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Poems

<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/poems.jpg" alt="[Illustration]" /></div> <div class="caption">In Celestial realms where knowledge hath no end. HARRY HOWARD, STUDENT. "Blessed are the pure in heart."</div> <hr /> [Pg 1] <h1>POEMS</h1> <h5>BY</h5> <h2>HATTIE HOWARD.</h2> <h6>AUTHOR OF "POVERTY VS. PAUPERISM," "OUR GIRLS," "VIVE LA REPUBLIQUE," "KEEPING A SECRET," "LITTLE JO," AND OTHER STORIES.</h6> <h4 class="smcap">Vol. IV.</h4> <hr /> <div class="center"> <table summary=""> <tr> <td>Happy whoever writes a book</td> </tr> <tr> <td>On which the world shall kindly look,</td> </tr> <tr> <td>And who, when many a year has flown—</td> </tr> <tr> <td>The volume worn, the author gone—</td> </tr> <tr> <td>Revere, admire, and still read on.</td> </tr> </table></div> <hr /> <h6>HARTFORD PRESS: The Case, Lockwood & Brainard Company. 1904.</h6> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 2] <h4>EXTRACTS FROM PRESS NOTICES OF A FORMER VOLUME.</h4> <div class="blockquot">"We find these poems of sentiment by Hattie Howard entirely natural, spontaneous, direct, rhythmical, and free from ambitious pretense. Many of the fanciful verses have a laugh at the end; and the collection has altogether a sunny, hopeful spirit and will be welcome in this time of generally morbid expression." "This author's verse shows a hearty, wholesome, human spirit, sometimes overflowing into downright fun, and a straightforward directness always. It is a pleasant book, sure to be welcomed by all." "These garnered gems reveal a genuine poetic faculty, and are worthy their attractive setting. We give the book a hearty welcome." "Many of the poems abound in playful humor or tender touches of sympathy which appeal to a refined feeling, and love for the good, the true, and the beautiful." "This poet's ear is so attuned to metric harmony that she must have been born within sound of some osier-fringed brook leaping and hurrying over its pebbly bed. There is a variety of subject and treatment, sufficient for all tastes, and these are poems which should be cherished." "Lovers of good poetry will herald with pleasure this new and attractive volume by the well-known authoress of Hartford. A wooing sentiment and genial spirit seem to guide her in every train of thought. Her book has received, and deserves, warm commendations of the press." </div> <hr /> <h5>Copyright, 1904, by Hattie Howard.</h5> [Pg 3] <h2>Contents.</h2> FRONTISPIECE. <table summary="Table of Contents"> <tr> <td></td> <td class="tocpage">Page.</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Extracts From Press Notices,</td> <td class="tocpage">2</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">"The Salt of the Earth,"</td> <td class="tocpage">7</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Not Gone,</td> <td class="tocpage">9</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Let Us Give Thanks,</td> <td class="tocpage">10</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Sonnet,</td> <td class="tocpage">11</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">A Rainy Day,</td> <td class="tocpage">12</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Subway,</td> <td class="tocpage">16</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Apple Tree,</td> <td class="tocpage">18</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Two Roses,</td> <td class="tocpage">21</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Taxidermist,</td> <td class="tocpage">23</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Epithalamium,</td> <td class="tocpage">25</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">A Fowl Affair,</td> <td class="tocpage">28</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Holiday Home,</td> <td class="tocpage">31</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Rutha,</td> <td class="tocpage">34</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Student Gone,</td> <td class="tocpage">36</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Tourist,</td> <td class="tocpage">38</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Antiquarian,</td> <td class="tocpage">40</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Poor Housekeeping,</td> <td class="tocpage">45</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Going to Tobog,</td> <td class="tocpage">47</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">"Passer Le Temps,"</td> <td class="tocpage">49</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Torpedo,</td> <td class="tocpage">50</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Margaret,[Pg 4]</td> <td class="tocpage">51</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Christmas Bells,</td> <td class="tocpage">53</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">By the Sea,</td> <td class="tocpage">54</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">A Song,</td> <td class="tocpage">55</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">"Is It April?"</td> <td class="tocpage">56</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Christmas-Tide,</td> <td class="tocpage">57</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">January, 1885,</td> <td class="tocpage">59</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Sweet Peas,</td> <td class="tocpage">61</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Summer House,</td> <td class="tocpage">62</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">To Die in Autumn,</td> <td class="tocpage">65</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Apple Blossoms,</td> <td class="tocpage">67</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Without a Minister,</td> <td class="tocpage">68</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Indian Summer,</td> <td class="tocpage">70</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Autumn-Time,</td> <td class="tocpage">72</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Beauty of Nature</td> <td class="tocpage">74</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">"All the Rage,"</td> <td class="tocpage">76</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">My Mother's Hand,</td> <td class="tocpage">79</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">A Leap Year Episode,</td> <td class="tocpage">80</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">If,</td> <td class="tocpage">83</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Perfect Character,</td> <td class="tocpage">84</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Miracle of Spring,</td> <td class="tocpage">85</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Bermuda,</td> <td class="tocpage">86</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Charter Oak,</td> <td class="tocpage">88</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Blossom-time,</td> <td class="tocpage">90</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">"One of the Least of These,"</td> <td class="tocpage">92</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Lightning-bugs,</td> <td class="tocpage">94</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Of Her who Died,</td> <td class="tocpage">96</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Thanksgiving,</td> <td class="tocpage">98</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Receiving Sight,[Pg 5]</td> <td class="tocpage">100</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Revenge,</td> <td class="tocpage">102</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">On the Common,</td> <td class="tocpage">104</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Woman's Help,</td> <td class="tocpage">106</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Tobogganing,</td> <td class="tocpage">108</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Woods,</td> <td class="tocpage">110</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Like Summer,</td> <td class="tocpage">112</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Sheridan's Last Ride,</td> <td class="tocpage">114</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">A Bit of Gladness,</td> <td class="tocpage">116</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Charity Ball,</td> <td class="tocpage">118</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Bell(e) of Baltimore,</td> <td class="tocpage">120</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Christmas at Church,</td> <td class="tocpage">122</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Mysterious,</td> <td class="tocpage">124</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">"Be not Anxious,"</td> <td class="tocpage">126</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Mount Vernon,</td> <td class="tocpage">128</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">A Prisoner,</td> <td class="tocpage">130</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Cuba,</td> <td class="tocpage">131</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Sangamon River,</td> <td class="tocpage">133</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Syringas,</td> <td class="tocpage">135</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Storm-bound,</td> <td class="tocpage">137</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Master of the Grange,</td> <td class="tocpage">139</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">A Friend Indeed,</td> <td class="tocpage">142</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Needed One,</td> <td class="tocpage">143</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">"Thy Will Be Done,"</td> <td class="tocpage">145</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Snowflakes,</td> <td class="tocpage">147</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Monadnock,</td> <td class="tocpage">149</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Never Had a Chance</td> <td class="tocpage">151</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Sorrow and Joy,</td> <td class="tocpage">153</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Watch Hill,[Pg 6]</td> <td class="tocpage">155</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Supplicating,</td> <td class="tocpage">157</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">"Honest John,"</td> <td class="tocpage">159</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Bushnell Park,</td> <td class="tocpage">161</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">At General Grant's Tomb,</td> <td class="tocpage">164</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">"Be Courteous,"</td> <td class="tocpage">166</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">A New Suit</td> <td class="tocpage">168</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">The Little Clock,</td> <td class="tocpage">170</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">Improvement,</td> <td class="tocpage">173</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">On Bancroft Height,</td> <td class="tocpage">175</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tocname">A Reformer,</td> <td class="tocpage">178</td> </tr> </table> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 7] <h1>Poems.</h1> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>"The Salt of the Earth."</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> The salt of the earth—what a meaningful phrase From the lips of the Saviour, and one that conveys A sense of the need of a substance saline This pestilent sphere to refresh and refine, And a healthful and happy condition secure By making it pure as the ocean is pure. </div> <div class="stanza"> In all the nomenclature known to the race, In all appellations of people or place, Was ever a name so befitting, so true Of those who are seeking the wrong to undo, With naught of the Pharisee's arrogant air Their badge of discipleship humbly who wear? </div> <div class="stanza"> Do beings, forsooth, fashioned out of the mold, So secretly, strangely, those elements hold That may be developed in goodness and grace To shine in demeanor, in form and in face Till they, by renewal of heavenly birth, Shall merit their title—the salt of the earth? </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 8] To the landsman at home or the sailor at sea, With nausea, scurvy, or canker maybe, 'Tis never in language to overexalt The potent preservative virtue of salt— A crystal commodity wholesome and good, A cure for disease, and a savor for food. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ah, the beasts of the wood and the fowls of the air Know all of the need of this condiment rare, Know well where the springs and the "salt-licks" abound, Where streams salinaceous flow out of the ground; And their cravings appease by sipping the brine With more than the relish of topers at wine. </div> <div class="stanza"> Our wants may be legion, our needs are but few, And every known ill hath its remedy true; 'Tis ours to discover and give to mankind Of hidden essentials the best that we find; 'Tis ours to eradicate error and sin, And help to make better the place we are in. </div> <div class="stanza"> If ever this world from corruption is free, And righteousness reign in the kingdom to be, Like salt in its simple and soluble way Infusing malodor, preventing decay. So human endeavor in action sublime Must never relax till the finale of time. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 9] To thousands discouraged this comforting truth Appeals like the promise of infinite youth: To know, as they labor like bees in the hive, Yet do little more than keep goodness alive— To know that the Master accredits their worth As blessed disciples—"the salt of the earth." </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>Not Gone.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> They are not gone whose lives in beauty so unfolding Have left their own sweet impress everywhere; Like flowers, while we linger in beholding, Diffusing fragrance on the summer air. </div> <div class="stanza"> They are not gone, for grace and goodness can not perish, But must develop in immortal bloom; The viewless soul, the real self we love and cherish, Shall live and flourish still beyond the tomb. </div> <div class="stanza"> They are not gone though lost to observation, And dispossessed of those dear forms of clay, Though dust and ashes speak of desolation; The spirit-presence—this is ours alway. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 10] <h2>Let Us Give Thanks.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> If we have lived another year And, counting friends by regiments Who share our love and confidence, Find no more broken ranks, For this let us give thanks. </div> <div class="stanza"> If, since the last Thanksgiving-time, Have we been blessed with strength and health, And added to our honest wealth, Nor lost by broken banks, For this would we give thanks. </div> <div class="stanza"> If through adversity we trod, Yet with serene and smiling face, And trusted more to saving grace Than charlatans and cranks, For this let us give thanks. </div> <div class="stanza"> If we have somehow worried through The ups and downs along life's track, And still undaunted can look back And smile at Fortune's pranks, For this would we give thanks. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 11] If every page in our account With God and man is fairly writ, We care not who examines it, With no suspicious blanks, For this let us give thanks. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>Sonnet.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Upon my smile let none pass compliment If it but gleam like an enchanting ray Of sunshine caught from some sweet summer day, In atmosphere of rose and jasmine scent And breath of honeysuckles redolent, When, with the birds that sing their lives away In harmony, the treetops bend and sway, And all the world with joy is eloquent. </div> <div class="stanza"> But in that day of gloom when skies severe Portend the tempest gathering overhead, If by my face some token shall appear Inspiring hope, dispelling darksome dread, Oh, be the rapture mine that it be said, "Her smile is like the rainbow, full of cheer." </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 12] <h2>A Rainy Day.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Oh, what a blessed interval A rainy day may be! No lightning flash nor tempest roar, But one incessant, steady pour Of dripping melody; When from their sheltering retreat Go not with voluntary feet The storm-beleaguered family, Nor bird nor animal. </div> <div class="stanza"> When business takes a little lull, And gives the merchantman A chance to seek domestic scenes, To interview the magazines, Convoke his growing clan, The boys and girls almost unknown, And get acquainted with his own; As well the household budget scan, Or write a canticle. </div> <div class="stanza"> When farmer John ransacks the barn, Hunts up the harness old— Nigh twenty years since it was new— Puts in an extra thong or two, And hopes the thing will hold [Pg 13] Without that missing martingale That bothered Dobbin, head and tail, He, gentle equine, safe controlled But by a twist of yarn. </div> <div class="stanza"> When busy fingers may provide A savory repast To whet the languid appetite, And give to eating a delight Unknown since seasons past; Avaunt, ill-cookery! whose ranks Develop dull dyspeptic cranks Who, forced to diet or to fast, Ergo, have dined and died. </div> <div class="stanza"> It is a day of rummaging, The closets to explore; To take down from the dusty shelves The books—that never read themselves— And turning pages o'er Discover therein safely laid The bills forgot and never paid— Somehow that of the corner store Such dunning memories bring. </div> <div class="stanza"> It gives a chance to liquidate Epistolary debts; [Pg 14] To write in humble penitence Acknowledging the negligence, The sin that so besets, And cheer the hearts that hold us dear, Who've known and loved us many a year— Back to the days of pantalets And swinging on the gate. </div> <div class="stanza"> It gives occasion to repair Unlucky circumstance; To intercept the ragged ends, And for arrears to make amends By mending hose and pants; The romping young ones to re-dress Without those signs of hole-y-ness That so bespeak the mendicants By every rip and tear. </div> <div class="stanza"> It is a time to gather round The old piano grand, Its dulcet harmonies unstirred Since Lucy sang so like a bird, And played with graceful hand; Like Lucy's voice in pathos sweet Repeating softly "Shall we meet?" Is only in the heavenly land Such clear soprano sound. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 15] It is a time for happy chat En cercle tête-à-tête; Discuss the doings of the day, The club, the sermon, or the play, Affairs of church and state; Fond reminiscence to explore The pleasant episodes of yore, And so till raindrops all abate As erst on Ararat. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ah, yes, a rainy day may be A blessed interval! A little halt for introspect, A little moment to reflect On life's discrepancy— Our puny stint so poorly done, The larger duties scarce begun— And so may conscience culpable Suggest a remedy. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 16] <h2>The Subway.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Oh, who in creation would fail to descend That wonderful hole in the ground?— That, feeling its way like a hypocrite-friend In sinuous fashion, seems never to end; While thunder and lightning abound. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, who in creation would dare to go down That great subterranean hole— The tunnel, the terror, the talk of the town, That gives to the city a mighty renown And a shaking as never before? </div> <div class="stanza"> A serpent, a spider, its mouth at the top Where the flies are all buzzing about; Down into its maw where the populace drop, Who never know where they are going to stop, Or whether they'll ever get out. </div> <div class="stanza"> Why is it, with millions of acres untrod Where never the ploughshare hath been, That man must needs burrow miles under the sod, As if to get farther and farther from God, And deeper and deeper in sin? </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 17] O Dagos and diggers, who can't understand That the planet you'll never get through— Why, there is three times as much water as land, And but for the least little seam in the sand Your life is worth less than a sou. </div> <div class="stanza"> Come up out of Erebus into the day, There's plenty of room overhead; No boring or blasting of rocks in the way, No stratum of sticky, impervious clay— All vacuous vapor instead. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, give us a transit, a tube or an "el—", Not leagues from the surface below; As if we were never in Heaven to dwell, As if we were all being fired to—well, The place where we don't want to go! </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 18] <h2>The Apple Tree.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Has ever a tree from the earth upsprung Around whose body have children clung, Whose bounteous branches the birds among Have pecked the fruit, and chirped and sung— Was ever a tree, or shall there be, So hardy, so sturdy, so good to see, So welcome a boon to the family, Like the pride of the farmer, the apple tree? </div> <div class="stanza"> How he loves to be digging about its root, Or grafting the bud in the tender shoot, The daintiest palate that he may suit With the fairest and finest selected fruit. How he boasts of his Sweetings, so big for size; His delicate Greenings—made for pies; His Golden Pippins that take the prize, The Astrachans tempting, that tell no lies. </div> <div class="stanza"> How he learns of the squirrel a thing or two That the wise little rodents always knew, And never forget or fail to do, Of laying up store for the winter through; So he hollows a space in the mellow ground Where leaves for lining and straw abound, And well remembers his apple mound When a day of scarcity comes around. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 19] By many a token may we suppose That the knowledge apple no longer grows, That broke up Adam and Eve's repose And set the fashion of fig-leaf clothes; The story's simple and terse and crude, But still with a morsel of truth imbued: For of trees and trees by the multitude Are some that are evil, and some that are good. </div> <div class="stanza"> The more I muse on those stories old The more philosophy they unfold Of husbands docile and women bold, And Satan's purposes manifold; Ah, many a couple halve their fare With that mistaken and misfit air That the world and all are ready to swear To a mighty unapple-y mated pair. </div> <div class="stanza"> The apple's an old-fashioned tree I know, All gnarled and bored by the curculio, And loves to stand in a zigzag row; And doesn't make half so much of a show As the lovely almond that blooms like a ball, And spreads out wide like a pink parasol Set on its stem by the garden-wall; But I love the apple tree, after all. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 20] "A little more cider"—sings the bard; And who this juiciness would discard, Though holding the apple in high regard, Must be like the cider itself—very hard; For the spirit within it, as all must know, Is utterly harmless—unless we go Like the fool in his folly, and overflow By drinking a couple of barrels or so. </div> <div class="stanza"> What of that apple beyond the seas, Fruit of the famed Hesperides? But dust and ashes compared to these That grow on Columbia's apple trees; And I sigh for the apples of years agone: For Rambos streaked like the morning dawn, For Russets brown with their jackets on, And aromatic as cinnamon. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, the peach and cherry may have their place, And the pear is fine in its stately grace; The plum belongs to a puckery race And maketh awry the mouth and face; But I long to roam in the orchard free, The dear old orchard that used to be, And gather the beauties that dropped for me From the bending boughs of the apple tree. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 21] <h2>Two Roses.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I've a friend beyond the ocean So regardful, so sincere, And he sends me in a letter Such a pretty souvenir. </div> <div class="stanza"> It is crushed to death and withered, Out of shape and very flat, But its pure, delicious odor Is the richer for all that. </div> <div class="stanza"> 'Tis a rose from Honolulu, And it bears the tropic brand, Sandwiched in this friendly missive From that far-off flower-land. </div> <div class="stanza"> It shall mingle pot-à-pourri With the scents I love and keep; Some of them so very precious That remembrance makes me weep. </div> <div class="stanza"> While I dream I hear the music That of happiness foretells, Like the flourishing of trumpets And the sound of marriage bells. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 22] There's a rose upon the prairie, Chosen his by happy fate, He shall gather when he cometh Sailing through the Golden Gate. </div> <div class="stanza"> Mine, a public posy, growing Somewhere by the garden wall, Might have gone to any stranger, May have been admired by all. </div> <div class="stanza"> But the rose in beauty blushing, Tenderly and sweetly grown In the home and its affections, Blooms for him, and him alone. </div> <div class="stanza"> Speed the voyager returning; His shall be a welcome warm, With the Rose of Minnesota Gently resting on his arm. </div> <div class="stanza"> Love embraces in his kingdom Earth and sea and sky and air. Hail, Columbia! hail, Hawaii! It is Heaven everywhere. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 23] <h2>The Taxidermist.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> From other men he stands apart, Wrapped in sublimity of thought Where futile fancies enter not; With starlike purpose pressing on Where Agassiz and Audubon Labored, and sped that noble art Yet in its pristine dawn. </div> <div class="stanza"> Something to conquer, to achieve, Makes life well worth the struggle hard; Its petty ills to disregard, In high endeavor day by day With this incentive—that he may Somehow mankind the richer leave When he has passed away. </div> <div class="stanza"> Forest and field he treads alone, Finding companionship in birds, In reptiles, rodents, yea, in herds Of drowsy cattle fat and sleek; For these to him a language speak To common multitudes unknown As tones of classic Greek. </div> <div class="stanza"> Unthinking creatures and untaught, They to his nature answer back [Pg 24] Something his fellow mortals lack; And oft educe from him the sigh That they unnoticed soon must die, Leaving of their existence naught To be remembered by. </div> <div class="stanza"> Man may aspire though in the slough; May dream of glory, strive for fame, Thirst for the prestige of a name. And shall these friends, that so invite The study of the erudite, Ever as he beholds them now Perish like sparks of light? </div> <div class="stanza"> Nay, 'tis his purpose and design To keep them: not like mummies old Papyrus-mantled fold on fold, But elephant, or dove, or swan, Its native hue and raiment on, In effigy of plumage fine, Or skin its native tawn. </div> <div class="stanza"> What God hath wrought thus time shall tell, And thus endowment rich and vast Be rescued from the buried past; And rare reliques that never fade Be in the manikin portrayed [Pg 25] Till taxidermy witness well The debt to science paid. </div> <div class="stanza"> Lo! one appeareth unforetold— This re-creator, yea, of men; Making him feel as born again Who looketh up with reverent eyes, Through wonders that his soul surprise, That great Creator to behold All-powerful, all-wise. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>Epithalamium.</h2> <h3>I.</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Whom God hath joined"—ah, this sententious phrase A meaning deeper than the sea conveys, And of a sweet and solemn service tells With the rich resonance of wedding-bells; It speaks of vows and obligations given As if amid the harmony of heaven, While seraph lips approving seem to say, "Love, honor, and obey." </div> </div> [Pg 26] <h3>II.</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Is Hymen then ambassador divine, His mission, matrimonial and benign, The heart to counsel, ardor to incite, Convert the nun, rebuke the eremite? As if were this his mandate from the throne: "It is not good for them to be alone; Behold the land! its fruitage and its flowers, Not mine and thine, but ours." </div> </div> <h3>III.</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Did not great Paul aver, in lucid spell, That they of conjugal intent "do well"? But hinted at a better state,—'tis one With which two loving souls have naught to do. For, in well-doing being quite content, Be there another state more excellent To which the celibate doth fain repair, They neither know nor care. </div> </div> <h3>IV.</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> And does the Lord of all become High Priest, And with his presence grace the wedding-feast? Then must the whole celestial throng draw nigh, For nuptials there are none beyond the sky; [Pg 27] So is the union sanctified and blest,> For Love is host, and Love is welcome guest; So may the joyous bridal season be Like that of Galilee. </div> </div> <h3>V.</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Sweet Mary, of the blessed name so dear To all the loving Saviour who revere, Madonna-like be thou in every grace That shall adorn thee in exalted place, And thine the happy privilege to prove The depth, the tenderness of woman's love; So shall the heart that honors thee today Bow down to thee alway. </div> </div> <h3>VI.</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> O radiant June, in wealth of light and air, With leaf and bud and blossom everywhere, Let all bright tokens affluent combine, And round the bridal pair in splendor shine; Let sweethearts coy and lovers fond and true On this glad day their tender vows renew, And all in wedlock's bond rejoice as they Whom God hath joined for aye. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 28] <h2>A Fowl Affair.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I hope I'm not too orthodox To give a joke away, That took me like the chicken-pox And left a debt to pay. </div> <div class="stanza"> Let argument ignore the cost, If it be dear or cheap, And only claim that naught be lost When it's too good to keep. </div> <div class="stanza"> The proverb says "All flesh is grass," But this I do deny, Because of that which came to pass, But not to pass me by. </div> <div class="stanza"> A body weighing by the pound Inside of half a score, In case and cordage safely bound, Was landed at my door. </div> <div class="stanza"> What could it be? for friends are slack, And give, I rather trow, When they are sure of getting back As much as they bestow. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 29] My hair, at thought of dark design, Or dynamitish fate, Stood up like quills of porcupine, But more than twice as straight. </div> <div class="stanza"> Anon, I mused on something rare, Like duck or terrapin, But dreamed not, of the parcel, there Might be a pullet-in. </div> <div class="stanza"> A mighty jerk,—the string that broke The fowl affair revealed, The victim of a cruel choke, Its neck completely peeled. </div> <div class="stanza"> The biped in its paper cof- Fin, cramped and plump and neat, Had scratched its very toenails off In making both ends meat. </div> <div class="stanza"> The only part I always ate, That never made me ill, Had gone away decapitate And carried off the bill. </div> <div class="stanza"> I pondered o'er the sacrifice, The merry-thought, the wings, On giblet gravy, salad nice, And chicken-pie-ous things. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 30] In heat of Fahrenheit degree Two hundred twelve or more, Where its grandsire, defying me, Had crowed the year before, </div> <div class="stanza"> I thrust it with a hope forlorn,— I knew what toughness meant, And sighed that ever I was born To die of roasting scent. </div> <div class="stanza"> But presto! what dénouement grand Of cookery sublime! 'Twas done as by the second hand, The drumsticks beating thyme. </div> <div class="stanza"> And now the moral—he who buys Will comprehend its worth,— Look not so much to weight and size As to the date of birth. </div> <div class="stanza"> In fowls there is a difference; "The good die young," they say, And for the death of innocence To make us meat, we pray. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 31] <h2>Holiday Home.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Of all the sweet visions that come unto me Of happy refreshment by land or by sea, Like oases where in life's desert I roam, Is nothing so pleasant as Holiday Home. </div> <div class="stanza"> I climb to the top of the highest of hills And look to the west with affectionate thrills, And fancy I stand by the emerald side Of charming Geneva, like Switzerland's pride. </div> <div class="stanza"> In distant perspective unruffled it lies, Except for the packet that paddles and plies, And puffing its way like a pioneer makes Its daily go-round o'er this pearl of the lakes. </div> <div class="stanza"> Untroubled except for the urchins that come From many a haunt that is never a home, Instinctive as ducklings to swim and to wade, Scarce knowing aforetime why water was made. </div> <div class="stanza"> All placid except for the dip of the oar Of the skiff, or the barge striking out from the shore, While merry excursionists shout till the gale Reverberates laughter through rigging and sail. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 32] How it scallops its basin and shimmers and shines Like a salver of silver encompassed with vines, In crystal illusion reflecting the skies And the mountain that seems from its bosom to rise. </div> <div class="stanza"> There stands a great house on a summit so high, Like an eyrie of safety enroofed by the sky; And I think of the rest and the comfort up there To sleep, and to breathe that empyreal air. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, the charm of the glen and the stream and the wood Can never be written, nor be understood, Except by the weary and languid who come To bask in the quiet of Holiday Home. </div> <div class="stanza"> From prisonlike cellars unwholesome and drear, From attic and alley, from labor severe, For the poor and the famished doth kindness prepare A world of diversion and excellent fare. </div> <div class="stanza"> To swing in the hammock, disport in the breeze, To lie in the shade of magnificent trees— Oh, this is like quaffing from luxury's bowl The life-giving essence for body and soul! </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 33] Nor distance nor time shall efface from the mind The influence gentle, the ministry kind; While gratitude fondly enhallows the thought Of a home and a holiday never forgot. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ah, one is remembered of saintliest men To lovely Geneva who comes not again; Who left a sweet impress wherever he trod, Humanity's helper, companion of God. </div> <div class="stanza"> In the hearts of the many there sheltered and fed, As unto a hospice by Providence led, Does often a thought like a sunbeam intrude Of the bounty so free, and the donors so good? </div> <div class="stanza"> Who of their abundance have cheerfully given Wherewith to develop an embryo heaven— To brighten conditions too hard and too sad And make the unhappy contented and glad. </div> <div class="stanza"> Be blessedness theirs, who like knights of renown Thus scatter such largesse o'er country and town, Their monument building in many a dome Like healthful and beautiful Holiday Home. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 34] <h2>Rutha.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> The days are long and lonely, The weary eve comes on, And the nights are filled with dreaming Of one beloved and gone. </div> <div class="stanza"> I reach out in the darkness And clasp but empty air, For Rutha dear has vanished— I wonder, wonder where. </div> <div class="stanza"> Yet must it be: her nature So lovely, pure, and true; So nearly like the angels, Is she an angel too. </div> <div class="stanza"> The cottage is dismantled Of all that made it bright; Beyond its silent portal No love, nor life, nor light. </div> <div class="stanza"> Where are the hopes I cherished, The joys that once I knew, The dreams, the aspirations? All, all are perished too. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 35] Yes, love's dear chain is broken; From shore to shore I roam— No comfort, no companion, No happiness, no home. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh could I but enfold her Unto my heart once more, If aught could e'er restore me My darling as before; </div> <div class="stanza"> If God would only tell me— Such myriads above— Why He must needs have taken The one I loved to love; </div> <div class="stanza"> If God would only tell me Why multitudes are left, Unhappy and unlovely, And I am thus bereft; </div> <div class="stanza"> If—O my soul, be silent And some day thou shalt see Through mystery and shadow, And know why it must be. </div> <div class="stanza"> To every cry of anguish From every heart distressed, Can be no other answer Than this—God knoweth best. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 36] <h2>The Student Gone.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> So soon he fell, the world will never know What possibilities within him lay, What hopes irradiated his young life, With high ambition and with ardor rife; But ah! the speedy summons came, and so He passed away. </div> <div class="stanza"> So soon he fell, there lie unfinished plans By others misapplied, misunderstood; And doors are barred that wait the master-key— That wait his magic Open Sesame!— To that assertive power that commands The multitude. </div> <div class="stanza"> Too soon he fell! Was he not born to prove What manhood and integrity might be— How one from all base elements apart Might walk serene, in purity of heart, His face the bright transparency of love And sympathy? </div> <div class="stanza"> The student ranks are closed, there is no gap; Of other brave aspirants is no dearth; Prowess, fidelity, and truth go on, [Pg 37] And few shall miss or mourn the student gone, Reposing in the all-protecting lap Of Mother Earth. </div> <div class="stanza"> Too soon—O God! was it thy will that one Of such endeavor and of noble mien, Enrapt with living, should thus early go From all he loved and all who loved him so, Mid life's activities no longer known, No longer seen? </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, not for aye should agonizing lips Quiver with questionings they dare not frame; Though in the dark penumbra of despair Seemeth no light, nor comfort anywhere— All things enshadowed as in dense eclipse, No more the same. </div> <div class="stanza"> Could we but know, in that Elysian lore Of happy exercise still going on Could we but know of glorious heights attained, Of his reward, of mysteries explained,— Ah! but to know were to lament no more The student gone. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 38] <h2>The Tourist.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Lo! carpet-bag and bagger occupy the land, And prove the touring season actively begun; His personnel and purpose can none misunderstand, For each upon his frontlet bears his honest brand— The fool-ish one! </div> <div class="stanza"> By caravan and car, from country and from town, A great grasshopper army fell foraging the land; Like bumblebees that know not where to settle down, Impossible it is to curb or scare or drown The tourist band. </div> <div class="stanza"> With guidebook, camera, with rod and gun, to shoot, To lure the deer, the hare, the bird, the speckled trout, The pauper or the prince unbidden they salute, And everywhere their royal right dare none dispute— To roam about. </div> <div class="stanza"> From dark immuring walls and dingy ways of trade, From high society's luxurious stately homes, From lounging places by the park or promenade, From rural dwellings canopied in sylvan shade, The tourist comes. </div> <div class="stanza"> To every mountain peak within the antipodes, To sweet, sequestered spots no other mortal knows; [Pg 39] To every island fair engirt by sunny seas, To forest-centers unexplored by birds or bees, The tourist goes. </div> <div class="stanza"> For Summer's fingers all the land have richly dressed, Resplendent in regalia of scent and bloom, And stirred in every heart the spirit of unrest, Like that of untamed fledglings in the parent nest For ampler room. </div> <div class="stanza"> What is it prompts the roving mania—is it love Of wild adventure fanciful, unique, and odd? Is it to be in fashion, and to others prove One's social standing, that impels the madness of The tramp abroad? </div> <div class="stanza"> The question hangs unanswered, like an unwise prayer, Importunate, but powerless response to bring; Go ask the voyagers, the rovers everywhere— They only say it is their rest-time, outing, their Vacationing. </div> <div class="stanza"> So is the world's eccentric round of joy complete When happy tourist-traveler, no more to roam, His fascinating, thrilling story shall repeat To impecunious, luckless multitudes who greet The tourist home. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 40] <h2>The Antiquarian.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Millions have been and passed from view Benignity who never knew; No aspiration theirs, nor aim; Existence soulless as the clay From whence they sprang, what right have they To eulogy or fame? </div> <div class="stanza"> So multitudes have been forgot— But drones or dunces, good for naught; Like clinging parasites or burrs Taking from others all they dared, Yet little they for others cared Except as pilferers. </div> <div class="stanza"> Not so with that majestic man The all-round antiquarian— No model his nor parallel; From selfishness inviolate Are his achievements good and great, And thus shall ages tell. </div> <div class="stanza"> A love for the antiquities His honest hold, his birthright is! And things unheard of or unread, [Pg 41] Defaced by moth or rust or mold, To him are treasures more than gold, Ay, than his daily bread. </div> <div class="stanza"> At neither ghost nor ghoul aghast He echoes voices of the past, And tones like melancholy knells Of years departed to his ear Are sweeter than of kindred dear, Sweeter than Florimel's. </div> <div class="stanza"> He delves through centuries of dust To resurrect some unknown bust, A torso, or a goddess whole; Maybe like Venus, minus arms— Haply to find those missing charms; But not the lost, lost soul. </div> <div class="stanza"> He dotes on aborigines Who lived in caves and hollow trees, And barters for their trinkets rare; Exchanging with those dusky breeds For arrow-heads and shells and beads A scalplock of his hair. </div> <div class="stanza"> Had he been born—thus he laments— Along with other great events, Coeval say with Noah's flood, [Pg 42] A proud relationship to trace With Hittites—or with any race Of blue archaic blood! </div> <div class="stanza"> Much he adores that Pilgrim flock, The same that split old Plymouth rock, Their "Bay Psalm" when they tried to sing. Devoid of metre, sense, and tune, Who but a Puritanic loon Could have devised the thing? </div> <div class="stanza"> He revels in a pedigree, The sprouting of a noble tree 'Way back in prehistoric times; And for the "Family Record" true Of scions all that ever grew Would give a billion dimes. </div> <div class="stanza"> There is a language fossils speak: 'Tis not like Latin, much less Greek, But quite as dead and antiquate Its silent syllables, and cold; But ah, what meanings they unfold, What histories relate! </div> <div class="stanza"> The earthquake is his best ally— It shows up things he cannot buy, And gives him raw material [Pg 43] For making mastodons and such, Enough to beat that ancient "Dutch Republic's Rise and Fall." </div> <div class="stanza"> A piece of bone can never lie: A rib, a femur, or a thigh Is but a dislocated sign Of something hybrid, half and half Betwixt a crocodile and calf— Maybe a porcupine. </div> <div class="stanza"> The stately "Antiquarium" Is his emporium, his home. He wonders if when he is gone Will people look with mournful pride On him done up and classified, And the right label on. </div> <div class="stanza"> He dreams of an emblazoned page, The calendar of every age Down from Creation's primal dawn; With archetypes of spears and bones, And tons of undeciphered stones Its illustrations drawn. </div> <div class="stanza"> Labor a blessing, not a curse, His hunting ground the Universe, So much the more his nature craves [Pg 44] To sound the fathoms of the sea: What mighty wonders there must be Down in those hidden caves! </div> <div class="stanza"> So toils this dauntless man, alert Amid the ruins and the dirt, That other men to endless day Themselves uplifted from the clod May see, and learn and know that God Is greater far than they. </div> <div class="stanza"> And thus, of mighty ken and plan, The all-round antiquarian Pursues his happy ministry; And on the world's progressive track Advances, always going back— Back to antiquity. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 45] <h2>Poor Housekeeping.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> If there is one gift that I prize above others, That tinges with brightness whatever I do, And gives to the sombre a roseate hue, 'Tis a legacy mine from the nicest of mothers, Who haply the beauty of housewifery knew, And taught me her neatness and diligence too. </div> <div class="stanza"> So is my discomfort a house in disorder: The service uncleanly, the linen distained, The children like infantry rude and untrained; The portieres dusty and frayed at the border, By lavish expenses the pocketbook drained, And miseries numberless never explained. </div> <div class="stanza"> I dream not of pleasure in visions untidy, A wrapper all hole-y, a buttonless shoe, A slatternly matron with nothing to do; And all the ill-luck charged to ominous Friday Can never compare with the ills that ensue On wretched housekeeping and cookery too. </div> <div class="stanza"> There's many a husband, a patient bread-winner, Gets up from the table with look of despair, And something akin to the growl of a bear; [Pg 46] Not the saint he might be, but a querulous sinner— One driven to fasting but not unto prayer— Till epitaphed thus—"Indigestible Fare." </div> <div class="stanza"> There's many a child, from the roof-tree diurnal, A scene of distraction or dullness severe, With the longing of youth for diversion and cheer, That comes like the spring-time refreshing and vernal, Goes out on a ruinous, reckless career, Returning, if ever, not many a year. </div> <div class="stanza"> O negligent female, imperfect housekeeper, Though faultless in figure and charming of face, In ruffles of ribbon and trailings of lace Usurping the part of a common street-sweeper, You never can pose as a type of your race In frowsy appearance mid things out of place. </div> <div class="stanza"> O fashion-bred damsel, with folly a-flutter, Until you have learned how to manage a broom, If never you know how to tidy a room, Manipulate bread or decide about butter, The duties of matron how dare you assume, Or ever be bride to a sensible groom? </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 47] I covet no part with that army of shirkers All down at the heels in their slipper-y tread, Who hunt for the rolling-pin under the bed, Who look with disdain on intelligent workers And take to the club or the circus instead Of mending a stocking or laying the spread. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, I dream of a system of perfect housekeeping, Where mistress and helper together compete In excellent management, quiet and neat; And though in the bosom of earth I am sleeping, Shall somebody live to whom life will be sweet And home an ideal, idyllic retreat. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>Going to Tobog.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Into my disappointment-cup The snowflakes fell and blocked the road, And so I thought I'd finish up The latest style of Christmas ode; When she, the charming little lass With eyes as bright as isinglass, Before a line my pen had wrought In strange attire came bounding in, As if she had with Bruno fought, And robbed him of his shaggy skin. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 48] She came to me robed cap-à-pie In her bewitching "blanket-suit," In moccasin and toggery, All ready for "that icy chute," And asked me if I thought she'd do; I shake with love of mischief true: "For what?—a polar bear?—why, yes!" "No, no!" she said, with half a pout. "Why, one would think so, by your dress— Say, does your mother know you're out?" </div> <div class="stanza"> "No, I'm not out," she said, and sighed; "Because the storm so wildly raged— But for the first delightful ride For half a year I've been engaged." "Engaged to what?—an Esquimau? To ride a glacier, or a floe?" "Why, don't you know"—her color glowed, In expectation all agog— "The reason why I'm glad it snowed? Because—I'm going to tobog." </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 49] <h2>"Passer Le Temps."</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> So that's the way you pass your time! Indeed your charming, frank confession Betrays no sort of heinous crime, But marks a wonderful digression From puritanic views, less bold, That we were early taught to hold. </div> <div class="stanza"> "Passer le temps," of course, implies A little cycle of flirtations, Wherein the actors never rise To sober, serious relations, But play just for amusement's sake A harmless game of "give and take." </div> <div class="stanza"> While moments pass on pinions fleet, And youth in beauty effloresces, The joy that finds itself complete In honeyed words and soft caresses, Alas! an index seems to be Of perilous inconstancy. </div> <div class="stanza"> It may be with disdainful smile You greet this comment from a stranger, Your pleasure-paths pursuing while A siren voice discounts the danger, Until, some day, in sadder rhyme You rue your mode of "passing time." </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 50] <h2>The Torpedo.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Valiant sons of the sea, All the vast deep, your home, Holds no terror so dread As this novel and unseen foe, Lurking under the foam Of some dangerous channel— As the torpedo, the scourge of ships. </div> <div class="stanza"> Through the rigging may roar Æolus' thousand gales, Yet the mariner's heart Shrinketh not from the howling blast; Though with battle-rent sails, Flames and carnage around him, Cowardice never shall pale his lips. </div> <div class="stanza"> But when powers concealed, Threatening with death the crew, Pave each eddy below, E'en the bravest are chilled with fear, Lest yon wizard in blue, Who their progress is spying, Touch but the key with his finger-tips. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 51] Lo! with thunderous boom Towers a column bright, And the vessel is gone! In that ocean of blinding spray Sink her turrets from sight, By thy potency broken, O irresistible scourge of ships! </div> <div class="stanza"> —Harry Howard. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>Margaret.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I saw her for a moment, Her presence haunts me yet, In oft-recurring visions Of grace and gladness met That marked the sweet demeanor Of dainty Margaret. </div> <div class="stanza"> Like gossamer her robe was Around her lightly drawn, A filmy summer-garment That fairy maidens don To make them look like angels Croqueting on the lawn. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 52] The mallet-sport became her In hue of exercise That tinged her cheek with roses; And, dancing in her eyes, Were pantomime suggestions Of having won—a prize. </div> <div class="stanza"> No more to me a stranger Is she who occupies A place in all my musings; And brings in tender guise A thought of one so like her— Long years in Paradise. </div> <div class="stanza"> Dear Margaret! that "pearl-name" Is thine—and may it be The synonym of goodness, Of truth and purity, And all ennobling graces Exemplified in thee. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 53] <h2>Christmas Bells.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Ring out, O bells, in joyful chime! Again we hail the Christmas time; In melting, mellow atmosphere, The crown and glory of the year. </div> <div class="stanza"> When bitterness, distrust, and awe Dissolve, like ice in winter's thaw, Beneath the genial touches of Amenity, good will, and love. </div> <div class="stanza"> When flowers of affection grow, Like edelweiss mid alpine snow, In lives severe and beautiless, Unused to warmth or tenderness. </div> <div class="stanza"> Let goodness, grace, and gratitude Revive in music's interlude, And pæan notes, till time shall cease, Proclaim the blessed reign of peace. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ring, Christmas bells! for at the sound Sweet memories of Him abound Who laid aside a diadem To be the babe of Bethlehem. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 54] <h2>By the Sea.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I am longing to dwell by the sea, And dip in the surf every day, And—height of subaqueous glee— With the sharks and the porpoises play. </div> <div class="stanza"> To novelty ever inclined— Instead of a calm evening sail, 'Twould suit my adventurous mind To ride on the back of a whale. </div> <div class="stanza"> I want to disport on the rocks Like a mythical mermaiden belle, And comb out my watery locks, Then dive to my cavernous cell. </div> <div class="stanza"> I want to discover what lends Such terror to all timid folks— That serpent whose mystery tends To make one believe it a hoax. </div> <div class="stanza"> They say he's been captured at last; The news is too good to be true— He's slippery, cunning, and fast, And likes notoriety too. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 55] Once had I such longings to be A sailor—those wishes are o'er, But ever in dreams of the sea My horoscope rests on the shore. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, give me a home by the sea— A cottage, a cabin, a tent! Existence should ecstasy be Till summer were joyfully spent. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>A Song.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Oh, sing me a merry song! My heart is sad tonight; The day has been so drear and long, The world has gone awry and wrong, Discouragements around me throng, And gloom surpassing night. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, sing again the song for me My mother used to sing When I, a child beside her knee, Looked up for her sweet sympathy, Nor ever thought how I might be Her little hindering thing. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 56] Oh, sing, as eventide draws near, The old-time lullabys Grandmother sang—forever dear, Though in her grave this many a year She lies who "read her title clear To mansions in the skies." </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, sing till all perplexing care Has vanished with the day! And angels ever bright and fair Come down the melody to share, And on their pinions lightly bear My happy soul away. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>"Is It April?"</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> No, this is January, dear, The almanac's untrue; For roaring Boreas, 'tis clear, In sleet and snow and atmosphere, Will be the monarch of the year, And terror, too. </div> <div class="stanza"> "Is it a blessing in disguise?" Of course, things always are; But Arctic blasts with ardent skies [Pg 57] Somehow do not quite harmonize, That try to cheat by weather-lies The calendar. </div> <div class="stanza"> Old Janus must be double-faced; He promised long ago The maple syrup not to taste, Nor steal the roses from the waist Of one, a damsel fair and chaste As April snow. </div> <div class="stanza"> O winter of our discontent! Your reign was for a day; Behold! a scene of wonderment, A thousand tongues are eloquent, For spring, in bud and bloom and scent, Is on the way. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>Christmas-Tide.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Let working-clothes be laid aside, And Industry in festal garb arrayed; Let busy brain and hand from toil and trade Relax at Christmas-tide. </div> <div class="stanza"> As moments pass by dial, so Let gifts go round the happy circle where [Pg 58] In giving and receiving each may share, And mutual kindness show. </div> <div class="stanza"> The meaning deep, like mystery, That lies in holly-bough or mistletoe, May thousands never fathom—yet who know And hail the Christmas-tree. </div> <div class="stanza"> So strong a hold on human thought Has this glad day that seasons all the year With the rich flavoring of hearty cheer, It ne'er shall be forgot. </div> <div class="stanza"> It is the milestone on life's road Where we may lay our burdens down, and take A look at souvenirs, for love's dear sake So prettily bestowed. </div> <div class="stanza"> Upon its shining tablet we may write— If, like the good Samaritan, in deed— A record that the angel band shall read With impulse of delight. </div> <div class="stanza"> And this is why on Christmas morn The world should smile and wear its brightest glow: Because some nineteen hundred years ago A little child was born. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 59] <h2>January, 1885.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> These winter days are passing fair! As if a breath of spring Had permeated all the air, And touched each living thing With thankfulness for such a boon— Discounting with a scoff The almanac's report that "June Is yet a long way off!" </div> <div class="stanza"> We quarrel with the calendar— For May has been misplaced— And doubt the tale oracular Of "Janus, double-faced;" For this "ethereal mildness" looks Toward shadowy delights Of roseate bowers, of cosy nooks, Of coming thermal nights. </div> <div class="stanza"> Let robes diaphanous succeed Dense garments made of fur, And overcoats maintain the lead— Among the things that were! The wisely-rented sealskin sacque, By many a dame possessed, Be quickly relegated back To its moth-haunted chest! </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 60] While every portly alderman, In linen suit arrayed, Manipulates the palm-leaf fan And seeks the cooling shade; And he perspires who not in vain Suggests his funny squibs, By poking his unwelcome cane In other people's ribs. </div> <div class="stanza"> Who dares to fling opprobrium On January now? As to a potentate we come With reverential bow, Because it doth not yet appear That Time hath ever seen The ruler of th' inverted year In more benignant mien. </div> <div class="stanza"> O Boreas! do not lie low— That is, if "lie" thou must— Upon our planet; do not blow With fierce and sudden gust, But come so gently, tenderly— As come thou surely wilt— That we may have sweet dreams of thee, Beneath "our crazy quilt!" </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 61] <h2>Sweet Peas.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> By helpful fingers taught to twine Around its trellis, grew A delicate and dainty vine; The bursting bud, its blossom sign, Inlaid with honeyed-dew. </div> <div class="stanza"> Developing by every art To floriculture known, From tares exempt, and kept apart, Careful, as if in some fond heart Its legume germs were sown. </div> <div class="stanza"> So thriving, not for me alone Its beauty and perfume— Ah, no, to rich perfection grown By flower mission loved and known In many a darkened room. </div> <div class="stanza"> And once in strange and solemn place, Mid weeping uncontrolled, Upon the crushed and snowy lace I saw them scattered 'round a face All pallid, still, and cold. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 62] Oh, some may choose, as gaudy shows, Those saucy sprigs of pride The peony, the red, red rose; But give to me the flower that grows Petite and pansy-eyed. </div> <div class="stanza"> Thus, meditation on Sweet Peas Impels the ardent thought, Would maidens all were more like these, With modesty—that true heartsease— Tying the lover's knot. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>The Summer House.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Midway upon the lawn it stands, So picturesque and pretty; Upreared by patient artist hands, Admired of all the city; The very arbor of my dream, A covert cool and airy, So leaf-embowered as to seem The dwelling of a fairy. </div> <div class="stanza"> It is the place to lie supine Within a hammock swinging, [Pg 63] To watch the sunset, red as wine, To hear the crickets singing; And while the insect world around Is buzzing—by the million— No wingèd thing above the ground Intrudes in this pavilion. </div> <div class="stanza"> It is the place, at day's decline, To tell the old, old story Behind the dark Madeira vine, Behind the morning glory; To confiscate the rustic seat And barter stolen kisses, For honey must be twice as sweet In such a spot as this is. </div> <div class="stanza"> It is the haunt where one may get Relief from petty trouble, May read the latest day's gazette About the "Klondike" bubble: How shanties rise like golden courts. Where sheep wear glittering fleeces, How gold is picked up—by the quartz— And all get rich as Croesus. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 64] Here hid away from dust and heat, Secure from rude intrusion, While willing lips the thought repeat, So grows the fond illusion: That happiness the product is Of lazy, languid dozing, Of soft midsummer reveries, Half-waking, half-reposing. </div> <div class="stanza"> And here in restful interlude, Life's fallacies forgetting, Its frailties—such a multitude— The fuming and the fretting, Amid the fragrance, dusk, and dew, The happy soul at even May walk abroad, and interview Bright messengers from Heaven. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 65] <h2>To Die in Autumn.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> The melody of autumn Is the only tune I know, And I sing it over and over Because it thrills me so; It stirs anew the happy wish, So near to perfect bliss, To live a little longer in A world like this. </div> <div class="stanza"> The sound was never sweeter, The voice so nearly mute, As beauty, dying, loses Her hold upon the lute; And like the harmonies that touch And blend with those above, Forever must an echo wake The heart of love. </div> <div class="stanza"> Her robe of brown and coral And amber glistens through Rare jewels of the morning, The opals of the dew, Like royal fabrics worn beneath The tinselry of pearls, Or diamond dust by fashion strewn On sunny curls. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 66] If I could wrap such garments In true artistic style About myself departing, And wear as sweet a smile And be as guileless as the flowers My friends would never sigh; 'Twould reconcile them to my death To see me die. </div> <div class="stanza"> And why should there be sorrow When dying is no more Than 'twixt two bright apartments The opening of a door Through which the freed, enraptured soul From this, a paradise, May pass to that supremely fair Beyond the skies? </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, 'twere not hard to finish When earth with tender grace Prepares for her dear children So sweet a resting place; And though in dissolution's throe The melody be riven, The song abruptly ended here Goes on in Heaven. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 67] <h2>Apple Blossoms.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Of all the lovely blossoms That decorate the trees, And shower down their petals With every breath of breeze, There is nothing so sweet or fair to me As the delicate blooms of the apple tree. </div> <div class="stanza"> A thousand shrubs and flow'rets Delicious pleasure bring, But beautiful Pomona Must be the queen of spring; And out of her flagon the peach and pear Their chalices fill with essence rare. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, is it any wonder, Devoid of blight or flaw, The peerless blooms of Eden Our primal mother saw In redolent beauty before her placed So tempted fair Eve the fruit to taste? </div> <div class="stanza"> But woman's love of apples, Involving fearful price, And Adam's love for woman That cost him Paradise, [Pg 68] By the labor of hands and sweat of brow, Have softened the curse to a blessing now. </div> <div class="stanza"> If so those pink-eyed glories, In fields and orchards gay Develop luscious fruitage By Horticulture's way, Then, sweet as the heart of rich legumes, Shall luxury follow the apple blooms. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>Without a Minister.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> The congregation was devout, The minister inspired, Their attitude to those without By every one admired, And all things so harmonious seemed, Of no calamity we dreamed. </div> <div class="stanza"> But, just in this quiescent state A little cloud arose Portentous of our certain fate— As everybody knows; Our pastor took it in his head His "resignation" must be read. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 69] In every eye a tear-drop stood, For we accepted it Reluctantly, but nothing could Make him recant one bit; And soon he left for distant parts, While we were left—with broken hearts. </div> <div class="stanza"> And next the "patriarch" who led For nearly three-score years Our "Sabbath school"—its worthy head— Rekindled all our fears By saying, with a smile benign, "Since it's the fashion, I'll resign!" </div> <div class="stanza"> And so he did; but promptly came Forth one, of good report— "Our Superintendent" is his name— Who tries to "hold the fort" With wisdom, tact, and rare good sense, In this, his first experience. </div> <div class="stanza"> The world looks on and says, "How strange! They hang together so, These Baptists do, and never change, But right straight onward go While other flocks are scattering all, And some have strayed beyond recall!" </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 70] <h2>Indian Summer.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Is it not our bounden duty Harsh and bitter thoughts to quell, Wild, ambitions schemes repel, And to revel in the beauty Of this Indian summer spell, Bathing forest, field, and dell As with radiance immortelle? </div> <div class="stanza"> None can paint like nature dying; Whose dissolving struggle lent Wealth of hues so richly blent That, through weary years of trying, Artist skill pre-eminent May not copy or invent Such divine embellishment. </div> <div class="stanza"> Knights of old from castles riding Scattered largesse as they went Which, like manna heaven-sent, Cheered the poverty-abiding; But, when 'neath "that low green tent" Passed the hand benevolent, Sad were they and indigent. </div> <div class="stanza"> Monarchs, too, have thus delighted Giving unto courtiers free, Costly robes and tinselry; [Pg 71] And, as royal guests, invited Them to sumptuous halls of glee, Banqueting and minstrelsy, Bacchus holding sovereignty. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then, perchance, in mood capricious Stripped and scorned and turned away Those who tasted for a day Pleasure sweet and food delicious; Nor might any say them nay— Lest his head the forfeit pay Who a king dared disobey. </div> <div class="stanza"> But our own benignant Giver, Almoner impartial, true, Constantly doth gifts renew; Nor would fitfully deliver Aught unto the chosen few, But to all the wide world through, Who admire his wonders, too. </div> <div class="stanza"> Never shall the heart be poorer, Never languish in despair, That such affluence may share; For than this is nothing surer— He hath said, and will prepare In those realms of upper air Glories infinitely fair. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 72] <h2>Autumn-Time.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Like music heard in mellow chime, The charm of her transforming time Upon my senses steals As softly as from sunny walls, In day's decline, their shadow falls Across the sleeping fields. </div> <div class="stanza"> A fair, illumined book Is nature's page whereon I look While "autumn turns the leaves;" And many a thought of her designs Between those rare, resplendent lines My fancy interweaves. </div> <div class="stanza"> I dream of aborigines, Who must have copied from the trees The fashions of the day: Those gorgeous topknots for the head, Of yellow tufts and feathers red, With beads and sinews gay. </div> <div class="stanza"> I wonder if the saints behold Such pageantry of colors bold Beyond the radiant sky; And if the tints of Paradise Are heightened by the strange device Of making all things die. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 73] Yea, even so; for Nature glows Because of her expiring throes, As if around her tomb Unmeet it were,—the look severe That designates a common bier Enwreathed in deepest gloom. </div> <div class="stanza"> And so I meditate if aught Can be so fair where death is not; If Heaven's loveliness Is born of struggle and decay; And, but for funeral array, Would it be beautiless? </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh solemn, sad, sweet mystery That Earth's unrivaled brilliancy Is but her splendid pall! That Heaven were not what it is But for that crown of tragedies, The sacrifice for all. </div> <div class="stanza"> So not a charm would Zion lose Were it bereft of sparkling hues In gilded lanes and leas; It would be bright though not a flower Unclosed in its celestial bower, And void of jeweled trees. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 74] Yet, lily-like, one bloom I see, Its name is his who died for me; Whose matchless beauty shows Perfection on its bleeding stem, The blossom-bud of Bethlehem, The Resurrection Rose. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>"The Beauty of Nature."</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Oh bud and leaf and blossom, How beautiful they are! Than last year's vernal season 'Tis lovelier by far; This earth was never so enchanting Nor half so bright before— But so I've rhapsodized, in springtime, For forty years or more. </div> <div class="stanza"> What luxury of color On shrub and plant and vine, From pansies' richest purple To pink of eglantine; From buttercups to "johnny-jump-ups," With deep cerulean eyes, Responding to their modest surname In violet surprise. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 75] Sometimes I think the sunlight That gilds the emerald hills, And makes Aladdin dwellings Of dingy domiciles, Is surplus beauty overflowing That Heaven cannot hold— The topaz glitter, or the jacinth, The glare of streets of gold. </div> <div class="stanza"> In "Cedar Hill," the city Of "low green tents" of sod, I read the solemn record Of those gone home to God; While from their hallowed dust arising The fragrant lilies grow As if their life was all the sweeter For those who sleep below. </div> <div class="stanza"> And so 'tis not in sadness I dwell upon the thought, When I am dead and buried That I shall be forgot. Because the germ of reproduction Doth this poor body hold, Perchance to add to nature's beauty A rose above the mold. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 76] <h2>"All the Rage."</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> A common wayside flower it grew, Unhandsome and unnoticed too, Except in deprecation That such an herb unreared by toil, Prolific cumberer of the soil, Defied extermination. </div> <div class="stanza"> Its gorgeous blooms were never stirred By honey-bee nor humming-bird In their corollas dipping; But they from clover white and red Delicious nectar drew instead In dainty rounds of sipping. </div> <div class="stanza"> No place its own euphonious name Within the catalogue might claim Of any flora-lover; For, in the scores of passers-by, As yet no true artistic eye Its beauty could discover. </div> <div class="stanza"> The reaper with his sickle keen Aimed at its crest of gold and green With spiteful stroke relentless, And would have rooted from the ground The "Solidago"—blossom-crowned, But gaudy, rank, and scentless. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 77] But everything must have its day— And since some fickle devotée Or myrmidon of Fashion Declares that this obnoxious weed, From wild, uncultivated seed, Shall be the "ruling passion," </div> <div class="stanza"> Effusive schoolgirls dote on it; Whose "frontispieces" infinite That need no decoration Are hid beneath its golden dust, Till many a fine, symmetric bust Is lost to admiration. </div> <div class="stanza"> Smart dudes and ladies' men—the few Who wish they could be ladies too— Display a sprig of yellow Conspicuous in their buttonhole, To captivate a maiden soul Or vex some other fellow. </div> <div class="stanza"> And spinsters of uncertain age Are clamoring now for "all the rage" To give a dash of color To their complexions, which appear To be the hue they hold so dear— Except a trifle duller. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 78] That négligée "blue-stocking" friend, Who never cared her time to spend On mysteries of the toilet, Now wears a sumptuous bouquet And shakes your hand a mile away For fear that you will spoil it. </div> <div class="stanza"> Delightful widows, dressed in black, Complain with modest sighs they lack That coveted expression, That sort of Indian Summer air Which "relicts" always ought to wear By general concession; </div> <div class="stanza"> And so lugubrious folds of crape Are crimped and twisted into shape With graceful heads of yellow, That give a winsome toning down To sombre hat and sable gown— In autumn tintings mellow. </div> <div class="stanza"> Alas, we only hate the weed! And think that it must be, indeed, The ladies' last endeavor To match the gentlemen, who flaunt That odious dried tobacco plant At which they puff forever. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 79] <h2>My Mother's Hand.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> My head is aching, and I wish That I could feel tonight One well-remembered, tender touch That used to comfort me so much, And put distress to flight. </div> <div class="stanza"> There's not a soothing anodyne Or sedative I know, Such potency can ever hold As that which lovingly controlled My spirit long ago. </div> <div class="stanza"> How oft my burning cheek as if By Zephyrus was fanned, And nothing interdicted pain Or seemed to make me well again So quick as mother's hand. </div> <div class="stanza"> 'Tis years and years since it was laid, In her own gentle way, On tangled curls of brown and jet Above the downy coverlet 'Neath which the children lay. </div> <div class="stanza"> As bright as blessed sunlight ray The past comes back to me; [Pg 80] Her fingers turn the sacred page For a little group of tender age Who gather at her knee. </div> <div class="stanza"> And when those hands together clasped Devout and still were we; To whom it seemed God then and there Must surely answer such a prayer, For none could pray as she. </div> <div class="stanza"> O buried love with her that passed Into the Silent Land! O haunting vision of the night! I see, encoffined, still, and white, A mother's face and hand. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>A Leap Year Episode.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Such oranges! so fresh and sweet, So large and lovely—and so cheap! They lay in one delicious heap, And added to the sumptuous feast For each and all in taste expert The acme of all fine dessert; So, singling out the very least As in itself an ample treat, While sparkling repartee and jest [Pg 81] Exhilarated host and guest, Of rarity so delicate In dreamy reverie I ate, By magic pinions as it were Transported from this realm of snows To be a happy sojourner Away down where the orange grows; Amid the bloom, the verdure, and The beauty of that tropic land, While redolence seemed wafted in From orchard-groves of Mandarin. </div> <div class="stanza"> In dinner costume a la mode, Expressing from the spongy skin The nectar that ran down her chin In little rills of lusciousness, Sat Maud, the beautiful coquette; Her dainty mouth, like "two lips" wet With morning dew, her crimson dress, A sad discoloration showed Where orange-juice—it was a sin!— A polka-dot had painted in; Which moved the roguish girl to say Half-ruefully (half-décolleté)— "I'm glad it's Leap Year now, for I—" Her voice was like a moistened lute [Pg 82] "Shall wear the flowers, by and by— I do not like this leaky fruit!" And looking straight and saucily At cousin Ned, her vis-a-vis; While Will, who never dared propose, Was blushing like a red, red rose. </div> <div class="stanza"> The company was large, and she Touched elbows with the exquisite, Gay Archibald, who took her wit And pertness all as meant for him; Who, thereby lifted some degrees Above less-favored devotees, With rainbow sails began to trim His craft of sweet felicity; So mirth in reckless afterlude Convulsed the merry multitude, Who laughed at Archie's self-esteem, And pitied Will's long-cherished dream; While all declared, for her and Ned— His face was like a silver tray— The wedding-banquet should be spread Before a twelvemonth passed away. But, ah, the sequel—blind were we To woman and her strategy! For he so long afraid to speak Bore off the bride within a week. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 83] <h2>If.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> If all the sermons good men preach And all the precepts that they teach Were gathered into one Unbroken line of silver speech, The shining filament might reach From earth unto the sun. </div> <div class="stanza"> If all the stories ever told By wild romancers, young or old, Into a thread were drawn, And from its cable coil unrolled, 'Twould span those misty hills of gold That heaven seems resting on. </div> <div class="stanza"> If every folly, every freak, From day to day, from week to week, Is written in "The Book," With all the idle words we speak, Would it not crimson many a cheek Upon the page to look? </div> <div class="stanza"> If all the good deeds that we do From honest motives pure and true Shall there recorded be, Known unto God and angels too, Is it not sad they are so few And wrought so charily? </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 84] <h2>Perfect Character.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> He lives but half who never stood By the grave of one held dear, And out of the deep, dark loneliness Of a heart bereaved and comfortless, From sorrow's crystal plentitude, Feeling his loss severe, Dropped a regretful tear. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, life's divinest draught doth not In the wells of joy abound! For the purest streams are those that flow Out of the depths of crushing woe, As from the springs of love and thought Hid in some narrow mound, Making it holy ground. </div> <div class="stanza"> He hath been blessed who sometimes knelt Owning that God is just, And in the stillness of cypress shade Rosemary's tender symbol laid Upon a cherished shrine, and felt Strengthened in faith and trust Over the precious dust. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 85] So perfect character is wrought, Rounded and beautified, By the alchemy of that strange alloy, The intermingling of grief and joy; So nearer Heaven the spirit, brought Bleeding, so sorely tried, Finds its diviner side. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>The Miracle of Spring.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> What touch is like the Spring's? By dainty fingerings Such rare delight to give, 'Tis luxury to live Amid florescent things. </div> <div class="stanza"> Through weary months of snow When Boreas swept low, How many an anxious hour We watched one little flower, And tried to make it grow; </div> <div class="stanza"> And thrilled with ecstasy When, half distrustfully, A timid bud appeared, A tender scion reared In window greenery. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 86] But lo! Spring's wealth of bloom And richness of perfume Comes as by miracle; Then why not possible Within a curtained room? </div> <div class="stanza"> Ah, no! that everywhere The earth is passing fair, And strange new life hath caught, Is but the marvel wrought By sunlight, rain, and air. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>Bermuda.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> O charming blossom of the sea Atlantic waters bosomed in! Abiding-place of gayety, Elysian bower of "Cora Linn," The sprightly, lively débiteuse Recounting all she sees and does. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, how it makes the northern heart, With sluggish current half-congealed, In ecstasy and vigor start To read about this tropic field; The garden of luxuriousness, In winter wearing summer's dress. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 87] With gelid sap and frozen gum In maple trees and hackmatack, While waiting for the spring to come Of life's necessities we lack; And sip the nectar that we find In luscious fruit with golden rind. </div> <div class="stanza"> But down the street we dread to walk, For all the teachings of our youth Receive an agonizing shock; Do tempting labels lie, forsooth? For "out of Florida," she says, "Come our Bermuda oranges." </div> <div class="stanza"> To speed the penitential prayer Our rosary we finger o'er, A yellow necklace rich and rare— 'Twas purchased at the dollar store; But oh, it makes us sigh to see That land of amber bijouterie! </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, ocean wave and flying sail Shall never waft us to its shore! But if some reckless cyclone gale Should drop Bermuda at our door, 'Twould warm our February sky And bring the time of roses nigh! </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 88] <h2>The Charter Oak.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I seem to see the old tree stand, Its sturdy, giant form A spectacle remembered, and A pilgrim-shrine for all the land Before it met the storm. </div> <div class="stanza"> Unnumbered gales the tree defied; It towered like a king Above his courtiers, reaching wide, And sheltering scions at its side As with protecting wing. </div> <div class="stanza"> Revered as one among the trees To mark the seasons born, To watchful aborigines It told by leafy indices The time of planting corn. </div> <div class="stanza"> The landmark of the past is gone, Its site is overgrown; A mansion overlooks the lawn Where history is traced upon A parapet of stone. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 89] Shall e'er Connecticut forget What unto it we owe— How Wadsworth coped with Andros' threat, And tyranny, in council met, Outwitted years ago? </div> <div class="stanza"> Aye, but it rouses loyal spunk To think of that old tree! Its stately stem, its spacious trunk By Nature robbed of pith and punk To guard our liberty. </div> <div class="stanza"> But of the oak long-perished, why Is earth forever full? For, like the loaf and fish supply, Its stock of fiber, tough and dry, Seems inexhaustible. </div> <div class="stanza"> Rare souvenirs the stranger sees— Who never sees a joke— And innocently dreams that these, From knotty, gnarly, scraggy trees, Were once the Charter Oak! </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 90] <h2>Blossom-time.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Yes, it is drawing nigh— The time of blossoming; The waiting heart beats stronger With every breath of Spring, The days are growing longer; While happy hours go by As if on zephyr wing. </div> <div class="stanza"> A wealth of mellow light Reflected from the skies The hill and vale is flooding; Still in their leafless guise The Jacqueminots are budding, Creating new delight By promise of surprise. </div> <div class="stanza"> The air is redolent As ocean breezes are From spicy islands blowing, Or groves of Malabar Where sandal-wood is growing; Or sweet, diffusive scent, From fragrant attar-jar. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 91] Just so is loveliness Renewed from year to year; And thus emotions tender, Born of the atmosphere, Of bloom, and vernal splendor That words cannot express, Make Spring forever dear. </div> <div class="stanza"> Can mortal man behold So beautiful a scene, Without the innate feeling That thus, like dying sheen The sunset hues revealing, Glints pure, celestial gold On fields of living green? </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 92] <h2>"One of the Least of These."</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 'Twas on a day of cold and sleet, A little nomad of the street With tattered garments, shoeless feet, And face with hunger wan, Great wonder-eyes, though beautiful, Hedged in by features pinched and dull, Betraying lines so pitiful By sorrow sharply drawn; </div> <div class="stanza"> Ere yet the service half was o'er, Approached the great cathedral door As choir and organ joined to pour Their sweetness on the air; Then, sudden, bold, impelled to glide With fleetness to the altar's side, Her trembling form she sought to hide Amid the shadows there, </div> <div class="stanza"> Half fearful lest some worshiper, Enveloped close in robes of fur, Had cast a scornful glance at her As she had stolen by, But soon the swelling anthem, fraught With reverence, her spirit caught As rapt she listened, heeding not The darkness drawing nigh. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 93] 'Mid novelty and sweet surprise Her soul, enraptured, seemed to rise And tread the realms of Paradise; Her shivering limbs grew warm, And as the shadows longer crept Across the chancel, angels kept Their vigils o'er her as she slept Secure from cold and storm. </div> <div class="stanza"> No sound her peaceful slumber broke, But one, whose gentle face bespoke True goodness, took her costly cloak In tender, thoughtful way, And as the sleeper sweetly smiled, Perchance by dreams of Heaven beguiled, O'erspread the passive, slumbering child, And softly stepped away. </div> <div class="stanza"> So rest thee, child! since Sorrow's dart Has touched like thine the Saviour's heart, Thou hast a nearer, dearer part In his great love for thee; And when life's shadows all are gone, May Heaven reveal a brighter dawn To thee who, unaware, hast drawn Our hearts in sympathy. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 94] <h2>Lightning-bugs.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Around my vine-wreathed portico, At evening, there's a perfect glow Of little lights a-flashing— As if the stellar bodies had From super-heat grown hyper-mad, And spend their ire in clashing. </div> <div class="stanza"> As frisky each as shooting star, These tiny electricians are The Lampyrine Linnæan— Or lightning-bugs, that sparkling gleam Like scintillations in a dream Of something empyrean. </div> <div class="stanza"> They brush my face, light up my hair, My garments touch, dart everywhere; And if I try to catch them They're quicker than the wicked flea— And then I wonder how 'twould be To have a dress to match them. </div> <div class="stanza"> To be a "princess in disguise," And wear a robe of fireflies All strung and wove together, And be the cynosure of all [Pg 95] At Madame Haut-ton's carnival, In fashion's gayest feather. </div> <div class="stanza"> So, sudden, falls upon the grass The overpow'ring light of gas, And through the lattice streaming; As wearily I close my eyes Brief are the moments that suffice To reach the land of dreaming. </div> <div class="stanza"> Now at the ball, superbly dressed As I suppose, to eclipse the rest, Within an alcove shady A brilliant flame I hope to be, While all admire and envy me, The "bright electric lady." </div> <div class="stanza"> But, ah, they never shine at all! My eyes ignite—I leave the hall, For wrathful tears have filled them; I could have crushed them on the spot— The bugs, I mean!—and quite forgot That stringing them had killed them. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 96] <h2>Of Her who Died.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> We look up to the stars tonight, Idolatrous of them, And dream that Heaven is in sight, And each a ray of purest light From some celestial gem In her bright diadem. </div> <div class="stanza"> Before that lonely home we wait, Ah! nevermore to see Her lovely form within the gate Where heart and hearthstone desolate And vine and shrub and tree Seem asking: "Where is she?" </div> <div class="stanza"> There is the cottage Love had planned— Where hope in ashes lies— A tower beautiful to stand, Her monument whose gentle hand And presence in the skies Make home of Paradise. </div> <div class="stanza"> In wintry bleakness nature glows Beneath the stellar ray; We see the mold, but not the rose, [Pg 97] And meditate if knowledge goes Into yon mound of clay, With her who passed away. </div> <div class="stanza"> Of sighs, and tears, and joys denied Do echoes reach up there? Do seraphs know—God does—how wide And deep is sorrow's bitter tide Of dolor and despair, And darkness everywhere? </div> <div class="stanza"> Dear angel, snatched from our caress, So suddenly withdrawn, Alone are we and comfortless; As in a dome of emptiness The old routine goes on, Aimless, since thou art gone. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, dearer unto us than aught In all the world beside Of thee to cherish blessed thought; So early thy sweet mission wrought, As friend, as promised bride, Who lived, and loved, and died. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 98] <h2>Thanksgiving.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Nature, erewhile so marvelously lovely, is bereft Of her supernal charm; And with the few dead garlands of departed splendor left, Like crape upon her arm, In boreal hints, and sudden gusts That fan the glowing ember, By multitude of ways fulfills The promise of November. </div> <div class="stanza"> Upon the path where Beauty, sylvan priestess, sped away, Lies the rich afterglow Of Indian Summer, bringing round the happy holiday That antedates the snow: The glad Thanksgiving time, the cheer, The festival commotion That stirs fraternal feeling from The mountains to the ocean. </div> <div class="stanza"> O Hospitality! unclose thy bounty-laden hand In generous dealing, where Is gathered in reunion each long-severed household band, And let no vacant chair [Pg 99] Show where the strongest, brightest link In love's dear chain is broken— A symbol more pathetic than By language ever spoken. </div> <div class="stanza"> Into the place held sacred to the memory of some Beloved absentee, Perchance passed to the other shore, oh, let the stranger come And in gratuity Partake of festal favors that Shall sweeten hours of labor, And strengthen amity and love Unto his friend and neighbor. </div> <div class="stanza"> Let gratitude's pure incense in warm orisons ascend, A blessing to secure, And gracious impulse bearing largesse of good gifts extend To all deserving poor; So may the day be hallowed by Unstinted thanks and giving, In sweet remembrance of the dead And kindness to the living. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 100] <h2>Receiving Sight.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> In hours of meditation fraught With mem'ries of departed days, Comes oft a tender, loving thought Of one who shared our youthful plays. </div> <div class="stanza"> In gayest sports and pleasures rife Whose happy nature reveled so, That on her ardent, joyous life A shadow lay, we did not know; </div> <div class="stanza"> And bade her look one summer night Up to the sky that seemed to hold, In dying sunset splendor bright, All hues of sapphire, red, and gold. </div> <div class="stanza"> How strange the spell that mystified Us all, and hushed our wonted glee, As sadly her sweet voice replied, "Why, don't you know I cannot see?" </div> <div class="stanza"> Too true! those eyes bereft of sight No blemish bare, no drop-serene, But nothing in this world of light And beauty they had ever seen. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 101] A dozen years in gentle ruth Their impress lent to brow and cheek, When precious words of sacred truth Led her the Saviour's face to seek. </div> <div class="stanza"> Responsive unto earnest prayers Commingling love and penitence, A blessing came—not unawares— In new and strange experience. </div> <div class="stanza"> And all was light, as Faith's clear eye A brighter world than ours divined; For never clouds obscured the sky That she could see, while we were blind. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, it must be an awful thing To be shut out from light of day!— From summer's grace, and bloom of spring In gladness words cannot portray. </div> <div class="stanza"> But haply into every heart May enter that Celestial Light That doth to life's dark ways impart A radiance hid from mortal sight. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 102] <h2>Revenge.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Beside my window day and night, Its tendrils reaching left and right, A morning glory grew; With blossoms covered, pink and white And deep, delicious blue. </div> <div class="stanza"> Its care became my daily thought, Who to the sweet diversion brought A bit of florist skill To guide its progress, till it caught The meaning of my will. </div> <div class="stanza"> When through the trellis in and out It bent and turned and climbed about And so ambitious grew, O'erleaped a chasm beyond the spout Where raindrops trickled through, </div> <div class="stanza"> Then, in caressing, graceful way, Around a door knob twined one day With modest show of pride; All unaware that danger lay Just on the other side. </div> <div class="stanza"> An awkward, verdant "maid of work," Who dearly loved her tasks to shirk, [Pg 103] While rummaging among Unused apartments, with a jerk The door wide open flung. </div> <div class="stanza"> And lo! there lay, uprooted quite, The object of my heart's delight— I did not weep or rant, And yet a grain or two of spite My secret thoughts would haunt. </div> <div class="stanza"> So when at night her favorite beau Beside his charmer sat below— That is, dans le cuisine— Occurred, as all the neighbors know, A semi-tragic scene. </div> <div class="stanza"> The garden hose, obscured from view, Turned on itself and drenched the two— A hapless circumstance That lengthened out her "frizzes" new, But shrunk his Sunday pants. </div> <div class="stanza"> Remember this was years agone— The madcap now hath sober grown And hose is better wrought, And neither now would run alone The risk of being caught. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 104] <h2>On the Common.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> We met on "Boston Common"— Of course it was by chance— A sudden, unexpected, But happy circumstance That gave the dull October day A beautiful, refulgent ray. </div> <div class="stanza"> Like wandering refugees from A city of renown, Impelled to reconnoiter This Massachusetts town, Each by a common object urged, Upon the park our paths converged. </div> <div class="stanza"> Good nature, bubbling over In healthy, hearty laughs, And little lavish speeches Like pleasant paragraphs, The kind regard, unstudied joke, His true felicity bespoke. </div> <div class="stanza"> A bit of doleful knowledge Confided unto me, About the way the doctors— Who never could agree— His knees had tortured, softly drew My sympathy and humor, too. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 105] I hoped he wouldn't lose them, And languish in the dumps By having to quadrille on A pair of polished stumps— But a corky limb, though one might dread, Isn't half as bad as a wooden head. </div> <div class="stanza"> He censured those empirics Who never heal an ill, Though bound by their diplomas To either cure or kill, Who should, with ignominy crowned, Their patients follow—under ground. </div> <div class="stanza"> I left him at the foot of "The Soldiers' Monument," With incoherent mutterings— As though 'twere his intent To turn the sod, a rod or two, And sleep beside the "boys in blue." </div> <div class="stanza"> In Hartford's charming circles His bonhommie I miss, And having never seen him From that day unto this, I think of him with much regret As lying—with the soldiers—yet. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 106] <h2>Woman's Help.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Sometimes I long to write an ode And magnify his name, The man of honor, on the road To opulence and fame, On whom was never aid bestowed By any helpful dame. </div> <div class="stanza"> To all the world I fain would show That talent widely known, Rare eloquence, of burning glow To melt a heart of stone, That all his gifts, a dazzling row, Are his, and his alone. </div> <div class="stanza"> But him, of character and mind Superb, alert, and strong, I never study but to find The subject of my song, Some paragon of womankind, Has helped him all along. </div> <div class="stanza"> He may not know, he may not guess, How much to her he owes, How every scion of success [Pg 107] That in his nature grows, Developed by her watchfulness, Becomes a blooming rose. </div> <div class="stanza"> From buffetings in humble place, And labors ill begun, To proud achievement in the race And laurels grandly won, His trials all she dares to face As friend and champion. </div> <div class="stanza"> The bars that hinder his advance And half obscure the goal, The stubborn bond of circumstance That irritates his soul, The countershafts of arrogance, All yield to her control. </div> <div class="stanza"> He builds a tower—she below Is handing up the bricks; His light is brilliant just as though Her hand had trimmed the wicks; He prays for daily bread—the dough A woman deigns to mix. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 108] <h2>Tobogganing.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Oh, the rare exhilaration, Oh, the novel delectation Of a ride down the slide! Packed like ice in zero weather, Pleasure-seekers close together, On a board as thin as wafer, Barely wider, scarcely safer, At the height of recreation Find a glorious inspiration, Ere the speedy termination In the snowy meadow wide, Sloping to the river's side. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, such quakers we begin it, Timorous of the icy route! But to learn in half a minute What felicity is in it, As we shoot down the chute, Smothered in toboggan suit, Redingote or roquelaure, Buttoned up (and down) before, Mittens, cap, and moccasin, Just the garb to revel in; So, the signal given, lo! [Pg 109] Over solid ice and snow, Down the narrow gauge we go Swifter than a bird o'erhead, Swifter than an arrow sped From the staunchest, strongest bow. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, it beats all "Copenhagen," Silly lovers' paradise! Like the frozen Androscoggin, Slippery, and smooth, and nice, Is the track of the toboggan; And there's nothing cheap about it, Everything is steep about it, The insolvent weep about it, For the biggest thing on ice Is its tip-top price; But were this three times the money, Then the game were thrice as funny. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ye who dwell in latitudes Where "the blizzard" ne'er intrudes, And the water seldom freezes; Ye of balmy Southern regions, Alabama's languid legions, From the "hot blast" of your breezes, Where the verdure of the trees is Limp, and loose, and pitiful, [Pg 110] Come up here where branches bare Stand like spikes in frosty air; Come up here where arctic rigor Shall restore your bloom and vigor, Making life enjoyable; Come and take a jog on The unparalleled toboggan! Such the zest that he who misses Never knows what perfect bliss is. So the sport, the day's sensation, Thrills and recreates creation. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>The Woods.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I love the woods when the magic hand Of Spring, as if sweeping the keys Of a wornout instrument, touches the earth; When beauty and song in the gladness of birth Awaken the heart of the desolate land, And carol its rapture to every breeze. </div> <div class="stanza"> In summer's still solstice my steps are drawn To the shade of the forest trees; To revel with Pan in his secret haunts, To pipe mazourkas while satyrs dance, Or lull to soft slumber some favorite faun And fascinate strange wild birds and bees. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 111] I love the woods when autumnal fires Are kindled on every hill; When dead leaves rustle in grove and field, And trees are known by the fruits they yield, And the wild grapes, sweetened by frost, inspire A mildly-desperate, bibulous thrill. </div> <div class="stanza"> There's a joy for which I would fling to the air My petty portion of wealth and fame, In tracking the rabbit o'er fresh-fallen snow, The ways of the 'coon and opossum to know, To capture squirrels when branches are bare As the cupboard shelf of that ancient dame. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, I long to explore the woods again In my own aboriginal way, As before I knew how culture could frown On a hoydenish gait and a homespun gown Or dreamed that the strata of proud "upper-ten" Would smile at rusticity's naïveté. </div> <div class="stanza"> I sigh for the pleasures of long ago In youth's sweet halcyon time; When better beloved than the thoroughfare By multitudes trod were the woodlands, where Was never a path that I did not know, Nor thrifty sapling I dared not climb. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 112] Alas for lost freedom! Alas for me! For oh, Society's lip would curl, Propriety's self with scornful eye And gilt-edged Fashion would pass me by To know that sometimes I'm dying to be The romp, the rover, the same old girl. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>Like Summer.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> November? 'tis a summer's day! For tropic airs are blowing As soft as whispered roundelay From unseen lips that seem to say To feathered songsters going To sunnier, southern climes afar, "Stay where you are—stay where you are!" </div> <div class="stanza"> And other tokens glad as these Declare that Summer lingers: Round latent buds still hum the bees, Slow fades the green from forest trees Ere Autumn's artist fingers Have touched the landscape, and instead Brought out the amber, brown, and red. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 113] The invalid may yet enjoy His favorite recreation, Gay, romping girl, unfettered boy In outdoor sports the time employ, And happy consummation Of prudent plans the farmer know Ere wintry breezes round him blow. </div> <div class="stanza"> And they by poverty controlled— Good fortune shall betide them As scenes of beauty they behold, And seem to revel in the gold Which Plutus has denied them; For, ah! the poor from want's despair Oft covet wealth they never share. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 114] <h2>Sheridan's Last Ride.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> While Ph&oelig;bus lent his hottest rays To signalize midsummer days, I stood in that far-famed enclosure By thousands visited, Where, in the stillness of reposure, Are grouped battalions dead. </div> <div class="stanza"> Where, round each simple burial stone, The grass for decades twain has grown, Protecting them in dreamless slumber Who perished long ago, The multitudes defying number, A part of war's tableau. </div> <div class="stanza"> Along the winding avenue A vast procession came in view; The mourners' slow, advancing column With reverent step drew near, The "Dead March" playing, sad and solemn, Above a soldier's bier. </div> <div class="stanza"> There were the colonels, brigadiers, Comrades in arms of other years, Civilians, true and loyal-hearted To him their bravest man, [Pg 115] Who seemed to say to those departed, "Make room for Sheridan!" </div> <div class="stanza"> Anon, beside the new-made mound, The warworn veterans gathered round, And spake of Lyon and of Lander, And others ranked as high, Recalling each his old commander, One not afraid to die. </div> <div class="stanza"> Thus, silent tenants one by one Are crowding in at Arlington; Thus Sheridan, the horseman daring, Has joined the honored corps Of those, their true insignia wearing, Who battle nevermore. </div> <div class="stanza"> Potomac's wave shall placid flow, And sing his requiem soft and low, His terrace grave be sweet with clover, And daisies star his bed, For Sheridan's last ride is over— The General is dead! </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 116] <h2>A Bit of Gladness.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> As I near my lonely cottage, At the close of weary day, There's a little bit of gladness Comes to meet me on the way: Dimpled, tanned, and petticoated, Innocent as angels are, Like a smiling, straying sunbeam Is my Stella—like a star. </div> <div class="stanza"> Soon a hand of tissue-softness Slips confidingly in mine, And with tender look appealing Eyes of beauty sweetly shine; Like a gentle shepherd guiding Some lost lamb unto the fold, So she leads me homeward, prattling Till her stories are all told. </div> <div class="stanza"> "Papa, I'm so glad to see you— Cousin Mabel came today— And the gas-man brought a letter That he said you'd better pay— Yes, and awful things is happened: My poor kitty's drowned to death— Mamma's got the 'Pigs in Clover'—" Here she stops for want of breath. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 117] I am like the bold knight-errant, From his castle who would roam, Trusting her, my faithful steward, For a strict account of home; And each day I toil, and hazard All that any man may dare, For a resting-place at even, And the love that waits me there. </div> <div class="stanza"> And sometimes I look with pity On my neighbor's mansion tall: There are chambers full of pictures, There are marbles in the hall, Yet with all the signs of splendor That may gild a pile of stone, Not a living thing about it But the owner, grim and lone. </div> <div class="stanza"> I believe that all his millions He would give without repine For a little bit of gladness In his life, like that in mine; This it is that makes my pathway Beautiful, wherever trod, Keeps my soul from wreck and ruin, Keeps me nearer to my God. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 118] <h2>The Charity Ball.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> There was many a token of festal display, And reveling crowds who were never so gay, And, as it were Æolus charming the hours, An orchestra hidden by foliage and flowers; There were tapestries fit for the home of a queen, And mirrors that glistened in wonderful sheen; There was feasting and mirth in the banqueting-hall, For this was the annual Charity Ball. </div> <div class="stanza"> There were pompous civilians, in wealth who abide, Displaying their purses, the source of their pride; And plethoric dealers in margins and stocks, And owners of acres of elegant blocks, And tenement-landlords who cling to a cent When from the poor widow exacting her rent— Immovable, stern, as an adamant wall— And yet, who "came down" to this Charity Ball. </div> <div class="stanza"> There was Beauty whose toilet, superb and unique, Cost underpaid industry many a week Of arduous labor of eye, and heartache, Its starving inadequate pittance to make; There were mischievous maidens and cavaliers bold, [Pg 119] Whose blushes and glances and coquetry told A tale of the monarch who held them in thrall— Who met, as by chance, at the Charity Ball. </div> <div class="stanza"> There were delicate viands the poor never taste, And dollars were lavished in prodigal waste To pamper the palate of epicures rich; Who drew from the wine cellar's cavernous niche "Excelsior" brands of the rarest champagnes To loosen their tongues—though it pilfered their brains— Oh, sad if a step in some woeful downfall Should ever be traced to a Charity Ball! </div> <div class="stanza"> Outside of the window, pressed close to the pane, And furrowed by tears that had fallen like rain, Was the face of a woman, so spectral in hue, With great liquid eyes, like twin oceans of blue, And cheeks in whose hollows were written the lines That pitiless hunger so often defines, Who muttered, as closer she gathered the shawl, "Oh, never for me is this Charity Ball!" </div> <div class="stanza"> From liveried hirelings who bade her begone, By uniformed minions compelled to move on, Out into the street again driven to roam— For friends she had none, neither fortune nor home; [Pg 120] While carnival-goers in morning's dull gray As homeward returning, fatigued and blasé, A vision encountered their hearts to appall, And banish all thought of the Charity Ball. </div> <div class="stanza"> As if seeking warmth from the icy curb-stone, A form half-reclining, half-clad, and unknown. Dead eyes looking up with a meaningless stare, Lay close to the crowded and broad thoroughfare; A form so emaciate the spirit had fled— But the pulpit and press and the public all said, As society's doings they sought to recall, That a "brilliant success" was the Charity Ball. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>The Bell(e) of Baltimore.</h2> [One of the notable features of Baltimore is the big bell that hangs in the city hall tower, to strike the hour and sound the fire alarm. It is called "Big Sam," and weighs 5,000 pounds] <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> A million feet above the ground (For so it seemed in winding round), A million, and two more, The latter stiff and sore, While perspiration formed a part Of every reeking pore, I viewed the city like a chart Spread out upon the floor. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 121] And said: "Great guide Jehoiakin, To me is meagre pleasure in The height of spires and domes, Of walls like ancient Rome's; Nor care I for the marts of trade, Or shelves of musty tomes, Nor yet for yonder colonnade Before your palace homes; </div> <div class="stanza"> "But curiosity is keen To know the city's reigning queen, Who suiteth well the score Of suitors at her door; Oh, which of your divinities Is she whom all adore? Embodiment of truth, who is The belle of Baltimore?" </div> <div class="stanza"> Veracity's revolving eyes Looked up as if to read the skies: "Why, Lor'-a-miss, see dar— De bell is in de air! Lan' sakes! of all de missteries Yo' nebber learn before! Why, don' yo' know 'Big Sam'? He is De bell of Baltimore!" </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 122] <h2>Christmas at Church.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 'Twas drawing near the holiday, When piety and pity met In whisp'ring council, and agreed That Christmas time, in homes of need, Should be remembered in a way They never could forget. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then noble generosity Took youth and goodness by the hand, And planned a thousand charming ways To celebrate this best of days, While hearts were held in sympathy By love's encircling band. </div> <div class="stanza"> So multitudes together came, Like wandering magi from the East With precious gifts unto the King, With every good and perfect thing To satisfy a shivering frame Or amplify a feast. </div> <div class="stanza"> The angels had looked long and far The happy scene to parallel, When through the sanctuary door [Pg 123] Were carried gifts from shop and store, The treasures of the rich bazaar, To give—but not to sell. </div> <div class="stanza"> As once the apostolic twelve Of goods allotment made, So equity dealt out with care The widow's and the orphan's share, And of the aged forced to delve At drudging task or trade. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, could the joy which tears express That out of gladness come Be mirrored in its tender glow, Before the beautiful tableau Ingratitude and selfishness Would shrink abashed and dumb! </div> <div class="stanza"> If every year and everywhere Could kindness thus expand In bounteous gratuity, To all her children earth would be A flowery vale like Eden fair, A milk-and-honey land. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 124] <h2>Mysterious.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> The morning sun rose bright and fair Upon a lovely village where Prosperity abounded, And ceaseless hum of industry In lines of friendly rivalry From day to day resounded. </div> <div class="stanza"> Its shaded avenues were wide, And closely bordered either side With cottages or mansions, Or marked by blocks of masonry That might defy a century To loosen from their stanchions. </div> <div class="stanza"> Its peaceful dwellers daily vied To make this spot, with anxious pride, A Paradise of beauty, Recounted its attractions o'er, And its adornment held no more A pleasure than a duty. </div> <div class="stanza"> But, ere the daylight passed away, That hamlet fair in ruins lay, Its hapless people scattered Like playthings, at the cyclone's will, And scarce remained one domicile Its fury had not shattered. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 125] Few moments of the tempest's wrath Sufficed to mark one dreadful path With scenes of devastation; While over piles of wild débris Rose shrieks of dying agony Above the desolation. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, mystery! who can understand Why, sudden, from God's mighty hand Destructive bolts of power Without discrimination strike The evil and the good alike— As in that dreadful hour! </div> <div class="stanza"> Alas for aching hearts that wait Today in homes made desolate By one sharp blow appalling— For all who kneel by altars lone, And strive to say "Thy will be done," That awful day recalling! </div> <div class="stanza"> We dare not question his decrees Who seeth not as mortal sees, Nor doubt his goodness even; Nor let our hearts be dispossessed Of faith that he disposeth best All things in earth and Heaven. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 126] <h2>"Be not Anxious."</h2> "Be careful for nothing," Phil. iv. 6. Revised version, "Be not anxious." <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Of all the precepts in the Book By word of inspiration given, That bear the import, tone, and look Of messages direct from heaven, From Revelation back to Genesis Is nothing needed half so much as this. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ah, well the great apostle spake In admonition wise and kind, Who bade humanity forsake The petty weaknesses that bind The spirit like a bird with pinioned wings, That to a broken bough despairing clings. </div> <div class="stanza"> Were all undue anxiety Eliminated from desire, Could feverish fears and fancies be Consumèd on some funeral pyre, Like holy hecatomb or sacrifice, 'Twould be accepted up in Paradise. </div> <div class="stanza"> Could this machinery go on Without the friction caused by fret, [Pg 127] What greater loads were lightly drawn, More easily were trials met; Then might existence be with blessings rife, And lengthened out like Hezekiah's life. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, be not anxious; trouble grows When cherished like a secret grief; It is the worm within the rose That eats the heart out leaf by leaf; And though the outer covering be fair, The weevil of decay is busy there. </div> <div class="stanza"> In deep despondency to pine, Or vain solicitude, Is to deny this truth divine That God is great and good; That he is Ruler over earth and Heaven, And so disposes and makes all things even. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 128] <h2>Mount Vernon.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Subdued and sad, I trod the place Where he, the hero, lived and died; Where, long-entombed beneath the shade By willow bough and cypress made, The peaceful scene with verdure rife, He and the partner of his life, Beloved of every land and race, Are sleeping side by side. </div> <div class="stanza"> The summer solstice at its height Reflected from Potomac's tide A glare of light, and through the trees Intensified the Southern breeze, That dallied, in the deep ravines, With graceful ferns and evergreens, While Northern cheeks so strangely white Grew dark as Nubia's pride. </div> <div class="stanza"> What must this homestead once have been In boundless hospitality, When Greene or Putnam may have met The host who welcomed Lafayette, Or when Pulaski, honored guest, Accepted shelter, food and rest, [Pg 129] While rank and talent gathered in Its banquet hall of luxury! </div> <div class="stanza"> What comfort, cheer, and kind intent The weary stranger oft hath known When she, its mistress, fair and good, Reigned here in peerless womanhood, When soft, shy maiden fancy gave Encouragement to soldiers brave, And Washington his presence lent To grace its bright hearthstone! </div> <div class="stanza"> O beautiful Mount Vernon home, The Mecca of our long desire; Of more than passing interest To North and South, to East and West, To all Columbia's children free A precious, priceless legacy, Thine altar-shrine, as pilgrims come, Rekindles patriot fire! </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 130] <h2>A Prisoner.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Where I can see him all day long And hear his wild, spontaneous song, Before my window in his cage, A blithe canary sits and swings, And circles round on golden wings; And startles all the vicinage When from his china tankard He takes a dainty drink To clear his throat For as sweet a note As ever yet was caroled By lark or bobolink. </div> <div class="stanza"> Sometimes he drops his pretty head And seems to be dispirited, And then his little mistress says: "Poor Dickie misses his chickweed, Or else I've fed him musty seed As stale as last year's oranges!" But all the time I wonder If we half comprehend In sweet song-words The thought of birds, Or why so oft their raptures In sudden silence end. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 131] They do not pine for forest wilds Within the "blue Canary isles," As exiles from their native home, For in a foreign domicile They first essayed their gamut-trill Beneath a cage's gilded dome; But maybe some sad throbbing Betimes their spirits stirs, Who love as we Dear liberty, That they, admired and petted, Are only—prisoners. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>Cuba.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> As one long struggling to be free, O suffering isle! we look to thee In sympathy and deep desire That thy fair borders yet shall hold A people happy, self-controlled, Saved and exalted—as by fire. </div> <div class="stanza"> Burning like thine own tropic heat Thousands of lips afar repeat The story of thy wrongs and woes; While argosies to thee shall bear, [Pg 132] Of men and money everywhere, Strength to withstand thy stubborn foes. </div> <div class="stanza"> Hispaniola waves her plume Defiant over many a tomb Where sleep thy sons, the true and brave; But, lo! an army coming on The places fill of heroes gone, For liberty their lives who gave. </div> <div class="stanza"> The nations wait to hear thy shout Of "Independence!" ringing out, Chief of the Antilles, what wilt thou? Buffets and gyves from your effete Old monarchy dilapidate, Or freedom's laurels for thy brow? </div> <div class="stanza"> In man's extremity it is That Heaven's opportunities Shine forth like jewels from the mine; Then, Cuba, in thy hour of need, With vision clear the tokens read And trust for aid that power divine. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 133] <h2>The Sangamon River.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> O sunny Sangamon! thy name to me, Soft-syllabled like some sweet melody, Familiar is since adolescent years As household phrases ringing in my ears; Its measured cadence sounding to and fro From the dim corridors of long ago. </div> <div class="stanza"> There was a time in happy days gone by, That rosy interval of youth, when I The scholar ardent early learned to trace Great tributaries to their starting place; And thine some prairie hollow obsolete Whose name how few remember or repeat. </div> <div class="stanza"> Like thee, meandering, yet wafted back From distant hearth and lonely bivouac, From strange vicissitudes in other lands, From half-wrought labors and unfinished plans I come, in thy cool depths my brow to lave, And rest a moment by thy silver wave. </div> <div class="stanza"> But, ah! what means thy muddy, muggy hue? I thought thee limpid as yon ether blue; I thought an angel's wing might dip below Thy sparkling surface and be white as snow; And of thy current I had dared to drink If not as one imbibing draughts of ink. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 134] Has some rough element of horrid clay That spoils the earth like lava beds, they say, Come sliding down, as avalanches do, And thy fair bosom percolated through? Or some apothecary's compound vile Polluted thee so many a murky mile? </div> <div class="stanza"> Why not, proud State, beneficence insure, Selling thy soil or giving to the poor? For sad it is that dust of Illinois, With coal and compost its conjoint alloy, A morceau washed from Mississippi's mouth, Should build up acres for our neighbors south. </div> <div class="stanza"> River! I grieve, but not for loss of dirt— Once stainless, just because of what thou wert. Thus on thy banks I linger and reflect That, surely as all waterways connect, Forever flowing onward to the sea, Shall the great billow thy redemption be. </div> <div class="stanza"> And now, dear Sangamon, farewell! I wait On that Elysian scene to meditate When, separated from the dregs of earth, Life's stream shall sweeter be, of better worth; And, like the ocean with its restless tide, By its own action cleansed and purified. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 135] <h2>Syringas.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> The smallest flower beside my path, In loveliness of bloom, Some element of comfort hath To rid my heart of gloom; But these, of spotless purity, And fragrant as the rose, As sad a sight recall to me As time shall e'er disclose. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, there are pictures on the brain Sometimes by shadows made, Till dust is blent with dust again, That never, never fade; And things supremely bright and fair As ever known in life Suggest the darkness of despair, And sanguinary strife. </div> <div class="stanza"> I shut my eyes; 'tis all in vain— The battle-field appears, And one among the thousands slain In manhood's brilliant years; An elbow pillowing his head, And on the crimson sand [Pg 136] Syringa-blooms, distained and dead, Within his rigid hand. </div> <div class="stanza"> Could she foresee, who from the stem Had plucked that little spray Of flowers, that he would cherish them Unto his dying day? "Give these to M——;—'tis almost night— And tell her—that—I love—" Alas! the letter he would write Was finished up above. </div> <div class="stanza"> And so, with each recurring spring, On Decoration day, When to our heroes' graves we bring The blossom-wealth of May, While martial strains are soft and low, And music seems a prayer, Unto a hallowed spot I go, And leave syringas there. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 137] <h2>Storm-bound.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> My careful plans all storm-subdued, In disappointing solitude The weary hours began; And scarce I deemed when time had sped, Marked only by the passing tread Of some pedestrian. </div> <div class="stanza"> But with the morrow's tranquil dawn, A fairy scene I looked upon That filled me with delight; Far-reaching from my own abode, The world in matchless splendor glowed, Arrayed in spotless white. </div> <div class="stanza"> The surface of the hillside slope Gleamed in my farthest vision's scope Like opalescent stone; Rich jewels hung on every tree, Whose crystalline transparency Golconda's gems outshone. </div> <div class="stanza"> Beyond the line where wayside posts Stood up, like fear-inspiring ghosts Of awful form and mien, A mansion tall, my neighbor's pride, [Pg 138] A seeming castle fortified, Uprose in wondrous sheen. </div> <div class="stanza"> The evergreens loomed up before My staunch and storm-defying door, Like snowy palaces That one dare only penetrate With reverence—as at Heaven's gate, Awed by its mysteries. </div> <div class="stanza"> The apple trees' extended arms Upheld a thousand varied charms; The curious tracery Of trellised grapevine seemed to me A rare network of filigree In silver drapery. </div> <div class="stanza"> And I no longer thought it hard From favorite pursuits debarred, Nor gazed with rueful face; For every object seemed to be Invested with the witchery Of magic art and grace. </div> <div class="stanza"> And, though a multitude of cares, Perplexing, profitless affairs, Absorbed the hours, it seems [Pg 139] That on the golden steps of thought I mounted heavenward, and wrought Out many hopeful schemes. </div> <div class="stanza"> Thus every day, though it may span The gulf wherein some cherished plan Lies disarranged and crossed, If, ere its close, we shall have trod The path that leads us nearer God, Cannot be counted lost. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>The Master of the Grange.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> The type of enterprise is he, Of sense and thrift and toil; Who reckons less on pedigree Than rich, productive soil; And no "blue blood"—if such there be— His veins can ever spoil. </div> <div class="stanza"> And yet on blood his heart is set; He has his sacred cow, Some Alderney or Jersey pet, The mistress of the mow; His favorite pig is (by brevet) "Lord Suffolk"—of the slough. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 140] To points of stock is he alive As keenest cattle king; A thoroughbred he deigns to drive, But not a mongrel thing; The very bees within his hive Are crossed—without a sting. </div> <div class="stanza"> If apple-boughs drop pumpkins and Tomatoes grow on trees, It is because his grafting hand Has so diverted these That alien shoots with native stand Like twin-born Siamese. </div> <div class="stanza"> No neater farm a nabob owns, Its care his chief employ, To find fertility in bones And briers to destroy, Where once he lightly skipped the stones A whistling, happy boy. </div> <div class="stanza"> The ancient plough and awkward flail He banished long ago; The zigzag fence with ponderous rail He dares to overthrow; And wields, with sinews strong and hale, The latest style of hoe. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 141] The household, founded as it were Upon the Decalogue, He classes with the minister, The rural pedagogue, And as a sort of angel-cur Regards his spotted dog. </div> <div class="stanza"> His wife reviews the magazines, His children lead the school, He tries a thousand new machines (And keeps his temper cool), But bristles at Kentucky jeans, And her impressive mule. </div> <div class="stanza"> With Science letting down the bars, Enlightening ignorance, Enigmas deeper than the stars He solves as by a glance, And raises cinnamon cigars From poor tobacco plants! </div> <div class="stanza"> By no decree of fashion dressed, And busier than Fate, The student-farmer keeps abreast With mighty men of state, And treasures, like his Sunday vest, The motto "Educate!" </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 142] Beyond encircling hills of blue, Where I may never range, This monarch in his realm I view, Of title new and strange, And make profound obeisance to "The Master of the Grange." </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>A Friend Indeed.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> If every friend who meditates In soft, unspoken thought With winning courtesy and tact The doing of a kindly act To cheer some lonely lot, Were like the friend of whom I dream, Then hardship but a myth would seem. </div> <div class="stanza"> If sympathy were always thus Oblivious of space, And, like the tendrils of the vine, Could just as lovingly incline To one in distant place, 'Twould draw the world together so Might none the name of stranger know. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 143] If every throb responsive that My ardent spirit thrills Could, like the skylark's ecstasy, Be vocal in sweet melody, Beyond dividing hills In octaves of the atmosphere Were music wafted to his ear. </div> <div class="stanza"> If every friendship were like one, So helpful and so true, To other hearts as sad as mine 'Twould bring the joy so near divine, And hope revive anew; So life's dull path would it illume, And radiate beyond the tomb. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>The Needed One.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 'Twas not rare versatility, Nor gift of poesy or art, Nor piquant, sparkling jeux d'esprit Which at the call of fancy come, That touched the universal heart, And won the world's encomium. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 144] It was not beauty's potent charm; For admiration followed her Unmindful of the rounded arm, The fair complexion's brilliancy, If form and features shapely were Or lacked the grace of symmetry. </div> <div class="stanza"> So not by marked, especial power She grew endeared to human thought, But just because, in trial's hour, Was loving service to be done Or sympathy and counsel sought, She made herself the needed one. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, great the blessedness must be Of heart and hand and brain alert In projects wise and manifold, Impending sorrow to avert That duller natures fail to see, Or stand aloof severe and cold! </div> <div class="stanza"> And who shall doubt that this is why In womanhood's florescent prime She passed the portals of the sky? As if a life thus truly given To purpose pure and act sublime Were needed also up in Heaven. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 145] <h2>"Thy Will Be Done."</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Sometimes the silver cord of life Is loosed at one brief stroke; As when the elements at strife, With Nature's wild contentions rife, Uproot the sturdy oak. </div> <div class="stanza"> Or fell disease, in patience borne, Attenuates the frame Till the meek sufferer, wan and worn, Of energy and beauty shorn, Death's sweet release would claim. </div> <div class="stanza"> By instant touch or long decay Is dissolution wrought; When, lost to earth, the grave and gay, The young and old who pass away, Abide in hallowed thought. </div> <div class="stanza"> In dear regard together drawn, Affection's debt to pay, Fond greetings we exchange at dawn With one who, ere the day be gone, Is bruised and lifeless clay. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 146] O thou in manhood's morning-time With health and hope elate, For whom in youth's enchanting prime The bells of promise seemed to chime, We mourn thy early fate! </div> <div class="stanza"> To us how sudden—yet to thee Perchance God kindly gave Some warning, ere the fatal key Unlocked the door of mystery That lies beyond the grave. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then let us hope that one who found Such favor, trust, and love, And cordial praise from all around, For rare fidelity renowned, Found favor, too, above. </div> <div class="stanza"> So "all is well," though swift or slow God's will be done; and we Draw near to him, for close and low Beneath his chastening hand, the blow Will fall less heavily. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 147] <h2>Snowflakes.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Of specious weight like tissue freight The snowflakes are—in sparkle pure As the rich parure A lovely queen were proud to wear; As volatile, as fine and rare As thistle-down dispersed in air, Or bits of filmy lace; Like nature's tear-drops strewn around That beautify and warm the ground, But melt upon my face. </div> <div class="stanza"> A ton or more against my door They lie, and look, in form and tint, Like piles of lint, When war's alarum roused the land, Wrought out by woman's loyal hand From linen rag, and robe, and band— From garments cast aside— In hospital, on battle-field The shattered limb that bound and healed, Or stanched life's ebbing tide. </div> <div class="stanza"> I see the gleam of lake and stream, The silver glint in frost portrayed Of the bright cascade; [Pg 148] They bear the moisture of marshes dank, The dew of the lawn, or river bank, The river itself by sunlight drank; All these in frigid air, That strange alembic, crystallize In odd, fantastic shape and size Like gems of dazzling glare. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, of the snow such fancies grow, 'Till thought is lost in wandering, And wondering If portions of their drapery The angel beings, sad to see So much of earth's impurity, Have dropped from clearer skies As snowflakes, hiding stain and blot To make this world a fairer spot, And more like Paradise. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 149] <h2>Monadnock.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> One summer time, with love imbued, To climb the mount, explore the wood, Or rove from pole to pole, Upon Monadnock's brow I stood— A lone, adventurous soul. </div> <div class="stanza"> Beyond the Bay State border-line A sweeping vista, grand and fine, Embraced the Berkshire hills; Embosomed hamlets, clumps of pine, And country domiciles. </div> <div class="stanza"> Afar, Mount Tom, in verdantique, And Holyoke, twin companion peak, Appeared gigantic cones; The burning sunlight scorched my cheek, And seemed to melt the stones. </div> <div class="stanza"> Beneath a gnarled and twisted root I loosed a pebble with my foot That leaped the precipice, And like an arrow seemed to shoot Adown the deep abyss. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 150] Beside the base that solstice day A city chap who chanced to stray Was shooting somewhat, too; Who, when the nugget sped that way, His firelock quickly drew. </div> <div class="stanza"> While right and left he sought the quail, Or the timid hare that crossed his trail, Rang out a wild "Ha! ha!" That might have turned the visage pale Of a red-skinned Chippewa. </div> <div class="stanza"> The game was his—for it made him quail; He flung his gun and fled the vale, The mountain-dwellers say, As though pursued by a comet's tail— And disappeared for aye. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 151] <h2>Never Had a Chance</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Fresh from piano, school, and books, A happy girl with rosy looks Young Plowman wooed and won; despite Her pretty, pouting prejudice, Her deep distaste for rural bliss Or countryfied delight. </div> <div class="stanza"> Romance through all her nature ran— Indeed, to wed a husband-man Suffused her ardent maiden thought; But lofty fancy dwelt upon A new "Queen Anne," a terraced lawn, A city's corner lot. </div> <div class="stanza"> Her lily fingers that so well Could paint a scene—in aquarelle— Or broider plush with leaves and vines, No more of real labor knew Than waxen petals of the dew On native eglantines. </div> <div class="stanza"> Anon, with lapse of tender ways That emphasized the courting days, The housewife in her apron blue, As mistress of her new abode, [Pg 152] By frequent lachrymations showed Her grief and blunders too. </div> <div class="stanza"> The butter-making, bread and cheese, The old folks difficult to please, The harvest hands—voracious bears!— The infantry, a parent's pride, By duos proudly classified: So multiplied her cares. </div> <div class="stanza"> The treadmill round of duties that Makes any life inane and flat, Without diversion sandwiched in, The drudgery, the overplus Of toil and trouble arduous, Were rugged discipline. </div> <div class="stanza"> What time for books and music, when The lambs were bleating in their pen, The chickens peeping at the door; The rodent gnawing at the churn, The buckwheat wafers crisped to burn, The kettle boiling o'er? </div> <div class="stanza"> To hers, so far between and few, What resting-spells the farmer knew! What intervals for culture! and [Pg 153] When intellect assumed the race, He peerless held the foremost place— No nobler in the land. </div> <div class="stanza"> By virtue of exalted rank "The brilliant senator from——" Adorns society's expanse; While by his side with folded hands, Her beauty gone, the woman stands Who "never had a chance." </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>Sorrow and Joy.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> In sad procession borne away To sound of funeral knell, Affection's tribute thus we pay, And in earth's shelt'ring bosom lay The friend to whom but yesterday We gave the sad farewell. </div> <div class="stanza"> But scarce the melancholy sound Has died upon the ear, Before the mournful dirge is drowned By wedding-anthems' glad rebound, That stir the solemn air around With merry peals and clear. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 154] Within our home doth gladness tread So closely upon grief That, in the tears of sorrow shed O'er our beloved, lamented dead, We see reflected joy instead That gives a blest relief. </div> <div class="stanza"> A father and a daughter gone Beyond our fireside— For one we loved and leaned upon The skillful archer Death had drawn His bow; and one in life's sweet dawn Went out a happy bride. </div> <div class="stanza"> We gave to Heaven, in manhood's prime, Him whose brave strength and worth Life's rugged steeps had taught to climb; And her, for whom a tuneful rhyme The bells of promise sweetly chime, We consecrate to earth. </div> <div class="stanza"> Thus each a mystic path, untried, Has entered—God is just! We leave with him our friend who died, With him we leave our fair young bride Who shall no more with us abide, And in His goodness trust. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 155] Oh, life and death, uncertainty, Bright hopes and anxious fears, Commingle so bewilderingly, That perfect joy we may not see Till all shall reunited be Beyond this vale of tears! </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>Watch Hill.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Fair summer home peninsula, Enriched by every breeze From fragrant islands, wafted far Across the sunny seas! </div> <div class="stanza"> A profile rare! a height of land Outlined 'gainst heaven's blue With bolder touch than skillful hand Of artist ever drew. </div> <div class="stanza"> In "mountain billows" that parade The grandeur of the deep, Is His supremacy displayed Whose hands the waters keep. </div> <div class="stanza"> No sweep of waves, in broad expanse, With wild, weird melody, [Pg 156] Shall thus an unseen world enhance— "There shall be no more sea!" </div> <div class="stanza"> A wealth of joy-perfected days, Where glorious sunset dyes, Resplendent in declining rays, Surpass Italia's skies! </div> <div class="stanza"> Proud caravansaries that compete In studied arts to please The multitude, with restless feet, From earth's antipodes! </div> <div class="stanza"> A motley company astray: The sojourner for health, The grave, serene, the devotée Of fashion and of wealth. </div> <div class="stanza"> Artistic cottages upreared In beauty, strength, and skill— The happy, healthful homes endeared To lovers of Watch Hill! </div> <div class="stanza"> A golden crown adorns the spot; Forever blessed be The hand beneficent that wrought "A temple by the sea!" </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 157] A star in some bright diadem In glory it shall be, For truly, "I will honor them," Saith God, "who honor me." </div> <div class="stanza"> When Christians meet to praise and pray, May feet that never trod The sanctuary learn the way Unto the house of God. </div> <div class="stanza"> Glad pæans down the centuries With joy the world shall thrill: "The Lord, revered and honored, is The glory of Watch Hill!" </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>Supplicating.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> One morn I looked across the way, And saw you fling your window wide To welcome in the breath of May In breezes from the mountain-side, And greet the sunlight's earliest ray With happy look and satisfied. </div> <div class="stanza"> The pansies on your window-sill In terra cotta flowerpot, [Pg 158] Like royal gold and purple frill Upon the stony casement wrought, Adorned your tasteful domicile And claimed your time and care and thought. </div> <div class="stanza"> In cherry trees the robins sang Their sweetest carol to your ear, And shouts of merry children rang Out on the dewy atmosphere, But to my heart there came a pang That my salute you did not hear. </div> <div class="stanza"> I envied then the favored breeze That dallied with your flowing hair, Begrudged the songsters in the trees And longed to be a flow'ret fair— Some favorite blossom like heartease— Within your miniature parterre. </div> <div class="stanza"> O heart, that finds such ample room Within thy confines broad and true, For song and sunshine and perfume And all benign impulses—go, I pray thee, dissipate my gloom— And take in thy petitioner too! </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 159] <h2>"Honest John."</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> He was a man whose lot was cast, As some might think, in lines severe; In humble toil whose life was passed From week to week, from year to year; And yet, by wife and children blessed, He labored on with cheerful zest. </div> <div class="stanza"> As one revered and set apart, A quaint, unusual name he bore That well became the frugal heart; While plain habiliments he wore Without a tremor or a chill At thought of some uncanceled bill. </div> <div class="stanza"> A king might not disdain to wear The title so appropriate To one who never sought to share Exalted station 'mong the great, Nor cared if on the scroll of fame Were never traced his worthy name. </div> <div class="stanza"> As bound by honor's righteous law In strictest rectitude he wrought— The man who calmly, clearly saw His duty, and who dallied not— [Pg 160] To garner life's necessities For those whose comfort heightened his. </div> <div class="stanza"> The parent bird its brood protects As fledglings in their downy nest, Until a Power their flight directs From trial trips to distant quest, Through trackless zones of ether blue, For bird companions strange and new. </div> <div class="stanza"> But ere his babes from prattlers grew, Upon his knee or by his side, To womanhood and manhood true— Too soon we thought—the father died; How could we know, when Death was nigh Those little wings were taught to fly? </div> <div class="stanza"> Another name his boyhood knew, So seldom heard that lapse of years Had made it seem a thing untrue, Unmusical to friendly ears; And thus his appellation odd His passport was where'er he trod. </div> <div class="stanza"> So long, on every lip and tongue As if by universal whim, To him had his cognomen clung, [Pg 161] And like a garment fitted him, That angels even must have heard Of one, like them, in love preferred. </div> <div class="stanza"> And when he came to Heaven's door, To Peter's self or acolyte, The holy warder looking o'er, "'Tis 'Honest John!'" he said aright; And his pilgrim spirit passed within Because his walk with God had been. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>Bushnell Park.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Sweet resting place! that long hath been A boon Elysian 'mid the din Of city life, 'mid city smoke; Where weary ones who toil and spin Have turned aside as to an inn Whose swinging sign a welcome spoke; Where misanthropes find medicine In peals of laughter that begin With ancient, resurrected joke, Or ready wit of harlequin; Where children, free from discipline, Take on Diversion's easy yoke. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 162] Fair oasis! to view aright Its charming paths, its sloping height, Its beautiful and broad expanse, Must one approach in witching night When, like abodes of airy sprite Revealed unto the wondering glance, O'erflooded with electric light Than Luna's beams more dazzling bright, Illumined nooks the scene enhance; While zephyrs mischievous unite The timid stroller to affright By swaying boughs in shadow dance. </div> <div class="stanza"> The Capitol that crowns the hill Where Boreas sweeps with icy chill, A masterpiece of studied art Conceived by genius versatile And fashioned with unerring skill, O'erlooks the busy, crowded mart, And, like a kingly domicile, Its burnished dome and sculpture thrill With admiration every heart; And strangers pause beyond the rill To view its grandeur, lingering still, And with reluctant steps depart. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 163] O Bushnell Park, memorial soil! That marks success (though near to foil) Of one who with prophetic ken, With honest zeal and ceaseless toil, Opposed the vandal wish to spoil This lovely bit of vale and glen; Who, 'mid discussion and turmoil Of adverse minds, did not recoil From vigorous stroke of tongue and pen; And then, till passion ceased to boil, On troubled waters poured out oil And to his plans won other men. </div> <div class="stanza"> So when, fatigued and overwrought, In summer time when skies are hot We seek its verdant, velvet sward, Oh may we hold in reverent thought The debt we owe, forgetting not The spirit passed to its reward Of one whose giant soul was fraught With true benignity—who sought To touch humanity's quick chord With fire from Heaven's altar brought, That love and zeal and being caught As inspiration from the Lord. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 164] <h2>At General Grant's Tomb.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Afar my loyal spirit stirred At mention of his name; Afar in ringing notes I heard The clarion voice of fame; So to his tomb, hope long deferred, With reverent step I came. </div> <div class="stanza"> The pilgrim muse revivified A half-forgotten day: A slow procession, tearful-eyed, In funeral array, And from MacGregor's lonely side A hero borne away. </div> <div class="stanza"> Here sleeps he now, where long ago Hath nature raised his mound: A mighty channel far below, Divided hills around, Where countless thousands come and go As to a shrine renowned. </div> <div class="stanza"> With awe do strangers' eyes discern A casket mid the green Luxuriance of flower and fern; Airy and cool and clean, [Pg 165] Unchanged from spring to spring's return, This charnel chamber scene. </div> <div class="stanza"> His country's weal his care and thought, Beloved in peace was he; Magnanimous in war—shall not The nation grateful be, And render at his burial spot A testimonial free? </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, let us, ere the days come on When energy is spent, To him, the silent soldier gone, Statesman and President, On Riverside's majestic lawn Uprear a monument. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 166] <h2>"Be Courteous."</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Ah, yes; why not? Is one more adventitious born Than others—shekels richer, honors fuller, and all that— That he can pass his fellows by with lofty scorn, Nor even show this slight regard—the lifting of the hat? </div> <div class="stanza"> Why prate of social status, class, or rank when earth Is common tenting-ground, the heritage of all mankind? Except in purity is there no royal birth, No true nobility but nobleness of heart and mind. </div> <div class="stanza"> Life is so short—one journey long, a pilgrimage That we cannot retrace, nor ever pass this way again; Then why not turn for some poor soul a brighter page, And line the way with courtesies unto our fellow-men? </div> <div class="stanza"> To give a graceful word or smile, or lend a hand To one downcast and trembling on the borders of despair, May help him to look up and better understand Why God has made the sky so bright and put the rainbow there. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 167] Be courteous! is nothing helpful half so cheap As kind urbanity that doth so much of gladness bring; More precious too than all the treasures of the deep, Making the winter of discomfort seem like joyous spring. </div> <div class="stanza"> Be courteous and gentle! be serene and good! Those grand ennobling and enduring virtues all may claim; Of each may it be said, of the great multitude: Oh that my life were more like such an one of blessed fame! </div> <div class="stanza"> Is it that over-crowding, care, anxiety, Vortex of pleasure, the incessant round of toil and strife, Beget indifference, repressing love and sympathy, Till we forget the beautiful amenities of life? </div> <div class="stanza"> Then cometh a sad day, when with a poignant sting Lost opportunities shall speak to us reproachfully; And ours shall be the disapproval of the King— "Discourteous to these, my creatures, ye have wounded Me." </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 168] <h2>A New Suit.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> The artist and the loom unseen, In textures soft as crepe de chine Spring weaves her royal robe of green, With grasses fringed and daisies dotted, With furzy tufts like mosses fine And showy clumps of eglantine, With dainty shrub and creeping vine Upon the verdant fabric knotted. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, winter takes our love away For ashen hues of sober gray! So when the blooming, blushing May Comes out in bodice, cap, and kirtle, With arbutus her corsage laced, And roses clinging to her waist, We crown her charming queen of taste, Her chaplet-wreath of modest myrtle. </div> <div class="stanza"> For eighteen centuries and more Her fairy hands have modeled o'er The same habiliments she wore At her primeval coronation; And still the pattern exquisite, For every age a perfect fit, In every land the favorite, Elicits world-wide admiration. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 169] Gay butterflies of fashion, you Who wear a suit a year or two, Then agitate for something new, Look at Regina, the patrician! Her cleverness is more than gold Who so transforms from fabrics old The things a marvel to behold, And glories in the exhibition. </div> <div class="stanza"> Why worry for an overdress, The acme of luxuriousness, Beyond all envy to possess, Renewed as oft as lambkin fleeces! Why flutter round in pretty pique To follow style's capricious freak, To match pongee or moire antique, And break your peace in hopeless pieces? </div> <div class="stanza"> O mantua-maker, costumer, And fair-robed wearer! study her And imitate the conjurer So prettily economizing, Without demur, regret, or pout, Who always puts the bright side out And never frets at all about The world's penchant for criticizing. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 170] <h2>The Little Clock.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Kind friend, you do not know how much I prize this time-ly treasure, So dainty, diligent, and such A constant source of pleasure. </div> <div class="stanza"> The man of brains who could invent So true a chrono-meter Has set a charming precedent, And made a good repeater. </div> <div class="stanza"> It speaks with clear, commanding clicks, Suggestive of the donor; And 'tends to business—never sick A bit more than the owner. </div> <div class="stanza"> It goes when I do; when I stop (As by the dial showing) It never lets a second drop, But simply keeps on going. </div> <div class="stanza"> It tells me when I am to eat, Which isn't necessary; When food with me is obsolete, I'll be a reliquary. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 171] It tells me early when to rise, And bother with dejeuner; To sally forth and exercise, And fill up my porte-monnaie. </div> <div class="stanza"> I hear it talking in the night, As if it were in clover: You've never lost your appetite, You've never been run over. </div> <div class="stanza"> It makes me wish that I might live More faithful unto duty, And unto others something give Like this bijou of beauty. </div> <div class="stanza"> It holds its hands before its face, So very modest is it; So like the people in the place Where I delight to visit. </div> <div class="stanza"> Sometimes I wonder if it cries The course I am pursuing; Because it has so many I-s And must know what I'm doing. </div> <div class="stanza"> Sometimes I fear it makes me cry— No matter, and no pity— Afraid at last I'll have to die In some far, foreign city. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 172] It travels with me everywhere And chirrups like a cricket; As if it said with anxious air, "Don't lose your tick-tick-ticket!" </div> <div class="stanza"> Companion of my loneliness Along my journey westward, It never leaves me comfortless, But has the last and best word. </div> <div class="stanza"> I would not spoil its lovely face, And so I go behind it, And hold it like a china vase, So careful when I wind it. </div> <div class="stanza"> A clock is always excellent That has its label on, And proves a fine advertisement For Waterbury, Conn. </div> <div class="stanza"> Those Yankees—ah! they never shun A chance to make a dime, And counterfeit the very sun In keeping "Standard Time." </div> <div class="stanza"> Ah, well! the little clock has proved The best of all bonanzas; And thus my happy heart is moved To these effusive stanzas. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 173] <h2>Improvement.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Along the avenue I pass Huge piles of wood and stone, And glance at each amorphous mass, Whose cumbrous weight has crushed the grass, With half resentful groan. </div> <div class="stanza"> Say I: "O labor, to despoil Some lovely forest scene, Or at the granite stratum toil, And desecrate whole roods of soil, Is vandal-like and mean! </div> <div class="stanza"> "Than ever to disfigure thus Our prairie garden-land, Let me consort with Cerberus, Be chained to crags precipitous, Or seek an alien strand." </div> <div class="stanza"> But while this pining, pouting Muse The interval ignores, Deft industry, no time to lose, Contrives and carries, hoists and hews, And symmetry restores. </div> <div class="stanza"> Behold! of rock and pile and board A modern miracle, [Pg 174] My neighbor's dwelling, roofed and floored, That rapid grew as Jonah's gourd, And far more beautiful. </div> <div class="stanza"> The artisan's receding gait Has brushed the chips away, Where innocence shall recreate, Or like the flowers grow, and wait The balminess of May. </div> <div class="stanza"> An arid spot, where careless feet Have long been wont to roam, Where cattle grazed, as if to eat Were life's delicious, richest treat, Becomes a charming home. </div> <div class="stanza"> O man primeval! hadst thou known, Ere rude hands scooped thy grave, Of Homestead Act, or Building Loan, Thou wouldst have quite disdained to own A rugged cliff or cave. </div> <div class="stanza"> And now I see how skill and art May cleave fair nature through, Disintegrate her breathing heart, And to the tissues torn impart A use and beauty new. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 175] And this improvement is, to turn The things which God has given To their best purpose, as we learn To make the place where we sojourn Homelike and more like Heaven. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>On Bancroft Height.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> On Bancroft height Aurora's face Shines brighter than a star, As stepping forth in dewy grace, The gates of day unbar; And lo! the firmament, the hills, And the vales that intervene— Creation's self with gladness thrills To greet the matin queen. </div> <div class="stanza"> On Bancroft height the atmosphere Is but an endless waft Of life's elixir, pure and clear As mortal ever quaffed; And such the sweet salubrity Of air and altitude, Is banished many a malady And suffering subdued. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 176] On Bancroft height the sunset glow When day departing dies Outrivals all that tourists know Of famed Italian skies; And happy dwellers round about Who view the scene aright In admiration grow devout And laud the Lord of light. </div> <div class="stanza"> Round Bancroft height rich memories Commingle earth's affairs, Among the world's celebrities, Of him whose name it bears; The scholar-wise compatriot Who left to later men The grand achievements unforgot Of that historic pen. </div> <div class="stanza"> Fair Bancroft height revisited When all the land is white, A halo crowns its noble head Impelling fresh delight; The daring wish in winter-time The blizzard to defy Those shining slippery slopes to climb Up nearer to the sky. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 177] Though Boreas abrade the cheek With buffetings of snow, He gives a vigor that the weak And languid never know; And with rejuvenescent thrill, Like children everywhere, Bestirs the rhapsody, the will To make a snow-man there. </div> <div class="stanza"> On Bancroft height and Bancroft tower Such vistas charm the eye 'Twere life's consummate, glorious hour But to behold—and die; Yet in the sparkle and the glow Is earth so very fair The spirit lingers, loath to go, And dreams of heaven—up there. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [Pg 178] <h2>A Reformer.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> When I was young, my heart elate With ardent notions warm, I thirsted to inaugurate A spirit of reform; The universe was all awry, Philosophy despite, And mundane things disjointed I Was bound to set aright. </div> <div class="stanza"> My mind conceived a million plans, For Hope was brave and strong, But dared not with unaided hands Combat a giant wrong; So with caress I sought to coax Those who had humored me In infancy—the dear old folks— And gain their sympathy. </div> <div class="stanza"> But quarreling with extant laws They would have deemed a shame Who clung to error, just because Their fathers did the same. I sought in Pleasure's gilded halls, Where grace and beauty stirred At revelry's impetuous calls, To make my projects heard. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 179] Then turned to stately palaces Of luxury and ease, Where wealth's absorbing object was The master's whim to please; And spoke of evils unredressed, Of danger yet to be— They only answered, like the rest: "But what is that to me?" </div> <div class="stanza"> And even pious devotées Whom sacred walls immure Condemned me (as by feeble praise)— What more could I endure? Down by the stream, so pure and clear That sunbeams paused to drink, In loneliness and grief sincere I pressed its grassy brink. </div> <div class="stanza"> Thick darkness seemed to veil the day; Beyond a realm of tears Utopia's land of promise lay; And not till later years I learned this lesson—that to win Results from labor sure, "Reformers" always must begin Among the lowly poor. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza">[Pg 180] For they whose lot privation is And whose delights are few, Whose aggregate of miseries Is want of something new, The measure of whose happiness Is but an empty cup, For every novelty will press Alert to fill it up. </div> </div> Transcriber's Notes: Page 27: Changed Galiee to Galilee (Printer's Error) Page 47: Indented 1st stanza to match others Page 173: Changed prarie to prairie (Printer's Error) <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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