 | Lines in Pleasant Places |  |
175
MISCELLANEOUS.
177
WHAT MAN DON'T KNOW.
How much men know! 'Tis a constant brag,
And Science puts on a thousand airs,
As she points to the bright advancing flag
That the names of her many conquests bears;
But though they are grand as grand can be,
And such vast acqusitions show,
They are but drops to the infinite sea
Of other things that men don't know.
And Science puts on a thousand airs,
As she points to the bright advancing flag
That the names of her many conquests bears;
But though they are grand as grand can be,
And such vast acqusitions show,
They are but drops to the infinite sea
Of other things that men don't know.
Savants may turn their eyes to the stars,
And scan the wonders depicted there;
How brief the limit their vision bars
In those ample spaces of upper air!
They may dig deep down in the venous earth,
And weigh each grain of the waiting ground,
But they puzzle over the vagrant birth
Of a chance-sown seed in its dark profound.
And scan the wonders depicted there;
How brief the limit their vision bars
In those ample spaces of upper air!
They may dig deep down in the venous earth,
And weigh each grain of the waiting ground,
But they puzzle over the vagrant birth
Of a chance-sown seed in its dark profound.
They may read the track of the craving tide
That fritters away the sturdy rock,
But mightier mysteries abide
Their pygmy efforts may not unlock;
They may scale the mountain, and sink the mine,
May measure distance, and vastness scan;
They know not whence is the diamond's shine,
Nor read in Nature her humblest plan.
That fritters away the sturdy rock,
But mightier mysteries abide
Their pygmy efforts may not unlock;
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May measure distance, and vastness scan;
They know not whence is the diamond's shine,
Nor read in Nature her humblest plan.
And, amid the ranks of men, how dim
Is human vision to reach afar!
Man's brightest glory is but a glim,
To boast the merit of being a star!
Along his journey he haltingly gropes,
With doubtful footsteps and doubtful bent;
His life composed of guesses and hopes,
In airs of weakness and discontent.
Is human vision to reach afar!
Man's brightest glory is but a glim,
To boast the merit of being a star!
Along his journey he haltingly gropes,
With doubtful footsteps and doubtful bent;
His life composed of guesses and hopes,
In airs of weakness and discontent.
With yearning heart, and with onward glance,
He presses along for the hidden goal,
Unknowing whether each step's advance
May give him pleasure or give him dole—
Not knowing if coming time will bestow
A bed of thorns, or of flowery ease;
Revealing how much he doesn't know,
But doing the best as far as he sees.
He presses along for the hidden goal,
Unknowing whether each step's advance
May give him pleasure or give him dole—
Not knowing if coming time will bestow
A bed of thorns, or of flowery ease;
Revealing how much he doesn't know,
But doing the best as far as he sees.
Even the cup of his thirsty need
—Beaming with seeming truth and love—
He shrinks from tasting, with cautious heed,
Lest bitter the tempting beaker prove.
No finger to point, no tongue to tell,
His longing soul the way to pursue,
He loiters, and ponders deep and well,
With a doleful sigh, “If I only knew!”
—Beaming with seeming truth and love—
He shrinks from tasting, with cautious heed,
Lest bitter the tempting beaker prove.
No finger to point, no tongue to tell,
His longing soul the way to pursue,
He loiters, and ponders deep and well,
With a doleful sigh, “If I only knew!”
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But moving along, by faith imbued,
Though dark the way, it is ever right;
E'en though not seeing the sweet flowers strewed,
They send up fragrance to give delight;
Our hand firm clasped in the Hand unseen,
We catch the note of a distant song,
And onward move to the pastures green,
Where the sight is clear and the day is long.
Though dark the way, it is ever right;
E'en though not seeing the sweet flowers strewed,
They send up fragrance to give delight;
Our hand firm clasped in the Hand unseen,
We catch the note of a distant song,
And onward move to the pastures green,
Where the sight is clear and the day is long.
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MY EARLY LOVE.
Sweet effigy of one remote,
'Neath brighter, fairer skies than ours,
'Mid atmospheres that round thee float
Through old Seville's enchanted bowers.
'Neath brighter, fairer skies than ours,
'Mid atmospheres that round thee float
Through old Seville's enchanted bowers.
Thy face restores those golden times
When, by thy side, in tranquil weather,
We sung our songs and read our rhymes
In sweetest harmony together.
When, by thy side, in tranquil weather,
We sung our songs and read our rhymes
In sweetest harmony together.
Thine eyes, upturned with love to mine,
Thrilled me with feeling true and tender;
They seemed like lights upon a shrine,
Illuming with a gentle splendor;—
Thrilled me with feeling true and tender;
They seemed like lights upon a shrine,
Illuming with a gentle splendor;—
And from the bright pellucid beam
That flashed in their resplendent glory,
I caught the flame that lit my dream—
A chapter of the same old story!
That flashed in their resplendent glory,
I caught the flame that lit my dream—
A chapter of the same old story!
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Thy lips, twin rosebuds, breathing sweet,
Bewitched me with their ripe caressing;
I placed my heart beneath thy feet,
And time was joy, and life was blessing.
Bewitched me with their ripe caressing;
I placed my heart beneath thy feet,
And time was joy, and life was blessing.
That brow, the throne of sovereign mind,
Lies calm as summer lake at even,
Reflecting in its field refined
The beauties of the over-heaven.
Lies calm as summer lake at even,
Reflecting in its field refined
The beauties of the over-heaven.
I lived in bliss—a halcyon craze;
Ah, sad the hour of truth's unsealing!
Hope vanished like a morning haze,
And left me but the pain of feeling.
Ah, sad the hour of truth's unsealing!
Hope vanished like a morning haze,
And left me but the pain of feeling.
A dream, a vision of the night,
A fond illusion, tinged with roses—
All with the morning taking flight,
That memory alone discloses.
A fond illusion, tinged with roses—
All with the morning taking flight,
That memory alone discloses.
Hers not the fault, nor mine the fault,
But inauspicious fortune, rather,
Fate's mandate bade proceedings halt,
And that same fate my darling's father!
But inauspicious fortune, rather,
Fate's mandate bade proceedings halt,
And that same fate my darling's father!
He loved me not, and when aware
Of what comprised the “situation,”
He drove us to supreme despair
By his tempestuous objurgation.
Of what comprised the “situation,”
He drove us to supreme despair
By his tempestuous objurgation.
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He vowed he'd make my love a nun,
And me—the thought e'en now amazes!—
Should I across his hawser run,
He swore he'd wallop me like blazes!
And me—the thought e'en now amazes!—
Should I across his hawser run,
He swore he'd wallop me like blazes!
Thus pressed, were we compelled to part
By that old pirate's interdiction;
And this true story of the heart
May waken tears at my affliction.
By that old pirate's interdiction;
And this true story of the heart
May waken tears at my affliction.
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DEBILITY OF THE HEART.
[_]
[In the case of a poor woman found dead in South Street Court, Boston, the coroner's jury returned the verdict, “Died from debility of the heart.”]
Dying, dying, every day,
In hidden place and by the way:
Where Pleasure's giddy votaries throng,
Where Misery applies its thong,
Where smiles light up the speaking face,
Where Fortune yields its richest grace,
Debility of heart has sway:
Dying, dying, every day!
In hidden place and by the way:
Where Pleasure's giddy votaries throng,
Where Misery applies its thong,
Where smiles light up the speaking face,
Where Fortune yields its richest grace,
Debility of heart has sway:
Dying, dying, every day!
O, who may know the pangs that wait
On human hearts disconsolate!—
Unyielding, unremitting pain,
That tears may strive to drown in vain;
Hope all crushed out, the feelings lone,
Life but an incubus of stone;
No lift to clouds of drear dismay:
Dying, dying, every day!
On human hearts disconsolate!—
Unyielding, unremitting pain,
That tears may strive to drown in vain;
Hope all crushed out, the feelings lone,
Life but an incubus of stone;
No lift to clouds of drear dismay:
Dying, dying, every day!
Hidden the barb that gives the wound,
No eye may pierce the deep profound
To where the cankering spirit lies,
Concealed 'neath insincerities;
Feigning that it cannot feel
Beneath the rack's tormenting wheel;
Fretting its very life away—
Dying, dying, every day!
No eye may pierce the deep profound
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Concealed 'neath insincerities;
Feigning that it cannot feel
Beneath the rack's tormenting wheel;
Fretting its very life away—
Dying, dying, every day!
How many hands are stilly pressed
Upon the aching, wounded breast!
Unvoiced the bitterness that reigns,
No solace for abiding pains,
Which, banked below, must yield no trace
To show in sorrow on the face;
And thus, though seeming calm and gay,
Dying, dying, every day!
Upon the aching, wounded breast!
Unvoiced the bitterness that reigns,
No solace for abiding pains,
Which, banked below, must yield no trace
To show in sorrow on the face;
And thus, though seeming calm and gay,
Dying, dying, every day!
“Debility of heart!” God knows
The depth and breadth of human woes,
Though mortal eyes may never see
The secret springs of misery.
And may God help the ones who feel
The pangs of Grief's envenomed steel,
From which, whatever cause it may,
The poor and rich die every day.
The depth and breadth of human woes,
Though mortal eyes may never see
The secret springs of misery.
And may God help the ones who feel
The pangs of Grief's envenomed steel,
From which, whatever cause it may,
The poor and rich die every day.
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BUT: A TRUTH IN HINDOSTAN.
The Nabob wakes, and the golden ray,
Upflushing from the kindling day,
Fills him with pride, such pomp to see,
Greeting a nabob grand as he!
But the Light, impartial, seeks, as well,
The burdened sudra's darkened cell,
By Brahma sent, whose tender care
Gives rich and poor an equal share.
Upflushing from the kindling day,
Fills him with pride, such pomp to see,
Greeting a nabob grand as he!
But the Light, impartial, seeks, as well,
The burdened sudra's darkened cell,
By Brahma sent, whose tender care
Gives rich and poor an equal share.
The Nabob feels the breezes blow,
Cool from the Himalayan snow,
And bares his brow, in his vision dim,
Deeming the blessing all for him!
But the Air, on loving mission, seeks
The swart-browed laborer's burning cheeks,
And sports and plays with Poverty's child,
As if rare gems around it smiled.
Cool from the Himalayan snow,
And bares his brow, in his vision dim,
Deeming the blessing all for him!
But the Air, on loving mission, seeks
The swart-browed laborer's burning cheeks,
And sports and plays with Poverty's child,
As if rare gems around it smiled.
The Nabob walks in the burning sun,
And marks his shadow before him run;
Lifting his head, with pride, to see
Reflected his rich pomposity!
But the Sun as kindly scatters down
His beams for him in the beggar's gown,
And the turban coarse and the turban fine
Reflect the same in his lavish shine.
And marks his shadow before him run;
Lifting his head, with pride, to see
Reflected his rich pomposity!
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His beams for him in the beggar's gown,
And the turban coarse and the turban fine
Reflect the same in his lavish shine.
The Nabob loves with a warmer glow
Than pulses of common blood can know;
Rare gifts, rare offerings, attest
His love to be, over all, the best!
But the Heart with equal fervor teems,
If high or low, with tender dreams,
And all that wealth has e'er confest
Is felt the same in the humblest breast.
Than pulses of common blood can know;
Rare gifts, rare offerings, attest
His love to be, over all, the best!
But the Heart with equal fervor teems,
If high or low, with tender dreams,
And all that wealth has e'er confest
Is felt the same in the humblest breast.
The Nabob dies, and what parade
Above his prostrate form is made!
Sure, earth is honored to hold in trust
The treasure of such distinguished dust!
But the Grave—the Grave—no favor shows
To rich or poor—to friends or foes—
And the lowliest dust in flowers may spring,
As fair as though it had formed a king.
Above his prostrate form is made!
Sure, earth is honored to hold in trust
The treasure of such distinguished dust!
But the Grave—the Grave—no favor shows
To rich or poor—to friends or foes—
And the lowliest dust in flowers may spring,
As fair as though it had formed a king.
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IL REUMATICO TO HIS PIPE.
“SAW HIM.”
“The chamber where the good man meets his fate”—Of poignancies rheumatic and the ills
Attendant, that obtrude to try and vex,
With direful visitings, the weary life,—
Is redolent with odors of Tabac
And liniments unguental that assail
The nostrils with a sharp appeal, until
Sternutatory echoes wake therein,
And oft a word suggestive not of prayer!
That meerschaum there, by generous friendship sent,
Is potent in its ministries when twinge
Spasmodic racks the suffering frame:
Then, when the paroxysms come, filled up
With fragrant “Durham,” and the match
Applied, ascends the curling phantom-cloud,
And mitigates the toe it may not heal.
Divine Tabac! There be who rail at thee,
And call thee vile; but, O, 'mid surging pangs,
How sweet the blast that calm nepenthe gives,
Emollient to pain's pervading thrill,
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—The soul's surcease from brooding misery.
Give me my meerschaum at a time like this,
And any one may take the doctor's stuff.
I cry, as pangs obtrusive start along
The vibrant cords, “Ache, do your very worst;
If you can stand it, I can, thus prepared,
And hence defy you!” So the solace comes,
And for the season sweet relief obtains.
Out through the window, on the busy town,
I sit and gaze in pedal helplessness,
Envious of those who lofty ladders climb;
Or urchins there who dart along the way,
In ragged galligaskins, with their sleds;
E'en of the dogs, rude exponents of health,
Who tantalize me with their boisterous glee.
Give me my meerschaum, Nannie, and anon,
Through coyish openings in the vapory veil,
I'll see creation in another guise—
All softened to a calm, and harmony,
Most sweet, restored betwixt the world and me.
Run, climb, and wrestle, ye athletes; to me
'Tis vulgar thus to waste the vital powers,
While I upon the smoke can soar away
In ampler ethers, where sweet flowers exhale,
And airs celestial waft their breezes o'er
Perennial beds of amaranthine bloom!
No ladder rounds can climb as high as this;
No urchin scale this summit with his sled,
To slide recumbent to the earth again;
No step profane the precinct honoring me.
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And singed by visitation scoriac—
The fiery trial thou hast sent to me
More grateful is than fruit of orient climes,
In whose mild sacrifice my heart delights,
—Maugre the protest of attendant femmes,—
And azure demons, exorcised, depart,
As on the ambient air the incense floats
From this my censer, eloquent with thee.
I wave my crutch in benison, and, renewed,
Hope tells the “flat-iron tale” of life again,
And steps that halt not with the ball and chain
Of fierce distemper which now hold me fast.
And thus I “puff,” with gratitude sincere,
The genius of the hour—my Banfield pipe.
190
TRUST.
On the chilly morn of an April day,In their beds the small plants shivering lay,
The biting wind from the northern hills
Filled their tender forms with ague chills,
And they scarcely dared unfold their eyes,
Though the season said 'twas time to rise.
At length, though purpling with the cold,
A Crocus peeped from beneath the mould,
And waked a Narcissus, sleeping near,
By shaking icicles in its ear.
“Say,” said the Crocus, “shall we start?”
Narcissus said feebly, “I haven't the heart,
And, should this cold much longer hap,
I shall extend my winter nap.”
A Hyacinth, hearing the sound, awoke,
And thus with a chattering accent spoke:
“Let us lie in our beds, since Nature forgets,
And comfort ourselves with our coverlets,
I for one will never get up
While the air is so cold; it will freeze my cup.”
A little Anemone trembling lay,
Thinking of what it heard them say.
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And sharply the tender buds doth pierce,
But let us be up with cheerful trust,
And shake from our eyes obscuring dust,
That keeps us from seeing good in store
In our present moody feelings sore—
For release will come, and the gentle rain
And the golden sun will cheer again;
Although withholden, have no fear,
The glory of spring will soon be here.
Then let us shoot our pistils all,
Nor wait to receive a second call.”
The faith of the little Anemone
Quickened the floral family,
And 'twere a wonder if spring's gay bowers
Were not all bright with buds and flowers.
How often will raise us from the dust
One little word of hope and trust!
192
THANKSGIVING TIME.
“Come, let us give thanks,”
Says Governor Banks,
And at once preparation is heard in all ranks.
Many and bright the scenes that are planned,
Many the hearts that with gladness expand,
Many the hopes with fruition at hand,
And the voice of the turkey is heard in the land!
For Thanksgiving Day
Is welcomed alway,
—A heart-warming, genial, glorious season,—
When the feelings, repressed
By traffic's behest,
On one day, at least, for dominion contest,
And strive as of old to be specially blest,
While care is a species of treason;
When plenty and fun and plenty of fun
Mark the glad hours as onward they run
With lots of rhyme and reason.
Says Governor Banks,
And at once preparation is heard in all ranks.
Many and bright the scenes that are planned,
Many the hearts that with gladness expand,
Many the hopes with fruition at hand,
And the voice of the turkey is heard in the land!
For Thanksgiving Day
Is welcomed alway,
—A heart-warming, genial, glorious season,—
When the feelings, repressed
By traffic's behest,
On one day, at least, for dominion contest,
And strive as of old to be specially blest,
While care is a species of treason;
When plenty and fun and plenty of fun
Mark the glad hours as onward they run
With lots of rhyme and reason.
The city shuts up shop for the day,
And oldest and youngest play or pray,
The churches are oped in the ancient way
For preachers to utter whatever they may,
With few to listen to what they say,
While all the chaises and carriages
Are dashing around with merry loads
Of babies dressed in their prettiest modes,
To dump at the doors of kindred abodes,
Or filled with those still happier nodes
Who rush to try that best of codes
Which binds us up in marriages.
And true benevolence outpours,
And wealth disseminates its stores,
To glad the poor and stricken;
With dimming eyes, from tears that start,
The generous ones their cheer impart,
With warm emotion in their heart,
While in their hands is chicken!
And oldest and youngest play or pray,
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For preachers to utter whatever they may,
With few to listen to what they say,
While all the chaises and carriages
Are dashing around with merry loads
Of babies dressed in their prettiest modes,
To dump at the doors of kindred abodes,
Or filled with those still happier nodes
Who rush to try that best of codes
Which binds us up in marriages.
And true benevolence outpours,
And wealth disseminates its stores,
To glad the poor and stricken;
With dimming eyes, from tears that start,
The generous ones their cheer impart,
With warm emotion in their heart,
While in their hands is chicken!
Now trunks are stowed,
And over the road
That leads to his old far-away abode
The son in his course is bending;
His heart beats high
As that home draws nigh,
And he sees against the distant sky
The village spire ascending;
While many a glance
Is cast askance
Over the road, as the hours advance,
By which he must be wending—
The dear boy Tim,
Or the dear boy Jim,
No matter the name, they look for him,
Their love impatience lending!—
Or 'Liza Jane returns from town,
With her nobby bonnet and silken gown,
And then a hoop to take all down
That may chance to come before her,
Raising the envy of all of those
Not able to get such spacious clo'es,
Who sneer, perhaps, and turn up their nose,
While she takes the eye of the rural beaux,
Who vow that “she's a roarer!”
—Perhaps Aurora is what they mean—
They bow to the magic of crinoline,
And were she goddess or were she queen
They couldn't more adore her.
They swow and snum, and vow and vum,
That they're darned glad she's happened hum,
And go away she shan't, by gum,
For them to so deplore her!
And over the road
That leads to his old far-away abode
The son in his course is bending;
His heart beats high
As that home draws nigh,
And he sees against the distant sky
The village spire ascending;
While many a glance
Is cast askance
Over the road, as the hours advance,
By which he must be wending—
The dear boy Tim,
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No matter the name, they look for him,
Their love impatience lending!—
Or 'Liza Jane returns from town,
With her nobby bonnet and silken gown,
And then a hoop to take all down
That may chance to come before her,
Raising the envy of all of those
Not able to get such spacious clo'es,
Who sneer, perhaps, and turn up their nose,
While she takes the eye of the rural beaux,
Who vow that “she's a roarer!”
—Perhaps Aurora is what they mean—
They bow to the magic of crinoline,
And were she goddess or were she queen
They couldn't more adore her.
They swow and snum, and vow and vum,
That they're darned glad she's happened hum,
And go away she shan't, by gum,
For them to so deplore her!
Delicious meetings,
Delicious greetings
As saccharine as Harvest Sweetings,
With such affectionate pother!
Where brothers and sisters in fond embrace
Press heart to heart and face to face,
And kisses are given, with unctuous grace,
That threaten almost to smother;
And cousins are kissed with sweet concern,
Who do not pout and spitefully spurn,
But who, when kissed on one cheek, turn
With Christian grace the other!
Delicious greetings
As saccharine as Harvest Sweetings,
With such affectionate pother!
Where brothers and sisters in fond embrace
Press heart to heart and face to face,
And kisses are given, with unctuous grace,
That threaten almost to smother;
And cousins are kissed with sweet concern,
Who do not pout and spitefully spurn,
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With Christian grace the other!
The mother's tears descend like rain
To welcome her darlings back again;
The thought of their perils has given her pain,
And the father's heart was sad;
But the face is honest, the eye is bright,
And they read the open book aright,
That sin has not eclipsed the light
That made their hearts once glad.
To welcome her darlings back again;
The thought of their perils has given her pain,
And the father's heart was sad;
But the face is honest, the eye is bright,
And they read the open book aright,
That sin has not eclipsed the light
That made their hearts once glad.
The horse in the stall, the dog at the door,
Are loved, and caressed, and kissed once more,
And smiles are joyously beaming,
And the pullets, destined for them to die,
Look on the scene with a cheerful eye,
In sympathetic seeming.
Are loved, and caressed, and kissed once more,
And smiles are joyously beaming,
And the pullets, destined for them to die,
Look on the scene with a cheerful eye,
In sympathetic seeming.
The land is vocal with psalm and prayer,
And joy's glad note sounds everywhere
A festival oblation,
And savory steams like clouds arise,
To tickle the palate and glad the eyes
Of lovers of virtue and pumpkin pies,
Where grave and gay, and dull and wise,
Pay tribute to gustation.
And joy's glad note sounds everywhere
A festival oblation,
And savory steams like clouds arise,
To tickle the palate and glad the eyes
Of lovers of virtue and pumpkin pies,
Where grave and gay, and dull and wise,
Pay tribute to gustation.
Then welcome the day,
As well we may,
That drives from our hearts dull care away,
Renewing the bond
Of affection fond
In hearts where living instincts play,
As crannies are lit by the sun's glad ray.
As well we may,
That drives from our hearts dull care away,
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Of affection fond
In hearts where living instincts play,
As crannies are lit by the sun's glad ray.
And may our hearts in praise expand
Of the blessed God of the sea and land,
Whose ever-bounteous, loving hand
Has placed such blessings at our command,
And given us power to gratefully feel
The good that all our days reveal;
And Governor Banks's
Call for thanks is
One that we cheerfully obey,
And thankful feel Thanksgiving Day.
Of the blessed God of the sea and land,
Whose ever-bounteous, loving hand
Has placed such blessings at our command,
And given us power to gratefully feel
The good that all our days reveal;
And Governor Banks's
Call for thanks is
One that we cheerfully obey,
And thankful feel Thanksgiving Day.
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SNOWED IN.
On Pokono, with storm and darkness blent,
The winds in chorus howling round the summit,
We labored 'gainst the snow up the ascent,
With futile offering to overcome it.
The winds in chorus howling round the summit,
We labored 'gainst the snow up the ascent,
With futile offering to overcome it.
The hurtling drift dashed madly 'gainst the pane,
As if to overwhelm us its endeavor,
While surged the car beneath the fearful strain,
As though it yielded to some mighty lever.
As if to overwhelm us its endeavor,
While surged the car beneath the fearful strain,
As though it yielded to some mighty lever.
Dimly the lights shone through the brooding gloom,
And eyes looked into eyes with anxious glances,
As, like the knell of an impending doom,
The hoarse storm led the measure of our fancies.
And eyes looked into eyes with anxious glances,
As, like the knell of an impending doom,
The hoarse storm led the measure of our fancies.
Like sheeted ghosts the snow-clouds sped along
Before the icy wind's remorseless urging,
And shrieked discordant, like a madman's song,
Threating our instantaneous submerging.
Before the icy wind's remorseless urging,
And shrieked discordant, like a madman's song,
Threating our instantaneous submerging.
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How dreary passed the hours!—no note of cheer
Gave hope the spur, and every lagging minute
Was fraught with pending misery and fear,
And every breath bore desperation in it.
Gave hope the spur, and every lagging minute
Was fraught with pending misery and fear,
And every breath bore desperation in it.
Philosophy was vain; we could not bear
The vexed delay that in such durance held us,
Yet could not help ourselves, whate'er our care,
And bore, unbearing, as stern Fate compelled us.
The vexed delay that in such durance held us,
Yet could not help ourselves, whate'er our care,
And bore, unbearing, as stern Fate compelled us.
At last, amid the gloom that reigned around,
Hope reared anew its dear, inspiring banner,
And music rested in the voice's sound
That spoke of sweet release and Tobyhanna.
Hope reared anew its dear, inspiring banner,
And music rested in the voice's sound
That spoke of sweet release and Tobyhanna.
Terra incognita!—a land unknown—
But, O, how sweet the cadence to our hearing!
We felt our burden suddenly o'erthrown,
With Joy and Plenty for our rescue nearing.
But, O, how sweet the cadence to our hearing!
We felt our burden suddenly o'erthrown,
With Joy and Plenty for our rescue nearing.
Blest land of hope! how bright to us it seemed!—
Even its name uncouth made prepossessing;
No more the piling snow we misery deemed
With Tobyhanna its pretensions pressing.
Even its name uncouth made prepossessing;
No more the piling snow we misery deemed
With Tobyhanna its pretensions pressing.
And then, as if responsive to our prayer,
There fell a sudden calm, the tempest quelling;
And the round moon, upon the tranquil air,
Shone forth, all shapes of fear and gloom dispelling.
There fell a sudden calm, the tempest quelling;
And the round moon, upon the tranquil air,
Shone forth, all shapes of fear and gloom dispelling.
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Once more the wheels, obedient to the steam,
Moved o'er the rail in their accustomed manner,
Bearing us towards the object of our dream,
The coveted and bounteous Tobyhanna.
Moved o'er the rail in their accustomed manner,
Bearing us towards the object of our dream,
The coveted and bounteous Tobyhanna.
And soon, surrounded by a generous band,
With plenty laden, we forgot our panic
In luxury, the product of the land,
Possessed of appetite the most titanic.
With plenty laden, we forgot our panic
In luxury, the product of the land,
Possessed of appetite the most titanic.
The feasts ambrosial of the heathen gods
Were great affairs, as told by classic scribblers,
But Tobyhanna gave Olympus odds,
And, matched with us, the gods were merely nibblers.
Were great affairs, as told by classic scribblers,
But Tobyhanna gave Olympus odds,
And, matched with us, the gods were merely nibblers.
As when the Jews passed through the wilderness,
And, famishing, were fed by heavenly manna,
So on our palates, with all power to bless,
Fell the rich benefit of Tobyhanna.
And, famishing, were fed by heavenly manna,
So on our palates, with all power to bless,
Fell the rich benefit of Tobyhanna.
And memory'll grow blind, and deaf, and dumb,
And lost to every sense of grateful feeling,
If ever, in the time that is to come,
It should forget that incident congealing,—
And lost to every sense of grateful feeling,
If ever, in the time that is to come,
It should forget that incident congealing,—
When, merging from the snows of Pokono,
With joyous lips in jubilant hosanna,
We felt the fires of reassurance glow
Within the sheltering arms of Tobyhanna.
With joyous lips in jubilant hosanna,
We felt the fires of reassurance glow
Within the sheltering arms of Tobyhanna.
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AFFECTION'S TRIBUTE.
'Twas busy seed time, yet in many a fieldLabor was stayed, and those whose sturdy hands
Beckoned to thrift by timely ministries
Had left their calling, and, in decent garb,
Thronged onward, where the melancholy bell
Proclaimed the doings of relentless Death;
To give their sympathy to those who mourned,
And shed, themselves, a tributary tear,
For one among them, who had bowed his head
To the stern summons, painfully delayed.
And then, amid the blooming sweets of spring—
The trees unfolding in the bright array
That clothes the joyous season—swept along
The sombre hearse, and the long train of those
Who mourned, as relatives and friends, for him
Whose loving eyes had closed to scenes of earth,
To open on the brighter ones of heaven.
They came from far and near, tender and sad,
The last kind offices on earth to pay,
And Nature seemed to hush, and hold her breath,
As on the solemn pageant swept, to where
The grave was waiting, and funereal rites.
It was no hero that they honored thus—
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Had thrilled the public ear by trick of words;
Nor one who'd thrust himself before the gaze
Of crowds to win fame's meed by other means.
A simple farmer—this, and nothing more—
An unpretending, plain, and honest man,
With no ill brooding in his truthful heart,
And none to utter by his manly lips:
Loving the good, and doing good and true
In all his dealings with his fellow-man.
I gazed upon the pageant, and of one
Who was of those that formed the waiting group,
I asked the meaning of the tribute shown—
Tempting the answer that I knew before:
“Why this display of grief?” I said, “for him
Whose lot was cast in such a homely mould?
Why do the farmers leave their fields for this?”
He was a man uncouth—to sentiment unused—
But, brushing off a tear that dimmed his eye,
He said, half sternly, “Why, the fact is here;
We honor pay, because we loved him so.”
Ye grand and mighty, where is honor found,
So glorious in its offerings, as this,
That rests its giving on the simple claim
For honor's tribute that it loveth so?
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CHRISTMAS.
The tranquil stars shone on the plain
Where “shepherds watched their flocks by night,’
When broke from heaven that wondrous strain,
And flashed abroad that wondrous light,
Filling their humble souls with fright:
“Peace, peace on earth! To men good will!”
So rang the strain, and angels bright
Sounded God's glory, that did thrill
With glad accord of sound and sight.—
Where “shepherds watched their flocks by night,’
When broke from heaven that wondrous strain,
And flashed abroad that wondrous light,
Filling their humble souls with fright:
“Peace, peace on earth! To men good will!”
So rang the strain, and angels bright
Sounded God's glory, that did thrill
With glad accord of sound and sight.—
“Good tidings of great joy we bring,
For Christ the Lord is born to-day!
He is your Saviour, and your King!”
Then vanished into heaven away
The angelic host, and darkness lay
On the calm hills and streams around,
While, dazed with the sublime display,
The shepherds bowed in awe profound.
For Christ the Lord is born to-day!
He is your Saviour, and your King!”
Then vanished into heaven away
The angelic host, and darkness lay
On the calm hills and streams around,
While, dazed with the sublime display,
The shepherds bowed in awe profound.
Not to the magi first it came;
The shepherds caught the earliest word,
And in the flood of song and flame
Beheld the glory of the Lord!—
The learned and grand their tribute showered,
But first received, the poor man's gift
Of worship, that unstinted poured
From hearts with joyousness uplift.
The shepherds caught the earliest word,
And in the flood of song and flame
Beheld the glory of the Lord!—
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But first received, the poor man's gift
Of worship, that unstinted poured
From hearts with joyousness uplift.
The angel message rings the earth,
The good news to its triumph speeds;
New truths of “good to men” have birth,
Response to prayer of human needs.
Though Truth be poor, and pines and bleeds,
Its saving mission will not die;
It springs again, and yet succeeds,
To work in good its ministry.
The good news to its triumph speeds;
New truths of “good to men” have birth,
Response to prayer of human needs.
Though Truth be poor, and pines and bleeds,
Its saving mission will not die;
It springs again, and yet succeeds,
To work in good its ministry.
The same grand message from the sky,
The same old glory greets the ken;
All “glory be to God on high,
And peace on earth, good will to men!”
The truth, in Christ, renews again,
With every effort man to bless,
And His embodiment is plain
In all enacted righteousness.
The same old glory greets the ken;
All “glory be to God on high,
And peace on earth, good will to men!”
The truth, in Christ, renews again,
With every effort man to bless,
And His embodiment is plain
In all enacted righteousness.
E'en now, as then, the humble mind
Sees the first coming from afar;
The magi seek the babe to find
And follow his directing star;
And Herods of the race still are,
Who tremble at the growth of Truth,
And wickedly its course would bar
By killing it in early youth.
Sees the first coming from afar;
The magi seek the babe to find
And follow his directing star;
And Herods of the race still are,
Who tremble at the growth of Truth,
And wickedly its course would bar
By killing it in early youth.
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Christ's truth shall grow to strive and bless,
Till all the world its worth shall know,
And every tongue its power confess,
And earth redeemed its triumphs show;
Then once again the strain shall flow
That tells of peace through victory won,
And every human heart shall glow
With joy in Mary's holy Son.
Till all the world its worth shall know,
And every tongue its power confess,
And earth redeemed its triumphs show;
Then once again the strain shall flow
That tells of peace through victory won,
And every human heart shall glow
With joy in Mary's holy Son.
Thank God for Christmas!—'tis a boon—
A precious stopping-place in time;
The heart, with peace and love attune,
Glads with the note of Christmas chime.
In every land, in every clime,
This day all discord under ban,
Is heard the symphony sublime—
Of “peace on earth, good will to man!”
A precious stopping-place in time;
The heart, with peace and love attune,
Glads with the note of Christmas chime.
In every land, in every clime,
This day all discord under ban,
Is heard the symphony sublime—
Of “peace on earth, good will to man!”
205
THE OLD SEXTON.
The news comes sadly to our ears—
The good old man has flown,
Who long hath furnished other's biers,
And now hath filled his own!
In Death's employ his lot was cast,
—Prime minister of woe—
And sore it grieves us at the last,
That we shall look on the face of the Old Sexton no mo.
The good old man has flown,
Who long hath furnished other's biers,
And now hath filled his own!
In Death's employ his lot was cast,
—Prime minister of woe—
And sore it grieves us at the last,
That we shall look on the face of the Old Sexton no mo.
A rough and rugged man was he,
—A man of sturdy mould,—
One might not from the surface see
The feeling that controlled;
But all of woman's tenderness
Dwelt in the heart below,
As hundreds he has soothed confess,
Who will look on the face of the Old Sexton no mo.
—A man of sturdy mould,—
One might not from the surface see
The feeling that controlled;
But all of woman's tenderness
Dwelt in the heart below,
As hundreds he has soothed confess,
Who will look on the face of the Old Sexton no mo.
Where Death his fatal dart has thrown,
His was the tender task
To do the last sad office known
Humanity might ask.
What feeling care, what gentle grace
Did he alway bestow!
Ah, many sigh, who this retrace,
That they'll look on the face of the Old Sexton no mo.
His was the tender task
206
Humanity might ask.
What feeling care, what gentle grace
Did he alway bestow!
Ah, many sigh, who this retrace,
That they'll look on the face of the Old Sexton no mo.
He had few words withal to soothe,
But they were of the best,
That served the waves of grief to smooth,
And comfort the distrest;
But action more than word declared
His kindly feeling's flow,
And sadder they, whose grief he's shared,
That they'll behold the face of the Old Sexton no mo.
But they were of the best,
That served the waves of grief to smooth,
And comfort the distrest;
But action more than word declared
His kindly feeling's flow,
And sadder they, whose grief he's shared,
That they'll behold the face of the Old Sexton no mo.
Where grief in ostentatious guise
Demanded proud display,
He'd to the great occasion rise
In a befitting way;
Who've seen him wave the bannered pall,
And ope Death's portmanteau,
Will sigh, as they his form recall,
That they shall see the face of the Old Sexton no mo.
Demanded proud display,
He'd to the great occasion rise
In a befitting way;
Who've seen him wave the bannered pall,
And ope Death's portmanteau,
Will sigh, as they his form recall,
That they shall see the face of the Old Sexton no mo.
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The strong, the weak, the old, the young,
Like objects of his care,
He made no difference among,
Nor 'twixt the plain and fair;
Impartially he gave them room
Beneath the flowers or snow,
And mourners over many a tomb
Will sigh that they shall look on the Old Sexton no mo.
Like objects of his care,
He made no difference among,
Nor 'twixt the plain and fair;
Impartially he gave them room
Beneath the flowers or snow,
And mourners over many a tomb
Will sigh that they shall look on the Old Sexton no mo.
Impartial minister of fate,
The high and low he served;
Insignia or costly plate
Him ne'er from duty swerved.
He closed from sight with equal care
The rich and poor in woe,
And all will in the sorrow share
That they'll look on the face of the Old Sexton no mo.
The high and low he served;
Insignia or costly plate
Him ne'er from duty swerved.
He closed from sight with equal care
The rich and poor in woe,
And all will in the sorrow share
That they'll look on the face of the Old Sexton no mo.
And now he's gone—the pitying earth
Has closed above his breast;
The flowers will soon spring into birth,
And bloom above his rest;
While we above his dust shall say,
As breezes whisper low,
“Ah, sad 'twill be, and well it may,
For we shall look on the face of the Old Sexton no mo.
Has closed above his breast;
The flowers will soon spring into birth,
And bloom above his rest;
While we above his dust shall say,
As breezes whisper low,
“Ah, sad 'twill be, and well it may,
For we shall look on the face of the Old Sexton no mo.
208
STRAWBERRIES.
In the old-time summer day,
Cheerily we took our way
To the meadows, where we knew
Ripe and luscious strawberries grew,
Nodding on their bending stems
With the glow of beryl gems.
Bobolink, with angry tone,
Claimed the berries as his own,
While the Robin, perching near,
Piped his protest, sharp and clear,
Telling us, in accents plain,
We infringed on his domain!
Cheerily we took our way
To the meadows, where we knew
Ripe and luscious strawberries grew,
Nodding on their bending stems
With the glow of beryl gems.
Bobolink, with angry tone,
Claimed the berries as his own,
While the Robin, perching near,
Piped his protest, sharp and clear,
Telling us, in accents plain,
We infringed on his domain!
Then how sweet the breezes were,
Blowing through our unkempt hair!
And the breath of clover bloom
Lent its burden of perfume,
And the hum of busy bees
Swelled the choral symphonies,
As we through the meadows went,
On our strawberries intent.
Such companionship we knew,
In that day of pleasure, too!
No such friends in later days
As those partners in our plays.
True, unselfish, earnest, free,
A united band were we.
We were many, bound as one,
In the unity of fun.
Blowing through our unkempt hair!
And the breath of clover bloom
Lent its burden of perfume,
And the hum of busy bees
Swelled the choral symphonies,
As we through the meadows went,
On our strawberries intent.
209
In that day of pleasure, too!
No such friends in later days
As those partners in our plays.
True, unselfish, earnest, free,
A united band were we.
We were many, bound as one,
In the unity of fun.
The world has drawn us, since, apart,
And chilled the ardor of the heart;
Yet one tie asserts its claim:
Strawberries we love the same,
As we picked them ripe and red,
In the merry days long fled.
And chilled the ardor of the heart;
Yet one tie asserts its claim:
Strawberries we love the same,
As we picked them ripe and red,
In the merry days long fled.
Still, when grown to thoughtful men,
Strawberries sought we e'en as then;
But another name they bore
Than the berries plucked of yore.
Some assumed the form of Place,
Leading on a weary chase,
O'er a rough and tortuous way,
Seeking strawberries that “pay.”
Sacrificing honor's trust,
Crawling humbly in the dust,
Fawning, lying, crowding, hating,
E'en for dead men's shoes awaiting!
For such strawberries many yearned—
Few with brimming pails returned.
Some with fierce Ambition fraught,
Fame's bright berries anxious sought,
Roaming fields whose ample scope,
Yielded to their wish and hope,
Till the fruit they sought was gained,
But the basket full obtained
Gave not the glow of heartfelt joy
That crowned the seeking of the boy.
Strawberries sought we e'en as then;
But another name they bore
Than the berries plucked of yore.
Some assumed the form of Place,
Leading on a weary chase,
O'er a rough and tortuous way,
Seeking strawberries that “pay.”
Sacrificing honor's trust,
Crawling humbly in the dust,
Fawning, lying, crowding, hating,
E'en for dead men's shoes awaiting!
For such strawberries many yearned—
Few with brimming pails returned.
210
Fame's bright berries anxious sought,
Roaming fields whose ample scope,
Yielded to their wish and hope,
Till the fruit they sought was gained,
But the basket full obtained
Gave not the glow of heartfelt joy
That crowned the seeking of the boy.
Others Money, Money, craved—
Every peril for it braved;
Giving for the fruitage, Pelf,
All the betterness of self.
Strawberries their constant cry,
Seeking them with eager eye;
But, though granted all their wish,
They were verjuice in the dish.
Such for me exert no power—
'Tis a fruit that's far too sour.
Every peril for it braved;
Giving for the fruitage, Pelf,
All the betterness of self.
Strawberries their constant cry,
Seeking them with eager eye;
But, though granted all their wish,
They were verjuice in the dish.
Such for me exert no power—
'Tis a fruit that's far too sour.
Love, a strawberry very sweet,
Lured our youthful hearts and feet,
Seen in eyes and red lips, rare,
Rich as Hovey's Seedlings are,
And in rapturous look or kiss,
We had baskets full of bliss!
Sweet the breath of clover blooms,
Sweet the myriad perfumes
That fill the summer's sunny hours,
Redolent with buds and flowers;
Sweet the song of bird or bee,
Or the forest melody,
As, amid the tree-tops high,
Breezes through the branches sigh;
Sweet the dashing of the stream,
Flowing like a joyous dream,
Cheering the surrounding scene
With an added wealth of green;
But, of all the sweets I know,
None a rivalry can show
With the love of Youth's bright year,
Gladdening the atmosphere—
Measuring the passing time
By heart-throbs pulsing into rhyme,
While the glow of stars and suns
Into life's enactment runs,
Making earth all saccharine
—Strawberries of sort divine;
O'er all other sorts supreme—
Sugar needing not, nor cream!
Lured our youthful hearts and feet,
Seen in eyes and red lips, rare,
Rich as Hovey's Seedlings are,
And in rapturous look or kiss,
We had baskets full of bliss!
Sweet the breath of clover blooms,
Sweet the myriad perfumes
That fill the summer's sunny hours,
Redolent with buds and flowers;
Sweet the song of bird or bee,
211
As, amid the tree-tops high,
Breezes through the branches sigh;
Sweet the dashing of the stream,
Flowing like a joyous dream,
Cheering the surrounding scene
With an added wealth of green;
But, of all the sweets I know,
None a rivalry can show
With the love of Youth's bright year,
Gladdening the atmosphere—
Measuring the passing time
By heart-throbs pulsing into rhyme,
While the glow of stars and suns
Into life's enactment runs,
Making earth all saccharine
—Strawberries of sort divine;
O'er all other sorts supreme—
Sugar needing not, nor cream!
Many were the kinds thus sought
With diverse successes fraught;
Many baskets running o'er,
Many with but meagre store.
Some, phantoms followed, day by day,
Frittering their time away—
Seeking Fashion, Pleasure, Ease,
Plucking worldly vanities,
Ending with the piteous dole,
Blank vacuity of soul!
Happy those who early knew
Where the Wisdom berries grew!
Grand the fruitage thus to gain,
Worth all effort to obtain;
Strawberries, for which sacrifice
And earnest striving are the price.
With diverse successes fraught;
Many baskets running o'er,
Many with but meagre store.
Some, phantoms followed, day by day,
Frittering their time away—
Seeking Fashion, Pleasure, Ease,
Plucking worldly vanities,
Ending with the piteous dole,
Blank vacuity of soul!
212
Where the Wisdom berries grew!
Grand the fruitage thus to gain,
Worth all effort to obtain;
Strawberries, for which sacrifice
And earnest striving are the price.
And we still our strawberries seek,
By the dint of wit or cheek;
Young and old their bent pursue,
To the olden impulse true,
Striving strawberries to possess,
With like chances of success.
May Heaven its kindness manifest,
And lead us all to choose the best.
By the dint of wit or cheek;
Young and old their bent pursue,
To the olden impulse true,
Striving strawberries to possess,
With like chances of success.
May Heaven its kindness manifest,
And lead us all to choose the best.
213
THE OLD BROMFIELD HOUSE.
[_]
[Sung at the Last Dinner enjoyed in the old house, previous to its being taken down, to make way for the Wesleyan Building.]
Exalt your voice in hearty cheer,
Though tears bedim your eye,
To crown this scene, with memories dear,
To which we bid good by.
A thousand recollections sweet
O'erflow the brimming heart,
As here, where long we've met to meat,
Do we now meet to part.
Though tears bedim your eye,
To crown this scene, with memories dear,
To which we bid good by.
A thousand recollections sweet
O'erflow the brimming heart,
As here, where long we've met to meat,
Do we now meet to part.
The odors of a thousand feasts,
Like ghosts, the sense assail;
The low of sacrificial beasts
In fancy fills the gale;
The crowded board comes up to view,
Where long we've met to dine,
And word and smile appear anew,
As in the days lang syne.
Like ghosts, the sense assail;
The low of sacrificial beasts
In fancy fills the gale;
The crowded board comes up to view,
Where long we've met to dine,
And word and smile appear anew,
As in the days lang syne.
A cheerful heart—best condiment—
Gave zest to every dish,
And epicurean relish lent
To flesh, and fowl, and fish.
The brightest hour of all the day
—And bright if rain or shine—
That brought us hither on our way,
In days of auld lang syne.
Gave zest to every dish,
214
To flesh, and fowl, and fish.
The brightest hour of all the day
—And bright if rain or shine—
That brought us hither on our way,
In days of auld lang syne.
The fairest scenes of earth will fade;
And this, so long our own,
By sacred friendship joyous made,
In heart must live alone.
But that we've had is surely ours;
Let whate'er may combine,
They cannot trample out the flowers
That bloomed in auld lang syne.
And this, so long our own,
By sacred friendship joyous made,
In heart must live alone.
But that we've had is surely ours;
Let whate'er may combine,
They cannot trample out the flowers
That bloomed in auld lang syne.
Then cherished be in memory's nook
This spot by us revered,
And every smile, and word, and look,
That has its past endeared.
We raise our song with hearty cheer,
Though rue and rose entwine,
And in our cup of joy a tear
We drop for auld lang syne.
This spot by us revered,
And every smile, and word, and look,
That has its past endeared.
We raise our song with hearty cheer,
Though rue and rose entwine,
And in our cup of joy a tear
We drop for auld lang syne.
215
DREAM ARROWS.
Sitting here at the twilight dim,
Making arrows for little Jim!—
The curling shavings fall around,
Noiselessly upon the ground,
While o'er my yielding spirit steals
A misty spell that all conceals
Of past or present, bearing me
Over a wide and troubled sea,
With shattered hopes, like wrecks, bestrown,
And half-accomplished trophies won,
To where a Jim of other name
Whittled arrows just the same.
Making arrows for little Jim!—
The curling shavings fall around,
Noiselessly upon the ground,
While o'er my yielding spirit steals
A misty spell that all conceals
Of past or present, bearing me
Over a wide and troubled sea,
With shattered hopes, like wrecks, bestrown,
And half-accomplished trophies won,
To where a Jim of other name
Whittled arrows just the same.
O, sweet the quick, tumultuous thrill,
As boyhood's tide my veins refill!
I roam again the verdant fields,
I feel the transport freedom yields,
I smell the sweet balsamic pines,
In tranquil shades my form reclines,
I seek the hush of rural nooks,
I bathe in cool and crystal brooks,
I gather berries where they hide,
I sail upon the Summer tide,
The ball before my arm bounds high,
My kite in daring scales the sky,
I feel the plenitude of joy
That waits upon “the human boy.”
As boyhood's tide my veins refill!
I roam again the verdant fields,
I feel the transport freedom yields,
I smell the sweet balsamic pines,
In tranquil shades my form reclines,
I seek the hush of rural nooks,
I bathe in cool and crystal brooks,
I gather berries where they hide,
I sail upon the Summer tide,
216
My kite in daring scales the sky,
I feel the plenitude of joy
That waits upon “the human boy.”
What castellated hopes arise,
And gleam before my eager eyes!
How richly are the low clouds hung
With brilliant colors broadcast flung,
And how I long to breast the tide
Which keeps me from the other side—
So far, so wide, the buoyant soul
Scarce brooks the leash of Time's control!
And gleam before my eager eyes!
How richly are the low clouds hung
With brilliant colors broadcast flung,
And how I long to breast the tide
Which keeps me from the other side—
So far, so wide, the buoyant soul
Scarce brooks the leash of Time's control!
But dreams!—The curling shavings fall;
The spell dissolves, and, vanished all
The mystic shadows that bespread
The bended form and silvery head,
Reveals me, in the twilight dim,
Making arrows for little Jim!
Yet still remains the better part,
The constant cheerfulness of heart,
The joyous fancy that shall keep
Till life is “rounded by a sleep.”
The spell dissolves, and, vanished all
The mystic shadows that bespread
The bended form and silvery head,
Reveals me, in the twilight dim,
Making arrows for little Jim!
Yet still remains the better part,
The constant cheerfulness of heart,
The joyous fancy that shall keep
Till life is “rounded by a sleep.”
217
THE CHURCH BELL.
Not in a lofty steeple,
Looking down upon the people,
The Church Bell swings;
But from a modest throne
And in a gladsome tone
Its peal outrings
Till every kindly spirit
Shall with a blessing hear it,
And each one feel
Its sweet appeal;—
Feel in their heart of heart
The generous impulse start,
Feel with its every note
The good they should promote,
Feel as its echoes sound
A love more broad abound;
With ready hand,
At its demand,
Feel in their pockets—plenty-crowned—
And, answering to its chimes,
Bring forth their dimes!
Looking down upon the people,
The Church Bell swings;
But from a modest throne
And in a gladsome tone
Its peal outrings
Till every kindly spirit
Shall with a blessing hear it,
And each one feel
Its sweet appeal;—
Feel in their heart of heart
The generous impulse start,
Feel with its every note
The good they should promote,
Feel as its echoes sound
A love more broad abound;
With ready hand,
At its demand,
Feel in their pockets—plenty-crowned—
218
Bring forth their dimes!
The Church Bell's tongue
Inflicts no pangs along
The path it sounds—with scandal fraught:
It pours no sickly strain
To mislead heart and brain,
But with an inspiration faintly caught
From source above,
With Peace, Good Will, and Love,
Man's blessing is its motive and its thought,—
Man's blessing and God's glory,
The old grand story,
Lighting with joy the humblest pages:
That narrative divinely penned,
Whose interest shall never end—
“To be continued” through eternal ages.
Inflicts no pangs along
The path it sounds—with scandal fraught:
It pours no sickly strain
To mislead heart and brain,
But with an inspiration faintly caught
From source above,
With Peace, Good Will, and Love,
Man's blessing is its motive and its thought,—
Man's blessing and God's glory,
The old grand story,
Lighting with joy the humblest pages:
That narrative divinely penned,
Whose interest shall never end—
“To be continued” through eternal ages.
Then list the glad Church Bell,
Whose chimes around you swell;
Of duty's claims they tell.
As, in old revolutionary times,
The ancient church bell's stirring chimes
Woke patriot hearts to strife
For liberty and life,
So this makes like appeal to strike for right,
For Sin is rampant, ready for the fight,
And here the forge for tempering the mail
In which its gathered forces to assail.
The Fair! The Fair!
No effort spare;
Give of your bounty here a generous share.
'Tis God's own citadel ye build;
Let it with power be filled
By that ye bring and give as offering,
Heart-free and hand-free, and its walls shall spring
A habitation meet for Heaven's Almighty King.
Whose chimes around you swell;
Of duty's claims they tell.
As, in old revolutionary times,
The ancient church bell's stirring chimes
Woke patriot hearts to strife
For liberty and life,
So this makes like appeal to strike for right,
For Sin is rampant, ready for the fight,
And here the forge for tempering the mail
In which its gathered forces to assail.
219
No effort spare;
Give of your bounty here a generous share.
'Tis God's own citadel ye build;
Let it with power be filled
By that ye bring and give as offering,
Heart-free and hand-free, and its walls shall spring
A habitation meet for Heaven's Almighty King.
220
A PUSH FOR FREEDOM.
A hope of freedom! Thank the favoring fates
That left ajar my grated door,
Through which the sun his ray doth pour,
As if to light me where sweet freedom waits,
Outside, to give me place,
'Mid scenes of bliss and grace,
Unchecked, unhindered by vile prison gates.
That left ajar my grated door,
Through which the sun his ray doth pour,
As if to light me where sweet freedom waits,
Outside, to give me place,
'Mid scenes of bliss and grace,
Unchecked, unhindered by vile prison gates.
How soft and cool there fall
The shadows on the wall!
And the sweet honeysuckle's spray
Tempts me with motion gay,
As 'twere a voice to me:
“Now is the time to flee!
This open door will set you free,
And, once abroad, no hand shall check your way.”
Even yon tiny sparrow
Struts and mocks me in my confines narrow,
Cocking his eye up roguishly to mine,
While plucking at some object on the vine.
The wind among the bushes,
The flower that nods and blushes,
The glad green of the trees,
The humming of the bees,
All, all unite
To lure my faltering flight
To the broad fields beyond of freedom and delight.
The shadows on the wall!
And the sweet honeysuckle's spray
Tempts me with motion gay,
As 'twere a voice to me:
“Now is the time to flee!
This open door will set you free,
And, once abroad, no hand shall check your way.”
Even yon tiny sparrow
Struts and mocks me in my confines narrow,
Cocking his eye up roguishly to mine,
While plucking at some object on the vine.
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The flower that nods and blushes,
The glad green of the trees,
The humming of the bees,
All, all unite
To lure my faltering flight
To the broad fields beyond of freedom and delight.
And shall these be denied?
Sweet lady, turn your eyes aside,
And the new thought that springs
Shall lend support to wings
Too long in freedom's offices untried.
Sweet lady, turn your eyes aside,
And the new thought that springs
Shall lend support to wings
Too long in freedom's offices untried.
One step—that's all—and in my grasp the prize!
I do not ask me, “Is it wise
To leave the seed, the perch, the gentle eyes
That sought my good,
The plenitude
That my fair jail with benefit bestrewed,
For Freedom's chance?”
The gilded jail is but a jail,
And the contracted limit of its pale
Annuls each qualifying circumstance.
I do not ask me, “Is it wise
To leave the seed, the perch, the gentle eyes
That sought my good,
The plenitude
That my fair jail with benefit bestrewed,
For Freedom's chance?”
The gilded jail is but a jail,
And the contracted limit of its pale
Annuls each qualifying circumstance.
How long I've struggled with the cruel wires
That kept me from the goal of my desires!—
With pain of soul
Received the dole
So kindly given, the while I've striven,
But, lacking freedom, lacked the whole!
And now, that open door!
One noiseless step the portal o'er,
And I am free
In the glorious light of Liberty!—
The freedom self-attained,
And not a boon thrown grudgingly—
A beggar's alms, unblest, and thankless gained!
That kept me from the goal of my desires!—
With pain of soul
Received the dole
So kindly given, the while I've striven,
But, lacking freedom, lacked the whole!
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One noiseless step the portal o'er,
And I am free
In the glorious light of Liberty!—
The freedom self-attained,
And not a boon thrown grudgingly—
A beggar's alms, unblest, and thankless gained!
Sweet lady, wake! awake!
My sunlit plumes I shake
On the high trellis, in the open air,
The sky above my head, and everywhere
Is limitless scope
For the free wing's boldest hope!
Call me not ingrate, lady; I but take
That is mine own.
At morn and eve I'll sing, for your sweet sake,
A grateful tribute from my airy throne,
That may for disappointment part atone.
My sunlit plumes I shake
On the high trellis, in the open air,
The sky above my head, and everywhere
Is limitless scope
For the free wing's boldest hope!
Call me not ingrate, lady; I but take
That is mine own.
At morn and eve I'll sing, for your sweet sake,
A grateful tribute from my airy throne,
That may for disappointment part atone.
Higher! still higher
My enfranchised wings aspire,
And, on this grand tree's loftiest limb,
I sit and swing,
And blithely sing
My sweetest, most exultant hymn,
Whose notes e'en slavery could not dim.
My enfranchised wings aspire,
And, on this grand tree's loftiest limb,
I sit and swing,
And blithely sing
My sweetest, most exultant hymn,
Whose notes e'en slavery could not dim.
Bright hope! Bright faith!
No supervening dun
Obscures the sun;
The future hath no fears; nor want nor death
Obtrude their forms,
And in the passing storms
That may occur to give alloy,
No blast can sweep away the present joy.
Happen the fate that may,
This bright, triumphant day
Is mine in all the feel of joy that Freedom gives,
In which alone a being only lives.
No supervening dun
Obscures the sun;
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Obtrude their forms,
And in the passing storms
That may occur to give alloy,
No blast can sweep away the present joy.
Happen the fate that may,
This bright, triumphant day
Is mine in all the feel of joy that Freedom gives,
In which alone a being only lives.
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MILES O'REILLY.
“The Boy” is dead! The restless heart is stilled—
Its fierce ambition, recklessness, and pride,
And all the sweeter attributes that thrilled
With passion's fervency intensified.
Its fierce ambition, recklessness, and pride,
And all the sweeter attributes that thrilled
With passion's fervency intensified.
His was no singing-bird's mellifluous note,
Whose cadence soft the heart enchanted heard,
But, trumpet-toned, the ambient air it smote,
And to its deepest depths the spirit stirred.
Whose cadence soft the heart enchanted heard,
But, trumpet-toned, the ambient air it smote,
And to its deepest depths the spirit stirred.
Even the dulcet strain that love might breathe
—Couched tenderly, in accent soft and low—
Was warm with smouldering fires that burned beneath,
Hinting of lava and the crater's glow.
—Couched tenderly, in accent soft and low—
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Hinting of lava and the crater's glow.
His was the song that nerved the patriot's hand,
When war's fell clangor rang o'er earth and main;
He gave himself to his adopted land,
And strove the perilled Union to maintain.
When war's fell clangor rang o'er earth and main;
He gave himself to his adopted land,
And strove the perilled Union to maintain.
But when the note of strife was haply hushed,
And all the tumult found a glad surcease,
His was the song that with grand fervor gushed,
To welcome in the reign of sovereign Peace.
And all the tumult found a glad surcease,
His was the song that with grand fervor gushed,
To welcome in the reign of sovereign Peace.
Old strife ignored, his hand was outward held
To grasp the hand that lately met his own
On battle-fields, by deadliest hate impelled,
Forgetting war when war's fierce blast was blown.
To grasp the hand that lately met his own
On battle-fields, by deadliest hate impelled,
Forgetting war when war's fierce blast was blown.
His was the caustic pen that ever sought
To prick the bubble of a vain pretence;
He strove by song, with wit and satire fraught,
To banish wrong and bold incompetence.
To prick the bubble of a vain pretence;
He strove by song, with wit and satire fraught,
To banish wrong and bold incompetence.
But, with a genius free as birds in May,
He'd leave, at times, the touch of meaner things,
And in the ampler ethers soar away
On Poesy's most sublimated wings;
He'd leave, at times, the touch of meaner things,
And in the ampler ethers soar away
On Poesy's most sublimated wings;
Or strike some tuneful strain, the humble ear
Could hear and treasure from the darling “Boy,”
The one beloved, who fain life's path would cheer
By strewing along the flowers of hope and joy.
Could hear and treasure from the darling “Boy,”
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By strewing along the flowers of hope and joy.
Now, stilled the hand that struck the living lyre!
Dead to all life, all honor, and all pain!
Quenched at its height the intellectual fire!
Fallen to earth the proudly-cherished fane!
Dead to all life, all honor, and all pain!
Quenched at its height the intellectual fire!
Fallen to earth the proudly-cherished fane!
But not forgotten—no mere memory
To fade away as lesser ones have flown;
For death, to such, is not to cease to be,
But still to live in deeds as firm as stone.
To fade away as lesser ones have flown;
For death, to such, is not to cease to be,
But still to live in deeds as firm as stone.
General Charles Graham Halpine was associated with the author of the above, for the greater part of one year, in the publication of a paper that boasted of more character than patronage. This was in 1852. The association was uninterruptedly pleasant, and the friendship then formed continued till the death of General H. His title of “General” was earned in the war of the rebellion, in which he took a distinguished part. His adoption of the nom de plume of Miles O'Reilly was at the siege of Charleston, where he wrote President Lincoln an amusing letter over this signature. It was impudent in the extreme, and excited considerable curiosity. The letters were continued, and the authorship was discovered, causing some anger in certain high quarters; but he was too much feared to be molested. When he came back to private life, the name came with him, garnished, by himself, with the additional term of “The Boy.”
227
THE LOVE OF THE OLD.
Much, much is written, and much is sung,
Of love that dwells youth's bowers among,
When the eyes are bright and the cheeks aflame
With a glow the tints of the rose might shame,
When the heart throbs quick with emotion warm
And the pulses answer to passion's storm,
But little is said in the stories told
Of the tried and faithful love of the old.
Of love that dwells youth's bowers among,
When the eyes are bright and the cheeks aflame
With a glow the tints of the rose might shame,
When the heart throbs quick with emotion warm
And the pulses answer to passion's storm,
But little is said in the stories told
Of the tried and faithful love of the old.
Age is the harvest season of love,
As earth-life melts in the life above;
The fruitage time, in spirit and truth,
Of the seeds of love that are sown in youth:
Some never spring in the stony ground,
Some die ere the evening shades come round,
But, bright and fresh from congenial mould
Grows the love that ripens to crown the old.
As earth-life melts in the life above;
The fruitage time, in spirit and truth,
Of the seeds of love that are sown in youth:
Some never spring in the stony ground,
Some die ere the evening shades come round,
But, bright and fresh from congenial mould
Grows the love that ripens to crown the old.
Ah, many a trial this love hath known;
The fiercest suns have upon it shone,
The rain's mad beat and the raging blast
Have o'er its fortunes a life-time passed;
It has thriven the better when thus assailed,
And ne'er from its hope and trust has failed—
Ne'er in devotedness turnéd cold,
But brighter glowed as the heart grew old.
The fiercest suns have upon it shone,
The rain's mad beat and the raging blast
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It has thriven the better when thus assailed,
And ne'er from its hope and trust has failed—
Ne'er in devotedness turnéd cold,
But brighter glowed as the heart grew old.
'Tis not a love to last for a day,
A light to flash and vanish away,
To rave with a sonnet and melt in sighs,
And live in selfish unsacrifice—
To crave forever with tearful cheeks,
And die in possession of what it seeks:
By pure and exalted trust controlled
Is the love that sanctifies the old.
A light to flash and vanish away,
To rave with a sonnet and melt in sighs,
And live in selfish unsacrifice—
To crave forever with tearful cheeks,
And die in possession of what it seeks:
By pure and exalted trust controlled
Is the love that sanctifies the old.
Then, graybeards, heed not the mocking sneer
From supercilious lips you hear;
Yours is the love that has stood the test,
And gilds your years like a smile from the west.
It sparkles and glows like the richest wine,
And it bears the brand of the love divine;—
There's a glory more than the eye may behold
In the endless love that bides with the old.
From supercilious lips you hear;
Yours is the love that has stood the test,
And gilds your years like a smile from the west.
It sparkles and glows like the richest wine,
And it bears the brand of the love divine;—
There's a glory more than the eye may behold
In the endless love that bides with the old.
229
HERE AND YONDER.
Ah, cold and dreary is the night!
We hear without the chilling gale
Bend the lithe tree-tops in its flight,
While the impetuous rains assail,
Dashing against the window pane,
As if with bitter madness fraught,
But, failing entrance, sob in vain
At finding all their efforts come to nought.
We hear without the chilling gale
Bend the lithe tree-tops in its flight,
While the impetuous rains assail,
Dashing against the window pane,
As if with bitter madness fraught,
But, failing entrance, sob in vain
At finding all their efforts come to nought.
We closer draw around the grate,
And shudder as the sound we hear,
And think how sad must be the fate
Of those who dare a night so drear!
The fire's warm beams small cheer impart,
While listening to the stormy din,
That wakes sad feelings in the heart,
From which sweet converse fails our thought to win.
And shudder as the sound we hear,
And think how sad must be the fate
Of those who dare a night so drear!
The fire's warm beams small cheer impart,
While listening to the stormy din,
That wakes sad feelings in the heart,
From which sweet converse fails our thought to win.
Around the chimney-top the wind
Roars its defiance, hurrying by,
As though it dare not lag behind,
Charged with its message from the sky;
And down the vale it wildly roars,
Filling the timid with affright,
While still the rain in torrents pours,
And darkness rules the province of the night.
Roars its defiance, hurrying by,
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Charged with its message from the sky;
And down the vale it wildly roars,
Filling the timid with affright,
While still the rain in torrents pours,
And darkness rules the province of the night.
We gaze out through the murky gloom,
And there upon the distant sky
The city lights the arch illume,
Mirrored upon the clouds on high;
Beyond and o'er the tumult dire
And darkness that the scene invest,
Gloweth that cheerful constant fire
In which are peace and safety manifest.
And there upon the distant sky
The city lights the arch illume,
Mirrored upon the clouds on high;
Beyond and o'er the tumult dire
And darkness that the scene invest,
Gloweth that cheerful constant fire
In which are peace and safety manifest.
Thus, as we stand amid life's storms,
With sin and sorrow girt about,
While scarce a ray our spirit warms,
And left to darkness and to doubt,—
In our despair we upward gaze,
And there, above all doubts and damps,
We catch the glory of the blaze
From the Eternal City's golden lamps.
With sin and sorrow girt about,
While scarce a ray our spirit warms,
And left to darkness and to doubt,—
In our despair we upward gaze,
And there, above all doubts and damps,
We catch the glory of the blaze
From the Eternal City's golden lamps.
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HOW WEARING IT IS!
In the journey of life, with care ill at ease,
And fortune unfavoring grudging its smile,
We struggle our burnings of heart to appease,
And think we succeed, but don't all the while.
Like the rust on the iron, it eats day by day,
Until, too far gaining, past bearing it is,
When we sigh to ourselves, and despairingly say,
O fortune! O fortune! how wearing it is!
And fortune unfavoring grudging its smile,
We struggle our burnings of heart to appease,
And think we succeed, but don't all the while.
Like the rust on the iron, it eats day by day,
Until, too far gaining, past bearing it is,
When we sigh to ourselves, and despairingly say,
O fortune! O fortune! how wearing it is!
When love first invades the temple of youth,
And throws o'er the victim its conquering chain,
His bosom is filled with a tempest of ruth,
And he sinks in a spasm of amorous pain.
As day by day thus by slow torture he burns,
With even a martyr's comparing it is;
For the end of his torment he lovingly yearns,
And says in his passion, How wearing it is!
And throws o'er the victim its conquering chain,
His bosom is filled with a tempest of ruth,
And he sinks in a spasm of amorous pain.
As day by day thus by slow torture he burns,
With even a martyr's comparing it is;
For the end of his torment he lovingly yearns,
And says in his passion, How wearing it is!
The indulgent papa o'er his quarterly bills,
That fashion or folly have brought to his ken,
Looks anxiously on them with aguish chills,
And thinks himself the worst used among men;
He mutters a word—we do not well know
What word—though very like swearing it is,
But he counts out the cash with a desperate brow,
That serves to tell us how wearing it is.
That fashion or folly have brought to his ken,
Looks anxiously on them with aguish chills,
And thinks himself the worst used among men;
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What word—though very like swearing it is,
But he counts out the cash with a desperate brow,
That serves to tell us how wearing it is.
The fond mother toils o'er her pale-burning lamp,
While care for her darling inspires her breast;
He has ruined his jacket, the good-natured scamp,
And steals from his parent her well-needed rest;
But cheerly she smiles, as her needle she plies,
Her heart for his mischief uncaring it is,
For she knows that in play his happiness lies,
The while she admits how wearing it is.
While care for her darling inspires her breast;
He has ruined his jacket, the good-natured scamp,
And steals from his parent her well-needed rest;
But cheerly she smiles, as her needle she plies,
Her heart for his mischief uncaring it is,
For she knows that in play his happiness lies,
The while she admits how wearing it is.
The constant dropping may wear the stone,
And so runs the adage that all well know;
And in every lot a mortal has known
There is dropping to prove to us “that 'tis so;”
But stout of heart, we will let it all drop,
With a confidence never despairing it is,
Till living and time shall finally stop,
And never acknowledge how wearing it is.
And so runs the adage that all well know;
And in every lot a mortal has known
There is dropping to prove to us “that 'tis so;”
But stout of heart, we will let it all drop,
With a confidence never despairing it is,
Till living and time shall finally stop,
And never acknowledge how wearing it is.
233
THE REASON WHY.
A coalman's dog, native of Newfoundland,—A sturdy, shaggy, handsome, faithful beast,—
Greeteth my vision, day by day, as goes
His master to his customary toil,—
The dog attendant, gravely, as it were
His mission, also, to dispense the coals.
He has no notice for the wayside curs
That strive his grave attention to arrest.
His gait “means business,” and nought frivolous
Or trifling can divert his constant feet
That press unswervingly in duty's path.
Grateful to him who gives him scanty bread,
He looks up to him with great, earnest eyes,
Ne'er faltering in love and trustfulness—
Deeming none other in the world like him,
E'en though a dudeen desecrate his lips,
Or “ardent” lave his incandescent throat,
Or the fierce oath at times, perchance, emits,
Which serves to emphasize a cruel kick.
Still he's his master, evermore revered,
And, humbly acquiescent, he forgets
All ill in joyousness at one soft word,
234
Exponent of a love most sanctified,
He asks but that he may his love bestow,
And find in his devotion his reward—
Unselfish, tender, true, unto the end!
He has no habits vile; no passion's rage,
No breath exhaling fumes of nicotine
Or alcoholic death; no word profane
Escapes his lips, nor slander's baleful slime;
No schemes dishonest ever mar his rest;
No treachery to friends, no base resorts
Of trickery and fraud his point to gain;
No subterfuge, or false pretence, or greed,
Or mean endeavor others' wish to thwart;
Living just up to instinct's light, Heaven-lent,
And shaming reason by example grand.
Fidelity to duty's unpaid claim
Distinguishes his life; his proudest post
The portal of the humble home he guards
With ceaseless vigilance and rigid trust;
His only recreation with the boys to mix,
And in their sports be boy among the rest,
Barking his sympathy in noisy joy,
Or meekly following at his master's heels.
Why is he thus the faithful, true, and kind,
—Embodiment of every native good
Men might well copy with abundant gain,—
I know no reason save that—he's a Dog.
235
THE QUILTING.
In the revered ancestral days,
When folk were innocent and good,
And had not lost in selfish ways
The generous fact of neighborhood,
There was an honored custom known
—The “quilting bee” of genial fame—
Whose simple graces far outshone
Occasions of a loftier name.
When folk were innocent and good,
And had not lost in selfish ways
The generous fact of neighborhood,
There was an honored custom known
—The “quilting bee” of genial fame—
Whose simple graces far outshone
Occasions of a loftier name.
Its summons sped o'er hill and dale,
And, like the slogan of a clan,
Its note filled every passing gale,
Awaking echoes as it ran;
Till all feminity, inspired,
Rushed cap-à-pie at the appeal,
With zeal and emulation fired,
To ply, in peaceful strife, the steel.
And, like the slogan of a clan,
Its note filled every passing gale,
Awaking echoes as it ran;
Till all feminity, inspired,
Rushed cap-à-pie at the appeal,
With zeal and emulation fired,
To ply, in peaceful strife, the steel.
A work of love—no selfish aim
Inspired the hearts assembled there
About the pristine quilting-frame,
To do their devoir on the square;
The nimble fingers deftly flew,
Through “herrin'-bone,” and “cone,” and “shell,”
And stitched the fabric through and through,
With loving stitches strong and well.
Inspired the hearts assembled there
About the pristine quilting-frame,
To do their devoir on the square;
236
Through “herrin'-bone,” and “cone,” and “shell,”
And stitched the fabric through and through,
With loving stitches strong and well.
The ancient profiles on the walls
Upon the scene look primly down,
Where autumn's mellow sunshine falls
On snowy cap and homespun gown,
And listening,—if they can but hear,—
Most wondrous stories they obtain,
Of “carryin's on” afar and near,
Where gossip pours like summer rain,—
Upon the scene look primly down,
Where autumn's mellow sunshine falls
On snowy cap and homespun gown,
And listening,—if they can but hear,—
Most wondrous stories they obtain,
Of “carryin's on” afar and near,
Where gossip pours like summer rain,—
Of hap'nings that have had their day,
And hap'nings that are like to be,
While still the gleaming needles play,
With converse glib in harmony.
The ease of confidential talk
Lends to the scene its rarest charm;
No masculine the tide to balk,
Or give the sensitive alarm.
And hap'nings that are like to be,
While still the gleaming needles play,
With converse glib in harmony.
The ease of confidential talk
Lends to the scene its rarest charm;
No masculine the tide to balk,
Or give the sensitive alarm.
The work complete, a varied field,
Like human life, the thoughtful see;
But ere a pause the thought can yield,
Along come evening and the tea.
The board with homely fare is set,
And hospitality the grace
That crowns the social circle met,
Where cheerfulness and truth embrace.
Like human life, the thoughtful see;
But ere a pause the thought can yield,
Along come evening and the tea.
The board with homely fare is set,
And hospitality the grace
That crowns the social circle met,
Where cheerfulness and truth embrace.
237
And gay the evening when the beaux
Come in their 'lotted part to bear,
To sing Old Hundred through their nose,
Or in the dance to take a share;
For melody and mirth combine
To give a briskness to the time,
And festal wreaths of joy entwine
Of funny fancies or sublime.
Come in their 'lotted part to bear,
To sing Old Hundred through their nose,
Or in the dance to take a share;
For melody and mirth combine
To give a briskness to the time,
And festal wreaths of joy entwine
Of funny fancies or sublime.
Thus doth the memory return
Of a rare scene within the past;
A simple scene we may not spurn,
With modern notions gay and “fast;”
For in the light and growth of mind
We may a room for contrast see,
And in the retrospection find
A balance for the “quilting bee.”
Of a rare scene within the past;
A simple scene we may not spurn,
With modern notions gay and “fast;”
For in the light and growth of mind
We may a room for contrast see,
And in the retrospection find
A balance for the “quilting bee.”
238
THE PERFIDIOUS MILLER.
[_]
[A romaunt founded on the well-known legend of the “Miller of Brentnal Mere,” wherein the perjured miller comes to a disastrous end, according to the most exact code of poetic justice.]
The air is chill on heath and hill;
Beyond the desert plain
The sombre mill stands hearkening still
To the river's sad refrain;
Seeming dreaming,
In silent pain,
Of something sadly against its grain.
Beyond the desert plain
The sombre mill stands hearkening still
To the river's sad refrain;
Seeming dreaming,
In silent pain,
Of something sadly against its grain.
The mill-lamp glows, and the window shows
Red in its lurid ray,
And the beam outgoes where the water flows
On its turbid and sullen way;
And on the tide,
Where smiles should play,
There's a gloom as if there's mischief “to pay.”
Red in its lurid ray,
And the beam outgoes where the water flows
On its turbid and sullen way;
And on the tide,
Where smiles should play,
There's a gloom as if there's mischief “to pay.”
The great wheel groans, and the huge mill-stones
Chew up the yellow corn,
But in the tones there are fancied moans,
And sounds of woe forlorn;
And shivering there
Stands Miller Horn
With a pallid face, of terror born.
Chew up the yellow corn,
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And sounds of woe forlorn;
And shivering there
Stands Miller Horn
With a pallid face, of terror born.
Ah! guesses he well, would he but tell,
That sorry strain he hears,
That, like a knell of a bell, or a yell,
Keeps sounding in his ears:
Ringing, dinging,
Like note of spheres,
That wake nowadays no burning fears!
That sorry strain he hears,
That, like a knell of a bell, or a yell,
Keeps sounding in his ears:
Ringing, dinging,
Like note of spheres,
That wake nowadays no burning fears!
His matted hair diverges there,
And chatter well his teeth;
He hears despair in the ambient air,
And a demon underneath,
Striving, driving,
With fierce pent breath,
To reach him, he feels, with stroke of death.
And chatter well his teeth;
He hears despair in the ambient air,
And a demon underneath,
Striving, driving,
With fierce pent breath,
To reach him, he feels, with stroke of death.
[OMITTED]
'Twas midnight hour, when ghosts have power;
And there amid the gloom
Did he wildly glower through a mealy shower,
As if to read his doom;
When to his ear,
As from a tomb,
A voice cried out, “We come—make room!”
And there amid the gloom
Did he wildly glower through a mealy shower,
As if to read his doom;
When to his ear,
As from a tomb,
A voice cried out, “We come—make room!”
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Then by the door and through the floor
Came imps of ghastly hue,
Demons galore and more and more
They crowded on his view,
With full intent
He too well knew,
To put him most severely through.
Came imps of ghastly hue,
Demons galore and more and more
They crowded on his view,
With full intent
He too well knew,
To put him most severely through.
But, up to snuff, he tried the bluff—
He knew the game quite well;
He was good stuff, and tough, but rough
Did conscience in him swell;
But bluff he found
Though here it tell,
Was not a game to win in—other places.
He knew the game quite well;
He was good stuff, and tough, but rough
Did conscience in him swell;
But bluff he found
Though here it tell,
Was not a game to win in—other places.
“Who are you, pray, that come this way,
In such fanfaronade?
Hast been in, say, the Black Crook play,
That you are thus arrayed?
Dost think that I
Will be afraid,
Or at your monkey tricks dismayed?
In such fanfaronade?
Hast been in, say, the Black Crook play,
That you are thus arrayed?
Dost think that I
Will be afraid,
Or at your monkey tricks dismayed?
“If spirits thou, pray tell me how
‘Ye constabels’ ye shied?
For round here now they lurk and bow,
And watch on every side;
Not ‘ardent’ thou
Identified,
Or seized thou'dst been and straightway tried.”
‘Ye constabels’ ye shied?
For round here now they lurk and bow,
And watch on every side;
Not ‘ardent’ thou
Identified,
Or seized thou'dst been and straightway tried.”
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Then from the rout a sprite stepped out,
—A ghostess very grim,—
Both tall and stout, and screechéd out
A speech of ghostly vim,
While on the wall
The light burned dim,
And all the imps glared fierce at him:
—A ghostess very grim,—
Both tall and stout, and screechéd out
A speech of ghostly vim,
While on the wall
The light burned dim,
And all the imps glared fierce at him:
“Dost not know me, thou perjured he?
Better thou ne'er wast born;
I am she whom thy perfidee
Consigned to fate forlorn;
You played me false,
And married Mrs. Horn!”
“Alas!” cried he, “I own the corn.”
Better thou ne'er wast born;
I am she whom thy perfidee
Consigned to fate forlorn;
You played me false,
And married Mrs. Horn!”
“Alas!” cried he, “I own the corn.”
“You vowed,” she said, “that me you'd wed,
—The dearest you had seen,—
Then straight you sped and marri-ed
Amanda Agnes Green;
And I, ah me!
In bitter spleen,
Jumped overboard and closed the scene!
—The dearest you had seen,—
Then straight you sped and marri-ed
Amanda Agnes Green;
And I, ah me!
In bitter spleen,
Jumped overboard and closed the scene!
“Your vow you'll keep; no more you'll sleep
'Twixt peaceful blankets twain;
The froglets peep above the deep,
Where I so long have lain,
And that with me,
By might and main,
You share my river-bed I'm fain.”
'Twixt peaceful blankets twain;
The froglets peep above the deep,
Where I so long have lain,
And that with me,
By might and main,
You share my river-bed I'm fain.”
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With bitter shriek, with deathly cheek,
“Now spare me, pray,” said he;
“Your looks bespeak some dreadful freak
That bodes no good to me;
My wife at home
Will nervous be,
If I don't come to time nor tea.”
“Now spare me, pray,” said he;
“Your looks bespeak some dreadful freak
That bodes no good to me;
My wife at home
Will nervous be,
If I don't come to time nor tea.”
With jump and bound they hedged him round,
They girt him every way;
His head was wound with a meal-bag found,
His tongue alone had play;
And hard he begged
For another day,
But the ghostess, claiming the groom, said “Nay.’
They girt him every way;
His head was wound with a meal-bag found,
His tongue alone had play;
And hard he begged
For another day,
But the ghostess, claiming the groom, said “Nay.’
The miller they seized, the miller they squeezed
In the hopper, and down he sped;
He merely sneezed as the grinder seized,
And never opened his head;
Indeed I'm sure
All ope had fled
Ere he was ground to gingerbread!
In the hopper, and down he sped;
He merely sneezed as the grinder seized,
And never opened his head;
Indeed I'm sure
All ope had fled
Ere he was ground to gingerbread!
The mill still moans in sorry tones
For the miller's cruel end,
And the miller's bones on the senseless stones
With rye and indian blend:
While underneath
Doth still contend
The struggling fiend with wrench and rend.
For the miller's cruel end,
And the miller's bones on the senseless stones
With rye and indian blend:
While underneath
Doth still contend
The struggling fiend with wrench and rend.
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When the storm o' nights the soul affrights,
And with fear the nerves are torn,
The gossip delights as she recites
How the ghostess doubled the Horn,
When in the night,
Through the hopper borne,
The miller followed his grist of corn.
And with fear the nerves are torn,
The gossip delights as she recites
How the ghostess doubled the Horn,
When in the night,
Through the hopper borne,
The miller followed his grist of corn.
244
THE OLD-TIME APPLE-BEE.
Among the pleasing things of the past
That come to me in fond retrocast,
Fraught with the odor and grace of truth,
And bearing the glory and glow of youth,
—The morning light of the early day,
When all was bright, and all was gay,
And my heart beat quick to the notes of glee,—
Is the cheerful and busy apple-bee.
That come to me in fond retrocast,
Fraught with the odor and grace of truth,
And bearing the glory and glow of youth,
—The morning light of the early day,
When all was bright, and all was gay,
And my heart beat quick to the notes of glee,—
Is the cheerful and busy apple-bee.
Ah, happy is the scene I view
In the blaze of memory's light anew,
And merry and fair the circle seen,
In pristine garb and pristine mien,
With bright eyes beauteous in their glow
As in the long, long years ago,
When I, in boyish feeling free,
Found mirth and joy in the apple-bee.
In the blaze of memory's light anew,
And merry and fair the circle seen,
In pristine garb and pristine mien,
With bright eyes beauteous in their glow
As in the long, long years ago,
When I, in boyish feeling free,
Found mirth and joy in the apple-bee.
Cheeks rivalling the apple's blush,
Smiles as tender as morning's flush,
Voices clear as the song of birds,
Tuned to cadence of happy words,
Pleasant gossip of this and that,
Healthful music of earnest chat,
Wisdom, and wit, and melody,
Marked the course of the apple-bee.
Smiles as tender as morning's flush,
Voices clear as the song of birds,
Tuned to cadence of happy words,
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Healthful music of earnest chat,
Wisdom, and wit, and melody,
Marked the course of the apple-bee.
Say not a word of Grecian bends,
Or the added charm that crinoline lends,
Or the waterfall's expanding grace,
Or the wealth of ribbon or of lace,
Or the slender shape of a prisoned waist,
Or the pride of fashion's captious taste—
They none compare with the forms I see
In my vision there of the apple-bee.
Or the added charm that crinoline lends,
Or the waterfall's expanding grace,
Or the wealth of ribbon or of lace,
Or the slender shape of a prisoned waist,
Or the pride of fashion's captious taste—
They none compare with the forms I see
In my vision there of the apple-bee.
There's more revealed than the show of wealth
In the strength and beauty of sturdy health;
More grandeur than if gem-bedight
In radiant eyes' effulgent light;
More grace than chignon e'er has thrown
In rippling locks that are all their own;
And the high back-comb is a crown to me—
Each wearer a queen at the apple-bee.
In the strength and beauty of sturdy health;
More grandeur than if gem-bedight
In radiant eyes' effulgent light;
More grace than chignon e'er has thrown
In rippling locks that are all their own;
And the high back-comb is a crown to me—
Each wearer a queen at the apple-bee.
Severely simple and chastely sweet
Is the dress where prudence and comfort meet;
Where the heart can beat with as glad a glow
As if under silk, in calico,
And 'mid the crush of impending ills
Are ne'er included milliner bills;
And no compunctious throe has she
Who shines as queen of the apple-bee.
Is the dress where prudence and comfort meet;
Where the heart can beat with as glad a glow
As if under silk, in calico,
And 'mid the crush of impending ills
Are ne'er included milliner bills;
And no compunctious throe has she
Who shines as queen of the apple-bee.
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The mirth leaps up when the work is done,
And the carnival reigns of noisy fun;
The old look on in benignant way
To see the very—forfeits to pay—
The culminate of labial joys,
In let-out spirits of girls and boys!
Ah, many a lovelit flame we see
Illuming the scene of the apple-bee.
And the carnival reigns of noisy fun;
The old look on in benignant way
To see the very—forfeits to pay—
The culminate of labial joys,
In let-out spirits of girls and boys!
Ah, many a lovelit flame we see
Illuming the scene of the apple-bee.
The scene fades out in mist of years;
The old-time custom disappears:
Voices are hushed that then were gay;
The golden locks have turned to gray;
The tender eyes, so fair and bright,
Are grandames' now, with failing sight;
And nought is left but a memory
Of the joyous, rollicking apple-bee.
The old-time custom disappears:
Voices are hushed that then were gay;
The golden locks have turned to gray;
The tender eyes, so fair and bright,
Are grandames' now, with failing sight;
And nought is left but a memory
Of the joyous, rollicking apple-bee.
247
THE NEW YEAR.
“Well, well, here's Monsieur Tonson come again!”
We cry, as Time, once more, his twelve moons past,
Wheels round to mind us of the waning years.
Persistent Time!—no failure e'er attends
The movement of his car, and, promptly run,
He holds his hand for dues that we must pay;—
For all owe dues to Time, confest or not.
If not confest, he full reprisal makes,
And those who cunningly essay to cheat,
Pay ofttimes doubly for the debt they'd fly.
The thinning hair, the failing sight, the teeth
Fast crumbling to an ever “aching void,”
Attest the claims of Time; and that they're paid,
Ask Messrs. Cocoaine, Spectacles & Bone,
Whose aid supplies the draft that Time has made!
There is no stay for Time,—that queer old man,—
Whose zeal ne'er wearies, and whose changing glass
Is ever running off the slippery hours;
Whose scythe, alas! is busy with our hopes,
Cutting our treasures down without remorse,
And giving them to Death!—a sacrifice
Priceless and peerless, and most worthy heaven.
Men are but motes upon the dial-plate
Moved over by the great hour-hand of Time,
Unchecking it, though huge they deem themselves,
Till from the verge they drop, in senseless dust,
Whilst yet the everlasting hand moves on!
How little are we in the mighty plan
Of God's ordaining! and 'tis haply given
The new-born year this lesson to impart,
And teach humility to those who vaunt;
Thus human Ossas, in their own conceit,
May dwindle to the real warts they are!
We cry, as Time, once more, his twelve moons past,
Wheels round to mind us of the waning years.
Persistent Time!—no failure e'er attends
The movement of his car, and, promptly run,
He holds his hand for dues that we must pay;—
For all owe dues to Time, confest or not.
If not confest, he full reprisal makes,
And those who cunningly essay to cheat,
Pay ofttimes doubly for the debt they'd fly.
The thinning hair, the failing sight, the teeth
Fast crumbling to an ever “aching void,”
Attest the claims of Time; and that they're paid,
Ask Messrs. Cocoaine, Spectacles & Bone,
Whose aid supplies the draft that Time has made!
There is no stay for Time,—that queer old man,—
Whose zeal ne'er wearies, and whose changing glass
Is ever running off the slippery hours;
Whose scythe, alas! is busy with our hopes,
Cutting our treasures down without remorse,
And giving them to Death!—a sacrifice
Priceless and peerless, and most worthy heaven.
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Moved over by the great hour-hand of Time,
Unchecking it, though huge they deem themselves,
Till from the verge they drop, in senseless dust,
Whilst yet the everlasting hand moves on!
How little are we in the mighty plan
Of God's ordaining! and 'tis haply given
The new-born year this lesson to impart,
And teach humility to those who vaunt;
Thus human Ossas, in their own conceit,
May dwindle to the real warts they are!
Would we reverse the plan, and roll the ball
Back on its axis, and restore the Past?
Such wishes have been, where the stricken soul
Mourned over time misspent it fain would mend;
Or where the selfish with their baubles played,
And grudged, at Time's approach, to lay them down.
Not so with those alive to Duty's call,
Forever active in the ways of life,
And living for the benefit of men.
They have no futile retrospective wish
For flesh-pots left far in the race behind;
Nor stand they idly by with folded hands
Whilst the great world spins round them like a top;
Nor look they back, like Mistress Lot, to find
Themselves transformed to worse than useless salt,
Savorless of all that gives, to living, life!
They'd not revoke a day, but keep their souls
Timed by the present and the future need,
And, like a watch that's wound up with the sun,
Would break in ruin if we'd turn them back.
Back on its axis, and restore the Past?
Such wishes have been, where the stricken soul
Mourned over time misspent it fain would mend;
Or where the selfish with their baubles played,
And grudged, at Time's approach, to lay them down.
Not so with those alive to Duty's call,
Forever active in the ways of life,
And living for the benefit of men.
They have no futile retrospective wish
For flesh-pots left far in the race behind;
Nor stand they idly by with folded hands
Whilst the great world spins round them like a top;
Nor look they back, like Mistress Lot, to find
Themselves transformed to worse than useless salt,
Savorless of all that gives, to living, life!
They'd not revoke a day, but keep their souls
Timed by the present and the future need,
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Would break in ruin if we'd turn them back.
And thus the New Year finds us, well content
With what is done, and ready to begin anew,
And strive, as we have striven, the year just fled,
To make those happy, as we wished them so.
With what is done, and ready to begin anew,
And strive, as we have striven, the year just fled,
To make those happy, as we wished them so.
250
A WORK-DAY LYRIC.
Put on thy working-dress, my soul,
The Sabbath-time of rest give o'er;
Too long has slumber held control,
With labor spread thy steps before.
The Sabbath-time of rest give o'er;
Too long has slumber held control,
With labor spread thy steps before.
'Tis not for thee in halcyon bowers
To taste the sweets of summer calm,
And wear away the fleeting hours
'Mid dulcet strains and airs of balm.
To taste the sweets of summer calm,
And wear away the fleeting hours
'Mid dulcet strains and airs of balm.
Thou'rt called unto a precious trust—
A wide domain demands thy care,
To vivify its torpid dust,
And raise a grand perfection there.
A wide domain demands thy care,
To vivify its torpid dust,
And raise a grand perfection there.
Illimitable is the field
On which thou destined art to toil,
That good and evil fruits will yield
From active seed and teeming soil.
On which thou destined art to toil,
That good and evil fruits will yield
From active seed and teeming soil.
God help thee in thy strong essay,
My soul, scarce used to strife like this;
With an abiding trust obey,
And find, in duty done, thy bliss.
My soul, scarce used to strife like this;
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And find, in duty done, thy bliss.
Pluck up the tares of sin and pride,
Prune off excrescences of vice,
Till in this garden is descried
Similitude of Paradise.
Prune off excrescences of vice,
Till in this garden is descried
Similitude of Paradise.
This garden is thine own domain,
Its flowers and weeds are all thine own;
And every muscle thou must strain,
Else good in thee is overgrown.
Its flowers and weeds are all thine own;
And every muscle thou must strain,
Else good in thee is overgrown.
Toil on until the Master choose,
And then, when summoned by His love,
No guerdon for thy toil thou'lt lose
In the great Harvest Home above.
And then, when summoned by His love,
No guerdon for thy toil thou'lt lose
In the great Harvest Home above.
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DREAMING AND WAKING.
It is a valued gift that comes to me,
Freighted with grateful memories and love—
A cup wrought deftly from that cherished tree
Which Boston holds all other trees above
(The ancient Elm), and guards as jealously
As Brahmin favorites of the sacred grove.
Freighted with grateful memories and love—
A cup wrought deftly from that cherished tree
Which Boston holds all other trees above
(The ancient Elm), and guards as jealously
As Brahmin favorites of the sacred grove.
A cunning work, and beauteous to the view;
But deeper meaning does the object wear
To me than trick of art: I see anew
Long-vanished scenes and pleasures, and the share
My younger self had in the hours that flew,
To youth replete with glad emotions rare.
But deeper meaning does the object wear
To me than trick of art: I see anew
Long-vanished scenes and pleasures, and the share
My younger self had in the hours that flew,
To youth replete with glad emotions rare.
I grasp the cup, and to my inner sight
It seems a hand reached forth to clasp my own,
Out of the dusky shadows of the night
Which shrouds about the Past's deserted throne,
Or some loved form, emerging to the light,
That long from outer consciousness had flown.
It seems a hand reached forth to clasp my own,
Out of the dusky shadows of the night
Which shrouds about the Past's deserted throne,
Or some loved form, emerging to the light,
That long from outer consciousness had flown.
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I roam again beneath the verdant shades,
With loving voices melting in my ear,
And the warm thrill my soul once more pervades,
As rapt I bow the cadence glad to hear.
Ah, blest companionship! again that aids
To make life hasten with a better cheer.
With loving voices melting in my ear,
And the warm thrill my soul once more pervades,
As rapt I bow the cadence glad to hear.
Ah, blest companionship! again that aids
To make life hasten with a better cheer.
The old tree murmurs blessings on the hours
That make the total of the summer eves,
The moonbeams flicker through its shade in showers,
And laughter ripples in its rustling leaves,
And love again unfolds its mystic powers
Through the sweet influence it from Night receives.
That make the total of the summer eves,
The moonbeams flicker through its shade in showers,
And laughter ripples in its rustling leaves,
And love again unfolds its mystic powers
Through the sweet influence it from Night receives.
Romance and youth! blest witcheries ye throw
About the path that all are called to tread;
And, thus reviewed, my spirit feels a glow,
Though Youth and Romance long ago have fled,
And Time has dared profane my locks with snow,
And young companionship is with the dead.
About the path that all are called to tread;
And, thus reviewed, my spirit feels a glow,
Though Youth and Romance long ago have fled,
And Time has dared profane my locks with snow,
And young companionship is with the dead.
Well, be it thus; I'd not again retrace,
More than in fancy, the enchanted years;
I sit and look the Future in the face,
And have no thought of sorrow or of tears;
There is no loss kind Heaven will not replace
In the broad realm that to our gaze appears.
More than in fancy, the enchanted years;
I sit and look the Future in the face,
And have no thought of sorrow or of tears;
There is no loss kind Heaven will not replace
In the broad realm that to our gaze appears.
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Thanks for the gift, my old and constant friend,
Uniting then and now by its sweet spell;
And though no nectar from its lip descend,
This rill of song mayhap will serve as well,
Poured from a source that ne'er will know an end,
The heart's true spring, where endless friendships dwell.
Uniting then and now by its sweet spell;
And though no nectar from its lip descend,
This rill of song mayhap will serve as well,
Poured from a source that ne'er will know an end,
The heart's true spring, where endless friendships dwell.
255
HOPE.
The heart with sorrow bowed shuts out the light.And broods in gloomy shade, inalternate
With aught of cheer; no lift permit, or gleam
Of sunny promise to pervade the air
That sluggish stagnates in the courts of woe.
The ear is pained at echoes caught from life,
That surges on in heedless irrespect
Of all beyond itself, and muffled thought
Runs o'er the gamut of absorbing pain,
Repelling the insidious step of sound
That threats the reign supreme of silent grief.
The hours pass drearily, unnoted save
By the dull throbs of misery and doubt,
That make the calendar of present ill,
Timed by the horologue of dark dismay.
But, as the carol of a bird obtrudes,
Amid the pauses of a summer storm,
When all is darkest, dreariest, and lone,
Steals in a note of Hope, which, late debarred,
Stood near and waited, with a loving trust,
For Grief's reaction from its weariness,
To come again, like some enkindling light,
256
'Tis then, the spell annulled that lately bound,
New scenes appear; the tide of human life
Again rolls on, harmonious as before;
Sweet sounds break joyous on the willing ear;
The hours their import wear of activeness,
And duty due and done, and heaven and earth
Take brighter garniture, and holy cheer
Its effluence imparts to haply wake
And fill to plenitude the hungry soul.
O, blessed Hope! what were we, lacking thee?
Thine is the mission that divinest comes
And closest touches the acuter self,
Coming, like some sweet benediction, down,
And soothes the spirit's turbulence to peace.
E'en now, as when Pandora's mythic box,
Unclasped, released the goods that Jove designed,
—Vagrant and lost, that might have staid to bless,—
We feel that though all evil may assail,
And night concentrate round us in eclipse
Dark as the fabled cave of Erebus,
With Hope remaining, we may ill defy.
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A VAGARY.
Margery, close the door; we'll sit us here
And muse a little on this New Year's day,
Making the past and distant things come near,
Arousing sleeping fancy into play,
And strewing flowers along the wintry way.
And muse a little on this New Year's day,
Making the past and distant things come near,
Arousing sleeping fancy into play,
And strewing flowers along the wintry way.
Come, sweetheart, to my side, that I may look
Upon the mirror of your lustrous eyes,
And read my fate anew, as in a book
Writ full of most bewitching mysteries;
Saving while perilling by their bright ministries.
Upon the mirror of your lustrous eyes,
And read my fate anew, as in a book
Writ full of most bewitching mysteries;
Saving while perilling by their bright ministries.
Those ringlets, Margery, rich in glossy gold,
Lay them yet closer, dearest, to my cheek;
The whispered word is tenderer, manifold,
And silence is the deepest tone we speak,
When, themed in one, our souls one channel seek.
Lay them yet closer, dearest, to my cheek;
The whispered word is tenderer, manifold,
And silence is the deepest tone we speak,
When, themed in one, our souls one channel seek.
That lily hand! its pulses thrill my own
With sweet emotion, like the thrill of song;
What wealth's possession e'er has this outshone
That lies extended on my palm along—
This little hand round which such beauties throng!
With sweet emotion, like the thrill of song;
What wealth's possession e'er has this outshone
That lies extended on my palm along—
This little hand round which such beauties throng!
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Smile, dear one, thus; though not alone the smile
Bespeaks the ruling of the blissful thought;
Tears have their mission of delight the while,
And joy is fullest when with sadness fraught—
A fabric of a deeper, subtler substance wrought.
Bespeaks the ruling of the blissful thought;
Tears have their mission of delight the while,
And joy is fullest when with sadness fraught—
A fabric of a deeper, subtler substance wrought.
There's music, Margery, in your gentle voice,
Like the unwritten melody of birds,
That in its utterance bids the heart rejoice,
Though it take not the garniture of words;
Æolus sweeping o'er the vibrant chords.
Like the unwritten melody of birds,
That in its utterance bids the heart rejoice,
Though it take not the garniture of words;
Æolus sweeping o'er the vibrant chords.
[OMITTED]
She's gone! a trick of tantalizing Time
That plays strange fancies with the old and young;
Returning scenes of romance or of rhyme
That all of us have either lived or sung;
Blossoms of joy that faded soon as sprung.
That plays strange fancies with the old and young;
Returning scenes of romance or of rhyme
That all of us have either lived or sung;
Blossoms of joy that faded soon as sprung.
Gone, Margery! Closed the door. 'Tis thus we muse
On some pet memory that the time obtrudes,
And each his sweet and bitter dream renews
Of Might-have-beens that come in multitudes,
While fancy holds the light, and all of fact excludes.
On some pet memory that the time obtrudes,
And each his sweet and bitter dream renews
Of Might-have-beens that come in multitudes,
While fancy holds the light, and all of fact excludes.
What though the wintry winds blow madly by,
And aqueous fingers tap the window pane,
I sit in slippered state, my fireside nigh,
And, with a reckless vagrancy of brain,
Weave dreams of beauty I would dream again.
And aqueous fingers tap the window pane,
I sit in slippered state, my fireside nigh,
And, with a reckless vagrancy of brain,
Weave dreams of beauty I would dream again.
259
CHRISTMAS TOKEN.
[_]
[The writer awoke on Christmas morning and found that Santa Claus had left him a pen wiper of unique pattern—a fairy little figure, gorgeously clad—and a pleasant note, dedicating all the taste and care of its preparation to so ignoble a use.]
A WIPER.
Not such as erst in Eden wrought
For humankind such fearful trouble,
Changing its lot, with clover fraught,
For substituted chaff and stubble;
But this a simple Christmas boon
—A wipe for ink's befouling traces—
From one whose heart is all attune
With Christmas joy and Christmas graces.
For humankind such fearful trouble,
Changing its lot, with clover fraught,
For substituted chaff and stubble;
But this a simple Christmas boon
—A wipe for ink's befouling traces—
From one whose heart is all attune
With Christmas joy and Christmas graces.
I found, as morn unsealed my eyes,
What I at first supposed a fairy—
A tiny form, in gorgeous guise,
That looked remarkably like Mary;
But stony was her vacant stare,
When I, well pleased, would fain address her—
I missed the smile out-beaming there
The donor gives me—Heaven bless her!
What I at first supposed a fairy—
A tiny form, in gorgeous guise,
That looked remarkably like Mary;
But stony was her vacant stare,
When I, well pleased, would fain address her—
I missed the smile out-beaming there
The donor gives me—Heaven bless her!
260
'Tis but a trifle, well I know,
Requiring little for its buying,
But, better far than pomp or show,
The kindness that is underlying;
Profusion may attract the weak,
But 'tis a pleasure evanescent;
The cost cannot our love bespeak—
The heart must sanctify the present.
Requiring little for its buying,
But, better far than pomp or show,
The kindness that is underlying;
Profusion may attract the weak,
But 'tis a pleasure evanescent;
The cost cannot our love bespeak—
The heart must sanctify the present.
And shall those dainty garments be
Profaned by ink's tartarean touches,
And all the taste that here I see
Be marred by black, unseemly smutches?
Shall those bright eyes look sadly down,
With ever-growing perturbation,
And frown—if such can ever frown—
At such a fearful desecration?
Profaned by ink's tartarean touches,
And all the taste that here I see
Be marred by black, unseemly smutches?
Shall those bright eyes look sadly down,
With ever-growing perturbation,
And frown—if such can ever frown—
At such a fearful desecration?
No, Mary, by my Christmas hope,
I'll keep the boon, and choicely prize it;
'Twill newer inspiration ope,
As faithful memory sanctifies it.
And future years, should they be mine,
Shall mingle, with the Christmas chiming,
The thoughts of her in days lang syne
Who wrought the subject for my rhyming.
I'll keep the boon, and choicely prize it;
'Twill newer inspiration ope,
As faithful memory sanctifies it.
And future years, should they be mine,
Shall mingle, with the Christmas chiming,
The thoughts of her in days lang syne
Who wrought the subject for my rhyming.
261
SABBATH-DAY REFLECTIONS.
O man! how pure, and true, and firm thou art,
And full of good resolve and purpose high,
When in the world thou'rt called to act thy part,
A man 'mongst men, beneath the common sky!
And full of good resolve and purpose high,
When in the world thou'rt called to act thy part,
A man 'mongst men, beneath the common sky!
There is no power can shake thy strong defence,
Impregnable, upon a rock 'tis built;
And though fierce storms assail to drive thee thence,
Within its arms unharmed remain thou wilt.
Impregnable, upon a rock 'tis built;
And though fierce storms assail to drive thee thence,
Within its arms unharmed remain thou wilt.
Art thou not able? art thou not a man?
And where there's manhood must not there be might?
Alas! we reason thus, and slightly scan
The allied powers against us in the fight.
And where there's manhood must not there be might?
Alas! we reason thus, and slightly scan
The allied powers against us in the fight.
The open foes that hem about our path
We may in sturdy conflict long withstand;
We may defy their threatenings of wrath,
And dare the fury of their hostile hand.
We may in sturdy conflict long withstand;
We may defy their threatenings of wrath,
And dare the fury of their hostile hand.
262
But there be foes insidious that assail;
Not in the storm, nor in the battle's power,
But where the blandest airs of life prevail,
And in the calm of seeming safety's hour.
Not in the storm, nor in the battle's power,
But where the blandest airs of life prevail,
And in the calm of seeming safety's hour.
Amid the flowers the Passions smiling hide,
And weave about the soul their subtle thrall,
There in their ambuscade of ill to bide
Till Duty's voice has no more power to call.
And weave about the soul their subtle thrall,
There in their ambuscade of ill to bide
Till Duty's voice has no more power to call.
The strong man, maugre all his grand defence
And resolution that no power could sap,
Falls pronely down before the throne of sense,
Or slumbers idly in Delilah's lap.
And resolution that no power could sap,
Falls pronely down before the throne of sense,
Or slumbers idly in Delilah's lap.
Thus are we taught this lesson for our good:
To hold humility at priceless worth,
And in the weakness of our brotherhood
Regard the oneness of a common birth.
To hold humility at priceless worth,
And in the weakness of our brotherhood
Regard the oneness of a common birth.
263
THE PEBBLE ON THE SHORE.
A wanderer upon the strand
Of the wide sea, before him gleaming,
Held in his open, curious hand
A pebble, subject for his dreaming,
Picked from the white encircling sand,
Polished as if by science seeming.
Of the wide sea, before him gleaming,
Held in his open, curious hand
A pebble, subject for his dreaming,
Picked from the white encircling sand,
Polished as if by science seeming.
He gazed upon its perfect form,
As true as though by care invested,
Wrought by the force of many a storm,
That with the shore erewhile contested,
And left, when ceased the conflict warm,
In humble beauty where it rested.
As true as though by care invested,
Wrought by the force of many a storm,
That with the shore erewhile contested,
And left, when ceased the conflict warm,
In humble beauty where it rested.
“'Tis but a little stone,” he said,
“Scarce worth a serious inspection,”
But through his mind the pebble sped,
And waked a train of deep reflection,
Like David's in Goliah's head,
That brought the giant to subjection.
“Scarce worth a serious inspection,”
But through his mind the pebble sped,
And waked a train of deep reflection,
Like David's in Goliah's head,
That brought the giant to subjection.
264
“Here is a truth, though simply told:
If this small pebble, idly lying,
Had never by the waves been rolled,
Its beauties none would now be spying,
But in befouling sand or mould
Its worth in darkness would be dying.
If this small pebble, idly lying,
Had never by the waves been rolled,
Its beauties none would now be spying,
But in befouling sand or mould
Its worth in darkness would be dying.
“But, dashed by the resistless sea,
It gained its symmetry by action;
One round of motion, constantly,
Made it a thing of satisfaction;
This moral lesson teaching me,
That ne'er will lose its strong attraction:
It gained its symmetry by action;
One round of motion, constantly,
Made it a thing of satisfaction;
This moral lesson teaching me,
That ne'er will lose its strong attraction:
“Man, but a pebble on Time's shore,
His soul were dead from inanition;
Though battling waves may chafe it sore,
And make its lot a vexed condition,
It by the trial shines the more,
Needing the polish of attrition.
His soul were dead from inanition;
Though battling waves may chafe it sore,
And make its lot a vexed condition,
It by the trial shines the more,
Needing the polish of attrition.
“And all the beauty that it knows,
Drawn forth by toil in mercy given,
Upon the shoal in brightness shows,
—Bright in degree that it has striven,—
At last in God's own hand it glows,
A jewel fit to set in heaven.”
Drawn forth by toil in mercy given,
Upon the shoal in brightness shows,
—Bright in degree that it has striven,—
At last in God's own hand it glows,
A jewel fit to set in heaven.”
265
MY CRUTCH.
[_]
[When the gout prevails this implement serves me for locomotive purposes, and also summons those who on willing and loving feet obey its call.]
A simple song I have to sing—
A grateful strain whose notes shall wing
While aches' fell brood my fibres wring
With hideous clutch,
A simple, unpretending thing:
I sing my crutch.
A grateful strain whose notes shall wing
While aches' fell brood my fibres wring
With hideous clutch,
A simple, unpretending thing:
I sing my crutch.
A patient friend in time of need,
Proving its truth in constant deed;
Too noble past neglect to heed,
—Long darkly hid,—
It comes to me with willing speed
As soon as bid.
Proving its truth in constant deed;
Too noble past neglect to heed,
—Long darkly hid,—
It comes to me with willing speed
As soon as bid.
How grand is friendship such as its!
It vents no spleen in jealous fits,
Nor in its teeth holds hard the bits
At fancied slight,
But waits, content, when need admits,
To do its might.
It vents no spleen in jealous fits,
Nor in its teeth holds hard the bits
At fancied slight,
But waits, content, when need admits,
To do its might.
266
Come to my hand again, old friend,
And thy substantial service lend;
We'll show the limb that doth offend
There's this about it;
While it rebels we'll gain the end
To do without it.
And thy substantial service lend;
We'll show the limb that doth offend
There's this about it;
While it rebels we'll gain the end
To do without it.
In stanchest tones thou speak'st to me,
From all offensive twattle free:
“I give myself, in love, to thee—
On me rely;
The failing foot and recreant knee
I will supply.
From all offensive twattle free:
“I give myself, in love, to thee—
On me rely;
The failing foot and recreant knee
I will supply.
“Thy every 'hest I will obey,
From no occasion slink away;
I'll stick to thee both night and day,
Nor leave again
Till health shall once more claim its sway
And banish pain.”
From no occasion slink away;
I'll stick to thee both night and day,
Nor leave again
Till health shall once more claim its sway
And banish pain.”
I am a king!—my sceptre thou;
My kingdom small, I must allow,
Though big enough it is, I trow,
For present care;
With thee I touch each boundary now
From my throne chair.
My kingdom small, I must allow,
Though big enough it is, I trow,
For present care;
With thee I touch each boundary now
From my throne chair.
I hardly dare make the pretence
Of kingship in the regal sense,
Lest womanhood should take offence,
And test my claim;
Best not let brag have prominence
When one is lame.
Of kingship in the regal sense,
Lest womanhood should take offence,
267
Best not let brag have prominence
When one is lame.
[OMITTED]
[An omission of forty-seven limpid verses.]
But best of friends are called to part;
I trust we may, with all my heart,
For though, all goodness as thou art,
Unlike a wife,
Thou'rt not the “counsellor and chart”
I'd choose for life.
I trust we may, with all my heart,
For though, all goodness as thou art,
Unlike a wife,
Thou'rt not the “counsellor and chart”
I'd choose for life.
With hope to cheer the hour of pain
That health's bright sun will shine again,
When thou'rt in thy room attic lain,
My tough old friend,
I'll prize thee now with might and main
Till mine shall end.
That health's bright sun will shine again,
When thou'rt in thy room attic lain,
My tough old friend,
I'll prize thee now with might and main
Till mine shall end.
268
MUSIC OF THE FLAIL.
The music of the year is not confined
To the gay spring-time's overture of sweets,
Nor summer's breathings on the scented wind,
Nor that the ear in autumn's cadence greets.
But when the snow comes down and clothes the plain,
And o'er the house-top roars the boisterous gale,
Above the storm and the fierce wind's refrain
Ascends the music of the thresher's flail;
A charming minstrelsy of glad accord,
That tells of plenty and of hearty cheer:
Of wealth and joy, the farmer's rich reward,
The crowning glory of the busy year;
A peaceful, quiet, unpretending lay,
But pleasant music on a wintry day.
To the gay spring-time's overture of sweets,
Nor summer's breathings on the scented wind,
Nor that the ear in autumn's cadence greets.
But when the snow comes down and clothes the plain,
And o'er the house-top roars the boisterous gale,
Above the storm and the fierce wind's refrain
Ascends the music of the thresher's flail;
A charming minstrelsy of glad accord,
That tells of plenty and of hearty cheer:
Of wealth and joy, the farmer's rich reward,
The crowning glory of the busy year;
A peaceful, quiet, unpretending lay,
But pleasant music on a wintry day.
Monotonous its tone; no mighty song
Is that which rises from the threshing-floor—
Its time but measured by the heart-beats strong
Of him who long has conned its measure o'er;
Its only listener, maybe, the sweet bird
That sits awaiting on the frozen spray,
Or the slim weasel, that abroad has stirred,
Disturbed from his reflections in the hay.
Yet, like the rivulet, alone it pours
Its mellow accents on the passing time;
And though no turbulence of glad encores
Bespeaks the welcome of its note sublime,
The farmer loves the simple, sinewy strain,
Whose pulses throb with measures of the grain.
Is that which rises from the threshing-floor—
Its time but measured by the heart-beats strong
Of him who long has conned its measure o'er;
Its only listener, maybe, the sweet bird
That sits awaiting on the frozen spray,
269
Disturbed from his reflections in the hay.
Yet, like the rivulet, alone it pours
Its mellow accents on the passing time;
And though no turbulence of glad encores
Bespeaks the welcome of its note sublime,
The farmer loves the simple, sinewy strain,
Whose pulses throb with measures of the grain.
270
THE ISLAND DEFENDERS.
That most men feel
A warlike zeal
And glory in feathers and glistening steel,
Is scarce to be doubted, for everywhere,
In cities or plains,
We hear the strains
Of martial music upon the air,
And the measured tread,
In war's parade,
Of soldiers marching here and there.
That is, at seasons when comfort prevails,
And zeal isn't killed by wintry gales,
Like those at Valley Forge which we read of,
Where the soldiers everything were in need of,
But courage, which never a moment ran low,
E'en though their life-blood crimsoned the snow!
I have a good story
Of drums, guns, and glory;
Which, if you please, I would fain lay before ye.
It has always been a Nantucket boast,
Whenever war has threatened the coast,
That taking no arms for the right or the wrong
In her own defencelessness she was strong;
A theory which I think a fact is,
And wish 'twere oftener put in practice.
But the tap of the drum
Touched the tympanum
Of the younger brood of the “Island Home,”
Who pricked up their ears with pride to hear it
In the glow of an un-Nantucket spirit—
A place supposed, because so greaseful,
It couldn't be anything but peaceful,
Like a homo very fat and lardy,
Who to quarrel is always tardy.
A warlike zeal
And glory in feathers and glistening steel,
Is scarce to be doubted, for everywhere,
In cities or plains,
We hear the strains
Of martial music upon the air,
And the measured tread,
In war's parade,
Of soldiers marching here and there.
That is, at seasons when comfort prevails,
And zeal isn't killed by wintry gales,
Like those at Valley Forge which we read of,
Where the soldiers everything were in need of,
But courage, which never a moment ran low,
E'en though their life-blood crimsoned the snow!
I have a good story
Of drums, guns, and glory;
Which, if you please, I would fain lay before ye.
271
Whenever war has threatened the coast,
That taking no arms for the right or the wrong
In her own defencelessness she was strong;
A theory which I think a fact is,
And wish 'twere oftener put in practice.
But the tap of the drum
Touched the tympanum
Of the younger brood of the “Island Home,”
Who pricked up their ears with pride to hear it
In the glow of an un-Nantucket spirit—
A place supposed, because so greaseful,
It couldn't be anything but peaceful,
Like a homo very fat and lardy,
Who to quarrel is always tardy.
So the young men talked, and then they voted
That they'd be armed, and plumed, and coated,
That they would march, in summer weather,
About the peaceful isle together,
With gleaming arms and banners gay
In the custom-sanctioned soldierly way.
Then they arose
And bought their clo'es,
And guns, and all such traps as those,
Little dreaming, so well things sped,
Of such a thing as breakers ahead!
Breakers!
Hard and unbending as granite ledges
That rive the ships with their spiteful wedges,
The Quakers!
They're always somehow in the way:
We remember in Pennsylvania,
How the Quaker vote was looked for to win
The game for some one, but it didn't come in!
And up they stood
In Friend-ly mood,
While indignation trembling sat
On the spacious brim of every hat,
And swore a few,
As Quakers do,
That an arméd band were a thing of sin
And shouldn't, with their consent, come in!
That they'd be armed, and plumed, and coated,
That they would march, in summer weather,
About the peaceful isle together,
With gleaming arms and banners gay
In the custom-sanctioned soldierly way.
Then they arose
And bought their clo'es,
And guns, and all such traps as those,
Little dreaming, so well things sped,
Of such a thing as breakers ahead!
Breakers!
Hard and unbending as granite ledges
That rive the ships with their spiteful wedges,
The Quakers!
272
We remember in Pennsylvania,
How the Quaker vote was looked for to win
The game for some one, but it didn't come in!
And up they stood
In Friend-ly mood,
While indignation trembling sat
On the spacious brim of every hat,
And swore a few,
As Quakers do,
That an arméd band were a thing of sin
And shouldn't, with their consent, come in!
They said, “Shall we,
In the midst of the sea,
Oppose ourselves to the enemy,”
And all affirmed, “Nay, verily;
For invading foes would soon despoil
All that we prize upon our soil,
And burn with vengeance and burn our oil,
And that wouldn't be according to Hoyle!
Nay, verily,
We'll let them be,
And not have any soldieree.”
In the midst of the sea,
Oppose ourselves to the enemy,”
And all affirmed, “Nay, verily;
For invading foes would soon despoil
All that we prize upon our soil,
And burn with vengeance and burn our oil,
And that wouldn't be according to Hoyle!
Nay, verily,
We'll let them be,
And not have any soldieree.”
Confusion seized the bosoms then
Of those bold, warlike island men,
Their wish rejected;
For the “Quaker vote” was the biggest there,
And, through the force that numbers bear,
Must be respected.
But one, the boldest of the whole,
With no despondency of soul,
Did thus advise:
To win the thing they had in view
And put the corps in triumph through
By compromise!
Of those bold, warlike island men,
Their wish rejected;
For the “Quaker vote” was the biggest there,
And, through the force that numbers bear,
Must be respected.
273
With no despondency of soul,
Did thus advise:
To win the thing they had in view
And put the corps in triumph through
By compromise!
A very Daniel, all of them said,
Nantucket Island had visited!
And the wise plan
Of the astute man
Somehow in this line of argument ran:
That they'd seek a charter,
Agreeing that, arter,
When war called upon them to slay and to slaughter,
They'd throw down their arms with consciences tender,
And disband themselves with a graceful surrender!
Nantucket Island had visited!
And the wise plan
Of the astute man
Somehow in this line of argument ran:
That they'd seek a charter,
Agreeing that, arter,
When war called upon them to slay and to slaughter,
They'd throw down their arms with consciences tender,
And disband themselves with a graceful surrender!
And thus grew the corps
On Nantucket shore
As peaceful inclined as ever before,
E'en though the drum,
And the waving plume,
And the banner, were known round the island home.
On Nantucket shore
As peaceful inclined as ever before,
E'en though the drum,
And the waving plume,
And the banner, were known round the island home.
274
CHILDISH VESPERS.
Father! in thy loving sight,
Whether in the day or night,
Hither bend thy listening ear
And my supplication hear.
Whether in the day or night,
Hither bend thy listening ear
And my supplication hear.
Though I'm but a little child,
Thy dear Son on children smiled,
And his spirit in my breast
Gives me hope in thee to rest.
Thy dear Son on children smiled,
And his spirit in my breast
Gives me hope in thee to rest.
As the night descends apace,
Fill its shadows with thy grace,
That, though seeing not, to me
All the world is full of thee.
Fill its shadows with thy grace,
That, though seeing not, to me
All the world is full of thee.
As the moonbeams now illume
Every corner of my room,
May thy smile its grace impart,
And with joy pervade my heart.
Every corner of my room,
May thy smile its grace impart,
And with joy pervade my heart.
275
Keep me sinless, Father, pray,
With thy truth about my way,
Touch my eyes, that I may see
Thou art with me constantly.
With thy truth about my way,
Touch my eyes, that I may see
Thou art with me constantly.
Through the gloom, enfolding all,
Thou canst hear me when I call;
Answer grant in love's increase,
And sweet consciousness of peace.
Thou canst hear me when I call;
Answer grant in love's increase,
And sweet consciousness of peace.
276
THE SEWING-CIRCLE.
Never was pleasanter scene nor time,
Told in story, or sung in rhyme,
Than the Sewing-circle, that common thing,
Where glad amenities grow and spring
'Neath Charity's light and loving sway,
And the magic of joy is felt alway.
Told in story, or sung in rhyme,
Than the Sewing-circle, that common thing,
Where glad amenities grow and spring
'Neath Charity's light and loving sway,
And the magic of joy is felt alway.
Spirits of good, in concert sweet,
Mingle therein on noiseless feet,
And speak from warm lips rosy-bright,
And smile from eyes of beaming light,
And gleam along the subtle wires
With feeling that the scene inspires.
Mingle therein on noiseless feet,
And speak from warm lips rosy-bright,
And smile from eyes of beaming light,
And gleam along the subtle wires
With feeling that the scene inspires.
Ah, grand the circle thus combined,
For usefulness and pleasure joined!
And, gathering from life's passing hours,
A handful of its fragrant flowers,
They feel, the while, the blesséd sense
Of genuine benevolence.
For usefulness and pleasure joined!
And, gathering from life's passing hours,
A handful of its fragrant flowers,
They feel, the while, the blesséd sense
Of genuine benevolence.
The nimble fingers deftly stray
Over their task in busy way,
While the glad tongue and brimming heart
Take in the busy scene a part;
But there, beside the active show,
Enacts a scene the angels know.
Over their task in busy way,
277
Take in the busy scene a part;
But there, beside the active show,
Enacts a scene the angels know.
For unseen fingers dexterous move,
In industry and tender love,
To weave, in texture of the soul,
Those stitches wrought in generous dole,
To form a garb the ones to bless
Who labor in unselfishness.
In industry and tender love,
To weave, in texture of the soul,
Those stitches wrought in generous dole,
To form a garb the ones to bless
Who labor in unselfishness.
Thus every thought that's given the poor
Shall the kind thinker's good insure;
For every tear of pity shed,
A gem shall there appear instead;
And every stitch that's woven in love,
A triple bond of grace shall prove.
Shall the kind thinker's good insure;
For every tear of pity shed,
A gem shall there appear instead;
And every stitch that's woven in love,
A triple bond of grace shall prove.
We all “build better than we know,”
And though things humble seem, and slow,
They may sustain a good immense
In the grand scheme of Providence;
And e'en a simple heart-blest stitch
May be endowed with province rich.
And though things humble seem, and slow,
They may sustain a good immense
In the grand scheme of Providence;
And e'en a simple heart-blest stitch
May be endowed with province rich.
278
TORN DOWN.
[_]
[A tribute to an old homestead, by one who beneath its roof experienced what all considerations of local improvement cannot reconcile him to the loss of.]
Thus sacrilegious hands are laid
Upon thy frame, old hallowed pile;
My heart the havoc would have stayed,
And saved thee for a longer while.
Upon thy frame, old hallowed pile;
My heart the havoc would have stayed,
And saved thee for a longer while.
Thou wert my nest; my fledglings here
First learnt the active verb to live;
And love controlled the little sphere
With all the joy that life could give—
First learnt the active verb to live;
And love controlled the little sphere
With all the joy that life could give—
The scene of sweet domestic rest,
Where hope and trust together grew,
And God's own smile was manifest
In every trial that we knew.
Where hope and trust together grew,
And God's own smile was manifest
In every trial that we knew.
Here, too, the dread Destroyer came,
And bore the fairest from our side;
But resignation lit its flame,
And soothed us when our darling died.
And bore the fairest from our side;
But resignation lit its flame,
And soothed us when our darling died.
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It bound us by still stronger ties,
And heavenly love our hearts o'erfilled;
We dried, while looking up, our eyes,
And all rebellious feelings stilled.
And heavenly love our hearts o'erfilled;
We dried, while looking up, our eyes,
And all rebellious feelings stilled.
O, joy and gladness of the past!
O grief, that had a mission blest!
There's glory in the retrocast
That doth the crumbling scene invest.
O grief, that had a mission blest!
There's glory in the retrocast
That doth the crumbling scene invest.
There, through the sundered wall, I see
The garden where my children played;
There stood the fragrant lilac tree,
There where the pear tree cast its shade;
The garden where my children played;
There stood the fragrant lilac tree,
There where the pear tree cast its shade;
There was the flower-bed, where grew
The garden gems of gorgeous dyes,
That seemed as if they beauty drew
From my dear Nannie's sunny eyes.
The garden gems of gorgeous dyes,
That seemed as if they beauty drew
From my dear Nannie's sunny eyes.
The grape-vine o'er the pathway hung,
Filled with the choicest purple bloom,
And roses on the still air flung
Their ecstasy of glad perfume.
Filled with the choicest purple bloom,
And roses on the still air flung
Their ecstasy of glad perfume.
'Tis gone! the still and active life;
The place is needed for to-day,
And all its joy and all its strife
Pass like a morning dream away.
The place is needed for to-day,
And all its joy and all its strife
Pass like a morning dream away.
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But from possession of my heart,
In memory's consecrated shrine,
Ne'er shall that dear old scene depart
That early manhood claimed as mine.
In memory's consecrated shrine,
Ne'er shall that dear old scene depart
That early manhood claimed as mine.
E'en though it fade away from view,
And gone the bliss of former hours,
In sweet affection's sun and dew
Shall live again its fruits and flowers.
And gone the bliss of former hours,
In sweet affection's sun and dew
Shall live again its fruits and flowers.
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THE SKATERS.
I hear the sound of boyish laughter break
In joyous cadence on the crispy air,
Where in the sunshine gleams the burnished lake,
On whose bright surface skaters, here and there,
Their varied daring evolutions make;
While Fun holds carnival with unction rare,
And hearts untrammelled sweet enjoyment share
In joyous cadence on the crispy air,
Where in the sunshine gleams the burnished lake,
On whose bright surface skaters, here and there,
Their varied daring evolutions make;
While Fun holds carnival with unction rare,
And hearts untrammelled sweet enjoyment share
Like birds they cleave the air with graceful pose,
In self-abandon, by excitement led,
And feats of bravest merit they disclose;
We watch admiringly the rimy thread
That follows in the track by which each goes,—
A record, by the skater to be read,
Of steady nerve and most artistic tread.
In self-abandon, by excitement led,
And feats of bravest merit they disclose;
We watch admiringly the rimy thread
That follows in the track by which each goes,—
A record, by the skater to be read,
Of steady nerve and most artistic tread.
O youth! what passion in a scene like this,
With every manly attribute aglow!
Through bold endeavor is the way to bliss,
That but triumphant excellence may know;
Yet grasping, for the nonce, success, I wis,
Is what few here in after life will show,
Where boyhood's promise dies too oft 'neath manhood's snow.
With every manly attribute aglow!
Through bold endeavor is the way to bliss,
That but triumphant excellence may know;
Yet grasping, for the nonce, success, I wis,
Is what few here in after life will show,
Where boyhood's promise dies too oft 'neath manhood's snow.
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The spirit lives; but though we keenly feel
The animation of the passing scene,
And see old joys in these anew reveal,
Forgetting all the lapse of time between,
Our ear accordant with the ringing steel
That carves in monograms the crystal sheen,
We scarce could do the deeds we then achieved, I ween.
The animation of the passing scene,
And see old joys in these anew reveal,
Forgetting all the lapse of time between,
Our ear accordant with the ringing steel
That carves in monograms the crystal sheen,
We scarce could do the deeds we then achieved, I ween.
And thus we stand in contemplation lost,
Watching and feeling all the waves of fun,
Just as the genius of the last year's frost
Might look on bud and bloom next spring-time's sun;
Or like some veteran soldier, battle-tost,
Who from its bracket takes his ancient gun,
And talks of strife and wounds, and tells how fields were won.
Watching and feeling all the waves of fun,
Just as the genius of the last year's frost
Might look on bud and bloom next spring-time's sun;
Or like some veteran soldier, battle-tost,
Who from its bracket takes his ancient gun,
And talks of strife and wounds, and tells how fields were won.
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THE CORNER POLICEMAN.
Here I stand, out in the street,
Dressed in my uniform trim and neat,
A-cultivating my lonely beat,
In constant danger, and can't retreat,
Of being mashed to sassage meat,
To keep secure the damsels sweet,
Who cross the pave where horses fleet
Dash along with busy feet.
Dressed in my uniform trim and neat,
A-cultivating my lonely beat,
In constant danger, and can't retreat,
Of being mashed to sassage meat,
To keep secure the damsels sweet,
Who cross the pave where horses fleet
Dash along with busy feet.
I takes their bridles and bids 'em whoa!
(I mean the horses I 'spose you know,)
While ladies by in safety go,
And takes 'em round the waist, to show
What protection the law can throw,—
My arm's the City of Boston,—and so,
With all benevolence aglow,
I tap my zeal and let it flow.
(I mean the horses I 'spose you know,)
While ladies by in safety go,
And takes 'em round the waist, to show
What protection the law can throw,—
My arm's the City of Boston,—and so,
With all benevolence aglow,
I tap my zeal and let it flow.
No matter how the cartmen swear,
The C'lossus of roads, I stand right there.
“Gentlemen,” says I, “stay where you are,
While I for the young woman care.
Come here, my dear, my right arm share;
Lean on it, I am able to bear.”
Such gratitude as they declare!
But don't the teamsters tear their hair!
The C'lossus of roads, I stand right there.
“Gentlemen,” says I, “stay where you are,
While I for the young woman care.
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Lean on it, I am able to bear.”
Such gratitude as they declare!
But don't the teamsters tear their hair!
The danger I don't mind a mite,
If I can save the dears from fright,
Who come to me excited quite
For me to put them over right;
'Tis wonderful how many try't!
In such a service I delight,
Regarding not the teamsters' spite,
Whose bark is far worse than their bite.
If I can save the dears from fright,
Who come to me excited quite
For me to put them over right;
'Tis wonderful how many try't!
In such a service I delight,
Regarding not the teamsters' spite,
Whose bark is far worse than their bite.
And thus I stand, 'gainst team and cart;
My orders is my guide and chart,
Nor care a bit whose withers smart;
Yielding to ladies arm and heart,
And doing all my gentle art,
To keep them safe where horses dart,
And drivers wending to the mart
Are held to keep ten feet apart.
My orders is my guide and chart,
Nor care a bit whose withers smart;
Yielding to ladies arm and heart,
And doing all my gentle art,
To keep them safe where horses dart,
And drivers wending to the mart
Are held to keep ten feet apart.
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THE OLD STAGE-COACH.
The old stage-horn to the ear of the boy
Rang sharp and clear with a note of joy,
As onward rolled o'er the dusty road
The bulky stage with its human load,
And the echoing elves on hill and plain
Sent the stirring music back again,
Heralding the quick approach,
To the wayside inn, of the old stage-coach.
Rang sharp and clear with a note of joy,
As onward rolled o'er the dusty road
The bulky stage with its human load,
And the echoing elves on hill and plain
Sent the stirring music back again,
Heralding the quick approach,
To the wayside inn, of the old stage-coach.
I see it now in its stately pride,
As then before me I saw it glide;
Its prancing coursers, as if aware
Of the glory in which they held a share,
Dashed o'er the way with a tattoo beat
That rang out clear from their iron feet;
The old coach rocking like ship on the sea,
And the driver the envy and joy of me.
As then before me I saw it glide;
Its prancing coursers, as if aware
Of the glory in which they held a share,
Dashed o'er the way with a tattoo beat
That rang out clear from their iron feet;
The old coach rocking like ship on the sea,
And the driver the envy and joy of me.
Ah, great the pride by his side to sit,
To list to his budget of wisdom or wit;
And of all the places by boyhood sought
To that high station all else were nought.
A charm pervaded each word he spoke,
That shone in story or sparkled in joke,
And the brightest genius was murk and dim
To the glory of fun revealed in him.
To list to his budget of wisdom or wit;
And of all the places by boyhood sought
To that high station all else were nought.
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That shone in story or sparkled in joke,
And the brightest genius was murk and dim
To the glory of fun revealed in him.
And that was the seat for the grandest view,
As by scenes of beauty the coursers flew,
While the pleasant breezes of summer bore
The breath of wild flowers the meadow o'er,
And fanned the brow that the ardent sun
Sprent with a glow of commingled dun,
Giving a boon to the outside fare
That inside swelterers could not share.
As by scenes of beauty the coursers flew,
While the pleasant breezes of summer bore
The breath of wild flowers the meadow o'er,
And fanned the brow that the ardent sun
Sprent with a glow of commingled dun,
Giving a boon to the outside fare
That inside swelterers could not share.
By the meadow and over the bridge,
Sinking the valley and mounting the ridge,
Hearing the carol from far away
Of the farmers busy with their hay,
Catching the shapes of the distant hills,
Marking the course of the silver rills—
This was the pleasure the passenger knew
Whom the old stage-coach bore safely through.
Sinking the valley and mounting the ridge,
Hearing the carol from far away
Of the farmers busy with their hay,
Catching the shapes of the distant hills,
Marking the course of the silver rills—
This was the pleasure the passenger knew
Whom the old stage-coach bore safely through.
But the reign of the old stage-coach is o'er,
And the driver tells his tales no more;
The iron horse takes the courser's place,
With fiery snort and rapider pace;
The sound of the horn gives place to the bell
And the din of the whistle's warning knell,
With rush and roar of imprisoned steam,
And the old stage-coach subsides to a dream.
And the driver tells his tales no more;
The iron horse takes the courser's place,
With fiery snort and rapider pace;
The sound of the horn gives place to the bell
And the din of the whistle's warning knell,
With rush and roar of imprisoned steam,
And the old stage-coach subsides to a dream.
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