Walden's Miscellaneous Poems which the author desires to dedicate to the Cause of Education and Humanity |
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 | ADDITIONAL POEMS. |
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 | Walden's Miscellaneous Poems |  |
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
INTRODUCTORY TO SECOND EDITION.
Its leaves are multiplied;
Its pages are much longer,
And nearly twice as wide.
Had not the time to spare,
To hail my little volume
As it floated in the air.
Away through empty space,
Perchance would there discover
Some long forgotten race.
Among the great and wise,
Or that it would be subject
Unto the critic's eyes.
And of the minor class,
I knew not how the ladies
Would read it as they pass.
And laden every page,
For truly it must mingle
With those of every age.
Should not have thought it vain
To make its little mysteries
Unto the reader plain.
Where thought is not sublime,
That I have thus destroyed
By keeping up my rhyme.
Find this to be the case,
I 'd take my silver pencil
And all these lines erase.
Or grammar's laws dispense,
Than for to let my metre
Or rhythm govern sense.
My chances are but slim,
Or else this little volume
Would be in better trim.
That I was born a slave.
And all my early genius
Was locked within the grave.
A mark within my eyes—
And all my inspirations
Are showered from the skies.
Nor those of noble fame,
For I 'm just a learning
The author, Milton's, name.
Nor rob them of their style,
My book amid their volumes,
Like me, is but a child.
And send with it my heart,
That it may to the critic
My better thoughts impart.
Much good from thee may spring,
If thou continueth pleading
The merits of thy King.
All changed within their scale,
But thou, upon thy mission,
I am sure can never fail.
PHILADELPHIA, SEPT., 1872.
The one by which your Board I've praised;
It is a pen of noble deeds,
By which I have sown wisdom's seeds.
By it a thousand hearts I 've gained,
For it was truly made of steel,
Therefore to it your hearts will yield.
As did it on the first of May;
For then I know it did record
Your little and your great reward.
Is much like yours—is much the same;
For you will heal the wounded heart,
And give the young an upward start.
The name of her who plays and sings,
And all thy honors I 'll extend
If you will be this singer's friend.
Arising from the singer's throat,
If you will crown her student days.
Not only one, but names of three;
And then excuse these lines I write,
For one is dark and two are white.
For them there is no place as yet,
Therefore it 's well that each one knows,
That I can send their names in prose.
To bother with each little rhyme,
Therefore you 'll look beyond each link,
And judge from what you know I think.
The room I think is number three,
For there my things are put away,
Within that room, I long to stay.
Which I shall send when you shall write,
And it I know will please you well,
To know the land in which it fell.
For here four days I have to spend,
To me send them by the Express,
For now I have not my address.
But I have not the time to-day,
I 've not the time to longer write,
For evening's shades foretell the night.
When in Philadelphia lately, loosing my ticket, my funds being at the ebb, I took the following method to secure transportation at reduced rates; remembering the old adage, “Where there is a will there is a way.”
TO ALFRED HORNER.
DEAR SIR,
I 'll cause your name in time to live,
It in my book I will record
Which will be for your own reward.
Except you send me on your train,
Nor do you know what I will loose
If you to me a pass refuse.
But here my time is quite near spent.
A man whose heart is without bound
The dearest friend the needy's found.
LETTER TO MISS CRANE.
It always tells the truth,
It serves me now while I am old,
As well as when a youth.
When they would go astray,
It is my body-guard by night,
As well as in the day.
Its worth I 've never told,
For all the kindness shown to me,
Its value 's more than gold.
Compared with all her wealth,
Like thee it helps to bear the cross
In sickness and in health.
New lines it does record,
It causes me to watch and pray,
And trust upon the Lord.
It makes his troubles known;
It puts him in his proper place,
And points him to God's throne.
One weighed in virtue's scale,
Whom I will now present to you,
Whose deeds can never fail.
She has no means nor friend
Who freely would, that she can see,
For her a dollar spend.
Or thy own native State,
That they may take her from the least,
And place her with the great.
With thine on history's page,
If they Miss Johnson aid will give,
The fair one of this age.
From such a worthy girl;
The miser, too, will bring his gold—
His treasures he 'll unfurl.
When she was but a child.
She has no lovers by her side,
Though she is meek and mild.
I 'll leave you in God's care,
For such an one is here.
LETTER TO REV. MR. HARTRAUGHT.
Rev. Mr. Hartraught:
Dear Sir: I would have gladly remained in New Brunswick longer last summer; but, as you know, my vacation was nearly spent when I reached there, and being anxious to get back to Washington by the opening of the term, I departed thence. I was much strengthened while there by your Sabbath school, prayer meetings, and other religious worship, and would like very much to be with you to-day—if it were possible—
A day of rest provided;
Upon this day, in every church,
Our God has long presided.
I heard sweet voices singing—
From God I thought the angels were
To thee glad tidings bringing.
Was there whilst thou was't preaching;
How precious did the gospel sound,
Which thou to us was't teaching.
Give souls to thee for hire,
To brighter fields aspire.
Of all the friends of Jesus;
Remember, too, there is a God,
An eye that ever sees us.
“Eternal weights” of Glory?
Did not the prophets and the saints
Before us tell the story?
Where we shall live forever?
Is there an end to life unknown?
The answer comes, “No, never!”
Exerting every power;
That we may rest in Heaven above,
Through one eternal hour.
TO JOHN K. SMITH,
A VENERABLE OLD GENTLEMAN OF TRENTON, N. J., WHO IS AN ESTEEMED FRIEND OF MINE.
These many years to duty led;
And now it bends unto my will,
As though it were an eagle's quill.
Nor to me has it ever lied;
Therefore its worth is more than gold,
For it the truth has ever told.
How very kind thou art to me;
It tells me that thou art my friend,
And dost for me thy money spend.
Were it to trace thee to thy youth.
And it would fill my heart with joy,
To hear of thee when but a boy.
To lead me to life's gushing springs,
Where I may drink a full supply,
And write on man, on earth, and sky,
To lead me into wisdom's light;
It's moved to point me to the Lord,
For He the faithful will reward.
DEDICATED TO A YOUNG LADY
REPRESENTING THE INDIAN RACE AT HOWARD UNIVERSITY.
The reason of my writing this poem is, that in every paper I read, this question repeatedly presents itself:
According to my experience with them in the University, I think it properly answered by saying “Yes.”
We have a young lady to whom this poem is dedicated, who is my table-mate. She is bright and intelligent; and I am sure any one coming into her presence, and conversing with her, or, if circumstances permit, hearing her read some of her essays, cannot return without feeling that he had been in company with one who represents her race honorably.
I have often thought from her punctuality in attendance at church, that every one might learn a lesson, which no one can teach, only those who practice the same.
Now, I regard those questions as did I those frequently asked in our late war, “If the colored people could bear arms and fight for their country?” “Could they be made loyal citizens, or lifted from a state of degradation, from under the scales in which men are weighed, and put upon the platform of common manhood?” We answered those questions with the sword and by the ballot; and, likewise, the Indians will answer these important questions in perhaps twenty years to come, if they are justly dealt with. They only ask our Government to give them good and true men, and they will do their part.
I thought I'd sing a praise,
But now I think I'll write a word,
To lighten up thy days.
And those of noble fame;
But now I seek to write a line
Upon thy honored name.
This little verse on thee?
Perhaps it is thy pleasant ways,
And cheering looks to me.
And oft admire thy grace,
Because I know that thou art of
Another noble race!
Or round the table meet,
With anxious eye I look to see
If thou art in thy seat.
Through hall, though long and wide,
And then I quickly look to see
Thy tea-mate by thy side.
And each within his place,
In silence each one bows his head,
'Till some one asks the grace.
And scarce a word is said,
Until we have a full supply
Of meats and baker's bread.
About from you and me;
And Clara she looks up and asks—
Pray, sir, what can it be?
Perchance it may be ham—
And passed it off for lamb.
If round about its swallow,
For surely it is not so dead,
That it would fail to halloo.
There 're other things in view;
For oft I catch myself, dear Miss,
Exchanging looks with you.
We 're called by duty's 'larms;
Nor can I longer sit and look
Upon thy brilliant charms.
Had I another pen,
For surely we 're as happy guests
As here have ever been.
WISH FOR AN OVERCOAT.
For I am nearly freezing;
My head and lungs are stopped with cold,
And often I am sneezing.
Where merchants all are greeting,
They say, young man this is the coat
That you should wear to meeting.
For there my boots are bursting,
With upturned heels and grinning toes,
With tacks which long were rusting.
With long and crooked stitches,
They say, young man would you not like
To have some other breeches?
The wind is swiftly blowing,
They say, young man will you not freeze?
See ye not how it 's snowing?
And lead me toward the store,
And some are pulling down the coats
Before I reach the door.
To quench a thirst that's burning,
And freely would I buy a coat,
But nothing I am earning.
That winter time was coming,
With birds around me humming.
And all they say is pleasant;
But did I know that I would have
No overcoat at present?
To buy I am not able,
For it is more than I can do
To meet my wants at table.
Will grant to me this favor,
That I may learn to stand as much
As little Jack, the sailor.
Though nature's harps unstringing,
I then will fly to you woodland
To hear the oak trees singing.
Ride swiftly on to victory,
Although my saddle may be made
Of cotton sacks or hickory.
Oh! who will tell the story,
That I have lived a noble life.
And now gone home to glory?
For me—who will be weeping—
When I have yielded to the grave,
And 'mid the dead am sleeping?
It was without my knowing;
Was it because he caught a cold,
Last year when it was snowing?”
In words I cannot utter,
It was not by a cold alone,
But partly bread and butter.
TO HON. SENATOR POMEROY.
[These lines were written in honor of the above gentleman, to whom the temperance cause is so much indebted.]
Howard University, Washington, D. C.
Dear Sir:
Is like an eagle's wing,
It bears each rhyme unto the prince,
And onward to the king.
It dazzles every eye,
A rainbow in the sky.
Thy many honored deeds,
On all my race by thee bestowed,
In shape of wisdom's seeds.
And looked upon thy name;
No anger burned within her breast,
On cheek no blush of shame.
She want's ten thousand more,
Whose hand is open like the king's—
Extended to the poor.
Will multiply thy days,
Of all her bright and rising sons,
Kind friend thou hast the praise.
TO MISS N. J.
The one that is so just and kind,
And all the fair ones I 've forsaken,
Because thou hast my heart and mind.
Because they 're of an early date;
But would'st thou be more sympathizing
If I to write should longer wait?
Tender, O, I know thou art;
I like thy style and love the fashion—
Thine image dwells within my heart.
Arduous tasks it should not know;
Thy graceful form is neat and slender,
Like lilies that in gardens grow.
Within the land among the free;
For there the wise in sin are falling,
How would'st thou like to be with me?
Where wisdom teacher's do impart,
And here partake of richest knowledge,
Overflowing mind and heart?
Do never stop beneath thy grade,
To higher ranks why not aspire?
Pray tell me why hast thou delayed?
Not since my pa and ma have died,
No one the task has ever tried.
As one whose heart beats firm and true;
Because I knew thou hadst no other
To kindly tell thee what to do.
Although in it myself I'd praise,
Therefore leave it to other history,
To speak of all my happy days.
That I should be thy guide through life,
But while I am not worth a shilling,
Why should I seek thee for a wife?
Preparing for some distant land;
Pray tell me if it would be prudent,
Were I to ask thee for thy hand?
What never living man has seen,
That thou wouldst make a handsome creature,
And also me a loving queen.
For evening shades are drawing nigh;
Perhaps thy love is growing stronger,
The moments whisper, passing by.
GRATITUDE.
To the President and Members of the Christian Association:
It filled my heart with joy,
And quickly to my pen I sprang,
As though I were a boy.
And filled my heart with pleasure,
And now I write regardless of
My rhythm or my measure.
I found myself in danger,
And when I came within your court,
I felt as would a stranger.
In this way long was waiting;
But soon I heard a shepherd's voice,
And with him lambs were bleating.
Perhaps it was a warning,
Perhaps I would not live to see
The light of day when dawning.
Was dark and much descending,
And all I met within that way,
Were quarrelling and contending.
To pray I was not able;
For all my supplications were
As but an empty fable.
And quickly came to Jesus;
When I remembered that there was
A God that ever sees us.
TO PROFESSOR ATHERTON.
Howard University, Washington, D. C., Dec. 12, 1872.
Dear Sir: Two years will soon have passed since my connection with this University, and I am happy to say I am progressing finely; and am rapidly approaching my sixth examination, at which time every energy shall be bent to its utmost extreme. I have been making out my expenses which I find to be very heavy, though not to be compared with the small amount of knowledge which I have gained; and, too, when I consider that these privileges of going to school have partially grown out of your influence, I am constrained to express my gratitude to you. I should have made an acknowledgment ere this, but thought it best to wait until I am sufficiently competent; and would still wait longer—
Its noble limbs are dull and cold,
Therefore to thee I write in praise,
In honor of its active days.
Nor will it on my paper curve;
For it is robed in shrouds of death—
Without a pulse, without a breath.
Nor will it over paper glide;
No longer will it lead the youth
In ways of virtue and of truth.
For kindness thou hast shown to me,
Nor will it longer thus record
A line of praise unto the Lord.
For fear its limber legs will break;
Nor will it longer shiver names,
Nor turn my paper into flames.
Recording thoughts expressed by lip;
Nor will its little wiry toes
Transcribe my poetry into prose.
For it will pass away this night;
No longer will it sing a praise
In honor of its youthful days.
That's written by a friend so true;
Accept it in the writer's name,
Who's free from sorrow and from shame.
THE GOLDEN RULE:
ITS INRRODUCTION AT THE UNIVERSITY.
[This rhetorical poem was written in honor of Prof. A. L. Barber, who was the principal on my entering school.]
They introduced the golden rule,
And put us in the narrow way
In which we journey on to-day.
To us who had assembled here;
And in that road a shining light
To guide each student's feet aright.
And roads branched out on either side;
A law applied to every case,
A road prepared for every race.
Except those laws we should obey,
Nor did a foot once turn aside,
To tread the way both rough and wide.
That we no duty thus might shun;
Unto God's sceptre bowed and prayed
That we might never be dismayed.
And teachers given, much refined;
Each heart was filled with many joys
Among the girls, among the boys.
To view the ranks where we were classed,
And each one's friend will quickly see,
That we were placed within Class D.
To mingle with the great and wise;
In ways unknown we do succeed,
And now we bear the highest meed.
Because we represent the world;
Of every tribe and every race,
And each one in his proper place.
The nation's eyes will on us gaze,
And she will mark the way we tread
When we to higher ranks have fled.
I 'll weave your footprints up in rhyme;
And change my verses to a song
When you those pearly gates shall throng.
The one so kind to you and me;
And make the heavenly echoes ring.
To say that you are just and true,
Nor prove unkind to my class-mate,
To say he often calls you great.
Have you not to me pity shown?
Your ways e'er long have been my guide—
To you a thousand hearts have tied.
Which will on higher billows float;
And onward she will cast her sail,
When driven by the nightly gale.
We would on higher ladders climb;
The gates of college we would raise,
And then on deeper mysteries gaze.
To hear my song you cannot wait;
But had my harp another string,
This song I then would play and sing.
TO MISS W---.
Will you accept of an apology for my not seeing you safely to Minor Hall last evening, with my umbrella, whilst raining. I did not mean to leave you exposed, but another young lady said that “We would not get wet,” and I thought she had reference to you and herself, though she meant another person.
Not in the least degree;
Although, when not a thinking,
I turned aside from thee.
That A. G. spoke for all,
And feared myself to ask your
Permission to the hall.
Kind Miss, what could I do?
Could I escort you safely,
Without consent from you?
Or linger by your side,
And this explains the reason
Why thus I turned aside.
For I have made it plain,
And sorry that I left you,
Last night within the rain.
And rain shall harder fall,
Then you shall have my presence
From prayer to Miner Hall.
And stars shall fill the sky,
I will not then forsake you,
Nor let you pass me by.
ODE TO MR. DUNLAP AND FAMILY.
Much honor is due Mr. Dunlap and family, both from myself and race. He was one of the leading men of Philadelphia in the anti-slavery movement, and a just man. I went to Philadelphia with soldiers and sailors from Washington in 1866, to celebrate the nomination of U. S. Grant. Before I was ready to return I lost my ticket. I was left by my companions without any means for securing another, for I did not have enough money to hire a night's lodging, and every person whom I met rejected me on that account. Coming down Broad street about eight o'clock in the night I was interrupted by two gentlemen, who, on seeing me, said: “There goes a carpet-bagger.” I replied that carpet-baggers do not come from the South.
“Where are you from?” asked Mr. William Dunlap. “I am from North Carolina, but from Washington here.” After questioning me closely, “Take my card,” said he, “and go to my house, tell my wife to give you a good supper and bed, and I hope you will remain with us until Monday.” I thanked him and started. On reaching the door I at first hesitated to ring the bell; finally I pulled the knob which brought Mrs. Dunlap to the door. She is a generous lady and had a profound reverence for the words of her husband. After presenting Mr. Dunlap's card, she politely invited me into the parlor. In a short time Mr. Dunlap came in and inquired for the stranger. “He is in the parlor,” said Mrs. Dunlap. I was soon surrounded by all the members of that happy because a good family. After receiving an introduction to them all, supper was prepared; and although Mr. and Mrs. Dunlap had eaten before, they sat down and took tea with myself. Now, after supper, Mr. Dunlap requested me to give a brief sketch of my life, which I gladly did. The whole family seemed to me to be exceedingly interested in my story, but little William and Eliza, although very young, looked upon me with purely angelic faces, and before the evening passed I became the centre of attraction. At last the clock struck ten. Mr. Dunlap took down his bible and read a chapter. The family sang a hymn and I was invited to lead in prayer. It was, of course, an arduous task, but I performed it to the best of my ability.
I was then directed to a well arranged bed-chamber, where I enjoyed sweet repose from the fatiguing scenes of the day. On awaking in the morning I found myself in so different a place from what I had anticipated, that I was at a loss to determine whether I was awake or dreaming. You will readily believe that this beautiful apartment was a striking contrast to the coal-box I was about to seek shelter for the night on one of the wharves of that great city. The floor was nicely carpeted; the bed made of feathers, and dressed with rose-bordered blankets, and a snow-ball counterpane, with pillows as soft as downy pillows are. There was a large spring-bottomed rocking-chair, a bowl and pitcher, a bureau with a large mirror on it, and many other things which augmented the comfort and happiness of its fortunate occupant. I remained with them until Wednesday, at which time, being supplied with passage money, I left for Washington. At the reception given General Grant in Philadelphia, Eliza Dunlap was the only child our great President kissed, and I have dedicated the following lines to her:
Canst thou record Eliza's name?
For she 's both gentle, meek and mild,
A happy little loving child,
Go bless the crown upon her head;
For tranquil lights spring from her eyes,
Like rainbows mid the bending skies.
As any earth or Heavenly queen,
With rosy cheek and slender span;
With curly hair and timid hand.
Her name unto the proudest king;
The dearest secrets of my heart.
Unto U. S., the President;
'Mid wise men there, her praises chant,
In honor of Ulysses Grant.
For she 's the child we called the belle,
I bid thee linger there and stay
Until she 's crowned the queen of May.
Aloft beyond the fleeting sky,
And then on wheels of swiftest speed,
Among my pens go take the lead.
For she 's the child he gave a kiss,
And from that cheek did spring a rose,
Which I have better told in prose.
THE WIDOW.
One very cold morning I met a widow at the depot whom the train had left. Wishing to comfort her, I introduced myself as follows:
Your infant looks as it would freeze,
And you as one in great distress,
Why do you wear this mourning dress?
With fading colors on her cheeks,
Within her heart she deeply sighed,
To tell me that her husband died.
Or critics will their art display;
Or you shall tread this lonely street,
Without a lamp unto your feet.
And of the one who lately died,
And then perhaps I will impart
The better feelings of my heart.
To weave my language up in rhyme,
Nor am I able to express
The reason why I wear this dress.
With not a heart to pity me,
And I am destined thus to roam
Two thousand miles or more from home.
It was a shot that killed him dead;
And thus was wafted from my side
A heart to me so closely tied.
Which round me fell in mournful tones?
That onward bore him to the sky?
The traitor shot, the blood that ran;
I can't forget the mournful day
When he was placed within the clay.
Is for a robe as white as snow;
That when I shall be called to die.
Like him on wings of love I 'll fly.
Soon on my journey I must go;
Good-by, remember me kind sir,
That I may neither doubt nor fear.”
And bless the widow and her child,
Let friends and strangers be her guide
In honor of the one who died.
AN ADDRESS TO DIXIE.
Thou canst not be a separate nation,
Nor canst thou break the cord that's binding,
Nor set confederate mills to grinding.
All lifted up with pomp and splendor,
While I was picking on my “banjo.”
When North and South for troops were calling,
Each nation from a place of resting,
Unto the fields of great contesting.
With heroes in the strife engaging;
I heard the swords and sabres clashing
With horse and rider onward dashing.
While shot and shell through air were flying,
Unto their groans I paused and hearkened
To see the elements were darkened.
To see my noble friends arising,
A million flags the troops were raising,
The nation's eyes were on them gazing,
While Sherman through the South was sweeping,
I saw their crimson colors fading,
While northern land Lee was invading.
And many troops he was surrounding;
O how the widows' hearts were breaking
When Lee and Davis calls were making.
While mighty guns Grant was arranging.
Nor could they longer bloom in flowers,
Nor stand against the Northern powers.
And all thy anger is suspended;
Peace I think I hear thee crying,
As thou art to the Union flying.
To see my race from bonds are springing,
For sure a better time is coming,
The insects whisper through their humming.
For I to Yankee town am going;
No longer will I drive this wagon,
Nor under slavery's chains be swagging,
Let slavery die and be forgotten;
And we will turn unto each nation
With greater zeal for education.
And of the right thou hast forsaken;
But yet I see within thee planted
The love to thee thy fathers granted.
When father's love in youth is fired,
Above the bonds of long probation.
Whose billows roll with great commotion,
The races yet will come together,
In ties of love that none can sever.
THE ICY POEM.
What gave rise to this little poem was, that a party of students went out on a skating expedition on a pond near the University, and the ice not being sufficiently strong, it gave way with them. I imagined myself there, and the following lines suggested themselves to my mind about the hour of 12 o'clock p. m.
Around on every side,
And soon they will be driven by
The wind upon the tide.
Around about their feet,
And every nerve is standing still,
And hearts refuse to beat.
A little icy isle,
Pray, who will bring the hero forth,
Or save the loving child.
All hurried by the gale,
And not a breath I breathed on land,
For fear their hearts will fail.
Unto the little dove,
He says, “If you will trust in me
I 'll prove to you my love.
Think not they do resound,
Remember, I am present now,
And you shalt ne'er be drowned,
Although within the tide,
Then if you have to suffer here,
I'll linger by your side.”
Not in the least degree,
When I remember heaven smiles,
And Jesus looks on me.
While angels gather nigh,
But if I have to perish here,
On wings of love I 'll fly.
And not a word is said,
Nor foot, if one should tread.
From heart to heart they leap;
Pray tell me who will trust himself
Upon the mighty deep?
Whose heart can never fail,
He quickly comes to her relief,
And with him brings a rail.
From floating isle to land.
And first to step upon the rail
To offer her his hand.
To him I will impart
The richest treasures of my soul,
And dearest of my heart.
To one that 's more severe,
A greater accident than this
Have we among us here.
And downward she is sent,
So Shadd he comes by double quick,
To save her he is bent.
And holds her in his arms,
With fading cheek and throbbing heart,
He looks upon her charms.
Grant each a happy life;
O grant them health, O grant them wealth,
And each a loving wife.
Why do I from them stay;
Is it because I take no part
Within their icy play?
And with them do abound,
And stand between the icy cliffs
That neither one should drown.
Come hither! is my cry,
Unto the right, unto the left,
To either one I fly.
Can angels bear the scene?
For yonder sank my heart's delight,
And floated there my queen.
O whither shall I go
Where billows ebb and flow?
Another icy day,
If it must nip the buds which else
Would bloom so fair in May.
This thought do not erase,
But never hop and skip upon
The deep's cold, icy face.
Of God, who ever reigns,
Who sent his angel of the sea,
To break these icy chains.
Convey them to the hall,
And tell for me the matron dear,
About their icy fall.
For such a hand must be,
They should not trifle with the ice,
Nor with the laughing sea.
No damage has been done
To you young men like heroes stood,
Till you the victory won.
And weeping as we part,
But may each one to each confide
Through time, in each one's heart.
DEDICATED TO THE JUNIOR SOCIETY.
WALDEN'S DEPARTURE FROM THE JUNIOR LITERARY SOCIETY.
For that would be beneath my aim,
And I would crucify my honor,
And put my manhood thus to shame.
To make amends where I was wrong,
I will not trifle with your follies,
Nor raise my hand against the strong.
Your president I did offend,
Pray tell me does he reign supremely?
One uncondemned can he suspend?
And swallow me up heels and head,
If not by a quick and sudden spring,
The victim of your venom fled.
Nor will I tread your winding way,
Wrongward, downward, deep descending,
Oh, vote him out I heard you say.
With upturned eyes towards the sky,
You should not treat an humble member,
That he might from your colors fly.
Is what I long have sought to gain,
In spite of all my humble efforts,
My work to me seems all in vain.
Before another rising sun,
That each may in this fleeting contest
Think that he has the victory won.
Or give to you my heart and hand,
If we could live in union severed,
Or else within this happy band.
Or cords of love which closely bind,
Perhaps from this we 'll take a warning,
May learn to be both just and kind.
A mournful, long and last farewell,
There 're other things around us rising
Which I have not the time to tell.
My prayers shall follow you till death,
Or I may beat a fleeting breath.
THE HAND OF DEATH INVISIBLE.
Shall I refuse to go—
To my eternal destiny,
Of happiness or woe?
Unseen by mortal eye,
I cannot turn to right nor left,
Nor can I from it fly.
That skakes this mortal frame,
'Tis justice making her demand,
And death presents her claim.
From childhood to the grave—
Will break the chain that holds me fast,
Emancipate the slave.
To realms of bliss above,
Where heavenly hosts beyond the clouds
Will greet my soul in love.
CORRESPONDENT SOLICITED.
Miss Virginia Delaney:
Dear Miss: If not mistaken in the person whom I think you are, which can hardly be so, I would like very much to create a correspondence between us, if it would be in accordance with your wishes.
Please consider this proposal and give me an answer at your pleasure.
E'er long its been delighted,
To know thou art a fair young maid
Whom no one yet has slighted.
I glory in its winging;
It whispers through the graceful slides
Virginia oft is singing.
Through rhythm and its measure,
And give the young an upward start,
And thrill each nerve with pleasure?
Think not that I am hasty;
For had I now a second's time,
I 'd say that I am tasty.
Of pity and compassion,
Should like my style and fashion.
Nor down to degradation,
While it shall be my highest aim
To elevate my nation.
And worlds around are swelling,
Therefore it will be thy delight
To overlook my spelling.
Seek well for the intention,
Which nature's hand alone has wrought
In words I need not mention.
Nor add unto my measure,
Except to write without delay
When it may be your pleasure.
IN HONOR OF DR. TABOR JOHNSON.
'Twas on the first of May of last year in our rambles about the vicinity of the Soldiers' Home that I indited “The May Walk,” a small poem to be found in the preceding pages of this volume. This year, on the same day, I was wending my way in an opposite direction—to the Congregational Church— where my esteemed friend, the doctor, was to be married to his now lovely wife. Whilst stopping for a moment to assist
To May, the flowery month of spring,
And, too, with gladsome voice, we 'll hail
The May queen with the bridal veil.
The hills and vales 'round Soldiers' Home—
Was bright with flowers and verdure green,
Fit tributes to thy fairy queen.
We 'll garlands with our poesy blend,
And humbly at your feet now lay
Our offerings to your Queen of May.
In blissful love sit side by side,
Whilst twit'ring birds, with swelling throats,
Are caroling their matin notes.
Of anxious friends, who fondly hope
That each recurring first of May
May prove a golden wedding day.
And may angelic hosts entwine
A wreath for each, of faith and love—
A fadeless crown in Heaven above.
PLACE THY TRUST IN GOD.
Miss Catherine Hill:
Dear Niece: I received yours a few days ago, and was glad to learn that you were all well and anxious to see me return home next Christmas, which I hope to be able to do. I was more than gratified to know that the letter which you sent me was written by your own dear little hand. I did not read very many lines before I was lead to weep to hear you say that you, your mother and your aunt had professed religion, and had joined the church at the old “Quaker Meeting House.” Your beautiful letter carried me back to the old Meeting House. Ah! I imagine that many of the brethren who were accustomed to meet there have fallen asleep and have been long since gathered to their fathers. I am glad to know that the children are seeking their Saviour, and are thus preparing themselves to occupy the positions in the church which their parents must soon vacate.
There is another very striking passage in your epistle, in which you say that the Lord has wonderfully blessed me in taking me from home and placing me in an institution of learning where I may be educated. I would to the Lord that there was a school in your neighborhood, so that instead of learning to read and write in the Sabbath school you could learn more about our blessed Redeemer. You asked me if it is wrong to spend your time this way on the Sabbath. It is a question hard to be answered by myself; but if you were in Washington I suppose I would think it wrong, for here we have both Sabbath and every day schools. But situated as you are, I think it no harm, provided it does not lead to anything more; for it is not so much what one does, but the motive which prompts the act. You also said you wish you had such privileges as I enjoy, that you might study and do more good for the poor children in your neighborhood in the way of teaching them. I sympathize with you much, and were I able you should not pant for learning any longer, but should come even
When I was about giving up all hopes of getting an education I visited President Grant, and after talking to him a while I pulled out a copy of a little poem which I composed, which I presented to him on bidding him good bye. He gave me a warm shake of that heroic hand which so materially aided in emancipating four millions of slaves, crushing the rebellion, and is now so successfully binding the heart of every American to his country's cause, and said, “Never pause until you become educated.” Such words, coming from such a source, to an uncultivated mind, indeed left impressions that time only can efface. But after all I found it was better to trust in God and myself, for there are things which man cannot help us to do, neither can we ask him.
I have written a long letter to you that I might tell you of a Friend to whom you can make all your necessities known; for you will find that there are very dark times in life, and what I have said is true; and when you shall have experienced the truthfulness of it you will exclaim—
Who may our wants and troubles know;
There 're always times when sorrows press:
How dear a friend amid distress.
Even to all eternity,
If we within his love confide,
And haven near his bleeding side.
How angels guard my soul by night,
How happy must my station be
When Christ the Lord remembers me.
An emblem of an endless day;
Should I not count each moment dross,
When I behold my Saviour's cross?
And all my sinful ways forsake.
That when I shall be called to die,
On wings of love to thee I 'll fly.
| Walden's Miscellaneous Poems | |