Sketches from Life in Dixie

Many and many a year ago
I heard of those ancient rhymers,
Those builders of our poetic lore,
The grand old vanished timers,
Were always born and never made;
That they by inspiration bade
The eulogies and melodies
From the spirit's emotions rise,
Filling the earth, the air, the skies
With beings from their paradise,
Of esthetic thought and rapture.

Then the muses chased the poets down
From infancy to hoariness,
With the genius' proffered crown
And surprised them in their idleness
With the coronation brilliancy
Of sweet poetic ecstacy,
When the metrical song moved along
In melody's natural measure.
A radient royal pleasure,
Which the favored took at leisure
Without the minutest effort.

That this is true I sometimes feel,
And write a feeble line or two,
Whene'er the muses o'er me steal
And I fain would strike the lyre too:
But that “always born, never made,”
From the fanciful flight have stayed,

Brilliant spondee and sweet touchee,
Awaiting the inspiring tole,
To move the music of my soul
To the cadence of the poet's role,
Of proficiency without toil.

No, Nature has no favored ones,
All are what themselves would be;
Through endless toil Ambition's sons
Adorn themselves with victory:
So I will write it, right or wrong,
Everyone shall hear the song,
I wish to sing of Evylin;
The chaste and lovely Evylin,
Tho' all the measure set therein
Is not what it should have been,
To make the Criticaster's poem.

MARY JANE'S BRIGHT EYE.

Oft in the hush of twilight,
When the golden sunbeams die,
There beams for me the light
Of Mary Jane's bright eye:
As she swings,
And sings,
And lingers late,
For me at the cottage gate.

Whenever the day goes wrong
With the weight of cruel cares,
The lustre of her orbs
Beam brighter though in tears,
As she weeps
And sweeps,
And watches late
My coming through the cottage gate.

Oh! the eyes of my Mary Jane!
Dark and sparkling, lovely eyes,
Where stood my reflected self
Mirrored in paradise,
As she hung,
And swung,
And lingered late,
And kissed me o'er the cottage gate.

SONNETS TO MY LOVE.

I

I stood, when life was full of buoyant hope,
At sunrise, in the vanished years now flown,
With my mother, on that piece of earth that's known
To those who've had mother's affections ope
The gate, and leave ajar, to their full scope,
The delightful ways of sweet childhood's home,
And felt her hand of blessing on her own—
And now when fancy calls up those remote
Times, though its far too late, I appreciate
Her sole absorbing theme, maternal love;
Alone on this, the greatest human trait,
God has written in the archives above
Divine; but she left me disconsolate,
Alone in oblivion's sphere to move.

II

I turn away from this scene of sadness,
To embrace thee, fairest of all the earth,
Thou thrillest me and all my friends with mirth
And incitest hope that counsels cheerfulness,
And bidst me to no longer doubt; nor guess
At the supremacy of thyself and worth,
Nor longer to compare thee with the serf;
Life's meaner beings and their littleness.
Thou art celestial, fair sweetheart of mine,
Divinely fashioned in thine every part,
The light that dazzles in those eyes of thine,

Has won until now my unconquered heart;
I kneel, divested of self, at love's shrine
And offer thee all my confiding heart.

III

It is thine for good, for better, or for worse,
Faithful to remain through all the year
Of checkered life's bright sunshine, cloud and tear,
Thine whatever be thy sad reverse,
Thine till the collapse of the universe;
Thine to revere, to love, adore, to wear
Thine image on my soul; nor fate, nor fear,
Weal nor woe, nor Mammon's power coerce
Me into cold forgetfulness of thee,
Because thou still livest alone for me
And stern, cold, destructive adversity,
Has left thee goddess of prosperity,
To inspire me. Today, o'er life's grim sea,
I hear the glad acclaim of victory.

IV

It's sweet to hear the milkmaid's rural song
Floating in its melody on the wind;
The buoyant echo of a tranquil mind;
And sweeter still to see the waving corn,
Falling beneath the scythe throughout the long
Harvest days; and yet still more so to find
The frugal meal spread by the angel kind,
Which God gave to be our helpmate. The horn
Of plenty thrives in her delicate hand,
And economy fills our humble board.
It is sweet as you tread a foreign strand,
Where the ships from over the sea stand moored;

To learn anew that in your native land,
Confiding lovers your memories hoard.

V

It is sweet to have narrated at night
The travels of him who has seen the earth,
When hoary winter makes of all a dearth,
And the fires of peace in our homes burn bright
As we mix our wines and our friendships plight,
O'er the bright nectar that kindles the mirth,
Of the jolly souls that surround our hearth
With their witty convivial delight.
But sweeter, sweeter far, than all of these,
Are the delicious joys young lovers steal,
While making love beneath the verdant trees,
As they feel the full, wild, passionate weal
Of first love's grand emotions; when the breeze
Of mutual hope fans the fire they feel.

VI

But this to me is the sweetest by night,
With my love's soft voice as the complement,
Chiming the cadence of its merriment,
While her heart's at ease, and her spirit bright,
Allures the soul in its ecstatic flight,
To the fullest extent of its sentient,
Passionately, bewildered sentiment,
Of love's profound, affectionate delight.
To feel the touch of this angelic one,
In the sublime grace of her fellowship;
Makes the heart beat quick and the spirit run,
Pregnant with great bliss, into Cupid's ship
O'er oceans of doubt, to love's dominion,
As on her upturned face I press my lip.

VII

And when under the weight of cares for me,
In affection's bower thou seekst repose,
I will gather the myrtle, lilly and rose,
To embellish thy resting place for thee.
For chastity's reclining couch should be
A sacred shrine, where the gallant daily goes,
A self-made vassal, chief of love's heroes
Felling the vicious tongue of calumny.
When all the means at my command are spent,
Whereof I might make thy sleep softly flow
Through sunny dreams, I'll cease to serve, and print
A kiss, love's epilogue, on thy sweet brow,
Explanatory of our merriment,
And resign thee to slumbers light and low.

VIII

Again the long and sombre shadows throw
Their spectre forms across the dreary road;
And their grim quiverings plainly forebode
A crisis, and the golden sun, although
Fading, has still a rich and brilliant glow,
And his brow of burnished gold throws a robe
Of crimson o'er all; as the grim old ford
Between the night and the day he leaps o'er.
When tired day slowly succumbs to twilight,
Whose silent curtain, dropping, hides the way
From view, and we see cold, dark, gloomy night
In triumph succeed the beautiful day,
Until the moon and stars, illumed and bright,
Have martialed themselves in the Milky Way.

IX

Now the beauties of the sun's after glow

Are reflected in yon dazzling arcade,
As legions of stars after stars promenade
Down the aisles of the firmament, and throw
The glory of their unique order o'er
All; there each in its special orbit stayed,
By the rules of harmony which pervade
The universe, has beings of its own,
Who looking off on this world of ours, call
It, perchance, a star, as on in its way
It goes around the Prince of day, a ball
Of ordinate matter, till ev'ry ray
Of the spheres roll in files astronomical,
While in the east the laughing sunbeams play.

X

Sleep, thou art a workman of skill and art,
The master builder that turneth the arch
Of beauty in feminine form; monarch
Of nature's stupendous being and heart,
That fills creation to its utmost part,
With energy for its triumphant march,
O'er the blighting forces of death that parch
The soul of beauty; aye, the stricken heart
Beats stronger after calm repose with thee,
And death is foiled in its triumphant hour,
And marks but a point in our destiny,
Where the watch fires burn dimly in life's tower
But will blaze with renewed vitality,
Reignited by thy silent power.

XI

For what is death but calm repose after all?
Sleep, lovely sleep, that finds vitality;

Behold! it springs from seed of plant and tree,
A living fact, the grave cannot enthrall,
Nor annihilation again recall—
Demonstrated resurrection to me,
Immortal life, man's final destiny;
By nature's vital forces ever called
To action somewhere in the universe,
After the pause for refreshment and rest,
In that realm where the omnivorous nurse
Men call the grave, enfolds all to its breast,
Whose stern immutable powers coerce
And all the living maketh a jest.

XII

Blessed is the man who enters sleep's domain
Of tranquility and majestic ease;
Where refreshing slumbers the weak appease,
And with beauty reanimate the inane;
Where calumny's shaft and intended pain
Are vanished never to return again;
Where society's distinctions release
Their hold, and caste—that civil disease—
Which has destroyed states and wrecked empires,
Is perpetually barred; there the old
Consuming blight of poverty expires,
And of mute inactivity grows cold;
When peaceful repose quiets the desires,
And sleep, majestic sleep, fills the household.

XIII

Come thou, lord of labor, come. I propose
To ally myself with thee, and to have,
Thy powerful hands close these eyes, and pave

My way to forgetfulness and repose;
Teach me how soon forgot are all the woes,
The joys, the triumphs; and all that men crave
Or hope for, love or abhor, when the grave,
Ante room to eternity, shall close
All the realities of earth to me.
Sweet refreshing slumber, come, my royal
Master, come thou, and let me embrace thee.
Oh! come thou, and strengthen me for the toil
Of another day; and of eternity
Give me a view, ere my ashes have turned to soil.

XIV

Sweet the morning after repose with thee,
When the firmament turns from gray to gold
And the radiant starlit sky has rolled
Into the archives of day's immensity,
And thou awake, seeming fresh from Deity's
Hands come, and we from love's eyes will behold
The first born of all the spheres arise, bold
And fearless in his supreme sovereignty
O'er all aerial things; but to you,
Last and fairest from the hand of God,
He comes on golden wings, a servant true,
Alone illuminating thy abode;
There he is at last up the eastern view,
And only for thee creation's beauties hoard.

XV

Sweep on in thine aerial flight, O sun,
Like shadows old chaos fled before thee,
When thou swung out there over land and sea,
The hub of the solar system to run

The universe; then the morning stars sung
Together while thou set the spheres aglee,
And fixed the measures of their destiny
When old time's calendar began to run.
But who can fix the measure of thy years,
Or tell when they shall end, as they surely will,
For 'tis said thyself shall die, and the spheres
Shall forget their concord and instill
In old chaos a new hope; but it appears
It shall not triumph when thou art still.

XVI

Then Jehovah's supremest attribute
Will light the diamond boulevards of the sky,
And angels of peace and light will fly,
On errands of love for thee, and salute
Us with shouts of welcome, which will confute
The fears our carnal bodies raised, led by
The prince of night; that father of the lie
Which once made us hesitate, and commute
The priceless favor of Messiah for him.
But now we see His love in the pathless wood,
In rippling stream, and eolian hymn,
In the embellished lea where Flora stood
And sowed the flowers in the early spring,
And left the spirit of her sisterhood.

XVII

Who is the queen of my fancy? Well,
My friend would you really like to know?
She is not yellow, white nor gray, and so
Must be something else. I'm afraid to tell,
Since all that's mean between heaven and hell,

Abhor the color black. She's cherub, though,
And all the fair and the impartial know,
She is a beautiful, beautiful angel.
I care not what your prejudice, you'll love
Her in your heart, when the light of her dark eyes
Beam on you, like the flash of stars above
A dark and rolling cloud; her form complies
With all the art the Grecian sculptors prove;
“Her voice?” A chord escaped from paradise.

MY WISH.

As I strive to lift the burden,
When intense becomes the strife,
If you are friendly, brother,
While the tumult is rife,
Is the time above all others,
For the helping hand in life.

And when I am growing weary,
Victory seems in doubt,
Then come to my rescue, brother,
With praises loud speak out,
Do not wait till I have conquered,
To raise the cheering shout.

If the fight is drawn, my brother,
I neither lose nor win,
Will you keep your place beside me,
Till I try it again,
Till I mend my broken armor,
And try my hand again?

If the battle goes against me,
I'm smitten hip and thigh,
It is then and there, my brother,
I'd like to have you nigh,
With your valor and your courage,
And not your sympathy.

And when I'm done, my brother,
When my final word is said,

When I sleep beneath the grasses
Where the daisy lifts its head,
In the place of polished marble
Plant the roses instead.

You may leave me off your praises,
When they make my humble bed,
In the silent land of shadows
With the green sod over head—
If I am forgot while living,
Forget me when I'm dead.

Just leave me to the memory
Of him I used to know,
Of the friend who stood beside me
So many years ago,
When you were quoting calumny
And I was plucking crow.

I CARE NOT FOR THE MISER'S GOLD.

I care not for the miser's gold,
Nor increased acreage of lands;
My neighbor's goods I would not hold
Nor wring wealth from his clinched hands.
Oh no! My God! I would not have
My hands itching for his gold,
A higher boon my spirit craves
Of Thee. Let me communion hold
With these: the good, the great, the free;
Aye! let me scale the towering dome
Of thought, and feel, and know, and see
The highest dome bidding welcome
To my continued upward flight;
Oh, grant that I may stand amid
Men of thought, a man; banish night
From my clouded brow, and me rid
Of my mental infirmities.
Thou Deity of Deities!

CASTLE BUILDERS.

Many and many a merry day,
Under the oak tree's shade,
We children tripped it out to play,
Happy, blithe and gay;
Then we built our airy castles high,
To occupy—ah when?
When we were grown to men,
Those beautiful, airy castles high,
When we were grown to men.

Or down the lane we chased the fly,
That brilliant, gauzy thing,
Which seemed a sunbeam floating by,
Blithe and gay as we,
When we built those airy castles high,
To occupy—ah when?
When we were grown to men,
Those beautiful, airy castles high,
When we were grown to men.

Alas! the golden years have flown;
Also the blithe and gay;
But hope's phantoms flit the gloam
Just the same today;
And we build our airy castles high,
To occupy them when
We unite the schemes of men—
You beautiful, airy castles high,
We'll occupy you then.

And soar again on fancy's wings,
Chasing the rainbows down;
Those radiant and dazzling things,
The visionary schemes of men;
And build our castles somewhat worse,
Than in the years gone by;
For we shall occupy them when
We learn to know man is a farce,
And his promise is a lie.

THE PYRAMID.

The pyramid through ages past,
Through all their tempest, storm and blast,
Held its apex up to grasp
The elements.

Three thousand years, long and fleet,
Have struck their colors at its feet,
Ten thousand more its strength shall meet
Till time is done.

Where is the tower Babel built?
Where is Tyre's crimson hilt?
Judea's temple. and the guilt
Her neighbors' knew?

They're gone at oblivion's call—
Old Egypt's skill survives them all—
Yet in the art of Pharaoh's pall
The Egyptian lives.

JOE'S FARM.

Many aud many a year has gone
Since I was cleared by Joe,
Who plowed me up and planted corn,
To see it shoot and grow.

He built an old Virginia fence
Out there where the wires run;
And worked, he said, in self-defense,
From sunny sun to sun.

He planted peas between the rows,
And pumpkins here and there;
And where that patch of briar grows
He set out deep the pear.

And further on the apple tree,
And the peach orchard there;
With worthy pride embellished me
With fruit trees ev'rywhere.

And placed around the orchard, sir,
Were hives and hives of bees;
In the piggery the hogs were;
In the pasture, the beeves.

And fiery steeds, and all that go
To make your farm a home;
But that which was most prized by Joe
Was his broad fertile loam.

He kept me fertilized and tiled,
With ditches deep and wide,
And never let the floods run wild,
Nor stream it down my side.

And where the gullies would have been,
Near by he planted trees;
Then there the grass grew bright and green,
And there would play the breeze.

But Joe has long since passed away,
And others master here;
Yet since that sad and gloomy day
I've lordless been and drear.

And where was once the verdant knoll,
Gullies are yawning wide;
And when it rains the waters roll
In torrents down my side.

Here in the flats the briars grow,
The thistles on the hills;
And where the gin wheels used to go
Are a few rotten sills.

The gentleman that's master now
Says farming does not pay;
He neither drives nor holds the plow,
And values not his clay.

When the master of this place was Joe
And cotton king of crops,
I've seen the white and red blooms blow
On miles of my sunny tops.

And in the fall the fleecy stuff
Would fill the earth like snow,
The harvesters would cry enough,
And farming it paid Joe.

AFTER CHURCH.

Yes, May and I are friends,
Lovers, many have said;
For down the lane and o'er the lea
To church we often tread,
In that careless sort of way,
That leads to love, they say;
And after church we often search
For garlands by the way.

Yes, May and I are friends,
And something more, they say;
Because along the curved strand,
Where we sat the other day,
I simply wrote her name,
And wrote it o'er again;
When after church we stopped to search
For shells along the main.

More than friends are we,
My bonny May and I;
At least that's what our neighbors say
Whene'er they pass us by,
They smile and wink their eye,
And set their necks awry:
When after church we stop to search
For heart's ease, May and I.

WORDS.

Words are but leaves to the tree of mind;
Where breezy fancy plays;
Or echoes from the souls which find
Expression's subtle ways.

A beaming lamp to idea's feet
Where sentinel thought abides;
Or a guide to the soul's retreat,
Where master man presides.

A jewel trembling on the tongue,
The index of the heart;
The black mask from the spirit wrung.
Revealing every part.

A ship upon the sea of life,
With all her sails aswell;
Her cargo being the bread of life,
Or the cindered dross of hell.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

Life is a mysterious thing.
It comes we know not whence,
And leaves us on a rapid wing
For an absence immense.

Just yester morn I had a friend,
Cheerful, brilliant and gay;
Today grim Death announced his end,
And bore him hence away.

Away into that dark region,
From kindred, friend and foe,
To join the numberless legion
Of men who went before.

Who, now, will cheer the broken hearted,
Or shield them from Death's wrath,
Since the strong, the brave, has departed,
And left a corpse in the path?

He was adorned with honor's star,
Had conquered all but fate;
Death's wing became his palace car
And bore him to heaven's gate.

Sleep on, dear friend; thou art not dead;
Much labor bids thee rest
Profoundly in thy narrow bed,
Of mother earth the guest.

The good, the great in eminence,
The famous, and the proud,
Shall join thee, shorn of this pretense,
Clothed only with a shroud.

Ambition, pride and hope may rise
Towering up Fame's dazzling peaks;
Yet they but find in glory's skies
The bier where valor sleeps.

TO THE DAISY.

No, the cold damp earth could not restrain thee,
Nor the bleak north winds retard thy coming;
For first on the green where the lambs are running,
And down where the rushing brooklet doth flee,
In its musical cadence on to the sea,
Thy sweet face has been modestly turning
Its delicate features up to the sunning,
And throwing its fragrance over the lea,
In a wild and most exuberant way.
Oh, I love thee, wee blue eyed daisy fair!
And I wish thou might blow out there for aye.
Filled with loveliness, perfuming the air,
And alluring me from the broad highway,
To gather garlands for my lady fair.

Thou sit'st upon the meadow's lap of green,
Like smiles upon the face of a sleeping babe,
And the zephyrs sighing through the everglade,
Waft thy perfumes to the winding stream
That lies at thy feet a beautiful sheen;
By the skill of the Master cunningly made,
To catch the likeness of my dark eyed maid
As she gathers her garlands there, I ween;
Thy Circean beauty bewilders me,
For truly, I am curious to know
Why the most delicate flowers that be,
Upon lawn, heather and bough, should first blow,
Fairest and sweetest in their modesty,
Of all the beautiful flowers that grow.

THE FATE OF ALL.

They'll bring when we are dead, perchance,
Some flowers from their garden, friend;
And place them where Time's cruel lance
Has marked for us, for all, the end.

They'll drop upon our bier a tear,
And close for us our eyes; and then
They will leave us forgotten here,
Till time has run its course with men.

If thought of us survives a day,
A month, a year or century,
Still we shall be forgot for aye;
For time consumes all memory.

If Love should rear her shaft of stone,
To mark our little mound of dust,
The granitic fate too well is known—
It shall decay to mould with us.

A few brief years may yet remain
To us on this delightful shore,
Then in the silent land's domain
We shall rest in peace forevermore.

The generations yet to come,
Creation's vast immensity,
Shall find with us a common home,
For commonage's our destiny.

The vast expanse of all the deep
Shall one day pause and cease to roll;
The liquid grave where millions sleep
Shall itself give up its soul.

When oblivion reigns supreme,
Down the endless aisles of chaos,
All things become alike gangrene,
In the land where spirit leaves us.

TO A JILT.

Why did you not tell me your heart is stone,
Where hope, nor joy, nor pleasures abide;
At whose granite base lies broken my own,
Shorn of its faith and bereft of its pride?

Yes, I recall, you said something of this,
But the light of your eye, the smile of your face,
Led me to confide in the promised bliss
You taught me to seek of your assumed grace.

And I dreamed not that one with features so fair,
And a form which truly the angels envy,
Could weave so well the treacherous snare
Of vice, and pride, and perjured frenzy.

Fare thee well! Satanic creature, adieu!
Think no more of him who now tries to wean
His soul from squandering his all on you—
Thou false in friendship, in wedlock a fiend!

LINES. Suggested by the Assaults made on the Negro Soldiers as they passed through the south on their way to and from our war with Spain.

How I love my country you have heard,
And I would you were noble and free
In spirit and deed, as in word,
And your boasted humanity.
I love you, my country, I do,—
Here's a heart, a soul that is thine,
Pregnant with devotion for you,
And blind to your faults as to mine.

The standard of morals is high;
When fixed by my brother for me,
It goes towering up to the sky
With a dazzling purity.
For a bench he sits on a skull,
And is a judge austere and stern,
With whom my demurrers are null,
And my pleadings, though just, are spurned.

I've carried your flag to the front
Through pestilence, battles and storms;
Of the carnage of war took the blunt,
Obeyed your command, “Carry arms!”
And gone with you down to the death,
With the thorns of caste on my head;
Defended your home and your hearth,
And wept o'er the bier of your dead.

As the smoke of the fight goes by,
And the bugle calls to repose,
By my countryman's hands I die,
As well as by the hands of its foes;
Yet I love you, my country, I do,
Here's a heart, a soul that is thine,
Pregnant with devotion for you,
And blind to your faults as to mine.

MY LIST OF BEAUTIFUL THINGS.

A list of my beautiful things?”
Well, have you seen my Evylin;
The beautiful, beautiful Evylin?
She's my list of beautiful things.

A world of beautiful things is she,
Grand! chaste! personified
Love she stands in purity's pride
And thinks of me, and thinks of me.

Poems of ethical thought is she,
Divinely sung on every page;
All her womanly heart engaged
With love of me, with love of me.

My list of beautiful things,
None were ever so sublimely grand,
To her I give my heart and hand,
And all the wealth my labor brings.

A MESSAGE FOR JANETT.

Far away where the raging sea goes,
In the islands of the sea,
There our brave and daring heroes
Fought the battles of the free;
From the hands of arrogant Spain
Struck the sword of tyranny,
On the plains of El Caney.

But o'er the halo of our glory
Falls the mem'ry of our brave,
Stalwart men, all maimed and gory,
Sleeping in a foreign grave,
Where the grim Spanish armament,
And her gallant men of war,
Threw death's missiles wide and far.

There among the dead and dying
Lay a victim of their rage,
By a Spanish block house lying,
Amid the battle's carnage.
He yields to death while glory weeps;
But conquers its agony,
And recks not of its misery.

Now his mind on fancy's pinion
Wings its flight to friends and home,
Takes its leave of war's dominion,
Flutters down the vista gloam;
Till again his friends and loved ones

Shout their welcome in his ear,
O'er his comrade's martial cheer.

But his end came nearer, nearer;
Yet he raised his manly head,
And in language somewhat clearer
Called his comrade near, and said,
“Comrade, if you should live it through
Tell them how we met the Don,
Fought for human rights and won;

“Strove to place our standard higher
On the ramparts of the free,
Defied the Spaniard's deadly fire
And died for humanity;
Tell them of our negro heroes,
Of the valiant black brigade,
And the gallant charge it made.

“You remember there's another,
Dearer far than all to me—
Comrade, don't forget my mother,
For she is all expectancy.
Tell her that I met death bravely,
With the red sod for a bed,
And ‘Old Glory’ over head.

“You will find her by the hearthstone
Near the northern Mexic coast—
Dreaming that I'm coming home,
And the Spaniard's cause is lost.—
‘What answer shall you make to her?’
Tell her that she lost a son,
But the day was nobly won.

“Then you'll take a message for me
To Janett, across the main;
There she's bravely waiting for me,
But we'll never meet again
On that undulating landscape,
Rolling onward, copse and lea,
In their rustic purity.

“Where a laughing, rippling streamlet,
Playing with the golden sands,
Loiters by the peaceful hamlet,
Winds along the fallow lands,
Through a green and varied landscape,
There Janett awaits for me,
In a cottage near the sea.

“In a garden, sweetly laden
With the roses newly blown,
There the comely, gracious maiden
Stands before her cottage home;
Now she moves across the landscape
Through the copse and o'er the lea.
See! she comes to welcome me!

“You will know her by her lashes,
Fringing eyes as dark as jet;
And her curly raven tresses—
You can't miss my fair Janett,
With her beautiful curved neck,
And the rare angelic grace
Of her motion, form and face.”

Here his voice grew faint and broken,
But his face with rapture shone,

As he held aloft the token
Which he through the fight had borne;
'Twas our old and riven ensign,
That his clotted blood did blur—
This the message sent to her.

MY SUBURBAN GIRL.

I know a sweet suburban girl,
She's witty, bright and brief;
With dimples in her cheeks; and pearl
In rubies set, for teeth.

Beneath her glossy raven hair
There beams the hazel eye,
Bright as the star of evening there
Where the yellow sunbeams die.

Her breath is like a flower blown,
In fragrance and perfume;
Her voice seems from the blissful throne
Where their harps the angels tune.

Her waist is just a trifle more
Than a cubit in its girth;
But when there my arms I throw,
I've all there is of earth.

And when she turns her dimpled cheek
Toward me for a kiss,
I lose expression—cannot speak—
And take all there is of bliss.

THE SOUTHERN GIRL.

The fairest thing on land or sea
Is the Southern girl, to me.
You should see her when the stars
Come studding all the sky;
And feel her beaming eye
On you when the moon is full—
Fairest of all that's fair is she,
The Southern girl, to me.

You should hear her laugh by night,
In the moonlight clear and bright,
When the zephyrs light and low,
Across the gardens steal,
To play with the Marechal-Neil,
And caress the beautiful girl—
Fairest of all that's fair is she,
The Southern girl, to me.

Beneath the Marechal-Neil by night,
In the hush of the dead twilight,
You should meet the Southern girl;
And hear the angel sing,
The bonny angel sing;
And feast on wit, and joy, and love—
Fairest of all that's fair is she,
The Southern girl, to me.

The vocal enwoven beauty
Of her graces ever cheers me,

As I listen to the cadence
Of her metrical airs,
Whene'er she trills and dares
Some melodious chord to make—
Fairest of all that's fair is she,
The Southern girl, to me.

After the wooing and merry days,
Go with her through her toiling ways,
As mother, and wife, and friend;
Learn the iron will,
The courage and the skill
Of the typical Southern girl—
Fairest of all that's fair is she,
The Southern girl, to me.

ELLA'S DANCE.

Come, tripping, tripping, tripping, oh,
On the light fantastic toe;
And we'll tread the royal measure,
Down the aisles of wit and pleasure,
Gilding softly, sweetly so,
On the nimble, nimble toe.

Come, lightly, lightly, lightly, oh!
Press me softly as we go,
Playfully skipping to and fro,
As round, and round we reel and go,
Gliding softly, sweetly so,
On the nimble, nimble toe.

FLORA.

I sought her in the woodland
Where the dogwood blossoms blow,
And thought I had her cornered
Where the little rill doth flow,
Laughs and sings, laughs and sings,
Sweeping over golden sands,
Like a living thing
On burnished silver wings.

But the cunning elf escaped me,
And left me standing there,
Bewildered by the cadence
Of her music in the air;
In the air, in the air
The poesy of nature,
Struck by the feathered tribe,
Ran lyrical ev'rywhere.

Till fancy caught her smiling
In the budding of the trees,
Where tiny little leaflets
Unfolded to the breeze,
To the breeze, to the breeze,
When Flora came a-riding
A sunbeam for a steed,
Down the floral highways of the leas.

And the cunning elf flew onward,
With magical little wand

Painting up the butter cups
Beside her as she ran,
As she ran, as she ran;
Till her prancing steed stood still
Entangled in the snare
On my lady's cheeks of tan.

You cunning little elfin,
I have sought you ev'rywhere
To find you 'neath the tresses
Of a girl's disheveled hair;
Lady fair, graced and rare.
When you stoop to plant the rose
You but set its colors
In your cheeks, my lady fair.

NANNIE IS A BONNIE MAID.

Nannie, she is dearer far
Than all the girls I know,
For when the cook deserts her ma
And swears she'll work no more,
She puts her latest music by
And bakes an apple pie.

Nannie is a bonnie maid,
There's none so neat and fair,
As she when dressed in Wesson plaid,
And banged her glossy hair,
With all her silken skirts put by,
While she serves the apple pie.

MY PRAYER.

My Savior, in life's ebb and flow,
In its turmoil, in its glow,
In its triumph, in its woe,
Through its changes guard Thou me.

I am weak and poor and blind,
And oft in my weakness I find
Vile sin has stol'n my peace of mind.
And driven me, Oh Lord, from Thee.

Eternal One, hide not Thy face,
But grant me mercy, love and grace,
And in Thy providence a place
Of security and rest.

I know Thou art rich without me,
That one, God, the Spirit and Thee,
Is th' eternal Deity;
And angels are Thy worshipers.

In Thy hands love and justice dwell,
And the hosts of light, earth and hell
Obedient to Thy will must swell
The long roll at the judgment call.

Lord, I know when the bleeding heart
Looks up to Thee, Thou wilt impart
Upon each ruptured broken part
The soothing balm of Thy sweet love.

And when estranged are all earth's friends
And the gloom of rejection still tends
To obstruct my way, Thou wilt send
Me Thy comforter from above.

And if fortune at last should beam
Upon my obscure path, a gleam
Of sunshine from Thy upper realm,
I know the sunshine, Lord, is Thine.

Lord, I would learn to love mankind,
Through love of him a passage find
To a rich and bright and purer mind,
And home and rest at last with Thee.

BIOGRAPHIA.

I saw sweep out of the unknown
A worthy sunlit bark, alone,
By eddies dallied and then thrown
Down with Life's stream.

And on its frail though radiant prow,
“Consigned to the unknown art thou,”
Was stamped by Him, Who then, as now,
Directs the end.

There went with it a being of hope—
A radiant being of hope,
An ethereal philanthrope,
Somewhat divine.

She steered the craft hard by the shore—
I heard the stroke of her golden oar,
The silver thread of the streamlet o'er
Throwing the spray.

Her cargo was of jewels rare,
All luminous, splendid and fair;
The ensign of a prince was there
Undoubtedly.

Methinks I saw his armor there,
Brilliantly grand, superb and rare,
Whose shield was beaming ev'rywhere,
Like a coronet.

And through the helmet of his robe
Two luminous orbs lit his abode,
And like the fixed stars brightly glowed
Continuously.

And near this dazzling light appears
A blazing meteor beneath the spheres,
Expression's guide of joy and fears
Incased in pearl.

This pearly armament's support
Is cunningly built, a coral fort
Compassed with ruby fleets, which float
'Round there for aye.

And when its florid portals oped,
The cadence of the prince awoke
The music Mother Eve evoked
In Paradise.

Then the stream, grand, masterly stream,
Moved swiftly, silent and serene,
The bark and its fair guide between,
To run the falls.

But still she, with her skillful hand,
E'er taught the tottering craft to stand
The strain and shock of the rocky strand
Which lies below.

Where the stream runs its merry race
Of rapid, smooth and subtile grace,
The craft leaped o'er the falls, to face
The surge and whirl,

Of the deep, the grand and awful wave,
Where the frothy waters toil and rave
On in their course, as they engrave
Their history.

And bickers on by sunlit hills,
Where Vanity Fair the passion fills,
And pompous pride in the breast instills
A new desire.

Then out, and 'round the slippery curve
Where bold Maturity's heights subserve
The channel to deepen, and to swerve
Its rapid flight.

Then down the rugged precipice,
Through the whirling pools of Error's bliss,
Where the troubled waters seethe and hiss
A flood of tears.

Here, where youth's border land appears,
The gallant oarsman drops his fears,
And, king-like, o'er the floods he rears
His stately head.

Then through green fields and sunny climes,
Where Cupid's violin strikes the chimes
Of melody's tunes and happy rhymes,
The river runs.

Till o'er its purling waters came
The splash of golden oars again,
Dashing the silver spray like rain
From Cupid's prow.

Where Evylin sat, an angel bright,
A fair, celestial angel bright,
Guiding another bark of light
Through Love's domain;

Where moon, and stars, and earth, and air
Seemed covered with the mystic snare,
Which Cupid throws to catch the fair
Angelic thing,

As she sweeps down the silver stream
Beneath the glow of beauty's beam,
With hope's, and love's, and fancy's gleam
Of wild delight,

Steering for that semi-paradise,
To the land where experience lies,
Where truth and wisdom harmonize
Youth's fervent fires.

Here many a green isle appears,
Along the stream, where the sunny years,
Of conjugal life devoutly wears
Contentment's crown.

Till the stream impetuous grows,
And pride, deceitful pride, blows
His clarion horn and goes
About the sails,

Of ev'ry ship which daily files,
Adown the stream by the sunny isles;
Where with them all fame flies and smiles
Bewitchingly.

Just flies and smiles; beguiles and tries
To lead all 'neath the sunny skies,
With windy inconsistencies
Off the Isles of Peace.

Till Ambition comes, an oarsman dark,
A stern, deceptive oarsman dark,
And takes possession of the bark,
And rows blindly on.

Where all the floods become untied
And pour their torrents far and wide,
From mountain side to mountain side,
Through the dismal swamp.

Ambition's meed, dark discontent,
And Fame's worthless emolument,
So often pledged, but seldom sent,
Till this good day.

Till the splendor of the old bark's glow,
Which all well knew in that long ago,
Is storm-driven so till we scarce know
What 'tis or does.

But I saw it with the billows toil,
When the turbulent stream's rough turmoil
Did its fair prospects taunt and foil,
And roll grumbling on.

Through bold tornadoes it had gone;
I saw the rent where Calumny's storm,
Swept through the sails and then hissed on
Relentlessly.

But the bark was a kingly one,
It weathered the storms; I saw it run
Grappling with the stream and overcome
The vicious winds

That stormed along the malignant strand,
Just where looms up the goodly land
Of Fame's domain and Fancy's grand
Expectantcy.

Again, I saw it sail, and sail,
Proud and defiant with the gale,
With hope, iron will, and nerves of mail
Combatting the fates.

Where the stream runs purling swift and strong
In its murmuring, liquid song
Breaking hope, and will, and nerves along
The cataract.

And still the craft sped with the wave.
On the crest of the billows laved,
Nor heeded the omnivorous grave
That yawned below

Where the river bold grew deep and wide;
Till it so placidly seemed to glide,
That its deceptive waves belied
Its rapid flight.

To the grand and deep old ocean wide,
Rolling in all its majestic pride,
Until the crest of its hoar tide
The river met.

There it eddied as if it would be still,
And the oarsman, infirm and ill,
Furled his sails, surrendered his will,
And crossed his oars.

For that ruby bulwark, strong and bold,
And those luminous orbs—now cold—
Swing to and fro, a ruin old,
Sacked at last by Time.

Who stands Death's oceanic mien!
However mute the winds, bright the sheen,
Or peacefully lulled the marine
Which decoys him?

And if the zephyrs do play low,
Light, soft and smooth the deep sea o'er
They but waft the bark and its cargo
Into port.

AFTERWARD.

I'm all alone in the world, now,
My bonnie love has flown;
My heart's an empty void, now,
Where the wreck of joy is strown;
For o'er her grave, the tombs between,
The grass is growing green.

I'm sad tonight! I did not know
How dear she was to me;
How fervent was her passion's glow,
Her love's sincerity;
Till o'er her grave, the tombs between,
The grass was growing green.

I would I could see her face again,
That furrowed face of care,
That I might woo away the pain
My coldness chiseled there;
And lie for her the tombs between,
Where the grass is growing green.

I somehow feel, since she has gone,
That negligence is crime:
That I am guilty of this wrong
To my eyelids brings the brine:
Since she lies cold the tombs between,
Where the grass is growing green.

AGE'S REJOINDER.

I would not live always:
I ask but to stay”
In this vain world of shadows
Just another day;
By that other day I mean
Three score years and ten,
Then, perhaps, I'll take my leave
Willingly, of men.

Yet, if it suits my Lord
To lengthen the thread
That tethers me to earth's shores,
A few more years instead,
Contentedly I'll plod on—
With my crutch and cane
Bear the weight of four score years,
And not complain.

Live always? Of course not!
But I'd like to see
My span of years reeling down
To the century.
“What about my absent friends,
And rheumatic foe?”
I'll forget those, this endure,
A year and a day more.

LINES TO MR. ---

Friend, must we part and part forever?
The spell that bound our hearts is broke—
Did I say “friend”? Excuse me,—brother;
I would the word I'd never spoke.

And brother, too, I should forget,
Since you the sacred tie would spurn
T' indulge the passions which have met
'Round our friendship's broken urn.

And yet it's hard and passing strange
That one brief hour should sever us;
And that a broken pledge should change
Hearts for a thing so odious.

But I had learned to trust you so—
Thought you so far above mankind,
So noble, and so true—when, lo!
Deception's wand strikes you blind.

Blind to all that we used to be,
Blind to all that we ought to be,
Blind still to yourself and me—
Blind even to vile treachery.

But should fortune e'er desert you,
Fate mark for you a rugged lot,
For what you ought to be I'll serve you,
And of your treachery think not.

100

STRIKE FOR EQUAL RIGHTS.

Think of the price of liberty,
Think of the lash and slavery,
Of lynch rule and its massacre
And strike for equal rights.

Say, must we longer trust the law,
Class-enacted to hide the flaw
Of the crimson hand that strikes to awe
And terrorize us into slaves?

Let him who trembles or has fears,
When the cowardly mob appears,
Receive a coward's meed and tears,
Death and a piece of hemp.

Where the American who would be
A renegade to liberty;
Because of fear would turn and flee,
When duty calls him here.

He should be yoked and bound for aye,
As long as night succeeds the day—
For liberty can only stay,
The meed of valiant men.

He who fears not the mob's alarm:
To him who would the traitors storm,
And fell them with a valiant arm,
Behold a freeman's meed!

101

Come the valiant, and come the brave,
Come all except the abject slave—
Let him fall in a bondman's grave—
And strike for liberty!

Come all the law abiding, come,
Where'er throughout the earth you roam,
And strike for native land and home,
For God and sacred life.

WHILE THE WALTZ IS ON.

Ere the banquet's over, love,
And the stars are gone;
Before the garlands wither, love,
While the waltz is on,
Whisper softly in my ear
Love's melody, my dear.

While the waltz is on, my dear,
And the music's roll
Echoes through the hall so clear,
So happy makes the soul,
As we reel and turn and whirl
Say yes, my bonny girl.

Ere the dance is done, sweetheart,
Before the music dies,
Make me glad, before we part,
Complete my paradise;
Just before the music's gone,
And while the waltz is on.

102

THE MUSIC OF THE RAIN.

There's music in the rain,
As on the roof it drops,
And its monotonous tap, tap
Beats on the window pane;
Or murmuring it stops
A moment on the dripping eaves.

There's music in the rain
When it falls the leaves among,
And spatters in the viney nooks
And sparkles on the grain;
All earth has found a tongue,
And its loud hallelujahs ring.

Oh! the music of the rain,
See it comes pouring down,
Bright and joyous o'er field and plain,
While its golden currents drain
The smooth and verdured lawn,
And then run bickering to the main.

There's music in the rain,
When all the winds arise,
And livid lightning marks the path
Of the dread hurricane;
While in the clouded skies
Old thunder beats the martial airs.

There's music in the rain

103

When all the winds are still,
When lightning's flash and thunder's roll
Are stilled and mute again;
And you feel the heart's thrill
When the storm cloud goes racking by.

There's music in the rain
When the clouds are clearing off,
And sunny beams come struggling through
The silver of the rain,
Where hope's arch stands alof'
In the reflux of the storms.

IDA.

She is a woman, bright and trim,
Of five and twenty years,
Who trips along with pleasure
And spends her smiles for tears.

Her hair retains its raven hue,
Her sparkling eye its fire;
But her heart is sad, discordant,
A strung, but tuneless lyre.

For she staked her all on conquest
Of the voluptuous host,
With society's devotees
Bet high, played long and lost.

She's wiser now than yesterday,
At last she spurns the dream
That women were made for pleasure,
And men are what they seem.

111

THE GOLDEN ROD.

There is a calm and solemn air
Along the road, by garden fair,
By rushing stream, and ev'rywhere
The sear and yellow leaf's aglow.

The foliage is growing old;
All through the verdure gleams the gold;
The rose is turning into mold;
But golden rod stands ev'rywhere.

O'er the lea and across the mead,
And far away where the cattle feed,
There blows the yellow crested reed,
The autumnal queen of flowers.

Its golden crown along the way,
Sways back and forth, and seems to say,
“I am fair Flora's Queen today,
And the wind's my messenger boy.

“And further on the wind's low wail
Proclaims my reign along the dale,
Till the tired harvester drops his flail
And hails me queen of the flowers.”

112

YELLOW JACK OF '97.

With a shudder still I remember
The alarm of Yellow Jack:
Sent out in the daily number,
Of the “Times-Democrat.”

Also the “Daily Picayune”
Made the dreaded tidings known;
The paper venders caught the tune
And heralded it around the town.

“Here's your ‘Daily Picayune,’”
And “Here's your ‘Times-Democrat!’”
“Paper, sir, ‘Daily Picayune,’
All about the Yellow Jack!”

“At Ocean Springs and Scranton, sir,
Biloxi and ev'rywhere
Along the coast—‘Picayune,’ sir?
All about the fever there!

“There 'tis, sir! a catastrophe,
Strikes our business interest square,
And leaves us a wreck in mid sea,
With fever and despair.”

“If it's fever, it's dengue,
Or malaria from lack
Of cleanliness, in a few
Coast towns. It's not Yellow Jack,”

113

Said all the doctors, looking wise.
But the restless feeling grew,
And all the people, with glaring eyes,
And ashen lips, said “It's true!”

From the start business stopped, congealed,
And strong men gathered the crowd
About the public streets, to feel
The business pulse, sigh aloud;

And then to troop it out of town:
For their fancy paints so well,
Until it kinder brings them down,
To unwholesome views of (---) Well—

You understand; roasting scenes in that
Sultry country where the swell
Epidemic fiend, grim Yellow Jack,
The conductor acts so well.

You talk of being panic struck,
Routed friend and all of that;
You should see the bulletin stuck
To the alarm of Yellow Jack.

For yellow fever 'larms from press
And newsboys, can clear the earth
With inflated yells of distress
In twenty minutes without death.

And then the faithful few, who stand
At duty's post; because
They cannot escape, understand,
Prohibitory laws.

114

They quarantine the empty void
With a mailed guard so well,
That 'twould terrorize the alloid
Visage of the host of Hell.

Then gnaws the formidable thought,
Quarantined away from home:
This experience so dearly bought,
So vividly paints our own:

Till we see the ghost of all our hopes
Floating down the yellow stream;
Our empty homes along the copse
And grim Yellow Jack between.

And hear the stroke of the sturdy oar,
The surge of the awful wave;
As Yellow Jack trips our loved ones o'er—
The druggist into the grave.

115

YOUTH'S HOME AND MOTHER.

Down the long flight of years,
With the fleet sweep of time,
Our memory still bears
On the one place sublime,
Of all that earth holds of joy and of mirth,
And that place, friend, is the place of our birth.

The gay may dazzle the eye,
For a time brightly blaze
Then dimly burn and die;
Then 'tis we fix and gaze
On all that earth holds of joy and of mirth,
Down the dim vista ways of long ago.

Friendship may fail and fly
Off by night and our joy,
With the breath of morning die;
Naught be ours but alloy,
And all that earth holds of joy and of mirth,
Youth's home and mother and her sterling worth

Deep as is the ocean's brine,
Love will trace her epitaph,
Along the strand of time;
Where stands the biograph
Of all the nation's worth, its cares and mirth
In mother's love, and faith, and works, and home.

These will blaze, burn and glow

116

Until the end of time;
Till again we meet, and know
Our parting was sublime!
Till we meet and know, where the ransomed go,
Up the endless aisles of paradise.

INNOCENCE ASLEEP.

A fair dark-eyed lassie was she,
Her thirteenth summer passed,
Who pursuing blue-eyed daisy,
Herself had over-tasked;
And fell asleep in the meadow,
Where the wildest flowers blow.
I read the dreams upon her face.
Through dimples in her cheek,
And smiles which trace the subtle grace
Of innocence asleep.

“I was dreaming,” she made reply,
A blush her whole physique,
When my kerchief fell upon the fly
That lit upon her cheek;
Hard by the laughing brooklet's sheen
Caught the poise of her face between,
Demurring pout and sly grimace,
Through her dishelved hair;
As she stood there an angel fair
With innocence awake.

117

THE RAPE OF THE FLOWERS.

Wails, wails, wails,
The wind from its ice bound thrones;
Along the path it trails,
And whistles and roams
Across the gray old fields.

Sweeps, sweeps, sweeps,
Together the falling leaves,
And up the hillside leaps
Through the naked trees;
There shrieks, and roars, and storms;

And shakes, shakes, shakes
His mantle that holds the snows
Till the mute and silent flake,
Its purity throws
O'er all the dreary earth.

Then drives along the rain,
The cold benumbing rain;
Across the dreary plain,
Blows the hurricane
And freezes o'er the snow.

Till all is hard, cold ice,
Transparent, luminous ice,
Whose dumb but stern device
The rivers entice
To stand at last congealed.

118

Weeping now the angels go,
Since Winter's seductive hand
Polluted lovely Flo,
And his grim command
Her nectary fills with ice.

At the kiss of hoar frost,
The radiant angel swooned,
Of dire grief died, and lost
Her beautiful bloom—
Her rare ethereal bloom.

TO A FLOWER ON A CORPSE.

Ah, thou beautiful embellishment of earth,
By dew, and rain, and dutiful spring hurled,
A thing of loveliness, into this world
Of woe, and discord, and the cruel dearth
That blights our desires, and turns our hearth
Into a charnel house; nor king, nor earl,
Nor wit, can provoke the sad heart to mirth,
Where our hopes all end and our colors furl.
Fit emblem of man's transient stage art thou;
This morn beheld thee delightfully fair,
Full of fragrance, pleasingly sweet; but now,
This eve, thy withered form sleeps on the prow
Of that barque grim Death is launching out there,
In the omnivorous sea of dispair.

Finale.

University of Virginia Library

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