to God His spirit passed on that last shout of joy. And so they found him, when they sought him there, Lifeless and cold in that secluded place, The rigid fingers clasped as if in prayer, And that last smile of triumph on his face. APRIL DAISIES. How many thoughts beyond her years, That then were all unheeded, We think of now with blinding tears, Sweet teaching that we needed! Three happy years we led her feet Among life's thorny mazes ; The fourth we laid her down to sleep Beneath the April daisies. 'Tis well, and we are reconciled ; For He who gave the blossom, Who lent to us our angel-child, Recalled her to his bosom ; '53 154 APRIL DAISIES. And, waiting till He calls for me To sing with her His praises, I keep her blessed memory Embalmed in April daisies. THE MESSENGER. THERE came a messenger at early dawning, While yet the stars shone bright ; Unheralded by any sound or warning, He entered as of right. I felt an awful shadow o'er the dwelling, And all my blood grew chill ; My heart, with awful expectation swelling, Throbbed once, and then stood still. Through the dark hall with folded pinions gliding, And steps of noiseless tread, '55 156 THE MESSENGER. He entered where our patient one lay wasting, And stood beside the bed. The lamp burned dim ; the clock that told the hour Rang like a funeral knell ; And from the roses, in a fitful shower, The red and white leaves fell. He lingered till the shades of night were banished, And all the stars grew dim ; And, when at last the ghostly presence vanished, Our loved one went with him. Ah, well ! the days glide by us like a shadow, The years like moments flee ; Next time the messenger our threshold crosses, He'll come, perhaps, for me. LITTLE NELLIE. FOLD the tiny dimpled hands On the bosom pure and fair ; Softly smooth the shining bands Of her dark and glossy hair. It is hard to give her up, Young, and, oh, so passing fair ! Very bitter is the cup ; Heavy is the grief to bear. Two short summers closed her eyes, Of her home the life and light ; Now as still and cold she lies As a marble statue might. '57 158 LITTLE NELLIE. Tears will all unheeded fall On her face for whom you weep ; And the name you vainly call Will not break her dreamless sleep. Yet 'tis nothing but the form That you lay beneath the sod ; For, beyond earth's every storm, Little Nellie lives with God. She is one of that vast throng That the nearest dwell to Him, And she lisps the tuneful song Of the saints and cherubim. Little Nellie, called so soon In thy childhood's sinless years, Watch o'er us that linger on In this world of sin and tears ; LITTLE NELLIE. For we know not whether late Or ere long our time shall be ; Plead for us at Mercy's gate, That we soon may follow thee. IN MEMORIAM.' CAN this be death ? It seems scarcely a min ute Since these closed eyes looked fondly in my own, And these pale lips, sealed with Death's icy signet, Spoke with their wonted, kind, familiar tone. Look ! even yet a smile upon them lingers, Like a radiance from the unseen land ; 'Tis but a moment since these rigid fingers Returned the pressure of my clasping hand. 1 Orville W. Priest died June 20, 1865. 1 60 IX MEMORIAM. l6l Yet thou art gone. Vain is our bitter weeping : Tears fall unheeded on thy marble breast ; Our sorrow troubles not thy quiet sleeping ; Our voices break not in upon thy rest. Vain were the prayers of father or of mother ; For a hand beckoned that we could not see : Oh, had it been but possible, my brother, God knows how gladly I had died for thee ! How shall I miss thee ! When around the table At eve we gather, who can fill thy place ? I shall glance up from poem or from fable To meet no answering smile upon thy face. If at our lonely meals I raise my eyelids, I shall behold an ever-vacant chair : At morning and at noontide and at evening, My brother, I shall miss thee everywhere. 1 62 IN MEMORIAM. Yet fare thee well ! Thy young life fitly closes On the bright morning of this perfect day : We lay thee down beneath , the sweet June roses ; For thou wert pure and brief-lived, even as they. Sleep sweet, our beloved ! Much has been spared thee Of this world's conflicts, pain, and bitter woe, And some time, in the land of the hereafter, Why thou wert taken from us we shall know. IN MEMORIAM. 'Tis hard to see our loved ones die ; 'Tis hard to watch the failing breath, To see the dear eyes close in death, To speak and win no kind reply. And well I know 'tis harder still To lay the precious form away, To moulder back to common clay, And feel no rising of the will. So, when to-day I stood before The coffin where your darling slept, I did not wonder that you wept, For my own eyes were running o'er. 163 164 IN MEMORIAM. And yet I wept not for the dead ! How could I weep for one who stands Among the shining angel-bands t With life's bright crown upon his head ? I wept for those who loved him so, Whose life was in his being bound, Whose very heartstrings bound around The little form laid cold and low. Ah, tender parents ! while you weep To-night above the tiny bed Where rests no more the sunny head, The angels hush him to his sleep. And though life seems a weary load, And home an empty, joyless place, Without the sunshine of his face, Can you not trust your child with God ? IN MEMORIAM. 165 O mourning parents ! dry your eyes, And follow where his small white hand Is beckoning upward to that land Where love immortal never dies. THE LOST CHILD. THEY sought her in the field and grove, Where'er they thought her feet might rove, Exploring every nook and cove ; And down within the shady dell, Where the wild lily hung its bell, And filled the air with pleasant smell ; And where wild rose and ivy made Alternate streaks of sun and shade, And the light chestnut-tassels swayed. And where the pale, sweet May pinks grew, And violets opened eyes of blue, Weeping bright drops of honey-dew. 166 THE LOST CHILD. l6/ But all in vain ! Then some one said, " The river winds along its bed, Through meadows blossomed white and red, "Perhaps she has wandered there." All feet Were turned this last retreat, Where they might hope the child to meet. And one along the river side, On white sand left there by the tide, The prints of tiny feet espied ; And stooping down with straining sight, And eyes hand-shaded from the light, Caught a faint gleam of something white. He raised it with a trembling hand, And drew it heavily to land, And laid the dead child on the sand. i68* THE LOST CHILD. The blue eyes had a stony glare, And the long, golden, curling hair Lay dripping on the shoulders bare ; And in the tiny, dimpled hand Wild violets of the meadow-land Still by the rigid fingers spanned. Then home the lifeless form they bore : The mother met them at the door Those pattering feet might cross no more. And there were sobs and softening sighs, And gushing tears from many eyes, And whispered words and low replies. The father sat like one amazed ; Nor once his heavy eyelids raised, But ever on the pale corpse gazed ; THE LOST CHILD. 169 And to the pastor's words of hope, Replied, " I cannot give her up ; I cannot drink the bitter cup. " God knows how dear she was to me, My child, my darling Rosalie ! Oh, would that I were dead, like thee ! " Night came, a night of cloudless calm, With starry eyes and breath of balm ; But beauty had no power to charm. Then with the dead hand in his own, Whose touch was colder than the stone, He bent the knee to pray alone. And, lo ! the clouds of grief were gone ; Faith once more triumphed on her throne : Her full heart said, " Thy will be dene ! I/O THE LOST CHILD. " This form is nothing but the clay, Through which my darling winged her way To purer air and brighter day. " What though the casket must decay ? The Lord hath given, and taken away : Blest be his holy name for aye ! " Full on him shone the moonbeams fair, And on the dead child's golden hair, And rested like a halo there. ELEGIAC LINES. SHE was too fair, too sweet a flower, 1 To live in a dark world like this ; Her heavenly Father took her home To his abode of purest bliss. She wished to go : she longed to greet The loved and lost^of other days, To tune her voice in chorus sweet, And swell the ceaseless song of praise. We cannot mourn, nor wish her back To tread life's path with us again ; 1 Laura Jane Johnson, aged eighteen years, nine months. I'72 ELEGIAC LINES. Her spirit longed to soar above : 'Twas sweet to live ; to die was gain. Now she has gained a brighter land, And death's cold stream is past ; Hers are the joys at God's right hand, That shall forever last. THE SNOW. How lightly and softly and pure it falls, Covering the earth with a mantle fair, Robing even the brown stone walls With ermine a king might be proud to wear . And the brave old evergreen trees that mark The distant hills with their outline dark, Whiter and whiter hourly grow, Till they bend 'neath their weight of fleecy snow. Sitting beside my window low, Through the flakes that fall like a curtain thin, I watch the gradual growth of the snow O'er mounds where my last year's flowers have been ; 173 174 THE SNOW. Growing and growing silently, Till the bare, brown stalks are all I see, Stalks that beneath the sun and showers Budded and burst into perfect flowers. Then I think of a mound in the churchyard old, Where once in the spring time of long ago A bud of beauty, all pale and cold, Was laid away 'neath the melting snow. There were tears in my father's eyes that clay, And my mother sobbed o'er the beautiful clay ; Yet the mound over which my myrtle creeps Is larger than that where my brother sleeps. It was "only an infant," the neighbors said, As they gazed on the tiny features fair: Could they dream of the light that fled With the little form that was sleeping there ? THE SNOW. 175 Happy .themselves, could they dimly guess At the pride and beauty and loveliness, The world-wide hope, and the springing joy, That was buried up with the only boy ? Ah, well ! I know that the spring will come, With its soft, blue skies, and its warm, glad showers ; And the birds will sing, and the bees will hum, And these bare, brown stalks will be gay with flowers : So the little form that with tears and sighs Was buried away from our mortal eyes, Out of that narrow grave shall rise To bloom in the garden of paradise. OUR LILY. 1 WE had a little lily bud, A bud of promise rare, A blessing from the hand of God : We treasured her with care. 'Tvvas joy to watch her infant mind, And teach her lips to speak : We feared lest even heaven's wind Should roughly fan her cheek. Two happy summers did her tiny feet Walk life's rough path with ours, 1 Lines written for Mr. and Mrs. C. L. Carter on the death of their only daughter. 176 OUR LILY. 177 And then we laid her down to sleep Beneath the fading flowers. Oh ! it was hard to give her up, Our little cherished one ; 'Twas hard to drink the bitter cup, And say, "Thy will be done." And yet to cheer us in our woe This precious thought is given, We have one darling still below, But one is safe in heaven. PATRIOTIC POEMS. RALLYING SONG. COME, rally around the old standard ! Let our banner float out on the breeze ! For, thanks be to God and our pilot, The ship still outrides the rough seas. Though the wind whistles shrill though her cord age, And the sails in the tempest may rip, We've faith in the skill of the helmsman Who stands at the wheel of the ship. We know that his faith is the surest ; We know that his courage is tried, iSi l82 RALLYING SONG. And his honor was ever the purest : What more could we ask of our guide ? When the storm gathered darkest and nearest, No faltering fell from his lips : Then a cheer for old " Abram," the pilot Who stands at the helm of our ship. The storm mutters yet to the southward, And the sky is o'erclouded with gloom ; For Heaven's sake, no half-hearted pilot, Who will let us drift on to our doom ! The breakers still yawn to ingulf us : If the bark from her anchorage slip, Then give up the helm to old " Abram ; " We know that his heart's in the ship. Our enemies hate him and fear him : Their hope even now groweth dim, RALLYING SONG. 183 And they cry out, in hopeless despairing, " Give us any, ay, any but him ! " He has borne up our flag in disaster, And when victory perched on its tip; Then give up the helm to old "Abram," Who knows all the ropes of the ship. He will carry our ship past the breakers ; He will keep the flag free of all stain ; He has honored the trust that we gave him : We know we can trust him again. Then rally once more round his standard, And let it ring loud from each lip, " A cheer for our true-hearted pilot ! We'll give him the helm of the ship." A VOICE FROM "OUR BOYS." WE left our homes and hearthstones Three weary years ago : 'Neath the banner of our country We marched to meet the foe. There were hearts that ached to breaking, And tears that fell like rain : Do those heartaches count as nothing ? Were those tear-drops wept in vain ? Mid dangers, toil, and perils Such as you may never know, We have stood, a wall of valor, Twixt your hearthstones and the foe. A VOICE FROM "OUR BOYS." 185 We have learned to smile at danger ; We have learned to mock at pain : But we ask you, O our brothers, Have we borne these things in vain ? We have borne our starry banner Over heaps of our own dead ; Where the shot rained thickest, fastest, We have followed if it led. And, though battle-scarred and tattered, It has never known a stain : Will ye dare to tell us, brothers, We have kept it pure in vain ? By the victories we have won you, By the laurels we have earned, By the homes we've left behind us, By the comforts we have spurned, 1 86 A VOICE FROM "OUR BOYS." By the bones that bleach unnumbered On each trampled battle-plain, We plead with you, our brothers, Let us suffer not in vain ! By our marches and our battles, By the blood that we have shed, By the prisons where we languished, By the memory of our dead, By the hardships we have suffered, Fiercest hunger, thirst, and pain, We ask you, men and brothers, Is our sacrifice in vain ? Hark ! Vermont's snow-covered summits Send a ringing sound of cheer, And from Maine's dark, waving forests Comes an echo loud and clear : A VOICE FROM "OUR BOYS." l8/ " Fear not, faint not ! we are coming " (So those joyful echoes say) " To the music of the Union : Abram leads us! clear the way!" GOD BLESS OUR SOLDIER BOYS. THE fields are white and spotless ; the chill north-wester blows ; The winter skies hang heavy beneath their weight of snow. We sit beside the casement and watch the gathering storm, And wonder if our soldiers in their canvas tents are warm ; And, when at eve we gather around the hearth stone bright, Each heart sends up a prayer, "God keep our soldier boys to-night ! " 1 88' GOD BLESS OUR SOLDIER BOYS. 189 They left us in the spring time and in the summer's glow ; All through the lonely autumn we saw our loved ones go. From all our noisy workshops, from every bustling street, We miss the kindly faces that we were wont to meet ; They've gone to blot out treason, to battle for the right : We send them with our blessing, God bless our boys to-night ! Some led the charge at Newbern, when the rebel columns broke ; Some at Ball's Bluff fought nobly, and some at Roanoke ; I9O GOD BLESS OUR SOLDIER BOYS. Some to New Orleans followed the flag of stripes and stars ; Some won a Southern prison, and some im mortal scars. They have proved themselves true heroes in many a bloody fight ; Oft tried, but ne'er found wanting, God bless them all to-night ! There's grief in every household ; our land with blood is red ; There's waiting for the absent, and weeping for the dead. We mourn our fallen' heroes, but the living V claim our care ; We 'bless them at our firesides; we name them in our prayer ; GOD BLESS OUR SOLDIER BOYS. IQI God guide them through all danger ! God keep them in the fight ! Where'er they light their camp-fires, God bless our boys to-night ! THE COMING OF FREEDOM. LONG time the world in darkness lay Beneath Oppression's iron sway ; And, e'en where Freedom once abode, Her altar-fire but dimly glowed. Earth waited long, with listening ear, When sudden, like a thunder-stroke, A deep voice through the silence broke, " Make way for Freedom ! " Make way for Freedom ! for she comes With flying flags and beating drums, And her old keepers seek in vain To weld anew her broken chain. 192 THE COMING OF FREEDOM. 193 She holds no parley with her foes, But right and left deals sturdy blows, And vindicates her ancient fame Mid cannons' roar and blood and flame : Make way for Freedom ! She stoops not now to plead her cause Through the weak voice of trampled laws ; Lo, in the Ethiop's dusky hand She lays her keen and flashing brand, Points where her starry banners wave, And bids him be no more a slave ; Arid, as her hosts go sweeping by, His voice takes up their battle-cry, " Make way for Freedom ! " Oh, say not that our toil is vain ! We build anew fair Freedom's fame ; 194 THE COMING OF FREEDOM. We lay the corner stone with tears ; But, gazing far down future years, We see the finished temple stand Towering to heaven, complete and grand, And through its wide and ample door The nations thronging evermore To worship Freedom. Then who would weakly hesitate ? The passing hours are big with fate. Will not each patriot heart reply, "It is thy voice! Lord, here am I." My country, thine shall be my fate ; My all to thee I consecrate ; Gladly I draw the sword for thee, And fight, bleed, die, if need there be, "For thee and Freedom." OUR FLAG. I'LL sing my country's glorious flag, The proud old flag of yore, That in the days long since gone by Our patriot fathers bore. The dear old flag, long may it wave ! 'Tvvas bought with blood and scars, The legacy our fathers gave : God bless the stripes and stars ! What though, obscured in treason's night, Some stars have dimmed their rays, And, wandering like a meteor's light, Shot madly from their place ? '95 196 OUR FLAG. What though above the fertile fields, 'Neath our old ensign won, The broad " Palmetto " flaunts the breeze, Beneath a Southern sun ? Not ours the hand that drew the sword The first red drops that shed ; The guilt, the damning guilt of blood Be on our brother's head ; But war's red flag at length unfurled, We who have borne so long Will teach our brethren and the world That patient hearts are strong. Not ours the hand that snapped the chain, And drew its limbs asunder : We strove to stay the storm in vain When first we heard its thunder, OUR FLAG. 197 And history all time shall tell How long they spurned our prayers, That we might still be friends, and dwell In peace with them and theirs. We've risen in our might at length : Our country's foe shall feel An outraged nation's giant strength, The strength of Northern steel. No more we seek to mend the chain ; No more we woo with prayers : Our cannon on the battle-plain Shall thunder back to theirs. The Old Bay State has risen in might : Her arm is bared once more ; Her war-cry ringing through the fight, " Remember Baltimore ! " 198 OUR FLAG. No time for weak or coward words, No time for idle breath : The man that draws a traitor's sword Shall meet a traitor's death. " Our flag," thou hope of every land, Thou pride of every sea, Our wealth, our strength, our heart's last blood, Shall all be given to thee. Undimmed, unconquered, thou shalt wave In the red light of Mars, Till the last freeman finds a grave Beneath the stripes and stars. KISS ME, MOTHER, AND LET ME GO HAVE you heard the news that I heard to-day. The news that trembles on every lip? The sky is darker again, they say, And breakers threaten the good old ship. Our country calls on her sons again To strike in her name at a dastard foe : She asks for six hundred thousand men ; And I would be one, mother : let me go. The love of country was born with me : I remember how my young heart would thrill When I used to sit on my grandame's knee, And list to the story of Bunker Hill. 199 2OO KISS ME, MOTHER, AND LET ME GO. Life gushed out there in a rich red flood : My grandsire fell in that fight, you know. Would you have me shame the brave old blood ? Nay, kiss me, mother, and let me go. Our flag, the flag of our hope and pride, With its stars and stripes and its field of blue, Is mocked, insulted, torn down, defiled, And trampled upon by the rebel crew ; And England and France look on and sneer, " Ha ! queen of the earth thou art fallen low ! " Earth's down-trodden millions weep and fear : So kiss me, mother, and let me go. Under the burning Southern skies Our brothers languish in heart-sick pain ; They turn to us with their pleading eyes : mother ! say, shall they turn in vain ? KISS ME, MOTHER, AND LET ME GO. 2OI Their ranks are thinning from sun to sun, Yet bravely they hold at bay the foe : Shall we let them die there one by one ? Nay, kiss me, mother, and let me go. Can you selfishly cling to your household joys, Refusing the smallest tithe to yield, While thousands of mothers are sending boys Beloved as yours to the battle-field ? Can you see my country call in vain, And restrain my arm from the needful blow ? Not so ; though your heart should break with pain, You will kiss me, bless me, and bid me go. FIGHT FOR THE FLAG. FIGHT for the flag menaced now with pollu- . tion ; Fight for the freedom of country and State ; Strike for the rights that the old Constitution Gave to the meanest as well as the great ; Kneel while our banner floats out in its beauty ; Swear to defend it to life's latest breath, Then to the field of your honor and duty March with the battle-cry, " Freedom or Death ! " A BALLAD OF THE WAR. " MY arm ? " I lost it at Cedar Mountain. Ah, little one ! that was a dreadful fight ; For brave blood flowed like a summer fountain, And the cannon roared till the fall of night. Nay, nay !4fryour question has done no harm, dear, Though it woke for a moment a thrill of pain ; For, whenever I look at my stump of an arm here, I seem to be living that day again. A cloud of sulphurous haze hung o'er us As prone we lay in the trampled mire ; 203 2O4 A BALLAD OF THE WAR. Shells burst above us, and right before us A rebel battery belched forth fire. All at once to the front our colonel galloped, His' form through the smoke looking dim and large : "You see that battery, boys!" he shouted: " We're ordered to take it. Ready ! charge ! " What a thrill I felt as the word wa%given ! At once to his feet each soldier leapt ; One long, wild shout went up to heaven, Then down on the foe like the wind we swept. Each fought that day for his country's honor : We gained the edge of a slippery bank ; I drove from his post a rebel gunner, And then The rest is a perfect blank. A BALLAD OF THE WAR. 2O5 What need to tell of the days that followed, Each dragging painfully, slowly by, Till, wearied out by my constant pleading, They sent me home, as they thought, to die ? My sire was dead, and my own loved mother Was wasting away with toil and care ; I'd a little sister and feeble brother ; And I I could be but a burden there. And so this peddler's trunk I bought me ; Filled it with needles, pins, tape, and thread, Housewife's stores, as my mother taught me, And I sell them to win my daily bread. When the frost on the fields lies still and hoary, My way through the village streets I take ; My empty coat-sleeve tells its story, And they're kind to me for the old flag's sake. 2O6 A BALLAD OF THE WAR. It was not regret that made me falter, Nor sorrow that made my eye grow dim : I offered all on my country's altar, And she was pleased to accept a limb. Maimed, but yet to regrets a stranger, The thought that gives me the keenest pain Is this, were my country once more in danger, I never could fight in her ranks again. BE TRUE TO THE FLAG OF THE UNION. [JULY 22, 1861.] NOT with bright garlands of the graceful bay We twine to-day our banner's drooping folds, But wreathed with sable hanging like a pall Over its field of blue, and shutting out Its stars, even as from so many homes Hope's star to-day has faded ; let us go To hang the cypress o'er our warriors' tombs : Ah me ! methinks 'twas only yesterday That all the calm, blue air was rent with cheers, 207 2O8 I3E TRUE TO THE FLAG OF THE UNION. And drums beat, banners waved, and music played, As they, our gallant and true-hearted ones, Went from us, bearing forth our country's flag, To battle in our country's holy cause. We looked upon them, brave and beautiful, And all our hearts were stirred with love and pride. " Go forth," we said, " O brothers dear ! up hold The flag we love and honor! Heaven will smile Upon you ; God will give you victory ; And we, whom force of circumstance compels To stay behind you, doubt not that our hearts Go forward with you ; doubt not, brothers, friends, That you shall be remembered. BE TRUE TO THE FLAG OF THE UNION. 2OQ From the shores Of Maine to California anxious eyes Are turned on you ; and knees that never bent, And lips that never opened yet to crave Heaven's blessings on themselves, with daily prayers Besiege the throne of God in your behalf. Go forth, O brothers ! for ye cannot fail. " And so they left us. Thus we sent them forth To shame, defeat, and death. Oh, we must weep, E'en though the victors gloat upon our tears ! For Nature will o'erleap the narrow bounds That Pride would set her, and assert herself In grief that will have way ; yet let them pause. Let them not glory in our grief too much : It bodes them little good. Appalled and stunned, 2IO BE TRUE TO THE FLAG OF THE UNION. Borne down by crushing sorrow for our dead Who lie unburied on Potomac's shore, We may be now ; but, when we strike again, Let them beware ! From every crimson drop That yesterday our loved ones shed like rain Goes up a cry for vengeance, and the eyes That yet are red with weeping have a flash As terrible as lightning. Farewell, tears ! Vain sorrow will not bring them back to us : Be it ours, then, to avenge them ! BE FIRM IN BATTLE FOR THE UNION. BROTHERS, take this holy flag! We can trust it in your keeping ; Guard it ever with your lives, Cherish it with love unsleeping ; And, if only one should come Back to tell the bloody story, Let him bring that banner home Gleaming with its ancient glory. Side by side upon the field They have waved in many a battle : Bear it on the battle-field Mid the wounded and the dying ; 212 BE FIRM IN BATTLE FOR THE UNION. Make your strong right arms its shield; Ever follow where 'tis flying. From their homes in yonder sky Freedom's sires are watching o'er you : Be their names your battle-cry As you drive the foe before you. Never trail it in defeat, Lest the world should prove a scorner Life can never more be sweet That is purchased by dishonor. When you stand before the foe, Face to face in line of battle, E'er the first red blood-drop flow, Or begins the cannon's rattle, Think how we are praying for you ; Know that every lip would say, Die, but suffer not dishonor. THE MIDNIGHT BIVOUAC. THE winter stars shine cold on high ; The hoar-frost glitters on the ground ; The camp-fires burn with smouldering light ; My comrades sleep around. A full moon hangs above the land, And bare and black against the sky The blasted cedars stand. A hurried footstep drawing near : I hear his rifle click, and then His challenge rings out clear, " Halt ! who comes there ? " " A friend." " Pass Three steps, and give the countersign ! " 213 214 THE MIDNIGHT BIVOUAC. "Right! Pass on, friend." A quick, firm tread Goes ringing down the line. Sleep on, tired brothers ! take your rest, For night is wearing fast away ; The moon is sinking in the west ; The morn may bring the fray. THE CAPTAIN'S LETTER. 1 IN MEMORIAM. I AM writing to you, lady, with an aching heart and brain, Knowing well that every sentence will give you bitter pain ; Will dim the light within your eyes, and cloud your brow with gloom, And bring dark clouds of sorrow to your far-off peaceful home. 1 Written by N. A. W. Priest after reading Capt. Buffum's letter to me after the death of my husband, G. C. Parker, November, 1862. CARRIE L. R. PARKER. 215 216 THE CAPTAIN'S LETTER. Knowing well the fearful anguish that will wring your spirit's core When you tell your little daughters that their father is no more ; Full well, believe me, lady, do his mourning comrades know, By the sadness they experience, what must be your bitter woe. I was his captain, lady ! 'Neath the soldier's blouse of blue Never lived a nobler spirit, never throbbed a heart more true ; Ever cheerful mid privations, since his soldier life began ; When the bugle called to duty, he was ever in the van ; THE CAPTAINS LETTER. 2I/ Loving freedom, hating slavery as a wrong of God accursed : Death passed by meaner spirits, and took the noblest first. True, he fell not in the battle ; but no less his name shall stand In the glorious list of martyrs who have died to save their land. We laid him down to slumber in a deep, un broken rest, Far from his native valleys, and the hearts that loved him best ; We placed a simple headboard to mark the hal lowed spot, And left him there with feelings that will never be forgot ; 218 THE CAPTAIN'S LETTER. We buried him at twilight when the sun had sunk to rest In his crimson-curtained chamber in the brightly glowing west ; And, gliding with slow footsteps o'er the east ern hills afar, Evening donned her cool, gray mantle, and pinned it with a star. Rough was the narrow coffin that his fellow- soldiers bore, And we laid him gently in it in the uniform he wore ; The chaplain made a prayer ; brief and solemn words were said, And we fired a parting volley o'er the poor, unconscious head. THE CAPTAIN S LETTER. 219 There was little time for mourning, and none for idle show : Long our march had been and weary ; we had farther yet to go. We heard the bugle calling as beside 'his grave we wept, And we bivouacked at midnight miles away from where he slept. Your grief is shared by thousands over all our bleeding land ; By desolated hearthstones weeping wives and children stand, And gray-haired parents m'ourn and watch and wait in speechless pain For tidings from the loved ones who will never come again. 22O THE CAPTAIN S LETTER. Farewell, farewell, dear lady ! I know how poor and weak Would be any words of comfort that I might try to speak. God's ways are dark and fearful, but he judgeth for the best : May he take you in his keeping, and give you peace and rest ! CARRIE. I WAS sitting and thinking to-night, Cal, Of days that have passed away : They passed on the rapid wing of time, And we could not make them stay ; They were bright and beautiful days, Cal, And sorrow was but a name : It passed, and the sky was blue and fair As it was before it came. I was sitting and thinking to-night, Cal, Of the castles we built in air : They were all realites then, Cal, But frail although they were fair; 222 CARRIE. And one by one they fall, Cal, Before the truths of life, And our girlhood's golden dreams, Cal, Are lost in care and strife. Oh ! life is a weary way, Cal, Illumed by a flickering light ; And well for us if it be not lost, And we left in shades of night. Now do not take this as a " poem," Cal : 'Tis only an idle scrawl ; I had but a minute before it was penned, No thought of writing at all. A DREAM OF THE BRAVE. " I had a dream that was not all a dream." LAST night, when the moon was setting, And the day's last beam had flown, Oppressed with a nameless sadness, I wandered out alone ; I sat me down to ponder On the trunk of a fallen tree, And I saw a vision that haunts me still : List ! and I will tell it thee. Methought I stood near a forest, Where I never had been before ; 223 224 A DREAM OF THE BRAVE. I could see a winding river Lapping a broad, green shore. Many a sail was gliding Silently down the stream ; And dotting the hills and valleys, I could see the white tents gleam. Then out of the gloomy forest, Where I silently stood apart, Came strains of solemn music That thrilled to my very heart. Sad and dirge-like and mournful, It swelled to the summer skies, And touched a fountain of tear-drops That welled up into my eyes. Nearer it came, and nearer ; And methought I turned my head, A DREAM OF THE BRAVE. 225 And saw a band of soldiers 9 Bringing a brother dead. Steadily moved they onward Through the forest's checkered shade ; And still I watched their coming, And the solemn music played. They passed me, but still I lingered ; They climbed to the hill-top's crown, And then at their leader's signal They laid their dead comrade down. And there by the winding river, Close to its shining wave, They broke the green turf of summer, And hollowed a narrow grave. They were bearded, rough, and sunburnt, And their eyes looked fierce and wild ; 226 A DREAM OF THE BRAVE. But they lifted the dead one gently, 9 As a mother might lift her child. They could not give him a coffin ; But they smoothed his narrow bed, And planted our starry banner Over his slumbering head. No fond sister or mother Pressed for the parting look ; No kind father or brother In the solemn rite partook. Only those few tried comrades Stood with uncovered head, And the tears from their rough cheeks Dropped on the quiet dead ; Dropped on the curls of auburn ; Dropped on the close-shut eyes, A DREAM OF THE BRAVE. 22/ And the face in its boyish beauty Upturned to the mocking skies. The notes of a distant bugle Came faint on the passing air : So they gave him a parting volley, And left him to slumber there. You smile, but your eyes are filling : " It was only a dream," you say. Ah ! but the thing I dreamed of Is happening every day. In swamp and forest and valley, And down by the river's waves, Even now, while you sit there smiling, They are making our soldiers' graves. MOONLIGHT. I HATE the beautiful moonlight That is falling so white and still On the dim and shadowy forest, And the brown and barren hill. It haunts me with vague misgivings, And restless, unquiet fears, And fills my heart with a sadness That lieth too deep for tears. For I think of a far-off camp-ground That is bathed in this soft, rich light ; I can see the moon's rays gleaming On the tents of snowy white ; 228 MOONLIGHT. 22Q But all is still and peaceful As a city of the dead, Save when the hush is broken By the sentinels' measured tread. I busy my mind by daylight In a thousand useless ways ; I smile at my children's prattle, Or join in their merry plays ; But, when the shadows of evening Gather around my home, I find myself listening, waiting, For a step that will not come. I light my lamp in the evening, And sit by the children's bed, While, with soft palms pressed together,. The childish prayer is said. 23O MOONLIGHT. But my heart sinks cold within me, And the tear-drop dims my sight, When my little 'Lizzie, asks me, " Will my father come to-night ? " "Nay, not to-night, my darling," My tremulous voice replies ; And a transient shadow hovers In the depth of her violet eyes. To her 'tis an oft-told answer, Forgotten as soon as heard ; But my little womanly Alice Will never forget a word. God knows I would not recall him, No, not if my heart should break : I have given him to his country For our perilled freedom's sake. MOONLIGHT. But, alas ! for the homes made lonely, And the hearts left desolate! God pity us helpless women, Who can only weep and wait ! THE BALL AT THE WHITE HOUSE. THE White House is radiant with beauty and light ; The " heads of the nation " are merry to-night ; And fair cheeks are blooming, and dark eyes grow bright, Responsive to passionate glances. Not a lip breathes a sigh ; not a brow speaks of care : The surgeon and nurse take their long, weary rounds, And brave hearts bleed slowly away through great wounds, That would frighten each delicate dancer. 232 THE BALL AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 233 How delicious the wine that you daintily sip Would taste to the parched tongue and feverish lip! Though 'twere only a drop, just to moisten the tip, Bah ! nonsense ! sour gruel will answer. To-night, with the damp, frosty earth for a bed, And stars shining through the torn tent over head, Full many a soldier has laid down his head, And sighed for the blanket he needed. Do they murmur ? then punish the base, thank less churls. "It is fitting" that you should wear "satins" and pearls, And twine costly flowers in your beautiful curls, And " fit " that they surfer unheeded. 234 THE BALL AT THE WHITE HOUSE. Hunted like tigers in mountain and glen, Forced to find refuge in forest and den, It would be a rare picture no doubt to these men, The sight of your splendor and beauty. Flowers breathe out their life on this festival night, To sweeten the air and gladden the sight ; Silks rustle, and diamonds flash in the light, And the music grows thrilling and tender. Who would hint in the midst of their gay, joy ous life Of a treasury empty, and brothers at strife ? Who would guess that the nation is struggling for life In the midst of such feasting and splendor? THE BALL AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 235 To-night, with a heart rent with anguish and care, The poor, hunted " Unionist " creeps from his lair, And looks up to heaven with a half-uttered prayer, But dreams not of shrinking from duty. The old ship of state is the sport of the sea : Her moorings are gone, breakers roar on her lee, And rougher each hour grows the weather. Bid your music swell loud ; let the dance still go on; And when the crash comes, and the last plank is gone, We will go to the bottom together. MASSACHUSETTS TO CALIFORNIA. FAIR dweller on a distant strand The same blue waves are beating, Across broad leagues of sea and land The Bay State sends you greeting ! We stretch toward you an honest hand ; We glory in your beauty : Dear younger sister of our band, Accept a sister's duty. Unchanged and peaceful flows your life, Unmoved by our disorders; The din of this tremendous strife, Scarce reaches to your borders. 236 MASSACHUSETTS TO CALIFORNIA. 237 In peaceful fields your farmers reap, And plenty fills their measures ; Your miners pierce the mountains steep, And bring out golden treasures. Our homes are sad and desolate, Our hearthstones dark and lonely ; Still every pulse beats fondly yet For the good Union only. We send our best and bravest forth Unshrinking to the slaughter ; We lavish gold in sums untold ; We pour our blood like water. We send no cowards to the field To shame our ancient glory ; Our sons will sooner die than yield, Let Ball's Bluff tell the story. 238 MASSACHUSETTS TO CALIFORNIA. You sit beneath the same broad flag: Ties, strong and powerful, bind us ; We march to meet the battle's heat, Fall in, fall in behind us. Fair dweller on a distant strand The same broad sea is beating, Across wide leagues of wave and land The Bay State sends you greeting ! Arise ! stretch forth your helping hand To save the land we cherish ! Shoulder to shoulder we must stand, Or side by side we perish. LEVEE. WRITTEN TO BE SUNG AT THE FIREMEN'S ANNIVERSARY FEBRUARY, 1863. A BAND of friends and brothers dear, We gather here to-night ; And every lip is wreathed in smiles, And every eye is bright. We meet in peace and friendship, Secure from all alarm : Then honor to the gallant men Who guard our homes from harm ! CHORUS. Hurrah, for our brave firemen ! Swell the chorus louder, higher : 2 39 240 LEVEE. All honor to the gallant men Who guard our homes from fire ! They make no weeping orphans ; They fill no yawning grave ; Theirs is a noble mission, for They conquer but to save. We fear not when the hungry flames Come creeping nigh and nigher, For they've won full many a triumph O'er the demon King of Fire. CHORUS. Hurrah for our brave firemen ! Swell the chorus louder, higher : They've won full many a triumph O'er the demon King of Fire. LEVEE. 241 We meet to-night, as we have met For many a rolling year ; But manly forms are absent now That used to meet us here. They heard our country calling, And their hearts were strong and true ; So they dropped the fireman's scarlet coat For the soldier's blouse of blue. CHORUS. Hurrah for our brave brothers, Whose hearts were strong and true, Who dropped the fireman's jacket For the soldier's blouse of blue ! They sit long weary miles away Around the camp-fire's light ; 242 LEVEE. And yet we seem to hear them say, " Remember us to-night. We've parents, homes, and loved ones, We left at duty's call ; You gave of your abundance, But we have given all." CHORUS. Hurrah for our brave brothers ! They sprang at duty's call : We come to-night to give our mite To those who've given their all. March on ! march on to victory, O brothers brave and true ! Be sure the hearts that stay behind Are beating warm for you. LEVEE. 243 Our eager eyes will watch you : We shall cherish every name ; We sorrow in your sorrows ; We shall glory in your fame. CHORUS. Have courage, faith, and patience, For your cause is just and right : God grant that you may meet us here A twelve-month from to-night ! EXPOSURE TO A "DRAFT." OF the danger from " exposure to a draft," we often read That it generates disorders which are very bad indeed ; But the danger from " exposure to a draft " was ne'er so great As, I judge from indications, it has grown to be of late. Of all our loyal citizens, I think I cannot tell Of more^than half a dozen who are "feeling very well ; " 244 EXPOSURE TO A "DRAFT. 245 And so various are the phases of the illness from one cause, That I wonder if Dame Nature still is steadfast to her laws. One is halt, one is blind, a third is deaf as any post ; A fourth gone in consumption, can hardly walk at most ; A fifth is dying daily from a weakness of the spine, And a sixth is fading slowly in a general decline. There Jenkins, stalworth-looking, standing six feet in his shoes, And his cheeks, so plump, look ruddy as the sunset crimson hues ; 246 EXPOSURE TO A " DRAFT." But alas ! the fond delusion ! 'tis a hectic flush we see ; 'Tis a pulmonary Jenkins, who ere long must cease to be. There is Muggins, with a form protrusive and rotund ; But the dropsy, that deceitful, insidious com plaint, Is what has made him look so : you may ask him if it haint. If Jeff Davis was a man of any gumption, he would know That it's wasting ammunition to shoot a dying foe : EXPOSURE TO A " DRAFT." 247 Just let him halt in Dixie till a few more months have sped, And I think our loyal citizens will nearly all be dead. WAR TO THE KNIFE. " ONCE more to the combat with rekindled zeal, Our flag to the breeze, and our hands to the steel." Bare every true arm for the perilous fight, Then strike, and strike boldly for God and the right ! No time to draw backward with faltering breath ; We deal with a foe that is cruel as death ; Let us grant no more parleys to treason and guilt ; Give them "war to the knife, and the knife to the hilt." WAR TO THE KNIFE. 249 They have broken their oath without shadow of cause ; They have trampled our banners, and mocked at our laws ; In the blood of our brothers their hands have grown red ; They have murdered our wounded and mangled . our dead. Is this, then, the time to grow pale, and cry, " Peace ! " Shall we throw down our weapons to dastards like these ? No ! on, to avenge the brave blood they have spilt ! Give them "war to the knife, and the knife to the hilt." For we're sworn by an oath that we will not recall, For our country to conquer, or gloriously fall ; 25O WAR TO THE KNIFE. Ne'er to lay down our arms, unless in death's rest, Till our country again is united and blest. Already, beside the Potomac's blue flood, Our brothers by hundreds have sealed it with blood ; Their mission is ended, their task nobly done, They have left us to finish the work they be gun. "Once more to the combat!" we brook no de lay: Let them boast of their triumph, and taunt while they may ; Loud cannon and steel shall bear back our reply, "We will wipe the foul stain from our banners, or die." WAR TO THE KNIFE. 251 On, brothers ! we fight in humanity's cause For the country we love, and her glorious laws, For the temple of freedom our forefathers built : Give them "war to the knife, and the knife to the hilt." OUR VICTORY. RING out to-night, O sweet-voiced bells, Your maddest, merriest peal ! Deep-throated cannon, speak and tell The gushing joy we feel ! Huzza. ! huzza ! the day is won ! Light every hill with fires, And let the electric tidings run Along a thousand wires. We gaze upon our flag to-night Without a sense of pain ; It comes victorious from the fight, Untarnished by a stain. 252 OUR VICTORY. 253 Trampled in dust by traitors' feet Those starry folds have been ; But our just vengeance is complete; This day has washed it clean. We hoped for this ; for this we prayed Through many a gloomy day ; And sometimes hope would almost fade Before the long delay. We longed to hear the clash of steel Along our border line, And see the cause of treason reel And totter in decline. i And yet the cup has its alloy ; Full many a cheek is pale, And mixed with every burst of joy Goes up a deep, sad wail, 254 OUR VICTORY. We read the proud and joyful news With pangs of heartfelt pain, And smiles and tear-drops interfuse Like April sun and rain. Alas for those who wear the crown Of thorns that is not mine, Who laid their heart's best jewel down Upon their country's shrine ! God pity those who hear the bells, And shudder all the while, Who, while's joy's tide around them swells, Can feel no heart to smile ! We hear the shouts of victory ; Hope sings and soars anew, And then we turn, O hearts bereaved, To weep and pray for you ! OUR VICTORY. 255 Sweet Christ, drop thy divinest balm Into the hearts that grieve, And make them feel that blessed calm Which only thou canst give ! LAUS DEO. SING to the Lord our helper ! He hath been our strength and might ; He hath girded on His armor : our foes are put to flight; In every sore disaster He has been our guide and friend. Long the way has been, and fearful ; but our eyes can see the end : 'Twere worth ten lives, though every life could count a hundred years, But to have been in Richmond to have heard our soldiers' cheers, LAUS DEO. 257 And the bands of music playing, and the deep- mouth cannon's roar, When the old " star-spangled banner " rose on Richmond's walls once more, Where so long Rebellion's emblem has been dar ingly unfurled, A menace to our country, and an insult to the world ! Tremble, O deserted city ! where the walls of Libby stand, A terror and a loathing to a desolated land. Didst thou think the captive's tear-drop, and his bitter, bitter moan, Were not borne by pitying angels straight before the great white throne ? Didst thou think God's ear was deafened ? didst thou think He could not hear? 258 LAUS DEO. Didst them think His arm was shortened, that He could not punish thee ? Lo, thy day of reckoning cometh ! low is thy proud, rebellious head ; Thou shalt drink thy tears like water ; thou shalt eat sin's bitter bread : There shall be not one to pity when thy woe for pity calls. Tremble ! tremble, wicked city ! for God's hand in justice falls. Glory, glory ! morning cometh ! Long and dark has been the night, And our eyes have ached with weeping and with watching for the light. Long we lavished gold uncounted, long we poured our blood like rain, LAUS DEO. 259 And we rallied to the conflict bravely, sternly, but in vain ; For God priced our freedom higher, and His voice at first heard low, Kept ringing louder, clearer, " Let my captive people go. While they toil and weep in bondage, all your valor shall be vain ; Dare not hope that I will bless you while you bind one sufferer's chain." And at last, in mute obedience, we listened to the call, And, look ! the dear old banner waves on Rich mond's conquered wall. Glory, glory ! Ransomed nation, lift one long, exultant shout : 2(5O LAUS DEO. Let the hill-tops blaze with bonfires ; fling the flag we've fought for out ; Ring, O tuneful bells of freedom, till the very steeple reel, For the armed head of treason lies 'neath Lib erty's mailed heel ! Speak with tongues of flame, O cannon ! send thy joyful tidings round ; Roar till the far skies re-echo, and the whole world hears the sound, And tell earth's quaking despots, as they list with straining ears, " Lo, the great Republic liveth ; " thus she an swers to your queries ; Thus to your very strongholds is her proud defiance hurled. Glory ! God is throned in heaven, and there's freedom for the world. HYMN. ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN, APRIL IQ, 1865. O GOD forever nigh, Who hear'st Thy people's cry, Incline Thine ear! We mourn our noble dead, Our nation's honored head : Come, and Thy influence shed, Our hearts to cheer. Through these long, weary years Of darkness, doubts, and fears, He led our way : 261 262 HYMN. He taught us faith and hope ; He shared our bitter cup ; He bore our banner up In danger's day. Now, when the sky grows bright With victory, glorious light,--- The nation weeps. Ah ! dreadful was the blow That laid our leader low ; But while we bow in woe He calmly sleeps. Rest calmly, sainted dust : We will fulfil the trust Imposed by thee. HYMN. The land that holds thy grave, The land thou diedst to save, Shall never own a slave: All "shall be free. 263 POEMS OF NATURE. INVOCATION. I'M tired of strife ; I'm sick of heartless living : Fain would I from the world's rude jostling flee. No longer toward youth's high ideal striving, Thy child, O mother Nature ! turns to thee. For thou canst comfort when the heart is sorest ; Oh, let me take thy hand and walk with thee, And watch thee sowing acorns in the forest, Or scattering spring's blue violets o'er the lea. Let me sit with thee 'neath the maples' shadows, Or watch upon the hills to see thee pass ; 267 268 INVOCATION. Teach me to trace thy footsteps in the meadows By the bright cowslips dotting all the grass. Speak to me in the murmur of the river ; Sing to me with thy thousand voices sweet ; Hold my tired head, and let me sit forever Drinking in rest and patience at thy feet. So shall I rise above earth's selfish sorrow ; So shall I win new strength to bear life's pain ; And, waiting hopefully for "heaven to-morrow," Take up my burden, and press on again. NATURE. I WORSHIP Nature in her mildest mood, In the dark mountain or the silent wood ; I love the quiet of her summer hours, Her singing birds and many-colored flowers ; Not less I love her when, arrayed in white, The earth reflects the sun's unclouded light. Oh ! Nature's hand is bountiful and kind : She is a foster-mother to the mind. Not with harsh words she leads the erring To Virtue's road from Misery's thorny track ; She speaks to him in tones as soft and mild As the fond mother to an erring child ; 269 2/O NATURE. She whispers him from sunny glen and wood, From crowded street and dreary solitude ; She sends the sunshine and the gentle shower ; She smiles on him from every wayside flower ; And, when the daylight in the west grows dim, She lights the evening's twinkling lamps for him, Till he repent, by love and beauty won, The wrong and evil he hath blindly done, And wins his way with penitence and tears Back to the purity of earlier years. COMFORT IN NATURE. THERE is a quiet spot I know it well 'Where the wild lily hangs its spotted bell; And upward glancing through its pale-green leaves, With meek eyes of tears like one that grieves, The violet unfolds its leaves of blue To catch the sunshine, and to drink the dew ; And, with a look half-timid and half-bold, The cowslip rears its tiny cup of gold. There blooms the daisy, fairest child of Spring, And there the robin earliest comes to sing, And breezes kiss the willows as they pass, And crickets chirp and rustle in the grass, 2/1 2/2 COMFORT IN NATURE. And the gay brook in shade or sunshine ever Goes singing on to join the restless river. And sometimes when my heart is full of care, Or bound with earthly chains, I wander there, And, half reclining on the sunny grass, I watch the flitting shadows come and pass, And see the dazzling sunrays as they gleam Upon the dimpling eddies of the stream ; Or listen to the love-songs of the birds, Sweeter than any ever set to words, Till cares and trials fade, or only seem Like the vague memory of some troubled dream, Or some sad, thrilling music heard through tears At first, but after lapse of many years Thought of but seldom, or perchance forgot ; And I rise up contented with my lot. LIFE. A SONNET. THE rain is falling, and the skies are gray ; Dark, sullen clouds go flying back and forth ; Yet I can see the golden sunshine play Upon yon mountain summit of the north. And they who stand upon its topmost height Can bask them in the warm and cheering beam, While underneath the skies look dark as night, And through 'rent clouds the fiery lightnings gleam : So we, tired travellers through a desert land, Beset on every side by doubts and strife, 273 2/4 LIFE. Can at the best but dimly understand What is the transient thing that men call life : But, when from all earth's clogs our souls are free, How wide, how grand, will our unbounded prospect be ! FLOWERS. FLOWERS ! are they not the alphabet of angels, Wherein they write God's pure and holy will ? Are they not sent to us like sweet evangels To teach us how he loves earth's children still ? For, from the ever-blooming tropic's bowers Unto the arctics, there is scarce a spot That may not boast the precious boon of flowers, That this sweet gift of God enlightens not. 2/6 FLOWERS. Flowers ! bring the fragrant, creamy orange- blossom To grace the white brow of the fair young bride ; Wreathe in her hair, and lay them on her bosom : By them her purity is typified. Flowers for the festal board ! bring summer roses, That shake such perfume from their hearts of gold, And each gay flower that to the sun uncloses, And shuts again when night comes, dark and cold. Flowers for the dead ! oh, bring the drooping lily ; Bring snowy buds just bursting through their green, FLOWERS. 2/7 To lay upon the form so pale and chilly, The casket where the precious gem has been. Flowers for the young ! oh, lead the feet of childhood, pre yet they enter sin's bewildering mazes, To every flower-loved haunt in vale or wild- wood, And through the meadow buttercups and daisies. Flowers ! are they not the alphabet of angels, Wherein their brightest, purest thoughts are spelt ? Are they not sent to us as God's evangels, Voiceless, yet speaking words that may be felt ? SPRING MEMORIES. THE lilac-buds begin to swell ; The cowslip rears its yellow bell ; And deep in every sunny dell The wild arbutus-blossoms spring ; The maples show pale tufts of leaves ; And, from their nests beneath the eaves, The glancing swallows soar and sing. The meadow's violets are blue ; The rosebuds have a carmine hue, Like the warm flush that ripples through The whiteness of a maiden's cheeks ; 278 SPRING MEMORIES. 2/9 And from the pine-grove on the hill I hear the lonely whip-poor-will, That I can almost fancy speaks. In such bright spring-times long ago, Before our hearts had learned to know There are such words as care and woe And weariness and pain and strife, Beneath the dome of May's blue sky, My dark-eyed sister Lu and I Spent hours and days of childhood's life. We plucked the violets white and blue ; Our bare feet brushed morn's earliest dew From paths where the wild strawberries grew ; And well we knew each forest glade Where the wild partridge reared her young, And where the robins earliest sung, And where the summer longest staid. 28O SPRING MEMORIES. How blue the skies stretched overhead ! How gorgeous seemed the rose's red ! And the green carpet for us spread Was wrought with richest flowers ; the sands, With shining pebbles dotted o'er, Seemed to us like the golden floor That poets give to fairylands. Oh that the May-time's balmy breath Could bring back childhood's trust and faith, That makes all things seem bright, and death Seems only like a sweet repose, From which with new and strengthened powers We'd wake, as wake the April flowers From underneath December's snows ! THE VOICE OF SPRING. I AM God's limner. When the sunshine round them First tempts the squirrel and the brown- winged bee From their retreat, and, freed from ice that bound them, The mountain-rills leap downward to the sea, With silent fingers through the sunny hours I dress the forest trees in robes of green, And wake to life again the pale, sweet flowers That grace the fair of the May-day queen. 281 282 THE VOICE OF SPRING. I tinge the violet's pensive eyes with azure ; I gild the buttercups with purest gold ; And, 'neath my smiles on the bleak Alpine glacier, The harebell nods unconscious of the cold. Deep in the forest aisles of gloomy splendor The starwort specks the moss-like flakes of light, And the wood-laurel hangs on branches slender Its tiny honey-cups of pink and white. Up through the fresh green grass that clothes the meadow, Like stars the yellow dandelions look ; And the forget-me-not blooms in the shadow Of alders that o'erhang the meadow brook ; A thread of silver through its banks doth glisten ; And there at noon the cattle crowd to drink, THE VOICE OF SPRING. 283 Dr stand with half-shut eyes, and seem to listen The tinkling music of the bobolink. Earth, sea, and air beneath my presence lighten ; And even the skies a deeper azure catch ; And at the sunset hour they flush and brighten In pictures Claude and Raphael ne'er could match. Painted upon the placid sky of even They look so beautiful, that, while they last, One might half fancy it the gate of heaven, Through which some shining angel just had passed. IMPATIENCE. I AM longing for the summer, For the long, glad summer days ; For the river's dreamy murmur, And the wild birds' gushing lays ; For the breath of countless flowers By the zephyr borne along : Oh, the joyous summer hours ! They can never seem too long. Snow lies upon the meadow, Where the violet's azure cup, From beneath the alder's shadow, In the spring-time peepeth up ; 284 _ IMPATIENCE. 285 And the hill is shrouded over, Where in summer-time the breeze Waved a rich sea of clover, Bright with butterflies and bees. White the forest, in whose mazes I have wandered many a day, And the valleys filled with daisies Where the drowsy cattle lay ; And I long to hear the rustle Of the south wind through the leaves, And to see the swallows nestle In their nests beneath the eaves. Where the willows' golden tassels Touched the dimpling stream below ; And, like fleets of fairy vessels, Swung white lilies to and fro, 286 IMPATIENCE. Dark and sullen glides the river 'Neath its icy fetters fast; And the leafless willows shiver In the shrieking northern blast. I am longing for the summer, With its long, bright sunny days ; For the river's dreamy murmur, And the song-bird's gushing lays : I am weary of the winter, With its long and dreary reign, And I wait the joyous summer With impatience that is pain. WHIMS. I LOVE to sit in the twilight When the fire is old and dim, And hear in the click of the embers A tale that is ghostly and grim ; To trace in the feathery ashes The faces and forms of things That come to my nightly vision, And stir up my soul with wings ; To feel, as the shadows creep closer, A thrill in the tranced air, 287 288 WHIMS. Like the breath of a brooding spirit, The wraith of a wrestling prayer. When the heart of the midnight is beating Weird time with the watch on the wall, And, pillowed on my heart, is dreaming The thought that is dearest of all, I love to lie low in the darkness, And hear the storm-spirits go by, With a wrench at my window-shutter, And a wailing, piteous cry ; To gather still closer my thoughts so true In the face of the scurrying foe, And go maundering down the river of sleep With all the sweet voices I know. WHIMS. 289 I love the thin cry of the cricket On the hearth or the lonely moor; The woodpecker rat-a-tat tapping, Like Death, at the oldest door. There is a spelt in the knell of the faded leaf ; And, of all the days in the year, I love the red, ripe carnival time Old Autumn makes over his bier. THE WINTER RAIN. THE winter rain, the winter rain, I love to see it fall Upon the white and stainless snow Or the half-covered wall. Pray tell me why a winter rain Is pleasanter to see Than falling drops of other rain : I'm sure it is to me. I know not why the tinkling sound Of falling raindrops well Should o'er my heart and in my mind Exert a witching spell ; 290 THE WINTER RAIN. 29! Yet, in whate'er the spell exists, It is a joy to me, And I would not dissolve the charm For hours of merry glee. The dark, the thick, the spreading cloud, From which th^e raindrops come, Is brighter to my eyes than all The pure cerulean dome. It may be that it seems like spring To see the falling rain, As if the leaves and buds would grow, And blossoms come again ; That birds again will greet the air With their rich notes of love, And warmer subeams gild with light The azure skies above. 2Q2 THE WINTER RAIN. There is a pensive quietness In that soft, dropping sound, That fills my heart with happiness, Though all be dark around. And so where'er my lot is cast, On valley, hill, or plain, This sound will please while life shall last, The dropping of the rain. A GLIMPSE FROM MY WINDOW. 'Tis evening ! the stars in their beauty are shining, And brightly they beam on this fair earth of ours ; And gentle and noiseless the dewdrops are fall ing On earth's verdant bosom and beautiful flow ers. The song of the birds through the still air is stealing, And the cricket's shrill note on the zephyr is borne ; 294 A GLIMPSE FROM MY WINDOW. And gushings of music, now joyfully pealing, With hum of the forest, and rustling of corn. Such nights and such beauty were not made for sleeping, But given to cheer us in life's stormy way, To cheer our path onward, and guide our steps upward To regions of perfect, unchangeable day. FLOATING DOWN THE RIVER. SUNSET fades behind the hill, Twilight drops her spangled veil, And the love-born whip-poor-will, Tells his woe to every gale. Stars gleam tremblingly from the sky ; On the stream the moonbeams quiver; And our boat goes silently Floating, floating down the river. Waves flash backward from the oar ; Then break rippling on the strand ; Fireflies light the lamps on the shore ; Earth seems some enchanted land : 295 296 FLOATING DOWN THE RIVER. To the south wind's balmy sigh Willows bend and aspens shiver, And our boat goes silently Floating, floating down the river. There the rude bridge spans the stream ; Deep and dark the waters lie, Still as Lethe's fabled dream, Black as midnight's noonless sky ; And the night-bird's sudden cry Makes the startling dreamer shiver, While the boat goes silently Floating, floating down the river. Now past some enchanted isle In the moonlight sleeping fair, We can almost see the while Elves and fairies dancing there; FLOATING DOWN THE RIVER. 297 On the breeze that wanders by Notes of elfin music quiver, And our boat goes silently Floating, floating down the river. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. KATIE BLOWING BUBBLES. KATIE, with thy laughing eyes Full of sweet and glad surprise, Gazing up towards the skies, Where thy bubble's rainbow hue Floats between thee and the blue, Listen, while I tell thee true. Life has bubbles lighter far Than your air-blown bubbles are, Which one careless breath would mar ! 301 3O2 KATIE BLOWING BUBBLES. Thou art yet too young to care That thy face is very fair, That so golden is thy hair; And that yonder azure skies, Where to-day no shadow lies, Are not bluer than thine eyes ! Yes, thy greatest care to know Where the earliest violets grow, And wild honeysuckles blow ; Where the robin's young are nursed, Where the wild grapes purple first, And their burrs the chestnuts burst. Katie, it were well for thee If thy life might ever be From all pride and envy free! KATIE BLOWING BUBBLES. 303 Trust not in thy beauty's power : It is but a summer flower, Blooming, withering in an hour, As thy floating bubble there, That a moment was so fair, Burst, and vanished into air. Seek thyself a surer dower, Knowledge, goodness, these have power Still to charm till life's last hour. So when youth shall pass away, And thy sunny locks are gray, Thou canst wait a brighter day, Where no storms of time can blight ; Even Heaven's unfading light, That shall never set in night. LOOKING BACK. " I WOULD I were a child again ! " Too soon life's spring-time violets die ; Too briefly blooms the summer's rose, Too soon morn's sapphire-tinted sky With noontide's fiery splendor glows ; Too soon the greedy winds drink up The dewdrop from the flower-cup ; Too soon the birds we tended fly ; And all too soon the heart grows old ; The thick warm blood creeps dull and cold, And, looking back, we sigh with pain, " I would I were a child again ! " 34 LOOKING BACK. 305 " I would I were a child again ! " The shadow of the coming years Across my pathway darkly lies : My eyes are not unused to tears ; Not passing drops from April skies, But such as fall from eyes that see Youth's fairy dreams and fancies flee Without the power to bid them stay ; And gaze, and gaze like the charmed bird, With every pulse to madness stirred, And stretch pale hands, and moan in vain, " Oh, would I were a child again ! " Ah, were I but a child again, To dream once more those happy dreams ! Reading from Nature's open books, Learning of singing meadow-streams And whispering pines and laughing brooks ; 306 LOOKING BACK. To feel, if but for on6 brief hour, The same sweet consciousness of peace ; The strength to do, the will to dare, That thrilled me in those early days Ere I had tired of life's devious ways, Or breathed the wild wish born of pain, " I would I were a child again ! " THE POOR MAN. POOR, yet rich indeed, am I : True, I rise at early dawning, And my way to labor take E'er the rich man is awake, Or while he, at most, lies yawning. And the rich man looks on me With a scorn that needs no speaking ; Yet my heart is light as air, While his brow is knit with care, i And true pleasure shuns his seeking. 3O8 THE POOR MAN. And I envy not the rich man, Though his rank in life is higher ; Better hands with labor reddened Than a heart morose and deadened, Lost to every pure desire. Can the rich more beauty find In the morning's sapphire splendor? Do they taste a sweeter balm In the noontide's breathless calm, Or the twilight soft and tender? Does the gentle air of heaven Come more lovingly to woo them ? Sing the birds more loud or clear When the rich man stops to hear, Than when I am listening to them ? THE POOR MAN. 309 He may boast his pictures olden Of Madonnas meek and sainted ; But I see in yonder blue Pictures every hour new, By the heavenly Artist painted. Mine are all the sweet wild flowers That the spring-time wakes to beauty ; Mine the forest zephyr-haunted ; Mine the songs by bright birds chanted, " Life is sweet, and joy a duty." I have friends that truly love me, And I dearly, fondly prize them ; But the rich man never knows Who are friends or who are foes, Till some freak of fortune tries them. 3IO THE POOR MAN. Men may fawn and cringe around him, Teaching servile tongues to flatter ; But when life's lamp burneth dim, And death's angel calls for him, What will all his riches matter? I shall sleep as sweetly then In some dim, unnoticed corner, As if I had passed through life Without care or toil or strife, Loaded down with wealth and pleasure. A LEGEND. LONG time the weary knight had rode in gloomy silence on : The stars were beaming in the sky, the day's last beam was gone ; When, through the tangled wildwood deep, he sees a glimmering light, And, faint and tired, his heart leaped up, and bounded with delight. Now speed thee on, my gallant steed, and wo will soon be there, And better lodging shalt thou have than the dark forest lair ; 3" 312 A LEGEND. And soon, for all this day's fatigue, thou shalt be well repaid ; For nobly thou hast borne me on across this trackless glade. And here I'll blow my merry horn, perchance that they may hear; At least, 'twill while away the time, and serve the road to clear. How dismally that raven croaks ! 'tis ominous of ill, Perchance 'tis but a ghostly light ; but I will onward still. Long time again they wander on : again at last they reach the door. He knocks; no reply, again, still louder than before. A LEGEND. 313 But, though the voice of revelry resounds within the wall, No friendly hand unbolts the door ; none answered to this call. " Now, by my faith," the knight exclaims, " what surly curs are here ? Unbolt your door, good people all ! I would partake your cheer." No answer ; knock again : " I ask if you refuse the call. By all the powers of heaven, I'll batter down this wall ! " But, hark ! a rough and boisterous voice, " Seek not to enter here ; But shun it as ye fear to die : ye shall not taste our cheer ; 314 A LEGEND. And, if ye seek to enter in, this dog will take away The life you foolishly expose each moment of your stay." Then harshly on the night air still the dog's wild howling broke, And once again upon the air he heard the raven croak ; And then again the house was still, all silent as the tomb, But still the cheerful light gleamed out upon the forest gloom. " Unbolt, unbolt ! " again he cries, and once again he knocks ; He hears the creaking of the bolt, the ringing of the locks ; A LEGEND. 315 And once again that surly voice re-echoes through the gloom : " Fool, thus to draw upon thyself a sure impend ing doom ! " And then the door is opened, and he enters boldly in, And looks upon the glowing fire, the marble vase within. But where are all the revellers ? A lady young and fair Is all the living thing his eyes can yet distin guish there. With courteous speech he bent his knee and sued for pardon there ; And bright she smiled, but nothing spoke, that lady young and fair. 3l6 A LEGEND. Then plentiful the board was spread with wines and costly cheer ; And, with this token of good-will, he had no thought of fear. She wore a wreath upon her head, a wreath of roses bright ; She plucked the fairest with her hand, so dainty and so white ; And then she spoke : " I give you this. A token let it be, What day it fades, that self-same day, you'll meet again with me." She passed him, and she breathed "good-night;" and then she left the room, And all was still and silent as the portals of the tomb ; A LEGEND. 317 And then upon the wall he saw a picture quaint and old : 'Twas sculptured by a master hand upon a shield of gold, A wounded, couchant deer it seemed within its forest lair ; But, oh ! the eyes were human eyes : they glared upon him there, And strangely seemed they to the knight to gaze where'er he moved. Oh, dark and fatal was the spell : a potent spell they proved. Day broke ; the knight resumed his way ; across his steed he throws The bridle-rein, and in his belt he twines the blooming rose ; 318 A LEGEND. And, ere the sun the zenith gained, he reached his castle home, And laughed and jested with his friends, and scorned the threatened doom. A year had passed, still bloomed the rose ; but on one fatal day He found it pale and withering, and hasting to decay. His heart within him loudly beat, his cheeks grew pale with dread, And his eyes were dim and glassy as the eye balls of the dead. " I will not yield to this -fcgise dread, this weak, ignoble fear : Ho, bring me forth my gallant steed ! I go to chase the deer." A LEGEND. 319 He mounted, waved a gay adieu, then, dashing through the wood, The clatter of the horse's hoofs awoke the soli- i tude. Soon from the road-side sprang a deer, a quick and noble thing, And* joyously and free it moved as eagle on the wing ; And then an arrow keen he threw, and, wounded in the side, The noble animal turned back, red with life's gushing tide. Its graceful antlers pierced his steed, and, leap ing wild and high, It gave one groan of agony, then laid it down to die ; 32O A LEGEND. And he, the knight, lay breathless there upon the heathy plain, And then the wounded deer returned, and stood by him again ; Then, with a quick, impatient toss, it flung him in the air ; And then, O God ! those human eyes ! they gaze upon him there. He knows them, and an icy chill shoots cold through every vein : His blood is flowing fast away ; it stains the sandy plain. It turns away, it seeks "the stream, it stems the rippling tide : He sees it clamber up the bank upon the far ther side. A LEGEND. 321 His life is ebbing fast away, and every heart throb tells ; But, rousing with a sudden start, he hears the chime of bells: He sees the waters open wide ; he sees a woman rise : 'Tis she the lady of the wood, he knows those mocking eyes. She holds the faded wreath above, then lays it on his head ; She keeps her vows, that wizard one : the knight is stiff and dead. THE CARELESS GIRL. THERE is a careless girl in school Who often breaks each wholesome rule : Her mind and manners both are rude ; On others' rights she'll oft intrude. Her looks bespeak a careless mind ; Her tastes are few, yet unrefined ; She nothing cares for others' peace, Although it would her friends increase. Her books are dirty, often torn ; Her clothes are soiled before they're worn ; THE CARELESS GIRL. 323 And one might seek in vain to find The slightest traces of a mind. She may reform, be good and kind, May cultivate her taste and mind, Improve her manners and her fancy ; And that she may, is the wish of Nancy. THE CHILD AND ROSE. A LOVELY child was roaming free Among the garden bowers, And passed before a white-rose tree To gather of its flowers. She twined a garland sweet and fresh ; But, as she plucked a bud, A sharp thorn pierced her tender flesh : The flower was stained with blood. Thus, ever in the opening hours Of youth's bright sunny morn, We grasp with eager haste life's flowers, And find, too late, the thorn. 3 2 4 TO SMOKERS. THERE once was a day ere tobacco was known, Or snuff so extensively used, When men were not found with cigar in their mouth, Or their noses so badly abused. But snuff and tobacco are now all the rage; And a belle that was dressed for a ball Without flowers in her hair would be rarer to find Than a man that would not smoke at all. 3 2 S 326 TO SMOKERS. Then take my prescription, my beardless young friend : Dash your pipe and cigar to the ground ; Throw away your tobacco, 'tis not fit to use, And never a-smoking be found. THE BRIDAL. BRING bright orange-flowers from the south land, And twine in her gold-shadowed hair, And gems from the depths of the ocean To flash on the white shoulders bare. Our Lilly was born for a lady, And toil shall not harden her hand : She shall mix in the gay halls of fashion With the high and the proud of the land. Bring silk from the looms of the Indies, And plumes from the Paradise bird : There ne'er was a face like our Lilly's ; A voice like hers ne'er was heard. 328 THE BRIDAL. Our Lilly, our own precious darling, And she is a rich man's bride, She shall ride in a soft, gilded carriage, And nobles shall bow at her side. > There is a shade on her beautiful forehead, Perchance of a transient pain : Can it be that she looks on this splendor, And sighs for her childhood again ? Does she think of the true heart that's bleeding, She bartered for power and gold ? Does she dream of his talents and beauty When she looks at the rich man old? Oh, shame on our false-hearted Lilly, That she should have stooped so low To barter the peace of her childhood For jewels and gilded woe ! THE BRIDAL. 329 For the love she has spurned and squandered She shall shed the bitterest tears, And gold and gay splendor shall mock her In the life of her coming years. THE FISHER. LIKE an airy bubble the breath has blown, The fisher's boat lay on the water bright ; The sun looked down from his golden throne, And the waves leaped up with an answering light : But the line flowed loose from his idle hand, And his eyes were turned to the glowing west ; For his heart was away in the distant land Where dwelt the friends that he loved the best. When, oh ! on his drowsy senses stole A strain of music, so soft and clear, 33 THE FISHER. 33! That it stirred the depths of the fisher's soul As he bent^to the water his listening ear; So sweet it flowed, that he scarce could tell From whence it came, while a strange emo tion Came soft as the sound of the vesper bell That trembles at eve o'er the placid ocean. Then wilder and deeper numbers pealed, Sad as the sea in its troubled rest ; And he listened still to the magic notes With a strange, wild feeling within his breast. WOMAN'S RIGHTS. WHAT are the rights of woman ? Is her place Within the halls of loud and fierce debate ? Must she with men's stern energy keep pace, To gain a name among the truly great ? Must she lead on to fields of mortal strife, Or stand where muskets flash and cannon roar ? Shall she forget the duties of her life, To steep her hands in floods of human gore? No : for her noblest mission is at home, And never need she seek a different way, 33 2 WOMAN'S RIGHTS. 333 Or in the path of stern ambition roam, While reason's star sheds its benignant ray. 'Tis hers to guide, to cherish, and direct The wayward steps of wild, impetuous youth ; 'Tis hers to cheer, encourage, and protect The first unfolding germs of hope and truth. Hers is a holy mission ; for 'tis given To her to smooth life's rough, uncertain way ; To point the lone earth-wanderer up to heaven, Where all is perfect peace and endless day. BORROWING TROUBLE. SOME people there are who find their chief Enjoyment in real or fancied grief, And they never seem to feel relief Till up to their eyes in trouble : They delight in calling hope a cheat, And pleasure poison because 'tis sweet, And love a meteor bright but fleet, And friendship only a bubble. If they take a journey to see a friend, They are morally certain to apprehend Their lives will come to a sudden end By some unforeseen disaster ; 334 BORROWING TROUBLE. 335 Or, if they venture to party or ball, They are sure the ceiling or roof will fall, And bury the company one and all In the general devastation. THE HOUR BEFORE EXECUTION. DAYLIGHT at last ! I thought the lagging hours Of the long night would never wear away ; But, now that they are gone, my soul shrinks back, Startled, appalled, and trembles in itself At its own nearness to eternity. Daylight at last ! Yon solitary star The only one that with a friendly beam Invades my narrow dungeon pales and fades In morning's radiance ; and the dim, faint light That I have learned to watch for, and to call 336 THE HOUR BEFORE EXECUTION. 337 My day, comes feebly struggling through the bars ; And yet it must be sunrise. Ere an hour, From the dark gallows, lifeless I shall swing, While underneath the sea of human life Surges and swells, and men with horrid jests Mimic my agonies, and women crowd To feast their eyes upon them. When this is o'er, When my brief pangs are ended, and I hang A blackened, lifeless weight, it will ebb back This seething, surging wave of restless life To mingle with the ocean-tides again, Nor from its bosom miss the drop of spray. Ah ! I could bear, methinks, the short-lived pain Of dissolution, could I know that one Of all this angry crowd that gather now To clamor for my life, would shed a tear 338 THE HOUR BEFORE EXECUTION. Over my sufferings, or, with softened heart, Think of me when I am gone ; but well I know No eye will brighten with a tear for me, And in the years to come, when they recount The story to their children, I shall be Mentioned with loathing, and held up to them As one who set at naught the laws Of God and man, received at last the award Of crime of murder. Oh, I little thought, In childhood's days of innocence and peace, To die a murderer on the gallows-tree ! God knows I had no murder in my heart : I never meant to kill him. Hark ! the hum Of voices ! Can the awful hour have come ? All night I heard the hammer's ringing sound, And clink of plane and chisel as they smoothed Boards for the narrow coffin that will be My bed to-night ; or, if my weary eyes THE HOUR BEFORE EXECUTION. 339 Closed for a moment, 'twas to dream I felt The rope about my neck, and then I woke With great, cold drops of anguish on my brow, A sense of suffocation in my throat, And mortal palsying of my limbs. I thank thee, God of justice, that this blow Descends on me alone : my gentle wife Will never know the death her husband died. My boy will never learn to hang his head And glow with shame at mention of his sire ; For in my trial I have borne a name That never was my own. Hark ! 'tis the bell ! And in the passage I can hear the step Of those who come to bear me to the place Where I shall expiate my dreadful crime, Giving my life for the life I took. Farewell, my narrow dungeon ! earth, farewell ! Father in heaven, hear my dying prayer ! 34O THE HOUR BEFORE EXECUTION. Accept, I pray, my unfeigned penitence ! Go with me through the gloomy vale of death, And grant, oh, grant to me the lowest seat Within thy kingdom ! MAGDALENE. THE night is dark and chill, And the winds upon the hill Moan like restless, troubled spirits, and are never, never still. The storm-king rides upon the blast, and shrieks along the plain ; The mighty sea keeps sobbing with an almost human pain ; And the dark and gloomy forest sighs a sor rowful .refrain. To-night my thoughts go back, O'er a withered, blasted track, 541 342 MAGDALENE. To the days of my lost happiness, that never can come back. Oh ! could they but return again, the sinless days of youth, I would cleave unto their innocence and purity and truth, Closer than unto Naomi clung the loving-hearted Ruth. Oh, the dreary, dreary rain! How it beats against the pane, And stands in dark and muddy pools along the narrow lane ! And in the churchyard far away, the church yard old and new, It drips with constant plashing sound upon a tall white stone, And trickles down the narrow mound with long gray moss o'ergrown. MAGDALENE. 343 And the sleepers resting there, Do they heed my dark despair? Can they know my sin and sorrow, and not pity even there ? In heaven, blessed mother, do you hear my heart's deep cry? Can you look with your pure vision on so vile a thing as I, Despairing, hating, loathing life, and yet afraid to die? If, from that sinless sphere, You can see my wandering here, If still you love the erring child, once so dear, Plead with the pitying Jesus that the precious blood he spilt 344 MAGDALENE. May wash from my dark record all the damn ing stain of guilt, And admit me to those mansions for his ran somed children built. I may not hope to gaze On the Saviour's glorious face, Or stand before the great white throne, or tune my lyre to praise ; But, when the chain that binds me to this weary life is riven, Haply that even unto me some blessing may be given, And I may fill the lowest place in the bright court of heaven. WAITING FOR A FRIEND AMONG BEASTS OF PREY. OH ! saw ye e'er the startled dove Spread its white wings in graceful flight, Then, circling in the blue above, Stoop earthward, and once more alight ? So fair, so graceful, and so wild Is she, the Arab chieftain's child. Eyes like twin stars upon a lake, Yet clear as some untroubled well, And feet so light they hardly shake The fragrance from the lily-bell ; And, when around her father's home She like a ray of sunlight dances, 345 346 WAITING AMONG BEASTS OF PREY. Her smiles light up his deepest gloom ; He worships e'en her brightest glances. It is the tranquil twilight hour : The fiery sun has gone to rest In his cloud-chambers of the west, And she is sitting in her bovver ; And at her feet a dark-eyed slave One of a lovely captive band Brought from a clime beyond the wave Sings lays of her own father's land. " Leave, leave me now," the maiden said, "Bring thy companions to my bower." With bounding step she leaves her side ; And dancing girls, whose fairy feet Fall light as dew upon the flowers, Round her in tinkling measures glide, And shake faint perfume round the bower ; But naught can charm the listless maid. WAITING AMONG BEASTS OF PREY. 347 Her dark eyes fill with tears unshed, And wearily her graceful head Upon her downy couch is laid. Three moons before, as gay she strayed Where she had often roved before, Beneath the dark acacia shade, To tell her nurse orisons o'er, A lion, fiercest of its kind, Upon her chosen lone retreat Stole warily, with noiseless feet. And, as she homeward turned once more, She saw his shadow fall behind; She saw him crouch with glaring eye, And knew her time had come to die. Near, nearer yet the creature draws : She cannot breathe, she cannot speak, She almost feels his savage claws And hissing breath upon her cheek. 348 WAITING AMONG BEASTS OF PREY. She shuts her eyes in wild despair ; She breathes one deep and heartfelt prayer, "O Allah! save thy child." She hears the sharp twang of a bow ; She hears the dreadful monster leap, Then knows no more till she awakes As from a long and troubled sleep ; And, bending over her, a form That she had often seen in dreams, With dark eyes in whose clear calm depth A noble tender spirit beams ; And when a smile broke o'er his face 'Twas beautiful and strangely bright As lightning in a stormy night. Before her, at her very feet, But cold and stiff, the lion lay : It flashed upon her like a dream, And shudderingly she turns away. WAITING AMONG BEASTS OF PREY. 349 And now to-night she waits and prays For him whom she has learned to love ; The moonlight o'er the waters plays ; The stars look brightly from above ; The beacon burns upon the tower ; Her father in his castle sleeps, And she is waiting in her bower. 'Tis long beyond the appointed hour ; What wonder that she weeps. "Alas, he will not come to-night," And wearily she turns away. Hark ! to the dipping of an oar ! She sees his frail boat near the shore, And with a step as free and light As the gazelle, whose silver feet Scarce touch the earth they tread upon, Down that dark, dizzy, winding height She fearlessly has gone. PLEASURE OF RAILROAD TRAVEL LING. WAITING in a clingy hovel On a cold November day, Not one glimmering spark of fire ; " Ticket-agent gone away." Peering through the smoky windows, Opening wide the creaking door, Prospect backward brakes and briers, Black and stagnant pool before. Windows curtained well with cobwebs, Rafters smoky, bare, and black ; 35 PLEASURE OF RAILROAD TRAVELLING. 351 Old Boreas whistling rudely Through each widely gaping crack. After two hours spent in waiting, You're inclined to bless your stars When you hear the shrieking whistle And the rumbling of the cars. Muttering with an inward chuckle, . "All is well that endeth well," You " propel " towards the door, Holding tight your " umberel." Lo, " like streak of well-greased lightning," Rushes past the iron steed : Passengers all bow profoundly, Save a man that " wears a weed." Just as you are grimly turning Fierce and desperate from the door, 352 PLEASURE OF RAILROAD TRAVELLING. You discover they are waiting On a half a mile or more ; And the tall conductor mutters, With an ominously black brow, " Come, yer'd better be a startin' ; Cars won't wait much longer nohow." Leap at venture from the platform ; Never stop to find the stairs : What if yon should fall or stumble ? That is none of their affairs. Brakeman tosses in your luggage, Jams your bandbox all to smash ; You feel sure your trunk was breaking When you heard that horrid crash. Cars are filled to suffocation : Vain are your imploring eyes ; PLEASURE OF RAILROAD TRAVELLING. 353 No one offers to assist you, No one volunteers to rise. And at length, worn out, perspiring, You are glad to take a pew With a fat old Irishwoman, And her pail of onions too. The effect is overwhelming ; Soon the tears begin to flow : Woman asks if 'tis her "onyins;" Says they don't affect her so. Let me beg you keep your temper While you wipe your streaming eyes ; Think how worthy Job was tempted If your dander tries to rise. Soon you reach the nearest station : Out the Irishwoman goes, 354 PLEASURE OF RAILROAD TRAVELLING. Bearing off aforesaid onions, Treading on your tenderest toes. You may groan and sigh a little, And the tears may start anew : No one minds it ; all have business Without looking out for you. Just as you are feeling better, Though your eyes are brilliant red, Dandy, with a faultless dicky And a highly perfumed head, Coolly takes the vacant corner ; While you, blushing, shrink away With (as if you didn't know it), "It is very cool to-day." When, at length (if Heaven so wills it), You shall reach your destination, PLEASURE OF RAILROAD TRAVELLING. 355 Grumble not at cold and hunger ; Thank your stars for preservation ; Then a solemn declaration Put on record with your pen, To renounce steam locomotion Evermore, Amen, Amen ! ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 1 i. ONCE more with thankful hearts we greet This glad returning day ; Once more within these walls we meet To sing and praise and pray ; To offer grateful thanks to God With hearts that overflow, And trace the paths the fathers trod A hundred years ago. ii. A wild, unbroken solitude, By foot of man untrod, 1 Winchendon Centennial, 1864. 356 ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO. The grand primeval forest stood, And stretched green arms abroad ; And where our church-bells call to prayer, And feet of hundreds go, The wolf's long howl disturbed the air A hundred years ago. in. Our grandsires came with axe and plough They felled the forest tree ; Where fruitful fields are smiling now, They broke the stubborn lea; They laid foundations firm and broad ; They builded sure and slow : We reap rich harvests where they sowed A hundred years ago. ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO. IV. They built them homes ; they tilled the soil ; Their flocks they watched and fed ; With strong, brown hands inured to toil, They won their daily bread ; And, when the Revolution came, They left the axe and plough, And battled well in Freedom's name, As we are battling now. v. Then honor to those men of old Who felled the forest trees, And warred with hunger, want, and cold, That we might dwell at ease. ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 359 God give us strength our work to do, And grace our work to know, Like those brave, simple men that lived A hundred years ago! OLD AND NEW SCHOOLHOUSE. FULL fifty years ago, in a schoolhouse small and low, With its long, hard, narrow benches standing in a double row ; With its fireplace in the corner where the great logs cracked and blazed, And shot out fiery sparkles at which the chil dren gazed ; And its tall desk in the,, centre, where they sat who bore the rule, Our fathers and our mothers Heaven bless them ! went to school. 360 OLD AND NEW SCHOOLHOUSE. 361 All through the spring and summer days that glided slow away, Our mothers learned to churn and spin ; our fathers turned the hay, Or held the plough, or plied the hoe, or drove the team afield, Or made the sturdy forest trees before their strokes to yield. But when the winter came to end their long and busy toil, When the biting winds blew fiercely, and the white snow wrapped the soil, To the old brick schoolhouse came they ; and still they love to tell That 'twas there they learned to cipher and read and write and spell. 362 OLD AND NEW SCHOOLHOUSE. And there winter evenings, when the moon was full and bright, And each small star shone and twinkled in the dusky brown of night, They held their spelling-schools ; and, when the spelling down was o'er, Came the homeward walk by moonlight and lingering at the door. Oh, the jokes and nods and blushes on the morrow when they met ! How bright eyes flashed with mischief, and red cheeks flushed rosier yet, When was heard the busy whisper circling, spite of teacher's frown, How " Jeremiah Tompkins went home with Sally Brown ; " OLD AND NEW SCHOOLHOUSE. 363 Or how Ebenezer Parsons declares he saw a light In Deacon Jones's square room till the small hours of the night ! Time flies away swiftly, and the works of man grow old, And at last the schoolhouse tottered, and walls scarce stopped the cold ; Its benches creaked and tumbled, and its desk bore many a trace Of grotesque attempts at sculpture on its brown, worm-eaten face : So they reared another building, stronger, bet ter than the last, And the "old brick schoolhouse" grew to be a memory of the past. 364 OLD AND NEW SCHOOLHOUSE. Meantime our village throve apace, and each suc ceeding year Larger grew the troops of children who came to study there ; And so our third new schoolhouse was built upon the hill : You may find some relics of it, if you go there, standing still. How great was our rejoicing ! how large it seemed and new ! But we kept on growing, growing, till we've outgrown that one too. We come to-night with willing feet, old age and eager youth, To dedicate this building to knowledge and to truth ; OLD AND NEW SCHOOLHOUSE. 365 To every eager learner shall its portals open free In the sacred names of Justice and Right and Liberty. For those dear names the Pilgrims left their homes across the sea To seek some far-off country where their chil dren might be free ; In those dear names our boys afar, on many a Southern plain, Bore the long and weary marches, and the hun ger and the pain ; In those dear names they rallied round the starry flag they bore ; In those dear names they conquered, and our land is free once more. There deigned of God to consecrate and bless with power divine 366 OLD AND NEW SCHOOLHOUSE. This glad and free thankoffering at Learning's sacred shrine. Bless the teachers, bless the scholars, and, long as it shall stand, May it send forth men and women who shall love and bless their land, Men and women pure in purpose, large of heart and large of brain, Who shall know the truth from error, and, so knowing,^ dare maintain ! MY DREAM. 1 As I sat by the window the other night, Gazing out at the fading light, And hearing the river's sullen roar As it chafed and fretted its ice bound shore, And watching the new moon's faint, mild beam, I fell asleep, and dreamed a dream, A dream so wonderful, strange, and new, That I couldn't help wishing it all were true. I thought I was busy at work again, And the hand of the clock had just reached ten, 1 Spoken at school exhibition by O. A. Day. 367 368 MY DREAM. When the door swung wide with a creaking sound ; And, turning quickly and sharply round, I saw a stranger with eyes like flame, And beard that down to his bosom came. His flowing locks were white as snow ; And I thought, as he stood 'neath the lamp's bright glow, That he only needed a scythe to look Like " Father Time " in the picture-book. He said, " You're sleepy and tired, I see : Come ! try your wings, and go with me." "Wings!" cried I: "you are staring mad! I haven't any, and never had." But he smiled with such a knowing air, That I looked at my shoulders again, and there, Sure enough, grew a beautiful pair MY DREAM. 369 That waved and fluttered like any bird's. Now in dreams, you know, the most wonderful change Never strikes us as any thing strange ; And so, without wasting more time in words, We rose from the earth as light as air, And traversed the upper atmosphere. We passed over city and crowded town, Over wastes where only the stars looked down, Over houses of virtue, and dens of crime Where the fiery drink that turns the brain Passed, with rude jests and oaths profane, And the dice-box rattled, and cards were spread, And men went in with a stealthy tread, And the door was shut behind them fast. I turned away with a shuddering dread, For I knew that, when next that door they passed, 37O MY DREAM. Wealth, hope, virtue, and happiness, all Would be gone beyond the power of recall. Then over the boundless deep we flew To lands where the skies are always blue ; Where birds always sing in the summer bovvers, And frosts never come to blight the flowers ; But the wail of the poor went ever up, And misery mingled in poverty's cup. Then I turned again to my own dear land, Where toil and plenty go hand in hand, And I tried at last to find my home ; But the strangest part is yet to come. I thought I was wearied out at length, And my wings seemed losing their airy strength, And so we alighted upon a hill ; And far below us a village lay, Through which a river wound its way, That turned the wheels of many a mill. MY DREAM. 3/1 Vine-wreathed cottages, neat and white, Rose to my view in the soft moonlight ; And a neat white church, with its taper spire That gleamed on my sight like an uplifted hand Pointing up to a better land. " What a lovely scene ! " I cried. He smiled As he answered, "That is Bartonsville." "That story's a falsehood," said I, "that's flat! You can't expect me to swallow that : Why, I came from there an hour ago." He answered solemnly and slow, " Over the earth ten years have passed Since you beheld that village last." "Oh, dear!" I cried: "what will people say? They'll certainly think I have run away. I wonder how long Moore's machine ran on Before they found out that I was gone ! " 3/2 MY DREAM. Just then I heard somebody say, " Of all this world, here's Osmond Day ! Wake up, wake up, and go to bed ! You'll certainly have a cold in your head." I opened my eyes with a sudden start, And saw my mother's jolly face Looking the picture of wild amaze, With eyes wide open, and lips apart. So I took the candle, and said " good-night ; " But my dream still haunted my wakeful brain, And I turned it over again and again. 'Twas a dream so wonderful, strange, and new, That I couldn't help wishing it all were true ; And now you've heard it, my friends, don't you ? INVOCATION TO SLEEP. COME to my pillow, sweet angel of sleep ! Over my forehead thy magic wand sweep ; Close the pained eyes that are longing for rest ; Fold my tired form to thy shadowy breast ; Clasp in thy cool palm my feverish hand ; Lead me away to thy own fairyland ; Let me forget to repine or to weep: Come to my pillow, sweet angel of sleep ! Come, and bring with thee a store of bright dreams ; Let me wander again by my own mountain streams ; 373 374 INVOCATION TO SLEEP. Let me gather spring violets down in the dell, And drink once again from the mossy old well ; Let me hear the glad song of the robin that made Her nest every year in the apple-tree's shade ; Over my soul let the olden peace creep : Come to me, beautiful angel of sleep! Come, for the night dew is closing the flowers To sleep, with shut petals till morn's rosy hours ; Birds lightly rock in their leaf-curtained nest ; Daylight's last crimson fades out from the west ; And, as I gaze at the fathomless sky, Bright Hesper glitters through tears in my eye. Why should I waken to sorrow, and weep ? Come at my bidding, O angel of sleep ! INVOCATION TO SLEEP. 375 All the day long have I mixed with the crowd, Noisy and heartless, and jostling and loud. " Each for himself " seemed their motto to be : Why should they care for a stranger like me ? Now from the tumult and strife I have fled, Seeking but vainly repose for my head : Come, and my soul in forgetfulness steep, Come to me, come to me, angel of sleep ! BERTHA'S CHRISTMAS. BERTHA was out in the frosty street, And the night was fierce and wild ; The ice-work wounded her small bare feet, For she was a beggar-child ; The snow fell faster and faster still, As blindly she wandered on, Till it seemed that her very heart was chill, And her power to move was gone. She sees the lamps of the city glow Like stars from the azure cast ; The sweet bells chime out o'er the crispy snow, And music is borne on the blast : 376 BERTHA'S CHRISTMAS. 377 There is joy, there is plenty, but net for her ; And the tears rain down apace, And freeze into glittering diamond beads On the pallid and want-pinched face. All day she has wandered : the chillness and snow Have fallen on her aching head ; But her weary limbs can no farther go : She sinks in her freezing bed. Oh, joy ! she is weary and faint no more : It is gone, that tremor and pain ; And her feet, that erst were so cold and sore, They are growing warm again. Drowsily shuts she her dark -blue eye, Dimmed by the want and pain ; Then to the dome of the midnight sky Turns she her gaze again. 378 BERTHA'S CHRISTMAS. She saw mid the broken clouds a star ; And, while she looked and smiled, It changed to the face of her dead mamma, And beamed on the beggar-child. She comes still nearer, and now she stands By the happy Bertha's side ; She raises her up with gentle hands As she did before she died ; Then steadily, slowly, they upward rise Above the cold, pitiless storm : There is light and love in the upper skies, And the beggar-child is warm. They found her there in the icy street, All pallid and stark and cold ; But in her face was a smile so sweet, That they paused again to behold. . BERTHA S CHRISTMAS. 3/9 A narrow box and an unmarked grave To the body frail was given ; But a place in the loving Father's arms Was Bertha's for aye in heaven. O ye who know not of cold or storm, Of hunger or want or care, When ye come to pass to the spirit-land, Shall ye better than Bertha fare ? Will He pause to think of your pride or power ? Can you bribe Him with glittering gold? Will He list to your prayers in that awful hour When the secrets of hearts are told ? If unto His weary and wandering ones You succor and peace have given, How sweet on your ear will fall their tones As they welcome you up to heaven ! 380 BERTHA'S CHRISTMAS. But, if ye have slighted their tears and sighs, How stern will the verdict be ! " Inasmuch as ye gave no meat to these, Ye have given it not to Me." THE OUTCAST. SHE stood outcast from human love, In solitude and woe ; Her childhood's peace, that heavenly dove, Had left her long ago ; The murky clouds hung thick above, And the river rolled below. Its waves were swift and dark and deep : She listened to their roar ; She watched the current's onward sweep, Drifting dead weeds ashore, And wished she was but safe asleep In her father's house once more. 38. 382 THE OUTCAST. They are safely housed from the pelting storm, My brothers and sisters all ; The very chief one asleep and warm, And Carlo lies in the hall ; While the raindrops fall on my shrinking form, And drop from my tattered shawl. Then she listened again to the tempest's wail, And looked at the frowning sky, And shook with fear as the fitful gale Went moaning and shrieking by ; And her cheeks grew still more deathly pale, And wilder her tear-dimmed eye. She thought of her early sinless hours, Ere sorrow or pain she knew, When she bounded away from the garden bowers, When her bare feet felt the dew ; THE OUTCAST. 383 And fair and sweet as her own bright flow ers, She daily and hourly grew. She knelt with her thin hands raised on high : "O Father in heaven!" she cried, "Look down from thy throne in the azure sky For the sake of Him who died, And forgive my sins of darkest dye For the love of the Crucified ! " A pause, a plunge, and the water cold Has closed o'er the sinking head ; And the deep, black waves, like a shroud, en fold The form of the early dead; And the waves and the festering mould Are the weary one's last bed. 384 THE OUTCAST. O pious souls who her sins condemn, Who fast and pray so much, Who joy that in Jesus' diadem There will be no room for such, No more shall your saintly garment's hem Be polluted by her touch ! And when in His temple you are found, O chosen worshippers ! Draw closely the heavy mantle round, And arrange the costly furs ; Then thank your God with a joy profound That your sin is not as hers ! THE OLD AND THE NEW YEAR. THROUGH frosted panes the moon's cold light Gleams faintly round the chamber dim ; The Year is dying with the night, And you and I will watch with him. The good Old Year ! We owe him much : He brought us joy, unknown till then; He strewed our path with pleasures, such As life can never give again. And if he sometimes led our feet Through narrow pathways thorn-beset, 385 386 THE OLD AND THE NEW YEAR. And if sometimes Hope's blossoms sweet With Disappointment's tears were wet, If some of youth's fair dreams are fled, Enough are left to gild the way ; For every tear he made us shed He gave as many a happy day. New friends he gave us, who are clear; He spared the old ones dearer yet : We cannot choose but drop a tear, And close his eyes with deep regret. Into the future dim we peer, And question with a doubting heart, What hast thou brought for us, New Year ? Shall we with thee as kindly part ? THE OLD AND THE NEW YEAR. 387 The clock peals out the midnight hour : It . is the Old Year's funeral knell, And its next chime with thrilling power Will of a New Year's advent tell. Father, to all thy universe, Of every tongue and every creed, May this fair day just dawned on us Become a "glad New Year" indeed! And wheresoever on earth's wide plain A single suffering soul may dwell, To the poor Ethiop in his chain, Or the sad prisoner in his cell ; To all thy creatures bending low Beneath Oppression's heavy sway, 388 THE OLD AND THE NEW YEAR. May this New Year, begun in woe, End in a gleam of brighter day ! The day when men of every blood Before Thy glorious throne shall fall, Owning our common brotherhood, And one great Father of us all ! THE DEATH OF KANE. FAR o'er the ocean comes a dirge For one in manhood's prime laid low, And with the murmur of the surge Is blent a deeper note of woe ; And eyes to-day with tears are dim That never saw for whom they weep, And hearts are bowed with grief for him Who sleeps the long and dreamless sleep ! All vain love's agonizing care To charm away the pangs of pain ! All vain the balmy southern air To bring back life and health again ! 389 3QO THE DEATH OF KANE. The dauntless nerve, the iron will, The cheek that danger never paled, Strong arm and nob]e heart are still In death's dark night forever veiled. The eyes that watched the long, long night Beneath the pole-star's icy ray, And hailed the first faint tinge of light, Precursor of the longed-for day, Are closed on earth forevermore ; And dull for aye the ears will be That erst have heard the sullen roar And ice-breaks of the northern sea ! Yet, while we feel the chastening rod, And 'neath the heavy burden lie, Still let us thank a gracious God That brought the loved one home to die. 9 THE DEATH OF KANE. 391 Thank God ! O bleeding hearts bereft, And crushed beneath the heavy blow, Your loved one's relics were not left To bleach amid eternal snow. And if life be not length of days, But worthy deeds and well-earned fame, How few have lived to earn the praise That clusters round thine honored name ! The dauntless leader gone before, His bright example left to bless : Heaven has one shining angel more, And earth, one noble son the less. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. FormLO 15m-10, '48(61039)444 -efield - 3129 Over the river. PS 3129 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY UCLA-Young Research Library PS3129 .W1370 V L 009 616 203 7