Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The June has come with all its brilliant dyes,
Its honeyed breath, its balmy gusts and sighs,
In fields and stretching up-lands, glade and glen,
And by the high and lowly haunts of men,
With all-surpassing glory bloom the flowers,
And come are sun-lit skies and dreamy hours.
The morning earth is all begemmed with dew,
The toiling bee the blissful hours through
Hums softly on his self-beguiling tune,
While gathers he the sweetest sweets of June.
Low murmuring the crystal brooklet leads
Its way through fields and lane and emerald meads.
The clover fields are red and sweetly scent
The pasture lands, where browse the kine content.
The corn is swayed with breezes passing by,
And everywhere the bloom is on the rye.
Already on the bearded wheat is seen
The gold which tempts the farmer's sickle keen,
And I can almost see the gleaming blade
By which the golden grain is lowly laid;
And hear the singing scythe and tramp of feet,
And see the cone-shaped shocks of wheat.
All shimmering the landscapes far and wide
Bespeak fair promise for the harvest tide.

The June has come with summer skies and glow,
Reflecting bliss and Junes of long ago—
Bare feet, and careless roving bands of boys
That haunted lake and stream in halcyon joys,
The bow and arrow, hunting ground and snares,
The sudden flight of quails and skulking hares,
The wild and joyous shouts along the glen
Come back in all the month of June again.
Then other days and solitary dreams
Are come again with flash of flaming gleams,
Where red birds shot across the opening glades,
In quest of deeper thickets, deeper shades.
Again far inland, on and on I tread,
Where cooling shades and carpets green are spread
And modestly the violet blooms and sups
The dew; and glow the golden butter-cups;
And sweet the odor of the woods I scent
Where perfume of a thousand kinds is spent.

And stretched full length upon the ground
I lie and watch the leaves and hear their sound
And wonder what their whisperings include
To tell of life spent in such solitude.
Here dreaming on forgetting time and men
The June a million visions brings again,
In imagery so rare of that and this,
A self-forgetting turmoil, nameless bliss.
Unseen but felt, the spirit of the wood
Without a dogma teaches of the good
In God sublime. An all-pervading sense
Is everywhere of his resource immense,
His love ineffable—infinite power,
In storm resisting oaks, and purple flower

Scarce lifting up its head an inch above the ground
Is seen alike, and with the joyous sound
Which Robin-Redbreast from a tree top trills
Full orthodox confession comes and fills
The heart. The lip is mute but deep a sigh
The spirit sendeth upward to the sky
Baptized in faith, its adoration, love,
A credo of the soul, to God above.

The June has come with all its brilliant dyes,
Its honeyed breath, its balmy gusts and sighs.
The soft sunshine comes down aslant the hills,
With perfume sweet the honeysuckle fills
The summer atmosphere for miles around,
And all the groves and fields are sweet with sound,
While hills, and woods and vale and grassy slope
Are teeming everywhere with life and hope.
Come out, ye sons of men from street and ward,
Come forth again upon the welcome sward,
At least for one brief day leave toilsome care
In offices and stifling banks and wear
The boyish spirit over field and glen,
Drink deep once more of all his joys again.
The way is not so long—the brook in size
Has lost to longer legs and manhood eyes,
But its low murmuring the morning through
Is still a lullaby; and love is true
In brook and field, and sky, and dale and glen
For all the changing, faithless sons of men.

In these no hot contentions, endless strife,
Nor aching hearts, consuming greed of life,
No soul-corrupting lusts, debasing sin,
Nor blighted lives where innocence has been

Are ever brought by June. But to assuage
The sorrows of mankind from age to age
A subtle charm, a bliss, a merry tune
Abideth in the country lap of June.
Come out where kindly nature deftly weaves
Her cooling bowers with the tender leaves
Ye tired wives and husbands vexed with care,
And find life's true elixir in the air.
Let tinkling bells of flocks and browsing herd,
The song of brooks and twitter of the bird
Unite with children voices in their shout
Of mirth and joy on all the sward about,
And let the maidens come with rosy cheeks
And merry boys with gallantry that speaks
Of dawning love, and sentiment the best
That ever came to swell the human breast;
Let all come forth in holiday array
From care, and feel the bliss of one June day.

AN OCTAROON'S FAREWELL.

O love, farewell, a long farewell,
Ten thousand times good-night,
God's benediction with thee dwell,
And guide thy steps aright.

We part to-night; it must be so,
'Tis best for thee and me,
But my true heart can never know
Love lessening for thee.

Love's promises were but a myth,
A mockery and sham;
I've lived to learn I'm tainted with
The cursed blood of Ham.

Dear love, how could I know when I
Gave to thee all my heart,
That far as earth is from the sky,
Our lives must lie apart?

Yet I can never rue the day,
Though all the world I miss,
For death itself can not outweigh,
My momentary bliss.

THE MARCH'S PROMISE.

When gray clouds break on Southern skies
And winds of March begin to blow,
Our fancies run to summer sighs,
That whisper and delight us so.

For in this stormy month of winds,
The first new pulse of life is felt,
When spring with all her sweets begins,
Where winter's ice and snow have dwelt.

The bluebird carols out his note,
A prelude to the country round,
Of chimes a few more days remote,
To which the forest will resound—

The plowman's song, the forest chime,
The upturned sod, the country scene,
Bespeak a resurrection time
In air and sky and sprouting green.

O, blessed hope of life anew
That comes from death when spring begins;
Life after death a promise true
Is brought in March's stormy winds.

DOGWOOD BLOSSOMS.

To dreamy languors and the violet mist
Of early spring, the deep sequestered vale
Gives first her paling-blue Miamimist,
Where blithely pours the cuckoo's annual tale
Of summer promises and tender green,
Of a new life and beauty yet unseen.
The forest trees have yet a sighing mouth,
Where dying winds of March their branches swing,
While upward from the dreamy sunny South,
A hand invisible leads on the spring.

His rounds from bloom to bloom the bee begins
With flying song, and cowslip wine he sups,
Where to the warm and passing southern winds,
Azaleas gently swing their yellow cups.
Soon everywhere with glory through and through,
The fields will spread with every brilliant hue.
But high o'er all the early floral train,
Where softness all the arching sky resumes,
The dogwood dancing to the wind's refrain,
In stainless glory spreads its snowy blooms.

A SERENADE.

Dear heart, I would that thou couldst know
How like the burning glow of Mars,
My love here keeps a watch below
Thy window and the midnight stars.

How sweet the breath of night is now,
Of sweets the rose and jessamine keep;
Go, winds, with these and kiss her brow,
And bear my love to her in sleep.

Oh! such a love, that loves her so,
With such a little space apart,
Should through yon open casement go,
And gently stir her dreaming heart.

Dear heart, sleep on without a fear,
If all unconsciously to thee,
My love must watch, to watch so near,
Makes even that a bliss to me.

ETERNITY.

Rock me to sleep, ye waves, and drift my boat
With undulations soft far out to sea;
Perchance where sky and wave wear one blue coat,
My heart shall find some hidden rest remote.
My spirit swoons, and all my senses cry
For Ocean's breast and covering of the sky.
Rock me to sleep, ye waves, and outward bound,
Just let me drift far out from toil and care,
Where lapping of the waves shall be the sound,
Which mingled with the winds that gently bear
Me on between a peaceful sea and sky,
To make my soothing slumberous lullaby.
Thus drifting on and on upon thy breast,
My heart shall go to sleep and rest and rest.

SUSTAINING HOPE.

Farewell, Dearest and Best,
What matters it whether the name be Dove,
Dear-heart, and all sweet words at love's behest,
Since none can voice my love?

To stay is past my power;
Oh, love, my own Dear-heart, farewell, good-bye!
For thee I'll breathe through every passing hour,
A fond and secret sigh.

But, Dear, though it be long,
This hope 'mid distant scenes and fellow-men
Will lead me on, in solitude, or throng,
That we shall meet again.

A SUMMER AFTERNOON.

Sing on, sweet bird, and soothe my soul,
With thy melodious tune,
Chant me thy rhapsodies this whole
Delightful afternoon.
And hiding in thy secret bower,
In modesty's retreat,
Thy music, melting by the hour,
Is ravishingly sweet.

Comes perfume from the climbing rose
That interlacing meets
Above my head, where comes and goes
The bee in search of sweets.
The cooling Zephyrs stealing by,
Faint-scented odors bear,
Which make with every gusty sigh,
Exquisite all the air.

Wide as the naked eye can reach,
Are landscapes stretching far,
Too beautiful for human speech
To paint them as they are.
And here beneath this climbing rose
A dreamy blissful state
Comes on, as when one for repose,
Has drunk some opiate.

If thou couldst charm my lover here
To lean upon my breast,
Thy music, bird, would be more dear,
And I would be more blest.

And singing on in thy retreat,
Thy melting, sensuous tune,
My dreamy bliss would be complete,
This lovely afternoon.

A SEPTEMBER NIGHT.

The full September moon sheds floods of light,
And all the bayou's face is gemmed with stars
Save where are dropped fantastic shadows down
From sycamores and moss-hung cypress trees.
With slumberous sound the waters half asleep
Creep on and on their way, twixt rankish reeds,
Through marsh and lowlands stretching to the gulf.
Begirt with cotton fields Anguilla sits
Half bird-like dreaming on her summer nest
Amid her spreading figs, and roses still
In bloom with all their spring and summer hues.
Pomegranates hang with dapple cheeks full ripe,
And over all the town a dreamy haze
Drops down. The great plantations stretching far
Away are plains of cotton downy white.
O, glorious is this night of joyous sounds
Too full for sleep. Aromas wild and sweet,
From muscadine, late blooming jessamine,
And roses, all the heavy air suffuse.
Faint bellows from the alligators come
From swamps afar, where sluggish lagoons give
To them a peaceful home. The katydids
Make ceaseless cries. Ten thousand insects' wings
Stir in the moonlight haze and joyous shouts
Of Negro song and mirth awake hard by
The cabin dance. O, glorious is this night.
The summer sweetness fills my heart with songs
I cannot sing, with loves I cannot speak.

Anguilla, Miss., September, 1892.

AS SIFTED WHEAT.

O sift me, Lord, and make me
Clean as sifted wheat:
My soul, an empty vessel, bring
To my Redeemer's feet.
However sinful I have been or be,
Thou knowest, Lord, that I love thee.

I am so closely hedged about,
Oh Christ, as thou hast been,
My soul hemmed in with flesh
Is so in love with sin.
Sin-stained am I, but sift me, Lord, complete
And make me clean as sifted wheat.

A BELATED ORIOLE.

Gay little songster of the spring,
This is an evil hour
For one so light of heart and wing
To face the storms that lower.

December winds blow on the lea
A chill that threatens harm,
With not a leaf on bush or tree
To shield thee from the storm.

Why hast thou lingered here so late
To face the storms that rise,
When all thy kind, and yellow mate
Have sought for southern skies?

Hast thou like me some fortune ill
To bind thee to this spot,
Made to endure against thy will,
A melancholy lot?

Chill is the air with windy sighs,
A prophecy that blows,
Of cold and inhospitable skies,
Of bitter frost and snows.

But there is One whose power it is
To temper blast and storm,
And love to love a bird is his,
And keep it safe from harm.

To Him thy helplessness will plead,
To Him I lift a prayer,
For we alike have common need
Of His great love and care.

A PSYCHE OF SPRING.

Thou gaily painted butterfly, exquisite thing,
A child of light and blending rainbow hues,
In loveliness a psyche of the spring,
Companion for the rose and diamond dews.
'Tis thine in sportive joy from hour to hour,
To ride the breeze from flower to flower.

But thou wast once a worm, as now am I,
And seeing thee, gay thing, afloat in bliss,
I take new hope in thoughts of by and by,
When I, as thou, have shed my chrysalis.
Then through a gay eternal spring of light,
Shall my immortal soul pursue its flight.

HEART YEARNINGS.

Oh! for the welcome breath of country air,
With summer skies and flowers,
To shout and feel once more the halcyon
Of gayer boyhood hours.
I think the sight of fields and shady lanes
Would ease my heart of pains.

To cool once more my thirst where bubbled up
The waters of a spring,
Where I have seen the golden daffodils
And lilies flourishing,
My fevered heart would more than half forget
Its sighs, and vain regret.

Far, far away from early scenes am I;
And, too, my youth has fled;
For me a stranger's land, a stranger's sky,
That arches over-head.
For scenes and joys that now have passed me by,
I can but give a sigh.

But Oh! for hearts that yearn and hearts that sigh,
For wayward feet that roam,
Hope whispers for the by and by,
A never-changing home.
And there no more in a strange land will break
The home-sick heart, and ache.

MY MADONNA.

It is a sacrilege in form I fear,
To make this photograph of him and thee,
From my own sunny south sent north to me,
In all my heart my own Madonna, dear;
Yet Raphæl could paint no face or brow
To make me worship it with glory lit,
Although the Holy Virgin sat for it,
As I do this, our baby's face and thou.
Though priests my worship may condemn to scorn,
I think the virgin with her mother love,
The Babe of Bethlehem, of woman born,
And later all my sins and sorrows bore,
If my great love for thee they watch above,
For it they both are pleased and love me more.

Hartford, Conn., December, 1893.

A MEADOW-LAND.

Delight of keen delights in summer hours,
Is this long meadowy scene,
All rioting in festival of flowers,
And pageantry of green,
With smiling skies above and summer blue,
With ancient fields below, yet ever new.

Thou mindest me of other scenes and days,
In sunnier climes than thine,
Of mocking-birds and ever piping lays,
Of figs and muscadine,
Of dreamy afternoons and dreamy love
In silent bliss with southern skies above.

Dear meadow-lands, it makes me sigh to know
That this fair scene must die,
And sleep long months beneath the frost and snow,
And inhospitable sky;
And yet why should I sigh and yield to pain,
Since all thy loveliness will bloom again?

For long before the red men trod thy soil,
Or white men came to till
Thy blooming waste, and crown with patient toil,
Surrounding vale and hill,
All rioting with gleeful vagrant flowers
Wert thou in bloom, through long and sunny hours.

'Tis mine to lie beneath a changeless snow,
Sad, sad, to me the truth,
But thine to sleep awhile and wake to know
A gay immortal youth;
Weep thou for me, for when to dust I'm gone,
Thy festive face will still be smiling on.

Long Meadow, Mass., August, 1893.

TO A BUTTERFLY IN CHURCH.

What dost thou here, thou shining sinless thing,
With many colored hues and shapely wing?
Why quit the open field and summer air
To flutter here? Thou hast no need of prayer.

'Tis mete that we who this stone structure built
Should come to be redeemed and washed from guilt,
For we this guilded edifice within
Are come with every kind of human sin.

But thou art free from guilt, as God on high;
Go seek the blooming waste and open sky,
And leave us here our secret woes to bear,
Confessionals, and agonies of prayer.

THE HARVEST MOON.

The dark magnolia leaves and spreading fig,
With green luxuriant beauty all their own,
Stirless, hang heavy-coated with the dew,
Which swift and iridescent gleams shoot through
As if a thousand brilliant diamonds shone.
Afloat the lagoon, water-lilies white
In sweets with muscadines perfume the night.
A song bird restless chants a fleeting lay;
Asleep on all the swamp and bayou lies
A peaceful, blissful, moonlight, mystic haze,
A dreaminess o'er all the landscape plays,
While lake and lagoon mirror all the skies.
There is a glory doomed to pass too soon,
That lies subdued beneath the harvest moon.

Columbus, Miss., September, 1892.

IN THE HEART OF A ROSE.

I will hide my soul and its mighty love
In the bosom of this rose,
And its dispensing breath will take
My love where'er it goes.

And perhaps she'll pluck this very rose,
And quick as blushes start,
Will breathe my hidden secret in
Her unsuspecting heart.

And there I will live in her embrace
And the realm of sweetness there,
Enamored with an ecstasy
Of bliss beyond compare.

AN AUTUMN DAY.

The golden-rod was flaming bright,
The autumn day was fine,
The air was soft and scented with
The purple muscadine.

We travelled far a wooded path,
The sky was bright above
And all things seemed to smile and breathe
A blessing on our love.

O! sweet and dreamy was that face,
Such tenderness expressed
In every line, and born to be,
Love burdened and caressed.

So happy in my happiness
I could not think it then,
That after parting on that day
We should not meet again.

For hope is ever found with love,
And there were visions fair
For us of boundless happiness
In that sweet autumn air.

But many years of shifting scenes,
Have come and gone since then,
And those dear, tender, dreamy eyes
I have not seen again.

And once I thought with bitterness—
My God, forgive the sin—
My barren life and hapless love
Would better not have been.

But looking back through all my years
Of weariness and pain,
I know that tender, dreamy face
I did not love in vain.

The lengthening days and months and years
Have brightened on my way
By living on in memory
One long past autumn day.

And late a faith has come to me,
I think it God has willed,
That all those autumn promises
Are yet to be fulfilled.

For I believe with all my heart,
The time I know not when,
With hearts still true, my love and I
Shall somewhere meet again.

THE FEET OF JUDAS.

Christ washed the feet of Judas!
The dark and evil passions of his soul,
His secret plot, and sordidness complete,
His hate, his purposing, Christ knew the whole,
And still in love he stooped and washed his feet.

Christ washed the feet of Judas!
Yet all his lurking sin was bare to him,
His bargain with the priest and more than this,
In Olivet beneath the moonlight dim,
Aforehand knew and felt his treacherous kiss.

Christ washed the feet of Judas!
And so ineffable his love 'twas meet,
That pity fill his great forgiving heart,
And tenderly to wash the traitor's feet,
Who in his Lord had basely sold his part.

Christ washed the feet of Judas!
And thus a girded servant, self-abased,
Taught that no wrong this side the gate of heaven
Was e'er too great to wholly be effaced,
And though unasked, in spirit be forgiven.

And so if we have ever felt the wrong
Of trampled rights, of caste, it matters not,
Whate'er the soul has felt or suffered long,
Oh heart! this one thing should not be forgot,
Christ washed the feet of Judas!

A FAITHLESS LOVE.

The lovely May has come at last,
With songs and gleaming dews,
And apple blossoms bursting out
With evanescent hues.

A newer life, a newer charm
Is bursting every hour,
With pledge and faithful promises,
From leaf and bud and flower.

And hope is growing on the hill,
And blooming in the vale,
And comes new vigor and new life
On every passing gale.

But O my heart! my heart of hearts,
What hope is there for me,
For what was hope and what was joy,
For me have ceased to be.

The woodlark's tender warbling lay,
Which flows with melting art,
Is but a trembling song of love,
That serves to break my heart.

Gay flowers burst on every side,
The fairest of the fair,
But what are these to any heart
That's breaking with despair?

O May! my heart had found a rose
As lovely as the morn,
Which charmed awhile, then faithless went,
But left with me its thorn.

A SONG OF NASHVILLE.

Oh! Nashville, Athens of the South,
Thy valleys beauty fills;
How can I tell with human mouth
How well I love thy hills?

Thy hills with beauty far renowned
Where rugged glory rules,
Are from a dozen places crowned
With colleges and schools.

A modern Attica in truth,
The South may call thee well,
Thy benefits unto her youth
Will coming ages tell.

For to thy founts of learning here
Fair Attica's chosen seat,
Ambition turneth year by year
Full many a thousand feet.

To minds with aspirations led,
And ardor of the heart,
Are ever endless fields outspread
In sciences and art.

And year by year dispensing truth,
Thy guiding hand is great,
In that thou givest through thy youth
The destinies of state.

Oh Nashville, could I sing of thee,
Praise worthy of thy name,
Approximate what is to be
The future of thy fame.

Thy institutions, hillsides bright,
Beneath a Southern sky,
Make scenes of beauty and delight
To every traveler's eye.

O'er all thy byways round about,
Once on thy grassy slopes,
I was a wanderer in and out,
With all a student's hopes.

To-day I walked those same old rounds,
I walked in days gone by,
And heard from fields the same sweet sounds,
Beneath the same blue sky.

The mocking bird in bush and tree,
With melody and voice,
In ecstacy did welcome me,
And bade my heart rejoice.

The hills and dales were in the smile
Of spring as they had been;
And seemed to welcome without guile,
Their lover back again.

The lazy herds were feeding still,
On slope and grassy plain,
And strangely in my heart would fill
A pleasure kin to pain.

Old friends were gone and former ties,
Were broken and estranged;
But my old haunts and smiling skies,
Were constant and unchanged.

But not more constant, nor more true,
My fields, my skies above,
Than came your wanderer back to you,
Unchanged in heart and love.

TO KITTY WYSONG.

And hast thou indeed such disdaining,
To hold thy head so high?
In pride from one swift glance abstaining,
You pass me by.

I recall the days—it were choices
To us sweeter than rhymes,
To freely mingle our lips and voices,
In happier times.

You have gone up higher, but I lower,
And it is much, Kitty,
Queen-like to give scorn, but more,
To give pity.

And wearers, (for such is human strife)
Of poverty or crowns,
Pride is not best, so full is this life,
Of ups and downs.

And thy lot, proud heart, may be fair,
Which chance has left thee in;
But pass not disdainingly where
Thy love has been.

THE APRIL OF ALABAMA.

Fair Alabama, “Here we rest,” thy name—
And in this stretch of oak and spotted ash,
Well said that long past swarthy tribe who came
Here, “Alabama,” in these glamour wilds.
To-day thy April woods have had for me
A thousand charms, elusive loveliness,
That melt in shimmering views which flash
From leaves and buds in half grown daintiness.
From every tree and living thing there smiles
A touch of summer's glory yet to be.
Already overhead the sky resumes
Its summer softness, and a hand of light
All through the woods has beckoned with its blooms
Of honeysuckle wild and dogwood white
As bridal robes—

With bashful azure eyes
All full of dew-born laughing falling tears
The violets more blue than summer skies
Are rioting in vagrancy around
Beneath old oaks, old pines and sending out
Like prodigals their sweets to spicy airs.
And as to-day this loveliness for years
Unknown has come and gone. To-day it wears
Its pageantry of youth with sylvan sound
Of many forest tribes which fairly shout
Their ecstacies. But soon with summer smiles
Will such a gorgeousness of flaming hues
Bedeck those Alabama glamour wilds
As ever burst to life by rain and dews.

LINES TO MOUNT GLEN.

In this soft air perfumed with blooming May,
Stretched at thy feet on the green grass, Old Glen,
It is a joy unspeakable to me
To see again thy face and friendly crags.
My childhood friend, then height of heights to me,
I am come home to worship thee once more,
And feel that bliss in indolent repose
Of those long past delightful afternoons,
When first you smiled on me and gave to my
Imaginings such imagery, when I
Would lie down at thy base as I
Do now. My feet have wandered far since then,
And over heights with prouder heads than thine,
Such as would name thy majesty with hills.
But I, Old Glen, my early mountain friend,
Am come with loyalty and heart still true
As thy bald crags are to their kindred skies.
My own Olympus yet and pride thou art,
With thy Thessalian gates of clouds
Which hide the great Olympian Hall,
Where Hebe still sweet nectar pours
Out to the gods. And murmurs sweet and low
Of melting cadences Apollo from
His magic lyre sends gently wandering
In soft succeeding measures yet in air
Familiarly to me.

And yet, Old Glen,
A stranger at thy base I lie to-day
To all but thee, save this soft yielding grass,
And blooming waste, thy pageantry of flowers.
All these with yond bald eagle circling in

The upper air with keen descrying for
Some timorous skulking hare, are but old friends
Who laughed and played with me in childhood hours
Full many a summer day and told me tales
Of fairy lore. With such immortal friends
To welcome me again, what care I then
For yon rude plowman's stare and taking me
For some trespassing rake. This broad domain
Of circling hills and intervening vales
Is thine by ancient rights to shelter me,
And take me in thy lap when I have come
With love to worship thee. Before Rome was,
Or Greece had sprung with poetry and art,
Thy majesty with impartiality
Was here. The first soft tread of moccasin
On Indian feet, in ages none can tell,
That bent this yielding grass was thine to hear.
And all the sons of men who since have brought
Their pulsing hearts to thee with loves, with aches,
With tragedies, with childhood innocence,
Have had thy welcoming. To thee no race
May come with arrogance and claim first right
To thy magnificence, and mighty heart,
And thy ennobling grace that touches every
Soul who may commune with thee.

And so
It was Old Glen we came at first to love
In this soft scented air now long ago,
When first I brought my youthful heart to thee,
All pure with pulsing blood still hot
In its descent of years in tropic suns
And sands of Africa, to be caressed
By thee. And to your lofty heights you bore

Me up to see the boundless world beyond,
Which nothing then to my young innocence
Had aught of evil or deceptive paths.
With maddening haste I quit thy friendly side
To mix with men. And then as some young bison
Of the plain, which breathes the morning air
And restless snorts with mad excess of life,
And rushes heedless on in hot pursuit
Of what it does not know: So I, Old Glen,
As heedlessly went out from thee to meet
With buffeting, with hates and selfishness
And scorn. At first I stood abashed, disarmed
Of faith. Too soon I learned the ways of men,
Forgetting much I wish I had retained
Of once a better life. And in the fret
And fever of the endless strife for gain
I often sigh for thee, my native peaks,
And for that early life for me now past
Forevermore.

But for one day, my early friend,
I am come back to thee again, to feel
Thy gentle grace so indefinable,
So subtile is thy touch, yet to the heart
A never-failing gift to all who come
To thee. And so it is, Old Glen, that I am come,
But not with all-believing innocence
As in those unsuspecting days of yore.
And O Mount Glen! sin-stained my burning heart
With shame lifts up its face to thine, but with
A love as changeless as thy ancient crags
Does it still beat for thee. And I rejoice
To feel thy mighty heart here solace mine.
For when the day leads in the early dawn

With blushing rosy light and caroling
Of larks; and sleepy flowers half unclosed,
All wet with dew, unfold their buds and leaves,
There is enchantment in this lovely spot
Beyond, by far, all mortal utterances.
To come here then and lie down on thy side,
As I do now, and see the butterflies
Bobbing from flower to flower, and hear
The restless songs of birds as they in joy
Flit carelessly from bush and tree, is all
The bliss my heart could ask. Here I could lie
In such repose and let a lifetime pass.
And here, Old Glen, could I forget the fret
Of life and selfishness of men, and see
The face of him who is all beautiful.
And here in this perfume of May, and bloom
Luxuriant, and friendly rioting
Of green in all this blooming waste, is seen
A glimpse of that, which He, the Lord of all,
Intended there should be with things and men
In all this earth, a thing which yet will be,
A universal brotherhood.

THAT BETTER DAY.

Still courage, brother, courage still,
Repress the rising sigh,
Oppression now the race must bear,
But freedom by and by.
And art thou sore at heart from Southern wrongs?
Well, then I pray
Be comforted; all wrongs shall pass away.

God's freedom he will give to all,
Now mercy is disguised,
But he will smile and crown at last,
Our race so long despised.
And art thou stumbled over Southern hate?
Well, then I pray
Be comforted; all that shall pass away.

The time will come when man to man
Will clasp each other's hand,
And color-bane shall cease to be,
In all our goodly land.
Dost thou despair the death of prejudice?
Well, then I pray
Be comforted; that too shall pass away.

It takes a faith, a mighty faith,
To look for such a day—
But look, for sure as God is God,
All wrongs shall pass away.

MAY ALONG THE CUMBERLAND.

Embodiment of all the beautiful
That crowns the year, O May! is come with thee.
For miles and miles along the rugged hills,
Where in and out the Cumberland must wind,
And spring her first response of green doth find,
A rapt'rous beauty all the valley fills.
The yellow sun with summer at his heels,
Betokeneth the time about to be,
Siestas, days and nights alive with wings,
The stirring of a million living things.

The month is full of roses, perfumed air,
And crooning bees upon the clover's breast,
The morning woodlands ring with music sweet,
The Zephyrs whisper to the corn,
And echo back the hills the dinner horn,
But all in tune and harmony complete.
In blissful self-abandonment awhile,
Here on thy lap, sweet May, O! let me rest,
And dream and dream, till lulled by sight and sound
In unison to all the earth around.

May, 1891, Nashville, Tenn.

SERVICE.

Lord, let me live to serve and make a loan
Of life and soul in love to my heart's own.
And what if they should never know
How weary are the ways,
How pitiless the snow,
How desolate the days
Sometimes in reserve.
And what if some esteem above
Me others far less true,
And barter off my wealth of love
For passing comrades new?
I still would serve.

To be permitted once in life
To kiss a little child
And call it mine is worth the strife
In a million battles wild.
To have a woman's holy love,
One friend to half divine
The heart, is heaven from above
Come to this soul of mine.

And O, dear Lord, I thank Thee for the cup
Of hydromel thou givest me to sup;
Though rue soon pass my lips and fill
My heart with deadly pain,
My soul will rise to thank Thee still
For guerdon and its gain.
And though insentient clay the sward
My form will hold; for life,

For love, sunshine and rain,
My heart above all earthly strife
Soars up through joy and pain
In thanks to Thee, dear Lord.

A DECORATION DAY.

The reign of death was there,
Where swept the winter winds with pipes and moans,
And stretched in silence bare,
A colonade of gray sepulchral stones.

But then it was in May,
And all the fields were bright and gay with tune
That Decoration Day,
And blossoms wore their hues and breath of June.

A motley crowd that came—
But who more fit than they that once were slaves,
Despised, unknown to fame,
With love should decorate the soldiers' graves.

Black feet trod cheerily
From out the town in crowds or straggling bands,
And flowers waved and flaunted merrily,
From little Negro hands.

And far, far away
From home and love, deep in a silent bed,
Beneath the sky of May,
Was sleeping there in solitude, the dead.

But for the hearts that day,
Who in the distant North wept sore and sighed,
Black hands with sweets of May,
Made green the graves of those who for them died.

BY THE CUMBERLAND.

See through this lovely valley, dear,
This river ever goes,
And so on through a thousand years,
Just as to-day it flows.
I sigh to see it stretching on
Through time and to the sea,
When by its banks the moments are
So brief for you and me.

Of the long line of human hearts,
'Tis marvelous to think,
Which have so throbbed with hope and love
Along this sandy brink;
While one by one they slipped away
In all the ages gone,
With ceaseless glide and slipping flood
The river traveled on.

I know our time is brief and we
So soon must go, as they,
But, dear, my thoughts have been far more
Upon our bliss to-day.
For one short hour to hold your hand
And kiss away your tears,
In happiness is more than all
This river's thousand years.

IN SUMMER.

The summer shimmering to-day
Puts on the earth a rune,
Which blends in magic waves of light,
Beneath the sky of June.

Along the pavements of the street,
And in the crowded mart,
There is a joy of summer-time,
A comforting of heart.

To-day one hardly can believe,
Along these pavements old,
That March held such an icy sway
Of bitterness and cold.

The little gamin of the street,
Full keeping with the boy,
Forgetting all his winter woes,
Is hallooing for joy.

And I go back to youth again,
And get myself away,
To where the country fields are in
The green and blue of May.

And on I sweetly glide with them,
With changing song and tune.
With bursting buds and brilliant dyes,
That line the lap of June.

The morning trembles with its throbs
Of ever-gushing notes,
Which pour with shuddering sweetness from
A thousand feathered throats.

'Tis true the shadows of four walls
Are ever on me cast,
But they have a transparency,
To me of a sweet past.

YOUTHFUL DELUSIONS.

And where now restless, wilt thou roam
Thou young uneaseful heart?
'Tis better far to stay at home
So young a stripling as thou art.
And thinkest thou to go
Abroad to taste the sweets of life
And miss its lurking woe?

Yea, doubtless thou wouldst find a bliss
Of honey sweet awhile,
And many a love-born, smothered kiss,
Unknown to thee erstwhile.
And of a thousand hues
Would blossoms give thee morning sweets
With honey-dabbled dews.

And all-believing heart and young,
Thou wouldst unfold thy best,
To faith, and laugh till thou wert stung
With poison in thy breast.
Then who would be thee nigh
So far from home, to heal thy pain
And soothe thy bitter cry?

'Tis best, by far, to stay at home,
Dear over-trusting heart,
None but a prodigal may roam
So far from love apart.
Doubt not—abide thy day,
And what is best for thee to have
In time will come thy way.

LOVE IS A FLAME.

Love is a flame that burns with sacred fire,
And fills the being up with sweet desire;
Yet, once the altar feels love's fiery breath,
The heart must be a crucible till death.

Say love is life; and say it not amiss,
That love is but a synonym for bliss.
Say what you will of love—in what refrain,
But knows the heart, 'tis but a word for pain.

TO LOCHIEL.

Dear little babe, of all born things alive
Most helpless thou—of life a slender thread.
Can such as thee so rough a sea survive,
And come at last the way all feet must tread?
Yea, by the God whom I adore above,
If I could fix thy destiny by choice
Thou wouldst be safe, my little love.

'Tis love ineffable I wrap thee in.
To pitiless pain, and ache, and storm and blast
I'd bare my soul to save thy feet from sin,
And bring thee safely home, Lochiel, at last.
But in thy chancing boon of birth, thy whole
And everlasting destiny of life
Lies in thy self-directing soul.

PRAYER.

Wherever man on earth is found
Let him his tribute pay,
For he is in all nature bound
To bend to God and pray.

And every man on earth who dwells
In darkness or in light
Has in his breast a voice that tells
Him that to pray is right.

Though but all shadowy and dim
Of God the savage reads,
No savagery can take from him
The knowledge of his needs.

So let him pray if but to stone
And senseless stock of wood,
For in his mercy God will own
All motives that are good.

But he who knows the heavenly power
And feels the heavenly care,
Is doubly bound in every hour
To breathe some form of prayer.

The darkest doubts the soul may fill;
Still pray, though doubts be there,
For he is safest from all ill
Whose lips are moved with prayer.

'Tis best for every one who can
To pray with faith devout,
But God is gracious in his plan
For him beset with doubt.

Still pray, for long as any heart,
Can feel its deep despair,
Not from it can there once depart
Efficiency of prayer.

And all who strive, and strive and fall
In sore besetting sins,
Still pray—God's love is over all
'Tis prayer on prayer that wins.

A JANUARY DANDELION.

All Nashville is a chill. And everywhere
Like desert sand, when the winds blow,
There is each moment sifted through the air,
A powdered blast of January snow.
O! thoughtless Dandelion, to be misled
By a few warm days to leave thy natural bed,
Was folly growth and blooming over soon.
And yet, thou blasted yellow-coated gem,
Full many a heart has but a common boon
With thee, now freezing on thy slender stem.
When the heart has bloomed by the touch of love's warm breath
Then left and chilling snow is sifted in,
It still may beat but there is blast and death
To all that blooming life that might have been.

SUNDAY MORNING.

Softly the cool breath of the early morn,
Swamp-scented air, fragrant with deep lagoons
And water-lilies, stole on through the fields
Of cotton, whispering a sighing song.
'Twas Sunday morning then, and everywhere
The May dew rolled away in diadems.
Another day was born with floods of light;
The grass with newer green all wet with dew
Gave welcoming. And rose hues spent with yesterday
Found blushes still and sent out night-born sweets
To mingle with a thousand other spicy
Airs and perfumes of the jessamine,
And wild aromas of the summer air.
And murmured low the sycamores o'erhead
With whisperings of passing summer winds.
The dapple sunshine kissed and kissed their leaves,
And golden gleams were on the fields. Rich were
The blackbird's notes and joyous sounds from all
The feathered tribes. In lazy lengths the bayou went
With stretches on, and murmuring low songs
Like those of love. There floated far and wide
The queenly water-lilies white, perfuming
All the Sunday air.

And like a dove
Of peace, fair Nitta Yuma sat amid
Her spreading figs and rich magnolia blooms
In rest; for there was come the hallowed day,
The Sabbath of the Lord.

Nitta Yuma, Miss., May, 1884.

ESTRANGED.

An autumn sky, a pleasant weather,
The asters blossom by the way;
We two between them walk together,
And watch the ships pass on the bay.

His summer song yet to the clover,
The hovered bee still murmurs there,
But there's that tells that summer's over
In this sweet dreamy autumn air.

When it was May and lovely weather,
And ships went sailing to the west,
We walked this path, we two together,
With happy throbs of heart and breast.

The spring was young and hope was growing,
And love went idling on the sand,
And there was blissful overflowing
Of heart in touch of lip and hand.

And yet the bee hums to the clover
Soft, all the dreamy hours long,
But there's that tells that summer's over
In all his drowsy, flying song.

An autumn sky, a pleasant weather,
But all the summer glow is changed,
Here where in love we walked together,
Before we two were so estranged.

A LITTLE NEWS VENDER.

Scarce 'bove a whisper—half a sound
Heard, causing me to hark,
To turn and see a baby face
Peering at me in the dark.

I bent my head with ready grace
With open ear and eye,
To learn what such a baby had
To say to passers by.

Above the clatter of the street
I caught the faint accent,
A little maiden vender's cry—
“The Post! The Times! a cent”—

And swift to strike a trade with me
As promptness could command,
Out from her tangled skirts came up,
A paper in her hand.

The wind was blowing merc'lessly,
And pitiless the snow,
In downy flakes was falling on
This little mite of woe.

“The Post! The Times! 'tis but a cent,”
She looked with eager eye
For sympathy and ready sale,
How could I fail to buy?

O! God, I thought must such be seen,
As this on such a night,
In this so rich a commonwealth,
So pitiful a sight?

Is bread so dear and life so cheap,
So circumstanced the strife
For food, that babes must barter off,
All that is worth in life?

For who can hope these peddling maids
Could once escape the price,
Backed up and forced by all street laws
Legitimate to vice.

No Communist to blame the rich,
Am I, though sad the sight,
But O! I know somewhere is wrong
And somewhere is the right.

God pity all the pitiful,
And send from door to door,
Him whom thou wouldst to minister
To the deserving poor.

Hartford, Conn., February, 1893.

THE COLOR BANE.

There was profusion in the gift
Of beauty in her face,
And in her very form and air
An inexpressible grace.

Her rustling silk, moire-antique,
The daintless taste would please;
Her life in all appearances
Was opulence and ease.

It could be seen from head to foot,
And in her piercing eye,
That she had had advantage of
All that hard cash could buy.

But Oh! it was so sad to see,
That in her heart was pain,
That caste should force this Negro queen
To cold and proud disdain.

That one so beautiful as she,
Could any sphere adorn,
Should so be made to hate a heart
And give back scorn for scorn.

For all her wealth and gifts of grace,
Could not appease the sham
Of justice that discriminates
Against the blood of Ham.

LINES TO A WHIPPOORWILL.

Poor Whippoorwill, what ancient secret woe,
Has been the burden of thy feathered tribe?
Is it misfortune of some long ago
Thy quaint and ever wailing notes describe?

Or is it for some faithless truant mate
Thy love bemoans in solitude remote,
And pining in thy solitary state,
Comes forth this woeful ditty from thy throat?

Poor Whippoorwill: I truly pity thee,
Whatever sorrow fills thy aching breast,
Taught sympathy by Him who pities me,
I glad would grant thy mourning tribe a rest.

And O! sad bird, there lingers with me still
A memory which makes me half rejoice,
As I recall the echo from the hill,
When first I heard thy strange mysterious voice.

With it the thought of many a summer night
Comes back, when planets and stars were out,
And on the green where floods the moon with light,
I hear again a wild and joyous shout.

Again romps there full many a village lad
In play upon the early evening tide,
And thinking thus my heart grows strangely sad,
For my companions scattered far and wide.

And I recall emotions, O! sad bird,
When Venus early sheds her distant light,
Which vaguely in my childish bosom stirred,
When rang thy awesome cry upon the night.

Too young to know the common lot of pain
To which the flesh of man and bird is heir,
My heart was only moved by thy refrain
To sympathy and vagueness of despair.

But time has taught me, bird, too well since then
The minor which thy wailing failed to do:
To-night, with thousands of my fellow men,
I am with thee, sad one, a mourner too.

And listening to thy voice down in the glen
To-night pour forth its ancient sorrowing strain,
I well could fancy childhood back again
But for my own benumbing ache of pain.

But, bird, I bid thee come and learn with me,
That which is worth far more than gems most rare,
However great thy sorrow here may be
It need not lead to darkness and despair.

Though dim the light, if we but trust His will
In time the Master maketh all to find,
That underneath the deepest pain are still
His purposes most wonderfully kind.

Cease, bird, thy long complaint and cry of woe,
And teach thy young a far more tuneful strain;
Learn that which men are strangely slow to know:
Life's guerdon comes to all through ache and pain.

THE BRIDAL WREATH'S LAMENT.

O woe! ah bitter woe for us,
Who did the foolish thing,
To trust our folded leaves and buds,
To the first warm sun of spring.

Up from the lagoons of the South,
From lake and flowers about,
Came soft deceitful sighing winds
And gently called us out.

They whispered strange Floridian tales,
Of bayous and the brake,
Of spring's aroma and the rose,
And bade us to awake.

The sun so old for many springs,
Looked down on us and smiled,
And all our foolish swelling buds,
To leaf and flower beguiled.

We rivalled the Japonicas
Which budded half in doubt,
But reassured by southern winds,
Fast sought to beat us out.

But O! we spread our leaves and buds
Up to the open sky,
And looked with condescension on
Our lagging neighbors by.

Bedecked in all our finery
And blind with silly pride,
We laughed unconscious of our doom,
And of our woe betide.

But swift and stealthily as comes
A lurking foe at night,
Without a warning note swept down
A storm with bitter blight.

Now all the highway and the plain
Lie covered up with snow,
The sun is hid and leaden clouds,
Look down on all below.

Deceitful Zephyrs of the South,
Where are your kisses now?
The snowflakes make our winding sheet,
And death is on our brow.

But soon the true warm spring will come,
And violets in their beds
Will bloom: and flauntingly will
Lift the tulips up their heads.

The gladsome summer time will come,
The summer winds will sigh,
A thousand brilliant flowers will bloom
Beneath a summer sky.

But we, O! vain and foolish buds,
Who did the foolish thing,
To trust our folded leaves and flowers
To the first warm sun of spring,
So premature must pass away
To nothingness for time and aye.

MARCH WINDS.

Welcome, here, cold March winds blowing,
Welcome are the songs you sing,
Each discordant, shrill vibration,
Is a messenger of spring.

Blow, now, March winds, blow at pleasure
Rush o'er moorland, field and plain,
Far and wide bear ye the tidings,
That the spring returns again.

Spring, when all new life is given,
Thou art ever welcome here,
For thy voice is sweet with singing,
And thy face is ever dear.

In thy time sweet hope returning
Steals into despairing hearts,
And with subtile feeling touching,
Vigor and new life imparts.

'Tis a time when birds are mating,
And is heard the burnished dove,
Pouring out his heart in cooing,
Of his constancy and love.

'Tis a time when sounds are pleasing,
And when whispers fill the air,
Sounds whose sources have no telling,
For they come from everywhere.

'Tis a time when meadows glisten,
With the dew drops of the morn,
When the lilacs and the lilies,
And the modest rose are born.

Then it is sweet smelling flora
Maketh fragrant all the air,
Then it is that life feels lighter,
And a lessening of care.

Then it is that youth is happy,
And the fancies are as light,
As uncertain and as lofty,
As the careless school boy's kite.

Welcome, then, cold March winds blowing,
Soon thy howl away shall die,
Die in summer breezes sighing,
Soft as any lover's sigh.

Welcome, here, cold March winds blowing,
Welcome are the songs you sing,
Each discordant, shrill vibration
Is a messenger of spring.

LINES TO NIGHT.

In twilight lingers yet a hue
Of light that fades along the distant west,
The blushing rose sips up the evening dew,
And homeward flies the birdling to its nest.

The shepherd leads his flock unto the fold,
And sounding bells are heard along the hills,
And fainter grows the cloudlet tinged with gold,
A deeper twilight all the valley fills.

With clanking chains and drivers urging on,
The teams at longer intervals go by,
And soon the sounds that mark the day are gone,
In myriads the stars shine in the sky.

The heavens yield their faintest tints of blue,
And softer grows the murmur of the sea,
The west is robbed of every golden hue,
And silent, peaceful night begins to be.

The tired workmen to their huts return,
Where childish greetings wait them at the door,
And sweet a simple bliss which they well earn
Makes rich the humble cabin of the poor.

The cloth is spread, and o'er the frugal fare,
The grace is said and, yea, the feast is blest,
For at that festival unseen is there
To grace the board, a silent heavenly guest.

Around the family altar blest with love
They come with reverence and God adore;
There faith in phrases set, to God above,
Takes up the meek petitions of the poor.

O'er all who haunt the sea or land about,
In love alike for those who weep or sing
The silent darkness kindly stretches out
And folds the earth beneath her brooding wing.

Of all the gifts to man in heavenly grace,
O! soothing night, of blessing thou art blest,
The sinless child, and wretch in thy embrace,
Are cradled in forgetfulness and rest.

For humble slave and swain with labor spent,
For hearts bowed down with pain and aching woes,
In love and kindest mercy thou art sent
To give them all in sleep a sweet repose.

MAY.

The sweetest time of the year to me
Comes in the month of May,
The sky has then its brightest blue,
And earth its mildest day.

Not then is felt cold winter's chill,
Nor felt its summer's heat,
But all the earth is blithe and gay
And all the month is sweet.

When May is come, sweet, placid May,
The hills and vales are seen
With lofty peaks and mountain sides
To smile in living green.

The meadow streams, the rippling streams,
Through all the glad day long
Glide by their mossy banks and join
The earth in one sweet song.

'Tis then I love to wander forth,
Into some quiet vale,
And dream through all the livelong day,
And watch the cloudlets sail.

'Tis then those dreamy days gone by
When I was but a child,
Return and bring to me again
Old visions sweet and wild.

Those days when I would lie and watch
Beneath some shady tree,
The clouds float lazily along
In human forms to me.

Sometimes those forms a Bible name
Which I had heard or seen,
My childish fancy gave to each
One suited to his mien.

For sure I thought those holy men—
Those patriarchs of old
Were sailing round the skies in clouds,
For such to me was told.

But in those visions of them all
The sweetest one is this,
I hear again a voice, a call,
A call to hear is bliss.

A mother calls her careless boy,
One loth to leave his fun
To answer for some wickedness
Or on some errand run.

O! smiling May, how dear thou art,
Thou bringest back to me
A dreamy time, a time which now
In dreams can only be.

'Tis true ten thousand common joys
My restless soul make glad,
But all my joys unless in dreams
Are mingled with the sad.

So, May, when thou art come to me
I can but steal away
And live again in childhood dreams
At least for one brief day.

And O! that thou couldst stay with me,
Throughout the lagging year,
And let me work and love and dream
Out my existence here.

LINES TO A MOCKING BIRD.

Sing, sweet bird,
Thy melody is sweet,
Chant now thy summer song,
For summer days are fleet.
But while the earth holds gladsome summer yet,
From early morn to peaceful twilight dim,
Till God doth bid the burning sun to set,
Heard thou art chanting praises unto him.

Sing, sweet bird,
Sing all the summer long,
There is a gladsome joy,
A soothing in thy song.
O! for a life like thine—one free from care,
In dewy fields or clover wet with rain
Or in some blissful spot as there
I'd dwell unknown to human ache and pain.

Sing, sweet bird,
Mid clover, grasses green;
Soon pansies and the rose
Can nowhere here be seen.
And then away unto the far off south
Thou wilt wing thy self in flight
And leave me but to hear from human mouth
A ceaseless groan and fret from morn till night.

Sing, sweet bird,
With mirth and gladness vie,
While flowers blush and bloom
And summer breezes sigh.

O! could I sing for man in bowers green
Sweet songs as thou, and soothe his aching breast,
I'd gladly sing and pass away unseen
To some Elysian fields of peace and rest.

LINES TO THE MEMORY OF DR. POWELL OF THE A. M. A.

One night, entranced, I sat spellbound,
And listened in my place,
And made a solemn vow to be
A hero for my race.

He plead as but a few can plead
With eloquence and might,
He plead for a humanity,
The Freedmen and the right.

His soul and true nobility
Went out in every word,
And strongly moved for better things
Was every one that heard.

Too soon has death made good his claim
On him who moved us so,
Too great and white the harvest yet,
To spare him here below.

Oh! why this waste?—forgive me, Lord,
I would not Judas be,
Yet who will plead as he has pled,
For Freedmen and for me?

And yet in death, I think he will—
This sleeping prince of thine,
In many a multitude be heard
Still plead for right and mine.

RESENTMENT.

You ask for summer instead of cold weather,
But that can never be,
The passion that once so bound us together,
Forever is dead in me.

O yes! I loved and sought to discover
To you my heart's distress,
But the love you cheaply gave to another,
Turned mine to bitterness.

It is now too late; and past forever
The time to gather in
The ties of love and bind together,
The life that might have been.

IN MEMORY OF KATIE REYNOLDS—DYING.

O! death,
If thou has aught of tenderness
Be kindly in thy touch
Of her whose fragile slenderness
Was overburdened much
With life. And let her seem to go to sleep,
As often does a tired child, when it has grown
Too tired to longer weep.

A rose but half in bloom—
She is too young and beautiful to die,
But yet if she must go,
Let her go out as goes a sigh
From tired life and woe.
And let her keep in death's brief space
This side the grave, the dusky beauty still
Belonging to her face.

She must have been
Of those upon the trembling lyre
Of whom the poets sung;
“Whom the gods love” and desire
Fade and “die young.”
Her life so loved on earth was brief,
But yet withal so beautiful there is no cause,
But in our loss, for grief.

Nashville, Tenn., December, 1893.

A THANKSGIVING DAY IN NEW ENGLAND.

O, bliss! where hearts are all aflame
With love far deeper than a name,
Where speech from hearts so sweetly slips,
In loving words and touch of lips,
Where rise and find a transient rest,
The noblest passion of the breast,
I fain would dwell if not for aye,
At least on each Thanksgiving day.
O, love! wherever love is found
In all this toilsome world around
In ache and woe and endless strife
Thou art the balm in human life,
That maketh possible to bear
Our mingled load of joy and care.
No lot can wholly cheerless be,
Dear love, when it is blessed by thee.
To-day I've watched glad hurrying feet,
Trip gaily homeward love to meet.
The father's hand, the mother's kiss,
Thanksgiving day, New England's bliss
Calls to the old paternal chair
The single youth, the married pair,
And blithe they go with winsome grace
To see again the old home-place.
The snow comes down in feathered flakes,
On noisy street and silent lakes,
Through window panes the fire lights glow
Upon the fallen spotless snow,
And snug within from cold and storm
Love's own are gathered safe and warm,
And from the scene is banished care,
And all is joy beyond compare.

The youngsters romp with boisterous stride,
The mothers with ill-concealed pride
Half scold in their indulgent way,
For more decorum in their play;
For this the youngsters feel no need
And scarcely pay their parents heed.
They make the old home ring without,
With gayety and childish shout.
And when they to the loaded board
Come with their patriarchal lord,
The grace is said and all the guests,
A second time and more are pressed.
To more of all the good things nice
With sauce and aromatic spice.
And gathered thus on this glad day
The time speeds happily away.
The old forget their years of pain,
Feel in their children young again,
Perchance some tears a smile displace
For some beloved absent face,
But all are met with one accord
To happy be and thank the Lord.
And joy from other things apart
Is uppermost in every heart.
But Oh! all homes are not so blest
With love and gathered family guest;
And, ye whom God doth favor give,
Think kindly of the poor who live
In tenements and never see
The comforts God hath given thee.

Ah! lonely hours pass away
For many on Thanksgiving day.
My homesick heart gives useless sighs

For love beneath my southern skies,
And feels that longing which must come,
To aliens far away from home.
But still I know while fades the light,
And daylight deepens into night,
Love travels fast and cometh nigh,
In answer to my own heart's sigh,
And so 'tis sweet though far apart—
When love doth answer heart to heart.

AFTER COMMENCEMENT AT FISK UNIVERSITY.

The halls are all deserted now,
And silence reigns complete,
Where one could hear but yesterday
A thousand tramping feet.

The flowers, wreaths and evergreens,
Lie withered up and dead,
And with the hands that handled them,
Their beauty now has fled.

No sound of boisterous laugh and life,
Nor student jesting word
Breaks silence of the hall, save where
A nibbling mouse is heard.

The life that here but yesterday
With hope and college pride,
Rang out in song and careless mirth
Is scattered far and wide.

The long vacation time has come,
A timely season blest,
When tired brains may revel in
Forgetfulness and rest.

Thus Jubilee and Livingstone
In solitude complete
Are left with none to tread their halls,
But ghosts of absent feet.

THE WOODS OF OCTOBER.

The last sweet blush of summer in her glory
Still lingers in October woods and skies,
But changed in forests, hills and mountains hoary,
From green unto a thousand brilliant dyes.

The cloudless skies a restful peace betoken,
The Indian summer broodeth over all,
In earth and everywhere is plainly spoken
A placidness which only comes with fall.

In fields where to the breeze was lately swaying,
The wheat in all its golden beauty seen,
Are flocks and herds of lazy cattle straying,
And feeding on a second growth of green.

A bee is seen still out in hope of finding,
A blossom in the second growth of clover,
But nature's law too on the bee is binding,
His harvesting will also soon be over.

A few more days of autumn's hazy gleaming,
And all October woods to-day so fair,
The very imagery of death in seeming
Will stand dismantled, naked, bare.

O, who would think that all this beauty painted,
Upon these leaves in colors clear,
In every brilliant hue with death is tainted,
But for the dying lesson year by year.

That lesson let me learn to-day in earnest,
Which thou dost teach in every hue and dye,
Who knows but when thy glory here returnest,
Within the silent grave my head shall lie.

Farewell, October woods—soon bleak December
Will all the forest wrap in spotless snow,
But I, forgetting not, shall still remember,
Thy glory which to-day delights me so.

THE MESSAGE OF A DEAD ROSE.

The rose you gave me, dear, is dead,
The hope which it begot
Is gone. An aching heart and head,
Is my unhappy lot.

Perhaps you could not fully know,
The danger of your smiles,
How often hearts are poisoned so,
By thoughtless maiden wiles.

I would not think so hard of heart
You thoughtfully could be;
To gratify a flirting art,
Such passion stirred in me.

Yet many a trusting heart has been
From honor made to rove,
In darksome ways and paths of sin,
By lightly feeding love.

This rose cut from its mother stem,
With thy unfeeling knife,
Has lost, though such a lovely gem,
All that could feed its life.

And faded its untimely death
Tells silently to me,
As is its fate and scentless breath,
So my heart's love must be.

THE SUN WENT DOWN IN BEAUTY.

The sun went down in beauty,
Beyond Mississippi's tide,
As I stood on the banks of the river,
And watched its waters glide;
Its swelling currents resembling
The longing restless soul,
Surging, swelling, and pursuing
Its ever-receding goal.

The sun went down in beauty,
But the restless tide flowed on,
And the phantoms of absent loved ones
Danced o'er the waves and were gone;
Nautical phantoms of loved ones,
Their faces jubilant with glee
In the spray, seemed to rise and beckon,
And then rush on to the sea.

The sun went down in beauty,
While I stood musing alone,
Stood watching the rushing river,
And heard its restless moan;
And longings, vague, intenable,
So far from speech apart,
Like the endless rush of the river,
Went surging through my heart.

The sun went down in beauty,
Peacefully sank to rest,
Leaving its golden reflection
On the great Mississippi's breast;

Gleaming on the turbulent river,
In the coming gray twilight,
Soothing its restless surging,
And kissing its waters good-night.

The sun went down in beauty,
The stars came one by one,
Speaking from the vault of heaven,
Of the mighty Father and Son;
Speaking to earthly mortals,
Whose souls like the river's tide,
Forever and ever are flowing,
But never are satisfied.

The sun went down in beauty,
But still in the calm starlight,
My feet were wont to linger
To the coming of gray midnight;
My heart was filled with musings,
Of past and coming years,
And the thoughts of friends departed,
Filled my eyes with tears.

The sun went down in beauty,
But still in visions fair,
My soul to the gate of heaven,
Was wafted through the air;
The gate of life eternal,
Where cease tumult and strife,
Where men borne down with sorrow,
Lay down the burden of life.

The sun went down in beauty,
Tinging the west with gold,

Gleaming as a symbol in heaven,
Of light in the Father's fold;
And, soul, why fret with emotions,
Of sorrow, joy or renown?
Soon life with all that is earthly,
Forever will be laid down.

The sun will go down in beauty,
'Mid summer and mid winter snow,
When we in the grave are sleeping,
Beyond its radiant glow;
Speak to our souls, my Father,
Their void with comfort fill,
And ease our anxious longings,
And bid them, “Peace, be still.”

Tiptonville, Tenn., on the banks of the Mississippi, August, 1892.

OVER THE BAY.

The daylight dies and sinking in the west,
The sun is red and tinges all the bay,
And soft a sigh escapes a woman's breast,
And dreamingly her eyes are far away.
Then love alert and swifter than a sigh
Rocks tenderly a babe. With cooings low
He sleeps again to her sweet lullaby.

And night creeps on in livery of gray,
But still she lingers, gazing on the west,
While all the world is putting toil away,
And coming slowly on to home and rest.
But love with nimble feet eternally
All tirelessly skims on and on
O'er night, and league, and wave, to Jack at sea.

THE SECRET.

Go whisper to her gentle winds,
While you are passing by,
The mighty secret of my heart,
The burden of my sigh.

Take to her from this blushing rose,
Such sweets of scented air,
As are befitting for a queen,
And one divinely fair.

And from this lily of the vale,
Take her who is to me,
The emblem of all that is good,
And sweetest purity.

The violets of azure eyes,
Which ever sweets impart,
Take her their gentle modesty,
So like her guileless heart.

Take all the sweets which you can find
Along your airy way,
To her whose face and daily life
Are like the month of May.

Blow softly on her lovely brow,
And give her lips a kiss,
The thing were I to do, O winds,
Would count a wondrous bliss.

She does not know my secret flame,
But what is that to you?
Oh winds, but take her from my heart,
Its mighty love and true.

THE NEW JERUSALEM.

O New Jerusalem! abode unseen,
Yet now as in all ages past,
Thou art the bourne to which in deep despair
Or hope, men turn their face at last.
It matters not what race, or clime or creed
In life has swayed the powers given,
'Tis always true that men about to die
Will turn a longing heart to heaven.

In youth ambition leads the mind along
The way of hope and sweet delights,
Fulfilling just enough its promises
To point out more desired heights.
And so for more of gold, or fame or power,
Or for the bare necessities of life,
Succeeding generations go the rounds
Of failure or successive strife.

But O, when age creeps on and life begins
The gliding downward to its west,
There comes a deep solicitude alike
To fill the rich or beggar's breast.
Far out beyond the stretch of space and time,
Beyond experience or ken,
The soul immortal thoughtfully must face
The common destiny of men.

The always poor and long despised of earth,
To whom so many woes of life are given
By faith or blind instinct are comforted,
And hope for better things in heaven,

And lives all hopelessly ensnared with sin
Too much to ever here undo,
When every other hope is gone will hope
To live in heaven their lives anew.

O, many are the weary souls and tired feet
From every rank and walk of life,
At last come gladly to that borderland,
Where men lay down all pain and strife.
Oft timorously with sore and fainting hearts
They wait the dipping boatman's oar,
But oh! the pilot there is kind who guides
The boat to that Celestial shore.

And there a king and kingdom without end
Shall be to all as thine and mine,
And never once a discord in His rule,
But always harmony divine.
The palace gates shall not be shut by night,
There hearts shall never beat with fears,
Nor ever ache, for O, the King is kind,
And wipes away all bitter tears.

O New Jerusalem! abode unseen,
Yet now as in all ages past,
Thou art the bourne to which we all must turn,
For all there is to life at last.
There deep and lasting is the law of love,
As all eternity is wide,
And all inhabitants for time and aye
With God himself abide.

110

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

117

[_]

This verse has been extracted from a passage of prose text.

“Jesus my Saviour to Bethlehem came,
Born in a manger to sorrow and shame,
Oh, it was wonderful, how could it be,
Seeking for me, for me.

Jesus my Saviour on Calvary's tree
Paid the great debt and set my soul free,
Oh, it was wonderful, how could it be,
Dying for me, for me.”