Turned on itself and drenched the two--
A hapless circumstance
That lengthened out her "frizzes" new,
But shrunk his Sunday pants.
Remember this was years agone--
The madcap now hath sober grown
And hose is better wrought,
And neither now would run alone
The risk of being caught.
On the Common.
We met on "Boston Common"--
Of course it was by chance--
A sudden, unexpected,
But happy circumstance
That gave the dull October day
A beautiful, refulgent ray.
Like wandering refugees from
A city of renown,
Impelled to reconnoiter
This Massachusetts town,
Each by a common object urged,
Upon the park our paths converged.
Good nature, bubbling over
In healthy, hearty laughs,
And little lavish speeches
Like pleasant paragraphs,
The kind regard, unstudied joke,
His true felicity bespoke.
A bit of doleful knowledge
Confided unto me,
About the way the doctors--
Who never could agree--
His knees had tortured, softly drew
My sympathy and humor, too.
I hoped he wouldn't lose them,
And languish in the dumps
By having to quadrille on
A pair of polished stumps--
But a corky limb, though one might dread,
Isn't half as bad as a wooden head.
He censured those empirics
Who never heal an ill,
Though bound by their diplomas
To either cure or kill,
Who should, with ignominy crowned,
Their patients follow--under ground.
I left him at the foot of
"The Soldiers' Monument,"
With incoherent mutterings--
As though 'twere his intent
To turn the sod, a rod or two,
And sleep beside the "boys in blue."
In Hartford's charming circles
His bonhommie I miss,
And having never seen him
From that day unto this,
I think of him with much regret
As lying--with the soldiers--yet.
Woman's Help.
Sometimes I long to write an ode
And magnify his name,
The man of honor, on the road
To opulence and fame,
On whom was never aid bestowed
By any helpful dame.
To all the world I fain would show
That talent widely known,
Rare eloquence, of burning glow
To melt a heart of stone,
That all his gifts, a dazzling row,
Are his, and his alone.
But him, of character and mind
Superb, alert, and strong,
I never study but to find
The subject of my song,
Some paragon of womankind,
Has helped him all along.
He may not know, he may not guess,
How much to her he owes,
How every scion of success
That in his nature grows,
Developed by her watchfulness,
Becomes a blooming rose.
From buffetings in humble place,
And labors ill begun,
To proud achievement in the race
And laurels grandly won,
His trials all she dares to face
As friend and champion.
The bars that hinder his advance
And half obscure the goal,
The stubborn bond of circumstance
That irritates his soul,
The countershafts of arrogance,
All yield to her control.
He builds a tower--she below
Is handing up the bricks;
His light is brilliant just as though
Her hand had trimmed the wicks;
He prays for daily bread--the dough
A woman deigns to mix.
Tobogganing.
Oh, the rare exhilaration,
Oh, the novel delectation
Of a ride down the slide!
Packed like ice in zero weather,
Pleasure-seekers close together,
On a board as thin as wafer,
Barely wider, scarcely safer,
At the height of recreation
Find a glorious inspiration,
Ere the speedy termination
In the snowy meadow wide,
Sloping to the river's side.
Oh, such quakers we begin it,
Timorous of the icy route!
But to learn in half a minute
What felicity is in it,
As we shoot down the chute,
Smothered in toboggan suit,
Redingote or roquelaure,
Buttoned up (and down) before,
Mittens, cap, and moccasin,
Just the garb to revel in;
So, the signal given, lo!
Over solid ice and snow,
Down the narrow gauge we go
Swifter than a bird o'erhead,
Swifter than an arrow sped
From the staunchest, strongest bow.
Oh, it beats all "Copenhagen,"
Silly lovers' paradise!
Like the frozen Androscoggin,
Slippery, and smooth, and nice,
Is the track of the toboggan;
And there's nothing cheap about it,
Everything is steep about it,
The insolvent weep about it,
For the biggest thing on ice
Is its tip-top price;
But were this three times the money,
Then the game were thrice as funny.
Ye who dwell in latitudes
Where "the blizzard" ne'er intrudes,
And the water seldom freezes;
Ye of balmy Southern regions,
Alabama's languid legions,
From the "hot blast" of your breezes,
Where the verdure of the trees is
Limp, and loose, and pitiful,
Come up here where branches bare
Stand like spikes in frosty air;
Come up here where arctic rigor
Shall restore your bloom and vigor,
Making life enjoyable;
Come and take a jog on
The unparalleled toboggan!
Such the zest that he who misses
Never knows what perfect bliss is.
So the sport, the day's sensation,
Thrills and recreates creation.
The Woods.
I love the woods when the magic hand
Of Spring, as if sweeping the keys
Of a wornout instrument, touches the earth;
When beauty and song in the gladness of birth
Awaken the heart of the desolate land,
And carol its rapture to every breeze.
In summer's still solstice my steps are drawn
To the shade of the forest trees;
To revel with Pan in his secret haunts,
To pipe mazourkas while satyrs dance,
Or lull to soft slumber some favorite faun
And fascinate strange wild birds and bees.
I love the woods when autumnal fires
Are kindled on every hill;
When dead leaves rustle in grove and field,
And trees are known by the fruits they yield,
And the wild grapes, sweetened by frost, inspire
A mildly-desperate, bibulous thrill.
There's a joy for which I would fling to the air
My petty portion of wealth and fame,
In tracking the rabbit o'er fresh-fallen snow,
The ways of the 'coon and opossum to know,
To capture squirrels when branches are bare
As the cupboard shelf of that ancient dame.
Oh, I long to explore the woods again
In my own aboriginal way,
As before I knew how culture could frown
On a hoydenish gait and a homespun gown
Or dreamed that the strata of proud "upper-ten"
Would smile at rusticity's _naïveté_.
I sigh for the pleasures of long ago
In youth's sweet halcyon time;
When better beloved than the thoroughfare
By multitudes trod were the woodlands, where
Was never a path that I did not know,
Nor thrifty sapling I dared not climb.
Alas for lost freedom! Alas for me!
For oh, Society's lip would curl,
Propriety's self with scornful eye
And gilt-edged Fashion would pass me by
To know that sometimes I'm dying to be
The romp, the rover, the same old girl.
Like Summer.
November? 'tis a summer's day!
For tropic airs are blowing
As soft as whispered roundelay
From unseen lips that seem to say
To feathered songsters going
To sunnier, southern climes afar,
"Stay where you are--stay where you are!"
And other tokens glad as these
Declare that Summer lingers:
Round latent buds still hum the bees,
Slow fades the green from forest trees
Ere Autumn's artist fingers
Have touched the landscape, and instead
Brought out the amber, brown, and red.
The invalid may yet enjoy
His favorite recreation,
Gay, romping girl, unfettered boy
In outdoor sports the time employ,
And happy consummation
Of prudent plans the farmer know
Ere wintry breezes round him blow.
And they by poverty controlled--
Good fortune shall betide them
As scenes of beauty they behold,
And seem to revel in the gold
Which Plutus has denied them;
For, ah! the poor from want's despair
Oft covet wealth they never share.
Sheridan's Last Ride.
While Phoebus lent his hottest rays
To signalize midsummer days,
I stood in that far-famed enclosure
By thousands visited,
Where, in the stillness of reposure,
Are grouped battalions dead.
Where, round each simple burial stone,
The grass for decades twain has grown,
Protecting them in dreamless slumber
Who perished long ago,
The multitudes defying number,
A part of war's tableau.
Along the winding avenue
A vast procession came in view;
The mourners' slow, advancing column
With reverent step drew near,
The "Dead March" playing, sad and solemn,
Above a soldier's bier.
There were the colonels, brigadiers,
Comrades in arms of other years,
Civilians, true and loyal-hearted
To him their bravest man,
Who seemed to say to those departed,
"Make room for Sheridan!"
Anon, beside the new-made mound,
The warworn veterans gathered round,
And spake of Lyon and of Lander,
And others ranked as high,
Recalling each his old commander,
One not afraid to die.
Thus, silent tenants one by one
Are crowding in at Arlington;
Thus Sheridan, the horseman daring,
Has joined the honored corps
Of those, their true insignia wearing,
Who battle nevermore.
Potomac's wave shall placid flow,
And sing his requiem soft and low,
His terrace grave be sweet with clover,
And daisies star his bed,
For Sheridan's last ride is over--
The General is dead!
A Bit of Gladness.
As I near my lonely cottage,
At the close of weary day,
There's a little bit of gladness
Comes to meet me on the way:
Dimpled, tanned, and petticoated,
Innocent as angels are,
Like a smiling, straying sunbeam
Is my Stella--like a star.
Soon a hand of tissue-softness
Slips confidingly in mine,
And with tender look appealing
Eyes of beauty sweetly shine;
Like a gentle shepherd guiding
Some lost lamb unto the fold,
So she leads me homeward, prattling
Till her stories are all told.
"Papa, I'm so glad to see you--
Cousin Mabel came today--
And the gas-man brought a letter
That he said you'd better pay--
Yes, and _awful_ things is happened:
My poor kitty's drowned to death--
Mamma's got the 'Pigs in Clover'--"
Here she stops for want of breath.
I am like the bold knight-errant,
From his castle who would roam,
Trusting her, my faithful steward,
For a strict account of home;
And each day I toil, and hazard
All that any man may dare,
For a resting-place at even,
And the love that waits me there.
And sometimes I look with pity
On my neighbor's mansion tall:
There are chambers full of pictures,
There are marbles in the hall,
Yet with all the signs of splendor
That may gild a pile of stone,
Not a living thing about it
But the owner, grim and lone.
I believe that all his millions
He would give without repine
For a little bit of gladness
In his life, like that in mine;
This it is that makes my pathway
Beautiful, wherever trod,
Keeps my soul from wreck and ruin,
Keeps me nearer to my God.
The Charity Ball.
There was many a token of festal display,
And reveling crowds who were never so gay,
And, as it were Æolus charming the hours,
An orchestra hidden by foliage and flowers;
There were tapestries fit for the home of a queen,
And mirrors that glistened in wonderful sheen;
There was feasting and mirth in the banqueting-hall,
For this was the annual Charity Ball.
There were pompous civilians, in wealth who abide,
Displaying their purses, the source of their pride;
And plethoric dealers in margins and stocks,
And owners of acres of elegant blocks,
And tenement-landlords who cling to a cent
When from the poor widow exacting her rent--
Immovable, stern, as an adamant wall--
And yet, who "came down" to this Charity Ball.
There was Beauty whose toilet, superb and unique,
Cost underpaid industry many a week
Of arduous labor of eye, and heartache,
Its starving inadequate pittance to make;
There were mischievous maidens and cavaliers bold,
Whose blushes and glances and coquetry told
A tale of the monarch who held them in thrall--
Who met, as by chance, at the Charity Ball.
There were delicate viands the poor never taste,
And dollars were lavished in prodigal waste
To pamper the palate of epicures rich;
Who drew from the wine cellar's cavernous niche
"Excelsior" brands of the rarest champagnes
To loosen their tongues--though it pilfered their brains--
Oh, sad if a step in some woeful downfall
Should ever be traced to a Charity Ball!
Outside of the window, pressed close to the pane,
And furrowed by tears that had fallen like rain,
Was the face of a woman, so spectral in hue,
With great liquid eyes, like twin oceans of blue,
And cheeks in whose hollows were written the lines
That pitiless hunger so often defines,
Who muttered, as closer she gathered the shawl,
"Oh, never for me is this Charity Ball!"
From liveried hirelings who bade her begone,
By uniformed minions compelled to move on,
Out into the street again driven to roam--
For friends she had none, neither fortune nor home;
While carnival-goers in morning's dull gray
As homeward returning, fatigued and _blasé_,
A vision encountered their hearts to appall,
And banish all thought of the Charity Ball.
As if seeking warmth from the icy curb-stone,
A form half-reclining, half-clad, and unknown.
Dead eyes looking up with a meaningless stare,
Lay close to the crowded and broad thoroughfare;
A form so emaciate the spirit had fled--
But the pulpit and press and the public all said,
As society's doings they sought to recall,
That a "brilliant success" was the Charity Ball.
The Bell(e) of Baltimore.
[One of the notable features of Baltimore is the big bell that hangs in
the city hall tower, to strike the hour and sound the fire alarm. It is
called "Big Sam," and weighs 5,000 pounds]
A million feet above the ground
(For so it seemed in winding round),
A million, and two more,
The latter stiff and sore,
While perspiration formed a part
Of every reeking pore,
I viewed the city like a chart
Spread out upon the floor.
And said: "Great guide Jehoiakin,
To me is meagre pleasure in
The height of spires and domes,
Of walls like ancient Rome's;
Nor care I for the marts of trade,
Or shelves of musty tomes,
Nor yet for yonder colonnade
Before your palace homes;
"But curiosity is keen
To know the city's reigning queen,
Who suiteth well the score
Of suitors at her door;
Oh, which of your divinities
Is she whom all adore?
Embodiment of truth, _who is_
The belle of Baltimore?"
Veracity's revolving eyes
Looked up as if to read the skies:
"Why, Lor'-a-miss, see dar--
De bell is in de air!
Lan' sakes! of all de missteries
Yo' nebber learn before!
Why, don' yo' know 'Big Sam'? _He_ is
De bell of Baltimore!"
Christmas at Church.
'Twas drawing near the holiday,
When piety and pity met
In whisp'ring council, and agreed
That Christmas time, in homes of need,
Should be remembered in a way
They never could forget.
Then noble generosity
Took youth and goodness by the hand,
And planned a thousand charming ways
To celebrate this best of days,
While hearts were held in sympathy
By love's encircling band.
So multitudes together came,
Like wandering magi from the East
With precious gifts unto the King,
With every good and perfect thing
To satisfy a shivering frame
Or amplify a feast.
The angels had looked long and far
The happy scene to parallel,
When through the sanctuary door
Were carried gifts from shop and store,
The treasures of the rich bazaar,
To give--but not to sell.
As once the apostolic twelve
Of goods allotment made,
So equity dealt out with care
The widow's and the orphan's share,
And of the aged forced to delve
At drudging task or trade.
Oh, could the joy which tears express
That out of gladness come
Be mirrored in its tender glow,
Before the beautiful tableau
Ingratitude and selfishness
Would shrink abashed and dumb!
If every year and everywhere
Could kindness thus expand
In bounteous gratuity,
To all her children earth would be
A flowery vale like Eden fair,
A milk-and-honey land.
Mysterious.
The morning sun rose bright and fair
Upon a lovely village where
Prosperity abounded,
And ceaseless hum of industry
In lines of friendly rivalry
From day to day resounded.
Its shaded avenues were wide,
And closely bordered either side
With cottages or mansions,
Or marked by blocks of masonry
That might defy a century
To loosen from their stanchions.
Its peaceful dwellers daily vied
To make this spot, with anxious pride,
A Paradise of beauty,
Recounted its attractions o'er,
And its adornment held no more
A pleasure than a duty.
But, ere the daylight passed away,
That hamlet fair in ruins lay,
Its hapless people scattered
Like playthings, at the cyclone's will,
And scarce remained one domicile
Its fury had not shattered.
Few moments of the tempest's wrath
Sufficed to mark one dreadful path
With scenes of devastation;
While over piles of wild débris
Rose shrieks of dying agony
Above the desolation.
Oh, mystery! who can understand
Why, sudden, from God's mighty hand
Destructive bolts of power
Without discrimination strike
The evil and the good alike--
As in that dreadful hour!
Alas for aching hearts that wait
Today in homes made desolate
By one sharp blow appalling--
For all who kneel by altars lone,
And strive to say "Thy will be done,"
That awful day recalling!
We dare not question his decrees
Who seeth not as mortal sees,
Nor doubt his goodness even;
Nor let our hearts be dispossessed
Of faith that he disposeth best
All things in earth and Heaven.
"Be not Anxious."
"Be careful for nothing," Phil. iv. 6. Revised version, "Be not anxious."
Of all the precepts in the Book
By word of inspiration given,
That bear the import, tone, and look
Of messages direct from heaven,
From Revelation back to Genesis
Is nothing needed half so much as this.
Ah, well the great apostle spake
In admonition wise and kind,
Who bade humanity forsake
The petty weaknesses that bind
The spirit like a bird with pinioned wings,
That to a broken bough despairing clings.
Were all undue anxiety
Eliminated from desire,
Could feverish fears and fancies be
Consumèd on some funeral pyre,
Like holy hecatomb or sacrifice,
'Twould be accepted up in Paradise.
Could this machinery go on
Without the friction caused by fret,
What greater loads were lightly drawn,
More easily were trials met;
Then might existence be with blessings rife,
And lengthened out like Hezekiah's life.
Oh, be not anxious; trouble grows
When cherished like a secret grief;
It is the worm within the rose
That eats the heart out leaf by leaf;
And though the outer covering be fair,
The weevil of decay is busy there.
In deep despondency to pine,
Or vain solicitude,
Is to deny this truth divine
That God is great and good;
That he is Ruler over earth and Heaven,
And so disposes and makes all things even.
Mount Vernon.
Subdued and sad, I trod the place
Where he, the hero, lived and died;
Where, long-entombed beneath the shade
By willow bough and cypress made,
The peaceful scene with verdure rife,
He and the partner of his life,
Beloved of every land and race,
Are sleeping side by side.
The summer solstice at its height
Reflected from Potomac's tide
A glare of light, and through the trees
Intensified the Southern breeze,
That dallied, in the deep ravines,
With graceful ferns and evergreens,
While Northern cheeks so strangely white
Grew dark as Nubia's pride.
What must this homestead once have been
In boundless hospitality,
When Greene or Putnam may have met
The host who welcomed Lafayette,
Or when Pulaski, honored guest,
Accepted shelter, food and rest,
While rank and talent gathered in
Its banquet hall of luxury!
What comfort, cheer, and kind intent
The weary stranger oft hath known
When she, its mistress, fair and good,
Reigned here in peerless womanhood,
When soft, shy maiden fancy gave
Encouragement to soldiers brave,
And Washington his presence lent
To grace its bright hearthstone!
O beautiful Mount Vernon home,
The Mecca of our long desire;
Of more than passing interest
To North and South, to East and West,
To all Columbia's children free
A precious, priceless legacy,
Thine altar-shrine, as pilgrims come,
Rekindles patriot fire!
A Prisoner.
Where I can see him all day long
And hear his wild, spontaneous song,
Before my window in his cage,
A blithe canary sits and swings,
And circles round on golden wings;
And startles all the vicinage
When from his china tankard
He takes a dainty drink
To clear his throat
For as sweet a note
As ever yet was caroled
By lark or bobolink.
Sometimes he drops his pretty head
And seems to be dispirited,
And then his little mistress says:
"Poor Dickie misses his chickweed,
Or else I've fed him musty seed
As stale as last year's oranges!"
But all the time I wonder
If we half comprehend
In sweet song-words
The thought of birds,
Or why so oft their raptures
In sudden silence end.
They do not pine for forest wilds
Within the "blue Canary isles,"
As exiles from their native home,
For in a foreign domicile
They first essayed their gamut-trill
Beneath a cage's gilded dome;
But maybe some sad throbbing
Betimes their spirits stirs,
Who love as we
Dear liberty,
That they, admired and petted,
Are only--prisoners.
Cuba.
As one long struggling to be free,
O suffering isle! we look to thee
In sympathy and deep desire
That thy fair borders yet shall hold
A people happy, self-controlled,
Saved and exalted--as by fire.
Burning like thine own tropic heat
Thousands of lips afar repeat
The story of thy wrongs and woes;
While argosies to thee shall bear,
Of men and money everywhere,
Strength to withstand thy stubborn foes.
Hispaniola waves her plume
Defiant over many a tomb
Where sleep thy sons, the true and brave;
But, lo! an army coming on
The places fill of heroes gone,
For liberty their lives who gave.
The nations wait to hear thy shout
Of "Independence!" ringing out,
Chief of the Antilles, what wilt thou?
Buffets and gyves from your effete
Old monarchy dilapidate,
Or freedom's laurels for thy brow?
In man's extremity it is
That Heaven's opportunities
Shine forth like jewels from the mine;
Then, Cuba, in thy hour of need,
With vision clear the tokens read
And trust for aid that power divine.
The Sangamon River.
O sunny Sangamon! thy name to me,
Soft-syllabled like some sweet melody,
Familiar is since adolescent years
As household phrases ringing in my ears;
Its measured cadence sounding to and fro
From the dim corridors of long ago.
There was a time in happy days gone by,
That rosy interval of youth, when I
The scholar ardent early learned to trace
Great tributaries to their starting place;
And thine some prairie hollow obsolete
Whose name how few remember or repeat.
Like thee, meandering, yet wafted back
From distant hearth and lonely bivouac,
From strange vicissitudes in other lands,
From half-wrought labors and unfinished plans
I come, in thy cool depths my brow to lave,
And rest a moment by thy silver wave.
But, ah! what means thy muddy, muggy hue?
I thought thee limpid as yon ether blue;
I thought an angel's wing might dip below
Thy sparkling surface and be white as snow;
And of thy current I had dared to drink
If not as one imbibing draughts of ink.
Has some rough element of horrid clay
That spoils the earth like lava beds, they say,
Come sliding down, as avalanches do,
And thy fair bosom percolated through?
Or some apothecary's compound vile
Polluted thee so many a murky mile?
Why not, proud State, beneficence insure,
Selling thy soil or giving to the poor?
For sad it is that dust of Illinois,
With coal and compost its conjoint alloy,
A morceau washed from Mississippi's mouth,
Should build up acres for our neighbors south.
River! I grieve, but not for loss of dirt--
Once stainless, just because of what thou wert.
Thus on thy banks I linger and reflect
That, surely as all waterways connect,
Forever flowing onward to the sea,
Shall the great billow thy redemption be.
And now, dear Sangamon, farewell! I wait
On that Elysian scene to meditate
When, separated from the dregs of earth,
Life's stream shall sweeter be, of better worth;
And, like the ocean with its restless tide,
By its own action cleansed and purified.
Syringas.
The smallest flower beside my path,
In loveliness of bloom,
Some element of comfort hath
To rid my heart of gloom;
But these, of spotless purity,
And fragrant as the rose,
As sad a sight recall to me
As time shall e'er disclose.
Oh, there are pictures on the brain
Sometimes by shadows made,
Till dust is blent with dust again,
That never, never fade;
And things supremely bright and fair
As ever known in life
Suggest the darkness of despair,
And sanguinary strife.
I shut my eyes; 'tis all in vain--
The battle-field appears,
And one among the thousands slain
In manhood's brilliant years;
An elbow pillowing his head,
And on the crimson sand
Syringa-blooms, distained and dead,
Within his rigid hand.
Could she foresee, who from the stem
Had plucked that little spray
Of flowers, that he would cherish them
Unto his dying day?
"Give these to M----;--'tis almost night--
And tell her--that--I love--"
Alas! the letter he would write
Was finished up above.