Hagar :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Under the greenwood tree
Nico and I,
Sing and swing merrily,
For all things love us,
The green earth, the sky
So blue, above us,
And the birds sing to us,
And the great bee hums
One tune, and calls it “Buzz.”

We are glad in the sunshine,
But when the rain comes,
Then we droop and we pine
Like the flowers, all is sad.

A shadow sits by the hearth,
And its name is “Gin!”
They say it walks the earth,
And darkens every home
That it enters in,
O would we might roam
To a land where 'tis not known.”

[“O once my heart was light and gay]

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“O once my heart was light and gay,
As a bird upon the wing,
Life seemed the longest, brightest day
That comes in early Spring.
My mother sat beside the door,
And sang her ballads o'er and o'er.

O dearly loved my father then
Our little cottage home,
He cared not for those wicked men,
He had no wish to roam.
He sat and wove his baskets there,
And sang his songs without a care.

But since my mother went away,
To find a home for me,
In some far land, where morning's ray,
Shines on a Jasper sea;
The shadow o'er my father came,
And blighted all our honest name.

Our cabin is a darksome spot,
Want sits beside the hearth;
And very lonely is my lot.
Without a friend on earth!
O mother, by that Jasper sea,
Dost thou not sometimes think of me?

I sleep, and dream I see thee stand
Beside me as of yore;
I feel the soft touch of thy hand,
And all my grief is o'er.
I waken from my dream, so fair,
To find the loved one is not there!”

[“I'm leaving you, old friends, I'm leaving you]

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“I'm leaving you, old friends, I'm leaving you,
Singing birds and murmuring bees;
Sparkling waters ever flowing on,
And the kindly sheltering trees.
You will miss me, when I'm gone,
Grape-vine swing, where I have swung
Every spring this many a year;
And the songs that I have sung
You no more will bend to hear,
Dear old trees I love so well.”

[“Her song was of summer time]

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“Her song was of summer time,
The very birds sang in her rhyme,
The sunshine, the delicious air,
The fragrance of the flowers were there.”

[The sun's going down by the sycamore tree]

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The sun's going down by the sycamore tree,
The swallows fly low.
They see the gray clouds that move to and fro,
And they know what the morrow will be.
Haste, girls, haste, call up the cows,
The storm is coming on.
Haste, boys, haste, with the hay to the mows,
'Twill rain ere the dawn.

The sun's going down, all cheerless and dim,
The swallows fly low.
Over the meadow they circle and skim.
For soon alas! it will rain they know.
Haste, girls, haste, call up the cows,
The rain will not stay.
Haste, boys, haste, with the hay to the mows,
Now up and away.

“Ho! every one that thirsteth,
List to the song I sing:
Drink water, only water,
The blessed healing water,
The cool and gushing water,
Fresh from a living spring!”

THE SONG OF WATER.

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Let others sing the praises,
Of the rosy, sparkling wine;
I sing a song of the water,
The bright and beautous water,
That comes from the hand Divine.

Chorus.—

Ho! every one that thirsteth,
List to the song I sing:
Drink water, only water,
The blessed, healing water,
The cool and gushing water,
Fresh from a living spring.

God spreads the bounteous water
O'er all the world so wide;
In waterfalls 'tis gushing,
From sea to sea 'tis rushing,
In a bounding, heaving tide.

Chorus.—

Ho! every one that thirsteth, &c.

'Tis water brings us gladness,
And health is in its flow;
But wine, like fire, is burning,
And from it there's no turning,
Till it has wrought us woe.

Chorus.—

Ho! every one that thirsteth, &c.

THE SONG OF THE LOWLY.

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The star that shone so brightly
On wise and holy men,
Has shone for ages nightly,
And it shines for us again.

Chorus.—

O Jesus! pure and holy,
The helper of the lowly,
Help us to be like Thee.

Thou wert on earth a stranger,
A wanderer in the land,
Born in a lowly manger,
That we with Thee might stand.

Chorus.—

O Jesus! pure and holy, &c.

Our hearts are sad and dreary,
No light is in our sky;
But thou on earth wert weary;
Thou wilt not pass us by.

Chorus.—

O Jesus! pure and holy, &c.

[“As I passed along the highway]

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“As I passed along the highway,
So hungry, tired and sore,
I saw a little maiden,
Stand by the cottage door.
A gentle, blue-eyed maiden
With waving, golden hair,
She pointed to the doorway
And said, “Thy home is there.”
“Is this thy home?” I asked her
“O enter in with me,
Be thou my guide, fair maiden!
I shall not fear with thee.
For many greet me coldly,
And bid me go my way,
And better is the scorning
That I have borne to-day.”
“My home is where 'tis summer,
All through the golden year,”
The maiden answered smiling,
“I know thy home is here.”
And as I crossed the threshold,
The sunshine seemed more fair;
I heard a soft voice singing,
But there was no maiden there!”

OUR MEADOW.

Like the blast from a furnace so fiercely came down
The beams of midsummer on the dry dusty town:
And the common lay stretching all withered and brown.

I looked to the west, thro' the pitiless glare.
Not a cloud in the heavens, but greenly and fair,
A beautiful mirage, our meadow rose there!

I saw the trees waving their branches on high,
And over them bending the soft summer sky,
While the meadow sloped down where the waters swept by

All sparkling and joyous, I saw the waves go,
Where the cattle were bathing 'neath maples below;
There the waters were deepest and stillest their flow.

And over the meadow, the gay robins flew,
While bees from the clover their stores of sweets drew;
And the butterflies culled from each flower that grew.

O, beautiful meadow! what pleasures untold
Thou hast given to me in the spring times of old;
When thy greenness was starred by the dandelion's gold!

Now the eyes of the stranger, look coldly on thee,
And the home of my fathers, my home may not be;
Yet a vision of beauty thou still art for me

I care not who claims thee, while thy waters shall shine,
While freshness and greenness and beauty are thine,
I hold thee, loved meadow, forever as mine!

THE LEGEND OF THE TUBEROSE.

The Angel of the flowers walked with Eve
In Paradise, one golden morn in May;
And thus the Angel spoke: “I must away
Sweet mother! yet evermore I grieve
To leave the children of our tender cares
For I must haste where blow the northern airs,
To woo my nurslings in the woods of pine,
And part the leaves, that shield them from the cold;
And breathe a breath upon the chilly mould,
Which they may feel can be no breath but mine.
Now to thy gentle hands and loving care,
I trust the children of the sun and air.

Thou know'st them all, but there is one that grows
In yon dark copse, that hides the gushing spring;
With slender, spire-like leaves, a flowerless thing;
Yet dear to me is this sweet tuberose.
The plant rebelled against the laws, and me,
And hence, 'tis flowerless, by my just decree.
See that thou guard it well, and let no flower
Break from its sheath to freight the Eden air

With perfume rare and sweet—the year must wear
Near to its close, ere dawns its triumph hour,”
She ended thus, and passed thro' Eden's gate
While trailing glories on her footsteps wait.

That night Eve walked with Adam, long and late,
The moon was full; calm as a virgin saint.
The air was still; a night bird made its plaint
To the wild rose. The rivulet murmured, “wait.”
But through the sounds that deepened night's repose
Mournful and sad, they heard the tuberose.

“The days pass wearily and bring no change to me,
The same green leaves I see, and hear the night winds sigh,
Poor flower! it is thy doom, no more to bud and bloom.

The tulips flaunt their gold, and kill me with their scorn,
While each succeeding morn, the crocus buds unfold;
And hyacinths of blue and white, rise up to greet the morning light.

Once I was fair! so fair with lilies I have vied
And deemed I was allied to spirits of the air.
Pride wrought my overthrow! Pride brought this bitter woe!

Now-days pass slowly by, and bring no change to me;
The same dull green I see, still hear the night wind's sigh,
‘Poor flower! it is thy doom, no more to bud and bloom.’”

The fleeting months went by; there came a dewy morn
When Eve drew near the copse that hid the gushing spring.
And lo! it was not dark; amazed and wondering
She gazed on waxen bells, that one frail wand adorn'd,
And filled the place with light, and fragrance rare and sweet.
While all the flowers bowed with reverence at its feet.

DOBBIN AND I.

In the leafy midsummer, Dobbin and I
Set out together;
Is it cloudy or clear, blue or gray sky?
We care not for weather,
Neither Dobbin nor I.

Under the boughs, where the birds sing in chorus,
As glad as the day;
Now where butterflies hover, waiting for us
To pilot the way;
Flying all o'er us.

Into the forest, where the sweet ferns unfurl
Their banners of green;
Skirting the thickets, where the blackberry girl
Is peeping, I ween
Right onward we whirl.

Into the shadowy ford, dash with a will;
The drops fall like rain;
But Dobbin is thirsty, and now he stands still,
And I dare not complain,
As he drinketh his fill.

We are glad as the wild birds, Dobbin and I,
The world is all ours;
The trees wave their welcome, as we pass them by,
To enter their bowers;
And ask us not why?

The ferns give their odors, as freely as they,
The little bird sings,
And asketh no fee for its loveliest lay;
And the butterflies' wings
Make golden the way.

LILE KATY.

Have you seen our Lile Katy, the bird of our bower,
The joy of our bosoms—our sweet summer flower?
Have you drank in her loveliness—basked in her smiles,
And the witchery caught of her innocent wiles?
Hist! her foot's on the stair, and her laugh full of glee,
Comes gushing like water, as blithesome and free.

'Tis music, rare music, you may listen in vain,
And such joy-notes ne'er hear in your life-time again,

She comes, our Lile Katy! 'tis the coming of May.
The birds and the flowers are thronging her way.
With eyes overflowing and dancing with light,
Did a creature more lovely e'er gladden the sight?

By the wild thrill of joy, which to you she has given,
Feel you not, she is wafting you breezes from heaven?
With a step far too lightsome to tread this dull earth,
We have deemed her a creature of heavenly birth—
Whose feet all unsandal'd pressed upward and on,
'Mid the rose-tinted clouds of creation's first dawn!

Ah! you smile—I am raving—she is mortal we know
To our Father in heaven, this blessing we owe—
Yet we tremble to feel lest this sunbeam of love,
The Father may ask for a halo above;
Could we bow in submission his will to obey,
While angels were wafting her spirit away?

F. W.

I knew the leaves of spring time
Would wither and decay,
And the golden grain of harvest,
Fall round the reaper's way.

I knew the flowers would perish,
The buds might blighted be;
But oh! I never dreamed love
That death could come to thee!

Thy smile was like the morning,
The dewy morn of May,
And thy coming brought the dawning
Of the full and perfect day.

Thou wert all light and gladness,
The wild bird singing free,
The sunlight and the waters,
Were typical of thee!

Alas! the summer leaves us
The water passes on,
The bird goes with the summer,
Like them thou too hast gone.

And yet, oh pitying Father
Still round my darkened way;
Through all the gloom, there lingers
One pure and hallowed ray,

I have an angel near me,
Whatever may betide,
A blessed loving angel
Forever at my side.

I will not murmur Father
Though long the way may be,
I know the angel leads me
With loving hand to Thee.

THE LOST SUMMER.

The soft mellow light of October's sun lay
Through all the green depths of the forest to-day,
The air was as sweet as June's rose-scented breath,
And only the rustling leaves whispered of death.
I sat 'neath the oak tree, where joyous and gay,
We three sat together that beautiful May;
The boughs waved as then in the sunlight and air,
But their summer was past, they no longer were fair.
I thought of the summer, how blithely they came
When the hills and the valleys re-echoed her name;
When the green leaves above us, the flowery sod,
Rejoiced in the beauty and goodness of God!

O glorious summer! how radiant wert thou
When June's fairest roses encircled thy brow!
As a dream thou'st flown with the rainbow and flower
The song of the bird, and the wealth-giving shower,
As some beautiful thought, as a meteor's gleam
Thou has passed, oh lost season, a-down the dark stream.

I mourn thee, fair summer, yet I offer to thee
A song of thanksgiving, heart-gushing and free;
Thou hast passed o'er my heart as the waters that flow,
O'er desert sands parched 'neath the sun's fervid glow
Thou hast called into life with thy spice-laden breath,
The hopes that were sleeping in darkness and death;
Thou hast come as a bow on the clouds of the storm,
And Faith from her ashes rose living and warm!

Thou hast left us loved summer, the autumn is here,
And grimly he scattered the leaves on thy bier;
I know other summers will come, but to me
A fount in the desert, thy memory shall be.
And when death as a reaper, has gathered in sheaves
The seasons, which number with snows and with leaves,
The circle of life—when my years as a scroll,
Lie revealed to my gaze in one sorrowful whole;
'Mid all the bright summers of sunlight and shade,
And the autumns in glory and splendor array'd,
The winters of gloom, lit by some passing ray,
And the springs with the light of the beautiful May,
Thou'lt be, oh blest summer! heart garner'd up there
With fruit the most golden—with flowers most fair.

WHAT THE LICHENS SANG.

I heard the lichens singing
One cold and frosty morn;
When all the leaves had vanished
From tree and bush and thorn.

When the hills were brown all over,
And the fields seemed desert sands;
When the summer flowers were sleeping
'Neath the dead leaves folded hands.
I heard the lichens singing
And the mosses sweet and clear,
Joined in the fairy concert,
As I hushed my breath to hear.

“If it were always summer
And the land were filled with flowers,
What eye would mark the lichens
That bloom in wintry hours?
What hand would pluck the mosses,
That make the old wood gay,
And who would come to bear them
Like precious gems away?
We are the winter's jewels
He hides us in his breast;
And only those who love us,
May find us 'neath his vest.”

THE STUDENT'S BURIAL.

T'was a glorious summer morning, cloudless and serene,
The rising sun ne'er looked upon more beautiful a scene.
The dew lay on the flowers and grass, the birds sang in the trees,
While gently, lovingly swept by—the odorous morning breeze.

The mighty hills! the forest crowned! all proudly seemed to rise
As bathed in golden sunlight, they would fain have touch'd the skies.
And stretching far as eye could reach their grandeur we might view,
Until they seemed to melt away in an atmosphere of blue.
The valley with its fertile fields, its orchards white with bloom,
The waterfall and winding stream—they spoke not of the tomb.
They called no mournful spectre up—of bier, and shroud and pall,
Each living thing, seemed offering praise to Him who made them all.

It was a morn for happiness, and not a morn for tears,
Yet the college bell tolled sadly forth the student's few short years.
His sun had set in manhood's prime, t'was meet he should be borne
By comrades to his place of rest, thus in the early morn.
His place of rest! no church stood near, no marble stones to tell
How those who slept beneath had lived, how wisely and how well.
They stood within the vestibule, of a temple far more grand,
Columns, whose every arch bore truths, written in God's own hand!

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The shadow of no sculptured urn might now be there to shed
A glory round his resting place, an honor to the dead;
But it seemed meeter, fitter far to know the summer breeze,
Would wave above the grassy turf the bright green forest leaves.

To know the summer birds would come, and carol songs of glee,
While round the wild flowers dreamingly, would hum each wandering bee.
And young bright faces as they pass, perhaps would sadder grow
To think how like to them was he, who sleeps so calm below.
As light his heart, as gay his hopes, he too essayed to climb
All patiently and hopefully, the glorious heights sublime,
He might have stood there side by side, with the noblest and the best,
Yet we feel that he is happier now, his spirit is at rest.
We know could he return to earth, its honors he would deem
But glittering dust, when viewed beside the glories he had seen.
Then leave the earthly part to rest 'mid woodland birds and flowers,
And shed no tear for the spirit's gone to a brighter world than ours.

N. Y. Central College, June, 1850.

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THE THRUSH.

The skies are dark, the hills are gray,
Rain unceasing the live-long day,
Pitiless rain! not a single ray
Over the sunless land may stray;
When will the rain be over?

List to those notes, so wild and free
From the green depths of yon old tree;
Hark! tis the thrush's song of glee,
Singing so loud and joyously
“Soon will the rain be over.”

The skies are dark, misty the air,
Not a gleam of sunlight anywhere;
Dream'st thou bird, the sky is fair
Cassandra-like, still singing there,
“Soon will the rain be over?

Look to the westward, far away
The blue breaks thro' the curtains gray;
Sing, little prophet bird, alway
Give to the winds thy roundelay,
“Soon will the rain be over.”

THE MESSAGE.

The pleasant light comes trickling a-down
The bole of the old oak tree,
Like drops of gold without a sound
It falls on the leaves, and me.

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The breeze sweeps by with a breath that tells
Of flowers where sips the bee,
It has rifled the sweets from the lily-bells,
And borne all their perfume to me.

Far up in the blue a boat of pearl
Is drifting on dreamily,
With its golden prow and its sails unfurled,
'Tis floating away with me.

O the pleasant light, and the gilded leaves,
And the cloud on yon azure sea;
And flowery breath of the summer breeze,
Breathe a song never varying to me.

“Tis good to live,” they softly sing
“In a world so fair and free,
'Tis the Father's world, and we gladly bring
His message of love to thee.”

THE THREE FAWNS.

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[‘Passer-by]

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‘Passer-by,
Give a sigh,
Shed a tear!
A stricken deer
Lieth here!’”

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[“Like a vapor]

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“Like a vapor
Died poor Caper;
Where she goes
No one knows.”

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OUR GARDEN.

Have you a garden? we have one
The loveliest spot beneath the sun.
'Tis close by the southern orchard wall,
Where the early light is swift to fall,
Which the morning glories mantle o'er
So greenly the stones are seen no more,
Where every morn, still staunch and true
Its colors float, “Red, White and Blue.”
And fragrant peas, the bird-like things
Go fluttering round on rosy wings,
While like a nun so pure and fair
The tuberose scents all the air,
And Pinks, sweet Maidens, primly set
Beside the Quakeress, Mignonette.
Pale Heliotrope, that loves the sun,
While all love her the peerless one!
And we have bright verbenas there
Which trail their splendors everywhere,
Alyssum sweet, a wayward child
That breaks its bounds, and wanders wild,

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And blended with the white and red,
The yellow Poppy lifts its head;
Gay western flower, so bright and bold
Fit emblem of “The Land of Gold.”
But sweetest spot of all to me,
Is by the gnarled old apple tree,
Where close within its friendly shade,
The Fuchsias their gay wreaths have laid,
And round the trunk, the bells of snow
With crimson bells, wave to and fro,
I sit and watch their gorgeous dyes
And dream of burning tropic skies.

Away with tropics, give to me
The Phlox Drummondii, blithe and free,
Blooming alike in sun or shade
Through spring and summer, still arrayed
In brightest robes of wondrous hue.
Dear little flower! thou'rt always new,
Sweeter than flowers from foreign strands
This wilding from the prairie lands.
This is our garden, morn and night
It has some store of fresh delight,
I turn with loving hand the mould
And watch each leaf and bud unfold,
And feel no joy more pure can be
Than this sweet spot has given me.

June, 1865.

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THE MARTYR STUDENT.

J. P. Purvis, 1851.

Through the silent hours of midnight
In his chamber still and lone,
Sat a weary student bending
O'er a dark and ancient tome.

Little heeded he the hours
Slowly gliding on their way,
Until faintly thro' the window
Stole the dim gray light of day.

Look upon that brow so youthful
Scarce a sign of toil is there,
Not a wrinkle on his forehead
Furrowed by the touch of care.

Yet a darker shade is resting
On that noble earnest face,
On his brow he wears the impress
Of a scorned and hated race.

Bravely too the student bears it,
Quick returning scorn for scorn,
Well he knows the free brave spirit
To no servile lot was born.

But along the northern border
He hath heard despairingly
Rise the cry of hunted bondsman
Striving from his chains to flee.

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Brave the heart within his bosom,
Yet it throbs with pity too,
Full of feeling, gentle, loving,
Warm, affectionate and true.

He is young and single handed,
But all eager for the field,
Can he buckle on no weapon
For the truth and right to wield?

He is young, great souls are older,
He would follow in the van,
Tho' he's seen but fourteen summers
Yet he feels in soul a man!

Well he knows, a germ within him,
Latent lies for good or ill;
To direct that germ he labors,
With a strong and iron will.

While the midnight stars are burning
Like his visions high and pure,
He is learning well life's lesson
To be patient and endure.

What bright dreams of future greatness
Dawn upon his longing eyes;
While the dark and misty present
Fades away 'neath sunnier skies.

“I will live to toil unceasing,”
Thus his midnight thoughts take tone—
“For a noble, earnest purpose
I will labor late and lone.

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I will live to show the master
Of the poor, down trodden slave,
That a soul dwells in the bondsman,
He has hunted to the grave.

I will live to teach the scorner
Of a skin unlike his own,
That 'tis mind that makes the true man,
God-like mind, and Mind alone.

Well I know that I have chosen
No smooth, velvet path of ease,
That my way in summer's noontide
Lieth not 'neath shade of trees

I must learn to toil and suffer
In the spring-time of my life,
Though I bear aloft no banner
On the glorious fields of strife.

Calm and deep the water glideth,
Where the earnest seeker turns,
To glean purest ores of knowledge;
While his soul with ardor burns.

Not alone I'll strive to garner
Golden grains from out the ore,
Poor indeed is he, who only
Feels possessed of earthly lore.

I will teach my soul to harbor
No vain thoughts of worldly gain,
Pure shall be my true ambition
Pure and lofty is my aim.”

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Now the morning stars are paling,
Faintly steals the light of day;
Through the curtains of his chamber,
While the shadows flee away.

'Twas a bright and balmy evening
In the pleasant days of spring,
Breezes thro' the open casement,
Fragrance from the flowers bring.

Hushed and still the saddened chamber,
Where the dying student lay;
Withering the buds of promise,
Yet unfolded to the day.

Weeks and months have seen him suffer,
Lying in the darkened room,
Yet his bright and hopeful spirit
Half dispelled the deepening gloom.

Weary, worn at length no longer
Can the fainting spirit live;
“Must I suffer? I am weary,
O what rest the grave would give.

“Yet,” he said, “the fields of labor,
Stubble still before me lie,
I have scarcely struck a furrow,
I am all too young to die.”

While the golden fires of sunset
Faded in the glowing west,
Sank the pale and weary sufferer
To his last unbroken rest.

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'Neath the mound upon the hill-side
Quietly he sleepeth now,
Dust is resting on the beauty
Of that high and noble brow.

For the midnight's lonely vigils,
For the student's holy dream,
For the brave soul martyr dying
No proud monument is seen.

Still within the hearts that watched him,
Hour by hour and day by day,
Like some holy thought he'll linger
Nevermore to pass away.

THE SANDMAN.

The sun is deep in the west, baby,
The little birds sleep in their nest, baby,
The cricket is singing a sleepy song,
And the Sandman is coming along.

What does the Sandman bring baby?
What does the Sandman sing, baby?
Over the sea and over the land,
The Sandman brings thee two bags of sand.

O see how the grey sand flies, baby,
Straight in thy bonny blue eyes, baby,
'Tis sleep that the Sandman brings;
Now list what the Sandman sings.

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“O come to the land of dreams, baby,
I'll lead thee by flowing streams, baby,
We'll gather poppies 'mid waving corn
And ne'er come home, till the break of morn.”

SPRING FLOWERS.

The flowers of spring have come once more,
The gay, the gentle flowers;
They scatter all their sweetness o'er
This fair bright land of ours.
The pale Spring beauty lifts her cup
Veined o'er with faintest rose,
While frail anemones look up
And soft their lips unclose;
And buttercups their vases fill
With beams of purest gold,
We loved them as a child, and still
They gladden as of old.
And in the fields, on every side
Where the ferns and grasses grow,
Gay painted cups all scarlet dyed,
With the tender violets blow,
Blue violets bathed in morning dew,
The fairest flowers of spring!
That thrill the inmost being through
With the fresh glad thoughts they bring.

From crowded homes, in narrow courts,
With their faces pale and lorn,

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The little children wander forth
On the clear still Sabbath morn;
O'er field and marsh, in forest bowers,
Their tireless footsteps stray,
To gather pure thoughts with the flowers,
They bear with them away.
And poor tired wanderers that come
From lands beyond the sea,
Leave want and care, once more to roam
Where winds go wandering free.
And like friend's faces, that their eyes
Had thought to see no more,
Are flowers they loved 'neath dearer skies
Seen on a foreign shore.
O, not alone to gladden those
Who move on a thornless way,
God sends each little flower that blows,
To bask in the morning ray!
But He gives to all, as the light and dew
Which bless this earth of ours,
As His love is spread the wide earth through
So live and bloom the flowers.

Castillya Coccinea.

CONSTANCY.

The Heliotrope said to the sun,
“I love but thee,
And evermore I turn my face
Where thou mayst be.”
The sun sent down a mellow beam,
Without a care

118

Whether it fell on stream or flower,
Or earth so bare.
And the sun said, “I shine serene
On every one;
I love the earth, and all therein
Love me, the sun.”
The Heliotrope bent down its head,
“Ah, woe is me!
I care not for the earth,” it said;
“I love but thee.”

THE LEGEND OF PRINCESS TIRANA.

120

[“We are free, we are free]

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“We are free, we are free;
We are waves of the sea,
And we love liberty!
Day after day, day after day
We wear the rocks away;
The rocks which wall the caves,
Where toil the wretched slaves.
Strike hard, O slaves, and be,
Like us, forever free!”

121

[“We are slaves, we are slaves]

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“We are slaves, we are slaves,
Poor toiling slaves are we;
Toiling forever in the caves,
Listening forever to the waves,
That sing forever, ‘We are free.’”

122

MONA'S SONG.

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“In a castle by the sea,
Lives a lady of high degree;
She hath silver, she hath gold,

123

And a heart as hard and cold.
Prince Liber, Prince Liber
Will come o'er the sea!
“In her glittering marble halls,
There the silvery fountain falls;
In her dark and loathsome mines,
There no sunlight ever shines.
Prince Liber, Prince Liber
Will come o'er the sea.”

132

[“Oh, the good Prince Liber]

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“Oh, the good Prince Liber
Will come o'er the sea.
In the great white ship he sails o'er the waves,
He hears the sad cry of the toiling slaves;
He will set the bondman free,
He will give us liberty!”

138

RUTH.

A Ballad of '36.

“Thee must turn the cows out, Benny, for I heard father say,
They were to go into the meadow, before he went away,
And let old Doll go with them, she'll have a day of rest;
For I cannot go to meeting, I know't would not be best.

O Benny, I'm so troubled, I could not sleep last night,
For thinking of that woman; I'm afraid it is'nt right
To keep her here much longer, since father's so well known
As being an Abolitionist, Oh, I wish he were at home!

I think I would feel better, if thee'd take the time to go
To Avondale, to see friend Brown; for he would surely know,
If there is any danger; and do not forget to say
That father went with mother to Quarterly yesterday,”

139

She stood within the door-way; and watched her brother ride,
Where the road wound through the valley, with the little stream beside,
Among the new leafed maples, the robins gaily flew,
And the air was sweet with violets, that round the door-step grew.

She looked upon the valley, and the sloping hills of green;
And thought a place more lovely, was rarely to be seen.
It was a goodly heritage, but alas! that there should be
The blighting stain upon it, of human slavery!

While yet she gazed, a horseman rode swiftly down the hill,
And up the lane he hurried; her very heart stood still.
He waved his hand in greeting, and as he nearer drew;
She saw 'twas neighbor Jackson, a friend right brave and true.

“Ho, Ruth!” he cried, as quickly she hastened to the gate,
“The woman's master's coming, and I have no time to wait.
Our house they now are searching, and I away must ride;
To call the neighbors round me, and rouse the country side.”

140

“What shall I do?” she murmured, in a low and frightened tone,
“If they should come and find her, for I'm here all alone?”
“Do what thee can, fear nothing, they'll harm thee not, I know;
And we will save the woman, so onward I must go.”

There came an inspiration, as she saw him ride away,
For she heard a low voice saying: Thy people meet to-day!
Then up the garret stairway, with lightning speed she flew,
And from her place of hiding the frightened woman drew.

Right quickly she arrayed her, in her mother's shawl and gown;
And in the plain drab bonnet, she hid the face so brown,
Her thick green veil was doubled, to shield her from the sun,
“Now thee will pass for mother,” she said, when all was done.

Then out into the meadow, with eager steps she sped,
And patient quiet Dolly, by her hand was homeward led;
And deftly moved her fingers to buckle trace and band,
While anxious eyes were gazing, far over all the land.

141

O, the maiden's heart was beating, as through the valley wide,
She drove out in the wagon, with the woman at her side;
She knew that she was bearding the lion in his den,
For sweeping down the valley, came the master and his men!

She felt the woman tremble, and her pale cheeks paler grew,
And quickened were her heart throbs, as the horsemen nearer drew,
Then close, beside the wagon, they stayed the bridle rein;
And looked within right boldly, and found their quest in vain!

One cried, as on they hurried, “O the Quakers meet to pray,
But this maid and her mother, will be there late to-day.”
Ah, little dreamed the master, as he spurred his weary steed,
How near he had been to grasping—the object of his greed.

Right onward pressed the maiden, to neighbor Jackson's door,
And gave the poor slave trembling, to their friendly care once more.
And great was her rejoicing; as she took her homeward way,
That she had foiled the hunters, and snatched from them their prey.

An incident related in the life of Dr. Ann Preston.

142

SUMMER RAIN.

The rain, the joyous summer rain
Has come to us again,
To bless the hot and thirsty earth;
And glad the hearts of men.
We watched with yearning eyes the clouds,
That flitted o'er the sky,
They bore their showers, to other flowers;
And passed our loved one's by.
We saw the dark green fields of maize
Droop like some army brave,
When the fever burns in every vein;
And there is none to save.
But now the blessed, cooling rain
Will lift each drooping crest,
And banners bright shall wave to-night;
'Till the winds have gone to rest.
By a little grave—we placed last May,
The fairest flowers that grows—
There soft rains fell, and sunbeams came,
And we knew they loved our rose.
But the summer heat no pity hath,
It comes with withering power;
And dooms to death, with its fiery breath,
Alike the weed and flower.
It passed athwart the little mound;
And the grass lay withered there,
The rose-tree drooped, so drooped the lost,

143

Who was so young and fair.
O blessings on thee summer rain!
Sweet rose, thou wilt not die!
But live and bloom on that loved tomb;
And glad each passer-by.

THE EXODUS.

Over the prairies at midnight,
A black and dreary waste,
There fled a lonely mother
With wild and fearful haste.

A poor heart-broken mother,
Close to her heaving breast;
With eager death-like clasping,
A trembling babe she prest.

The prairie fire before her,
Loomed up with lurid glare,
Yet still her course was onward;
As life and hope were there.

And ever as she hastened
Upon her fearful way,
She prayed the silent hours;
To bring not back the day.

“O pitying God of heaven!”
She cried in tones so wild,
“Thou who did'st look on Hagar,
Take pity on my child.”

144

The hunters were behind her,
She heard the hound's deep bay;
And angry flames before her,
Seemed beckoning to their prey.

“O cease.” she said, “thy wailing,
Fear not the scorching flame,
Through it my arms shall bear thee,
From bitter woe and shame.

“They say a foaming river
Flows fast by Freedom's shore,
And there the cruel master;
Shall seek my child no more.

“On, through the fiery furnace,
Yet this dear Lord, may be,
But snow-flakes falling on us;
If we but trust in Thee.”

Then lo! the fierce flames parted,
Like waves on either side;
Beyond she sees the waters,
Of a river swift and wide.

She hears the hounds loud baying,
She hears the hunter's cry;
She sees the fiery pillar,
She feels that help is nigh.

With one wild cry she bounded
Thro' the parted, flaming sea,
O'er burning coals she hastened
On—on to Liberty!

They reached the foaming river,
So swift, and dark and wide;
And angels waiting bore them,
Safe on the other side.

1857.

145

THE ROBIN.

As I sit by my window, and hear the winds blow,
Which whiten the maples, and dimple the stream;
While I gaze on the sky, and the green earth below,
And weave with sweet Fancy, full many a dream.

'Tis the song of the robin, that breaketh the spell,
Which comes 'neath the maple tree day after day;
I have heard it so oft, that I know it right well,
For the heart in its music, comes gushing alway.

Far up in the maple in her bower of green,
Safely nestled away from the wind and the rain,
There sitteth in patience, our robin's dear queen;
And bends her to list to his love-burdened strain.

Sing on little bird, as I hear thy sweet song,
I dream what a beautiful world this might be;
Could we banish afar, all oppression and wrong,
And sing as thou singest to thy mate in the tree.

THE TIME SERVER.

Room for the world's beloved, the man of time!
They swell his glorious train,
They twine a wreath to-day;
And weave the song and lay,
And deem his never-dying name,
As the proud sun shall shine, thro' all the years sublime!

146

Room for the hero, who has bent his knee
Too lowly for his manhood's pride;
And in a dark dark hour,
Eager for fame and power,
God and his truth belied,
And bowed all slavishly to wrong's dread tyranny.

Room for the traitor, on whose burning brow
Is set the mark of Cain.
Wo! for the toiling slaves,
Wo! for the martyrs' graves,
Wo! for the years of ceaseless pain.
To which his perjured vow hath doomed earth's millions now!

Is this thy triumph hour? There was a time,
When fainting hearts looked up to thee;
And hung upon thy words,
Sweet as the songs of birds,
Yet ever strong and grand as the sea,
Which wafts thy truths sublime to every race and clime.

O, 'twas a glorious day—the tyrant, on his throne
Trembled to hear his doom,
And one more blessed ray
Dawned on God's poor that day,
As through the gathering gloom;
A faint hope dimly shone, that God had heard his moan.

147

Alas! he was but clay, and yet we mourn that he
Hath fallen on the way,
And gird us for the fight,
Of holy truth and right;
God is our hope and stay!
Press on—our cause shall be crowned with His victory.

BERTHA'S DREAM; OR, THE FLOWER CHAIN.

149

[“Follow, oh, follow the Cactus leaves]

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“Follow, oh, follow the Cactus leaves
To the summer-land, where no one grieves.”

[“Dark without, but light within]

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“Dark without, but light within;
Enter, maiden, free from sin.”

150

[“They must love truth, and have no fear]

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“They must love truth, and have no fear;
None else can find an entrance here.”

[“They must be pure as crystal clear]

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“They must be pure as crystal clear,
They must love truth, and have no fear,
Or seek in vain to enter here.”

153

MISS MOPPET'S VISIT.

Little Miss Moppet,
One evening last May,
Came into my parlor
So airy and gay.

Her hair flew like wild fire
All over her head,
Her cheeks like peonies
Were redder than red.

Her skin fresh and ruddy,
Well kissed by the sun;
Her eyes round as pennies,
Were sparkling with fun.

Her lips were twin cherries,
Her breath new-mown hay;
She came into my parlor,
Like the breezes of May.

Her dress neat and comely,
Clasped loosely her form;
It was meet for the sunshine,
Or meet for the storm.

She dropp'd me a courtesy,
Such manners had she,
I knew she had traveled
From over the sea.

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“Good evening, Miss Moppet,
I am glad you are here,
I've been longing to see you
This many a year.”

“I'm hunting some children
To play with,” said she;
“I have gone the land over,
And where can they be?

There are plenty of misses,
All trimmed off so gay,
With flounces and sashes,
But they cannot play;

They sit like their dollies,
As fine and as prim;
And to tumble their dresses,
Would be a great sin.

I have gone the land over,
And hunted all round;
And find that real children,
Can scarcely be found.

They turn up their noses,
They laugh at my hair;
And say, ‘I'm no lady,’
For I've nothing to wear.

So I've just called to see you,
For England I'm bound;
For there little children
By the dozens are found.

155

And I wish you would tell them,
All the children for me;
That little Miss Moppet,
Has gone over the sea.”

And dropping a courtesy,
Quite down to the floor;
The queer little stranger,
Passed out of the door.

THE PLANTING OF THE TREES.

'Twas late last summer, when a whirl-wind came,
And laid “our Willow” prostrate in the dust.
This spring, when first the willow buds had burst;
And over all the land, the Maples were a-flame,
Two stripling Maples from the woods were brought,
Slender and tall, few buds on them were seen,
Such trees were meet for “Jack's” most famous bean,
For scarce were limbs where one might hang a thought.
Upon the ragged sward the church beside;
Two shallow holes the workmen duly made,
And closely packed within the roots were laid,
The sods placed on, and all seemed satisfied.
Not all, last night soft fell the April rain,
The Gothic windows of the church looked out,
Thro' streaming tears, and clouds of hopeless doubt;

156

And a faint voice stole through each diamond pane;
“Are these the trees,” it said, “such poles as these?
To stand where stood so long, my loved, lost tree?
How gracefully it waved, and sang to me,
When howled rude winds, or sighed the summer breeze.”
A little singing bird all cold and wet,
Sat perched upon the limb of one poor tree,
And lifting up its wings sang joyfully;
“Now spring has come, the winter we'll forget.
Wait thou, Oh, moaning pane! let summer's sun
Shine thrice upon these trees, so leafless now;
We'll come and build our nest within the bough,
And sing our sweetest song when all is done.”
The bird was still, and hushed the moaning pane,
The struggling grass sprang up, and thought of spring;
The bird went on his way with lighter wing,
The trees looked up, and blessed the April rain.

LIGHT FOR THE STRAYING.

“Every night,” said Mr. Peggotty, as re'glar as the night comes, the candle must be stood in its old pane of glass, that if ever she should see it, it may seem to say, “Come back, my child, come back!” —David Copperfield.

Yes I must go, since she has gone,
Who was our hope and pride;
She brought the sunshine to our home,
Who's turned it all aside;

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Yet now, though outcast she may be,
She's still our darling Emily.

“Our home! she used to love the place,
Though it is rude and poor;
And oft it welcomed her sweet face,
When coming o'er the moor.
Poor child! perhaps in princely bowers,
She sighs for hearts as warm as ours.

And soon he'll weary, he who strove,
To lure her from an old man's hearth;
And lone, heart-broken she will rove,
A wretched outcast o'er the earth.
Ah! let me go—I cannot rest,
Till her dear head lies on my breast.

Yet stay! should she return, poor child,
A weary dove to sheltering ark,
When o'er the moor she wanders wild;
She must not find the cabin dark.
O place each night within the pane
A light, for fear she'll come again.

Ah! may it draw her back once more,
And lead her from the path of sin;
And should she come heart-sick and sore,
O chide her not, but take her in;
You loved her, and I know you'll be,
Gentle and kind to Emily.”

O warm true heart! if such as thou
Wert moving on this earth of ours,
How bright would glow life's darken'd bough,

158

With rainbow gleams 'mid beauteous flowers;
Where withered leaf and branches bare,
Hang mournfull in the chilly air.

O place the light in darkened pane,
And let its kindly ray
Allure from wind, and storm and rain,
All wanderers gone astray;
Weary and faint, without a home,
They rove the dreary moors alone.

More lights in alleys dark and damp,
Where all is wintry, cold and chill,
O place within a friendly lamp;
To guide the outcast o'er the sill,
And lure her from the paths of sin,
To pitying hearts that beat within.

OVER THE WAY.

The house is closed that used to ring,
With voices glad and boyish mirth;
And she who was the moving spring
Of all,—has vanished from the earth.

I miss the pleasant cheery smile,
That greeted me across the way;
The voice so frank, and free from guile,
Which meant all that she had to say.

I miss the light that used to shine,
So late and long, so long and late;
I knew, while sweetest sleep was mine,
That she could only watch and wait.

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O brave true heart! a welcome guest
Death came to thee, no fear was thine;
For it was life, and peace and rest,
And the infolding Love Divine!

MORNING GLORIES.

Flowers of the dawn! I love you,
Ye are frail as the drops of dew,
That the sun looks through and through;
And changes to golden wine,

Halos of the morn! they are thine,
There're flowers that flaunt their bloom,
Through the burning hours of noon;
These are sacred to morning prime.

Ere the rose-flush tinges the east,
Ere the little wren stirs in her nest;
When the world is a world at rest,
The glories are floating in air!

Who has called thee, flower so fair?
What voice has whispered to thee,
'Tis time for the morning to be;
Now weave her a garland rare?”

Whence came thy wondrous hues?
Thy purples with king's may vie,
Yet folded thy spirals lie;
And shrink from day's fervid beams.

Ye are sweeter than morning dreams,
Frail beautiful flowers to me!
All veiled in sweet mystery,
And lighted with rainbow gleams.

160

LAMENT OF THE FUGITIVE SLAVE.

I've wandered out beneath the moonlit heaven,
Lost mother! loved and dear,
To every star, a magic power seems given,
To bring thy spirit near:
For though the breeze of freedom fans my brow,
My soul still turns to thee, oh, where art thou?

Where art thou, mother? I am weary thinking;
A heritage of toil and woe
Was thine—beneath it art thou slowly sinking,
Or hast thou perished long ago?
And doth thy spirit 'mid the quivering leaves above me,
Hover dear mother near to guard and love me?

I murmur at my lot: in the white man's dwelling,
The mother there is found;
Or he may tell where spring buds first are swelling,
Above her lowly mound.
But thou! lost, mother, every trace of thee,
In the vast sepulchre of slavery!

Long years have passed, since sad, faint-hearted,
I stood on freedom's shore;
And knew dear mother, from thee I was parted,
To meet thee nevermore.
And deemed the tyrant's chain with thee, were better,
Than stranger hearts, and limbs without a fetter.

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Yet blessings on thy Roman mother's spirit,
Could I forget it then—
The parting scene! and struggle not to inherit,
A free-man's birthright once again?
O noble words! O holy love which gave
Thee strength to utter them, a poor heart-broken slave.

Be with me mother, be thy spirit near me
Wherever thou may'st be,
In hours like this bend near, that I may hear thee,
And know that thou art free.
Summoned at length from bondage, toil and pain,
To God's free world—a world without a chain!

My child we must soon part, to meet no more on this side the grave. You have ever said, that you would not die a slave, that you would be a free man, now try and get your liberty.— Wm. Brown's Narrative.

AN OCTOBER LULLABY.

Sleep, little one, sleep,
Night's curtain is down,
And the great sun has gone to his rest;
The katy-dids sing their merry go round,
And the little bird chirps in his nest;
But the cricket sings, “Sleep, sleep!”

Sleep, little one, sleep,
No danger is nigh;
'Tis the tree-frog that sings in the leaves,
And the katy-dids' shrill ring out a reply;
But softly and low as one who grieves,
The cricket sings, “Sleep, sleep!”

176

SUMMER TREES.

To A. M. W.

O summer trees, in leafy greenness glowing,
'Neath golden rays,
You fill my soul with beauty to o'er-flowing,
These summer days;
O let me bee-like 'mong your leaves and flowers,
Gather all sweetness for the Winter hours.

Ye revel in life's bliss or woe unfearing,
And joy to greet
The breeze's kiss, or the wild storm's careering,
Since both are meet.
O! let me wander in your cloistered bowers,
And nerve my soul to meet the Winter hours.

Beautiful trees, that lift your boughs supremely
In golden air;
Would I might rise as ye, and smile serenely,
On earthly care;
And welcome chilling storms as Summer showers,
And make a May-time of the Winter hours.

O shed your dews upon me, cool the fever,
Of my sad heart!
I'm weary of unrest, the gloom will never
From life depart—
And the clouds gather, the fierce storm lowers,
Which usher in the long, drear Winter hours.

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Through the still forest paths I wander lonely,
And ye are there;
Ye lift my soul up, till it sees you only,
And breathes a prayer,
That the calm peace, it finds in these loved bowers;
May give it strength to meet the Winter hours.

THE BELATED BEE.

'Twas in the early morning
Before the sun was up;
The humble bee was sleeping
In the lily's pearly cup.
He dreamed of morning glories,
With all their color spread,
Red, white and blue they floated
Above his sleepy head.
And ever seemed they calling:
“O rouse thee, laggard bee,
The morning hours are waning;
And we wait in vain for thee,”
A sunbeam kissed the lily,
And made her still more fair;
The bee awoke, and buzzing
Flew out to take the air.
The sun shone on the trellis,
Where waved the flowers of morn;
But folded were their banners,
And all their glories shorn.
O like some warrior mighty,

178

Clad in his bright array;
The humble bee came flying,
Right eager for the fray;
And like a morning glory
With all her colors torn,
The bee went home, a sadder
And wiser bee that morn.

THE FLOWER SPIRIT.

Spring has come—the birds are trilling
Joyous notes of glee;
Flowers are springing in the woodland,
Leaf-buds on the tree.

Birds are singing hymns of praises,
Flowers too look up;
Deem ye not a smile of gladness
Wreathes each tiny cup?

Deem ye not a subtle perfume
Lieth in each cell,
Which ascendeth, though to mortal
Made invisible!

I have bent o'er violet lowly,
Gazed on each blue line
Full of thought, till it seemed holy,
Something half divine.

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Hue of Heaven! it seemed telling,
Of some purer clime,
Where the spirit of the flower,
Should be known by mine.

Smile not, call me not a dreamer,
Think ye in that sphere
We shall lose the things of beauty;
We have long loved here?

Wherefore should we love them ever,
Until life is o'er?
Why waste on them thought and feeling,
If they're ours no more?

Love the flowers, gentle flowers!
Strive like them to grow,
Pure and simple, meek and lowly;
While ye dwell below.

And when pressing, upward pressing
To the sun-lit shore,
Sweet will be the flowers' perfume;
Flowers that fade no more!

THE BLIGHTED HARVEST.

A blight came o'er, a blight came o'er
My harvest field so fair and wide;
The blackened grain was cast aside,
The plough share hid forever more,
Each vestige of my joy and pride.

180

It was the staff on which I leaned,
I watched its growth day after day;
What golden dreams around it lay!
How green, and fair, and strong it seemed!
Now from the earth 'twas swept away.

Yet over all, yet over all,
The bitter grief which tortured me,
A soft voice said consolingly;
“God careth for the sparrow's fall,
Will he not love and care for thee?”

The gentle voice I heeded not;
My eyes were filled with unshed tears,
I thought of those poor blighted ears
Earth seemed a poor and barren spot,
And blighted too were all my years.

October's sun, October's sun
Shed golden radiance on the land;
My glowing cheek, the breezes fann'd
I, who had stood faint hearted one,
And seen my ship wrecked on the strand.

I stood among the waving corn,
Which grew upon the blighted field;
O God, how glorious was the yield!
For me, who laughed poor Hope to scorn,
And saw my doom forever sealed.

Forever green, forever green
The memory of that field shall be;
My heart is strong, and brave and free;
I have a Staff whereon I lean,
A Staff which never faileth me.

191

LAMENT OF TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE,

In the Dungeon of Besancon.

The light of morn has come, once more
It pierceth thro' the dungeon's gloom,
And resteth on the cold damp floor;
O blessed light! tho' in a living tomb
I hail thee! tho' thou bringest to me,
Another day of woe and misery;
Tho' Hope, angelic Hope, no more,
May shake from off her drooping wings,
The dew-drops of the night and soar
To meet thee: fount! from whence all springs,
Of bright and beautiful in this world of ours;—

192

The waving trees, the mellow fruits, the flowers,
And more, far more of glorious things than these;
But what are they all now to me?
My own bright isle! my home beyond the seas!
All, all have fled, and left me only thee,
Thou blessed Light! would I could once more feel;
The warm free breezes o'er my senses steal;
Methinks 'twould melt, ay, melt away
The icy weight, which day by day,
Has rested on my spirit, till the gloom
And dampness of the dungeon, like a tomb
Seem closing round me. Oh! the agony,
The restless longing, craving to be free:
Free as the mountain peaks, which rise
Upward, still upward to the clear cold skies;
Free and unfettered, as the Southern breeze,
Which wafts strange music thro' the orange trees
Of my own bright land! Oh! but to tread once more,
To feel upon my own loved mountains,
To see the soft blue heavens bending o'er
Me, and the silvery fountains
Gushing and sparkling at my feet.
Oh! but again to greet
Their cooling freshness, and to lave
My fever'd brain in the bright wave.
To feel that they once more were near,
They, the beloved; where are they now?
Wife of my bosom! and ye children dear!
Alas! I feel upon my burning brow
The last fond kiss—that it should be the last;—
Like shipwreck'd mariners, to a quivering mast,

193

To me you clung, hopeless in your despair;
I see you now, all pale and tearful there,
Breathing the last adieu; it cannot be;
'Twas not the last, I will be free!

Vain hopes, vain dreams, while thou,
The sceptre of the world hath grasp'd;
Nations and kings before thee bow'd,—
Yielding all memories of the past
At thy dread summons, ay! 'twere well to lave,
Blest Freedom's memory in oblivion's wave,
Since they are slaves, kissing thy sovereign feet;
Alas! I too have trusted thee, and in my power
Deemed that as brothers we might meet;
Would that a voice had warned me of this hour:
Yet if the victor's car triumphant be,
What were a world of breaking hearts to thee?
A breaking heart! O! God of heaven!
Thou, thou! alone hast power to see,
How my whole being, heart and soul, have striven
For thy free gift, our birth right, Liberty!
Was it all vain? lives there no trace
Of hallow'd Freedom in all Afric's race?
Bows he beneath his chain, as servile now,
As tho' the mountain breeze ne'er swept his brow,
A free-man? Thus may it be and yet,
Not alll in vain this struggling to be free:
Tho' age on age may roll, and he forget
While groaning 'neath the lash of Tyranny,
Where now he toils—a purple tide
Told where his fathers fought and died.
And yet not all in vain, Father of light,

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The sacred flame of Freedom, shall not be
Quenched in the gloom of slavery's night,
Its power and glory sprang from Thee!
It shall not die, life may depart,
The sod lie on this breaking heart;
Yet as the weary soul shall then arise,
To the pure light of heaven-born skies,
So shall there be on earth, a jubilee
Of nations,—Afric's sons shall yet be free.

A FARM IDYL

I. PART I.

The sun was going down, as I drove the cattle home;
They loitered by the brook, which was covered o'er with foam;
The heavy rains which fell, and blackened all the grain,
Had swollen wide the stream, and left it with a stain.
I had a heavy heart, my thoughts were far astray:
I saw the work of months quite ruined in a day.
I had hoped for Jenny's love, if all went well with me—
Sweet Jenny was not meant a poor man's wife to be:
Those dainty, slender hands were never meant for toil;
I'd work my finger-ends off, to keep her's free from soil.
Yet one thing I would know, that her love was all my own;
No Percy White should come, with his soft beguiling tone.

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His lands are rich and broad; but is his heart right true?
Let Jenny trust him once, that trust she'll dearly rue

The night was coming on, as I left the brook behind;
I forgot 'twas milking time—I was troubled in my mind:
The chores were all to do; it was dark up in the mows,
And the hay was all to pitch, and who would milk the cows?
“Our Lucy has gone home—she sadly needs a rest.
Of all the girls I've had, our Lucy is the best.”
'Twas thus my mother spoke, and ended with a smile,—
“You can do the milking, John, just for a little while.”
Now in the barn-door old, stood a dainty maiden fair,
With eyes of blue, so brave and true, and smoothly parted hair.
“Why Lucy, is that you?” I cried; “how came it you are here?
'Tis strange, where e'er your wanted, there you're sure to be.
I'm so belated, you're the one whom most I longed to see.”
“I could not 'bide at home,” she said, and raised her eyes of blue,
And met my own so steadily, “there was so much to do.”
With that she knelt at Bess's side, and sang a simple song,

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That seemed to chime in with the streams, which tinkled fast and long.

I hung my head with shame, while I grieved o'er what might be,
And lingered by the way, my work was done for me;
The stables littered o'er, the hay piled on the floor.
Strange, how much a hand can do which is so very small!
I could cover with my own, the finger-tips and all.
But she works with heart and hand, and has a willing mind;
Such women in this world are very hard to find.

And now the chores were done, yet there was no rest for me;
My thoughts went to my love, as the streams run to the sea.
Like a rose to me she seemed—a rose of deepest red—
Her bloom and fragrance rare on all she loved to shed.
I knew it was no sin, and I could only mourn,
That whoso plucks the rose, must always take the thorn.
I could not rest at home, 'twas torture to be still,
So I took the meadow path, and wandered to the mill.
While I stood upon the bridge, and watched the wheel go round,
Percy White came down the hill, and passed me with a bound,
On his swift and matchless horse—his hair loose in the wind;
He rode like one who leaves all earthly cares behind.

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“So rides the man that's loved, as you may not hope to be.”
A something whispered thus, and inly tortured me.
“So rides the winning man, rich in the world's esteem:
He goes to meet your love, and you idly stand and dream.
Be brave, and follow him! to break with Truth dry bread,
Is better than the feast that is by Falsehood spread.”
A something urged me on,—I followed where it led—
When I went home that night, my hopes and dreams were dead.

II. PART II.

The days were growing short, the nights were long and cool;
The fields were white with frost, the ice was in the pool;
The corn was cut and shocked, and the husking all to do.
I felt too poor to hire, but I had one staunch and true.
When her morning work was done—let skies be foul or fair—
Our Lucy came with helping hand, and saved me from despair.
I had no heart to work, the world looked dark to me;
My days were full of care, my nights of misery;

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I longed for leave to go a thousand miles away;
But my mother, weak and frail, entreated me to stay;
“Her days might not be long,” she said, “and she had only one,
And a mother's heart-strings twine so closely round a son.”
So I stayed on—to hear the gossips, far and wide,
Speak their praises of the groom, and their praises of the bride.
Such a wedding ne'er was known in all the country round;
“And so fair a bride and groom were rarely to be found.
Ah! Percy White deserves the prize, so frank and brave is he!
And Jenny is well mated, as 'tis meet that she should be.”
I heard them all, and husked my corn, and left the shocks behind,
And longed sometimes to scatter them, like husks upon the wind.

When the hard day's work was o'er, and I sat glum and still,
And looked into the fire, and thought, “Life was a bitter pill;
What was the use of living on, so harassed day by day?
I would that I were wandering a thousand miles away.”
My mother knit beside me there, her face was sad and pale;

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She always had an anxious look, and she had grown so frail,
The shadows dancing on the walls could scarce more ghostly seem.
But I was blind and deaf to all, wrapped in a selfish dream.
Only Lucy, going back and forth, stopped now and then to say
Some little word of comfort, in a homely, quiet way.
She always sang about her work; her voice was sweet to me—
The songs of birds, the water's gush in her singing seemed to be.
I thought of all the plants that bloom the busy summer through:
The Heart's Ease was the most like her, so bright and cheery too.
It little minds the frost or snow, it cares not for the cold;
It is so full of sunshine, it thaws the frost-bound mould.
While I was thinking thus, and gazing in the fire,
A stern voice said to me, “Why sit you in the mire?
Be up and doing, man! the black ooze closes round!
Many are they who sink—few find the solid ground.
And not alone you go; your mother's heart you break;
She loves her son so well, she'd perish for his sake.
And there is one beside—she works and sings all day,
But through the long, long night she can only weep and pray.
You think your wound is deep; you cry aloud with pain;

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She covers close her hurt—would die and not complain.
'Tis strange how blind you are; with healing balm love waits.
You feel 'tis heaven within, yet stand without the gates.
Forget the false, false love! go forth to meet the true!
The roses are all dead, but the Heart's Ease blooms for you.”
I listened to the voice, as I watched the rising flame;
'Tis true 'twas harsh and stern, yet it greatly eased my pain;
And when the winter passed, and the spring came glad and gay,
I had won a love so true—the false love crept away.

MARY.

Only one year ago, she came
A sunbeam to our home; we named
Her Mary; and blest, thrice blest were we.

She saw the winter snows and smiled;
Around our hearth, her voice beguiled
All sorrow from the earth.

She was our singing-bird,—she sang
Of joy alone; her laughter rang
Like joy-bells through our home.

Soft grew the airs of spring, her eyes
Looked on the glory of the skies,
And sweeter grew her smile.

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Out in the sun, 'mid flowers rare
She sat—the loveliest flower there—
And clasped them in her hands.

Joy filled her heart and eyes; she sung
Their glories in an unknown tongue,
Sweet as the song-birds sing.

June came with roses, rare and sweet,
The days passed on with flying feet,
And like a rose she grew.

She filled our home with sweet perfume,
There seemed a rose in every room,
A rose which could not die.

O August! month of clouds and rain;
O bitter month of care and pain!
Our Mary went with thee!

Only a year! the sunbeam came;
We called her by her soft sweet name;
Now all the light has gone!

We sit alone, we wait and wait,
We feel that we are desolate;
She comes to us no more.

Yet, somewhere in the heavens afar,
Our Mary is a guiding star,
Whose light may lead us home.

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EDITH AND ELSIE.

Edith and Elsie were two little maids,
Edith, the elder, was sober and staid,
Elsie was gay, full of laughter and glee,
And both were as loving as sisters should be.
Brown eyes had Edith; o'er forehead so fair,
Parted and smooth lay her soft chestnut hair;
Round was her cheek, and gentle her mouth,
Sweet was her breath as the wind from the South.
Elsie had gray eyes, limpid and clear,
Into your own they looked without fear,
Sunbeams were caught in her locks of pure gold,
But half of her sweetness can never be told.
To see these two maids was a beautiful sight,
As they read the same book in the soft morning light,
Drawn closely together, and lovingly bound
By dimpled arms holding each other around.
Then to list to their singing, when sweetly and clear
It rose on the air as night's shadows drew near,
While we sat 'round the fire, and thought of the land
Where the angels all sing in a glorious band!
Oh, long, little maidens, bright, loving and fair,
May you gladden our eyes with your beauty so rare,
Gentle tones, pleasant smiles, ever changing and new,
And your love for each other, so tender and true.

203

THE DEATH OF THE “LA PACTOLE.”

“Blue bells, mournfully and low
Toll a sound of deepest woe!
Droop, O roses, on your stems,
In your cups your leaflets fold,
For lowly lying, never again
May lift her head, the La Pactole!
The La Pactole, Queen of the roses,
Low in her dark green shroud reposes.”

Thus sadly wailed the frail sweet Pea,
And bowed her form, all tremblingly,
To the slightest breath of the evening breeze,
That scarcely stirred the aspen leaves.

The pinks were spinsters, every one;
Single they grew in the air and sun;
Idle gossips, too, were they—
List now, you may hear them say:
“The breeze of the garden; could it be
That she believed his tale of love,
When every rose, to her misery,
His fickleness and falsehood proved?
The Tea-Rose told her long ago,
When first her buds should droop and die,
The breeze to a fresher flower would go,
And pass her then unheeding by.”

A wail in the garden, a wail of the flowers,
A requiem sounding through her loved bowers,
For “La Pactole,” queen of the roses,
Low in her dark green shroud reposes.

204

THE OWL.

The winter winds are blowing,
The trees are stripped and bare;
The ice is on the river,
And the snow is everywhere.

Upon the belfry tower,
The moon is shining bright,
And over field and wood-land
It sheds a softened light.

I see a grey owl sitting
Upon a snow-clad stone,
And wonder why it lingers
Out in the cold alone.

I know up in the belfry,
It hides all thro' the day,
It shuns the glare of noon-tide;
And sleeps the hours away.

But when the fowls are gathered,
And the sheep are in the fold;
The grey owl sits and shivers,
Out in the bitter cold.

And blinking at the moon-beams,
Wishes they were less bright;
While it gives its doleful hooting,
To all the winds of night.

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I would not be a night-bird,
That sleeps the morn away,
I love too well the sunshine,
The broad, full light of day.

I want to gather knowledge
From all the things I see,
To keep my eyes wide open
So an owl I would not be.

HORTENSE.

A Story of the Past.

'Twas in the far south land that Hortense lived,
Where it is summer all the happy year.
Beside the cottage door the roses bloomed,
And every sunny morn the little maid
Gathered rare flowers in the garden wild;
And often with her mother she would walk,
Under the shade of fragrant orange trees,
And watch the fruit which ripened in the sun,
While to and fro like bells of gold, they swung
To every breeze that rustled thro' the boughs;
And when her mother left her there alone,
She would not play as other children do
With dolls and toys, but gather'd leaves and flowers,
And the gay feathers of the forest birds,
And “played” they were people, to whom she gave
The names of valiant knights and ladies fair,
Like those she read of in her story books;
And Hortense never thought the day too long,

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While dreaming of the battles and hard toils
Her knights must meet in going thro' the world.
A little story that her mother read
One summer eve, seemed prettier far to her,
Than any tale, she e'er had heard before;
It was Undine's story, sweet and strange,
A wild rose blooming in a haunted wood.
But to this dreaming girl, Undine seemed
A beautiful spirit, who still lived beneath
The sparkling waters of the little brook,
Which flowed so swiftly thro' the forest green.
And often, she would sit for hours and watch
Beside the waters, for a face to rise
Out of their depths, smiling, and cool, and bright,
With long fair tresses floating o'er the waves;
But Hortense watched and waited long in vain,
For sweet Undine with the golden hair.

While this young girl was dreaming by the brook,
Her mother sat and waited by the door
For one she loved—the father of her child,
Who always came just as the sun went down;
And rode a fiery steed, as black as night,
That like a flash went sweeping past the place
Where Hortense watched, low crouching on the grass,
And peeping thro' the leaves. She thought the knights
In those loved “once upon a time” old tales;
Must all have ridden such a fiery steed,
And looked as proud, and brave and princely too,
As the stern man who rode so swiftly past.

And thus the year went by, and Hortense reached

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Her fourteenth summer. Then a shadow came,
And death and sorrow entered her loved home.
Her mother's cheek grew pale, her eyes were dim
With bitter weeping o'er some secret woe.
Her step was feebler, when she walked beneath
The orange boughs; and heavily she leaned,
Like one a-weary on her dear child's arm.
And then at length there came the dreary time,
When she could walk no more; when day by day
Her couch was moved beside the open door,
And there she lay, so pale and still, and looked
With wistful eyes, along the well known path,
For a swift horseman on a tireless steed,
Who always came just as the sun went down.

One day her voice seemed weaker than t'was wont,
And Hortense trembled with a sudden dread,
When mournfully she called her to her side;
And told her she was going far away,
Upon a pleasant journey, and was glad
So soon to go; but oh, it troubled her,
To know her child must wander thro' the world
Without a mother's love. And here she paused
Awhile and wept. Then once again she spoke,
And said there was a secret, which she hoped
In happier times to carry to her grave,
This could not be. 'Twas a sad tale to tell,
But one too often told. She was a slave,
And her child's father was her master's son;
Long years ago she fled with him by night,
Nor rested till they reached this blessed spot,
And there were safe. “Hush! hark!” she cried—

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“I hear a horseman coming up the glen,
But cannot see him for the blinding mist
That comes before my eyes. Look child and see!
He comes, and I shall see him ere I die.”
And nearer, nearer came the peerless steed—
Swift as the wind, he bore his master there.
All pale and fearful sprang he to the ground,
And trembling stood before the cottage door.
“Agnes,” he cried “all that I feared has come;
This place of refuge can be ours no more;
My father's spies are on my track, they come,
And we must go, oh haste you, mount my steed,
And we will reach e'er night a place of rest.”
“I'm going fast,” she said “to that dear place;
There is no master there, save God alone.
Leave me, and take our child, poor child so young,
So sinless and so pure. Haste, haste away
She must not be a slave. O by the love
You bear to me—take this dear one and flee!”
One long, long kiss of love, some tender words,
And all was o'er. Then with his child he sprang
Upon the foaming steed, and swift and fast
They journeyed onward to the North. Suns rose
And set, morning and evening came, and all
Passed by her like a dream, when cold and blue
The Northern skies greeted her weary eyes.
She heard her father's voice, so low and deep—
A sweet sad voice, bereft of hope and joy—
“The winds are chill and bleak for one so frail;
But these are freedom's airs, and they are pure
My child, and thou art safe; no slave breathes here,
Rest! sleep in peace, and dream that thou art free.”

209

MAY 1862.

The Spring has come, the April goes, and nearer draws the May,
The village children violets bring from valleys far away.
I sit alone and think of one, whom I no more may see;
Last May those hands so icy now, were filled with flowers for me.

Take back thy violets Spring! and all the flowers that blow!
Upon our country's battle fields, let Bloodroots only grow;
Or “Painted Cups” with crimson stains, and let the Maple tree,
Shed ruddy drops upon the graves where sleep the brave and free.

Where sleep the brave and free? No stone is at the head,
I know not where he lies, my young, my noble dead!
I must not weep, I must not grieve, bravely he fought and fell;
And other mother's sons were there—he sleeps with them as well.

They say: “So gloriously he died, his name will written be,
With the martyrs, with the heroes, who have died for liberty.”

210

Woe unto me! I am not strong he was the dearest one,
What is glory to the mother, when it takes her only son?

O blow sweet wind of May! blow soft above that unknown grave,
And gently fall ye cooling rains! where prairie grasses wave,
Where the prairie flowers may bloom and the birds flit to and fro;
Where winds may come, and stars may pass, but I may never go.

“MENE, MENE.”

1878.

Thus saith the Lord; “the moaning
Of my People rise to Me,
I hear their lamentations;
From the gulf shores to the sea.

Ye have made their lives a burden
Of shame and grief and pain,
And my angels weep with pity;
O'er the thousands ye have slain.

Woe unto you transgressors,
Of my laws of truth and right;

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With the besom of destruction,
I will sweep you from my sight!

Woe unto you, oppressors
Of the weak; ye shall atone.
By fire, and flood, and famine,
Ye shall reap, as ye have sown!

Your land shall be a desert
Where weeds and thistles grow,
On fields which laughed with plenty;
Woe to the Spoiler! Woe!

God has numbered thy kingdom and finished it.

SONG OF THE ROSE.

I come not when the earth is brown, and gray
The skies—I am no flower of a day;
No crocus I—to bloom and pass away.

No cowslip bright, or hyacinth that clings
Close to the earth from which it springs,
Nor tulip, gay as song-birds wings.

I am the royal rose, and all things fair
Grow fairer for my sake, the earth, the air
Proclaim the coming of the flower most rare.

Green is the earth, and beautiful the sky,
And soft the breeze, that loves to linger nigh;
I am the rose, and who with me shall vie?

The earth is full of gladness, all a-tune
With songs of birds, and now I come, O June!
To crown thee, month of beauty! with my bloom.

212

SEPTEMBER.

I wearied of the August sun—
Its humid air—its skies of gloom;
And when at last its course was run,
I welcomed in a fairer moon.

A dreamy calm is in the skies,
A balmy breath comes on the air,
A mystic silence round me lies;
Which bids me take no thought of care.

The willow branches floating round,
Enclose me in a temple rare;
The golden light comes softly down.
And sheds its glory everywhere.

I watch the branches swaying low—
Which move, yet seem to dream of rest,
My heart beats wearily—with woe
And pain, and care, and doubt opprest.

O willow! wrap me in thy green,
And wreathe around my heart, thy spell
Of quiet rest—to-day I'll dream,
To-morrow I may work as well.

Not always may the spirit strive
With cares without, and doubts within,
Kind Nature seems at times to shrive
The soul from all its grief and sin:

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And like a weary child we rest,
And gaze into the blue above,
Close nestled to our Mother's breast,
O'ershadowed by our Father's love.

1855.

233

DOROTHY GREY.

“Where's Dorothy, mother?” asked bluff Farmer Grey,
As he entered the kitchen, one morning in May,
With despair in his tone and a frown on his brow;
And he growled, “Oh, that girl! what's become of her now?
She was to mend me some bags—two hours ago—
And here I'm waiting on her motions so slow.
'Tis seldom that I with the children find fault;
But sorely she tries me,—she don't earn her salt.”
The mother looked troubled,—“Wait, father; I'll call;”
And, “Dorothy!” sounded through chamber and hall.

234

In a wide roomy garret, weather-beaten and old,
Where the spiders triumphant their banners unroll'd,
And the small narrow window half stinted the ray
Which fell on the form of sweet Dorothy Grey.
She sat—by a chest filled with pieces and rolls—
The odds and the ends dear to housekeepers' souls:
The bags, worn and dusty, around her were tossed,
Unheeded, forgotten,—in dreams she was lost.
One hand propped her forehead, half hid by her hair,
While another held tightly a fairy book rare.
Oh, the wonderful pictures! the glories untold!
That arose on her vision, all glittering with gold!
The brown rafters vanished, and vanished the hoard
Of cast-offs and may-wants her mother had stored—
Carpet rags, saddle-bags, old clothes past repair,
Dried bunches of herbs, all cob-webbed, hung there.
In their place was a ceiling which loomed up so high,
All studded with stars, and as blue as the sky.
Around it hung banners and garlands so gay,
And wax-lights made every thing bright as the day;
While strains of sweet music came soft on the air,
And light feet were dancing right joyously there.
Oh, the beautiful ladies that swept through the rooms,
With dresses like rainbows, and high nodding plumes!
And the princes and lords, all in gallant attire!
How they danced, as the music rose higher and higher!
Then the fair Cinderella tripped smilingly by
With the Prince, so resplendent none with him may vie!
Oh, the exquisite story! how it held her in thrall,
As she poured o'er the scenes of that wonderful ball!
Her red lips half parted with joy and surprise,
While beaming and dancing with joy were her eyes.

235

Hist! a step on the stairway—her dreaming is o'er,
As, “Dorothy!” comes through the half-opened door.
She starts as though guilty, poor child! of a sin;
And down goes the chest-lid, her treasure within.
“Yes, mother, I'm coming;” and smiling she goes
Down the worm-eaten stairs—to be scolded, she knows;
But chide her and scold her, as long as they may,
Still that beautiful vision has Dorothy Grey.

THE SONG OF THE SCULLION.

A Parody.

“Scrape, scrape, scrape!
Hard is my weary lot!
Working from early dawn
Till the shades of night steal on,
Singing the Song of the Pot.”

Thus, in a kitchen lone,
A dark and dismal spot,
Where the sunbeams entered not,
A scullion, in dolorous tone,
Sat singing the Song of the Pot.

“Wash, wash, wash!
Will the washing ever be o'er?
Will the time ever come to me?
What a joyful time 'twill be
When I shall never more
Wash, wash, wash!

236

“Scrape, scrape, scrape!
Oh, the ladies that pass me by
With a curl of the scornful lip!
Why should they leisurely sip
From a golden cup, while I
Scrape, scrape, scrape?

“Scour, scour, scour!
How proudly they rustle past
Robes of silk, raised daintily
Lest they're soiled in touching me.
Happy they! while I, alas!
Scour, scour, scour!

“Stoop, stoop, stoop!
Till my back is weary and weak,
And dizzy and hot my brain;
Who cares for a scullion's pain,
Or her pale and sunken cheek?
Stoop, stoop, stoop!”

Thus, in a kitchen lone,
A dark and dismal spot,
Where the sunbeams entered not,
A scullion, in dolorous tone,
Sat singing the Song of the Pot.

APRIL.

I know a little maiden,
Her name I may not tell,
So April I will call her,
Since it suits her passing well.

237

This fitful little creature
Is only three years old,
Yet she knows more than many
Who twice her age have told.

Oh, laughing eyes has April,
Of shining chestnut brown!
And “sweet low brow” o'ershadow'd
By many a fleeting frown.

Her cheeks are plump and ruddy,
And blithe and gay she trips,
While pleasant words are falling
From her smiling, pouting lips.

If all goes well, she's charming,
No sweeter maid can be;
But cross her mood, and quickly
Her show'ry tears we'll see.

She's crying in the morning,
We hear her still at noon,
And through the dusky twilight
She plays the same old tune.

If it were not for the sunshine
We see between the showers,
I don't know what would happen
To this little maid of ours;

She might pass into a streamlet,
For tears can make a rill:
I wonder how she'd feel then,
A-flowing down the hill?

238

Or she'll turn into a rainbow,
If she does not mend her ways,
And we shall see her only
When the raindrops kiss the rays.

WHAT THE SNOW SAID TO THE EARTH.

Poor Mother Earth! I pity thee,
Thou art no longer fair,
The glory's vanished from the tree,
And all thy fields are bare.
The little birds that sang to thee
Through happy summer days,
In other lands, as gay and free,
They sing their lovely lays.
The flowers that crowned and covered thee
With glory like the sun,
The Frost-King touched them, speedily
They perished, one by one.
The cold North wind sweeps over thee,
And blows his trumpet clear
In every pine; loud singeth he,
“I ride without a peer.”
O Mother Earth! I pity thee;
I strive thy wounds to hide;
Upon thy breast so tenderly
I spread my white wings wide.
From chilling blasts I shelter thee
With my soft wings of love;
I give my all—my life—to be
Exhaled in clouds above.

239

THE WILD ROSE.

They tell me of roses,
Where softly reposes
The light of the summer's day,
Blooming in bowers
Where courtly flowers
All gather in proud array:

Where are tulips and lilies,
And stiff stock gillies;
Oh! stately and grand are they,
As the human flowers
In this world of ours,
Who move on their ice-bound way.

These flowers bloom coldly;
Give me the lowly
Sweet Rose of the wild wood free;
In its grace adorning
The bright May morning,
When the dew is on all the lea.

Then keep ye the roses
Where each leaf uncloses
With smiles, that the world may see;
But give me the flower
Of the wild-wood bower;
Oh! the sweet Wild Rose for me.

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ONE DAY IN JUNE.

We wandered out in summer time,
One cloudless day in June;
When earth and sky, and blooming flowers
Seemed set to some sweet tune.
There were Nell and Kate and Sue and Belle
And little Mary Bray:
And we were young and gay and blithe
As was the summer day.
We wandered thro' the grand old woods;
And gathered ferns and flowers,
And bits of moss and lichens gray,
While swiftly flew the hours.
Wearied at last of rambling far,
We sought the beech trees shade;
And Sue and Belle, a story told
Of a wandering gypsy maid,
Who lived beneath the forest trees
A life so wild and free,
Free as the bird, who flies where'er
It wishes most to be.
The story done, Nell sang a song
Of flowers and humming bees;
And clear and sweet her words rang out,
Among the listening trees.
Then Kate rose up—all pale and shy,
She loved the rhymer's art;
And pitied the oppressed and weak,
With all her loving heart.

247

With voice that trembled, she began
To read a mournful lay,
Of children pent in city courts
Where sun-light lost its way.
Their darkened lives bereft of love,
No gleam of hope within;
The comrades of their tender years,
Were want, and pain, and sin!
So lost to peace and innocence,
And love that children crave;
Their ministering angels fold their wings,
All powerless to save!
She told of angels—earthly ones—
Who filled with love Divine,
And moved by pity, fearlessly
Sought the dark haunts of crime,
And brought the helpless little ones;
From the city's stifling heat,
Out to the free, wide country—
Where the air was pure and sweet.
Where they might see the meadows green,
Where the restless swallows fly;
And the clover thick with honey bees,
Beneath the dark blue sky.
When they might feel that He who made
A world so bright and fair,
Has for His earthly children all
A tender Father's care!
I listened while she spoke and gazed
Upon sweet Mary Bray—
As wrapt in childhood's dreamless sleep,
Within my arms she lay.

248

She was the child of charity,
Poor, friendless and alone;
With all her beauty rare and grace,
None claimed her for their own.
But to one true, one motherly heart,
Was given the power to win—
This little waif, thrown on the tide
From want, and woe, and sin.

The lay was done, and silent we,
The place grew strangely still;
We heard the twittering of a bird,
And the murmur of the rill.
Then something stirr'd my heart, I breath'd
A silent, grateful prayer;
Remembering how my life had been
So blest with tenderest care.

The sun is set in a flood of gold,
And the distant hills were grey;
As laden with the forest spoils,
We took our homeward way,
Across the meadow—by the brook,
And over fields—new mown—
Where serried swarths of fragrant hay,
Upon the ground were strown.
Ah! years have passed since then, and we
Have long been women grown:
And some are wed, and some have lads
And maidens, of their own.
But cherished in our memories still,
Is that fair day in June;—
When earth, and sky, and we ourselves,
Seemed set to some sweet tune.

249

MABEL'S WISH.

O would I were a fairy
Up in a cherry tree,
And if 'twere always summer
How happy I would be.
I would breakfast on a cherry,
And when I came to dine;
The stone should be a wine-glass,
To hold my ruby wine.
The bee should bring me honey,
And the butterfly should bear;
My tiny form whenever
I wished to take the air.
The winds should bring me odors,
From the fields of new mown hay;
And the birds should give me music,
All the live-long summer day,
No lessons in the tree top,
No puzzling sums for me!
O would I were a fairy
Up in a cherry tree,
And if 'twere always summer.
How happy would I be,

A MEMORY.

Earth is full of sorrow—our paths all wind,
From fields of sunlight into deepest shade;—
Death enters all our homes, and leaves us blind
With weeping—bewildered and dismayed.

250

'Tis scarce one fleeting year ago—the leaves
Of the young oaks wore darker hues than now,
The breath was balmier of the summer breeze;
Which stirs the leaves upon the aspen's bough.

When first I gazed upon that face so fair,
So strangely beautiful—I had thought before
That the old masters dreamed of forms so rare,
Or such alone had lived in days of yore.

She seemed the daughter of some southern clime,
Where soft winds pass o'er beds of flowers
Warm in their crimson glow—where groves of lime,
Mingle their perfume with the orange bowers.

I gazed upon her face, and dreamed of skies
Which glow with sunnier hues—with softer rays
Than ours—there seemed a spell in those dark eyes—
I could not choose but dream, and dreaming gaze.

We met as strangers one bright summer day,
As strangers part, so seeming parted we:—
She little thought what wealth I bore away,
What thoughts of beauty she had given me.

Months passed—and when the Spring came with her flowers,
And sweetly sang the birds on each green bough;
When kindly earth received May's golden showers,
Death's seal was placed upon that fair young brow.

O Death! if there were nought beyond this life—
For us no brighter shore—no home more blest—
If this poor world of care, and wearying strife,
And pain were all—should we so long for rest?

251

We murmur oft against thy stern decree—
To see thee bear the youngest from our hearth,—
And weep, when pass the fair, the brave and free,
Like dreams and visions from the darkened earth.

Yet in another home 'neath clearer skies,
Robed in celestial raiment—glorious band!
Are the beloved—who faded from our eyes,
And passed before us to that “better land.”

1855.

THE SONG OF SUMMER.

Gather the flowers
Now while ye may,
Soon from this fair land
I must away.
Bask in the sunlight
Dream in the shade;
Green leaves will wither,
Flowers will fade.
Hie to the woodland
Blithely and free,
Wild birds are singing
Praises to me.
Seek the cool mosses
Treasures are there,
Brighter than corals;
Lovely and rare.
Linger by glen and brake
Where the ferns grow,
Where the wild beeches

252

Sway to and fro.
Bend o'er the woodland stream
List to its song:
Rippling thro' light and shade
Gaily along.
Thus sing the bright waves;
Swiftly they go,
Murmuring o'er and o'er
Softly and low;
“Gather the flowers,
Now while ye may,
Fleetly the Summer
Is passing away.”

256

LAWYER HENRY.

“I tell you, your petition will prove of no avail,
The keepers of the taverns, will be licensed without fail;
The law is in their favor, their friends are easily traced,
And twelve men of good standing preserves for each his place.”
Thus spoke wise Lawyer Henry, and close his thin lips pressed
The while his white hand fondly a tawny beard caress'd.
Was there no throb of pity, within his world-worn heart,
For that poor, tortured woman as he bid her hopes depart?
A sad eyed, weary woman, she came to him for bread.
And carelessly he gave her, a cold hard stone instead.
What wonder in her trouble deep, like a poor hunted deer;
She stood at bay, and passed beyond the sacred woman's sphere.
Her pale cheek flush'd, and instantly her dark eye flashed with fire,

257

And all her form, so sorrow worn, trembled with righteous ire.
“And is it true, O man,” she cried, “is't true the word you say—
That all our work for days and weeks is labor thrown away?
Can thrice twelve men, in this poor place rule it for lasting ill?
And will three hundred woman's names, count then for nothing still?
We working women, illy can afford a day to lose,
The gaping taverns swallow all our just and lawful dues:
But in the hope of some great good, with all our hearts so sore,
We carried the petitions round, nor passed a single door.
Here are the names, three hundred see, poor things! some could not write,
But their crosses, which are many stand forever in God's sight!
They wished they had two hands to sign, if they could change things so,
And was there any hope? they asked with faces full of woe.
Yet now, when all is said and done, you say the law'll prevail,
We're only women, and alas! what can we do but fail?”
“Why my good woman, how can you talk,” he said and moved his chair,

258

And thrust his fingers through the locks of his pomatumed hair:
“Now really, one would think with me, your cause was lost or won,
That you hold me responsible for all the wrong that's done;
I did not make the laws, not I, they're bad enough I trow—
But I see no way to alter them: we'll have to bear them now.
‘I'll take your paper?’ surely,—yes, when up to court I go;.
But women's names don't weigh much there; they cannot vote you know.”
Then all the woman's soul rose up, and shook her fragile frame,
As she heard the lawyer cooly weigh the worth of woman's name.
“You see no way to alter them, these laws so fraught with ill?”
You see no way; then stand aside, and let us do our will.
I tell you, Lawyer Henry, that I in vision see
The coming of that blessed day when woman shall be free.
You shall not taunt us then as now, no vote is ours to give,
When woman's power is equal, then shall the Nation live:
Then shall your boasted statutes in fragments swift be hurled,
And Love and Truth and Justice shall rule the mighty world!”

259

Then like a queen the woman swept from out the Lawyer's door,
And left him pondering gravely her strange words o'er and o'er:
He wondered if 'twere possible he would live to see the day
When women in the Council-halls should hold an equal sway?
Things might be better than they were, of that he had no doubt;
But if the women office held, some men must be left out:
He shuddered, feeling in the cold, no hope at all for him,
And then he vowed the thing absurd 't was but a woman's whim;
Yet if a woman willed a thing, she would surely have her will—
Thus pondered Lawyer Henry, and we leave him pondering still.

A fact.

THE CHILD'S GARDEN.

'Tis only a little spot of ground,
The garden walk beside,
And yet it seems a sacred mound
To all, since he has died.

His life with pain was saddened o'er;
Poor child! he never drew
A glad, free breath—but more and more
In wisdom's ways he grew.

260

Here, in the early days of spring,
The little sufferer came,
And saw with joy each living thing,
And called it by its name.

The flowers to him seemed more than flowers,
Playmates and friends in one,
And here he passed his weary hours,
From morn till set of sun.

He saw each plant its buds unfold,
And seek the light above,
Their beauty thrilled with joy his soul,
And filled his heart with love.

O who can tell what visions rare,
Came to the dreaming child,
When earth and sky were both so fair,
And all creation smiled?

Methinks God gives for such as he,
His angels charge, that they
May watch and guard them lovingly,
And with them always stay.

And thus it is their souls expand,
With heavenly guests so near,
And things we may not understand,
To them seem plain and clear.

Kind Nature holds them to her breast,
While opening wide her store,
She soothes their pain and gives them rest,
That they may love her more.

261

And when death comes, he wears a smile,
The truest friend is he,
He takes them but a little while,
And bears them tenderly—

To where the angels waiting stand,
With gentle, loving eyes,
To lead them to another land,
'Neath softest summer skies.

Then all that they have loved on earth,
Will they not find them there?
No pain is in that second birth,
And all things must be fair.

And so I dream these garden flowers,
To the lost child so dear,
Still bloom for him these summer hours,
In a purer atmosphere.

THE NIGHT MOTH.

When the sun goes down and the air is filled,
With the sounds of rushing wings,
When the swallows fly, and the fire-flies flit,
The Night Moth comes and sings:

“O sweet is the flower, at the evening hour,
When the wandering bee goes home,
And dear to me, are the sweets the bee
Has left for my lips alone.

I startle the child, in the garden wild,
When my rustling wings are heard,

262

But he laughs with glee, my form to see,
And calls me his ‘humming bird.’

The birds of day, their roundelay,
May give to the sun and air;
But the pale twilight, and the fire-flies bright,
To the Night Moth seem more fair.

O sweet is the flower, at the evening hour,
When the wandering bee goes home,
And dear to me, are the sweets the bee
Has left for my lips alone!”

LOTTY'S MISHAP.

Into the coal-box,
Lotty one day,
Hid from her brother
Charley, at play.

Down came the box-lid
With a great slam,
Lotty was fastened
Tight as a clam.

Cook in the kitchen,
Heard a shrill cry,
Rushed to the door-yard,
Naught did she spy.

Soon from the coal-box
Came a faint moan,
“Please do not leave me
Die here alone.”

263

She up with the box-lid,
Lotty was there,
Covered with coal dust,
Cheeks, eyes and hair!

Cook never scolded,
Good soul was she!
Washed her and dressed her,
Neat as could be.

She ran to her mother,
Told her the tale,
“Thought I was Jonah,
Fast in a whale.

“Felt like a piggy,
Shut in a pen,
Thought I would never
Hide there again.

“Looked like one, mother,
Dirty and mean,
Now I am Lotty,
Ever so clean!”

HILDA.

Only a year has circled
Over our little maid;
Bright was the summer's sunshine,
Brief was the winter's shade,
Sweet was the breath of spring-time,

264

Soft was the summer's breeze,
Gay were the plants that blossomed,
Golden the autumn sheaves.

Rosy and happy and merry,
Laughing and cooing all day,
She's like a bird in the spring-time,
Singing so blithesome and gay;
Sweet child of love! may no shadow
Pass o'er thy tender young brow,
May the years find thee and keep thee,
Loving and winsome as now.

THE DARKENED CHAMBER.

Shrouded deep in gloom and silence,
All the darkened chamber lay,
Where once through the lifted curtain,
Stole the morning's golden ray.

Where the bird's first thrilling joy-note,
Floated on the silent air,
Filling all her heart with gladness,
Mingling with her morning prayer.

Once again upon the threshold,
Mournfully the mother stands,
Drearily her dark eye resting,
On the death-bound folded hands.

Heavily the drapery falleth
'Round the window like a pall,
Scarce a gleam of blessed sunlight,
Resteth on the chamber wall.

265

And around her heart there gathers,
Midnight shadows dark and wild,
Doth she shudder, fearful mother?
In the lone room of her child?

Doth she tremble? Look, oh mother,
In a holy sleep she lies,
Nevermore the light may greet thee,
From those meek, reproachful eyes.

Nevermore the tear-drop glitter,
'Neath the lashes drooping low;
Nevermore the pale lip quiver,
Or her heart with grief o'erflow.

Art thou weeping? Think, oh mother,
On her lonely childhood's years—
When the stars looked sadly on her,
Here she wept her bitter tears.

Here where calm and still she lieth,
Broken-hearted she hath crept,
Thinking on thy harsh reproving,
Weeping mother, whilst thou slept.

Now she sleepeth, oh how calmly!
Wouldst thou wake her from her rest,
By thy burning tear-drops falling
On her cold and silent breast?

Dost thou pray to see the pale lip,
Breaking from the seal of death?
O what joy to clasp her, mother,
With a warm and living breath!

266

And to feel her arms caressing,
Lips press kisses on thy brow
As they once did, wouldst thou chide her,
Chide her harshly, mother, now?

Never, mother, light will never,
Visit thee from earthly shore;
And to thee the darkened chamber,
Shall be dark forevermore.

THE RIVAL ROSES.

273

[“O earthly rose!]

[_]

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

“O earthly rose!
Sorrowing o'er
The land of thy love,
Rejoice! Rejoice
Forever more!
No wintry blasts
Can reach thee here,
No bitter storms;

274

'Tis summer, summer,
All the year.
The winter's death for thee is o'er;
Oh, live and bloom forever more!

275

A PRAYER.

Draw near to us, O Father,
In this sad, troubled hour!
O let us feel Thy presence,
Thy pitying love and power!

The sunshine scarcely enters
Our sister's darkened room,
And weary pain and sadness
Fill it with grief and gloom.

She cares not for the morning,—
She sadly turns away
From all the summer sunlight,
And would it were not day.

Yet when the evening shadows
Shut out the waning light,
She sighs so weary, weary,
And wishes 'twere not night;

For the days have come, O Father!
To her, as they'll come to all—
The days when no earthly sunshine
Into her life may fall.

O grant her heavenly patience;
Let not her courage fail,
When doubt and pain and weakness
Her fainting heart assail.

276

O let celestial sunshine
Flood all her soul with light,
That she may see the angels
Who watch her day and night.

Laying their hands upon her,
They soothe her fevered brain;
And evermore they're singing
Some soft, melodious strain.

O may the holy music
Sink deep into her soul!
As earthly songs grow fainter,—
The angels' nearer roll.

Let her not go a stranger,
A sad, unwilling guest,
Into Thy home, O Father!
Thy beautiful home of rest;

But may the angels bear her
From the pain and care away.
She sleeps, and lo, it is night-time!
She wakes, and behold, it is Day!

WOODS IN WINTER.

A PICTURE BY JACOBSEN.

Tread lightly now, for all is silence here;
Mid-winter reigns, the midnight of the year!
'Tis Nature's temple, vast and grand and high,
Its pillars, trees; its fretted roof, the sky.

277

The new-fallen snow, in softened curves is laid,
Like festive wreaths, on moss-grown architrave.
No marble pave, in pillared church e'er seen,
Is pure as this, or boasts a lovelier sheen.
'Neath soft white burdens bowed, each shrub and tree
Seems wrapt in dreams of glories yet to be.

And lo! the morning breaks, the twilight gray
Yields to the coming of the perfect day!
The skies grow luminous—a dusky glow,
Like smouldering fires, seems kindled from below,
Which to the zenith shoots, and swift imbues
Each snow-clad limb in its own rosy hues.

God's spirit is abroad; and faint and dim
We hear the music of the cherubim;
And thro' the silence hush'd we wait to see
The coming of some sacred mystery!
And almost deem above the snow-drap'd aisles
The ministering angels stand, with holy smiles
And swinging censers,—incense rising there,
Mingling with voiceless sounds of praise and prayer.

In the possession of Daniel Neall.

A DREAM OF DAMASCUS.

I walk 'neath the holy blue
Of thy beautiful skies, O June!
And feel like a bird that sings
'Mid the purple clover's bloom.
I breathe in the scented breath
Exhaled from a thousand flowers,
And dream as the dreamers may

278

Who sleep in the lotus bowers.
I gaze in the rose's heart,
Far down in each tinted fold,
And the wondrous dreams return
That gladdened my heart of old.
I pass o'er the desert sands
A-weary and travel-sore;
And peerless city, thou dawn'st
On my raptured gaze once more;
As the thoughts of gushing springs,
Of wild boughs waving free,
To the fever-bowed, thou comest,
O city! in dreams to me.
'Mid masses of deepest shade
I see thy minarets gleam;
And sweet is the music made
By the rush of thy mountain stream.
I wander in gardens rare,
Where thickets of roses bloom,
Thro' tangled vines, where fountains leap
Like light thro' the dusky gloom.
O, the rose's flush had paled,
And faint has its perfume grown;
The vision fades with the rose's flush,
And the beauty my soul has known.
But still 'neath the holy blue
Of thy beautiful skies, O June!
I feel like a bird that sings
'Mid the purple clover's bloom.

279

COMFORT.

In the still watches of the lone night,
I heard a voice saying, “Let there be light!
The world's full of sighing and sadness and pain,
And over the dying the tears fall like rain.
O homes sad and lonely! O hearts sore with woe,
That weep for the lost ones! to them thou must go,
And bear the glad tidings, o'er valley and hill,
That the lost ones are living and loving them still!
Speak clear as a trumpet, yet soft as a breath,
‘The spirit immortal can never know death!’”

MUSINGS.

Ye are absent, loved companions! I sit musing here alone:
Pleasantly the sunshine beameth on the scene I gaze upon—
Fair the scene; its quiet beauty oft together we have known.

Lovingly the breeze of summer waves the elm tree's topmost bough—
Stealing through the open casement, gently fans it, cheek and brow;
But the room seems sad and lonely, for my thoughts are with you now.

I sit listening to the voices,—joyous voices, full of glee;

280

Or, anon, with feeling deepened, laughter ringing merrily
Through the silence,—waters gushing from a fountain pure and free.

I can see each face familiar,—listen to each varying tone;
O, I knew not how I loved you, till I felt that ye were gone—
Knew not all that ye were to me, till I found myself alone.

Would the power were mine to limn you, as ye now before me rise—
Brows of sunlight, hearts the warmest, looking out from soul-lit eyes;
Landscape fairest should be lying 'neath the glow of evening skies.

With the lingering sunbeams flickering through the branches, lovingly
Resting on you—I would place you 'neath the shade of some old tree
On the hill-side, where were flowers, and the wandering breeze roved free.

Queenliest of the band, Elnora, should be seated on a throne,
Reading “Shakspeare” to the others, in an “a la Kemble” tone—
All the magic of her beauty, and her queenly presence own.

281

Throned upon that brow so regal, power and might of mind are there;
And her dark eye flashes keenly, when the Author's thought so rare
Meets her own thought; how they sparkle 'neath the forehead pure and fair!

They may call her proud and haughty, but they do not know her well:
Nature formed her tall and queenly—should she cast away the spell
Which has lifted her above them, and with common natures dwell?

True, it is a land of freedom; she may never mount the throne,
Nor may wield the royal scepter, save o'er loving hearts alone;
Yet our queen, best loved Elnora! we, thy faithful subjects, own.

Nina should be seated lower, on the mossy turf beside,
Gazing on the fires of sunset which are burning far and wide,
Filled with rapture, yet in silence striving all her joy to hide.

She would scorn to give expression to the feelings which may thrill
All her soul with joy the wildest,—then, if woe life's chalice fill,
Would she drink it proudly, bravely,—would she suffer, and be still?

282

Lightly fall the dark brown tresses round her sweet and winsome face:
Of the power to win hearts to her, one perchance may find some trace
In the soft brown eyes of hazel, and her smile of winning grace.

But to love her, one must know her, watch her hourly day by day,
Feel the warmth of glorious sunshine which she sheds around the way
Of the hearts that need her kindness—kindness they may ne'er repay.

Blessings be upon thee, Nina; may thy life-stream joyous be,—
Thine the love of hearts the truest—ever choicest dower to thee,
Loving and belov'd, float gently down the river to the sea.

Near Elnora's throne, who standeth upright as the elm tree's bole?
Best of friends thou art, dear Mabel! kindred hearts have found their goal,
When at length they learn to fathom all the grandeur of thy soul.

Smoothly parted on thy forehead is each sunny tress of hair,
And the blue eye, mild, yet fearless, looketh out so bravely there;
Though she moves no queenly beauty, yet to me she seems most fair.

283

Beautiful the soul she owneth,—beautiful the soul that lies
Shrined within her noble bosom, closely veiled from worldly eyes,—
Soul of truth! how high and lofty over falsehood dost thou rise!

Best of friends! I hear thee saying, “Do not praise me, friend of mine,
If thou lovest me well and truly,—love to me seems so divine,
That it cannot praise the loved one; oh, then do not give me thine!”

Love thee? yes; and oh, if wishes were not bubbles on the wave,
I would wish that we together might pass onward to the grave,
And our spirits still united, in the Fount Eternal lave.

“Where is Dora? where?” How often this the well-known cry hath been,
When our hearts beat high with bright hopes, eager for the festive scene,
Or a walk through leafy forest, 'neath a summer sky serene!

Then the answer, still unchanging, “Dora will not go to-day:
She is sitting in her lone room, fond of solitude they say,—
Come, she will not go; 'tis needless thus the others to delay.”

284

But apart I see thee standing now, half hidden by the tree.
There! a sunbeam through the leaflets stealeth down and rests on thee,—
Pleading eyes of blue seem asking, “I love you; do you love me?”

Eyes of blue the dark fringe shadeth—gentle, timid eyes of blue!
Watch them closely, in their calm depths ye may see their owner too,
Something of her outward semblance—not the inner life ye view.

Gentle, loving, calm she glideth still upon her happy way,
And we pass her ever smiling, for she seems some genial ray,
Whose pure source of joy is hidden from the light and from the day.

God be with thee, gentle Dora! and his choicest blessings thine;
May he keep thee pure and simple, make thy breast a holy shrine
Where may centre warm affections, and the love for Him divine.

Now the sunset vision fadeth, and the twilight shades steal on—
Wrapped in gloom, I still am sitting in the twilight, sad and lone,
Thinking of you, loved companions, mourning that ye all have gone.

285

ORA.

PART I.

All day the wild November storm
Swept round the farm house door.
It shook the apples from the trees;
It stripped the maples of their leaves,
And paved the well-path o'er.

All day a sad-eyed woman sat,
And sewed the dreary seams;
While through the clouded window-pane
She watched the restless wind and rain,
And thought of her lost dreams.

Three Springs had gone, since from the earth
Had passed her only child!
She was her idol, at that shrine
Was offered incense pure and fine,
Since then she never smil'd!

Her life was narrow, pent within,
The housewife's beaten round;
She loved the flowers about the door,
And since her Ora was no more,
She loved her lowly mound.

If gold were hers, a marble pile
Had told her deathless love!
She had only flowers, fresh and fair
And these she gathered everywhere,
To place the grave above.

286

Rare roses that her hand had rear'd
With patient toil and care,
She brought each spring, and set them 'round
That hallowed spot, her sacred mound,
To shed their sweetness there.

But when the Autumn leaves began
To strew the well-path o'er;
Her soul was filled with grief and gloom,
She swept them fiercely with the brooom,
And wished they'd come no more.

For when the world grew dark to her,
She heard the night winds rave
Around the house, and in the morn
The maple leaves, all stripped and torn,
Lay thick about the grave.

Her thoughts went ever in one groove,
“No griefs like mine,” she said,
“The years may come, the years may go,
The tide of life run faint and low;
And still I'll mourn my dead.”

PART II.

She heard the rain upon the roof,
That dread November eve,
The skies were dark, her heart like lead
Within her sank, then something said;
“O Mother! do not grieve!”

287

Was it a vision, that she saw?
The loved one seemed to stand
Beside her bed, so sweet and fair;
The soft brown eyes, the waving hair,
With a lily in her hand!

And through the sounding rain she heard
Her Ora's pleading tone,
“O do not grieve,” she said, “for me,
I live, yes, still I live for thee;
And think of thee alone!

Thy sorrow weighs me to the earth,
I strive to rise in vain.
I see afar the heavenly heights;
I long to taste their pure delights,
Yet with thee I remain!

Linger not mother by thy hearth,
The mourning world is wide!
Would'st thou from sorrow have reprieve;
Seek other sufferers to relieve,
With grief to thine allied.

Would'st thou plant flowers on my grave,
The pure and deathless flowers?
Visit each sick and suffering one;
Do all that thou for me hast done,
To soothe their dying hours.

And peace shall visit thy sad heart,
Thy burden lifted be,
Thy blessings shall be manifold,
And through the clouds, the rift of gold
Thine eyes shall plainly see.”

288

She heard no more, the vision passed,
And vanished slow away,
Sleep fell upon her eyes, and when
The morning dawned all fair again,
She rose up with the day.

And took her burden wearily
Of care, and grief and pain;
Since to her mind, the vision seemed
A phantom of the night,—a dream
Born of the wind and rain.