Poems of home and country :: :: University of Virginia Library

II. ANNIVERSARIES.

TO MY DAUGHTER MARY, ON HER EIGHTEENTH BIRTH-DAY.

So! leap the limit now that parts
The woman from the child:
Enter life's great career at last,—
No more with toys beguiled.

Earth spreads its pageant at thy feet,
The bright world opens wide,—
Go, be a woman, glad assume
The toils which thee abide!

Or joy, or woe,—no tongue can tell
What fate thy lot may be;
But meet it bravely, strong in faith,
God rules thy destiny.

Like breezes o'er the bending grain,
Like sunlight on the wave,
Earth's rapid joys and trials pass;
Jehovah lives to save.

Go, be a woman; round thy path
Make love and gladness spring;
Reap in all fields; from every task
Some sheaves of goodness bring.

So shall life's current cheerful flow;
So bright shall be thy days;
No flattering words shall make thy fame;
Thy works shall be thy praise.

TO MY DAUGHTER MARY, ON HER WEDDING DAY.

Forth from the sheltering wing of home,
Forth from its sunlit bowers,
Fly like the bird, intent to roam,
And try her new fledged powers.

Peace spread its gentle pinions o'er
The nest so warm and fair;
And nature's glories round her pour,
When free in upper air.

O'er broad, sweet fields, on joyous wings,
With warbling throat, she flies;
She sings and soars, and soars and sings,
Plumed for the distant skies.

So from thy dear, delightful home,
With trusting faith aspire;
Life's beckoning labors bid thee come;
The high behest desire.

Like evening sunlight on the hill,
Like verdure on the sod,
Love, pure and ardent, lingers still
Where'er thy steps have trod.

April 27, 1858.

TO MY DAUGHTER, MARY W. JONES,

ON HER TWENTY-FIFTH MARRIAGE ANNIVERSARY.

APRIL 27, 1883.

Backward, to-day, my sunny thoughts are turning,
Speeding through happy years, loving and learning,
So gently led through flowery paths of blessing,
Life's truest joys in all their wealth possessing.

What was my wish,—my young heart's early craving,
What forms of bliss, before my fancy waving,
Still lured me on,—life's pathway scarcely broken,
And love's first lisping utterance scarcely spoken?

I hoped, I sang, so happy in my dreaming,—
Would the reality be like the seeming?
Have I life's choicest pleasures overstated?
Have I its Paradises antedated?

Or will the birds of bliss be ever winging
Their joyous flight around, soaring and singing;
Day feel no chill of twilight's damp descending,
Nor sunshine, risen in glow, find darkened ending?

Thank God, thank God, the bright path grows but brighter!
Thank God, pain's light yoke grows forever lighter!
The sunny course, which seemed at first so winning,
Confirms, a thousand fold, its fair beginning.

And thus the years, full five times five, so fleeting,
Told the sweet tale of strength and weakness meeting,
In summertide alike, and stormy weather,
Drawing the weak and strong closer together.

And one who came, full welcome, in life's entry,
Stands at our age's door, a loving sentry;
Fitly, with filial clasp in clasp maternal,
Binding the love-knot of our season vernal.

Hail, wedded pair, be yours no day of sorrows,
But only brilliant morns and glad to-morrows,
Till life at last, from earthly, grows supernal,
And joy, from earthly joy, becomes eternal.

TO SALLIE, ON HER EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY.

Spring, with its bright and cheerful hours,
Flies like the mist away;
But weaves around our fragrant bowers
The light of summer's ray.

And summer, with its brilliant beams,
Gives way to autumn's reign;
And every swelling garner teems
With heaps of golden grain.

So childhood, like the spring, retires,
That nobler youth may rise;
And youth to riper age aspires
And yearns for Paradise.

So life rolls on; each precious hour
Swells with the life to be,
And ripening years prepare the dower
Of immortality.

Leave the glad memories of the past,
To holier calls respond;
Upward with joyful vigor haste,
The goal is still beyond.

Passed is the limit that divides
Childhood from ripening life;
Go, see what work thy hand abides,
And dare the noble strife.

God be thy guide,—His sheltering hand
Direct and guard thy way;
So shall life's promises expand
In fair, immortal day.

October 18, 1856.

TO FRANK, ON HIS TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.

SEPTEMBER 5, 1857.

So! be a man and gird thy soul
To life's exalted aims!
The world awaits thee; go and meet
Its just and lofty claims.

Temptation round thy bark will roar;
Stem its o'erwhelming tide,
Breast all its waves with manly force,
And in God's strength abide.

God calls the workman to his toil;
Go with strong arm and free,
To do His bidding, and await
Life's opening destiny.

As springs the oak, with budding hope,
From the small acorn riven,
Spreads far and wide its sheltering boughs,
And lifts its head to heaven,—

So from this starting point of life
Pursue thy widening way,
Blessing and blest, till time shall bring
The light of endless day.

EWING AT TWENTY-ONE.

Launched safely on life's sunny main,
With morn's bright promise round thee spread,
Live nobly, that earth's waiting train
May pour their blessings on thy head.

What e'er the voice of duty claims,
Go forth, thy destiny to meet;
Let tireless hope and lofty aims
Make darkness light and labor sweet.

Sow goodly seed in every field,
From every field rich harvests bring;
None is too poor some fruit to yield,
Let ripening glory crown life's spring.

So o'er thee—for love cannot tire—
God's covenant grace shall still abide,
Like Israel's pillared cloud and fire,—
By day, thy light; by night, thy guide.

And when, like autumn's withered leaves,
The proud, the base, unnoticed, fall,
Thy deeds shall be like garnered sheaves,
And God shall bind and keep them all.

TO MY WIFE AT FIFTY.

'T is fifty years,—God bless her,—
A little more, perhaps;
When the heart is good and loving,
How fast the years elapse.
We count time, not by pulse-beats,
Or wrinkles on the brow,
But by love's broad, lighted circle,—
An ever-lingering Now.

I spoke of wrinkles—did I?
Oh, no, the loving lines
Drawn round the earth, like girdles,
Have here impressed their signs;
And if white rose leaves sprinkle
Their sheen upon her hair,
The once bright auburn tresses
A silvery beauty wear.

I wrote it fifty,—did I?
It might be thirty less,—
Her young heart has such power
To care for and to bless;
As sunshine near the evening
Smiles with a fairer ray,
And makes the hour of setting
The sweetest in the day.

I might have written twenty,—
But one that filled her nest
Boasts of her thirty summers,
And a rosebud on her breast;
And one, grave years creep o'er him
And graver scenes employ,—
Now, a young, doting father,
But her once fair-haired boy;

And one, her babe caressing,
With fond, maternal look;
And one, his life consuming
O'er legal brief and book;
And two, intently watching
The shadows cast before,—
I might have written twenty,
But yet it must be more.

Yes, fifty years,—God bless her,—
Perhaps a little more;
No matter what the number,
'T is all a shining store,—
As summer wakes new blessings
With every day that springs;
And every breeze comes wafting
Fresh fragrance on its wings.

The days, in love and blessing,
Like glancing sunbeams sped,
Since angels sang, responsive,
Around her cradle-bed;
They chanted love and promise,
Not time, or years, to be;
No matter what the number,
Perhaps 't is fifty-three.

February 8, 1866.

OUR GOLDEN WEDDING.

1834–1884.

Behold, dear wife, how things have changed,
Through sunshine and through showers;
The spring has ripened into fall,
The buds have turned to flowers.

What long, wide paths our feet have trod,
Since the far days of old!
But love has changed each woe to good,
The silver moon to gold.

These fifty years of wedded love,
How brief and few they seem!
Swift as a summer-day of joy,
Eventful as a dream!

The babes we fostered long ago,
And called them “children” then;
The girls are into mothers grown,
The boys to stalwart men.

We launched our bark in sunny youth,—
The date seems far away;
But years have shortened into months,
Months into fleeting days.

Once, like new ships, that ride in port,
With canvas all unfurled,
Successful voyagers, our keel
Has sailed half round the world.

By day God's loving cloud has moved,
A shelter o'er our head;
And still by night our winding course
The pillared fire has led.

Sail on, fair craft, so bravely kept
Unharmed by wind or wave;
The hand so skilful to direct,
Is mighty, too, to save.

Sail on, sail on, till golden light
Shines o'er the distant sea,
And guides the vessel to its port,
Blest immortality.

September 16, 1884.

TO CARRIE ON HER FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY.

Child of my warm affection,
Hast thou so stately grown?
And can thy years be fifty,—
My little one, my own?
Thy love, thy sunny temper,
Thy sweet and blessed ways
Made thee a child of promise
In all thy early days.

The years have passed so swiftly,
I took no note of time;
Art thou a wife,—a mother?
While babes around thee climb?
Art thou, in light and power,
One of the world's bright rays?
Do thy companions bless thee;
And are thy works thy praise?

Ah, yes, the years advancing
Have brought thee joy and grief,
As thou to many a weak one
Hast ministered relief.
A blessing to the living,
A watcher o'er the dead,
Heaven weaves its crown of honor,
A halo round thy head.

And if thy darling left thee
To find his home above,
Heaven has its many mansions,
Heaven is the land of love;
Trial may prove a blessing
O heart, be still and brave,
Wait for the great revealing,—
God takes but what He gave.

As from the eastern glory
The morning sun ascends,
And in a fairer radiance
His western journey ends,—
So from the sweet beginnings,
A brighter noon shall grow,
And Heaven shall crown thy fifties
With its immortal glow.

August 19, 1893.

MY WIFE, TO A FRIEND WHO WOULD GUESS HER AGE.

Oh, no, my friend, you blunder there,
Your guess is far from true;
She has grown dearer many a year,
But not yet “sixty-two.”

Time's careless fingers o'er her head
Have dropped the crystal dew,—
The pearls flow down in silver gloss;
But she 's not “sixty-two.”

You think she 'd seen so much of life,
Alike the old and new,
She must be quite advanced, perhaps,—
Well, far from “sixty-two.”

You might have guessed more wisely, friend,
Had you a better clew;
You judge her by her wisdom?—Well,
She is not “sixty-two.”

Her cheerful face, her bonny curls,
Her heart so warm and true,—
Tell tales of years of joy and love;
But she 's not “sixty-two.”

For years, home's sunny bowers more bright
With clustering offshoots grew,
And other bowers have reared their young;
But she 's not “sixty-two.”

Diminish it by four, I pray;
Her sky, still bright and blue,
Bends, loving, round her youthful head;
Yet she 's not “sixty-two.”

The silvery brown that crowns her brow
Suggests “Serenely wait,
And sometime, on some pleasant morn,
She'll wake, just fifty-eight.”

February, 1871.

OUR FIFTY-NINTH MARRIAGE ANNIVERSARY.

Not gifts of gold or costly gems,
But that which is all price above,
The festal marriage-day provides,—
Mercies to cheer and hearts to love.

How many sunny years have passed!
And each has left its radiant line;
The fifty long ago were told,
And now, behold, 't is fifty-nine.

God of the loving, God of love,
Whose favor blessed the earlier days,
Shine on the years that yet remain,
While silver hairs proclaim thy praise.

September 16, 1893.

SIXTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF OUR WEDDING.

TO MY WIFE, SEPTEMBER 16, 1834–1894.

Sixty benignant years,
With all their joys and tears,
Have rolled by,
Since we, made one for life,
Were wedded, man and wife,
You and I.

The blest days we have seen,
The lands where we have been,
You and I,
Will linger on the brain,
Like some sweet song's refrain,
Till we die.

The friends our hearts have loved,
Whose love our hearts have proved,
Yours and mine,—
Some are our solace yet;
Some, like bright suns, now set,
Still they shine.

The years and ages pass,
Like shadows o'er the grass,—
Love endures;
Plants of immortal root
Cluster immortal fruit,
Ours-and-yours.

TO MARY REED (FRANK'S WIFE), AT FIFTY.

FEBRUARY 9, 1843–1893.

So swiftly the years on their axles have rolled,
The scenes they have brought us seem only a dream,—
Like shooting stars, crossing the ocean of blue,
Or bubbles of air floating down on the stream.

When roused from our dreaming, we find 't is all real,
The months, in their flight, have rolled up into years,
With shadows and brightness, with sorrows and joys,
The glow of their hopes, and their faith, and their tears.

Our birthdays, like milestones, are stationed to tell
How rapid the pace, and how far off the start;
We note them, we count them; but what are the years,
If only young love lingers warm in the heart?

Methinks Father Time, in his hurry, forgot,
And marked on his tally more years than have sped;
No blush of the red rose has paled from your cheek,
No petal of white fluttered down on your head.

By sickness and weakness, bereavement and pain,
Like flowers by the tempest your heart has been bowed;
But Love has provided more gladness than gloom,
More mercy than judgment, more sunshine than cloud.

What mercy and goodness have gleamed through your years!
How lovely, how swiftly the fifty have passed!
With glow of the sunset, and glory, and peace,
May fifty be added,—the crown of the last.

TO MY BELOVED WIFE, AT SEVENTY.

Threescore and ten! the blushing spring
Has changed to autumn's brown;
The glossy head, for auburn curls,
Now wears a silver crown.

Fair day of life, so rich in good!
So seldom tempest-tossed!
How joy and love have filled the space
Between the bloom and frost!

And thou half round the globe hast trod;
Hast traced, from distant seas,
The northern crown and southern cross,
And felt the tropic breeze.

Thy children, held in honor, stand,
Known in the world's highways;
Thy husband, too,—and he, with theirs,
This loving tribute pays.

And all thy steps, divinely planned,
God's loving care has led;
And countless blessings has His hand,
Like spring-flowers, round thee shed.

Threescore and ten! the limit reached
That human years may fill,—
God's covenant love, God's promised grace
Will shield and guide thee still.

And life's long path, through sun and storm,—
Blest boon to mortals given,—
Or smooth, or rough, at last shall prove
One long, sweet path to heaven.

Davenport, Iowa.

TO MY WIFE ON HER SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY.

RETROSPECTIVE PICTURES.

A fairy girl, with wavy curls;
Her trade in books and pen,
Like one who scatters lovely pearls;
Her sunny years,—just ten.

Another figure, stately grown,—
What changes time has wrought!
How swift the sobering years have flown,
With noblest purpose fraught!

Twice ten,—the scene is changed; I hear
His, “Wilt thou?” her “I will;”
She pledged her faith without a fear,
Risking, or good,—or ill.

Again, thrice ten,—and clinging buds
In sweet affection twine,
Successive, with their tendrils fair
Around the clustering vine.

Four tens,—the happy summit reached,
Life's harder conflicts done,
Her sunny curls with silver streaked,
Life's golden prizes won.

Revered and loved, with honor crowned,
Now with her five times ten,
In peace and hope she walks and lives,
Lives, in her babes, again.

Sweet eminence, too fair to leave,
And so she lingers still;
Her cup of good, at six times ten,
What constant blessings fill!

The world is wide; like Israel's hosts,
Sheltered and led of God,
At seven times ten her favored steps
Remotest empires trod.

Five more are added,—years of joy;
Walk on, with trusting feet,
Till years full twenty-five shall make
Thy century complete.

February 8, 1888.

TO MY WIFE ON HER EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY.

[_]

This poem divides fourscore years of life into four parts, of one score each. It proceeds on the idea that the first score of a life of eighty years is mainly a period of labor and promise, like spring; the second, of vigorous toil, activity, and growth, like summer; the third, harvest and fruit from the preceding period, like autumn; the fourth, rest and beauty, like winter, which is marked by the rest and crystalline beauty incident to that season.

First Score.—Spring.

A score of years!—as spring matures
Its tender bud, and leaf, and bloom,
While Time's swift shuttle flies and weaves
The loveliest tints in nature's loom,
Day after day the picture grows
Beneath the weaver's skilful hand,
Till the sweet beauty stands complete,
Which love conceived and wisdom planned,—
So light and shade, and night and day,
Blessed the fair flower of human mould,
While frame and form, and heart and mind,
Hasted like petals to unfold;
What tint and tone of grace they bore,
What richest fruits! 't was just a score.

Second Score.—Summer.

A second score!—as summer calls
The fervent heart and toiling hand
To wield the scythe, to bind the sheaf,
To answer labor's high demand,

No hour is left for aimless play;
All the long day, till evening lowers,
Life bids to work, its stern behest
Demands the workman's grandest powers,—
So in the summer tide of hope
With ceaseless pains the matron wrought,
By noble deeds and nobler aims
Enriching life, inspiring thought.
What summer growth those labors bore!
What ripening fruits!—life's second score.

Third Score.—Autumn.

Threescore!—how richly autumn bends
Beneath her weight of fruit and flowers!
Beauty and plenty glow and meet,
Like garlands twined around her bowers;
The heat and drought, the dew and rain,
And wearing toil which months record.
God notes them all,—no work is lost,
And each at last brings large reward.
So harvests from thy heart and hand
Are heaped along the world's highways;
Children and children's children blend
Their voices in thy worthy praise.
Thy works, the third, the fruitful score,
Are like the autumn's garnered store.

Fourth Score.—Winter.

Fourscore!—how sweet, how fair the scene,
When winter spreads, o'er all the earth,
Her bridal robe of purest white,
Her crystal gems, of heavenly birth!
Peace reigns where all was life and care;
Nature keeps jubilee of rest;

Of all the seasons, each admired,
This is the loveliest, the best.
So when the vessel nears its port,
Its anchor in smooth water cast,
With its rich cargo safe at home,
It rides the gentle wave at last;
Yet sail along this peaceful shore,
I pray, dear wife, another score.

TO MY WIFE, AT EIGHTY-ONE.

I've known and loved her many a year
Since first I called her mine.
“How many years?” I'll tell you, friend,—
Why, fifty years and nine;
So many years we talked of “ours,”
And never “mine” and “thine.”

She must be quite advanced, I think,—
A queen with silver hair.
Oh, never mind the months and days;
The things that people wear
Are all outside; there 's something else,
That 's ever young and fair.

'T is love that makes the joy of life,—
Love, the best gift of heaven;
A clasp that holds when meaner ties
Grow feeble, or are riven;
It keeps its circle perfect, like
The Hebrew number “seven.”

And so the years have trundled on,
Alike in calm and storm;
Our birdies, in bright plumage dressed,
Of comely growth and form,
Have fled the nest,—the dear old nest,—
And still the nest is warm.

The world is better for the songs
Thy fairy lips have sung;
And sweeter for the fragrant flowers
Around thy pathway flung,—
God's gift, as true in silvery age
As when they called thee “young.”

Queen of my heart, queen of my house,
Its gladness and its sun,
Dear for the thousand things thou art,
For thousands thou hast done,
Blest are the years thy life has spanned,
Thy fourscore years and one.

February 8, 1894.

TO MY WIFE ON HER EIGHTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY.

'T is well to celebrate the days
That mark the flight of years,
And, thoughtful, take account of stock,—
The joys, the hopes, the fears,
That crowd the life, or broad or brief,
Along the curious maze,
A precious tribute, each, in turn,
On Memory's altar lays.

Thou canst not e'er forget the eve,
In thy young brilliant life,
When, without change of soul or name,
Thou wast a wedded wife.
Forget? Oh, no; nor, nobler still,
The blessings of that other,
When infant beauty on thee smiled,
Saluting thee as mother.

Refreshing as, in summer's heat,
Comes to the rose the dew,
And gladdening as the perfumed breeze.
Thy heart so warm and true;
Knitting fresh links of love and bliss,
An ever-lengthening chain,
Thine is the honored sum, to-day,
Of fourscore years and twain.

February 8, 1895.