 | The Triangular Society |  |
19
THE EXTINGUISHER.
Oh! tales are told and songs are sung
Of toilers far and near,
The soldier and the fisherman,
The plodding muleteer,
The lumberman with sounding ax
Where northern forests bow,
The sailor on his dizzy ropes,
The farmer at his plough—
But no fond bard has sung the praise
Or marked the weary way
Of him who puts the street-lamps out
Before the dawn of day.
Of toilers far and near,
The soldier and the fisherman,
The plodding muleteer,
The lumberman with sounding ax
Where northern forests bow,
The sailor on his dizzy ropes,
The farmer at his plough—
20
Or marked the weary way
Of him who puts the street-lamps out
Before the dawn of day.
Who knows at what unchristian hour
He leaves his happy sleep?
Or does he stay all night awake
His lonesome tryst to keep?
And does he walk the dismal streets
Without a thought of fear,
Nor dread to meet a prowling foe,
Nor dream of danger near?
And does he do his work for love
Without a thought of pay,
The man who puts the street-lamps out
Before the dawn of day?
He leaves his happy sleep?
Or does he stay all night awake
His lonesome tryst to keep?
And does he walk the dismal streets
Without a thought of fear,
Nor dread to meet a prowling foe,
Nor dream of danger near?
And does he do his work for love
Without a thought of pay,
The man who puts the street-lamps out
Before the dawn of day?
They call the midnight hour the time
When cemeteries yawn—
But ah, the fearsome time o' night
Is just before the dawn—
The darkest, coldest, dreariest time,
When half the world is dumb,
When shadows look like spectral shapes,
And thieves and burglars come—
When windows stare like sleepless eyes,
And fogs roll up the bay—
Just when he puts the street-lamps out
Before the dawn of day.
When cemeteries yawn—
But ah, the fearsome time o' night
Is just before the dawn—
The darkest, coldest, dreariest time,
When half the world is dumb,
When shadows look like spectral shapes,
And thieves and burglars come—
When windows stare like sleepless eyes,
And fogs roll up the bay—
Just when he puts the street-lamps out
Before the dawn of day.
But worse than all the darkest nights
Are those when low and late
The ghostly moon companions him,
And follows like a fate;
She waits at corners till he comes,
Then flits before he knows,
And sends a phantom, black and grim,
To track him where he goes;
I wonder if he dreads her face,
Or likes her pallid ray,
This man who puts the street-lamps out
Before the dawn of day?
Are those when low and late
The ghostly moon companions him,
And follows like a fate;
21
Then flits before he knows,
And sends a phantom, black and grim,
To track him where he goes;
I wonder if he dreads her face,
Or likes her pallid ray,
This man who puts the street-lamps out
Before the dawn of day?
The only signs of life he sees
But wear a mournful guise;
Behind each dim-lit pane, he knows
Some sleepless sorrow lies;
Some woman tends a suffering child,
Or bathes a sick man's head,
Or some devoted spirit keeps
Its vigil by the dead—
And hails his footstep as the sign
Of morn's returning ray,
What time he puts the street-lamps out
Before the dawn of day.
But wear a mournful guise;
Behind each dim-lit pane, he knows
Some sleepless sorrow lies;
Some woman tends a suffering child,
Or bathes a sick man's head,
Or some devoted spirit keeps
Its vigil by the dead—
And hails his footstep as the sign
Of morn's returning ray,
What time he puts the street-lamps out
Before the dawn of day.
I hear him when the inky skies
Pour down their drenching flood,
His boots are noisy on the bricks,
Or silent in the mud;
I hear him in the windy nights
When blinds and windows creak,
I hear him in the winter-time
When storms are wild and bleak—
And yet I never saw the face
(Perhaps no mortal may—)
Of him who puts the street-lamps out
Before the dawn of day.
Pour down their drenching flood,
His boots are noisy on the bricks,
Or silent in the mud;
I hear him in the windy nights
When blinds and windows creak,
I hear him in the winter-time
When storms are wild and bleak—
And yet I never saw the face
(Perhaps no mortal may—)
Of him who puts the street-lamps out
Before the dawn of day.
23
THE ADJECTIVE.
Where would the force of language be
Without the adjective?
How could the critic wing his shaft?
How could the poet live?
Without the adjective?
How could the critic wing his shaft?
How could the poet live?
How could the novelist portray
The creatures of his brain,
The beauty of his heroine,
The transport of his swain?
The creatures of his brain,
The beauty of his heroine,
The transport of his swain?
No more his tide of eloquence
The orator could pour,
No more the man of science fill
His treasuries of lore.
The orator could pour,
No more the man of science fill
His treasuries of lore.
The lover's tongue could never tell
His passion and despair;
Deprived of its superlatives
Who would for flattery care?
His passion and despair;
Deprived of its superlatives
Who would for flattery care?
Where would the sting of satire be?
The edge and point of wit?
How could the stab of censure wound,
The dart of sarcasm hit?
The edge and point of wit?
How could the stab of censure wound,
The dart of sarcasm hit?
Biographers would cease to prowl,
Historians drop the pen,
Paralysis would chill and numb
The tongues and minds of men,—
Historians drop the pen,
Paralysis would chill and numb
The tongues and minds of men,—
The press would lose its voice of might,
The pulpit all its power,
The sage could not describe a star,
The botanist a flower,—
The pulpit all its power,
The sage could not describe a star,
The botanist a flower,—
24
So rarely is a period penned,
A line or sentence made,
Or thought set down, O adjective,
Which does not claim thy aid!
A line or sentence made,
Or thought set down, O adjective,
Which does not claim thy aid!
Yet I for once defy thy might,
For mark me, as I live,
No stanza of the nine here writ
Contains an adjective!
For mark me, as I live,
No stanza of the nine here writ
Contains an adjective!
29
ACORN PLANTING.
Bury the seed-germs deep, before the snow,
No pledge for amber grain or golden ears,
But for a fleet of ships, whose hulls shall grow
Out of these acorn shells—in fifty years.
No pledge for amber grain or golden ears,
But for a fleet of ships, whose hulls shall grow
Out of these acorn shells—in fifty years.
Who plants but for a summer-time, has need
Of steady faith to rule his doubts and fears;
How full of trust the soul that sows the seed
Whose harvest ripens not for fifty years!
Of steady faith to rule his doubts and fears;
How full of trust the soul that sows the seed
Whose harvest ripens not for fifty years!
Upon these germs shall Nature's forces wait,
Sunlight and dew shall nurse the tender shoots,
The landward breezes bring their misty freight,
And timely rains refresh the thirsty roots.
Sunlight and dew shall nurse the tender shoots,
The landward breezes bring their misty freight,
And timely rains refresh the thirsty roots.
On the slow marvel of their annual growth
Shall fickle skies alternate frown and smile,
And richest green and deepest scarlet both
In turn make beautiful the desert isle.
Shall fickle skies alternate frown and smile,
And richest green and deepest scarlet both
In turn make beautiful the desert isle.
How will the strong limbs writhe in woe and pain,
When winter tempests rise in howling wrath,
When roaring waves sweep inward from the main,
And sailors' wives turn pale beside the hearth!
When winter tempests rise in howling wrath,
When roaring waves sweep inward from the main,
And sailors' wives turn pale beside the hearth!
And when the noble boughs swing wide and high,
And the rejoicing trees wax tall and great,
Then, on their seeming immortality,
Will fall the sudden thunderbolt of fate,—
And the rejoicing trees wax tall and great,
Then, on their seeming immortality,
Will fall the sudden thunderbolt of fate,—
30
Strong arms will level all their leafy grace,
Deft hands will hew and shape,—and spar and mast,
Keel, rib and beam and plank will find their place,
And lo! the tardy harvest smiles at last!
Deft hands will hew and shape,—and spar and mast,
Keel, rib and beam and plank will find their place,
And lo! the tardy harvest smiles at last!
More marvellous than aught in that old tale
Of dragons' teeth which sprouted men and spears,
The story of the vessels which shall sail
Out of these acorn cups—in fifty years!
Of dragons' teeth which sprouted men and spears,
The story of the vessels which shall sail
Out of these acorn cups—in fifty years!
Perchance some happy trunks, unscathed, may be
Spared in their splendid strength and stateliness
To greet the morning rising from the sea
New, yet the same—a hundred years from this.
Spared in their splendid strength and stateliness
To greet the morning rising from the sea
New, yet the same—a hundred years from this.
The squirrel, wisely lightening toil with mirth,
Will frisk and fill his cheeks, upon the bough,
Then, chattering, hide his treasures in the earth,
In autumn days, a hundred years from now.
Will frisk and fill his cheeks, upon the bough,
Then, chattering, hide his treasures in the earth,
In autumn days, a hundred years from now.
Shy, sweet-voiced birds will warble in their shade,
Far from all human stir and turbulence,
And rear their downy offspring unafraid—
The song-birds of a hundred summers hence.
Far from all human stir and turbulence,
And rear their downy offspring unafraid—
The song-birds of a hundred summers hence.
But you and I, my friend, who muse and smile
Over these fancies,—we shall be, by then,
Bowed, and dim-eyed, and wan;—so little while
Makes ships of acorns, and makes wrecks of men!
Over these fancies,—we shall be, by then,
Bowed, and dim-eyed, and wan;—so little while
Makes ships of acorns, and makes wrecks of men!
34
SNOWED IN.
All night when the rattling windows ceased a moment to strive and beat,
We heard the merciless wind pursue the whisking, whispering sleet,
And gazing now with the dawn's first gleam through panes by frost impearled,
We see but a waste of whirling white,—what has become of the world?
We heard the merciless wind pursue the whisking, whispering sleet,
And gazing now with the dawn's first gleam through panes by frost impearled,
We see but a waste of whirling white,—what has become of the world?
We open the outer door to meet a solid, snowy wall,
That, uninvited and unannounced, comes tumbling into the hall;
The path from door to gateway is as though it had not been;
And we are lost to the world to-day—cut off—left out—snowed in!
That, uninvited and unannounced, comes tumbling into the hall;
The path from door to gateway is as though it had not been;
And we are lost to the world to-day—cut off—left out—snowed in!
35
There is no creak of laboring teams—no jingle of cutter bells—
No schoolgirl's giggle, and clicking heels—no schoolboy's senseless yells—
There is no sound in the whole long street of whistle, or laugh, or talk,
But shovel responds to shovel again, along the drifted walk.
No schoolgirl's giggle, and clicking heels—no schoolboy's senseless yells—
There is no sound in the whole long street of whistle, or laugh, or talk,
But shovel responds to shovel again, along the drifted walk.
The snow-birds sit in the leafless tree, and laugh at our sorry plight;
Even the postman plays us false, and never comes in sight;
The drift grows deeper across the walk, and deeper still by the wall,
And the milk-boy slights the waiting can, and the clam-man fails to call.
Even the postman plays us false, and never comes in sight;
The drift grows deeper across the walk, and deeper still by the wall,
And the milk-boy slights the waiting can, and the clam-man fails to call.
Between the dwarfed and night-capped posts, the useless clothes-lines swing—
And Monday's clothes will go unhung, for who would wash and wring,
With drifts hip-high in the drying-yard, and never a soul about
To shovel and tread the zigzag paths, and dig the doorsteps out?
And Monday's clothes will go unhung, for who would wash and wring,
With drifts hip-high in the drying-yard, and never a soul about
To shovel and tread the zigzag paths, and dig the doorsteps out?
And hours go by, and still it snows, till the fences stand knee-deep,
And ever between the house and street there drifts a higher heap;
The empty milk-can on the step is hidden out of sight;
We shall have no milk for our frugal toast, no cream for our tea to-night!
And ever between the house and street there drifts a higher heap;
The empty milk-can on the step is hidden out of sight;
We shall have no milk for our frugal toast, no cream for our tea to-night!
36
Snowed in! and we might die to-day, and lie here dead a week,
And who would question our whereabouts, or come to ask and seek?
Not one would wonder where we 'd gone, or when or how we went,
Until the landlord came to bring his monthly bill for rent!
And who would question our whereabouts, or come to ask and seek?
Not one would wonder where we 'd gone, or when or how we went,
Until the landlord came to bring his monthly bill for rent!
39
SHOVELLING SNOW.
A bountiful snowfall, over night,
And street and sidewalk are blocked with white—
And plied by many a sturdy hand,
The sound of the shovel is heard in the land—
Ah, hapless delvers, who rise at six,
To excavate for the buried bricks!
And street and sidewalk are blocked with white—
And plied by many a sturdy hand,
The sound of the shovel is heard in the land—
Ah, hapless delvers, who rise at six,
To excavate for the buried bricks!
Alas, the labors of shovel and spade
On all the railroads that ever were made,
Can never begin with the toilsome woe
Of muscle wasted in shovelling snow;—
And when all the winter's task is o'er,
The world is the same as it was before!
On all the railroads that ever were made,
Can never begin with the toilsome woe
Of muscle wasted in shovelling snow;—
And when all the winter's task is o'er,
The world is the same as it was before!
40
In all other digging under the sun,
There 's something gained by the labor done—
A well, a highway, a grave, a ditch,
Canal or garden, no matter which;
But what is there left to save or show
Of a winter's labor in shovelling snow?
There 's something gained by the labor done—
A well, a highway, a grave, a ditch,
Canal or garden, no matter which;
But what is there left to save or show
Of a winter's labor in shovelling snow?
Ah, struggle for triumph that never is won!
What does it come to, when all is done?
For after the toiler has blistered his palms,
And strained his shoulders and lamed his arms,
He has cleared with infinite toil and pain,
A place for the snow to fill again!
What does it come to, when all is done?
For after the toiler has blistered his palms,
And strained his shoulders and lamed his arms,
He has cleared with infinite toil and pain,
A place for the snow to fill again!
Three undertakings beneath the sun
Are never abandoned, and never done—
Though generations their lives expend,
They'll never be finished till time shall end;
These three, as many have cause to know,
Are house-work, kissing, and shovelling snow.
Are never abandoned, and never done—
Though generations their lives expend,
They'll never be finished till time shall end;
These three, as many have cause to know,
Are house-work, kissing, and shovelling snow.
41
THE SONG OF THE SEASON.
Darling, you have taken cold,
It is easy to be told,—
That 's the sixteenth time to-day
You have sneezed that dreadful way!
I'll exhibit presently
Foot-baths hot, and ginger tea,
Else, my darling, you will be
Sick as Punch, 't is plain to see.
It is easy to be told,—
That 's the sixteenth time to-day
You have sneezed that dreadful way!
I'll exhibit presently
Foot-baths hot, and ginger tea,
Else, my darling, you will be
Sick as Punch, 't is plain to see.
You must take a sweat to-night,
And when you are melted quite
With the heat and perspira-
tion, I cannot choose but say—
Oh, my darling, mine alone!
I am grieved to hear you groan,
But this remedy, my own,
Is the best prescription known.
And when you are melted quite
With the heat and perspira-
tion, I cannot choose but say—
Oh, my darling, mine alone!
I am grieved to hear you groan,
But this remedy, my own,
Is the best prescription known.
Darling, we must cure your cold,
Or, ere ever you grow old,
Rheumatism will rack you—oh,
But its twinges torture so!
Ah, this weather's wicked will
Is enough to make you ill—
Yes, my darling, frost and chill
Sharpen many a doctor's bill.
Or, ere ever you grow old,
Rheumatism will rack you—oh,
But its twinges torture so!
Ah, this weather's wicked will
Is enough to make you ill—
Yes, my darling, frost and chill
Sharpen many a doctor's bill.
Let me move your easy chair
Farther from this draught of air—
Put your feet up in a row
On the nice warm stove-hearth, so;
I am fearful you have grown
Careless of your health, my own,
For you cough, and wheeze, and moan,
Like a phthisicky trombone.
Farther from this draught of air—
42
On the nice warm stove-hearth, so;
I am fearful you have grown
Careless of your health, my own,
For you cough, and wheeze, and moan,
Like a phthisicky trombone.
L'ENVOI.
Darling, you have taken cold,That is easy to be told,
Sneezing in that dreadful way,—
That 's the sixteenth time to-day!
74
THE DERWENT DUCKS.
Through the verdurous valleys of Derbyshire
Flows the pretty Derwent river,
Quiet and serious, slow and clear,
While hazel and beech-sprays, drooping near,
To its music dance and quiver;
Flows the pretty Derwent river,
Quiet and serious, slow and clear,
While hazel and beech-sprays, drooping near,
To its music dance and quiver;
Through bosky shadows and banks of moss,
Lazily, softly slipping;
So narrow its channel that one may toss
With little effort, a pebble across,
And see where it ceases skipping.
Lazily, softly slipping;
So narrow its channel that one may toss
With little effort, a pebble across,
And see where it ceases skipping.
Steep hills rise sharply on either hand,
And nestling in greenest hollows
Clusters of small stone houses stand,
Half-burrow, half-nest, like the quaintly-planned
Homes of the queer bank-swallows.
And nestling in greenest hollows
Clusters of small stone houses stand,
Half-burrow, half-nest, like the quaintly-planned
Homes of the queer bank-swallows.
So old, no doubt they were occupied
In the times of torch and martyr;
They seem grown into the slope's steep side,—
And terraces, narrow and walled, divide
The town into definite strata.
In the times of torch and martyr;
They seem grown into the slope's steep side,—
And terraces, narrow and walled, divide
The town into definite strata.
I doubt if the folk in the upper row
Are better than those below it;
But if stronger reason for high and low
Ever existed, surely no
History lives to show it.
Are better than those below it;
But if stronger reason for high and low
Ever existed, surely no
History lives to show it.
Beneath, with a look of calm content
And a slow and slumberous motion,
The quiet tide of the fair Derwent
Rolls on, to join with the broader Trent,
In its search for the German ocean.
And a slow and slumberous motion,
The quiet tide of the fair Derwent
Rolls on, to join with the broader Trent,
In its search for the German ocean.
75
Looking down from my ivied nest,
In the misty autumn weather,
I watched two ducks on the river's breast,
Side by side in their peaceful quest
Sailing for days together.
In the misty autumn weather,
I watched two ducks on the river's breast,
Side by side in their peaceful quest
Sailing for days together.
Their lives so happy and innocent,
Into the past have drifted;
They have been and are gone—but where Derwent
Lazily eddies in cool content,
The secret is still unsifted.
Into the past have drifted;
They have been and are gone—but where Derwent
Lazily eddies in cool content,
The secret is still unsifted.
They were white and fair as the snow's first flake,
And their necks were smooth and supple;
(I call them ducks for convenience's sake,
But one was a duck, and one a drake,
And the two were a pretty couple.)
And their necks were smooth and supple;
(I call them ducks for convenience's sake,
But one was a duck, and one a drake,
And the two were a pretty couple.)
When oft at night through the shadows brown,
Of autumn's mild forewarning,
I looked from my lofty window down
On the mossy roofs of the sleepy town,
And bade them adieu till morning—
Of autumn's mild forewarning,
I looked from my lofty window down
On the mossy roofs of the sleepy town,
And bade them adieu till morning—
I saw them dimly, two shapes of snow,
On the darkness of the waters,
Sailing sociably to and fro,
As loth to paddle ashore and go
Home to their sleeping quarters.
On the darkness of the waters,
Sailing sociably to and fro,
As loth to paddle ashore and go
Home to their sleeping quarters.
And when, as soon as the daylight came,
I looked for them down the river,
I found them floating there all the same,
As though night were nothing, and time a name,
And they had been there forever.
I looked for them down the river,
I found them floating there all the same,
As though night were nothing, and time a name,
And they had been there forever.
76
(In this dull town, which is sure to be
Rainy, foggy or muddy
For two whole days out of every three,—
There 's really so very little to see
That these two lovers became to me
A most absorbing study.)
Rainy, foggy or muddy
For two whole days out of every three,—
There 's really so very little to see
That these two lovers became to me
A most absorbing study.)
At last on a morning chill and gray,
One feathery sailor only
Breasted the waves at break of day,
Floating about in an aimless way,
Silent, distraught and lonely.
One feathery sailor only
Breasted the waves at break of day,
Floating about in an aimless way,
Silent, distraught and lonely.
And day after day went by, until
A week had dawned and departed,
But the lost one came not, and sorrowing still
The widower followed his waning will,
Languid and heavy-hearted.
A week had dawned and departed,
But the lost one came not, and sorrowing still
The widower followed his waning will,
Languid and heavy-hearted.
But one fair morning no eye descried
The wanderer unattended;
No white neck parted the limpid tide;
No fond hearts floated there, side by side—
The idyl was done and ended!
The wanderer unattended;
No white neck parted the limpid tide;
No fond hearts floated there, side by side—
The idyl was done and ended!
On half my story—perhaps two-thirds—
Do doubt and mystery hover,
Since what became of those two fond birds
I cannot put into fitting words,
For I never could discover.
Do doubt and mystery hover,
Since what became of those two fond birds
I cannot put into fitting words,
For I never could discover.
Did they die, I wonder and ask in vain,
In the under world or the upper?
Did they dive, and fail to come up again?
Did they sicken and perish, or were they slain
For somebody's Sunday supper?
In the under world or the upper?
Did they dive, and fail to come up again?
Did they sicken and perish, or were they slain
For somebody's Sunday supper?
77
I never shall know how their lives were rent
And their true hearts reft and broken
After their summer of calm content—
The doom of the ducks on the dim Derwent
Must always remain unspoken!
And their true hearts reft and broken
After their summer of calm content—
The doom of the ducks on the dim Derwent
Must always remain unspoken!
86
HOW STRANGE IT WILL BE.
How strange it will be, love—how strange, when we two
Shall be what all lovers become,
When love is no longer absorbingly new;—
Not vulgarly faithless—not really untrue,
But cool and accustomed; you, ceasing to woo,
Grown thoughtless of me, and I careless of you,—
Our pet names grown rusty with nothing to do—
Love's bright web unravelled, and rent, and worn through,
And life's loom left empty—O, hum!
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
Shall be what all lovers become,
When love is no longer absorbingly new;—
Not vulgarly faithless—not really untrue,
But cool and accustomed; you, ceasing to woo,
Grown thoughtless of me, and I careless of you,—
87
Love's bright web unravelled, and rent, and worn through,
And life's loom left empty—O, hum!
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
How strange it will be when the witchery goes
Which makes me seem lovely to-day;
When your thought of me loses its tint-of-the-rose—
When every day serves some new fault to disclose,
When you criticise sharply, eyes, chin, mouth and nose,
And wonder you could for a moment suppose
I was out of the commonplace way;
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
Which makes me seem lovely to-day;
When your thought of me loses its tint-of-the-rose—
When every day serves some new fault to disclose,
When you criticise sharply, eyes, chin, mouth and nose,
And wonder you could for a moment suppose
I was out of the commonplace way;
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
How strange it will be, love—how strange, when we meet
With just a chill touch of the hand!
When my pulses no longer delightedly beat
At the thought of your coming—the sound of your feet,—
When I watch not your going, far down the long street,
When your dear, loving voice, now so thrillingly sweet,
Grows harsh in reproach or command;
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
With just a chill touch of the hand!
When my pulses no longer delightedly beat
At the thought of your coming—the sound of your feet,—
When I watch not your going, far down the long street,
When your dear, loving voice, now so thrillingly sweet,
Grows harsh in reproach or command;
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
How strange it will be when we willingly stay
Divided the weary day through!
Or keeping remotely apart as we may,
Sit chilly and silent, with nothing to say,
Or coolly converse on the news of the day,
In a wearisome, old-married-folks sort of way!
I shrink from the picture,—don't you?
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
Divided the weary day through!
Or keeping remotely apart as we may,
Sit chilly and silent, with nothing to say,
Or coolly converse on the news of the day,
In a wearisome, old-married-folks sort of way!
I shrink from the picture,—don't you?
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
88
Dear love, if our hearts do grow torpid and old,
As so many others have done—
If we let our love perish with hunger and cold,
If we dim all life's diamonds, and tarnish its gold,
If we choose to live wretched, and die unconsoled,
'T will be strangest of all things that ever were told
As happening under the sun!
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
As so many others have done—
If we let our love perish with hunger and cold,
If we dim all life's diamonds, and tarnish its gold,
If we choose to live wretched, and die unconsoled,
'T will be strangest of all things that ever were told
As happening under the sun!
Ah, me!
How strange it will be!
ISHMAEL DAY.
One summer morning, a daring band
Of rebels rode into Maryland,
Over the prosperous, peaceful farms,
Sending terror and strange alarms,
The clatter of hoofs and the clang of arms.
Of rebels rode into Maryland,
Over the prosperous, peaceful farms,
Sending terror and strange alarms,
The clatter of hoofs and the clang of arms.
Fresh from the South where the hungry pine,
They ate like Pharaoh's starving kine;
They swept the land like devouring surge,
And left their path, to its furthest verge,
Bare as the track of the locust-scourge.
They ate like Pharaoh's starving kine;
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And left their path, to its furthest verge,
Bare as the track of the locust-scourge.
“The rebels are coming!” far and near
Rang the tidings of dread and fear;
Some paled and cowered, and sought to hide—
Some stood and waited, in fearless pride,
And women shuddered, and children cried.
Rang the tidings of dread and fear;
Some paled and cowered, and sought to hide—
Some stood and waited, in fearless pride,
And women shuddered, and children cried.
But others—vipers in human form
Stinging the bosom that kept them warm,
Welcomed with triumph the thievish band,
Hurried to offer the friendly hand,
As the rebels rode into Maryland,—
Stinging the bosom that kept them warm,
Welcomed with triumph the thievish band,
Hurried to offer the friendly hand,
As the rebels rode into Maryland,—
Made them merry with food and wine,
Clad them in garments rich and fine
For rags and hunger to make amends,
Flattered them, praised them, with selfish ends—
“Leave us scathless, for we are friends!”
Clad them in garments rich and fine
For rags and hunger to make amends,
Flattered them, praised them, with selfish ends—
“Leave us scathless, for we are friends!”
Could traitors trust in a traitor? No!
Little they favored friend or foe,
But gathered the cattle the farms across,
Flinging back, with a scornful toss,
“If ye are friends, ye can bear the loss!”
Little they favored friend or foe,
But gathered the cattle the farms across,
Flinging back, with a scornful toss,
“If ye are friends, ye can bear the loss!”
Flushed with triumph, and wine, and prey,
They neared the dwelling of Ishmael Day,
A sturdy veteran, gray and old,
With heart of a patriot, firm and bold,
Strong and steadfast—unbribed, unsold.
They neared the dwelling of Ishmael Day,
A sturdy veteran, gray and old,
With heart of a patriot, firm and bold,
Strong and steadfast—unbribed, unsold.
And Ishmael Day, his brave head bare,
His white locks tossed by the morning air,
Fearless of danger, and death, and scars,
Went out to raise, by the farm-yard bars,
The dear old flag of the stripes and stars.
His white locks tossed by the morning air,
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Went out to raise, by the farm-yard bars,
The dear old flag of the stripes and stars.
Proudly, steadily up it flew,
Gorgeous with crimson, and white, and blue;
His withered hand, as he shook it freer,
May have trembled, but not with fear,
While, shouting, the rebels drew more near.
Gorgeous with crimson, and white, and blue;
His withered hand, as he shook it freer,
May have trembled, but not with fear,
While, shouting, the rebels drew more near.
“Halt!” They had seen the hated sign
Floating wide from old Ishmael's line.
“Lower that rag!” was their wrathful cry.
“Never!” rang Ishmael Day's reply;
“Fire, if it please you! I can but die!”
Floating wide from old Ishmael's line.
“Lower that rag!” was their wrathful cry.
“Never!” rang Ishmael Day's reply;
“Fire, if it please you! I can but die!”
One with a loud, defiant laugh,
Left his comrades and grasped the staff;
“Down!” came the fearless patriot's cry;
“Dare to lower that flag, and die!
One must bleed for it—you or I!”
Left his comrades and grasped the staff;
“Down!” came the fearless patriot's cry;
“Dare to lower that flag, and die!
One must bleed for it—you or I!”
But caring not for the stern command,
He drew the halliards with daring hand.
Ping! went the rifle-ball,—down he came
Under the flag he had tried to shame.
Old Ishmael Day took careful aim!
He drew the halliards with daring hand.
Ping! went the rifle-ball,—down he came
Under the flag he had tried to shame.
Old Ishmael Day took careful aim!
Hark! an echo! and now again
The tramp and tumult of arméd men;
And panic-stricken, the lawless band
Left their leader upon the sand,
And fled in fear out of Maryland.
The tramp and tumult of arméd men;
And panic-stricken, the lawless band
Left their leader upon the sand,
And fled in fear out of Maryland.
Seventy winters and three had shed
Their snowy glories on Ishmael's head;
But though cheeks may wither, and locks grow gray,
His fame shall be fresh and young alway—
Honor be to old Ishmael Day!
Their snowy glories on Ishmael's head;
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His fame shall be fresh and young alway—
Honor be to old Ishmael Day!
A CAGED LION.
He stands behind his iron bars,
Untamed, untamable and proud,
Disgraced by bondage, seamed by scars,
The centre of a taunting crowd.
Untamed, untamable and proud,
Disgraced by bondage, seamed by scars,
The centre of a taunting crowd.
Hunger and blows have vanquished him,
Weakened his limbs and dwarfed his size,
Yet all his woes have failed to dim
The yellow splendor of his eyes,—
Weakened his limbs and dwarfed his size,
Yet all his woes have failed to dim
The yellow splendor of his eyes,—
Which note no face in all the throng,
But see across, beyond, afar,
The jungle depths, remembered long,
And desert palms of Africa.
But see across, beyond, afar,
The jungle depths, remembered long,
And desert palms of Africa.
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So human souls, enslaved by chance,
Deformed by time's remorseless scars,
And scourged by cruel circumstance,
Behind Fate's hindering prison-bars,—
Deformed by time's remorseless scars,
And scourged by cruel circumstance,
Behind Fate's hindering prison-bars,—
Heedless alike of praise and jeers,
Blind to the present's chilly truth,
See, through the unfriendly crowd of years,
The torrid tropics of their youth!
Blind to the present's chilly truth,
See, through the unfriendly crowd of years,
The torrid tropics of their youth!
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THE LAST VOYAGE.
The midnight skies of autumn were brilliant overhead,
As up the gleaming Hudson the laden vessel sped;
The while with eye unsleeping, and nerves as strong as steel,
The brave and faithful pilot kept vigil at the wheel.
As up the gleaming Hudson the laden vessel sped;
The while with eye unsleeping, and nerves as strong as steel,
The brave and faithful pilot kept vigil at the wheel.
His home had been the river,—he loved its ceaseless roar;
He knew each mile of channel, each winding curve of shore;
Had dared its rocks and shallows, and laughed at landsmen's fears
In every wind and weather, for five-and-twenty years.
He knew each mile of channel, each winding curve of shore;
Had dared its rocks and shallows, and laughed at landsmen's fears
In every wind and weather, for five-and-twenty years.
No vapor hid the pole-star, no tempest crossed the night,
No mist-wreath veiled the waters, no haze obscured the sight,
But on the quiet midnight the bell's alarming note
Rang out with sudden clangor, the warning “Slow the boat!”
No mist-wreath veiled the waters, no haze obscured the sight,
But on the quiet midnight the bell's alarming note
Rang out with sudden clangor, the warning “Slow the boat!”
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Up sprang the second pilot, with wonder in his eyes;
“What ho! where is the danger?” he asked in dazed surprise.
“The sky is clear above us, the water deep below;
What hidden peril threatens, or wherefore signal so?”
“What ho! where is the danger?” he asked in dazed surprise.
“The sky is clear above us, the water deep below;
What hidden peril threatens, or wherefore signal so?”
The boat slid through the water with smooth and even keel,
With grasp unmoved and steady, the old man held the wheel,
Nor ever paused or faltered, but raised his eyes to say
“A heavy fog has fallen—I cannot see the way!”
With grasp unmoved and steady, the old man held the wheel,
Nor ever paused or faltered, but raised his eyes to say
“A heavy fog has fallen—I cannot see the way!”
“No! look! the night is cloudless, the way is straight and clear;
Yonder 's the light at Rhinebeck, and Rondout lies off here.”
Still unconvinced, he whispered, his voice grown faint and hoarse,
“The fog is thick and heavy, and we have lost our course!”
Yonder 's the light at Rhinebeck, and Rondout lies off here.”
Still unconvinced, he whispered, his voice grown faint and hoarse,
“The fog is thick and heavy, and we have lost our course!”
Awed suddenly to silence, the other took his place;
He marked the deathly pallor that touched the old man's face.
The pilot's work was ended; it was his time to go
Upon that mystic voyage whose port we may not know.
He marked the deathly pallor that touched the old man's face.
The pilot's work was ended; it was his time to go
Upon that mystic voyage whose port we may not know.
His years of patient labor and watchful care were past;
A true and faithful servant, and loyal to the last,
He felt across his vision death's icy dimness steal,
His eye upon the beacon, his hand upon the wheel.
A true and faithful servant, and loyal to the last,
He felt across his vision death's icy dimness steal,
His eye upon the beacon, his hand upon the wheel.
Surely some waiting angel, who counts as victories won
Long years of earnest labor and duties nobly done,
Some just and gentle angel, with forehead like the day,
Helped his bewildered spirit to find the shining way!
Long years of earnest labor and duties nobly done,
Some just and gentle angel, with forehead like the day,
Helped his bewildered spirit to find the shining way!
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A DEAR LONESOME DAY.
I have been searching through every room,
Careless of echoes, and silence, and gloom;
Upstairs and down, from the roof to the ground,
No human being is there to be found!
And I exult in an infinite glee,—
No living soul in the castle but me!
So, jubilate! I turn all the keys,—
World, do without me to-day, if you please!
Careless of echoes, and silence, and gloom;
Upstairs and down, from the roof to the ground,
No human being is there to be found!
And I exult in an infinite glee,—
No living soul in the castle but me!
So, jubilate! I turn all the keys,—
World, do without me to-day, if you please!
I am alone! I can laugh or can cry,
Nobody watches or questions me why,—
Nobody asks what the matter may be,—
Oh, how delightful it is to be free!
Talk of society's rarest delights,
Sociable mornings and talkative nights,—
Willingly, gladly, I fling them away,—
Give me myself and a dear lonesome day!
Nobody watches or questions me why,—
Nobody asks what the matter may be,—
Oh, how delightful it is to be free!
Talk of society's rarest delights,
Sociable mornings and talkative nights,—
Willingly, gladly, I fling them away,—
Give me myself and a dear lonesome day!
I am alone! I can do as I will,
Rest or be busy, be noisy or still,—
Read, sing, work, study, or string at my ease
Verses (don't criticise,—better than these.
These are the bubbles atop of the wine;
Just a relief for this gladness of mine,)
Jubilant, joyous, ecstatic, I say—
I am deliciously lonesome to-day!
Rest or be busy, be noisy or still,—
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Verses (don't criticise,—better than these.
These are the bubbles atop of the wine;
Just a relief for this gladness of mine,)
Jubilant, joyous, ecstatic, I say—
I am deliciously lonesome to-day!
Tired of the friction of soul against soul,—
Who can endure it, and keep his own whole!
Tired of all argument, counsel and blame,
Tired of my yoke-fellows, tired of my name,
Tired of tame questions and tamer replies,
Figures, and faces, and voices, and eyes,—
Often and often I cordially pray,
Give me myself and a dear lonesome day!
Who can endure it, and keep his own whole!
Tired of all argument, counsel and blame,
Tired of my yoke-fellows, tired of my name,
Tired of tame questions and tamer replies,
Figures, and faces, and voices, and eyes,—
Often and often I cordially pray,
Give me myself and a dear lonesome day!
After so long being worried and whirled
In this bewildering cage of the world,
Like a poor squirrel made captive, I feel,—
Caught from the nut-woods and kept in a wheel.
Oh! the broad desert—the wide lonesome sea
Seems a desirable dwelling to me;
Not self-sufficient, but weary,—I say
Give me myself and a dear lonesome day!
In this bewildering cage of the world,
Like a poor squirrel made captive, I feel,—
Caught from the nut-woods and kept in a wheel.
Oh! the broad desert—the wide lonesome sea
Seems a desirable dwelling to me;
Not self-sufficient, but weary,—I say
Give me myself and a dear lonesome day!
Selkirk, ungrateful, irascible elf,
Growled, with a whole island all to himself,
And in the midst of his numberless farms,
Questioned of solitude, “Where are thy charms?”
Stupid old fellow he was, I declare,—
I could have answered, if I had been there;
And if I err not, with little ado,
I could have taught him to value them too!
Growled, with a whole island all to himself,
And in the midst of his numberless farms,
Questioned of solitude, “Where are thy charms?”
Stupid old fellow he was, I declare,—
I could have answered, if I had been there;
And if I err not, with little ado,
I could have taught him to value them too!
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Oh, 't is so rare and delightful to be
Careless, unguarded, unwatchful, and free,
Not observed, looked at, and marked all the while.
So if one will, one may frown, blush, or smile,
With the sweet surety that no one will spy,
Guess at one's motives, and judge one thereby.
Blessings on Fate, let her scowl when she may,—
I am deliciously lonesome to-day!
Careless, unguarded, unwatchful, and free,
Not observed, looked at, and marked all the while.
So if one will, one may frown, blush, or smile,
With the sweet surety that no one will spy,
Guess at one's motives, and judge one thereby.
Blessings on Fate, let her scowl when she may,—
I am deliciously lonesome to-day!
WINTER TIME.
I cannot touch the cheerful strain
My summer used to know,
My soul is barren as the plain
Beneath December's snow;
Its gorgeous hues are dim and pale,
Its fountain-voices dumb;
Dead blossoms drift before the gale,—
My winter time has come.
My summer used to know,
My soul is barren as the plain
Beneath December's snow;
Its gorgeous hues are dim and pale,
Its fountain-voices dumb;
Dead blossoms drift before the gale,—
My winter time has come.
The soaring eagle cannot stay
Forever on the wing,
The dew-drops cannot shine all day,
Nor thrushes always sing.
The flowers, in field and garden-plot,
Faint as the long days roll;
All things seek rest—and wherefore not
A feeble human soul?
Forever on the wing,
The dew-drops cannot shine all day,
Nor thrushes always sing.
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Faint as the long days roll;
All things seek rest—and wherefore not
A feeble human soul?
You do not chide when Nature's hand,
Bidding her toilers cease,
Spreads wide across the dreary land
White robes of rest and peace;
Then do not blame as waste and crime
My dead and fruitless hours,
For souls must have their winter time
As well as streams and flowers.
Bidding her toilers cease,
Spreads wide across the dreary land
White robes of rest and peace;
Then do not blame as waste and crime
My dead and fruitless hours,
For souls must have their winter time
As well as streams and flowers.
You do not seek anemones
In January's dawn,
Nor ask for June's sweet harmonies
When all the birds are gone;
Then do not plead for me to sing
A summer melody,
When, though the world may call it spring,
'T is winter time with me.
In January's dawn,
Nor ask for June's sweet harmonies
When all the birds are gone;
Then do not plead for me to sing
A summer melody,
When, though the world may call it spring,
'T is winter time with me.
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GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN.
Grandmother's garden was brave to see,
Gorgeous with old-time plants and blooms,
All too common and cheap to be
Grown in modern parterres and rooms;
Old traditional herbs and flowers,
Some for pleasure and some for need,
Gifted, haply, with wondrous powers,—
Root, or petal, or bark, or seed.
Gorgeous with old-time plants and blooms,
All too common and cheap to be
Grown in modern parterres and rooms;
Old traditional herbs and flowers,
Some for pleasure and some for need,
Gifted, haply, with wondrous powers,—
Root, or petal, or bark, or seed.
All old fashions of leaf and root
Grew there, cherished for show or use;
Currant-bushes with clustered fruit
Red as garnets, and full of juice;
Tiger-lilies with beaded stalks,
Balm, and basil, and bitter rue,
Gay nasturtiums and four o'clocks—
Grandmother's garden was fair to view.
Grew there, cherished for show or use;
Currant-bushes with clustered fruit
Red as garnets, and full of juice;
Tiger-lilies with beaded stalks,
Balm, and basil, and bitter rue,
Gay nasturtiums and four o'clocks—
Grandmother's garden was fair to view.
Pinks—how rich in their stately prime!
Filled the air with a rare delight;
Lavender blended with sage and thyme;
Lilacs, purple and milky white,
Met and mingled and bloomed as one
Over the path, they grew so tall;
And tulip-torches, in wind and sun,
Flamed and flared by the southern wall.
Filled the air with a rare delight;
Lavender blended with sage and thyme;
Lilacs, purple and milky white,
Met and mingled and bloomed as one
Over the path, they grew so tall;
And tulip-torches, in wind and sun,
Flamed and flared by the southern wall.
Periwinkles with trailing vines,
Lordly lilies with creamy tint,
Bachelor's buttons and columbines,
Proud sweet-williams and odorous mint;
Heavy peonies, burning red,
Wonders of lush, redundant bloom,
Longed for a wider space to spread,
And flushed the redder for lack of room.
Lordly lilies with creamy tint,
Bachelor's buttons and columbines,
Proud sweet-williams and odorous mint;
Heavy peonies, burning red,
Wonders of lush, redundant bloom,
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And flushed the redder for lack of room.
Brilliant asters their prim heads tossed;
Dark blue monkshood, and hollyhocks
Smiling fearless at autumn's frost,
Waved and nodded along the walks;
Love-lies-bleeding forever drooped;
Disks of sun-flowers, bright and broad,
Watched like sentries; and fennel stooped
Over immortal Aaron's-rod.
Dark blue monkshood, and hollyhocks
Smiling fearless at autumn's frost,
Waved and nodded along the walks;
Love-lies-bleeding forever drooped;
Disks of sun-flowers, bright and broad,
Watched like sentries; and fennel stooped
Over immortal Aaron's-rod.
Cumfrey, dropping its waxen flowers,
Purple gooseberries, over-ripe—
Lady-grass, that I searched for hours,
Vainly trying to match a stripe,—
Pansies, bordering all the beds,
Ladies' delights for the children's sake,
Poppies, nodding their sleepy heads,
And yellow marigolds wide awake.
Purple gooseberries, over-ripe—
Lady-grass, that I searched for hours,
Vainly trying to match a stripe,—
Pansies, bordering all the beds,
Ladies' delights for the children's sake,
Poppies, nodding their sleepy heads,
And yellow marigolds wide awake.
Morning-glories, whose trumpets rung
Resonant with the rifling bees,
Daffodils, born when spring was young;
Vain narcissus, and gay sweet-peas
Clinging close, but with bright wings spread
Wide, like butterflies just alight;
Gauze-flowers fragile, to sunrise wed,
And bashful primrose that bloomed at night.
Resonant with the rifling bees,
Daffodils, born when spring was young;
Vain narcissus, and gay sweet-peas
Clinging close, but with bright wings spread
Wide, like butterflies just alight;
Gauze-flowers fragile, to sunrise wed,
And bashful primrose that bloomed at night.
Rich syringas, all honey-sweet,
Trim carnations of tenderest pink,
Bluebells, spite of the noonday heat
Holding dew for the birds to drink:
Marjoram, hyssop and caraway,
Damask-roses and mignonette;
Ah! sometimes at this distant day
I can fancy I smell them yet.
Trim carnations of tenderest pink,
Bluebells, spite of the noonday heat
Holding dew for the birds to drink:
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Damask-roses and mignonette;
Ah! sometimes at this distant day
I can fancy I smell them yet.
I have a garden of prouder claims,
Full of novelties bright and rare,
Modern flowers with stately names
Flaunt their wonderful beauty there;
Yet in threading its brilliant maze,
Oft my heart, with a homesick thrill
Whispers, dreaming of early days,
“Grandmother's garden was fairer still!”
Full of novelties bright and rare,
Modern flowers with stately names
Flaunt their wonderful beauty there;
Yet in threading its brilliant maze,
Oft my heart, with a homesick thrill
Whispers, dreaming of early days,
“Grandmother's garden was fairer still!”
OLD ROSES.
There is one I often meet
As I pass along the street,—
One upon whose furrowed face
Three-score years have left their trace,
Yet his strong and upright form
Has not bowed to wind or storm,
Nor his hair, though touched with rime,
Fallen beneath the scythe of Time.
As I pass along the street,—
One upon whose furrowed face
Three-score years have left their trace,
Yet his strong and upright form
Has not bowed to wind or storm,
Nor his hair, though touched with rime,
Fallen beneath the scythe of Time.
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And I said, the other day,
Seeing him across the way—
Speaking half to one who stood
Near me, in a musing mood—
“Lo, how lightly, it appears
On his forehead fall the years!
Youth's unfrozen blood still speaks
Eloquently in his cheeks,—
Seeing him across the way—
Speaking half to one who stood
Near me, in a musing mood—
“Lo, how lightly, it appears
On his forehead fall the years!
Youth's unfrozen blood still speaks
Eloquently in his cheeks,—
“And their well-kept ruddiness,
Somewhat withered, I confess,—
Looks as last year's roses look,
Pressed and dried within a book;
Still, with all their freshness fled,
Keeping all their olden red:—
Or, again, it seems to me,
As I look more carefully,
Somewhat withered, I confess,—
Looks as last year's roses look,
Pressed and dried within a book;
Still, with all their freshness fled,
Keeping all their olden red:—
Or, again, it seems to me,
As I look more carefully,
“Like the wrinkled crimson rind
Of the apples which we find,
As we peer with curious eyes
Into last year's granaries,
Or some dusty storehouse, where
Hidden from the light and air,
They have lain the winter through
Losing everything but hue;—
Of the apples which we find,
As we peer with curious eyes
Into last year's granaries,
Or some dusty storehouse, where
Hidden from the light and air,
They have lain the winter through
Losing everything but hue;—
“So, methinks, the withered cheek
Of whose rosiness we speak,
Keeps, unblanched, the ruddy glow
Of the bloom of long ago.”
“Nay,” spoke one who, waiting, heard
Smilingly my every word—
One whose arch, half-serious eyes
Answer ere her voice replies;—
“Nay,—bethink you,”—thus she said,—
“This is not the lingering red
Of his early morning years
Which upon his face appears;—
Of whose rosiness we speak,
Keeps, unblanched, the ruddy glow
Of the bloom of long ago.”
“Nay,” spoke one who, waiting, heard
Smilingly my every word—
One whose arch, half-serious eyes
Answer ere her voice replies;—
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“This is not the lingering red
Of his early morning years
Which upon his face appears;—
“'T is the ruddy sunset gleam
Lighting up life's darkening stream,
'T is the slight return which age
Makes for youth's lost heritage;—
'T is the light reflected o'er
From a brighter, rosier shore;
Or, to suit your playful mood
With a gay similitude,—
Lighting up life's darkening stream,
'T is the slight return which age
Makes for youth's lost heritage;—
'T is the light reflected o'er
From a brighter, rosier shore;
Or, to suit your playful mood
With a gay similitude,—
“When October's yellow hair
Brightening all the hazy air,
Half disputes her prophecy
Of the winter-time to be,
You have marked the various hues
Which the forest-monarchs choose?
You have seen them all arrayed
In their robes of light and shade?
Brightening all the hazy air,
Half disputes her prophecy
Of the winter-time to be,
You have marked the various hues
Which the forest-monarchs choose?
You have seen them all arrayed
In their robes of light and shade?
“When the sharp and frosty airs
Chill the sweet woods, unawares,
And to pallid whiteness bleach
All the tresses of the beech,
How the elm grows all alight,
Sallow with consumptive blight—
And the willow, blanched and sere,
Drops its leaves in trembling fear;—
Chill the sweet woods, unawares,
And to pallid whiteness bleach
All the tresses of the beech,
How the elm grows all alight,
Sallow with consumptive blight—
And the willow, blanched and sere,
Drops its leaves in trembling fear;—
“And the poplar's faded leaf
Quivers with its whispered grief,—
While the birch-tree's airy limbs
Wave to autumn's funeral-hymns—
And the oak, with lofty pride
Yielding, though unterrified,
Tones his glossy greenness down
To the dignity of brown;—
Quivers with its whispered grief,—
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Wave to autumn's funeral-hymns—
And the oak, with lofty pride
Yielding, though unterrified,
Tones his glossy greenness down
To the dignity of brown;—
“But the maple dons a blush
Rosier than the richest flush
Which in summer glows and thrills
All along the sunrise hills;—
Breaking into sudden bloom
As from out his sombre tomb
Bursts the newborn butterfly
Gorgeous with his brilliant dye.
Rosier than the richest flush
Which in summer glows and thrills
All along the sunrise hills;—
Breaking into sudden bloom
As from out his sombre tomb
Bursts the newborn butterfly
Gorgeous with his brilliant dye.
“Wherefore, trifler, we will say
Of the sire across the way—
He is like the maple tree
Growing old so rosily—
Borrowing nothing from his youth—
Age is wealthier far, in truth;
Blooming, when the summer 's past,
Brightly, brightlier, to the last!”
Of the sire across the way—
He is like the maple tree
Growing old so rosily—
Borrowing nothing from his youth—
Age is wealthier far, in truth;
Blooming, when the summer 's past,
Brightly, brightlier, to the last!”
BED-TIME.
The children's bed-time hour struck long ago,
But all too short to them the evening seems;
They linger by the fire, although they know
Their shoes should all be standing in a row,
And each bright head be busy with its dreams.
But all too short to them the evening seems;
They linger by the fire, although they know
118
And each bright head be busy with its dreams.
They dread the bed's soft chill, the pillow's cold,
And make the plea so often made before;
With small excuse and pretexts manifold,
They stop to hear some well-known story told,
Or play, perhaps, some worn-out game once more.
And make the plea so often made before;
With small excuse and pretexts manifold,
They stop to hear some well-known story told,
Or play, perhaps, some worn-out game once more.
Yet in the morning, when the mother's call
Rings up the stairway, not a voice replies;
Last evening's interests are forgotten all;
Each hides his face, or turns it to the wall,
Nor once uplifts the lids of sleepy eyes.
Rings up the stairway, not a voice replies;
Last evening's interests are forgotten all;
Each hides his face, or turns it to the wall,
Nor once uplifts the lids of sleepy eyes.
In vain to tempt them forth to sport and light,
The wakening sunbeams through the curtains peep;
The world has lost the charm it held last night;
Stories, books, games, are all forgotten quite,
Nor work nor play is half so sweet as sleep.
The wakening sunbeams through the curtains peep;
The world has lost the charm it held last night;
Stories, books, games, are all forgotten quite,
Nor work nor play is half so sweet as sleep.
With shoulders bowed, and aches in every limb,
My neighbor stoops beneath his eighty years;
Slow is his step, and every sense is dim;
How can the world keep any charm for him,
Or life be anything but pains and fears?
My neighbor stoops beneath his eighty years;
Slow is his step, and every sense is dim;
How can the world keep any charm for him,
Or life be anything but pains and fears?
Yet still he grasps it with unyielding hold,
And when his hour comes, chooses not to know;
Still waits to hear the worn-out stories told,
Still counts his gains, still notes the price of gold,
And plays the game that tired him long ago.
And when his hour comes, chooses not to know;
Still waits to hear the worn-out stories told,
Still counts his gains, still notes the price of gold,
And plays the game that tired him long ago.
119
But when he finds, beyond the hap and harm
Which ever wait upon this mortal breath,
That what he shrunk from, with a vague alarm,
Was a kind healer, bringing peace and balm—
He will, mayhap, grow so in love with death,
Which ever wait upon this mortal breath,
That what he shrunk from, with a vague alarm,
Was a kind healer, bringing peace and balm—
He will, mayhap, grow so in love with death,
That when the morning-angel's pinions sweep,
With wakening touch, across his quiet breast,
To rouse him from his slumber soft and deep,—
He will but murmur, in his happy sleep,
“Even heaven itself is not so sweet as rest!”
With wakening touch, across his quiet breast,
To rouse him from his slumber soft and deep,—
He will but murmur, in his happy sleep,
“Even heaven itself is not so sweet as rest!”
135
EYES.
In ancient times did valiant minstrel-knightHis mistress' visual beauties advertise,
Singing their winning radiance lover-wise,
Bepraising lavishly their brilliant might,
Hoping his skill might win his life's delight;
Finding similitudes in morning skies,
Likewise in moonlit midnight's duskiest guise.
I claim slight kin with singers fierce in fight—
I question this—if either warbling wight
Amid high Chivalry's bright votaries
Did, in his rich, inspiring strain, devise
This hidden difficulty, which to-night
I in this idly-tinkling line comprise—
This simple trifle, bristling thick with Is.
136
AFTERWARD.
After all great disturbance falls a calm—Tornadoes pass, and peaceful rainbows make
Heaven fair again, and sea and inland lake
Cease raging, and acknowledge beauty's charm,
As Nature laughs away all late alarm.
Dormant volcanoes, after ages, wake
And scare great nations; earthquakes roar and shake,
And straightway cease again all jar and harm;
And after fate and circumstance have made
Disaster, disappointment and despair
A heavier load than human heart can bear,
Malice and hate at last shall faint and fade,
Falsehood's sharp stab shall heal, and faith betrayed
Cease paining, after Death has vanquished change and care.
137
POETICAL PATCHWORK.
I only know she came and wentLowell. Like troutlets in a pool;
Hood. She was a phantom of delight,
Wordsworth. And I was like a fool!
Eastman. “One kiss, dear maid,” I said and sighed,
Coleridge. “Out of those lips unshorn!”
Longfellow. She shook her ringlets round her head,
Stoddard. And laughed in merry scorn.
Tennyson.
138
Tennyson. You hear them, oh my heart?
Alice Carey. “'T is twelve at night by the castle clock,
Coleridge. Beloved, we must part!”
Alice Carey. “Come back, come back,” she cried in grief,
Campbell. “My eyes are dim with tears—
Bayard Taylor. How shall I live through all the days,
Mrs. Osgood. All through a hundred years!”
T. S. Perry. 'T was in the prime of summer time
Hood. She blest me with her hand,
Hoyt. We strayed together, deeply blest,
Mrs. Edwards. Into the Dreaming Land.
Cornwall. The laughing bridal roses blow
Patmore. To dress her dark-brown hair,
Bayard Taylor. No maiden may with her compare,
Brailsford. Most beautiful, most rare!
Read. I clasped it on her sweet cold hand,
Browning. The precious golden link,
Alex. Smith. I calmed her fears and she was calm,—
Coleridge. “Drink, pretty creature, drink!”
Wordsworth. And so I won my Genevieve,
Coleridge. And walked in Paradise,
Hervey. The fairest thing that ever grew
Wordsworth. Atween me and the skies!
Tennyson.
139
TO THE MOON.
Dear pallid vestal, that upbears
A cresset tipped with silver fire,
At thy behest, earth's fretful cares
Abashed by utter peace, retire.
A cresset tipped with silver fire,
At thy behest, earth's fretful cares
Abashed by utter peace, retire.
140
Where'er the wretched fall asleep,
Wearied at last by life's despair,
'T is sweet that thy pure face will keep
Its ever-faithful vigil there!
Wearied at last by life's despair,
'T is sweet that thy pure face will keep
Its ever-faithful vigil there!
141
DOCTOR McGEE.
In a cosy hotel in great London, G. B.,
One winter quite lately, Fate chanced to decree
I should stay for awhile—and I could but agree.
It was not in “the season,” and consequently
There were few fellow-lodgers to speak to, or see.
In the coffee-room there (where, quite lucky for me,
The guest is by no means restricted from tea,
Or chocolate, or milk, but may have them all three,
By ringing for Lucy, and biding a wee—)
I noticed one day, on the prim mantel-tree,
Between two pink vases of lofty degree,—
The servant declared they were “real Japanee”—
A letter, directed to “Dr. McGee,
Number sixty-one, Norfolk street, W. C.”
In a pretty hand-writing, neat, graceful and free;
On the corner was written, as fine as could be,
“To await the arrival of Dr. McGee.”
And I absently wondered, while drinking my tea,
What manner of man the new-comer would be,
Who might drop in, to-morrow, and breakfast with me.
But the letter remained there—two days, and then three,
A week, two weeks vanished, like foam on the sea,
And morn after morn, as I poured out my tea,
I glanced at the note on the prim mantel-tree,
And pondered and wondered—and waited to see
Why it never was called for by Dr. McGee.
One winter quite lately, Fate chanced to decree
I should stay for awhile—and I could but agree.
It was not in “the season,” and consequently
There were few fellow-lodgers to speak to, or see.
In the coffee-room there (where, quite lucky for me,
The guest is by no means restricted from tea,
Or chocolate, or milk, but may have them all three,
By ringing for Lucy, and biding a wee—)
I noticed one day, on the prim mantel-tree,
Between two pink vases of lofty degree,—
The servant declared they were “real Japanee”—
A letter, directed to “Dr. McGee,
Number sixty-one, Norfolk street, W. C.”
In a pretty hand-writing, neat, graceful and free;
On the corner was written, as fine as could be,
“To await the arrival of Dr. McGee.”
And I absently wondered, while drinking my tea,
What manner of man the new-comer would be,
Who might drop in, to-morrow, and breakfast with me.
But the letter remained there—two days, and then three,
142
And morn after morn, as I poured out my tea,
I glanced at the note on the prim mantel-tree,
And pondered and wondered—and waited to see
Why it never was called for by Dr. McGee.
Who was he,
This Dr. McGee,
This Dr. McGee,
Who was not where he was expected to be?
Was he Doctor of Laws, or a simple M. D.?
Or a travelling quack, with extortionate fee?
Was he native, or born in some foreign countree?
French, Scotch, German, Irish, or wild Cherokee?
Or an ill-growing sprig of some noble old tree,
With a new name wherever he happened to be?
Was he wealthy and gouty, as often we see,
Or poor and rheumatic? or youthful, and free
From all the sore ailments which time may decree?
Was he bluff and big-whiskered, as doctors may be,
Or dapper, mild-mannered, and brisk as a flea?
Was he curled like Hyperion, or bald as a pea?
Would he ever appear and decide it? or be
Forever and ever a sealed mystery?
Was he Doctor of Laws, or a simple M. D.?
Or a travelling quack, with extortionate fee?
Was he native, or born in some foreign countree?
French, Scotch, German, Irish, or wild Cherokee?
Or an ill-growing sprig of some noble old tree,
With a new name wherever he happened to be?
Was he wealthy and gouty, as often we see,
Or poor and rheumatic? or youthful, and free
From all the sore ailments which time may decree?
Was he bluff and big-whiskered, as doctors may be,
Or dapper, mild-mannered, and brisk as a flea?
Was he curled like Hyperion, or bald as a pea?
Would he ever appear and decide it? or be
Forever and ever a sealed mystery?
Where could he be,
Poor Dr. McGee?
Poor Dr. McGee?
Had he perished by shipwreck in yonder great sea?
Was he ill in some hospital? dying, may be,
With no fond friend near to console him, or see
That his pillow was smooth, and his breathing-space free,
And his medicines given him regularly?
It troubled my thoughts, and quite wore upon me,
The possible fate of poor Dr. McGee,
As day after day came, but never came he.
Was he ill in some hospital? dying, may be,
With no fond friend near to console him, or see
That his pillow was smooth, and his breathing-space free,
And his medicines given him regularly?
It troubled my thoughts, and quite wore upon me,
The possible fate of poor Dr. McGee,
As day after day came, but never came he.
143
But might it not be
That by Fortune's decree,
That by Fortune's decree,
It was joy, and not woe, that kept Dr. McGee?
Thus often I mused, in a happier key—
Perhaps his good star had arisen, and he
Of some wealthy nabob was sole legatee,
And was counting the worth of an Indian rupee,
Or busily reckoning l. s. and d.;
Or, as Christmas was coming, and holiday glee
Was rife all through England, from centre to sea,
Perhaps in some pleasant home drawing-room he
Was planning the growth of a tall Christmas-tree,
While rosy-cheeked boys and girls, one, two and three
Were pulling his whiskers and climbing his knee,
Till, entering into their innocent spree,
He quite forgot how this poor letter might be
Neglected in Norfolk street, W. C.
But Christmas departed, with “boxing” and fee,
And the letter that lay on the prim mantel-tree,
And that once was as white as the lamb on the lea—
Grew yellow with waiting—as often, ah, me,
Befalls those who wait till hope's rosy tints flee.
And I left it there still, when I took my last tea,
Handed Lucy the coin she expected to see,
And paid my last reckoning, and gave up my key,
And went to the station at quarter past three.
And though I may wander by desert and sea,
No matter what marvels may happen to me,
I never shall know, wheresoe'er I may be,
Who, when, why, or where, about Dr. McGee.
Thus often I mused, in a happier key—
Perhaps his good star had arisen, and he
Of some wealthy nabob was sole legatee,
And was counting the worth of an Indian rupee,
Or busily reckoning l. s. and d.;
Or, as Christmas was coming, and holiday glee
Was rife all through England, from centre to sea,
Perhaps in some pleasant home drawing-room he
Was planning the growth of a tall Christmas-tree,
While rosy-cheeked boys and girls, one, two and three
Were pulling his whiskers and climbing his knee,
Till, entering into their innocent spree,
He quite forgot how this poor letter might be
Neglected in Norfolk street, W. C.
But Christmas departed, with “boxing” and fee,
And the letter that lay on the prim mantel-tree,
And that once was as white as the lamb on the lea—
Grew yellow with waiting—as often, ah, me,
Befalls those who wait till hope's rosy tints flee.
And I left it there still, when I took my last tea,
Handed Lucy the coin she expected to see,
And paid my last reckoning, and gave up my key,
And went to the station at quarter past three.
And though I may wander by desert and sea,
No matter what marvels may happen to me,
I never shall know, wheresoe'er I may be,
Who, when, why, or where, about Dr. McGee.
148
A PEWTER TANKARD.
William Goold, of Windham, exhibited in the Centennial Department of the Maine State Fair, in 1876, a pewter beer-mug, or tankard, “known to have been brought from Scotland two hundred years ago.”
Two hundred years! oh, grim and ghostly goblet,
Why thus torment the thirsty souls of moderns,
Moderns who live in times when pewter tankards
Linger superfluous?
Why thus torment the thirsty souls of moderns,
Moderns who live in times when pewter tankards
Linger superfluous?
Torn from the land that flows with ale and oat-cake,
How in thine age art thou betrayed and stranded
Thus high and dry upon the thirsty shores of
Maine prohibition!
How in thine age art thou betrayed and stranded
Thus high and dry upon the thirsty shores of
Maine prohibition!
Who would deal out Sebago in a tankard?
Or even milkman's milk, pieced out with pump-juice?
Pshaw! who would load a cannon with baked apples?
Perish the notion!
Or even milkman's milk, pieced out with pump-juice?
Pshaw! who would load a cannon with baked apples?
Perish the notion!
149
What are the feeble tipples of the present,
Hop, pop, root, spruce, and such-like weak devices,
By those which, take the centuries together,
Thou hast surrounded!
Hop, pop, root, spruce, and such-like weak devices,
By those which, take the centuries together,
Thou hast surrounded!
Marvellous mug! how many casks and barrels,
Yea, more than that, how many hundred hogsheads,
Pipes, tuns and what not, hast thou held and carried,—
Pale, brown, and home-brewed?
Yea, more than that, how many hundred hogsheads,
Pipes, tuns and what not, hast thou held and carried,—
Pale, brown, and home-brewed?
Surely they err, who say that drinks convivial
Shorten men's lives, and make them weak and shaky;
What devotee who pins his faith on water,
Reaches thy record?
Shorten men's lives, and make them weak and shaky;
What devotee who pins his faith on water,
Reaches thy record?
How many hands have grasped thy quaint old handle!
How many lips have pressed thy time-worn margin!
How many eyes, with foam-drops on their lashes,
Looked down thy distance!
How many lips have pressed thy time-worn margin!
How many eyes, with foam-drops on their lashes,
Looked down thy distance!
Thou hast outlived thy natural use and purpose;
Ale is a myth, and beer an old tradition;
Thou art a phantom, and thine occupation
Gone, like Othello's.
Ale is a myth, and beer an old tradition;
Thou art a phantom, and thine occupation
Gone, like Othello's.
What is our life? Why do we boast and bluster
Even if we count a hundred paltry summers?
What are they worth? a trifling pewter tankard
Laughs at our utmost.
Even if we count a hundred paltry summers?
What are they worth? a trifling pewter tankard
Laughs at our utmost.
Granite and diamonds shame our short duration,
Fine gold outlasts us, and we never wonder,
But to be distanced thus by paltry pewter
Humbles the proudest.
Fine gold outlasts us, and we never wonder,
But to be distanced thus by paltry pewter
Humbles the proudest.
150
Farewell, old tankard! on the next centennial,
Doubtless, some other bard will sing thy praises,
Greet thee with eyes and fingers reverential,
Even as I do,—
Doubtless, some other bard will sing thy praises,
Greet thee with eyes and fingers reverential,
Even as I do,—
Touch thy quaint handle, worn by phantom fingers,
Note the small dints along thy battered margin,
Then passing on, to die and be forgotten,
Leave thee immortal.
Note the small dints along thy battered margin,
Then passing on, to die and be forgotten,
Leave thee immortal.
155
THE BLIND MAN'S WIFE.
She leads him, when the day is fair,
Along the smoothest, sunniest street,
Choosing the way, with watchful care
Before his slow, uncertain feet.
Along the smoothest, sunniest street,
Choosing the way, with watchful care
Before his slow, uncertain feet.
She guards him deftly from the throng
That crowds before or hastes behind,
Guiding him tenderly along
Like a lost child—for he is blind.
That crowds before or hastes behind,
Guiding him tenderly along
Like a lost child—for he is blind.
And day by day, and year by year,
She is his staff, his strength, his sight—
The steady planet, shining near,
Which cheers and lights his lifelong night.
She is his staff, his strength, his sight—
The steady planet, shining near,
Which cheers and lights his lifelong night.
Because she loves him. What beside
Could keep her, all the weary days,
His helper, savior, slave and guide,
Who never thanks her nor repays?
Could keep her, all the weary days,
His helper, savior, slave and guide,
Who never thanks her nor repays?
Nor slow strong force, nor sudden wrench,
Nor both, can such a love discrown,
Which many waters cannot quench,
Nor floods of hurrying billows drown.
Nor both, can such a love discrown,
Which many waters cannot quench,
Nor floods of hurrying billows drown.
He does not see her furrowed face,
Her crooked form, her faded hair—
She is to him all bloom and grace,
But still more kind than she is fair.
Her crooked form, her faded hair—
She is to him all bloom and grace,
But still more kind than she is fair.
Old, feeble, poor, and blind, his whole
Of life is darkness, want and pain,
Yet rich in that which many a soul
More strong and proud, would die to gain.
Of life is darkness, want and pain,
Yet rich in that which many a soul
More strong and proud, would die to gain.
Oh, with a power but faintly told
In sweetest tales of prose or rhyme,
Love's everlasting arms uphold
The heaviest loads of life and time!
In sweetest tales of prose or rhyme,
Love's everlasting arms uphold
The heaviest loads of life and time!
157
A CAVALRY PRIVATE.
In the green park the grass grows fair and tall,
The herbage drips with dew,
And from the untrodden places by the wall,
The clover lifts pink promise. Seeing all,
A starving horse looks through,—
The herbage drips with dew,
And from the untrodden places by the wall,
The clover lifts pink promise. Seeing all,
A starving horse looks through,—
A poor gaunt animal, sharp-ribbed and lean,
A picture of distress—
On his thin sides are marks where blows have been,
And on his shrunken shoulder may be seen
The branded signs—“U. S.”
A picture of distress—
On his thin sides are marks where blows have been,
And on his shrunken shoulder may be seen
The branded signs—“U. S.”
Sadly he thinks of other summer-tides,
When, by the wide barn-doors,
The fearless children patted his sleek sides,
And chattering merrily of future rides
Fed him with apple-cores.
When, by the wide barn-doors,
The fearless children patted his sleek sides,
And chattering merrily of future rides
Fed him with apple-cores.
No high ambition lured his thoughts away,
No dreams of trotting-parks;
He only heard the blithesome children say—
“Next winter he'll be harnessed in the sleigh,
And then, oh, then, what larks!”
No dreams of trotting-parks;
He only heard the blithesome children say—
“Next winter he'll be harnessed in the sleigh,
And then, oh, then, what larks!”
158
His nerves were living steel;—his frame replete
With lithesomeness and grace;—
His bright neck “clothed with thunder,” and his feet—
The very tempest, sweeping fierce and fleet,
Could scarce outstrip his pace.
With lithesomeness and grace;—
His bright neck “clothed with thunder,” and his feet—
The very tempest, sweeping fierce and fleet,
Could scarce outstrip his pace.
Green were the pastures where he used to browse,
In youth's elysian prime,—
He nipped the pink buds from the apple-boughs
Shading some pleasant farm-yard, where the cows
Gathered at milking-time,—
In youth's elysian prime,—
He nipped the pink buds from the apple-boughs
Shading some pleasant farm-yard, where the cows
Gathered at milking-time,—
Lowing responsive to the plaintive bleat
Of calves, which waited late,
Tethered in tender grass, unmown and sweet,
And clover which they had not learned to eat,
Inside the orchard gate—
Of calves, which waited late,
Tethered in tender grass, unmown and sweet,
And clover which they had not learned to eat,
Inside the orchard gate—
Each pulling wildly at the fettering rope,
Stretching his soft neck far,
And calling with a sort of piteous hope,
For the fair milkmaid's hand the gate to ope,
And give him his mamma.
Stretching his soft neck far,
And calling with a sort of piteous hope,
For the fair milkmaid's hand the gate to ope,
And give him his mamma.
There on a low bough hung the milking-stool—
The throne of innocence;—
There, when the summer day grew dusk and cool,
The hens repaired, and went to roost by rule,
In rows along the fence.
The throne of innocence;—
There, when the summer day grew dusk and cool,
The hens repaired, and went to roost by rule,
In rows along the fence.
Oh, happiness! but on the saddest day
That ever gloomed the skies,
Some heartless Quarter Master's employé
Espied him as he chewed the fragrant hay,
And said—“Behold a prize!
That ever gloomed the skies,
Some heartless Quarter Master's employé
Espied him as he chewed the fragrant hay,
And said—“Behold a prize!
159
“This animal is sound in wind and limb,
With every nerve alive—
Our Uncle Samuel hath need of him;
I'll give you, as he seems in extra trim,
One hundred twenty-five.”
With every nerve alive—
Our Uncle Samuel hath need of him;
I'll give you, as he seems in extra trim,
One hundred twenty-five.”
Wherefore he bought and took the horse along,
To come alas, no more—
Leaving the children in a weeping throng,
Deploring audibly the bitter wrong,
Grouped round the stable door.
To come alas, no more—
Leaving the children in a weeping throng,
Deploring audibly the bitter wrong,
Grouped round the stable door.
Gone with his last sweet wisp of home-made hay
Depending from his mouth—
Unconscious, as he walks the grassy way,
How soon his feet will bruise in fiercest fray,
The red fields of the South.
Depending from his mouth—
Unconscious, as he walks the grassy way,
How soon his feet will bruise in fiercest fray,
The red fields of the South.
Gone with the clover tangled in his mane,—
To plough through Southern mud;
To make sharp hoof-prints on the battle-plain,
To trample madly on the bleeding slain,
And bathe his feet in blood.
To plough through Southern mud;
To make sharp hoof-prints on the battle-plain,
To trample madly on the bleeding slain,
And bathe his feet in blood.
But what a change—and what a loss! oh, shame!
What has he gained therefor?
Since in the heyday of his youth, he came,
His proud head high, his nostrils breathing flame,
Down to the seat of war?
What has he gained therefor?
Since in the heyday of his youth, he came,
His proud head high, his nostrils breathing flame,
Down to the seat of war?
His bright, expressive eyes have lost their fire,
His humbled head hangs low;
His fair and nervous limbs have learned to tire
In wading wearily through swamps and mire,
Goaded by spur and blow.
His humbled head hangs low;
His fair and nervous limbs have learned to tire
In wading wearily through swamps and mire,
Goaded by spur and blow.
160
Oh, battered limbs—oh, dim and hollow eyes,
Oh, gaunt and wasted frame!
Youth, loved and honored—age, which all despise—
Is this the picture held before the eyes
Of military fame?
Oh, gaunt and wasted frame!
Youth, loved and honored—age, which all despise—
Is this the picture held before the eyes
Of military fame?
“Republics are ungrateful”; when, oh, when,
Has this been proved a lie?
Horses are heroes, too, as well as men—
Why are they used, abused, neglected—then
Turned in the street to die?
Has this been proved a lie?
Horses are heroes, too, as well as men—
Why are they used, abused, neglected—then
Turned in the street to die?
The grass waves inaccessible, though near—
Mocking his longing gaze—
And from the fountain-basin he can hear
The tinkling water-drops plash cool and clear,
Misting in rainbow sprays.
Mocking his longing gaze—
And from the fountain-basin he can hear
The tinkling water-drops plash cool and clear,
Misting in rainbow sprays.
Soon I shall see—when breaks his patient heart—
His gaunt form carried hence,
With rigid limbs aimed sky-ward, in a cart,
To some grim burial, from the town apart,
At government expense!
His gaunt form carried hence,
With rigid limbs aimed sky-ward, in a cart,
To some grim burial, from the town apart,
At government expense!
168
WHAT IS IT?
Though I love the charms
Of the home-fire bright,
I am under arms
Both by day and night.
Of the home-fire bright,
I am under arms
Both by day and night.
Not upon my back
Do I bear my loads;
Legs I do not lack,
Yet avoid the roads.
Do I bear my loads;
Legs I do not lack,
Yet avoid the roads.
Though I never shun
Duty's hard decree,
Yet some other one
Makes my rounds for me.
Duty's hard decree,
Yet some other one
Makes my rounds for me.
169
Kings may stand—but yet
A seat is found for me,
Though I never sit;—
How can these things be?
A seat is found for me,
Though I never sit;—
How can these things be?
LITTLE LONESOME.
She was a timid little maid,
Of even harmless things afraid;
A hasty word, a sudden stir,
A playful touch, would startle her;
She feared the lightning, and the rain,
The branch that swept against the pane,
The ocean's roar, the wind's sad moan,
And dreaded to be left alone.
Of even harmless things afraid;
A hasty word, a sudden stir,
A playful touch, would startle her;
She feared the lightning, and the rain,
The branch that swept against the pane,
The ocean's roar, the wind's sad moan,
And dreaded to be left alone.
And often in her bed at night,
She would awake in wild affright,
Entreating with appealing tone,
“Mamma, I cannot stay alone!
The shutters groan and rattle—hark!
I hear a whisper in the dark—
Oh, come and hold me close and near,
Mamma, I am so lonesome here!
She would awake in wild affright,
Entreating with appealing tone,
“Mamma, I cannot stay alone!
The shutters groan and rattle—hark!
I hear a whisper in the dark—
Oh, come and hold me close and near,
Mamma, I am so lonesome here!
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“The stars peer in and wink at me;
The moon looks ghastly through the tree
And shines by fits across the door;
The shadows move upon the floor
Like living things; the windows creak,—
I feel a cold breath on my cheek;
The chimney howls, the wind is high,
I am so lonesome where I lie!”
The moon looks ghastly through the tree
And shines by fits across the door;
The shadows move upon the floor
Like living things; the windows creak,—
I feel a cold breath on my cheek;
The chimney howls, the wind is high,
I am so lonesome where I lie!”
And then the mother's tender heart
Would take the little sufferer's part;
Would haste, with reassuring kiss,
To soothe her back to quietness;
To clasp her fluttering hands, and still
The shuddering sob, the nervous thrill,
Until her head found happy rest
Upon that kind, protecting breast.
Would take the little sufferer's part;
Would haste, with reassuring kiss,
To soothe her back to quietness;
To clasp her fluttering hands, and still
The shuddering sob, the nervous thrill,
Until her head found happy rest
Upon that kind, protecting breast.
But others blamed her tenderness,
And said, “Indulgence and caress
Will harm the child and do her wrong;
She never will be brave and strong,
If thus you pet her whims and freaks;
You should not heed her when she speaks—
Conquer her folly and your own,
And let her go to sleep alone.”
And said, “Indulgence and caress
Will harm the child and do her wrong;
She never will be brave and strong,
If thus you pet her whims and freaks;
You should not heed her when she speaks—
Conquer her folly and your own,
And let her go to sleep alone.”
And so when next she cried at night,
Calling in tremulous affright,
“Mamma, I hear the watch-dogs bark!
I am so lonesome in the dark!”
The mother heard, with tear-wet face,
But closed her lips and kept her place
Until the child, too tired to weep
Longer, had sobbed herself to sleep.
Calling in tremulous affright,
“Mamma, I hear the watch-dogs bark!
I am so lonesome in the dark!”
The mother heard, with tear-wet face,
But closed her lips and kept her place
Until the child, too tired to weep
Longer, had sobbed herself to sleep.
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To-night, the eddying snow-flakes whirl
Above the sleeping little girl;
Her room is dark, her bed is cold,
Love cannot warm the frozen mould;
Yet still her mother hears the plaint
Come through the midnight, far and faint,
Half lost amid the tempest's moan,—
“Mamma, I cannot stay alone!
O mamma, come! the wild winds cry,
And I am lonesome where I lie!”
Above the sleeping little girl;
Her room is dark, her bed is cold,
Love cannot warm the frozen mould;
Yet still her mother hears the plaint
Come through the midnight, far and faint,
Half lost amid the tempest's moan,—
“Mamma, I cannot stay alone!
O mamma, come! the wild winds cry,
And I am lonesome where I lie!”
KNITTING-WORK.
I sing in praise of knitting-work—a good old-fashioned theme,
Unspoiled as yet by hackneyed phrase, or new-fledged poet's dream—
Neglected quite, and overlooked, in this progressive day
Of bead-work and embroidery, Macrame and crotchet.
Unspoiled as yet by hackneyed phrase, or new-fledged poet's dream—
Neglected quite, and overlooked, in this progressive day
Of bead-work and embroidery, Macrame and crotchet.
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I grieve to know that young girls now despise the gentle art
Which played in ancient housewifery so prominent a part—
I grieve that flimsy fancy-work, of just no use at all,
Usurps the place once occupied by knitting-work and ball.
Which played in ancient housewifery so prominent a part—
I grieve that flimsy fancy-work, of just no use at all,
Usurps the place once occupied by knitting-work and ball.
Only some good old-fashioned dame, with wrinkled cheek and brow,
And kerchief pinned across her breast, like one I'm watching now,
With dress of old-time bombazine, and high-crowned muslin cap,
Dares flourish an incipient sock above her ancient lap.
And kerchief pinned across her breast, like one I'm watching now,
With dress of old-time bombazine, and high-crowned muslin cap,
Dares flourish an incipient sock above her ancient lap.
I mind me of my childish days—the vanished heretofore,
When I longed to spend the livelong day in playing out-of-door,
But, worshipping the practical, my mother made me sit
Demurely in my little chair beside her knee, and knit.
When I longed to spend the livelong day in playing out-of-door,
But, worshipping the practical, my mother made me sit
Demurely in my little chair beside her knee, and knit.
Knit, till the stated task was done—and then my work was hid
With eager joy and hurried hand, beneath my work-box lid—
And then how gladly forth I sped to join the childish throng,
With keener relish for my sport, because deferred so long!
With eager joy and hurried hand, beneath my work-box lid—
And then how gladly forth I sped to join the childish throng,
With keener relish for my sport, because deferred so long!
I mind me of the evenings since, in girlhood's happy age,
Which, knitting-work in hand, I 've passed above a favorite page—
I almost hear the tinkling sound of needles keeping time
To thrilling words of old romance, or poet's ringing rhyme!
Which, knitting-work in hand, I 've passed above a favorite page—
I almost hear the tinkling sound of needles keeping time
To thrilling words of old romance, or poet's ringing rhyme!
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Once, knitting, thou wert tedious—but since riper years were mine,
I 've met with seamings every way more troublesome than thine—
Found more vexatious widenings—of care and weariness,
And other, sadder, narrowings—where hope grew less and less!
I 've met with seamings every way more troublesome than thine—
Found more vexatious widenings—of care and weariness,
And other, sadder, narrowings—where hope grew less and less!
A plea for thee, O knitting-work—a warm and earnest plea,
For years of gentle intercourse have knit my heart to thee,
And often when dim shapes of ill before me darkly rise,
I find a sweet nepenthe in thy simple mysteries.
For years of gentle intercourse have knit my heart to thee,
And often when dim shapes of ill before me darkly rise,
I find a sweet nepenthe in thy simple mysteries.
179
A WET WEEK.
Rain and drizzle and fog and mist,—
Fog and darkness and rain—
Will the shadows lift from the soaking earth,
And the sun shine, ever again?
Fog and darkness and rain—
Will the shadows lift from the soaking earth,
And the sun shine, ever again?
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Day after day after day after day
The clouds roll in and across,
As though every mariner out of port
Had murdered an albatross.
The clouds roll in and across,
As though every mariner out of port
Had murdered an albatross.
Or as though some pious granger-man,
With acres of thirsty grain,
Had prayed with too much earnestness
For the early and latter rain.
With acres of thirsty grain,
Had prayed with too much earnestness
For the early and latter rain.
For the worst that can befall a man,
Be he reckoned with saints or knaves,
—As has proved too true again and again—
Is to give him all he craves.
Be he reckoned with saints or knaves,
—As has proved too true again and again—
Is to give him all he craves.
If any one knows the blundering soul
Whose prayer was too long and wide,
Beg him to open his mouth once more,
And pray on the other side.
Whose prayer was too long and wide,
Beg him to open his mouth once more,
And pray on the other side.
Or if any one knows the fateful bird
Who has brought the fog and mist,
In spite of Coleridge, or Mr. Bergh,
Or any who would resist,—
Who has brought the fog and mist,
In spite of Coleridge, or Mr. Bergh,
Or any who would resist,—
Shoot him with rifle or good cross-bow,
Or smite him with fire and sword,
And hang him about the stubborn neck
Of the obstinate Weather Board!
Or smite him with fire and sword,
And hang him about the stubborn neck
Of the obstinate Weather Board!
183
A DECEMBER NIGHT.
All day the sky has been one heavy cloud,
All day the drops have plashed against the panes,
The brimming eaves-spouts gurgled full and loud;
And now the night has come, and still it rains.
All day the drops have plashed against the panes,
The brimming eaves-spouts gurgled full and loud;
And now the night has come, and still it rains.
The frosts and rifling winds, those treacherous thieves,
Have stripped the shivering branches stark and bare;
Beneath, the walks are thick with trodden leaves,
Which fill with woodsy odors all the air.
Have stripped the shivering branches stark and bare;
Beneath, the walks are thick with trodden leaves,
Which fill with woodsy odors all the air.
Yon street-lamp glows, a disk of luminous fog,
Lighting a little space of mud and rain,
Where hurrying wayfarer or homeless dog
Starts sudden into sight, and fades again.
Lighting a little space of mud and rain,
Where hurrying wayfarer or homeless dog
Starts sudden into sight, and fades again.
Its faint gleam struggles with the dark, and shows
A lonesome door-yard, with its leafless vine,
And Monday's luckless washing,—rows on rows
Of dripping garments hanging on the line.
A lonesome door-yard, with its leafless vine,
And Monday's luckless washing,—rows on rows
Of dripping garments hanging on the line.
184
Along the roadside gutters rush the streams
Like turbid rivers in a summer flood;
And at the crossings, drivers urge their teams
To splash the wroth pedestrian with mud.
Like turbid rivers in a summer flood;
And at the crossings, drivers urge their teams
To splash the wroth pedestrian with mud.
From far across the harbor, low and faint,
A fog-horn's friendly bellow greets the ear;
Or some slow, cautious steamer's hoarse complaint,
Warning its kindred not to come too near.
A fog-horn's friendly bellow greets the ear;
Or some slow, cautious steamer's hoarse complaint,
Warning its kindred not to come too near.
Small knots of draggled pilgrims stand and wait
Upon the muddy curb, and peering far
Up street and down in vain, find fault with fate,
And sharply blame the dilatory car;
Upon the muddy curb, and peering far
Up street and down in vain, find fault with fate,
And sharply blame the dilatory car;
Their grouped umbrellas, by the hazy light
Obscure and dim, show through the vapors dense
Like clumps of toad-stools, born of rain and night,
Huddled beside some roadside pasture fence.
Obscure and dim, show through the vapors dense
Like clumps of toad-stools, born of rain and night,
Huddled beside some roadside pasture fence.
One ray redeems the dreariness and blight,—
The window-light which streams across the square;
The light of home,—the blessed, saving light
Which keeps the world from darkness and despair.
The window-light which streams across the square;
The light of home,—the blessed, saving light
Which keeps the world from darkness and despair.
Ah, happy they who in its warmth abide!
Peace sits among them, with her fair wings furled;
What care they for this wretched world outside,—
This darksome, dismal, drear December world?
Peace sits among them, with her fair wings furled;
What care they for this wretched world outside,—
This darksome, dismal, drear December world?
187
FESSENDEN'S GARDEN.
From this high window, in the twilight dim,
I look beyond a lofty garden wall,
And see well-ordered walks, and borders trim,
With trellised vines and rows of fruit-trees tall.
I look beyond a lofty garden wall,
And see well-ordered walks, and borders trim,
With trellised vines and rows of fruit-trees tall.
Along the darkling shrubbery where most
The garden's olden lord at evening strayed,
I half-perceive a silent, stately ghost,
Taking dim shape against the denser shade.
The garden's olden lord at evening strayed,
I half-perceive a silent, stately ghost,
Taking dim shape against the denser shade.
His footstep makes no rustle in the grass,
Nor shakes the tenderest blossom on its stem;
The light leaves bend aside to let him pass,—
Or is it but the wind that touches them?
Nor shakes the tenderest blossom on its stem;
The light leaves bend aside to let him pass,—
Or is it but the wind that touches them?
188
A statesman, with a grave, reflective air,
Once used to walk there, in the shadows sweet;
Now the broad apple-trees, his pride and care,
Spread their pink carpet wide for alien feet.
Once used to walk there, in the shadows sweet;
Now the broad apple-trees, his pride and care,
Spread their pink carpet wide for alien feet.
Beneath those friendly boughs, with thoughts unbent,
He found sometimes a respite sweet and brief,
Threaded the wandering ways in pleased content,
And plucked a flower, or pulled a fragrant leaf;—
He found sometimes a respite sweet and brief,
Threaded the wandering ways in pleased content,
And plucked a flower, or pulled a fragrant leaf;—
Twined a stray tendril, lopped a straggling limb,
Or raised a spray that drooped across the walk;—
Watched unscared birds that shared the shade with him,
Saw robins build, or heard the sparrows talk.
Or raised a spray that drooped across the walk;—
Watched unscared birds that shared the shade with him,
Saw robins build, or heard the sparrows talk.
His native streets now hardly know his name,—
And in the world of politics, wherein
He toiled so long, and won an honored fame,
It is almost as though he had not been.
And in the world of politics, wherein
He toiled so long, and won an honored fame,
It is almost as though he had not been.
Amid the earnest councils of the land
His lofty form, his cold and clear-cut face,
His even voice and wise restraining hand
Are known no more, and others take his place.
His lofty form, his cold and clear-cut face,
His even voice and wise restraining hand
Are known no more, and others take his place.
Within this haunt of quietude and rest
Which for so many years he loved and knew,
The bird comes back to build its annual nest,
The months return with sun and snow and dew;—
Which for so many years he loved and knew,
The bird comes back to build its annual nest,
The months return with sun and snow and dew;—
Nature lives on, though prince or statesman dies;
Thus mockingly these little lives of ours
So brief, so transient, seem to emphasize
The immortality of birds and flowers!
Thus mockingly these little lives of ours
So brief, so transient, seem to emphasize
The immortality of birds and flowers!
200
THE BABY'S SMILE.
As through the busy street I pass,
Often, in sun or rain,
I mark some pleasant household group
Behind a window-pane;
The mother is politely blind,
The father does not see,
But if a baby face is there,
The baby smiles at me.
Often, in sun or rain,
I mark some pleasant household group
Behind a window-pane;
The mother is politely blind,
The father does not see,
But if a baby face is there,
The baby smiles at me.
201
Dear sinless soul of babyhood!
She does not coldly wait
To ask about my bank-account,
Or bonds, or real estate;
With small soft face against the pane,
And dove-like coo the while,
She beckons with her dainty hand,
And answers back my smile.
She does not coldly wait
To ask about my bank-account,
Or bonds, or real estate;
With small soft face against the pane,
And dove-like coo the while,
She beckons with her dainty hand,
And answers back my smile.
She does not scorn my glance because
She never heard my name,
Nor query of my social place,
Nor question whence I came;
No tedious rule of etiquette
Restrains her loving grace,
Or chills the winning smile that lights
Her lovely wild-flower face.
She never heard my name,
Nor query of my social place,
Nor question whence I came;
No tedious rule of etiquette
Restrains her loving grace,
Or chills the winning smile that lights
Her lovely wild-flower face.
She knows me by that nameless sense,
That wisdom sweet and fine,
Which babies have, ere time has spoiled
Their innocence divine;
That strange, unerring magnetism
Which some kind angel sends,
By which all sinless things perceive
And recognize their friends;
That wisdom sweet and fine,
Which babies have, ere time has spoiled
Their innocence divine;
That strange, unerring magnetism
Which some kind angel sends,
By which all sinless things perceive
And recognize their friends;
The silent sympathy which makes
The homeless dog I meet
Forget his hungry lonesomeness
To fawn about my feet;
Which draws the pigeons to my hand,
Fearless and trustful still,
And makes the social sparrows crowd
My friendly window-sill.
The homeless dog I meet
Forget his hungry lonesomeness
To fawn about my feet;
Which draws the pigeons to my hand,
Fearless and trustful still,
And makes the social sparrows crowd
My friendly window-sill.
202
Ah! though the world seems full, sometimes,
Of darkness and of dust,
The soul is not quite desolate
Which birds and babies trust;
Life is not all a wilderness,
Made up of grief and guile,
While eyes so shadowless and sweet
Smile back to eyes that smile!
Of darkness and of dust,
The soul is not quite desolate
Which birds and babies trust;
Life is not all a wilderness,
Made up of grief and guile,
While eyes so shadowless and sweet
Smile back to eyes that smile!
A COUNTRY SCHOOL-HOUSE.
I see a picture in the air;
A country school-house, low and square,
With plain pine desks and dusty floor,
And whittlings all about the door;
A boyish teacher, young but wise,
With gentle face and kindly eyes—
And, faltering through her lessons there,
A little girl with yellow hair.
A country school-house, low and square,
With plain pine desks and dusty floor,
And whittlings all about the door;
A boyish teacher, young but wise,
With gentle face and kindly eyes—
And, faltering through her lessons there,
A little girl with yellow hair.
How shy she was! what real distress,
What conscious sense of awkwardness
Burned in quick color on her cheek,
When came her dreaded turn to speak!
How kind he was! his ready aid
Assured her timid soul, and made
The path of study plain and sweet
Before her hesitating feet.
What conscious sense of awkwardness
Burned in quick color on her cheek,
When came her dreaded turn to speak!
203
Assured her timid soul, and made
The path of study plain and sweet
Before her hesitating feet.
How long, how long ago it seems!
Like some fair vision seen in dreams,—
That cool bright autumn time of yore,
When he, a bashful sophomore,
With cheek that changed from pale to red,
Taught to a puzzled yellow head—
His youngest pupil, in whose eyes
Not Solomon was half so wise—
Within that country school-room's walls,
The mysteries of decimals.
Like some fair vision seen in dreams,—
That cool bright autumn time of yore,
When he, a bashful sophomore,
With cheek that changed from pale to red,
Taught to a puzzled yellow head—
His youngest pupil, in whose eyes
Not Solomon was half so wise—
Within that country school-room's walls,
The mysteries of decimals.
Alas, alas! to what intent
That labor over rate per cent.,
And toil at compound interest,
By one with nothing to invest?
Whose only venture, was, in truth,
The vague, sweet hope, the faith of youth,
Which early dwindled to its end,
Nor paid a single dividend?
That labor over rate per cent.,
And toil at compound interest,
By one with nothing to invest?
Whose only venture, was, in truth,
The vague, sweet hope, the faith of youth,
Which early dwindled to its end,
Nor paid a single dividend?
No school-girl now his peace disturbs
By tremulous tilts at nouns and verbs—
Alas, how fast the years have flown!
Now he has children of his own,
Tall boys in college, girls in trains;—
His busy heart no more retains
The features of that child of ten,
Who made a hero of him then,
Than Sandy River keeps, this hour,
The face of some wild meadow-flower,
Which grew and blossomed, shy and low,
Beside it, twenty years ago.
By tremulous tilts at nouns and verbs—
Alas, how fast the years have flown!
Now he has children of his own,
Tall boys in college, girls in trains;—
His busy heart no more retains
The features of that child of ten,
Who made a hero of him then,
204
The face of some wild meadow-flower,
Which grew and blossomed, shy and low,
Beside it, twenty years ago.
Yet it is more than many gain,
In this estate of change and pain,
To be forever set apart
The hero of a thankful heart,
Within that temple undefiled,
The grateful memory of a child;—
To hold, in spite of time and space,
So sacred and secure a place
As with a truth that naught can dim,
Her womanhood still keeps for him.
In this estate of change and pain,
To be forever set apart
The hero of a thankful heart,
Within that temple undefiled,
The grateful memory of a child;—
To hold, in spite of time and space,
So sacred and secure a place
As with a truth that naught can dim,
Her womanhood still keeps for him.
205
THE SUNSHINE SONG.
A little child of three bright years
Undimmed by care, unstained by tears,—
From whose pure soul was not yet riven
The music of its native heaven,
Implored and pleaded, oft and long,
“O mother, sing the sunshine song!”
Undimmed by care, unstained by tears,—
From whose pure soul was not yet riven
The music of its native heaven,
Implored and pleaded, oft and long,
“O mother, sing the sunshine song!”
The mother sang full many an air,
The gay, the sad, the sweet, the rare,
But none could please the listening child,
Who shook her head, and sadly smiled,
As one who chides a grievous wrong,
“O mother, sing the sunshine song!”
The gay, the sad, the sweet, the rare,
But none could please the listening child,
Who shook her head, and sadly smiled,
As one who chides a grievous wrong,
“O mother, sing the sunshine song!”
“Alas!” the mother's voice replies,
While tears drop softly from her eyes,—
“I know it not,—I never heard
The sunshine song, my singing-bird!”
Yet still she pleaded, oft and long,
“O mother, sing the sunshine song!”
While tears drop softly from her eyes,—
“I know it not,—I never heard
The sunshine song, my singing-bird!”
Yet still she pleaded, oft and long,
“O mother, sing the sunshine song!”
Spring came; and ere its reign was past,
The child's sweet life was ebbing fast;
And through her long delirious hours
Her lispings were of bees and flowers,
Mingled and saddened, all night long,
With pleadings for the sunshine song.
The child's sweet life was ebbing fast;
And through her long delirious hours
Her lispings were of bees and flowers,
Mingled and saddened, all night long,
With pleadings for the sunshine song.
206
Hours passed; and on her mother's knee
The child lay dying; suddenly
She clasped her little faded hands,—
“O mother, hear!—those shining bands—
—The tune I 've waited for so long,—
Mother, they sing the sunshine song!”
The child lay dying; suddenly
She clasped her little faded hands,—
“O mother, hear!—those shining bands—
—The tune I 've waited for so long,—
Mother, they sing the sunshine song!”
The lifted hands fell feebly down,—
Death's white hand rested like a crown
Upon her brow;—in holy grace
Her face was an angel's face;
And she had joined the seraph-throng
Who sing, in heaven, the sunshine song.
Death's white hand rested like a crown
Upon her brow;—in holy grace
Her face was an angel's face;
And she had joined the seraph-throng
Who sing, in heaven, the sunshine song.
210
TO CASCO BAY.
Beautiful bay! I gladly fly
Down to the shore where your waves beat high,—
There 's nobody here but you and me,
Nobody here to hear or see,
Our only guests are the birds and the wind,
The waves before and the cliff behind,
And the rocks are steep and hard to climb,
So none will intrude on our breathing-time,
And all to ourselves we will have the day,
Beautiful Casco Bay!
Down to the shore where your waves beat high,—
There 's nobody here but you and me,
Nobody here to hear or see,
211
The waves before and the cliff behind,
And the rocks are steep and hard to climb,
So none will intrude on our breathing-time,
And all to ourselves we will have the day,
Beautiful Casco Bay!
Tired of the town, with its selfish hearts,
Its vain pretences and ill-played parts,
The crush of streets and the strife of marts,
The roll of coaches and rattle of carts,—
And stifled beneath a worldly crust,
Deafened with noise and choked with dust,
My heart is a bird in the fowler's trap,
Or a butterfly caught in a schoolboy's cap,—
And I long to be free, as I am to-day,
Beautiful Casco Bay!
Its vain pretences and ill-played parts,
The crush of streets and the strife of marts,
The roll of coaches and rattle of carts,—
And stifled beneath a worldly crust,
Deafened with noise and choked with dust,
My heart is a bird in the fowler's trap,
Or a butterfly caught in a schoolboy's cap,—
And I long to be free, as I am to-day,
Beautiful Casco Bay!
Come, tell me some of the tales you know,
The ocean legends of long ago,—
The stories told by in-coming waves,
Of wrecking tempests and foamy graves,
Of booming billows and shattered ships,
And vain prayers strangled on ashy lips;—
I 've heard you echo them o'er and o'er,
With a mournful wail to the saddened shore,
Though now so gladly your waters play,
Beautiful Casco Bay!
The ocean legends of long ago,—
The stories told by in-coming waves,
Of wrecking tempests and foamy graves,
Of booming billows and shattered ships,
And vain prayers strangled on ashy lips;—
I 've heard you echo them o'er and o'er,
With a mournful wail to the saddened shore,
Though now so gladly your waters play,
Beautiful Casco Bay!
I love your voice as I hear it come
Like a chorus grand, through the city's hum,
Thrilling the fine electric chain
That binds me to Nature's heart, again—
That heart whose current flows wide and far,
Whose ceaseless throbbings your billows are,—
And my truant soul comes back to me
When your leafless forest of masts I see,
And I fling my handful of cares away,
Beautiful Casco Bay!
Like a chorus grand, through the city's hum,
Thrilling the fine electric chain
That binds me to Nature's heart, again—
That heart whose current flows wide and far,
212
And my truant soul comes back to me
When your leafless forest of masts I see,
And I fling my handful of cares away,
Beautiful Casco Bay!
Adieu! I go—and beneath the roar
Of your headlong waves on the rocky shore,
In the surf-tossed sea-weed and broken shells,
I hear a murmur of soft farewells;—
I shall love you still with a worship true,
And this wide bright reach of tossing blue,
This sparkling plain, where the gazer sees
The snowy-white sails blossom out in the breeze,
Will live in my heart for many a day,
Beautiful Casco Bay!
Of your headlong waves on the rocky shore,
In the surf-tossed sea-weed and broken shells,
I hear a murmur of soft farewells;—
I shall love you still with a worship true,
And this wide bright reach of tossing blue,
This sparkling plain, where the gazer sees
The snowy-white sails blossom out in the breeze,
Will live in my heart for many a day,
Beautiful Casco Bay!
231
A REBUS.
My first soars gladly from the earth,
On dawning's dewy wings,
Viewing the morning's beamy birth,
The star's last glimmerings.
One of the few who sing for joy,
And are not taught by pain,
My first permits no sad alloy,
To mingle with his strain.
On dawning's dewy wings,
Viewing the morning's beamy birth,
The star's last glimmerings.
232
And are not taught by pain,
My first permits no sad alloy,
To mingle with his strain.
A horseman dashes o'er the plain,
With mad and headlong speed;—
With nostrils spread, and flying mane,
Sweeps on the noble steed;
As flies the tempest in its might,
As meteors cleave the sky;—
My second prompts his foaming flight,
And fires his flashing eye.
With mad and headlong speed;—
With nostrils spread, and flying mane,
Sweeps on the noble steed;
As flies the tempest in its might,
As meteors cleave the sky;—
My second prompts his foaming flight,
And fires his flashing eye.
My whole lay trembling on my breast,
When summer's morn was bright,
But ere the sunset charmed the west,
The blue eyes lost their light.
I yielded it with fond regret,
Ere I had loved it long—
But ah, its spirit lingers yet,
In poet's sweetest song!
When summer's morn was bright,
But ere the sunset charmed the west,
The blue eyes lost their light.
I yielded it with fond regret,
Ere I had loved it long—
But ah, its spirit lingers yet,
In poet's sweetest song!
HAUNTED HOUSES.
All houses wherein rats and mice abide
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The cunning thieves upon their errands glide,
Making a hasty scratching on the floors.
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The cunning thieves upon their errands glide,
Making a hasty scratching on the floors.
233
We meet them in the chamber, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go;
Their twinkling eyes are peering everywhere,
As hurriedly they scamper to and fro.
Along the passages they come and go;
Their twinkling eyes are peering everywhere,
As hurriedly they scamper to and fro.
The house has far more inmates than the hosts
Invited; cellar, pantry, kitchen, hall,
Are thronged with nibblers, which the scent of roasts
Has tempted from their strongholds in the wall.
Invited; cellar, pantry, kitchen, hall,
Are thronged with nibblers, which the scent of roasts
Has tempted from their strongholds in the wall.
The stranger at my fireside may not see
The forms I see—and if strange sounds he hear,
Ascribes them to the wind—but unto me
The real cause is visible and clear.
The forms I see—and if strange sounds he hear,
Ascribes them to the wind—but unto me
The real cause is visible and clear.
Among the cupboard's spoons and cruet-stands,
They keep the revels which the housewife hates—
From holes unnoticed swarm in thievish bands,
And hold high jinks with teacups, bowls and plates.
They keep the revels which the housewife hates—
From holes unnoticed swarm in thievish bands,
And hold high jinks with teacups, bowls and plates.
The garret's dusty, dim circumference
Is where they most do congregate—for there
Rubbish in piles, and cobwebs dark and dense
Shut out intruders and the daylight's glare.
Is where they most do congregate—for there
Rubbish in piles, and cobwebs dark and dense
Shut out intruders and the daylight's glare.
Their little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite incentives and desires—
The struggle of the daring that destroys,
And the instinctive cowardice that fears.
By opposite incentives and desires—
The struggle of the daring that destroys,
And the instinctive cowardice that fears.
The perturbations, the perpetual jar
Of scampering rodents, bent on robbery,
Come from the attic, where by moon and star,
They, undiscovered, plan it secretly;
Of scampering rodents, bent on robbery,
Come from the attic, where by moon and star,
They, undiscovered, plan it secretly;
234
And as the moon, from some dark, cavernous cloud,
Flings down to us a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling beams our fancies crowd,
Into the vague uncertainty and night—
Flings down to us a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling beams our fancies crowd,
Into the vague uncertainty and night—
So, from the attic story, there descends
A flight of stairs, connecting it with this,
And racing up and down, my long-tailed friends
Affright the night with antics numberless.
A flight of stairs, connecting it with this,
And racing up and down, my long-tailed friends
Affright the night with antics numberless.
236
WOUNDED.
June's loving presence fills these green-arched glooms;
From broad-leaved branches, drooping cool and low,
Drop down the purple-veined catalpa-blooms,
Chasing each other lightly to and fro,
As dainty as new snow.
From broad-leaved branches, drooping cool and low,
Drop down the purple-veined catalpa-blooms,
Chasing each other lightly to and fro,
As dainty as new snow.
The great ripe roses nodding by the way,
Drunken and drowsy with their own perfume,
Heed not that bee and butterfly all day
Make in their very hearts a banquet-room,
And rob their royal bloom.
Drunken and drowsy with their own perfume,
Heed not that bee and butterfly all day
Make in their very hearts a banquet-room,
And rob their royal bloom.
The chestnut lights her mimic chandeliers,
The tulip-tree uplifts her goblets high,
The pine and fir shed balmy incense-tears,
And the magnolia's thick white petals lie
Expiring fragrantly.
The tulip-tree uplifts her goblets high,
The pine and fir shed balmy incense-tears,
And the magnolia's thick white petals lie
Expiring fragrantly.
The silver poplar's pearl-and-emerald sheen
Glimmers incessant, shadowing the eaves;
The willow's wide, fair fountain-fall of green
Whispers like rain; a pulse of gladness heaves
The world of waving leaves.
Glimmers incessant, shadowing the eaves;
The willow's wide, fair fountain-fall of green
Whispers like rain; a pulse of gladness heaves
The world of waving leaves.
237
In yonder room that fronts the dusty street,
Hushed and white-bedded, curtained cool and dim,
There lies as brave a heart as ever beat,
Bound down and tortured by a shattered limb—
Ah! what is June to him?
Hushed and white-bedded, curtained cool and dim,
There lies as brave a heart as ever beat,
Bound down and tortured by a shattered limb—
Ah! what is June to him?
To him, poor homesick sufferer, how fair
Would be this wealth of bloom, this sunny sky,
These gushing sparrow-songs, this gracious air!
Yet he, with stronger right to all than I,
Pines in captivity.
Would be this wealth of bloom, this sunny sky,
These gushing sparrow-songs, this gracious air!
Yet he, with stronger right to all than I,
Pines in captivity.
With breath of cannon hot upon his brow,
In glorious strife it had been sweet to die;
But no ennobling purpose fires him now;
His soul is nerved by no proud battle-cry
To this long agony.
In glorious strife it had been sweet to die;
But no ennobling purpose fires him now;
His soul is nerved by no proud battle-cry
To this long agony.
What was the boldest charge, the bloodiest fight,
The wildest rally over heaps of slain,
To this unequal contest, day and night,
With the fierce legions of disease and pain,
Repulsed so oft in vain?
The wildest rally over heaps of slain,
To this unequal contest, day and night,
With the fierce legions of disease and pain,
Repulsed so oft in vain?
Heroic was the bravery that inspired
His heart to daring deeds; but nobler still
This bravery of strong patience, which, untired,
Waits calmly, while the tedious months fulfil
Their work of good or ill.
His heart to daring deeds; but nobler still
This bravery of strong patience, which, untired,
Waits calmly, while the tedious months fulfil
Their work of good or ill.
Sacred we hold their names, who in the strife
Of righteous war—our nation's noblest sons—
Have done their work and given up their life
Amid the smoke and thunder of the guns,
Beloved and honored ones!
Of righteous war—our nation's noblest sons—
Have done their work and given up their life
Amid the smoke and thunder of the guns,
Beloved and honored ones!
238
And thou, brave heart, although no trumpet breath
Proclaims thee martyr, yet thy name shall be
Hallowed as these; for even more than death
O hero, hast thou suffered patiently
For right and liberty!
Proclaims thee martyr, yet thy name shall be
Hallowed as these; for even more than death
O hero, hast thou suffered patiently
For right and liberty!
A DEMOLISHED HOMESTEAD.
We rail at Time for spoiling what we prize,
But mild and gradual is his strong control;
His rudest touch but charms and sanctifies,
His changes bring no shock to sense or soul.
But mild and gradual is his strong control;
His rudest touch but charms and sanctifies,
His changes bring no shock to sense or soul.
Seldom by Time are razed the sacred shrines
Of local love and neighborhood renown;
Improvement blasts them with her new designs,
And Traffic's grasping talons dig them down.
Of local love and neighborhood renown;
Improvement blasts them with her new designs,
And Traffic's grasping talons dig them down.
Fond, faithful hearts which will not understand
The change that wounds and wrongs their constant truth,
Grieve that to-day, with sacrilegious hand,
Removes the ancient landmarks of their youth.
The change that wounds and wrongs their constant truth,
Grieve that to-day, with sacrilegious hand,
Removes the ancient landmarks of their youth.
239
By Trade and Greed our idols are displaced;
Not one is safe from their destructive clutch;
Rudely they lay our pleasant places waste,
Blighting all beauty with their fatal touch.
Not one is safe from their destructive clutch;
Rudely they lay our pleasant places waste,
Blighting all beauty with their fatal touch.
Where once were murmuring depths of waving leaves,
A mossy roof, and household love and mirth,
The cable creaks, the derrick groans and heaves,
The pick-axe quarrels with the unwilling earth:
A mossy roof, and household love and mirth,
The cable creaks, the derrick groans and heaves,
The pick-axe quarrels with the unwilling earth:
They ruin and uproot all olden grace,
All precious memories which our youth has known,
Old homes, old trees—and give us in their place
Huge heaps of rectilinear brick and stone.
All precious memories which our youth has known,
Old homes, old trees—and give us in their place
Huge heaps of rectilinear brick and stone.
Surely the dim and unregarded ghosts
Of those who used these pleasant shades to range,
Come up at night out of their misty coasts,
And wring their spectral hands above the change!
Of those who used these pleasant shades to range,
Come up at night out of their misty coasts,
And wring their spectral hands above the change!
240
HER ANSWER.
“I think I have heard you rightly,
And this way the matter stands;
You aim to become my master,
As you are of your gold and lands—
You wish me to fawn and follow,
And serve you with fettered hands—
And this way the matter stands;
You aim to become my master,
As you are of your gold and lands—
You wish me to fawn and follow,
And serve you with fettered hands—
“To flaunt in your flimsy finery,
To starve in your hollow state—
To enter a life of falsehood
Through a false and lying gate—
To dwarf my heart for diamonds,
And peril my soul for plate.
To starve in your hollow state—
To enter a life of falsehood
Through a false and lying gate—
To dwarf my heart for diamonds,
And peril my soul for plate.
“A modest and generous offer,
Which only a man could make!
So this is the burden of duties
You wish me to stoop and take?
Nor fear that my strength might falter,
Nor dread that my heart might break?
Which only a man could make!
So this is the burden of duties
You wish me to stoop and take?
Nor fear that my strength might falter,
Nor dread that my heart might break?
“Your wife! it were too much honor!
Pray, what is your wife to be?
The slave of your whim and bounty,
The pet of your luxury—
A careful, obsequious servant—
Is the picture at all like me?
Pray, what is your wife to be?
The slave of your whim and bounty,
The pet of your luxury—
A careful, obsequious servant—
Is the picture at all like me?
“I know how you reckoned your chances—
Your wooing has shown me that—
‘She is poor—I will make her wealthy’—
Oh, joy to be wondered at!
But you are a monstrous camel,
While poverty 's only a gnat!
Your wooing has shown me that—
‘She is poor—I will make her wealthy’—
Oh, joy to be wondered at!
But you are a monstrous camel,
While poverty 's only a gnat!
241
“If women are only insects—
Poor, insignificant things,—
I am not a cricket, that always
By the fire-place sits and sings,
But a chrysalis, unexpanded,
Impatient for promised wings.
Poor, insignificant things,—
I am not a cricket, that always
By the fire-place sits and sings,
But a chrysalis, unexpanded,
Impatient for promised wings.
“There are various minor trifles
Not even your gold can gain—
You cannot imprison the sunlight,
You cannot compel the rain—
And I am more wilful than either—
You flatter and sue in vain!
Not even your gold can gain—
You cannot imprison the sunlight,
You cannot compel the rain—
And I am more wilful than either—
You flatter and sue in vain!
“Away with your gilded fetters—
They rattle, although they shine—
The goblet of bliss you offer,
Smacks strongly of poisoned wine;
Your ring is too small for my finger,
Your life is too narrow for mine!”
They rattle, although they shine—
The goblet of bliss you offer,
Smacks strongly of poisoned wine;
Your ring is too small for my finger,
Your life is too narrow for mine!”
242
HE CAME TOO LATE.
He came too late! The toast had dried
Before the fire too long,—
The cakes were scorched upon the side,
And everything was wrong.
She scorned to wait till dark for one
Who lingered on his way,
And so she took her tea alone,
And cleared the things away.
Before the fire too long,—
The cakes were scorched upon the side,
And everything was wrong.
She scorned to wait till dark for one
Who lingered on his way,
And so she took her tea alone,
And cleared the things away.
He came too late! At once he felt
The supper hour was o'er;—
Indifference in her calm smile dwelt—
She closed the cupboard door!
The table-cloth was put away,
No dishes could he see;—
She met him and her words were gay,
She never spoke of tea!
The supper hour was o'er;—
Indifference in her calm smile dwelt—
She closed the cupboard door!
The table-cloth was put away,
No dishes could he see;—
She met him and her words were gay,
She never spoke of tea!
He came too late! the subtle cords
Of patience were unbound,—
Not by offence of spoken words,
But by the slights that wound.
She knew he could say nothing now
That could the past repay,—
She bade him go and milk the cow,
And coldly turned away!
Of patience were unbound,—
Not by offence of spoken words,
But by the slights that wound.
She knew he could say nothing now
That could the past repay,—
She bade him go and milk the cow,
And coldly turned away!
He came too late! The fragrant steam
Of tea had long since flown,
The flies had fallen in the cream,
The bread was cold as stone.
And when with word and smile he tried
His hungry state to prove,
She nerved her heart with woman's pride,
And never deigned to move!
Of tea had long since flown,
The flies had fallen in the cream,
The bread was cold as stone.
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His hungry state to prove,
She nerved her heart with woman's pride,
And never deigned to move!
264
WRITING TO ORDER.
“Dear friend, if I could only sing like you,
My life would be one dream of rare delight;
I would not cease my song the whole year through,
But keep the sweet verse flowing day and night;
Come, weave a poem just for me, to-day—
Indeed, dear friend, you cannot say me nay!”
My life would be one dream of rare delight;
I would not cease my song the whole year through,
But keep the sweet verse flowing day and night;
Come, weave a poem just for me, to-day—
Indeed, dear friend, you cannot say me nay!”
265
Write you a poem? is there no escape?
Must I sit down and spin a narrow verse
As one would measure off a yard of tape?
Mark the result! no stanzas could be worse
Than these, to which laboriously I bend,
Only to pleasure my exacting friend.
Must I sit down and spin a narrow verse
As one would measure off a yard of tape?
Mark the result! no stanzas could be worse
Than these, to which laboriously I bend,
Only to pleasure my exacting friend.
Say, can you guide the spirits of the air,
Or have the rainbow come before the shower?
Or tell the clouds what color they shall wear,
Or help the gradual budding of a flower?
Or call the robins back before they choose,
Hurry the sunset, or bring down the dews?
Or have the rainbow come before the shower?
Or tell the clouds what color they shall wear,
Or help the gradual budding of a flower?
Or call the robins back before they choose,
Hurry the sunset, or bring down the dews?
Can you command the planets where they roll,
Or speak a nebulous world to sudden prime?
Or force the tides to own your small control,
Or bid a rosebud bloom before its time?
Or make the brook run faster at your word,
Or regulate the warbling of a bird?
Or speak a nebulous world to sudden prime?
Or force the tides to own your small control,
Or bid a rosebud bloom before its time?
Or make the brook run faster at your word,
Or regulate the warbling of a bird?
Or make the morn unclose her golden bars
Before her hour, to let the daylight in?
Haste the appointed rising of the stars,
Or show them when their annual rounds begin?
Or cause the auroral lights to fade or glow,
Or tell the meteors which way to go?
Before her hour, to let the daylight in?
Haste the appointed rising of the stars,
Or show them when their annual rounds begin?
Or cause the auroral lights to fade or glow,
Or tell the meteors which way to go?
“No!” is the wondering answer which you send
Back to my queries, with indignant flash—
“Rule Nature? no!” But I assure you, friend,
He who should dare all this, were not more rash
Than you, who would attempt to rule for me
The power whose shadowing forth is poesy.
Back to my queries, with indignant flash—
“Rule Nature? no!” But I assure you, friend,
He who should dare all this, were not more rash
Than you, who would attempt to rule for me
The power whose shadowing forth is poesy.
266
For he is wilful as the wandering air;—
Ay, as capricious as the winds that blow;
Sometimes I seek him vainly everywhere—
Anon he comes, and stays, and will not go;
Unwon by prayers, or tears, or love, or gold,
Both hard to drive away and hard to hold.
Ay, as capricious as the winds that blow;
Sometimes I seek him vainly everywhere—
Anon he comes, and stays, and will not go;
Unwon by prayers, or tears, or love, or gold,
Both hard to drive away and hard to hold.
Sometimes he comes with airy retinue
Of rare conceits, and fancies sweet and strange,
And dainty dreamings; and the long hours through,
He rings upon my heart their every change,
While I walk charmed and haunted all the day,
Until the fair enchantment fades away,
Of rare conceits, and fancies sweet and strange,
And dainty dreamings; and the long hours through,
He rings upon my heart their every change,
While I walk charmed and haunted all the day,
Until the fair enchantment fades away,
And he is gone, as lightning leaves the sky;
Whither, who knows? I may not call him back,
Or if I call, he comes not; I might cry
And wring my hands, and drape myself in black,
But he would fling defiance from afar;
I might as well entreat a shooting star.
Whither, who knows? I may not call him back,
Or if I call, he comes not; I might cry
And wring my hands, and drape myself in black,
But he would fling defiance from afar;
I might as well entreat a shooting star.
And days go by, but he is absent still,
Perhaps to visit other hearts than mine;
No inspirations then my pulses thrill,
I cannot braid a verse, or weave a line,
Or catch the strain that charmed me while I slept;
My soul is silent as a harp unswept.
Perhaps to visit other hearts than mine;
No inspirations then my pulses thrill,
I cannot braid a verse, or weave a line,
Or catch the strain that charmed me while I slept;
My soul is silent as a harp unswept.
And so I wait. Not now with toil and pain
I try to win him back, and plead with him,
And blame myself, and bruise my barren brain
Against his lordly will or freakish whim,—
For I have learned mute patience, knowing when
My master pleases, he will come again.
I try to win him back, and plead with him,
And blame myself, and bruise my barren brain
Against his lordly will or freakish whim,—
For I have learned mute patience, knowing when
My master pleases, he will come again.
267
So, friend, forgive this stubborn pen of mine,
It will not always yield to my behest;
The summer firefly can not always shine—
The roses have the winter-time to rest—
The sparrow does not warble all the year,
And why should I, who have so few to hear?
It will not always yield to my behest;
The summer firefly can not always shine—
The roses have the winter-time to rest—
The sparrow does not warble all the year,
And why should I, who have so few to hear?
270
THE FACT AND THE REPORT.
A Portland Version of “the Ring and the Book.”
Live fact deadened down,
Talked over, bruited abroad, whispered away.
Robert Browning.
Talked over, bruited abroad, whispered away.
Robert Browning.
I.
THE FACTS IN THE CASE.
Bessie, little damsel fair,Whom this truthful tale concerns,
With her blondest of blonde hair,
Always minding one of Burns'
“Lassie wi' the lint-white locks—”
Bessie, by some oversight,
Had an accident, that shocks
Pen and paper to recite.
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She, in playing hide and seek,
Climbed the grape-vine lattice-work;—
And, to run and reach the goal,
Jumped off with a dreadful jerk
Fit to sever sense and soul.
Landing on the frozen ground
In a little aching heap,
Presently poor Bessie found
She had made a costly leap;
Broken by that dreadful hurt,
One poor ankle hung inert:
Twisted somehow, both the bones
Snapped like pipe-stems; and her groans
Called her playmates, half afraid
And half doubtful, to her aid,—
Two of whom, with careful tread,
Hopped her slowly home to bed.
II.
WHAT THE NEIGHBORS SAID.
“There! that child has got a bump!She 's a lively one to jump—
Climbing wall and fence and roof,
Never scared, and tumble-proof;
Anybody would have said
'T is a marvel, in its way,
That she did not break her head,
Or her neck, before to-day.”
272
III.
THE RESULTING CIRCUMSTANCES.
Bessie, though laid up in splints,Dreaded much the public prints—
Did not wish this mournful tale
Carried up and down by mail;
“No,” said Bessie, “how 't would look!
No young lady in a book
Breaks her leg while romping—no,
Do not have it published so
In the papers' local news!”
So her friends, who shared her views,
Pitying her bashfulness,
Wrote the story out like this:
IV.
THE NEWSPAPER VERSION.
Pretty little Bessie B.,Sat one morning quietly
Hemming, by her mother's side,
Kitchen towels, long and wide,
Making labor do for sport,
Singing softly “Hold the fort.”
Ah, 't was an unlucky day!
With no warning creak at all,
Suddenly her chair gave way,
And poor Bessie caught a fall.
Down she went, with dreadful jar,
And, alas, untoward fate!
Tibia and fibula
Cracked off short beneath her weight.
273
With no color in her cheeks,
Kept in bed by broken bones,
Caged for six or seven weeks.
V.
COMMENT OF THE READER.
Why should such a lovely child,Meek, industrious, quiet, mild,
Sweet, domestic, musical,
Suffer from a dreadful fall?
Had she been like some we meet,
Always romping in the street,
Like a tomboy wild and rude,
Never trying to be good—
Been as many others are,
Less obedient to her ma,
Less deserving of esteem,
Less afraid of doing wrong,
Less industrious at her seam,
Less religious in her song,
Less fastidious in her verse,
Things could not have happened worse!
VI.
VERDICT OF THE PUBLIC.
Gentlest ways and blondest curlsCannot alter Fate's intents,
And the nicest little girls
Meet, sometimes, with accidents.
274
MUNJOY HILL.
When, years ago, along the hill
I wandered, in the twilight still,
There, where the waters meet the land,
The waves ran lightly up the sand,
And old as time, but ever new,
Sang their soft song—“Forever true!”
I wandered, in the twilight still,
There, where the waters meet the land,
The waves ran lightly up the sand,
And old as time, but ever new,
Sang their soft song—“Forever true!”
Again I pace, with footsteps slow,
The pleasant haunt of long ago,
And note how time has wrought its spell
On all the scenes beloved so well,
Where gradual growth, and loss, and change,
Make half the landscape new and strange.
The pleasant haunt of long ago,
And note how time has wrought its spell
On all the scenes beloved so well,
Where gradual growth, and loss, and change,
Make half the landscape new and strange.
275
Remembered trees no more are seen,
New boundaries check the stretches green;
New roofs and chimneys sharply rise
Against the old familiar skies—
And nothing, save the constant sea,
Remains as then it used to be.
New boundaries check the stretches green;
New roofs and chimneys sharply rise
Against the old familiar skies—
And nothing, save the constant sea,
Remains as then it used to be.
The very faces in the street
Are changed from those I used to meet;
Only the fickle, varying sea
Has kept its vow of constancy,
And murmurs still, the gloaming through,
The same old vow—“Forever true!”
Are changed from those I used to meet;
Only the fickle, varying sea
Has kept its vow of constancy,
And murmurs still, the gloaming through,
The same old vow—“Forever true!”
283
AFTERGLOW.
To one abstruse conundrum much serious thought I give—
Why is it that the good men die, and all the bad ones live?
Or why is it we never know our neighbor's rare perfections
Till his last will and testament is read to his connections?
Why is it that the good men die, and all the bad ones live?
Or why is it we never know our neighbor's rare perfections
Till his last will and testament is read to his connections?
Ah, then the daily papers spread his virtues all abroad:
They say he was “an honest man—the noblest work of God;”
How good he was, how wise he was, how honest in his dealing—
What tenderness of heart he had, and what a depth of feeling!
They say he was “an honest man—the noblest work of God;”
How good he was, how wise he was, how honest in his dealing—
What tenderness of heart he had, and what a depth of feeling!
Perhaps the man was one of those—ah, would that they were fewer!
Who all his life ground hard and close the faces of the poor;
Who drove his debtors to despair by premature foreclosure,
Then paid his pew-rent in advance, with infinite composure.
Who all his life ground hard and close the faces of the poor;
Who drove his debtors to despair by premature foreclosure,
Then paid his pew-rent in advance, with infinite composure.
Perhaps he was the lordly “head” of some unhappy place
Called “home” by use and courtesy, but lacking all its grace;
Who held his children criminals for every trifling error,
Who pinched his household half to death, and kept his wife in terror.
Called “home” by use and courtesy, but lacking all its grace;
Who held his children criminals for every trifling error,
Who pinched his household half to death, and kept his wife in terror.
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Perhaps he was a lawyer deep, whose quibbling tricks and words
Helped base executors to rob poor widows of their thirds;
Perhaps a thrifty grocer-man, whose wheedling, false palaver
Sold toughest steak for porter-house, and chicory for Java.
Helped base executors to rob poor widows of their thirds;
Perhaps a thrifty grocer-man, whose wheedling, false palaver
Sold toughest steak for porter-house, and chicory for Java.
Perhaps he was a husband who, through all his married life,
Regarded honor, faith and truth as duties—of his wife—
And strove his sidewise discipline beyond the grave to carry,
By threats to leave her penniless if she should dare remarry.
Regarded honor, faith and truth as duties—of his wife—
And strove his sidewise discipline beyond the grave to carry,
By threats to leave her penniless if she should dare remarry.
Any of these he might have been—the types are nowise rare—
But when he dies, behold, we passed an angel unaware!
Since type and tongue proclaim his worth, what cynic shall dispute them?
“Many there be who meet the gods,” we read, “but few salute them!”
But when he dies, behold, we passed an angel unaware!
Since type and tongue proclaim his worth, what cynic shall dispute them?
“Many there be who meet the gods,” we read, “but few salute them!”
Why don't the papers say fine things of men before they die,
And indicate these saintly souls ere yet they soar on high?
Then we might recognize them ere grim death and “cold obstruction”
Have made it quite impossible to get an introduction.
And indicate these saintly souls ere yet they soar on high?
Then we might recognize them ere grim death and “cold obstruction”
Have made it quite impossible to get an introduction.
Ah, well—perhaps when I at last beneath my burden faint,
I, too, shall win the title of a paragon and saint,
And be, when death's cold breath has blown aside life's dust and soiling,
A grain of that superior salt which keeps the world from spoiling!
I, too, shall win the title of a paragon and saint,
And be, when death's cold breath has blown aside life's dust and soiling,
A grain of that superior salt which keeps the world from spoiling!
286
MADGE MILLER.
Madge Miller, on a summer day,
Walked, as usual, her pleasant way.
Walked, as usual, her pleasant way.
Her dress was tidy, her apron white;
Her face was sweet as the morning light.
Her face was sweet as the morning light.
She was a simple village maid
Learning a country milliner's trade.
Learning a country milliner's trade.
Her hands were soft, and her dress was clean,
And little she knew what care might mean.
And little she knew what care might mean.
She said, “I'll work at my pretty trade,
And live a happy and free old maid.
And live a happy and free old maid.
“Lovers may come and lovers may go,
I'll have none of them, no, no, no!”
I'll have none of them, no, no, no!”
But a suitor came with a tall silk hat;
He told her a story worth two of that—
He told her a story worth two of that—
The same old story by lovers told
Since first the earth out of chaos rolled—
Since first the earth out of chaos rolled—
(Let us kindly hope, who are old and wise,
He did not know he was telling lies.)
He did not know he was telling lies.)
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“Marry me, darling, and you shall be
The happiest woman on land or sea.
The happiest woman on land or sea.
“No longer then will you have to go
To your daily labor through heat or snow.
To your daily labor through heat or snow.
“It shall be my pleasure, my law, my life,
To make you a blest and happy wife.
To make you a blest and happy wife.
“Marry me, and you never shall know
A sorrow or hardship, a care or woe!”
A sorrow or hardship, a care or woe!”
She heard the story of promised bliss—
She waited, wavered, and answered “Yes!”
She waited, wavered, and answered “Yes!”
Bright and big was the honey-moon,
But clouded by worldly care too soon.
But clouded by worldly care too soon.
For housework led her its weary round—
Her feet were tethered, her hands were bound.
Her feet were tethered, her hands were bound.
And children came with their shrill demands,
And fettered closer her burdened hands.
And fettered closer her burdened hands.
In her husband's house she came to be
A servant in all but salary.
A servant in all but salary.
All her days, whether foul or fair,
Were endless circles of work and care;
Were endless circles of work and care;
And half her nights—as up and down
She walked the floor in her dressing-gown,
She walked the floor in her dressing-gown,
Hushing an ailing infant's screams,
Lest it should break its father's dreams;
Lest it should break its father's dreams;
Or coaxed and doctored a sobbing child,
By the pangs of ear-ache driven wild—
By the pangs of ear-ache driven wild—
288
Were seasons of wakeful, nervous dread—
So if at last o'er her aching head
So if at last o'er her aching head
The angel of slumber chanced to stoop,
He brought her visions of mumps or croup;
He brought her visions of mumps or croup;
And she rose unrested, and went once more
Through the dull routine of the day before.
Through the dull routine of the day before.
Week by week did she drudge and toil
And stew and pickle, and roast and boil,
And stew and pickle, and roast and boil,
And wash the dishes, and rub the knives—
The lofty mission of duteous wives—
The lofty mission of duteous wives—
And scrub, and iron, and sweep, and cook,
Her only reading a recipe-book,—
Her only reading a recipe-book,—
And bathe the children, and brush their locks,
Button their aprons and pin their frocks,
Button their aprons and pin their frocks,
And patch old garments, and darn and mend—
Oh! weary worry that has no end!
Oh! weary worry that has no end!
She lost her airy and sportive ways,
The pretty charm of her girlish days—
The pretty charm of her girlish days—
For how can a playful fancy rove
When one is chained to a cooking-stove?
When one is chained to a cooking-stove?
Her face was old ere she reached her prime,
Faded and care-worn before its time.
Faded and care-worn before its time.
Sometimes would her well-kept husband look
Up from the page of his paper or book,
Up from the page of his paper or book,
And note how the bloom had left her face,
And a pallid thinness won its place—
And a pallid thinness won its place—
289
How gray had mixed with her locks of brown,
And her forehead gained a growing frown,
And her forehead gained a growing frown,
And say, “She is ugly, I declare—
I wonder I ever could think her fair!”
I wonder I ever could think her fair!”
Season by season, year by year,
Did she follow the round of “woman's sphere,”
Did she follow the round of “woman's sphere,”
Nor vexed her husband's days or nights,
By any mention of woman's rights,
By any mention of woman's rights,
Till she did at last—too sorely tried—
Her life's one selfish deed—she died.
Her life's one selfish deed—she died.
Proud and happy and quite content
With the slavish way her days were spent?
With the slavish way her days were spent?
Feeling, of course, that her life was lost
Nobly, in saving a servant's cost?
Nobly, in saving a servant's cost?
Once, he fancied, her dim ghost spoke
Out of its cloud of kitchen smoke—
Out of its cloud of kitchen smoke—
“Why did I leave my girlish life
To be a dowdy and drudging wife?
To be a dowdy and drudging wife?
“I might have followed my tasteful trade,
And lived a happy and free old maid—
And lived a happy and free old maid—
“Or taught a school, as I had before,
Or been a clerk in a dry-goods store—
Or been a clerk in a dry-goods store—
“Or reigned a trim, white-handed queen,
Over a dutiful sewing-machine—
Over a dutiful sewing-machine—
“And earned my living, and some small praise,
In any one of these easier ways.
In any one of these easier ways.
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“No other servants than wives, I think,
Work for nothing but food and drink,
Work for nothing but food and drink,
“A prisoning ‘home’ like this I know,
And a semi-annual calico.
And a semi-annual calico.
“No other employer, dame or man,
Makes life so hard as a husband can.
Makes life so hard as a husband can.
“Ah, me! what curses are on his head
Who wooes a woman and does not wed!
Who wooes a woman and does not wed!
“O mourning damsels, who pine and cry
For fickle lovers, who vow and fly,
For fickle lovers, who vow and fly,
“Heal your heart-aches, and soothe your woes
With the hard-earned wisdom of one who knows:
With the hard-earned wisdom of one who knows:
“Small reason have you to blame or rue
The lover who does not marry you!
The lover who does not marry you!
“Ah! of all sad thoughts of women or men
The saddest is this, ‘It need n't have been!’”
The saddest is this, ‘It need n't have been!’”
291
TO-MORROW.
Oh, when shall we welcome that era of glory
Foreshadowed since ages of old,
That season so fondly in vision and story
By prophet and siren foretold?
Our hearts, when with gloomy forebodings grown cold,
New hope from the prophecy borrow,
For pain shall be solaced and grief be consoled,
And life be enjoyment—to-morrow!
To-morrow!—to-morrow!
Hope's burden is ever “To-morrow!”
Foreshadowed since ages of old,
That season so fondly in vision and story
By prophet and siren foretold?
Our hearts, when with gloomy forebodings grown cold,
New hope from the prophecy borrow,
For pain shall be solaced and grief be consoled,
And life be enjoyment—to-morrow!
To-morrow!—to-morrow!
Hope's burden is ever “To-morrow!”
That wonderful dawning, oh, when shall we know it?
Which dreamers have looked for so long?
That jubilee morning by preacher and poet
So lauded in sermon and song?
When labor and care, with their wearisome throng,
Shall vanish with trouble and sorrow,
When love shall reign ruler, and right shall be strong,
And youth be immortal—to-morrow!
To-morrow!—to-morrow!
Hope's burden is ever “To-morrow!”
Which dreamers have looked for so long?
That jubilee morning by preacher and poet
So lauded in sermon and song?
When labor and care, with their wearisome throng,
Shall vanish with trouble and sorrow,
When love shall reign ruler, and right shall be strong,
And youth be immortal—to-morrow!
To-morrow!—to-morrow!
Hope's burden is ever “To-morrow!”
316
MORNING-GLORIES.
O dainty daughters of the dawn—most delicate of flowers,
How fitly do ye come to deck day's most delicious hours!
Evoked by morning's earliest breath, your fragile cups unfold
Before the light has cleft the sky, or edged the world with gold,—
How fitly do ye come to deck day's most delicious hours!
Evoked by morning's earliest breath, your fragile cups unfold
Before the light has cleft the sky, or edged the world with gold,—
Before luxurious butterflies and moths are yet astir,
Before the heedless breeze has snapped the leaf-hung gossamer,
While spheréd dew-drops, yet unquaffed by thirsty insect-thieves,
Broider with rows of diamonds the edges of the leaves.
Before the heedless breeze has snapped the leaf-hung gossamer,
While spheréd dew-drops, yet unquaffed by thirsty insect-thieves,
Broider with rows of diamonds the edges of the leaves.
Ye drink from day's o'erflowing brim, nor ever dream of noon;
With bashful nod ye greet the sun, whose flattery scorches soon;
Your trumpets trembling to the touch of humming-bird and bee,
In tender trepidation sweet, and fair timidity.
With bashful nod ye greet the sun, whose flattery scorches soon;
Your trumpets trembling to the touch of humming-bird and bee,
In tender trepidation sweet, and fair timidity.
No flowers in all the garden have so wide a choice of hue,
The deepest purple dyes are yours—the tenderest tints of blue—
While some are colorless as light—some flushed incarnadine,
And some are clouded crimson, like a goblet stained with wine.
The deepest purple dyes are yours—the tenderest tints of blue—
While some are colorless as light—some flushed incarnadine,
And some are clouded crimson, like a goblet stained with wine.
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Ye hold not in your calm cool hearts the passion of the rose,
Ye do not own the haughty pride the regal lily knows,
But ah, no blossom has the charm, the purity of this,
Which shrinks before the tenderest love, and dies beneath a kiss.
Ye do not own the haughty pride the regal lily knows,
But ah, no blossom has the charm, the purity of this,
Which shrinks before the tenderest love, and dies beneath a kiss.
In this wide garden of the world, where he is wise who knows
The bramble from the sweet-brier, the nettle from the rose,
Some lives there are which seem like these, as sensitive and fair,
As far from thought of sin and shame, as free from soil of care.
The bramble from the sweet-brier, the nettle from the rose,
Some lives there are which seem like these, as sensitive and fair,
As far from thought of sin and shame, as free from soil of care.
We find sometimes these splendid souls, when all our world is young,
When life is crisp with freshness, with unshaken dew-drops hung;
They blossom in the cool dim hours, when all is still and fair,
But cease and vanish long before the noonday's heat and glare.
When life is crisp with freshness, with unshaken dew-drops hung;
They blossom in the cool dim hours, when all is still and fair,
But cease and vanish long before the noonday's heat and glare.
And if in manhood's dusty time, fatigued with toil and glow,
We crave the fresh, young morning-heart which charmed us long ago,
We seek in vain the olden ways, the shadows moist and fair,
The heart-shaped leaves may linger, but the blossom is not there.
We crave the fresh, young morning-heart which charmed us long ago,
We seek in vain the olden ways, the shadows moist and fair,
The heart-shaped leaves may linger, but the blossom is not there.
328
LIZZIE.
Dear little dark-eyed namesake!
The summers are all too few
Since she brightened with graceful wearing
The name that my childhood knew.
I hoped it would crown her with sunshine
Fairer than ever smiled;
I said it should bring her a blessing—
Dear little dark-eyed child!
The summers are all too few
Since she brightened with graceful wearing
The name that my childhood knew.
I hoped it would crown her with sunshine
Fairer than ever smiled;
I said it should bring her a blessing—
Dear little dark-eyed child!
I said it should bring her a blessing—
Was I wiser than I guessed?
Was the blessing a long sweet childhood,
And an early and happy rest?
For the loving circle that held her
Is robbed of its precious pearl;
The youngest, the fairest, the darling;—
Dear little dark-eyed girl!
Was I wiser than I guessed?
Was the blessing a long sweet childhood,
And an early and happy rest?
For the loving circle that held her
Is robbed of its precious pearl;
The youngest, the fairest, the darling;—
Dear little dark-eyed girl!
329
She stood where the path of childhood—
A lane through a flowery wood—
Led out to the wide, dim distance
Of perilous womanhood;—
Woman or angel?—The future
Like a question before her lay;
What wonder she paused and faltered,
And chose the easier way?
A lane through a flowery wood—
Led out to the wide, dim distance
Of perilous womanhood;—
Woman or angel?—The future
Like a question before her lay;
What wonder she paused and faltered,
And chose the easier way?
Not for her are the crosses
And bonds of a woman's life,
Nor the burdens and costly blessings
Which cling to the name of wife;
Nor labor, nor doubt, nor anguish,
Nor the great world's dusty whirl;
Not one of them touched her garment—
Dear little dark-eyed girl!
And bonds of a woman's life,
Nor the burdens and costly blessings
Which cling to the name of wife;
Nor labor, nor doubt, nor anguish,
Nor the great world's dusty whirl;
Not one of them touched her garment—
Dear little dark-eyed girl!
Timidly leaning always
On the hearts which loved her best,
Sheltered from every sorrow,
She dwelt in the warm home nest;
Never a grief came near her,
Nor trial nor loss she bore,
And none in the home that holds her,
Shall find her forevermore!
On the hearts which loved her best,
Sheltered from every sorrow,
She dwelt in the warm home nest;
Never a grief came near her,
Nor trial nor loss she bore,
And none in the home that holds her,
Shall find her forevermore!
O fair and fetterless spirit!
The name that my childhood knew,
Though rarely I hear it spoken,
Is sweeter because of you!
What matter how little value
On earth to the name be given,
Since now it is worn by an angel,
'T is tenderly breathed in heaven?
The name that my childhood knew,
Though rarely I hear it spoken,
Is sweeter because of you!
What matter how little value
On earth to the name be given,
Since now it is worn by an angel,
'T is tenderly breathed in heaven?
330
BERTIE.
All winter, walking up and down,
I met him every day,
And watched his beauty with delight—
A merry boy at play.
His tender face was rosy fair,
A winsome face to kiss;
“A happy mother she,” I said,
“Who owns a child like this!”
I met him every day,
And watched his beauty with delight—
A merry boy at play.
His tender face was rosy fair,
A winsome face to kiss;
“A happy mother she,” I said,
“Who owns a child like this!”
I was a stranger—still he learned
To know my face at last,
And met my greeting with a smile
Of welcome as I passed.
His curls danced brightly in the wind,
His laugh rang sweet and far,
His soft brown eyes were frank and clear
As babes' or angels' are.
To know my face at last,
And met my greeting with a smile
Of welcome as I passed.
His curls danced brightly in the wind,
His laugh rang sweet and far,
His soft brown eyes were frank and clear
As babes' or angels' are.
One day I did not hear his voice
In the accustomed place;
I sought in vain his dancing curls—
I missed his happy face;
And yesterday the cruel words
I read with bitter pain,
Which told me I should never see
His lovely eyes again.
In the accustomed place;
I sought in vain his dancing curls—
I missed his happy face;
And yesterday the cruel words
I read with bitter pain,
331
His lovely eyes again.
The street is full of children still—
They run and laugh and call,
But yet I miss the shy sweet face
I prized above them all;
And I shall walk my morning way
Alas, a weary while,
Ere I forget the lovely boy
Who gave me smile for smile.
They run and laugh and call,
But yet I miss the shy sweet face
I prized above them all;
And I shall walk my morning way
Alas, a weary while,
Ere I forget the lovely boy
Who gave me smile for smile.
GRACIE WITH THE GOLDEN HAIR.
Is she not exceeding fair,
Gracie with the golden hair
Floating round her, like the haze
Of the Indian summer days?
Just a baby undefiled,
Dancing, dimpled, darling child!
Is she not exceeding fair,
Gracie with the golden hair?
Gracie with the golden hair
Floating round her, like the haze
Of the Indian summer days?
Just a baby undefiled,
Dancing, dimpled, darling child!
Is she not exceeding fair,
Gracie with the golden hair?
Two short years hath Gracie stayed
In this world of shine and shade,
And her life has been as blest
As a young bird's in its nest,
Shielded safe from want and fear,
By the hearts which hold her dear,—
Wholly happy, unaware,—
Gracie with the golden hair.
In this world of shine and shade,
And her life has been as blest
As a young bird's in its nest,
Shielded safe from want and fear,
By the hearts which hold her dear,—
Wholly happy, unaware,—
Gracie with the golden hair.
332
Never to herself she saith,
“Wherefore life?” or “Wherefore death?”
Gracie leaves these queries dread
To some graver, older head;
Longing for no morrow's rays,
Mourning for no yesterdays,
She hath neither doubt nor care,
Gracie with the golden hair.
“Wherefore life?” or “Wherefore death?”
Gracie leaves these queries dread
To some graver, older head;
Longing for no morrow's rays,
Mourning for no yesterdays,
She hath neither doubt nor care,
Gracie with the golden hair.
Yet sometimes a thoughtful shade
Falls athwart the little maid,
And a tender sadness lies,
Deep within her gentle eyes;
But she smiles again ere long,
Carolling her merriest song,
Like a sparrow in the air,
Gracie with the golden hair.
Falls athwart the little maid,
And a tender sadness lies,
Deep within her gentle eyes;
But she smiles again ere long,
Carolling her merriest song,
Like a sparrow in the air,
Gracie with the golden hair.
Gracie hath a cherub face,
Full of sweet, unworldly grace;
Gracie's eyes are tenderest blue,
Limpid as a drop of dew;
And her cheek, so pure it shows,
Seemeth like a fresh white rose.
Is she not exceeding fair,
Gracie with the golden hair?
Full of sweet, unworldly grace;
Gracie's eyes are tenderest blue,
Limpid as a drop of dew;
And her cheek, so pure it shows,
Seemeth like a fresh white rose.
Is she not exceeding fair,
Gracie with the golden hair?
And if Gracie, though she seems
Like the shapes in holy dreams,
Be not quite an angel yet,
Wherefore should we feel regret?
For our hearts would all be riven,
Should she fly away to heaven;—
Ah, our souls could never spare
Gracie with the golden hair!
Like the shapes in holy dreams,
Be not quite an angel yet,
Wherefore should we feel regret?
For our hearts would all be riven,
Should she fly away to heaven;—
Ah, our souls could never spare
Gracie with the golden hair!
333
NED.
Who knew of little Ned?
Who cared a straw for him, alive or dead?
Ned, with his ebon face,
A wretched scion of a wretched race,
A worthless life gone down
Unnoticed, in an over-crowded town.
Who cared a straw for him, alive or dead?
Ned, with his ebon face,
A wretched scion of a wretched race,
A worthless life gone down
Unnoticed, in an over-crowded town.
Scanty and poor the food
His mother's labor gave her hungry brood,
Windowless, dingy, dim,
Was the poor hovel which was home to him;
Improvidence and chance
Ruled there, with poverty and ignorance.
His mother's labor gave her hungry brood,
Windowless, dingy, dim,
Was the poor hovel which was home to him;
Improvidence and chance
Ruled there, with poverty and ignorance.
334
Often, as he passed by,
I smiled again into his smiling eye,
Or gave, to his delight,
String for his ball, or paper for his kite,
And oftentimes, poor Ned!
That which he needed more than playthings,—bread.
I smiled again into his smiling eye,
Or gave, to his delight,
String for his ball, or paper for his kite,
And oftentimes, poor Ned!
That which he needed more than playthings,—bread.
His poor pretence of dress
Was worn and rent to utter raggedness,
Yet in the summer street,
He played with children gaily dressed and neat,
Who did not keep in sight
The bridgeless gulf dividing black and white.
Was worn and rent to utter raggedness,
Yet in the summer street,
He played with children gaily dressed and neat,
Who did not keep in sight
The bridgeless gulf dividing black and white.
They shared the self-same plays,
Bounding and shouting through the sunny days,
Nor ever seemed to care
Which dingy hand, if washed, would be most fair;
Until the fall of night
Ended the games which only ceased with light.
Bounding and shouting through the sunny days,
Nor ever seemed to care
Which dingy hand, if washed, would be most fair;
Until the fall of night
Ended the games which only ceased with light.
They used to find their rest
In pleasant homes, with love and plenty blest,
Where, all refreshed and soothed,
Their tired limbs bathed, their tangled tresses smoothed,
They nestled, all the night,
In cool, soft beds, with pillows dainty white.
In pleasant homes, with love and plenty blest,
Where, all refreshed and soothed,
Their tired limbs bathed, their tangled tresses smoothed,
They nestled, all the night,
In cool, soft beds, with pillows dainty white.
But he, poor little Ned,
A heap of tattered rags was all his bed;
And want and squalor kept
Watch in the crowded chamber while he slept,—
The atmosphere defiled
Poisoning the slumbers of the hapless child.
A heap of tattered rags was all his bed;
And want and squalor kept
Watch in the crowded chamber while he slept,—
The atmosphere defiled
Poisoning the slumbers of the hapless child.
335
He played the summer through,
And autumn came; November rain-storms blew,
And in the blasts unkind,
Shivering, half-clad, the child grew ill and pined,
Forgot his wonted mirth,
And cowered all day beside the cheerless hearth.
And autumn came; November rain-storms blew,
And in the blasts unkind,
Shivering, half-clad, the child grew ill and pined,
Forgot his wonted mirth,
And cowered all day beside the cheerless hearth.
Roundness and smiles forsook
His thinning cheek; a suffering, patient look
Touched with a piteous grace
His wide and wistful eyes, his small, dark face;
As ever asking, “Why?
Does life mean only to endure—and die?”
His thinning cheek; a suffering, patient look
Touched with a piteous grace
His wide and wistful eyes, his small, dark face;
As ever asking, “Why?
Does life mean only to endure—and die?”
Days passed; and now no more
He joined the noisy group around the door,
Yet ever kept in sight
His sorry playthings—ball and hoop and kite—
Sighing, “Another day
I shall be well enough to go and play.”
He joined the noisy group around the door,
Yet ever kept in sight
His sorry playthings—ball and hoop and kite—
Sighing, “Another day
I shall be well enough to go and play.”
Alas, poor stricken Ned!
All night he shivered in his meagre bed,
And weary day by day
The fever came and burned his strength away;
Fate left him naught to choose;
A life so wretched was not much to lose.
All night he shivered in his meagre bed,
And weary day by day
The fever came and burned his strength away;
Fate left him naught to choose;
A life so wretched was not much to lose.
Even at his poor life's end,
He asked for me,—for I had been his friend;
And with the uttered name,
His trembling soul went—whither?—whence it came;
Some happier sphere to find,
Where angels, let us hope, are color-blind.
He asked for me,—for I had been his friend;
And with the uttered name,
His trembling soul went—whither?—whence it came;
Some happier sphere to find,
Where angels, let us hope, are color-blind.
336
Small is the meed I claim
Of worldly gratitude, or praise, or fame,
Yet it is something worth,
That he, the poorest, humblest of the earth,
Passed through death's brief eclipse,
Bearing my name upon his grateful lips.
Of worldly gratitude, or praise, or fame,
Yet it is something worth,
That he, the poorest, humblest of the earth,
Passed through death's brief eclipse,
Bearing my name upon his grateful lips.
Ah, well, what mattered it?
This poor, pinched soul which no one prized a whit?
One more small life gone down
Uncounted, in a sickly southern town;
Ah, me! I wonder why
A being so forlorn should live and die?
This poor, pinched soul which no one prized a whit?
One more small life gone down
Uncounted, in a sickly southern town;
Ah, me! I wonder why
A being so forlorn should live and die?
337
WINNIE.
In a home-nest of peace and joy,
Bright and pleasant as home can be,
Lives a merry and sweet-faced boy,
Under a broad old apple tree;
Searching wide, you will seldom meet
Child so blithesome and fair as he,
How can he help being pretty and sweet,
Dwelling under an apple tree?
Bright and pleasant as home can be,
Lives a merry and sweet-faced boy,
Under a broad old apple tree;
338
Child so blithesome and fair as he,
How can he help being pretty and sweet,
Dwelling under an apple tree?
In the spring when the child goes out,
Glad as a bird that winter 's past,
Making his flower-beds all about,
Liking best what he finished last;
Then the tree from each blossomy limb,
Heaps its petals about his feet,
And like a benison over him
Scatters its fragrances, sweet to sweet.
Glad as a bird that winter 's past,
Making his flower-beds all about,
Liking best what he finished last;
Then the tree from each blossomy limb,
Heaps its petals about his feet,
And like a benison over him
Scatters its fragrances, sweet to sweet.
He has only to smile and win;
Face more lovely was never kissed;
Dear blue eyes and a dimpled chin,
Curls that dance in a golden mist;
Circled ever by tenderest care,
Taught and guided by love's decree,
How can he help being good and fair,
Dwelling under an apple tree?
Face more lovely was never kissed;
Dear blue eyes and a dimpled chin,
Curls that dance in a golden mist;
Circled ever by tenderest care,
Taught and guided by love's decree,
How can he help being good and fair,
Dwelling under an apple tree?
In the summer the dear old tree
Spreads above him its cooling shade,
Keeping the heat from his cheek while he
Playing at toil with rake and spade,
Chasing the humming-birds' gleam and dart,
Watching the honey-bees drink and doze,
Gathers in body and soul and heart,
Beauty and health, like an opening rose.
Spreads above him its cooling shade,
Keeping the heat from his cheek while he
Playing at toil with rake and spade,
Chasing the humming-birds' gleam and dart,
Watching the honey-bees drink and doze,
Gathers in body and soul and heart,
Beauty and health, like an opening rose.
339
In the autumn, before the leaves
Lose their greenness, the apples fall,
Roll on the roof and bounce from the eaves,
Pile on the porch, and rest on the wall;
Then he heaps on the grassy ground
Rosy pyramids brave to see;
How can he help being ruddy and sound,
Dwelling under an apple tree?
Lose their greenness, the apples fall,
Roll on the roof and bounce from the eaves,
Pile on the porch, and rest on the wall;
Then he heaps on the grassy ground
Rosy pyramids brave to see;
How can he help being ruddy and sound,
Dwelling under an apple tree?
In the winter, when winds are wild,
Then, still faithful, the sturdy tree
Keeps its watch o'er the darling child,
Telling him tales of the May to be;
Teaching him faith under stormy skies,
Bidding him trust when he cannot see;
How can he help being happy and wise,
Dwelling under an apple tree?
Then, still faithful, the sturdy tree
Keeps its watch o'er the darling child,
Telling him tales of the May to be;
Teaching him faith under stormy skies,
Bidding him trust when he cannot see;
How can he help being happy and wise,
Dwelling under an apple tree?
342
THE SPAN-WORM.
A MELANCHOLY MEASURE.
Just at the dawn of the heated term,
Begins the reign of the measuring worm;
From the roadside branches he spins and swings,
Hanging and wriggling on gossamer strings;
Lengthening slowly the swaying threads,
He drops and clings on the passers' heads,
And, happy as in his native leaves,
Crawls under their collars and up their sleeves,—
Or, reaching the ground with a sudden jerk,
Collects his wits and begins his work.
Begins the reign of the measuring worm;
From the roadside branches he spins and swings,
Hanging and wriggling on gossamer strings;
343
He drops and clings on the passers' heads,
And, happy as in his native leaves,
Crawls under their collars and up their sleeves,—
Or, reaching the ground with a sudden jerk,
Collects his wits and begins his work.
A singular fondness the creature shows
For measuring every step he goes;
Stretching at length, he halts and dreams,
Then brings together his two extremes,
(Like a withered tendril curled and brown,
Or a letter U turned upside down,)
Then reaching forward his length once more,
And doubling up as he did before,
He measures the fences, the ground, the wall,
Wherever he happens to swing or fall,
And seems to add up the distance sped,
And keep the reckoning in his head.
For measuring every step he goes;
Stretching at length, he halts and dreams,
Then brings together his two extremes,
(Like a withered tendril curled and brown,
Or a letter U turned upside down,)
Then reaching forward his length once more,
And doubling up as he did before,
He measures the fences, the ground, the wall,
Wherever he happens to swing or fall,
And seems to add up the distance sped,
And keep the reckoning in his head.
Think of the labor to count and count,
Add all together and keep the amount!
Think of his rage, when a footstep's fall
Startles and makes him forget it all,
And he with wearisome toil and pain,
Must measure the space all over again!
Add all together and keep the amount!
Think of his rage, when a footstep's fall
Startles and makes him forget it all,
And he with wearisome toil and pain,
Must measure the space all over again!
Most uncivil of engineers,
What do you care for tar or tears?
In every curtain of leaves you lurk,
And ply your dreadful dimension-work;
Credulous folly it is to think
Of barring your progress with printer's ink;
How shall we check, evade or flee
Your geometrical industry?
When island parties go down the bay,
You vex and trouble the happy day;
When thirst distresses or hunger mocks
The seeker of shells and scaler of rocks,
You twist and wriggle and squirm and roll
In the tempting midst of his chowder-bowl;
Happy he, if its lowest dregs
Be not made up of your skin and legs.
What do you care for tar or tears?
In every curtain of leaves you lurk,
And ply your dreadful dimension-work;
Credulous folly it is to think
Of barring your progress with printer's ink;
How shall we check, evade or flee
Your geometrical industry?
344
You vex and trouble the happy day;
When thirst distresses or hunger mocks
The seeker of shells and scaler of rocks,
You twist and wriggle and squirm and roll
In the tempting midst of his chowder-bowl;
Happy he, if its lowest dregs
Be not made up of your skin and legs.
Geometrid, perform your will;
Compass the width of the window-sill,
Crawl on the table, if you wish,
In butter-cooler and sugar-dish;
Measure the pillow-case at night,
But keep from the elms your gnawing blight;
In the words by George P. Morris sung
To the man with a hatchet, when time was young,
O worm of the genus Phalænidæ,
Inch-worm insatiate, spare that tree!
Compass the width of the window-sill,
Crawl on the table, if you wish,
In butter-cooler and sugar-dish;
Measure the pillow-case at night,
But keep from the elms your gnawing blight;
In the words by George P. Morris sung
To the man with a hatchet, when time was young,
O worm of the genus Phalænidæ,
Inch-worm insatiate, spare that tree!
345
THE CATERPILLAR.
The caterpillar gnaws his way
The mellow summer through,
And though he spoils the cabbage-plants,
And rasps the rose-buds, too,
He has some small redeeming traits,
Albeit but a few.
The mellow summer through,
And though he spoils the cabbage-plants,
And rasps the rose-buds, too,
He has some small redeeming traits,
Albeit but a few.
With numerous acquaintances,
He is not rich in friends;
No personal attractiveness
To him its glamour lends;
About the middle he is brown,
And black at both the ends.
He is not rich in friends;
No personal attractiveness
To him its glamour lends;
About the middle he is brown,
And black at both the ends.
So, though his foes, the gardeners,
May swear about his sins,
One beauty of his character
Our approbation wins,—
The virtue of consistency—
He ends as he begins!
May swear about his sins,
One beauty of his character
Our approbation wins,—
The virtue of consistency—
He ends as he begins!
Should lifted foot or hoe approach,
To crush him for his crimes,
Or should a sudden shower o-
vertake him where he climbs,
He rolls himself into a ball,
And waits for better times.
To crush him for his crimes,
Or should a sudden shower o-
vertake him where he climbs,
He rolls himself into a ball,
And waits for better times.
How fortunate, could larger lives
But learn this simple feat—
Could we achieve, when on our heads
Financial tempests beat,
The grace and skill which he displays
In making both ends meet!
But learn this simple feat—
Could we achieve, when on our heads
Financial tempests beat,
The grace and skill which he displays
In making both ends meet!
346
He wears his furs all through dog-days,
Despite the sultriness,
But when the frosty weather comes—
Strange metamorphosis!—
He throws his fuzzy coat aside,
A naked chrysalis.
Despite the sultriness,
But when the frosty weather comes—
Strange metamorphosis!—
He throws his fuzzy coat aside,
A naked chrysalis.
Because his favorite leaves have lost
Their juice and flavoring,
He leaves off eating, in a huff,
Eschewing everything—
Gives over crawling, goes to bed,
And snoozes there till spring!
Their juice and flavoring,
He leaves off eating, in a huff,
Eschewing everything—
Gives over crawling, goes to bed,
And snoozes there till spring!
When Panic fills the stoutest heart
With bodings dark and dire,
How cheap and pleasant it would be,
If we could thus retire
And pass the winter, with no need
Of food, or clothes, or fire!
With bodings dark and dire,
How cheap and pleasant it would be,
If we could thus retire
And pass the winter, with no need
Of food, or clothes, or fire!
But while he keeps his humble place
Among the creeping things,
Threatened by every passer-by
With being crushed to strings,
Do you suppose the creature dreams
About his future wings?
Among the creeping things,
Threatened by every passer-by
With being crushed to strings,
Do you suppose the creature dreams
About his future wings?
And when he spins his snug cocoon,
And bids his legs good by,
Does he make peace with all the world,
And tuck him up to die?
Or just intend to sleep awhile,
And wake a butterfly?
And bids his legs good by,
Does he make peace with all the world,
And tuck him up to die?
Or just intend to sleep awhile,
And wake a butterfly?
356
A FAMILIAR ACQUAINTANCE.
I speak without a vocal sound,
I fly without a wing;
I roam the world's wide regions round,
And visit clown and king.
I'm welcomed by the good and great;
I'm trodden in the mire;
I kindle high and wise debate,
Likewise the kitchen fire.
I fly without a wing;
I roam the world's wide regions round,
And visit clown and king.
I'm welcomed by the good and great;
I'm trodden in the mire;
I kindle high and wise debate,
Likewise the kitchen fire.
I have more heads than hydras boast,
More points than they have scales;
More letters than the gray-clad ghost
Who carries round the mails;
I hold the eye of sage and fop,
Of joy and misery,
And often, in the grocer's shop,
His dabs of starch and tea.
More points than they have scales;
More letters than the gray-clad ghost
Who carries round the mails;
I hold the eye of sage and fop,
Of joy and misery,
And often, in the grocer's shop,
His dabs of starch and tea.
357
I whisper all that may be told,
To all who will attend;
I point the path to fame and gold
As soon to foe as friend;
And often with remorseless might
I bring to beggary
The struggling and too sanguine wight
Who made and fostered me.
To all who will attend;
I point the path to fame and gold
As soon to foe as friend;
And often with remorseless might
I bring to beggary
The struggling and too sanguine wight
Who made and fostered me.
377
TOBY.
He was my fondest friend—and he is dead—
Dead in the vigorous fullness of his prime,
Lost to my seeing for all coming time;
Now, ere oblivion close above his head,
Let me look back across our mingled years,
And count how he was worth this heart-ache and these tears.
Dead in the vigorous fullness of his prime,
Lost to my seeing for all coming time;
Now, ere oblivion close above his head,
Let me look back across our mingled years,
And count how he was worth this heart-ache and these tears.
Purer devotion, steadier truth than his,
Not even the most exacting heart could crave;
Demanding little, all he had, he gave,
Nor wronged his love by doubts and jealousies,
But kept his constant faith unto the end,
Kind, loyal, trusting, brave, a true ideal friend.
Not even the most exacting heart could crave;
Demanding little, all he had, he gave,
Nor wronged his love by doubts and jealousies,
But kept his constant faith unto the end,
Kind, loyal, trusting, brave, a true ideal friend.
Envy nor prejudice he never knew,
Nor breathed a syllable of wrath or blame,
Nor wronged by hint or sneer his neighbor's fame,
Nor uttered aught unseemly or untrue;
In all his life-time there was never heard
From his unsullied lips a base or cruel word.
Nor breathed a syllable of wrath or blame,
Nor wronged by hint or sneer his neighbor's fame,
Nor uttered aught unseemly or untrue;
In all his life-time there was never heard
From his unsullied lips a base or cruel word.
He never joined the venal, sordid race
Of politicians, mad with selfish greed;
He never did a vile, uncleanly deed
By man or woman; envied no one's place,
Nor wronged a mortal of a penny's worth;
Should he not rank among the rare ones of the earth?
Of politicians, mad with selfish greed;
He never did a vile, uncleanly deed
By man or woman; envied no one's place,
Nor wronged a mortal of a penny's worth;
Should he not rank among the rare ones of the earth?
378
He never sought the revels of the gay,
Nor strayed where fatal follies spread their snare;
He loved the home-light, and the fireside chair,
When daytime's crowding cares were shut away,
And there, with all he loved in easy reach,
He talked with soft brown eyes, more eloquent than speech.
Nor strayed where fatal follies spread their snare;
He loved the home-light, and the fireside chair,
When daytime's crowding cares were shut away,
And there, with all he loved in easy reach,
He talked with soft brown eyes, more eloquent than speech.
Yet scores of wise men argue and declare
That this, my friend, was but a pinch of dust;
That his warm heart of constancy and trust
Has gone out, like a bubble in the air;
That his true soul of love and watchful care
Is quenched, extinct and lost, and is not, anywhere.
That this, my friend, was but a pinch of dust;
That his warm heart of constancy and trust
Has gone out, like a bubble in the air;
That his true soul of love and watchful care
Is quenched, extinct and lost, and is not, anywhere.
“He had no soul,” they say. What was his power
Of love, remembrance, gratitude and faith?
Do these not triumph over time and death,
And far outlast our life-time's little hour?
Affection, changeless though long cycles roll,
Integrity and trust,—do these not make the soul?
Of love, remembrance, gratitude and faith?
Do these not triumph over time and death,
And far outlast our life-time's little hour?
Affection, changeless though long cycles roll,
Integrity and trust,—do these not make the soul?
If these high attributes in sinful men
Make up the sum of immortality,
Outlive all life and time, and land and sea,
Unfading, deathless,—wherefore is it then,
They are contemned by church and synagogue,
When they inspire and warm the bosom of a dog?
Make up the sum of immortality,
Outlive all life and time, and land and sea,
Unfading, deathless,—wherefore is it then,
They are contemned by church and synagogue,
When they inspire and warm the bosom of a dog?
If baser spirits last, can it be true,
That his dissolved to nothing when he died?
Wherever love lives, must not his abide?
Where faith dwells, shall his faith not enter too?
True hearts are few, and heaven is not so small,
O fond and faithful friend, but it can hold them all!
That his dissolved to nothing when he died?
Wherever love lives, must not his abide?
Where faith dwells, shall his faith not enter too?
True hearts are few, and heaven is not so small,
O fond and faithful friend, but it can hold them all!
379
I have lost many a friend, but never one
So patient, steadfast, and sincere as he,
So unforgetful in his constancy;
Ah, when at last my long day's work is done,
Shall I not find him waiting as of yore,
Eager, expectant, glad, to meet me at the door?
So patient, steadfast, and sincere as he,
So unforgetful in his constancy;
Ah, when at last my long day's work is done,
Shall I not find him waiting as of yore,
Eager, expectant, glad, to meet me at the door?
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