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13

AFTER THE FUNERAL.

Never any more,
Till my broken dream of life
Is swallowed up in death,
Shall I look upon my wife.
I prayed that she might live,
But my prayers could not save;
For here I am, alone,
And she is in the grave!
It seems an age to me
Since I saw the coffin there;
The lid was off, and lo,
A face within the square,—
A pale but happy face,—
Sweet lips without a breath;
How beautiful if Sleep,
How terrible if Death!
14

I lifted up the child,
In her little mourning gown;
But she turned away her eyes
Until I put her down.
They took the coffin out
In the blinding light of day;
The black hearse moved on,
And the coaches crept away!
We stood around the grave
While the hollow prayers were said,
And the heavy, wet earth
Was shovelled on the dead;
As it struck the coffin-lid
With a dull and dreadful sound,
It seemed to strike my heart,—
They led me from the ground.
But all is over now,
And it almost soothes my pain
To think, whatever comes,
She cannot die again!
15

The blow has fallen,—I know
The worst that death can give:
The worst of life 's to come,
For I must learn to live!
What must I do to live?
I will play my part,—
Ply my subtle brain,
Forget my stricken heart;
Go again on 'Change,
Buy, and sell, and scheme;
Fit my ships for sea,—
Anything but dream!
I know the day will pass,
In the stir and light;
But how can I endure
The coming home at night?
No watching at the pane,
No meeting at the door,
No loving, wifely kiss,—
No Alice any more!
42

THE LITTLE DRUMMER.

'T is of a little drummer
The story I shall tell,
Of how he marched to battle,
And all that there befell;
Out in the West with Lyon
(For once that name was true),
For whom the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too.
Our army rose at midnight,
Ten thousand men as one,
Each slinging on his knapsack
And snatching up his gun;
43

“Forward!” and off they started;
As all good soldiers do,
When the little drummer beats for them
The rat-tat-too.
Across a rolling country,
Where the mist began to rise;
Past many a blackened farm-house,
Till the sun was in the skies;
Then we met the rebel pickets,
Who skirmished and withdrew,
While the little drummer beat and beat
The rat-tat-too.
Along the wooded hollows
The line of battle ran.
Our centre poured a volley,
And the fight at once began;
For the rebels answered, shouting,
And a shower of bullets flew;
But still the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too.
44

He stood among his comrades,
As they quickly formed the line,
And when they raised their muskets
He watched the barrels shine.
When the volley broke, he started,
For war to him was new;
But still the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too.
It was a sight to see them,
That early autumn day,—
Our soldiers in their blue coats,
And the rebel ranks in gray;
The smoke that rolled between them,
The balls that whistled through,
And the little drummer as he beat
His rat-tat-too.
His comrades dropped around him,—
By fives and tens they fell;
Some pierced by Minie bullets,
Some torn by shot and shell.
45

They played against our cannon,
And a caisson's splinters flew;
But still the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too.
The right, the left, the centre,—
The fight was everywhere;
They pushed us here,—we wavered;
We drove and broke them there.
The gray-backs fixed their bayonets
And charged the coats of blue,
But still the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too.
“Where is our little drummer?”
His nearest comrades say,
When the dreadful fight is over,
And the smoke is cleared away.
As the rebel corps was scattering
He urged them to pursue,—
So furiously he beat and beat
The rat-tat-too.
46

He stood no more among them;
A bullet, as it sped,
Had glanced and struck his ankle,
And stretched him with the dead.
He crawled behind a cannon,
And pale and paler grew;
But still the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too.
They bore him to the surgeon,
A busy man was he.
“A drummer-boy, what ails him?”
His comrades answered, “See!”
As they took him from the stretcher
A heavy breath he drew,
And his little fingers strove to beat
The rat-tat-too.
The ball had spent its fury;
“A scratch,” the surgeon said,
As he wound the snowy bandage
Which the lint was staining red!
47

“I must leave you now, old fellow!”
“O, take me back with you,
For I know the men are missing me,
And the rat-tat-too!”
Upon his comrade's shoulder
They lifted him so grand,
With his dusty drum before him
And his drum-sticks in his hand!
To the fiery front of battle,
That nearer, nearer drew,
And evermore he beat and beat
His rat-tat-too.
The wounded, as he passed them,
Looked up and gave a cheer;
And one in dying blessed him,
Between a smile and tear!
And the gray-backs—they are flying
Before the coats of blue,
For whom the little drummer beats
His rat-tat-too.
48

When the west was red with sunset,
The last pursuit was o'er;
Brave Lyon rode the foremost,
And looked the name he bore!
And before him, on his saddle,
As a weary child would do,
Sat the little drummer fast asleep,
With his rat-tat-too.

WHEN THIS OLD FLAG WAS NEW.

When this old flag was new,
The manners and the men
That are so petty now,
Methinks, were better then.
The straits that we were in,
The work there was to do,
All hearts and hands made strong,
When this old flag was new.
49

Five long, long years we fought
Against the British Crown;
For George the Third would put
His rebel subjects down.
Many were our defeats,
Our victories were few,
And yet we lost not hope,
When this old flag was new.
Its hour of triumph came.
'T was ninety years ago,
When out of Yorktown marched,
With solemn step and slow,
The beaten English host,
That cursed, yet dreaded, too,
The sight they saw that day,
When this old flag was new.
Along the dusty road,
Drawn up in bright array,
They saw the gallant French,
Whose bands began to play;
50

They saw the Yankee troops,
A ragged, motley crew,
Vho looked the men they were
When this old flag was new.
Through these, with shouldered arms
And colors cased, they went;
Low beat their drums the while,
But loud their discontent;
Sullenly on the ground
Their captured guns they threw,
Thinking of England's flag,
When this old flag was new.
The long war left us poor,
But left us strong and free,
What we determined best
Thenceforth to do and be;
To mould the State at will,
Make laws, and break them too,
No master but ourselves,
When this old flag was new.
51

A brave old race they were
Who peopled then the land,
No man of them ashamed
To show his horny hand;
Hands that had grasped the sword
Now drew the furrow true;
For honored was the plough
When this old flag was new.
The farmer tilled the ground
His father tilled before;
If it supplied his wants,
He asked for nothing more.
Thankful for what he had,
On Sunday, in his pew,
He sang a hymn of praise,
When this old flag was new.
He wore a homespun suit
His wife and daughters made;
'T was dyed with butternuts,
And, likely, old and frayed;
52

They dressed in calicoes,
And looked right pretty, too;
Women, not clothes, were loved
When this old flag was new.
Men married women then,
Who kept their healthful bloom
By working at the churn
And at the wheel and loom;
Who could their stockings knit,
And darn, and bake, and brew;
A housewife in each house,
When this old flag was new.
And women married men
Who did not shrink from toil,
But wrung with sweat their bread
From out the stubborn soil;
Whose axes felled the wood,
And where so late it grew
Did straightway build their homes,
When this old flag was new.
53

The school-house and the church
Were raised the selfsame day;
For who would learn to read
Should learn, they thought, to pray.
They read the Bible then,
And all believed it true;
For they were simple folk,
When this old flag was new.
They lived their homely lives
The plain, old-fashioned way;
Thanksgiving once a year,
And general Muster-day;
Town meeting in the spring,—
Their holidays were few
And very gravely kept,
When this old flag was new.
A hardy, patient race,
Their growth was sure, if slow;
Happy in this, they had
A world wherein to grow,
54

Where kings and priests were not,
Nor peoples to subdue;
A Continent their own,
When this old flag was new.
From where their hearth-fires burned,
And where their dead were laid,
Through woods till then untrod,
That slept in endless shade,
Up mighty streams and lakes,
By many a still bayou,
North, south, they drove their way,
When this old flag was new.
The forests of the North,
Dense, dark with pines, knew well
Beneath whose sturdy blows
Their grand old monarchs fell;
Before whose deadly shots
The wild deer, crashing, flew,
And the great, frightened moose,
When this old flag was new.
55

The swollen floods of March
Brought down, with thundering spray,
Great logs, that choked the streams,
From clearings far away;
Day after day long rafts,
Each with its stalwart crew,
Like islands came and went,
When this old flag was new.
And all along their way
Huge saw-mills drew them in,
With grating iron teeth
That made a ceaseless din;
And keels were laid, which soon
To goodly vessels grew;
The Forest sought the Sea
When this old flag was new.
Southward, with steady sails,
Along our rugged shore,
Around the dangerous capes
Where stormy billows roar;
56

Beyond the coral reefs,
To waters calm and blue,
Where shone no flag so proud,
When this old flag was new.
Among the summer isles
That stud the Spanish Main,
Where bloom the orange-groves,
And grows the sugar-cane,
Where Santa Cruz is made,
And other spirits, too,—
The rum our fathers drank,
When this old flag was new.
And northward to the Banks,
Where through the mists they drift,
And thin the schools of cod;
And where the icebergs lift
Their glittering, dreadful peaks,
The polar whale pursue:
No sailors were so bold
When this old flag was new.
57

And westward evermore,
As if they fled the sea,
Whose waves their brothers ploughed,
Whose islands held in fee
The farmers of the North,
Whose harvests scantier grew,
Went pushing through the woods,
When this old flag was new.
Beside the slow ox-carts,
Which held their household stuff,
Whereon the children sat
When the long roads were rough,
With muskets in their hands,
And pluck to use them, too,
They plodded on and on,
When this old flag was new.
Some broad, bright river's bank
Became their dwelling-place;
They built a house of logs,
And cleared the woods apace;
58

Planted a patch with corn,
Which soon the sun and dew
Matured in plenteous crops,
When this old flag was new.
And westward, westward still,
They pushed the forests back;
And where they went the flag
Did follow on their track;
For only where it waved,
When near the Indian drew,
Was man or woman safe,
When this old flag was new.
Its stripes of rising day,
Its clustering stars of night,—
They saw them burn afar,
And blessed their growing light;
For lo! as years went by,
Within its sky of blue
Star after star arose,
When this old flag was new!
59

Hail to the brave old flag!
Wherever it has flown
The State has gone before
And made its greatness known;
It found us torn with war,
It found us weak and few,—
We even had a king
When this old flag was new!
God bless the dear old flag!
The nation's hope and pride,
For which our fathers fought,
For which our children died;
And, long as there shall beat
A heart to freedom true,
Preserve the rights we won
When this old flag was new!
60

A NEW CHRISTMAS CAROL.

I.

I walked the streets on Christmas eve,
Between the darkness and the light;
It was a dull and lonesome night,
The very houses seemed to grieve!
“Two thousand years ago,” I said,
“A Child was born at dead of night;
No monarch saw the beauteous sight,
The Child was born where beasts were fed.
“No purple robe inwrapped his limbs,
He was but lapped in swaddling-bands;
No trump was blown about the lands,
Only the angels sang their hymns.
“A single star, a torch of light,
Guided the wise men to the spot;
Few saw the light, and soon forgot
The wandering meteor of the night.
61

“This little Child, so meanly born,
Was Prince, was King, was King of kings,
The Lord of all created things,
Who came to men, a man forlorn!
“‘Good-will on earth, and peace to men,’
His angels sung: he taught the same.
‘Good-will and peace,’—what better claim
To be a God was needed then?
“‘Good-will and peace!’ the godlike words
Are now the jargon of the day:
We mouth them when we preach and pray,
And when we whet our battle swords!”

II.

My thoughts grew sad, and bitter too;
For while I walked the dreary town
The deepening night came darker down,
The moon was hid, and stars were few.
The cold winds blew, and round and round
The sear leaves eddied; trees were bare;
And men moved slowly here and there,
Trailing their shadows on the ground.
62

“Behold!” I sneered, “the world without,
An emblem of the world within:
The darkness is the night of sin,
And we the fools who grope about.
“How royally we keep his birth,
Who came to-night to save mankind!
Without, dead leaves and frosty wind;
Within, the cold, unlighted hearth.
“It was not thus in days of yore;
In brave and merry England's prime,
Our fathers kept the Christmas time,
The merry Yule that is no more.
“The walls of hall and hut were hung
With ivy and with holly boughs;
And minstrels went from house to house,
And all night long their carols sung.
“The jolly dancers shook the floor
With country reels, which fiddlers played,
And many a little man and maid
At blind-man's-buff and battledoor.
63

“Peopled the corners with delight;
The old folks sat at fox-and-goose,
And let their tongues and fancies loose
In tales of lords and ladies bright.
“And then the world of solid cheer
In meats and drinks, for rich and poor;—
The meanest kept an open door,
For Christmas came but once a year.
“Turkeys and capons roasted brown,
Dishes of brawn, boar's heads, and, chief,
The never-failing loin of beef,
With jugs of ale to wash it down.
“They feast until the tapers shine,
And day is dead, and curfews toll;
At last they take the wassail-bowl,
And drain the spiced and sugared wine!
“The merry Christmas days are past,
The antique plenty is no more;
We feast alone, we bar the door,
We make our blinds and windows fast.
64

“This very night, when Christ was born,
And when, if ever, men should be
Touched with the sweetest sympathy
For all the needy and forlorn,
“The streets are full of want and woe,
Of hollow cheeks and haggard eyes;
Even now, perchance, some beggar dies
Of famine, in the falling snow!”

III.

The stars were gone, the sky was low,
The roof of night had settled down;
It crushed the melancholy town
Until it crumbled into snow.
I drew my cloak about my breast,
And plodded on, I knew not where,
In sickly sorrow and despair,
Breathing a silent prayer for rest.
I thought of all my bygone years,
Of what I was, and might have been;
The calm without, the strife within
Until my eyes were dim with tears.
65

“'T is not for me,” I said, “to sneer
At others for the sins I see;
My own should hush and humble me,—
Behold! the sinner, Lord, is here!
“I have no mission to mankind;
It tasks the wisest and the best
To rule the world within his breast,
The wayward heart, the wandering mind.
“God rules the world, and moulds at will
Its tribes of men, and moulds to good;
The evil Past, when understood,
Is good, the Present better still.”

IV.

My heart grew lighter as the night
Wore on; the winds had ceased to blow,
The withered leaves were laid in snow,
And all the long dark streets were white.
I saw the young, I saw the fair,
Where window squares were touched with flame;
66

Through opening doors their laughter came,
And mellow music charmed the air.
“The past,” I said, “is dead and cold,
And better so; 't is wrong to grieve;
I would not change this Christmas eve
For all the merry Yules of old.
“The Yule log and the wassail-bowl,
The mistletoe, may pass away;
We keep a better holiday,
The perfect Christmas of the soul!
“I celebrate thy birth to-night,
Here in the darkness and the snow,
And thou art with me as I go,
Dear Christ! a presence and a light.
“Thy mission was a double one,
For God, and man; with thee began
The law of God, the law of man,
The sovereign Will that will be done.
“Before thou cam'st the world was blind,
For what was false, or what was true,
67

They did but guess, they never knew;
Thou wert the Saviour of mankind.
“Thou wert the truth ordained above
To slay the falsehoods of the past,
The fraud of priests, the crime of caste,
And usher in the reign of love.
“The rights of man began with thee,
Incarnate Love! For where love reigns
Farewell to servitude and chains;
The law of Christ is liberty.
“And Liberty her dwelling-place
Hath made with us; and I can see
The vast Republics yet to be,
The freedom of the human race!”
The stars were out, the moon was bright,
For now the sky was clear of snow;
No cloud above, no stain below,
It was a pure and blessed night.
The quiet of the earth and skies
Had settled on my troubled heart;
I seemed to walk with Christ apart,
I walked the streets of Paradise!
95

MARE VICTUM.

I.

What would they think of this, the men of old,
Against whose little world its waters rolled,
Immeasurable, pitiless as Fate,
A thing to fear and hate?
Age after age they saw it flow, and flow,
Lifting the weeds, and laying bare the sands;
Whence did it come, and whither did it go?
To what far isles, what undiscovered lands?
96

Who knoweth? None can say, for none has crossed
That unknown sea; no sail has ventured there,
Save what the storms have driven, and those are lost,
And none have come—from where?
Beyond the straits where those great pillars stand
Of Hercules, there is no solid land;
Only the fabled Islands of the Blest,
That slumber somewhere in the golden West;
The Fortunate Isles, where falls no winter snow,
But where the palm-trees wave in endless spring,
And the birds sing,
And balmy west winds blow!
Beyond this bright Elysium all is sea;
A plain of foam that stretches on and on,
Beyond the clouds, beyond the setting sun,
Endless and desolate as Eternity!
At last, from out the wild and stormy north—
Or is it but a dream?—a bark puts forth
Into that unknown sea. It nears me now;
I see its flapping sails, its dragon prow,
97

Its daring men; I know the arms they bear;
I know those shaggy Jarls with lengths of yellow hair!
They go and come no more.
Still lies the sea as awful as before!
Who shall explore its bounds, if bounds there be?
Who shall make known to Man the secret of the Sea?
The Genoese! His little fleet departs,
Steered by the prospering pilot of the wind.
The sailors crowd the stern with troubled hearts,
Watching their homes that slowly drop behind;
His looms before, for by the prow he stands,
And sees in his rapt thoughts the undiscovered lands!
All day they sail; the sun goes down at night
Below the waves, and land is still afar;
The sluggish sailors sleep, but see, his light
As steady as a star!
He pores upon his chart with sleepless eyes,
Till day returns and walks the gloomy skies.
98

In vain the sullen sailors climb the shrouds,
And strain their eyes upon the giddy mast;
They see the sky, the sun, the anchored clouds—
The only Land is passed!
Day follows day, night, night; and sea and sky
Still yawn beyond, and fear to fear succeeds.
At last a knot of weeds goes drifting by,
And then a sea of weeds!
The winds are faint with spice, the skies are bland
And filled with singing birds, and some alight,
And cheer the sailors with their news of land,
Until they fly at night.
At last they see a light!
The keen-eyed Admiral sees it from his bark,
A little dancing flame that flickers through the dark!
They bed their rusty anchors in the sand,
And all night long they lie before the land,
And watch and pray for day!
When morning lifts the mist, a league away,
99

Like some long cloud on Ocean's glittering floor,
It takes the rising sun—a wooded shore,
With many a glassy bay!
The first great footstep in that new-found world
Is his, who plucked it from the greedy main,
And his the earliest kiss, the holiest prayer;
He draws his sword, his standard is unfurled,
And while it lifts its wedded crowns in air
He plants the cross, and gives his world to Heaven and Spain!
His silver furrow faded in the sea,
But thousands followed to the lands he won:
They grew as native to the waves, as free
As sea-birds in the sun!
Their white sails glanced in every bay and stream!
They climbed the hills, they tracked the pathless woods,
And towns and cities o'er the solitudes
Rose, as in a dream!
The happy Worlds exchanged their riches then;
The New sent forth her tributes to the Old,
100

In galleons full of gold,
And she repaid with men!
Thus did the grand old sailor wrest the key
From Nature's grasp, unlocking all the Past,
And thus was won at last
A victory o'er the sea!

II.

The victory of To-day
Completes what he began,
Along the dark and barren watery way,
And in the Mind of Man!
He did but find a world of land, but we
What worlds of thought in land, and air, and sea!
Beside our ships, whose masts o'ertop the trees
On windy hills, whose hulls are palaces,
His crazy caravels
Were little seashore shells!
His weary months of wandering seem a dream;
For, sped by our broad sails and flashing wheels
101

We shorten the long leagues with sliding keels,
And turn the months to days, and make the sea a stream!
The worlds are nearer now, but still too far;
They must be nearer still! To Saxon men,
Who dare to think, and use the tongue or pen,
What can be long a bar?
We rob the Lightning of its deadly fires,
And make it bear our words along the wires
That run from land to land. Why should we be
Divided by the Sea?
It shall no longer be! A chain shall run
Below the stormy waves, and bind the worlds in one!
Across the under-world of rocks and sands,
Across the buried lands;
Through wastes of seaweed, tangled in their slime;
Through forests, vaster than the land has known;
And over chasms where earthquakes were o'erthrown
Before the Birth of Time!
102

'Tis done!
The Worlds are One!
And lo! the chain that binds them binds the Race
That dwells on either shore;
By Space and Time no more
Divided, for to-day there is no Time or Space!
We speak,—the Lightnings flee,
Flashing the Thoughts of Man across the Conquered Sea!

III.

Ring, jubilant bells! ring out a merry chime
From every tower and steeple in the land,
Triumphant music for the march of Time,
The better days at hand!
And you, ye cannon, through your iron lips,
That guard the dubious peace of warlike Powers,
Thunder abroad this victory of ours
From all your forts and ships!
We need your noisy voices to proclaim
The Nation's joy to-day from shore to shore;
103

The grim protection of your deathful flame
We hope to need no more;
For, save our English brothers, who dare be
Our foes, or rivals, on the land or sea?
Nor dare We fight again, as in the Past;
For, now that We are One, contention ends;
We are, We must be friends;
This victory is the last!
142

TWILIGHT ON SUMTER.

(August 24, 1863.)

Still and dark along the sea
Sumter lay:
A light was overhead,
As from burning cities shed,
And the clouds were battle-red,
Far away.
143

Not a solitary gun
Left to tell the fort had won,
Or lost the day!
Nothing but the tattered rag
Of the drooping Rebel flag,
And the sea-birds screaming round it in their play.
How it woke one April morn,
Fame shall tell;
As from Moultrie, close at hand,
And the batteries on the land,
Round its faint but fearless band
Shot and shell
Raining hid the doubtful light;
But they fought the hopeless fight
Long and well,
(Theirs the glory, ours the shame!)
Till the walls were wrapt in flame,
Then their flag was proudly struck, and Sumter fell!
Now—O look at Sumter now,
In the gloom!
Mark its scarred and shattered walls,
144

(Hark! the ruined rampart falls!)
There 's a justice that appalls
In its doom;
For this blasted spot of earth
Where Rebellion had its birth
Is its tomb!
And when Sumter sinks at last
From the heavens, that shrink aghast,
Hell shall rise in grim derision and make room!

A CHRISTMAS HYMN FOR AMERICA.

Not as of old we keep the day
Whereon the Prince of Peace was born,
Whose kingdom comes not! Let us pray
It comes this holy morn:
Let us begin it; make our brawlings cease,
And kill the hate that lurks behind the mask of Peace!
145

Men of the South, if you recall
The fields your valor won in vain,
Unchecked the manly tears may fall
Above your heroes slain!
Weep! but remember we had heroes too,
As sadly dear to us as yours can be to you!
Men of the North, whose sons and sires,
Victorious in a hundred fights,
Gather no more about your fires
In the long winter nights;
If some you loved are missing here and there,
No household at the South but mourns its vacant chair!
By all the blood that has been shed,
And will be till contentions cease,
Bury your anger with the dead,
And be again at peace!
So, with your muskets rusting on the wall,
Your State shall be secure when greatest empires fall!
160

LOVE THY NEIGHBOR.

“‘Love thy neighbor as thyself.’
When at dawn I meet her,
As by the garden wall she stands,
And gives me flowers across the wall,
My heart goes out to kiss her hands,—
Are hands or flowers the sweeter?—
I'm ready at her feet to fall,
And like a clown to labor!
Better than I love myself
Do I love my neighbor!”
“‘Love thy neighbor as thyself.’
When at dawn I meet him,
As by the garden wall he stands,
And takes my flowers across the wall,
My soul 's already in his hands,—
It flew so fast to greet him!
And O, I grow so proud and tall,
And my heart beats like a tabor!
Better than I love myself
Do I love my neighbor!”
161

WHAT'S MY LOVE LIKE?

Tell me, what's my love like?
A lily of the May,
That does not shun the kissing sun,
Yet keeps its dew all day?
Yes, and no;
Fond is she, and coy is she,
But—whisper low—
She is more than this to me,
So, no lily shall she be.
But tell me, what 's my love like?
A little, cooing dove,
Who feels your breast her safest nest,—
A thing of fear and love?
Yes, and no;
Timid she, and tender she,
But—whisper low—
She is more than this to me,
So, no dove my love shall be.
162

O tell me, what 's my love like?
Perhaps a pearl of girls,
For whose sweet face the king would place
His crown upon her curls?
Yes, and no;
Worthy of a king is she,
But—whisper low—
She is more, and is for me,
So, no queen my dear will be.
172

A BEGGAR SONG.

I am a ragged beggar
My heart is bold and light;
I live upon the highway,
And sleep in barns at night.
I eat behind the hedges
My scraps of bread and meat,
And drink, when very thirsty,
The water at my feet.
But, money in my pocket,
And none to tell the tale,
I hie me to the alehouse,
And drink my fill of ale!
I frown upon the tapsters,
I laugh and shout and sing;
For, give a beggar money,
He 's mighty as a king!
173

[I am dreary and gray]

I am dreary and gray,
And my thoughts fly away,
Like a long flight of cranes,
In a dark autumn day!
They may go till they find
The warm sunshine and wind,
But the autumn remains,
And my darkness of mind!
176

[What shall I do to live aright?]

What shall I do to live aright?
My life is wrong, I feel it so;
I bear about a muffled woe,
I perish with a nameless blight.
When I was young I suffered more,
But I was happier, wiser then;
I lived my life like other men,
I bore the burdens that they bore.
There was a sweetness then in tears,
There was a bitterness in pain;
Nor sweet nor bitter now remain,
They perished with my early years.
I lived, I knew not how; but now
I know too well the way I live;
But what does all my knowledge give?
A hollow heart, an aching brow.
This is my sorrow day and night,
The secret of my troubled song,
“My life is wrong! My life is wrong;
What shall I do to make it right?”
187

[“Come unto these yellow sands”]

“Come unto these yellow sands,”
Not to sing a fairy song,
As when summer nights are sweet,
Keeping time with flying feet;
But to wring your hands,
Now the nights are long,
And the winds of winter blow,
Whirling round the drifts of snow,
Over him who lies below,
Buried (God have mercy!) in the yellow sands.
196

[This book of dirges, if it]

This book of dirges, if it
True to the hue of grief in me,
To what I am, my son, for thee,
Will be an endless stretch of plain,
Swept by the dreary autumn rain,
And winds that sob, like souls in pain!
No light, a blind sky overhead,
And everywhere a sense of dread:
For such my heart is,—broken, dead!
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