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Title: Poems, Vol. IV

Author: Hattie Howard

Release date: August 23, 2006 [eBook #19109]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Joseph R. Hauser and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, VOL. IV ***

In Celestial realms where knowledge hath no end.

HARRY HOWARD,

STUDENT.

"Blessed are the pure in heart."

POEMS

BY

HATTIE HOWARD.

AUTHOR OF "POVERTY VS. PAUPERISM," "OUR GIRLS," "VIVE LA

REPUBLIQUE," "KEEPING A SECRET," "LITTLE JO,"

AND OTHER STORIES.

VOL. IV.

Happy whoever writes a book

On which the world shall kindly look,

And who, when many a year has flown—

The volume worn, the author gone—

Revere, admire, and still read on.

HARTFORD PRESS:

THE CASE, LOCKWOOD & BRAINARD COMPANY.

1904.

EXTRACTS FROM PRESS NOTICES OF A FORMER

VOLUME.

"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."

Copyright, 1904, BY HATTIE HOWARD.

Contents.

FRONTISPIECE.

PAGE.

EXTRACTS FROM PRESS NOTICES,

2

"THE SALT OF THE EARTH,"

7

NOT GONE,

9

LET US GIVE THANKS,

10

SONNET,

11

A RAINY DAY,

12

THE SUBWAY,

16

THE APPLE TREE,

18

TWO ROSES,

21

THE TAXIDERMIST,

23

EPITHALAMIUM,

25

A FOWL AFFAIR,

28

HOLIDAY HOME,

31

RUTHA,

34

THE STUDENT GONE,

36

THE TOURIST,

38

THE ANTIQUARIAN,

40

POOR HOUSEKEEPING,

45

GOING TO TOBOG,

47

"PASSER LE TEMPS,"

49

THE TORPEDO,

50

MARGARET,

51

CHRISTMAS BELLS,

53

BY THE SEA,

54

A SONG,

55

"IS IT APRIL?"

56

CHRISTMAS-TIDE,

57

JANUARY, 1885,

59

SWEET PEAS,

61

THE SUMMER HOUSE,

62

TO DIE IN AUTUMN,

65

APPLE BLOSSOMS,

67

WITHOUT A MINISTER,

68

INDIAN SUMMER,

70

AUTUMN-TIME,

72

THE BEAUTY OF NATURE

74

"ALL THE RAGE,"

76

MY MOTHER'S HAND,

79

A LEAP YEAR EPISODE,

80

IF,

83

PERFECT CHARACTER,

84

THE MIRACLE OF SPRING,

85

BERMUDA,

86

THE CHARTER OAK,

88

BLOSSOM-TIME,

90

"ONE OF THE LEAST OF THESE,"

92

LIGHTNING-BUGS,

94

OF HER WHO DIED,

96

THANKSGIVING,

98

RECEIVING SIGHT,

100

REVENGE,

102

ON THE COMMON,

104

WOMAN'S HELP,

106

TOBOGGANING,

108

THE WOODS,

110

LIKE SUMMER,

112

SHERIDAN'S LAST RIDE,

114

A BIT OF GLADNESS,

116

THE CHARITY BALL,

118

THE BELL(E) OF BALTIMORE,

120

CHRISTMAS AT CHURCH,

122

MYSTERIOUS,

124

"BE NOT ANXIOUS,"

126

MOUNT VERNON,

128

A PRISONER,

130

CUBA,

131

THE SANGAMON RIVER,

133

SYRINGAS,

135

STORM-BOUND,

137

THE MASTER OF THE GRANGE,

139

A FRIEND INDEED,

142

THE NEEDED ONE,

143

"THY WILL BE DONE,"

145

SNOWFLAKES,

147

MONADNOCK,

149

NEVER HAD A CHANCE

151

SORROW AND JOY,

153

WATCH HILL,

155

SUPPLICATING,

157

"HONEST JOHN,"

159

BUSHNELL PARK,

161

AT GENERAL GRANT'S TOMB,

164

"BE COURTEOUS,"

166

A NEW SUIT

168

THE LITTLE CLOCK,

170

IMPROVEMENT,

173

ON BANCROFT HEIGHT,

175

A REFORMER,

178

Poems.

"The Salt of the Earth."

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.

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?

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

Not Gone.

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.

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.

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.

Let Us Give Thanks.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Sonnet.

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.

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."

A Rainy Day.

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.

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.

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

Without that missing martingale

That bothered Dobbin, head and tail,

He, gentle equine, safe controlled

But by a twist of yarn.

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.

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.

It gives a chance to liquidate

Epistolary debts;

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Subway.

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.

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?

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.

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?

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.

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.

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!

The Apple Tree.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

Two Roses.

I've a friend beyond the ocean

So regardful, so sincere,

And he sends me in a letter

Such a pretty souvenir.

It is crushed to death and withered,

Out of shape and very flat,

But its pure, delicious odor

Is the richer for all that.

'Tis a rose from Honolulu,

And it bears the tropic brand,

Sandwiched in this friendly missive

From that far-off flower-land.

It shall mingle pot-à-pourri

With the scents I love and keep;

Some of them so very precious

That remembrance makes me weep.

While I dream I hear the music

That of happiness foretells,

Like the flourishing of trumpets

And the sound of marriage bells.

There's a rose upon the prairie,

Chosen his by happy fate,

He shall gather when he cometh

Sailing through the Golden Gate.

Mine, a public posy, growing

Somewhere by the garden wall,

Might have gone to any stranger,

May have been admired by all.

But the rose in beauty blushing,

Tenderly and sweetly grown

In the home and its affections,

Blooms for him, and him alone.

Speed the voyager returning;

His shall be a welcome warm,

With the Rose of Minnesota

Gently resting on his arm.

Love embraces in his kingdom

Earth and sea and sky and air.

Hail, Columbia! hail, Hawaii!

It is Heaven everywhere.

The Taxidermist.

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.

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.

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.

Unthinking creatures and untaught,

They to his nature answer back

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.

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?

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.

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

Till taxidermy witness well

The debt to science paid.

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.

Epithalamium.

I.

"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."

II.

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."

III.

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.

IV.

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;

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.

V.

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.

VI.

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.

A Fowl Affair.

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.

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.

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.

A body weighing by the pound

Inside of half a score,

In case and cordage safely bound,

Was landed at my door.

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.

My hair, at thought of dark design,

Or dynamitish fate,

Stood up like quills of porcupine,

But more than twice as straight.

Anon, I mused on something rare,

Like duck or terrapin,

But dreamed not, of the parcel, there

Might be a pullet-in.

A mighty jerk,—the string that broke

The fowl affair revealed,

The victim of a cruel choke,

Its neck completely peeled.

The biped in its paper cof-

Fin, cramped and plump and neat,

Had scratched its very toenails off

In making both ends meat.

The only part I always ate,

That never made me ill,

Had gone away decapitate

And carried off the bill.

I pondered o'er the sacrifice,

The merry-thought, the wings,

On giblet gravy, salad nice,

And chicken-pie-ous things.

In heat of Fahrenheit degree

Two hundred twelve or more,

Where its grandsire, defying me,

Had crowed the year before,

I thrust it with a hope forlorn,—

I knew what toughness meant,

And sighed that ever I was born

To die of roasting scent.

But presto! what dénouement grand

Of cookery sublime!

'Twas done as by the second hand,

The drumsticks beating thyme.

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.

In fowls there is a difference;

"The good die young," they say,

And for the death of innocence

To make us meat, we pray.

Holiday Home.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Rutha.

The days are long and lonely,

The weary eve comes on,

And the nights are filled with dreaming

Of one beloved and gone.

I reach out in the darkness

And clasp but empty air,

For Rutha dear has vanished—

I wonder, wonder where.

Yet must it be: her nature

So lovely, pure, and true;

So nearly like the angels,

Is she an angel too.

The cottage is dismantled

Of all that made it bright;

Beyond its silent portal

No love, nor life, nor light.

Where are the hopes I cherished,

The joys that once I knew,

The dreams, the aspirations?

All, all are perished too.

Yes, love's dear chain is broken;

From shore to shore I roam—

No comfort, no companion,

No happiness, no home.

Oh could I but enfold her

Unto my heart once more,

If aught could e'er restore me

My darling as before;

If God would only tell me—

Such myriads above—

Why He must needs have taken

The one I loved to love;

If God would only tell me

Why multitudes are left,

Unhappy and unlovely,

And I am thus bereft;

If—O my soul, be silent

And some day thou shalt see

Through mystery and shadow,

And know why it must be.

To every cry of anguish

From every heart distressed,

Can be no other answer

Than this—God knoweth best.

The Student Gone.

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.

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.

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?

The student ranks are closed, there is no gap;

Of other brave aspirants is no dearth;

Prowess, fidelity, and truth go on,

And few shall miss or mourn the student gone,

Reposing in the all-protecting lap

Of Mother Earth.

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?

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.

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.

The Tourist.

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!

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.

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.

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.

To every mountain peak within the antipodes,

To sweet, sequestered spots no other mortal knows;

To every island fair engirt by sunny seas,

To forest-centers unexplored by birds or bees,

The tourist goes.

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.

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?

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.

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.

The Antiquarian.

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?

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.

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.

A love for the antiquities

His honest hold, his birthright is!

And things unheard of or unread,

Defaced by moth or rust or mold,

To him are treasures more than gold,

Ay, than his daily bread.

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.

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.

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.

Had he been born—thus he laments—

Along with other great events,

Coeval say with Noah's flood,

A proud relationship to trace

With Hittites—or with any race

Of blue archaic blood!

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?

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.

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!

The earthquake is his best ally—

It shows up things he cannot buy,

And gives him raw material

For making mastodons and such,

Enough to beat that ancient "Dutch

Republic's Rise and Fall."

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.

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.

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.

Labor a blessing, not a curse,

His hunting ground the Universe,

So much the more his nature craves

To sound the fathoms of the sea:

What mighty wonders there must be

Down in those hidden caves!

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.

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.

Poor Housekeeping.

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.

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.

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.

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;

Not the saint he might be, but a querulous sinner—

One driven to fasting but not unto prayer—

Till epitaphed thus—"Indigestible Fare."

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Going to Tobog.

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.

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?"

"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."

"Passer Le Temps."

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.

"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."

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.

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."

The Torpedo.

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.

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.

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.

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!

—Harry Howard.

Margaret.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Christmas Bells.

Ring out, O bells, in joyful chime!

Again we hail the Christmas time;

In melting, mellow atmosphere,

The crown and glory of the year.

When bitterness, distrust, and awe

Dissolve, like ice in winter's thaw,

Beneath the genial touches of

Amenity, good will, and love.

When flowers of affection grow,

Like edelweiss mid alpine snow,

In lives severe and beautiless,

Unused to warmth or tenderness.

Let goodness, grace, and gratitude

Revive in music's interlude,

And pæan notes, till time shall cease,

Proclaim the blessed reign of peace.

Ring, Christmas bells! for at the sound

Sweet memories of Him abound

Who laid aside a diadem

To be the babe of Bethlehem.

By the Sea.

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.

To novelty ever inclined—

Instead of a calm evening sail,

'Twould suit my adventurous mind

To ride on the back of a whale.

I want to disport on the rocks

Like a mythical mermaiden belle,

And comb out my watery locks,

Then dive to my cavernous cell.

I want to discover what lends

Such terror to all timid folks—

That serpent whose mystery tends

To make one believe it a hoax.

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.

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.

Oh, give me a home by the sea—

A cottage, a cabin, a tent!

Existence should ecstasy be

Till summer were joyfully spent.

A Song.

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.

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.

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."

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.

"Is It April?"

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.

"Is it a blessing in disguise?"

Of course, things always are;

But Arctic blasts with ardent skies

Somehow do not quite harmonize,

That try to cheat by weather-lies

The calendar.

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.

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.

Christmas-Tide.

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.

As moments pass by dial, so

Let gifts go round the happy circle where

In giving and receiving each may share,

And mutual kindness show.

The meaning deep, like mystery,

That lies in holly-bough or mistletoe,

May thousands never fathom—yet who know

And hail the Christmas-tree.

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.

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.

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.

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.

January, 1885.

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!"

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!"

Sweet Peas.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Summer House.

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.

It is the place to lie supine

Within a hammock swinging,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

To Die in Autumn.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Apple Blossoms.

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.

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.

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?

But woman's love of apples,

Involving fearful price,

And Adam's love for woman

That cost him Paradise,

By the labor of hands and sweat of brow,

Have softened the curse to a blessing now.

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.

Without a Minister.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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!"

Indian Summer.

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?

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.

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.

Monarchs, too, have thus delighted

Giving unto courtiers free,

Costly robes and tinselry;

And, as royal guests, invited

Them to sumptuous halls of glee,

Banqueting and minstrelsy,

Bacchus holding sovereignty.

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.

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.

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.

Autumn-Time.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

"The Beauty of Nature."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"All the Rage."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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;

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.

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.

My Mother's Hand.

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.

There's not a soothing anodyne

Or sedative I know,

Such potency can ever hold

As that which lovingly controlled

My spirit long ago.

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.

'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.

As bright as blessed sunlight ray

The past comes back to me;

Her fingers turn the sacred page

For a little group of tender age

Who gather at her knee.

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.

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.

A Leap Year Episode.

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

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.

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

"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.

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.

If.

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.

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.

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?

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?

Perfect Character.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Miracle of Spring.

What touch is like the Spring's?

By dainty fingerings

Such rare delight to give,

'Tis luxury to live

Amid florescent things.

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;

And thrilled with ecstasy

When, half distrustfully,

A timid bud appeared,

A tender scion reared

In window greenery.

But lo! Spring's wealth of bloom

And richness of perfume

Comes as by miracle;

Then why not possible

Within a curtained room?

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.

Bermuda.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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!

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!

The Charter Oak.

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.

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.

Revered as one among the trees

To mark the seasons born,

To watchful aborigines

It told by leafy indices

The time of planting corn.

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.

Shall e'er Connecticut forget

What unto it we owe—

How Wadsworth coped with Andros' threat,

And tyranny, in council met,

Outwitted years ago?

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.

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.

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!

Blossom-time.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

"One of the Least of These."

'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;

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,

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.

'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.

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.

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.

Lightning-bugs.

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.

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.

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.

To be a "princess in disguise,"

And wear a robe of fireflies

All strung and wove together,

And be the cynosure of all

At Madame Haut-ton's carnival,

In fashion's gayest feather.

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.

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."

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.

Of Her who Died.

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.

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?"

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.

In wintry bleakness nature glows

Beneath the stellar ray;

We see the mold, but not the rose,

And meditate if knowledge goes

Into yon mound of clay,

With her who passed away.

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?

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.

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.

Thanksgiving.

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.

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.

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

Show where the strongest, brightest link

In love's dear chain is broken—

A symbol more pathetic than

By language ever spoken.

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.

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.

Receiving Sight.

In hours of meditation fraught

With mem'ries of departed days,

Comes oft a tender, loving thought

Of one who shared our youthful plays.

In gayest sports and pleasures rife

Whose happy nature reveled so,

That on her ardent, joyous life

A shadow lay, we did not know;

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.

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?"

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.

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.

Responsive unto earnest prayers

Commingling love and penitence,

A blessing came—not unawares—

In new and strange experience.

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.

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.

But haply into every heart

May enter that Celestial Light

That doth to life's dark ways impart

A radiance hid from mortal sight.

Revenge.

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.

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.

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,

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.

An awkward, verdant "maid of work,"

Who dearly loved her tasks to shirk,

While rummaging among

Unused apartments, with a jerk

The door wide open flung.

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.

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.

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.

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.

On the Common.

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.

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.

Good nature, bubbling over

In healthy, hearty laughs,

And little lavish speeches

Like pleasant paragraphs,

The kind regard, unstudied joke,

His true felicity bespoke.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

Woman's Help.

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.

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.

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.

He may not know, he may not guess,

How much to her he owes,

How every scion of success

That in his nature grows,

Developed by her watchfulness,

Becomes a blooming rose.

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.

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.

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.

Tobogganing.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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,

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.

The Woods.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Like Summer.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

Sheridan's Last Ride.

While Phœbus 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.

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.

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.

There were the colonels, brigadiers,

Comrades in arms of other years,

Civilians, true and loyal-hearted

To him their bravest man,

Who seemed to say to those departed,

"Make room for Sheridan!"

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.

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.

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!

A Bit of Gladness.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

The Charity Ball.

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.

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.

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,

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.

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!

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!"

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;

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.

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.

The Bell(e) of Baltimore.

[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]

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.

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;

"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?"

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!"

Christmas at Church.

'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.

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.

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.

The angels had looked long and far

The happy scene to parallel,

When through the sanctuary door

Were carried gifts from shop and store,

The treasures of the rich bazaar,

To give—but not to sell.

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.

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!

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.

Mysterious.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

"Be not Anxious."

"Be careful for nothing," Phil. iv. 6. Revised version, "Be not anxious."

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.

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.

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.

Could this machinery go on

Without the friction caused by fret,

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.

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.

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.

Mount Vernon.

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.

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.

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,

While rank and talent gathered in

Its banquet hall of luxury!

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!

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!

A Prisoner.

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.

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.

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.

Cuba.

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.

Burning like thine own tropic heat

Thousands of lips afar repeat

The story of thy wrongs and woes;

While argosies to thee shall bear,

Of men and money everywhere,

Strength to withstand thy stubborn foes.

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.

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?

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.

The Sangamon River.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Syringas.

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.

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.

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

Syringa-blooms, distained and dead,

Within his rigid hand.

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.

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.

Storm-bound.

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.

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.

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.

Beyond the line where wayside posts

Stood up, like fear-inspiring ghosts

Of awful form and mien,

A mansion tall, my neighbor's pride,

A seeming castle fortified,

Uprose in wondrous sheen.

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.

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.

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.

And, though a multitude of cares,

Perplexing, profitless affairs,

Absorbed the hours, it seems

That on the golden steps of thought

I mounted heavenward, and wrought

Out many hopeful schemes.

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.

The Master of the Grange.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!"

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."

A Friend Indeed.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Needed One.

'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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

"Thy Will Be Done."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

Snowflakes.

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.

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.

I see the gleam of lake and stream,

The silver glint in frost portrayed

Of the bright cascade;

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.

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.

Monadnock.

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.

Beyond the Bay State border-line

A sweeping vista, grand and fine,

Embraced the Berkshire hills;

Embosomed hamlets, clumps of pine,

And country domiciles.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Never Had a Chance

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.

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.

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.

Anon, with lapse of tender ways

That emphasized the courting days,

The housewife in her apron blue,

As mistress of her new abode,

By frequent lachrymations showed

Her grief and blunders too.

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.

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.

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?

To hers, so far between and few,

What resting-spells the farmer knew!

What intervals for culture! and

When intellect assumed the race,

He peerless held the foremost place—

No nobler in the land.

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."

Sorrow and Joy.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Watch Hill.

Fair summer home peninsula,

Enriched by every breeze

From fragrant islands, wafted far

Across the sunny seas!

A profile rare! a height of land

Outlined 'gainst heaven's blue

With bolder touch than skillful hand

Of artist ever drew.

In "mountain billows" that parade

The grandeur of the deep,

Is His supremacy displayed

Whose hands the waters keep.

No sweep of waves, in broad expanse,

With wild, weird melody,

Shall thus an unseen world enhance—

"There shall be no more sea!"

A wealth of joy-perfected days,

Where glorious sunset dyes,

Resplendent in declining rays,

Surpass Italia's skies!

Proud caravansaries that compete

In studied arts to please

The multitude, with restless feet,

From earth's antipodes!

A motley company astray:

The sojourner for health,

The grave, serene, the devotée

Of fashion and of wealth.

Artistic cottages upreared

In beauty, strength, and skill—

The happy, healthful homes endeared

To lovers of Watch Hill!

A golden crown adorns the spot;

Forever blessed be

The hand beneficent that wrought

"A temple by the sea!"

A star in some bright diadem

In glory it shall be,

For truly, "I will honor them,"

Saith God, "who honor me."

When Christians meet to praise and pray,

May feet that never trod

The sanctuary learn the way

Unto the house of God.

Glad pæans down the centuries

With joy the world shall thrill:

"The Lord, revered and honored, is

The glory of Watch Hill!"

Supplicating.

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.

The pansies on your window-sill

In terra cotta flowerpot,

Like royal gold and purple frill

Upon the stony casement wrought,

Adorned your tasteful domicile

And claimed your time and care and thought.

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.

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.

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!

"Honest John."

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.

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.

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.

As bound by honor's righteous law

In strictest rectitude he wrought—

The man who calmly, clearly saw

His duty, and who dallied not—

To garner life's necessities

For those whose comfort heightened his.

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.

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?

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.

So long, on every lip and tongue

As if by universal whim,

To him had his cognomen clung,

And like a garment fitted him,

That angels even must have heard

Of one, like them, in love preferred.

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.

Bushnell Park.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

At General Grant's Tomb.

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.

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.

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.

With awe do strangers' eyes discern

A casket mid the green

Luxuriance of flower and fern;

Airy and cool and clean,

Unchanged from spring to spring's return,

This charnel chamber scene.

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?

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.

"Be Courteous."

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?

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.

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?

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.

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.

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!

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?

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."

A New Suit.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

The Little Clock.

Kind friend, you do not know how much

I prize this time-ly treasure,

So dainty, diligent, and such

A constant source of pleasure.

The man of brains who could invent

So true a chrono-meter

Has set a charming precedent,

And made a good repeater.

It speaks with clear, commanding clicks,

Suggestive of the donor;

And 'tends to business—never sick

A bit more than the owner.

It goes when I do; when I stop

(As by the dial showing)

It never lets a second drop,

But simply keeps on going.

It tells me when I am to eat,

Which isn't necessary;

When food with me is obsolete,

I'll be a reliquary.

It tells me early when to rise,

And bother with dejeuner;

To sally forth and exercise,

And fill up my porte-monnaie.

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.

It makes me wish that I might live

More faithful unto duty,

And unto others something give

Like this bijou of beauty.

It holds its hands before its face,

So very modest is it;

So like the people in the place

Where I delight to visit.

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.

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.

It travels with me everywhere

And chirrups like a cricket;

As if it said with anxious air,

"Don't lose your tick-tick-ticket!"

Companion of my loneliness

Along my journey westward,

It never leaves me comfortless,

But has the last and best word.

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.

A clock is always excellent

That has its label on,

And proves a fine advertisement

For Waterbury, Conn.

Those Yankees—ah! they never shun

A chance to make a dime,

And counterfeit the very sun

In keeping "Standard Time."

Ah, well! the little clock has proved

The best of all bonanzas;

And thus my happy heart is moved

To these effusive stanzas.

Improvement.

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.

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!

"Than ever to disfigure thus

Our prairie garden-land,

Let me consort with Cerberus,

Be chained to crags precipitous,

Or seek an alien strand."

But while this pining, pouting Muse

The interval ignores,

Deft industry, no time to lose,

Contrives and carries, hoists and hews,

And symmetry restores.

Behold! of rock and pile and board

A modern miracle,

My neighbor's dwelling, roofed and floored,

That rapid grew as Jonah's gourd,

And far more beautiful.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

On Bancroft Height.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A Reformer.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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.

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.

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.

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)

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Table of Contents

POEMS

HATTIE HOWARD.

Vol. IV.

EXTRACTS FROM PRESS NOTICES OF A FORMER VOLUME.

Contents.

Poems.

"The Salt of the Earth."

Not Gone.

Let Us Give Thanks.

Sonnet.

A Rainy Day.

The Subway.

The Apple Tree.

Two Roses.

The Taxidermist.

Epithalamium.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

A Fowl Affair.

Holiday Home.

Rutha.

The Student Gone.

The Tourist.

The Antiquarian.

Poor Housekeeping.

Going to Tobog.

"Passer Le Temps."

The Torpedo.

Margaret.

Christmas Bells.

A Song.

"Is It April?"

Christmas-Tide.

January, 1885.

Sweet Peas.

The Summer House.

To Die in Autumn.

Apple Blossoms.

Without a Minister.

Indian Summer.

Autumn-Time.

"The Beauty of Nature."

"All the Rage."

My Mother's Hand.

A Leap Year Episode.

If.

Perfect Character.

The Miracle of Spring.

Bermuda.

The Charter Oak.

Blossom-time.

"One of the Least of These."

Lightning-bugs.

Of Her who Died.

Thanksgiving.

Receiving Sight.

Revenge.

On the Common.

Woman's Help.

Tobogganing.

The Woods.

Like Summer.

Sheridan's Last Ride.

A Bit of Gladness.

The Charity Ball.

The Bell(e) of Baltimore.

Christmas at Church.

Mysterious.

"Be not Anxious."

Mount Vernon.

A Prisoner.

Cuba.

The Sangamon River.

Syringas.

Storm-bound.

The Master of the Grange.

A Friend Indeed.

The Needed One.

"Thy Will Be Done."

Snowflakes.

Monadnock.

Never Had a Chance

Sorrow and Joy.

Watch Hill.

Supplicating.

"Honest John."

Bushnell Park.

At General Grant's Tomb.

"Be Courteous."

A New Suit.

The Little Clock.

Improvement.

On Bancroft Height.

A Reformer.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE