Sat in close contrast,--the clipt-headed churl,

Broad market-dame, and simple serving-girl,

By skirt of silk and periwig in curl!

For soul touched soul; the spiritual treasure-trove

Made all men equal, none could rise above,

Nor sink below, that level of God's love.

So, with his rustic neighbors sitting down,

The homespun frock beside the scholar's gown,

Pastorius, to the manners of the town

Added the freedom of the woods, and sought

The bookless wisdom by experience taught,

And learned to love his new-found home, while not

Forgetful of the old; the seasons went

Their rounds, and somewhat to his spirit lent

Of their own calm and measureless content.

Glad even to tears, he heard the robin sing

His song of welcome to the Western spring,

And bluebird borrowing from the sky his wing.

And when the miracle of autumn came,

And all the woods with many-colored flame

Of splendor, making summer's greenness tame,

Burned unconsumed, a voice without a sound

Spake to him from each kindled bush around

And made the strange, new landscape holy ground.

* * * * *

=_Albert Pike, 1809-._= (Manual, p. 523.)

From "Lines on the Rocky Mountains."

=_376._= THE EVERLASTING HILLS.

The deep, transparent sky is full

Of many thousand glittering lights--

Unnumbered stars that calmly rule

The dark dominions of the night.

The mild, bright moon has upward risen,

Out of the gray and boundless plain,

And all around the white snows glisten,

Where frost, and ice, and silence, reign,--

While ages roll away, and they unchanged remain.

These mountains, piercing the blue sky

With their eternal cones of ice,--

The torrents dashing from on high,

O'er rock, and crag, and precipice,--

Change not, but still remain as ever,

Unwasting, deathless, and sublime,

And will remain while lightnings quiver,

Or stars the hoary summits climb,

Or rolls the thunder-chariot of eternal Time.

* * * * *

=_Anne C. Lynch Botta._=

From her "Poems."

=_377._= THE DUMB CREATION.

Deal kindly with those speechless ones,

That throng our gladsome earth;

Say not the bounteous gift of life

Alone is nothing worth.

What though with mournful memories

They sigh not for the past?

What though their ever joyous now

No future overcast.

No aspirations fill their breast

With longings undefined;

They live, they love, and they are blest

For what they seek they find.

They see no mystery in the stars,

No wonder in the plain,

And Life's enigma wakes in them,

No questions dark and vain.

To them earth is a final home,

A bright and blest abode;

Their lives unconsciously flow on

In harmony with God.

To this fair world our human hearts

Their hopes and longings bring,

And o'er its beauty and its bloom,

Their own dark shadows fling.

Between the future and the past

In wild unrest we stand,

And ever as our feet advance,

Retreats the promised land.

And though Love, Fame, and Wealth, and Power

Bind in their gilded bond,

We pine to grasp the unattained--

The _something_ still beyond.

And, beating on their prison bars,

Our spirits ask more room,

And with unanswered questionings,

They pierce beyond the tomb.

Then say thou not, oh, doubtful heart!

There is no life to come:

That in some tearless, cloudless land;

Thou shalt not find thy home.

* * * * *

=_Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1809-._= (Manual, pp. 478, 520.)

From his Poems.

=_378._= THE LAST LEAF.

I saw him once before,

As he passed by the door,

And again

The pavement stones resound,

As he totters o'er the ground

With his cane.

My grandmamma has said,--

Poor old lady, she is dead

Long ago,--

That he had a Roman nose,

And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,

And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff,

And a crook is in his back.

And a melancholy crack

In his laugh.

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin

At him here;

But the old three-cornered hat,

And the breeches, and all that,

Are so queer!

And if I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring,--

Let them smile, as I do now,

At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.

* * * * *

From "The Professor at the Breakfast Table."

=_379._= A MOTHER'S SECRET.

* * * * *

They reach the holy place, fulfill the days

To solemn feasting given, and grateful praise.

At last they turn, and far Moriah's height

Melts into southern sky and fades from sight.

All day the dusky caravan has flowed

In devious trails along the winding road,--

(For many a step their homeward path attends,

And all the sons of Abraham are as friends.)

Evening has come,--the hour of rest and joy;--

Hush! hush! that whisper,--"Where is Mary's boy?"

O weary hour! O aching days that passed,

Filled with strange fears, each wilder than the last:

The soldier's lance,--the fierce centurion's sword,--

The crushing wheels that whirl some Roman lord,--

The midnight crypt that sucks the captive's breath,--

The blistering sun on Hinnom's vale of death!

Thrice on his cheek had rained the morning light,

Thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of night,

Crouched by some porphyry column's shining plinth,

Or stretched beneath the odorous terebinth.

At last, in desperate mood, they sought once more

The Temple's porches, searched in vain before;

They found him seated with the ancient men,--

The grim old rufflers of the tongue and pen,--

Their bald heads glistening as they clustered near,

Their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear,

Lost In half-envious wonder and surprise

That lips so fresh should utter words so wise.

And Mary said,--as one who, tried too long,

Tells all her grief and half her sense of wrong.--

"What is this thoughtless thing which thou hast done?

Lo, we have sought thee sorrowing, O my son!"

Few words he spake, and scarce of filial tone,--

Strange words, their sense a mystery yet unknown;

Then turned with them and left the holy hill,

To all their mild commands obedient still.

The tale was told to Nazareth's sober men,

And Nazareth's matrons told it oft again;

The maids retold it at the fountain's side;

The youthful shepherds doubted or denied;

It passed around among the listening friends,

With all that fancy adds and fiction lends,

Till newer marvels dimmed the young renown

Of Joseph's son, who talked the Rabbies down.

But Mary, faithful to its lightest word,

Kept in her heart the sayings she had heard,

Till the dread morning rent the Temple's veil,

And shuddering Earth confirmed the wondrous tale.

Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall;

A mother's secret hope outlives them all.

* * * * *

=_Willis Gaylord Clark, 1810-1841._= (Manual, pp. 503, 523.)

From his "Literary Remains."

=_380._= AN INVITATION TO EARLY PIETY.

Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing--

Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die;

Ere the gay spell which earth is round thee throwing,

Fade like the sunset of a summer sky;

Life hath but shadows, save a promise given,

Which lights the future with a fadeless ray;

O, touch the sceptre--win a hope in heaven--

Come--turn thy spirit from the world away.

Then will the crosses of this brief existence,

Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul;

And shining brightly in the forward distance,

Will of thy patient race appear the goal;

Home of the weary! where in peace reposing,

The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss,

Though o'er its dust the curtained grave is closing--

Who would not _early_ choose a lot like this?

* * * * *

=_James Russell Lowell, 1819-._= (Manual, p. 520.)

From his "Miscellaneous Poems," &c.

=_381._= A SONG.

Violet! sweet violet!

Thine eyes are full of tears;

Are they wet

Even yet,

With the thought of other years?

Or with gladness are they full,

For the night so beautiful,

And longing for those far-off spheres?

Loved-one of my youth thou wast,

Of my merry youth,

And I see,

Tearfully,

All the fair and sunny past,

All its openness and truth,

Ever fresh and green in thee

As the moss is in the sea.

Thy little heart, that hath with love

Grown colored like the sky above,

On which thou lookest ever,--

Can it know

All the woe

Of hope for what returneth never,

All the sorrow and the longing

To these hearts of ours belonging?

Out on it! no foolish pining

For the sky

Dims thine eye,

Or for the stars so calmly shining;

Like thee let this soul of mine

Take hue from that wherefor I long,

Self-stayed and high, serene and strong,

Not satisfied with hoping--but divine.

Violet! dear violet!

Thy blue eyes are only wet

With joy and love of him who sent thee,

And for the fulfilling sense

Of that glad obedience

Which made thee all that Nature meant thee!

* * * * *

From "The Present Crisis."

=_382._= IMPORTANCE OF A NOBLE DEED.

When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast

Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west,

And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb

To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime

Of a century, bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time.

* * * * *

Once, to every man and nation, comes the moment to decide,

In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;

Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight,

Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right,

And the choice goes by for ever, twist that darkness and that light.

* * * * *

We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great,

Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate,

But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din,

List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within,--

"They enslave their children's children, who make compromise with sin."

* * * * *

From The Atlantic Monthly.

=_383._= THE SPANIARDS' GRAVES AT THE ISLES OF SHOALS.

O sailors, did sweet eyes look after you,

The day you sailed away from sunny Spain?

Bright eyes that followed fading ship and crew,

Melting in tender rain?

Did no one dream of that drear night to be,

Wild with the wind, fierce with the stinging snow,

When, on yon granite point that frets the sea,

The ship met her death-blow?

Fifty long years ago these sailors died:

(None know how many sleep beneath the waves:)

Fourteen gray head-stones, rising side by side,

Point out their nameless graves,--

Lonely, unknown, deserted, but for me,

And the wild birds that flit with mournful cry,

And sadder winds, and voices of the sea

That moans perpetually.

Wives, mothers, maidens, wistfully, in vain

Questioned the distance for the yearning sail,

That, leaning landward, should have stretched again

White arms wide on the gale,

To bring back their beloved. Year by year,

Weary they watched, till youth and beauty passed,

And lustrous eyes grew dim, and age drew near,

And hope was dead at last.

Still summer broods o'er that delicious land,

Rich, fragrant, warm with skies of golden glow:

Live any yet of that forsaken band

Who loved so long ago?

O Spanish women, over the far seas,

Could I but show you where your dead repose!

Could I send tidings on this northern breeze,

That strong and steady blows!

Dear dark-eyed sisters, you remember yet

These you have lost, but you can never know

One stands at their bleak graves whose eyes are wet

With thinking of your woe!

* * * * *

=_Edgar Allen Poe._= (Manual, p. 510.)

From his Works.

=_384._= "THE RAVEN."

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,--

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door;

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door,--

Only this, and nothing more."

Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow,

From my books, surcease of sorrow,--sorrow for the lost Lenore,--

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,--

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;

This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;

Darkness there,--and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word, "Lenore!"

This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word, "Lenore!"

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.

"Surely," said I,--"surely that is something at my window-lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,--

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;--

'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or staid he;

But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,--

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,--

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then, this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no

craven,

Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore--

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was bless'd with seeing bird above his chamber door,--

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,--

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he utter'd; not a feather then he flutter'd--

Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, "Other friends have flown before--

On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before,"

Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster

Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore--

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never--never--more!'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheel'd a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and

door;

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining which the lamp-light gloated o'er

_She_ shall press, ah, never more!

Then methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent

thee

Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, O quaff, this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Never more."

"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!--

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here ashore,

Desolate, though all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--

On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--

Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Never more."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--

Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Never more."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked,

upstarting--

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven, "Never more."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor,

Shall be lifted--never more.

* * * * *

=_Alfred B. Street, 1811-._= (Manual, pp. 522, 531.)

From his "Poems."

=_385._= AN AUTUMN LANDSCAPE.

Overhead

There is a blending of cloud, haze, and sky;

A silvery sheet, with spaces of soft hue;

A trembling veil of gauze is stretched athwart

The shadowy hill-sides and dark forest-flanks;

A soothing quiet broods upon the air,

And the faint sunshine winks with drowsiness.

Far sounds melt mellow on the ear: the bark,

The bleat, the tinkle, whistle, blast of horn,

The rattle of the wagon-wheel, the low,

The fowler's shot, the twitter of the bird,

And even the hue of converse from the road.

* * * * *

The sunshine flashed on streams,

Sparkled on leaves, and laughed on fields and woods.

All, all was life and motion, as all now

Is sleep and quiet. Nature in her change

Varies each day, as in the world of man

She moulds the differing features. Yea, each leaf

Is variant from its fellow. Yet her works

Are blended in a glorious harmony,

For thus God made his earth. Perchance His breath

Was music when He spake it into life,

Adding thereby another instrument

To the innumerable choral orbs

Sending the tribute of their grateful praise

In ceaseless anthems towards His sacred throne.

* * * * *

From "Drawings and Tintings."

=_386._= THE FALLS OF THE MONGAUP.

Struggling along the mountain path,

We hear, amid the gloom,

Like a roused giant's voice of wrath,

A deep-toned, sullen boom:

Emerging on the platform high,

Burst sudden to the startled eye

Rocks, woods, and waters, wild and rude--

A scene of savage solitude.

Swift as an arrow from the bow;

Headlong the torrent leaps,

Then tumbling round, in dazzling snow

And dizzy whirls it sweeps;

Then, shooting through the narrow aisle

Of this sublime cathedral pile,

Amidst its vastness, dark and grim,

It peals its everlasting hymn.

Pyramid on pyramid of rock

Towers upward, wild and riven,

As piled by Titan hand, to mock

The distant smiling heaven.

And where its blue streak is displayed,

Branches their emerald net-work braid

So high, the eagle in his flight

Seems but a dot upon the sight.

Here column'd hemlocks point in air

Their cone-like fringes green;

Their trunks hang knotted, black and bare,

Like spectres o'er the scene;

Here lofty crag and deep abyss,

And awe-inspiring precipice;

There grottoes bright in wave-worn gloss,

And carpeted with velvet moss.

No wandering ray e'er kissed with light

This rock-walled sable pool,

Spangled with foam-gems thick and white,

And slumbering deep and cool;

But where yon cataract roars down,

Set by the sun, a rainbow crown

Is dancing, o'er the dashing strife--

Hope glittering o'er the storm of life.

Beyond, the smooth and mirror'd sheet

So gently steals along,

The very ripples, murmuring sweet,

Scarce drown the wild bee's song;

The violet from the grassy side

Dips its blue chalice in the tide;

And, gliding o'er the leafy brink,

The deer, unfrightened, stoops to drink.

Myriads of man's time-measured race

Have vanished from the earth,

Nor left a memory of their trace,

Since first this scene had birth;

These waters, thundering now along,

Joined in Creation's matin-song;

And only by their dial-trees

Have known the lapse of centuries!

* * * * *

=_Laura M.H. Thurston, 1812-1842._= (Manual, P. 524.)

=_387._= LINES ON CROSSING THE ALLEGHANIES.

I hail thee, Valley of the West,

For what thou yet shalt be!

I hail thee for the hopes that rest

Upon thy destiny!

Here from this mountain height, I see

Thy bright waves floating rapidly,

Thine emerald fields outspread;

And feel that in the book of fame,

Proudly shall thy recorded name

In later days be read.

Oh! brightly, brightly glow thy skies

In Summer's sunny hours!

The green earth seems a paradise

Arrayed in summer flowers!

But oh! there is a land afar,

Whose skies to me all brighter are,

Along the Atlantic shore!

For eyes beneath their radiant shrine

In kindlier glances answered mine:

Can these their light restore?

Upon the lofty bound I stand,

That parts the East and West;

Before me lies a fairy land;

Behind--_a home of rest!_

_Here_, Hope her wild enchantment flings,

Portrays all bright and lovely things,

My footsteps to allure--

But _there_, in memory's light I see

All that was once most dear to me--

My young heart's cynosure!

* * * * *

=_Francis S. Osgood, 1812-1850_= (Manual, p. 523.)

=_388._= "The Parting."

I looked not, I sighed not, I dared not betray

The wild storm of feeling that strove to have way,

For I knew that each sign of the sorrow _I_ felt

_Her_ soul to fresh pity and passion would melt,

And calm was my voice, and averted my eyes,

As I parted from all that in being I prize.

I pined but one moment that form to enfold.

Yet the hand that touched hers, like the marble was cold,--

I heard her voice falter a timid farewell,

Nor trembled, though soft on my spirit it fell,

And she knew not, she dreamed not, the anguish of soul

Which only my pity for her could control.

It is over--the loveliest dream of delight

That ever illumined a wanderer's night!

Yet one gleam of comfort will brighten my way,

Though mournful and desolate ever I stray:

It is this--that to her, to my idol, I spared

The pang that her love could have softened and shared!

* * * * *

=_Harriet Beecher Stowe._= (Manual, p. 484.)

From the "Religious Poems."

=_389._= THE PEACE OF FAITH.

When winds are raging o'er the upper ocean,

And billows wild contend with angry roar,

'Tis said, far down, beneath the wild commotion,

That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore.

Far, far beneath, the noise of tempests dieth,

And silver waves chime ever peacefully,

And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth,

Disturbs the Sabbath of that deeper sea.

So to the heart that knows Thy love, O Purest!

There is a temple, sacred evermore,

And all the babble of life's angry voices

Dies in hushed stillness at its peaceful door.

Far, far away, the roar of passion dieth,

And loving thoughts rise calm and peacefully,

And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth,

Disturbs that soul that dwells, O Lord, in Thee.

O Rest of rests! O Peace, serene, eternal!

Thou ever livest, and Thou changest never;

And in the secret of Thy presence dwelleth

Fullness of joy, for ever and for ever.

* * * * *

=_390._= "ONLY A YEAR."

One year ago,--a ringing voice,

A clear blue eye,

And clustering curls of sunny hair,

Too fair to die.

Only a year,--no voice, no smile,

No glance of eye,

No clustering curls of golden hair,

Fair but to die!

One year ago,--what loves, what schemes

Far into life!

What joyous hopes, what high, resolves,

What generous strife!

The silent picture on the wall,

The burial stone,

Of all that beauty, life, and joy

Remain alone!

One year,--one year,--one little year,

And so much gone!

And yet the even flow of life

Moves calmly on.

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,

Above that head;

No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray

Says he is dead.

No pause or hush of merry birds

That sing above,

Tells us how coldly sleeps below

The form we love.

Where hast thou been this year, beloved?

What hast thou seen?

What visions fair, what glorious life,

Where thou hast been?

The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!

'Twixt us and thee;

The mystic veil! when shall it fall,

That we may see?

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,

But present still,

And waiting for the coming hour

Of God's sweet will.

Lord of the living and the dead,

Our Saviour dear!

We lay in silence at thy feet

This sad, sad year!

* * * * *

=_Henry T. Tuckerman._=

From his "Poems."

=_391._= THE STATUE OF WASHINGTON.

The quarry whence thy form majestic sprung,

Has peopled earth with grace,

Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung,

A bright and peerless race,

But from its sleeping veins ne'er rose before,

A shape of loftier name

Than his, who, Glory's wreath with meekness wore,

The noblest son of fame

Sheathed is the sword that Passion never stained;

His gaze around is cast,

As if the joys of Freedom, newly gained,

Before his vision passed;

As if a nation's shout of love and pride

With music filled the air,

And his calm soul was lifted on the tide

Of deep and grateful prayer;

As if the crystal mirror of his life

To fancy sweetly came,

With scenes of patient toil and noble strife,

Undimmed by doubt or shame;

As if the lofty purpose of his soul

Expression would betray--

The high resolve Ambition to control,

And thrust her crown away!

O, it was well in marble, firm and white,

To carve our hero's form,

Whose angel guidance was our strength in fight,

Our star amid the storm;

Whose matchless truth has made his name divine,

And human freedom sure,

His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine,

While man and time endure!

And it is well to place his image there,

Beneath, the dome he blest;

Let meaner spirits who its councils share,

Revere that silent guest!

Let us go up with high and sacred love,

To look on his pure brow,

And as, with solemn grace, he points above,

Renew the patriot's vow!

* * * * *

=_John G. Saxe, 1816-._= (Manual, p. 523, 531.)

From "Early Rising."

=_392._= THE BLESSING OF SLEEP.

"God bless the man who first invented sleep!"

So Sancho Panza said, and so say I:

And bless him, also, that he didn't keep

His great discovery to himself; nor try

To make it--as the lucky fellow might--

A close monopoly by patent-right!

* * * * *

'Tis beautiful to leave the world a while

For the soft visions of the gentle night;

And free, at last, from mortal care or guile,

To live as only in the angels' sight,

In Sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in,

Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin!

So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.

I like the lad, who, when his father thought

To clip his morning nap by hackneyed praise

Of vagrant worm by early songster caught,

Cried, "Served him right!--it's not at all surprising;

The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!"

* * * * *

=_393._= "YE TAILYOR-MAN; A CONTEMPLATIVE BALLAD."

Right jollie is ye tailyor-man

As annie man may be;

And all ye daye, upon ye benche

He worketh merrilie.

And oft, ye while in pleasante wise

He coileth up his lymbes,

He singeth songs ye like whereof

Are not in Watts his hymns.

And yet he toileth all ye while

His merrie catches rolle;

As true unto ye needle as

Ye needle to ye pole.

What cares ye valiant tailyor-man

For all ye cowarde fears?

Against ye scissors of ye Fates,

He points his mightie shears.

He heedeth not ye anciente jests

That witless sinners use;

What feareth ye bolde tailyor-man

Ye hissinge of a goose?

He pulleth at ye busie threade,

To feede his lovinge wife

And eke his childe; for unto them

It is the threade of life.

He cutteth well ye rich man's coate,

And with unseemlie pride,

He sees ye little waistcoate In

Ye cabbage bye his side,

Meanwhile ye tailyor-man his wife,

To labor nothing loth,

Sits bye with readie hande to baste

Ye urchin, and ye cloth.

Full happie is ye tailyor-man

Yet is he often tried,

Lest he, from fullness of ye dimes,

Wax wanton in his pride.

Full happie is ye tailyor-man,

And yet he hath a foe,

A cunning enemie that none

So well as tailyors knowe.

It is ye slipperie customer

Who goes his wicked wayes,

And wears ye tailyor-man his coate,

But never, never payes!

* * * * *

From "The Money King."

=_394._= ANCIENT AND MODERN GHOSTS CONTRASTED.

In olden times,--if classic poets say

The simple truth, as poets do to-day,--

When Charon's boat conveyed a spirit o'er

The Lethean water to the Hadean shore,

The fare was just a penny,--not too great,

The moderate, regular, Stygian statute rate.

_Now_, for a shilling, he will cross the stream,

(His paddles whirling to the force of steam!)

And bring, obedient to some wizard power,

Back to the Earth more spirits in an hour,

Than Brooklyn's famous ferry could convey,

Or thine, Hoboken, in the longest day!

Time was when men bereaved of vital breath,

Were calm and silent in the realms of Death;

When mortals dead and decently inurned

Were heard no more; no traveler returned,

Who once had crossed the dark Plutonian strand,

To whisper secrets of the spirit-land,--

Save when perchance some sad, unquiet soul--

Among the tombs might wander on parole,--

A well-bred ghost, at night's bewitching noon,

Returned to catch some glimpses of the moon,

Wrapt in a mantle of unearthly white,

(The only rapping of an ancient sprite!)

Stalked round in silence till the break of day,

Then from the Earth passed unperceived away.

Now all is changed: the musty maxim fails,

And dead men _do_ repeat the queerest tales!

Alas, that here, as in the books, we see

The travelers clash, the doctors disagree!

Alas, that all, the further they explore,

For all their search are but confused the more!

Ye great departed!--men of mighty mark,--

Bacon and Newton, Adams, Adam Clarke,

Edwards and Whitefield, Franklin, Robert Hall,

Calhoun, Clay, Channing, Daniel Webster,--all

Ye great quit-tenants of this earthly ball,--

If in your new abodes ye cannot rest,

But must return, O, grant us this request:

Come with a noble and celestial air,

To prove your title to the names ye bear!

Give some clear token of your heavenly birth;

Write as good English as ye wrote on earth!

Show not to all, in ranting prose and verse,

The spirit's progress is from bad to worse;

And, what were once superfluous to advise,

Don't tell, I beg you, such, egregious lies!--

Or if perchance your agents are to blame,

Don't let them trifle with your honest fame;

Let chairs and tables rest, and "rap" instead,

Ay, "knock" your slippery "Mediums" on the head!

* * * * *

=_395._= "Boys"

"The proper study of mankind is man,"--

The most perplexing one, no doubt, is woman,

The subtlest study that the mind can scan,

Of all deep problems, heavenly or human!

But of all studies in the round of learning,

From nature's marvels down to human toys,

To minds well fitted for acute discerning,

The very queerest one is that of boys!

If to ask questions that would puzzle Plato,

And all the schoolmen of the Middle Age,--

If to make precepts worthy of old Cato,

Be deemed philosophy, your boy's a sage!

If the possession of a teeming fancy,

(Although, forsooth, the younker doesn't know it,)

Which he can use in rarest necromancy,

Be thought poetical, your boy's a poet!

If a strong will and most courageous bearing,

If to be cruel as the Roman Nero;

If all that's chivalrous, and all that's daring,

Can make a hero, then the boy's a hero!

But changing soon with his increasing stature,

The boy is lost in manhood's riper age,

And with him goes his former triple nature,--

No longer Poet, Hero, now, nor Sage!

* * * * *

=_396._= SONNET TO A CLAM.

Inglorious friend! most confident I am

Thy life is one of very little ease;

Albeit men mock thee with their similes,

And prate of being "happy as a clam!"

What though thy shell protects thy fragile head

From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?

Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,

While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,

And bear thee off,--as foemen take their spoil,--

Far from thy friends and family to roam;

Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,

To meet destruction in a foreign broil!

Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bard

Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!

* * * * *

=_Lucy Hooper, 1816-1841._= (Manual, p. 524.)

=_397._= "THE DEATH-SUMMONS."

A voice is on mine ear--a solemn voice:

I come, I come, it calls me to my rest;

Faint not, my yearning heart; rejoice, rejoice;

Soon shalt thou reach the gardens of the blest:

On the bright waters there, the living streams,

Soon shalt thou launch in peace thy weary bark,

Waked by rude waves no more from gentle dreams,

Sadly to feel that earth to thee is dark--

Not bright as once; O, vain, vain memories, cease,

I cast your burden down--I strive for peace.

I heed the warning voice: oh, spurn me not,

My early friend; let the bruised heart go free:

Mine were high fancies, but a wayward lot

Hath made my youthful dreams in sadness flee;

Then chide not, I would linger yet awhile,

Thinking o'er wasted hours, a weary train,

Cheered by the moon's soft light, the sun's glad smile,

Watching the blue sky o'er my path of pain,

Waiting nay summons: whose shall be the eye

To glance unkindly--I have come to die!

Sweet words--to die! O, pleasant, pleasant sounds,

What bright revealings to my heart they bring;

What melody, unheard in earth's dull rounds,

And floating from the land of glorious Spring

The eternal home! my weary thoughts revive,

Fresh flowers my mind puts forth, and buds of love,

Gentle and kindly thoughts for all that live,

Fanned by soft breezes from the world above:

And pausing not, I hasten to my rest--

Again, O, gentle summons, thou art blest!

* * * * *

=_Catharine Ann Warfield._=

=_398._= "THE RETURN TO ASHLAND.[85]"

Unfold the silent gates,

The Lord of Ashland waits

Patient without, to enter his domain;

Tell not who sits within,

With sad and stricken mien,

That he, her soul's beloved, hath come again.

Long hath she watched for him,

Till hope itself grew dim,

And sorrow ceased to wake the frequent tear;

But let these griefs depart,

Like shadows from her heart--

Tell her, the long expected host is here.

He comes--but not alone,

For darkly pressing on,

The people pass beneath his bending trees,

Not as they came of yore,

When torch and banner bore

Their part amid exulting harmonies.

But still, and sad, they sweep

Amid the foliage deep,

Even to the threshold of that mansion gray,

Whither from life's unrest,

As an eagle seeks his nest,

It ever was his wont to flee away.

And he once more hath come

To that accustomed home,

To taste a calm, life never offered yet;

To know a rest so deep,

That they who watch and weep,

In this vain world may well its peace regret.

[Footnote 85: The home of Henry Clay.]

* * * * *

=_Arthur Cleveland Coxe, 1818-._= (Manual, p. 523.)

=_399._= THE HEART'S SONG.

In the silent midnight watches,

List thy bosom door;

How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh,

Knocketh evermore!

Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating;

'Tis thy heart of sin;

'Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth,

"Rise, and let me in."

Death comes down with reckless footstep

To the hall and hut;

Think you Death will tarry knocking

Where the door is shut?

Jesus waiteth, waiteth, waiteth;

But thy door is fast.

Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth;

Death breaks in at last.

Then 'tis thine to stand entreating

Christ to let thee in,

At the gate of heaven beating,

Wailing for thy sin.

Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin,

Hast thou then forgot?

Jesus waited long to know thee,--

Now he knows thee not.

* * * * *

=_William Ross Wallace, 1819-._= (Manual, p. 523.)

=_400._= THE NORTH EDDA.

Noble was the old North Edda,

Filling many a noble grave,

That for "man the one thing needful

In his world is to be brave."

This, the Norland's blue-eyed mother

Nightly chanted to her child,

While the Sea-King, grim and stately,

Looked upon his boy and smiled.

* * * * *

Let us learn that old North Edda

Chanted grandly on the grave,

Still for man the one thing needful

In his world is to be brave.

Valkyrs yet are forth and choosing

Who must be among the slain;

Let us, like that grim old Sea-King,

Smile at Death upon the plain,--

Smile at tyrants leagued with falsehood,

Knowing Truth, eternal, stands

With the book God wrote for Freedom

Always open in her hands,--

Smile at fear when in our duty,

Smile at Slander's Jotun-breath,

Smile upon our shrouds when summoned

Down the darkling deep of death.

Valor only grows a manhood;

Only this upon our sod,

Keeps us in the golden shadow

Falling from the throne of God.

* * * * *

=_Walter Whitman, 1819-.[86]_=

From Leaves of Grass.

=_401._= THE BROOKLYN FERRY AT TWILIGHT.

I too, many and many a time cross'd the river, the sun half an hour

high;

I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls--I saw them high in

the air, floating with motionless wings, oscillating their

bodies,

I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies,

and left the rest in strong shadow,

I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward

the south.

I too saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,

Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,

Look'd at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape

of my head, in the sun-lit water,

Look'd on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward,

Look'd on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,

Look'd towards the lower bay to notice the arriving ships,

Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,

Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at

anchor,

The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars,

The round masts, the swimming motion of the hulls, the slender

serpentine pennants,

The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their

pilot-houses,

The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl

of the wheels,

The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sun-set,

The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the

frolicsome crests and glistening,

The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls

of the granite store-houses by the docks,

On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely

flank'd on each side by the barges--the hay-boat, the

belated lighter,

On the neighboring shore, the fires from the foundry chimneys

burning high and glaringly into the night.

Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red and

yellow light, over the tops of houses, and down into the

clefts of streets.

These and all else, were to me the same as they are to you;

I project myself a moment to tell you--also I return.

[Footnote 86: Was born in New York in 1819, and has been printer,

teacher, and later, an official at Washington. His poetry, though

irregular in form, and often coarse in sentiment, is decidedly original

and vigorous.]

* * * * *

=_Amelia B. Welby, 1819-1852._= (Manual, p. 523.)

=_402._= "THE BEREAVED."

It is a still and lovely spot

Where they have laid thee down to rest;

The white rose and forget-me-not

Bloom sweetly on thy breast,

And birds and streams with liquid lull

Have made the stillness beautiful.

And softly through the forest bars

Light, lovely shapes, on glossy plumes,

Float ever in, like winged stars,

Amid the purpling glooms.

Their sweet songs, borne from tree to tree,

Thrill the light leaves with melody.

Alas! too deep a weight of thought

Had filled thy heart in youth's sweet hour;

It seemed with love and bliss o'erfraught;

As fleeting passion-flower

Unfolding 'neath a southern sky,

To blossom soon, and soon to die.

Alas! the very path I trace,

In happier hours thy footsteps made;

This spot was once thy resting place,

Within the silent shade.

Thy white hand trained the fragrant bough

That drops its blossoms o'er me now.

* * * * *

Yet in those calm and blooming bowers

I seem to feel thy presence still,

Thy breath seems floating o'er the flowers,

Thy whisper on the hill;

The clear, faint starlight, and the sea,

Are whispering to my heart of thee.

No more thy smiles my heart rejoice,

Yet still I start to meet thy eye,

And call upon the low, sweet voice,

That gives me no reply--

And list within my silent door

For the light feet that come no more.

* * * * *

=_Rebecca S. Nichols,_= about =_1820-._= (Manual, pp. 503, 524.)

From "Musings."

=_403._=

How like a conquerer the king of day

Folds back the curtains of his orient couch,

Bestrides the fleecy clouds, and speeds his way

Through skies made brighter by his burning touch;

For, as a warrior from the tented field

Victorious, hastes his wearied limbs to rest,

So doth the sun his brazen sceptre yield,

And sink, fair Night, upon thy gentle breast.

* * * * *

Fair Vesper, when thy golden tresses gleam

Amid the banners of the sunset sky,

Thy spirit floats on every radiant beam

That gilds with beauty thy sweet home on high;

Then hath my soul its hour of deepest bliss,

And gentle thoughts like angels round me throng,

Breathing of worlds (O, how unlike to this!)

Where dwell eternal melody and song.

* * * * *

=_Alice Cary._=

"The Old House."

=_404._= ATTRACTIONS OF OUR EARLY HOME.

My little birds, with backs as brown

As sand, and throats as white as frost,

I've searched the summer up and down,

And think the other birds have lost

The tunes, you sang so sweet, so low,

About the old house, long ago.

My little flowers, that with your bloom

So hid the grass you grew upon,

A child's foot scarce had any room

Between you,--are you dead and gone?

I've searched through fields and gardens rare,

Nor found your likeness any where.

My little hearts, that beat so high

With love to God, and trust in men,

Oh come to me, and say if I

But dream, or was I dreaming then,

What time we sat within the glow

Of the old house-hearth, long ago?

My little hearts, so fond, so true,

I searched the world all far and wide,

And never found the like of you:

God grant we meet the other side

The darkness 'twixt us, now that stands,

In that new house not made with hands!

* * * * *

=_Sidney Dyer,_=[87] about =_1820-._=

=_405._= THE POWER OF SONG.

However humble be the bard who sings,

If he can touch one chord of love that slumbers,

His name, above the proudest line of kings,

Shall live immortal in his truthful numbers.

The name of him who sung of "Home, sweet home,[88]"

Is now enshrined with every holy feeling;

And though he sleeps beneath no sainted dome,

Each heart a pilgrim at his shrine is kneeling.

The simple lays that wake no tear when sung,

Like chords of feeling from the music taken,

Are, in the bosom of the singer, strung,

Which every throbbing heart-pulse will awaken.

[Footnote 87: A Baptist clergyman, who has lived for many years at

Indianapolis, Indiana; the author of numerous songs.]

[Footnote 88: John Howard Payne.]

* * * * *

=_Austin T. Earle,[89] 1821-._=

From "Warm Hearts had We."

=_406._=

The autumn winds were damp and cold,

And dark the clouds that swept along,

As from the fields, the grains of gold

We gathered, with the husker's song.

Our hardy forms, though thinly clad,

Scarce felt the winds that swept us by,

For she a child, and I a lad,

Warm hearts had we, my Kate and I.

We heaped the ears of yellow corn,

More worth than bars of gold to view:

The crispy covering from it torn,

The noblest grain that ever grew;

Nor heeded we, though thinly clad,

The chilly winds that swept us by;

For she a child, and I a lad,

Warm hearts had we, my Kate and I.

[Footnote 89: Was born in Tennessee; a well-known Western writer of both

verse and prose.]

* * * * *

=_Thomas Buchanan Read, 1822-1872._= (Manual, p. 523.)

From "Sylvia, or the Last Shepherd."

=_407._= THE MOURNFUL MOWERS.

* * * * *

Thus sang the shepherd crowned at noon

And every breast was heaved with sighs;--

Attracted by the tree and tune,

The winged singers left the skies.

Close to the minstrel sat the maid;

His song had drawn her fondly near:

Her large and dewy eyes betrayed

The secret to her bosom dear.

The factory people through the fields,

Pale men and maids and children pale,

Listened, forgetful of the wheel,

Till the last summons woke the vale.

And all the mowers rising said,

"The world has lost its dewy prime;

Alas! the Golden age is dead,

And we are of the Iron time!

"The wheel and loom have left our homes,--

Our maidens sit with empty hands,

Or toil beneath yon roaring domes,

And fill the factory's pallid bands,

"The fields are swept as by a war,

Our harvests are no longer blythe;

Yonder the iron mower's-car,

Comes with his devastating scythe.

"They lay us waste by fire and steel,

Besiege us to our very doors;

Our crops before the driving wheel

Fall captive to the conquerors.

"The pastoral age is dead, is dead!

Of all the happy ages chief;

Let every mower bow his head,

In token of sincerest grief.

"And let our brows be thickly bound

With every saddest flower that blows;

And all our scythes be deeply wound

With every mournful herb that grows."

Thus sang the mowers; and they said,

"The world has lost its dewy prime;

Alas! the Golden age is dead,

And we are of the Iron time!"

Each wreathed his scythe and twined his head;

They took their slow way through the plain:

The minstrel and the maiden led

Across the fields the solemn train.

The air was rife with clamorous sounds,

Of clattering factory-thundering forge,--

Conveyed from the remotest bounds

Of smoky plain and mountain gorge.

Here, with a sudden shriek and roar,

The rattling engine thundered by;

A steamer past the neighboring shore

Convulsed the river and the sky.

The brook that erewhile laughed abroad,

And o'er one light wheel loved to play,

Now, like a felon, groaning trod

Its hundred treadmills night and day.

The fields were tilled with steeds of steam,

Whose fearful neighing shook the vales;

Along the road there rang no team,--

The barns were loud, but not with flails.

And still the mournful mowers said,

"The world has lost its dewy prime;

Alas! the Golden age is dead,

And we are of the Iron time!"

* * * * *

From "The Closing Scene."

=_408._=

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued,

The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang low;

As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed

His winter log, with many a muffled blow.

* * * * *

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew,

Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before,

Silent, till some replying warder blew

His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest,

Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young,

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,

By every light wind, like a censer, swung.

* * * * *

Amid all this, the centre of the scene,

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread,

Plied the swift wheel, and, with her joyless mien,

Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.

* * * * *

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,

Her country summoned, and she gave her all;

And twice war bowed to her his sable plume,

Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall--

Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew,

And struck for Liberty its dying blow;

Nor him who, to his sire and country true,

Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,

Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.

At last the thread was snapped; her head was bowed;

Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene;

And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud,

While death and winter closed the autumn scene.

* * * * *

=_Margaret M. Davidson, 1823-1837._= (Manual, p. 523.)

From Lines in Memory of her Sister Lucretia.

=_409._=

O thou, so early lost, so long deplored!

Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near;

And, while I touch this hallowed harp of thine,

Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear.

For thee I pour this unaffected lay;

To thee these simple numbers all belong:

For though thine earthly form has passed away,

Thy memory still inspires my childish song.

Take, then, this feeble tribute; 'tis thine own;

Thy fingers sweep my trembling heartstrings o'er,

Arouse to harmony each buried tone,

And bid its wakened music sleep no more.

Long has thy voice been silent, and thy lyre

Hung o'er thy grave, in death's unbroken rest;

But when its last sweet tones were borne away,

One answering echo lingered in my breast.

O thou pure spirit! if thou hoverest near,

Accept these lines, unworthy though they be,

Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine,

By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee.

* * * * *

=_John R. Thompson,[90] 1823-1873._=

=_410._= MUSIC IN CAMP.

Two armies covered hill and plain,

Where Rappahannock's waters

Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain

Of battle's recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents

In meads of heavenly azure,

And each dread gun of the elements

Slept in its hid embrazure.

The breeze so softly blew, it made

No forest leaf to quiver,

And the smoke of the random cannonade

Rolled slowly from the river.

And now, where circling hills looked down,

With cannon grimly planted,

O'er listless camp and silent town

The golden sunset slanted.

When on the fervid air there came

A strain--now rich and tender;

The music seemed itself aflame

With day's departing splendor.

And yet once more the bugles sang

Above the stormy riot;

No shout upon the evening rang--

There reigned a holy quiet,

The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood

Poured o'er the glistening pebbles;

All silent now the Yankees stood,

And silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heard

That plaintive note's appealing,

So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred

The hidden founts of feeling.

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees,

As by the wand of fairy,

The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees,

The cabin by the prairie.

Or cold or warm, his native skies

Bend in their beauty o'er him;

Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,

His loved ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain

In April's tearful weather,

The vision vanished, as the strain

And daylight died together.

But memory, waked by music's art,

Expressed in simplest numbers,

Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,

Made light the Rebel's slumbers.

And fair the form of music shines,

That bright, celestial creature,

Who still 'mid war's embattled lines,

Gave this one touch of Nature.

[Footnote 90: Received a liberal education and relinquishing his

profession--the law--for literature, was for some years editor of the

Southern Literary Messenger. Has written chiefly for the magazines and

for the newspapers. A native of Virginia.]

* * * * *

=_George Henry Boker, 1824-._= (Manual, p. 520.)

From the "Ode to a Mountain Oak."

=_411._= THE OAK AN EMBLEM.

Type of unbending Will!

Type of majestic self-sustaining Power!

Elate in sunshine, firm when tempests lower,

May thy calm strength my wavering spirit fill!

Oh! let me learn from thee,

Thou proud and steadfast tree,

To bear unmurmuring what stern Time may send;

Nor 'neath life's ruthless tempests bend:

But calmly stand like thee,

Though wrath and storm shake me,

Though vernal hopes in yellow Autumn end,

And, strong in truth, work out my destiny.

Type of long-suffering Power!

Type of unbending Will!

Strong in the tempest's hour,

Bright when the storm is still;

Rising from every contest with an unbroken heart,

Strengthen'd by every struggle, emblem of might thou art!

Sign of what man can compass, spite of an adverse state,

Still from thy rocky summit, teach us to war with Fate!

* * * * *

=_412._= DIRGE FOR A SAILOR.

Slow, slow! toll it low,

As the sea-waves break and flow;

With the same dull slumberous motion.

As his ancient mother, Ocean,

Rocked him on, through storm and calm,

From the iceberg to the palm:

So his drowsy ears may deem

That the sound which breaks his dream

Is the ever-moaning tide

Washing on his vessel's side.

Slow, slow! as we go.

Swing his coffin to and fro;

As of old the lusty billow

Swayed him on his heaving pillow:

So that he may fancy still,

Climbing up the watery hill,

Plunging in the watery vale,

With her wide-distended sail,

His good ship securely stands

Onward to the golden lands.

Slow, slow! heave-a-ho!--

Lower him to the mould below;

With the well-known sailor ballad,

Lest he grow more cold and pallid

At the thought that Ocean's child,

From his mother's arms beguiled.

Must repose for countless years,

Reft of all her briny tears,

All the rights he owned by birth,

In the dusty lap of earth.

* * * * *

=_William Allen Butler, 1825-._= (Manual, p. 521.)

From "Nothing to Wear."

=_413._=

O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day

Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway,

From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride,

And the temples of Trade which tower on each side,

To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt

Their children have gathered, their city have built;

Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey,

Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair;

Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt,

Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt,

Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair

To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old,

Half-starved, and half-naked, lie crouched from the cold.

See those skeleton limbs, and those frost-bitten feet,

All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street;

Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell

From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor,

Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell,

As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door;

Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare,

Spoiled children of Fashion--you've nothing to wear!

And O, if perchance there should be a sphere,

Where all is made right which so puzzles us here,

* * * * *

Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense,

Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence,

Must be clothed for the life and the service above,

With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love;

O daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware!

Lest in that upper realm, you have nothing to wear!

* * * * *

=_Bayard Taylor, 1825-._= (Manual, pp. 523, 531.)

From "The Atlantic Monthly."

=_414._= "THE BURDEN OF THE DAY."

I.

Who shall rise and cast away,

First, the Burden of the Day?

Who assert his place, and teach

Lighter labor, nobler speech,

Standing firm, erect, and strong,

Proud as Freedom, free as song?

II.

Lo! we groan beneath the weight

Our own weaknesses create;

Crook the knee and shut the lip,

All for tamer fellowship;

Load our slack, compliant clay

With the Burden of the Day!

III.

Higher paths there are to tread;

Fresher fields around us spread;

Other flames of sun and star

Flash at hand and lure afar;

Larger manhood might we share,

Surer fortune, did we dare!

IV.

In our mills of common thought

By the pattern all is wrought:

In our school of life, the man

Drills to suit the public plan,

And through labor, love and play,

Shifts the Burden of the Day.

V.

Power of all is right of none!

Right hath each beneath the sun

To the breadth and liberal space

Of the independent race,--

To the chariot and the steed,

To the will, desire, and deed!

VI.

Ah, the gods of wood and stone

Can a single saint dethrone,

But the people who shall aid

'Gainst the puppets they have made?

First they teach and then obey:

'Tis the Burden of the Day.

VII.

Thunder shall we never hear

In this ordered atmosphere?

Never this monotony feel

Shattered by a trumpet's peal?

Never airs that burst and blow

From eternal summits, know?

VIII.

Though no man resent his wrong,

Still is free the poet's song:

Still, a stag, his thought may leap

O'er the herded swine and sheep,

And in pastures far away

Lose the burden of the Day!

* * * * *

=_John Townsend Trowbridge,[91] 1827-._=

From the Atlantic Monthly.

=_415._= "DOROTHY IN THE GARRET."

In the low-raftered garret, stooping

Carefully over the creaking boards,

Old Maid Dorothy goes a-groping

Among its dusty and cobwebbed hoards;

Seeking some bundle of patches, hid

Far under the eaves, or bunch of sage,

Or satchel hung on its nail, amid

The heir-looms of a by-gone age.

There is the ancient family chest,

There the ancestral cards and hatchel;

Dorothy, sighing, sinks down to rest,

Forgetful of patches, sage, and satchel.

Ghosts of faces peer from the gloom

Of the chimney, where, with swifts and reel,

And the long-disused, dismantled loom,

Stands the old-fashioned spinning wheel.

She sees it back in the clean-swept kitchen,

A part of her girlhood's little world;

Her mother is there by the window, stitching;

Spindle buzzes, and reel is whirled

With many a click; on her little stool

She sits, a child by the open door,

Watching, and dabbling her feet in the pool

Of sunshine spilled on the gilded floor.

Her sisters are spinning all day long;

To her wakening sense, the first sweet warning

Of daylight come, is the cheerful song

To the hum of the wheel, in the early morning.

Benjie, the gentle, red-cheeked boy,

On his way to school, peeps in at the gate;

In neat, white pinafore, pleased and coy,

She reaches a hand to her bashful mate;

And under the elms, a prattling pair,

Together they go, through glimmer and gloom

It all comes back to her, dreaming there

In the low-raftered garret room;

The hum of the wheel, and the summer weather

The heart's first trouble, and love's beginning,

Are all in her memory linked together;

And now it is she herself that is spinning.

With the bloom of youth on cheek and lip,

Turning the spokes with the flashing pin,

Twisting the thread from the spindle-tip,

Stretching it out and winding it in,

To and fro, with a blithesome tread,

Singing she goes, and her heart is full,

And many a long-drawn golden thread

Of fancy, is spun with the shining wool.

[Footnote 91: After struggling through many early discouragements has

attained high repute, both in prose and verse. Has written several

novels. New York is his native State.]

* * * * *

=_Henry Timrod,[92] 1829-1867._=

From his "Poems."

=_416._= THE UNKNOWN DEAD.

The rain is plashing on my sill,

But all the winds of Heaven are still;

And so it falls with that dull sound

Which thrills us in the church-yard ground,

When the first spadeful drops like lead

Upon the coffin of the dead.

Beyond my streaming window-pane,

I cannot see the neighboring vane,

Yet from its old familiar tower

The bell comes, muffled, through the shower

What strange and unsuspected link

Of feeling touched, has made me think--

While with a vacant soul and eye

I watch that gray and stony sky--

Of nameless graves on battle-plains

Washed by a single winter's rains,

Where--some beneath Virginian hills,

And some by green Atlantic rills,

Some by the waters of the West--

A myriad unknown heroes rest?

Ah! not the chiefs, who, dying, see

Their flags in front of victory,

Or, at their life-blood's noble cost

Pay for a battle nobly lost,

Claim from their monumental beds

The bitterest tears a nation sheds.

Beneath yon lonely mound--the spot

By all save some fond few, forgot--

Lie the true martyrs of the fight

Which strikes for freedom and for right.

Of them, their patriot zeal and pride,

The lofty faith that with them died,

No grateful page shall farther tell

Than that so many bravely fell;

And we can only dimly guess

What worlds of all this world's distress,

What utter woe, despair, and dearth,

Their fate has brought to many a hearth.

Just such a sky as this should weep

Above them, always, where they sleep;

Yet, haply, at this very hour

Their graves are like a lover's bower;

And Nature's self, with eyes unwet,

Oblivious of the crimson debt

To which she owes her April grace,

Laughs gayly o'er their burial-place.

[Footnote 92: A native of South Carolina. He has a fine poetic sentiment,

with much beauty of expression, and is an especial favorite in the

South.]

* * * * *

=_Susan A. Talley Von Weiss,_=[93] about =_1830-._=

=_417._= THE SEA-SHELL.

Sadly the murmur, stealing

Through the dim windings of the mazy shell,

Seemeth some ocean-mystery concealing

Within its cell.

And ever sadly breathing,

As with the tone of far-off waves at play,

That dreamy murmur through the sea-shell wreathing

Ne'er dies away.

It is no faint replying

Of far-off melodies of wind and wave,

No echo of the ocean billow, sighing

Through gem-lit cave.

It is no dim retaining

Of sounds that through the dim sea-caverns swell

But some lone ocean spirit's sad complaining,

Within that cell.

* * * * *

I languish for the ocean--

I pine to view the billow's heaving crest;

I miss the music of its dream-like motion,

That lulled to rest.

How like art thou, sad spirit,

To many a one, the lone ones of the earth!

Who in the beauty of their souls inherit

A purer birth;

* * * * *

Yet thou, lone child of ocean,

May'st never more behold thine ocean-foam,

While they shall rest from each wild, sad emotion,

And find their home!

[Footnote 93: A native of Virginia; her poetical pieces have been much

admired.]

* * * * *

=_Albert Sutliffe,[94] 1830-._=

=_418._= "MAY NOON."

The farmer tireth of his half-day toil,

He pauseth at the plough,

He gazeth o'er the furrow-lined soil,

Brown hand above his brow.

He hears, like winds lone muffled 'mong the hills,

The lazy river run;

From shade of covert woods, the eager rills

Bound forth into the sun.

The clustered clouds of snowy apple-blooms,

Scarce shivered by a breeze,

With odor faint, like flowers in feverish rooms,

Fall, flake by flake, in peace.

'Tis labor's ebb; a hush of gentle joy,

For man, and beast, and bird;

The quavering songster ceases its employ;

The aspen is not stirred.

But Nature hath no pause; she toileth still;

Above the last-year leaves

Thrusts the lithe germ, and o'er the terraced hill

A fresher carpet weaves.

From many veins she sends her gathered streams

To the huge-billowed main,

Then through the air, impalpable as dreams,

She calls them back again.

She shakes the dew from her ambrosial locks,

She pours adown the steep

The thundering waters; in her palm, she rocks

The flower-throned bee to sleep.

Smile in the tempest, faint and fragile man,

And tremble in the calm!

God plainest shows what great. Jehovah can,

In these fair days of balm.

[Footnote 94: A native of Connecticut, but has lived for many years in

the West, and latterly in Minnesota.]

* * * * *

=_Elijah E. Edwards,[95] 1831-._=

=_419._= "LET ME REST."

"Let me rest!"

It was the voice of one

Whose life-long journey was but just begun.

With genial radiance shone his morning sun;

The lark sprang up rejoicing from her nest,

To warble praises in her Maker's ear;

The fields were clad in flower-enamelled vest,

And air of balm, and sunshine clear,

Failed not to cheer

That yet unweary pilgrim; but his breast

Was harrowed with a strange, foreboding fear;

Deeming the life to come, at best,

But weariness, he murmured, "Let me rest."

* * * * *

"Let me rest!"

But not at morning's hour,

Nor yet when clouds above my pathway lower;

Let me bear up against affliction's power,

Till life's red sun has sought its quiet west,

Till o'er me spreads the solemn, silent night,

When, having passed the portals of the blessed,

I may repose upon the Infinite,

And learn aright

Why He, the wise, the ever-loving, traced

The path to heaven through a desert waste.

Courage, ye fainting ones! at His behest

Ye pass through labor unto endless rest.

[Footnote 95: Born in Ohio; of late professor of ancient languages in

Minnesota; a contributor in prose and verse to various magazines.]

* * * * *

=_Paul Hamilton Hayne,[96] 1831-._=

=_420._= "OCTOBER."

The passionate summer's dead! the sky's aglow

With roseate flushes of matured desire;

The winds at eve are musical and low

As sweeping chords of a lamenting lyre,

Far up among the pillared clouds of fire,

Whose pomp in grand procession upward grows,

With gorgeous blazonry of funereal shows,

To celebrate the summer's past renown.

Ah, me! how regally the heavens look down,

O'ershadowing beautiful autumnal woods,

And harvest-fields with hoarded incense brown,

And deep-toned majesty of golden floods,

That lift their solemn dirges to the sky,

To swell the purple pomp that floateth by.

[Footnote 96: A poet and critic of much Note; a native of South

Carolina.]

* * * * *

=_Rosa V. Johnson Jeffrey_=[97] about =_1832-._=

=_421._= ANGEL WATCHERS.

Angel faces watch my pillow, angel voices haunt my sleep,--

And upon the winds of midnight, shining pinions round me sweep;

Floating downward on the starlight, two bright infant-forms I see--

They are mine, my own bright darlings, come from heaven to visit me.

Earthly children smile upon me, but those little ones' above,

Were the first to stir the fountains of a mother's deathless love,

And, as now they watch my slumber, while their soft eyes on me shine,

God forgive a mortal yearning still to call his angels mine.

Earthly children fondly call me, but no mortal voice can seem

Sweet as those that whisper "Mother!" 'mid the glories of my dream;

Years will pass, and earthly prattlers cease perchance to lisp my name;

But my angel babies' accents shall be evermore the same.

And the bright band now around me, from their home perchance will rove,

In their strength no more depending on my constant care and love;

But my first-born still shall wander, from the sky in dreams to rest

Their soft cheeks and shining tresses on an earthly mother's breast.

Time may steal away the freshness, or some 'whelming grief destroy

All the hopes that erst had blossomed, in my summer-time of joy;

Earthly children may forsake me, earthly friends perhaps betray,

Every tie that now unites me to this life may pass away;--

But, unchanged, those angel watchers, from their blest immortal home,

Pure and fair, to cheer the sadness of my darkened dreams shall come;

And I cannot feel forsaken, for, though 'reft of earthly love,

Angel children call me "Mother," and my soul will look above.

[Footnote 97: A native of Mississippi, but of late a resident of

Kentucky; the author of several novels, and of many poetical pieces.]

* * * * *

=_Sarah J. Lippincott._=

From Putnam's Magazine.

=_422._= "ABSOLUTION."

The long day waned, when spent with pain, I seemed

To drift on slowly toward the restful shore,--

So near, I breathed in balm, and caught faint gleams

Of Lotus-blooms that fringe the waves of death,

And breathless Palms that crown the heights of God.

Then I bethought me how dear hands would close

These wistful eyes in welcome night, and fold

These poor, tired hands in blameless idleness.

In tender mood I pictured forth the spot

Wherein I should be laid to take my rest.

"It shall be in some paradise of graves,

Where Sun and Shade do hold alternate watch;

Where Willows sad trail low their tender green,

And pious Elms build arches worshipful,

O'ertowered by solemn Pines, in whose dark tops

Enchanted storm-winds sigh through summer-nights;

The stalwart exile from fair Lombardy,

And slender Aspens, whose quiet, watchful leaves

Give silver challenge to the passing breeze,

And softly flash and clash like fairy shields,

Shall sentinel that quiet camping ground;

The glow and grace of flowers will flood those mounds

An ever-widening sea of billowy bloom;

And not least lovely shall my grave-sod be,

With Myrtles blue, and nestling Violets,

And Star-flowers pale with watching--Pansies, dark,

With mourning thoughts, and Lilies saintly pure;

Deep-hearted Roses, sweet as buried love,

And Woodbine-blossoms dripping honeyed dew

Over a tablet and a sculptured name.

There little song-birds, careless of my sleep,

Shall shake fine raptures from their throats, and thrill

With life's triumphant joy the ear of Death;

And lovely, gauzy creatures of an hour

Preach immortality among the graves.

The chime of silvery waters shall be there--

A pleasant stream that winds among the flowers,

But lingers not, for that it ever hears,

Through leagues of wood and field and towered town,

The great sea calling from his secret deeps."

'Twas here, methought or dreamed, an angel came

And stood beside my couch, and bent on me

A face of solemn questioning, still and stern,

But passing beautiful, and searched my soul

With steady eyes, the while he seemed to say.

What hast thou done here, child, that thy poor dust

Should lie embosomed in such loveliness?

Why should the gracious trees stand guard o'er thee?

Hast thou aspired, like them, through all thy life,

And rest and healing with thy shadow cast?

Have deeds of thine brightened the world like flowers,

And sweetened it with holiest charities?

* * * * *

=_Edmund Clarence Stedman,[98] 1833-._=

From "The Blameless Prince and other Poems."

=_423._= THE MOUNTAINS.

Two thousand feet in air it stands

Betwixt the bright and shaded lands,

Above the regions it divides

And borders with its furrowed sides.

The seaward valley laughs with light

Till the round sun o'erhangs this height;

But then, the shadow of the crest

No more the plains that lengthen west

Enshrouds, yet slowly, surely creeps

Eastward, until the coolness steeps

A darkling league of tilth and wold,

And chills the flocks that seek their fold.

Not like those ancient summits lone,

Mont Blanc on his eternal throne,--

The city-gemmed Peruvian, peak,--

The sunset portals landsmen seek,

Whose train, to reach the Golden Land,

Crawls slow and pathless through the sand,--

Or that whose ice-lit beacon guides

The mariner on tropic tides,

And flames across the Gulf afar,

A torch by day, by night a star,--

Not thus to cleave the outer skies.

Does my serener mountain rise.

Nor aye forget its gentle birth

Upon the dewey, pastoral earth.

But ever, in the noonday light,

Are scenes whereof I love the sight,--

Broad pictures of the lower world

Beneath my gladdened eyes unfurled.

Irradiate distances reveal

Fair nature wed to human weal;

The rolling valley made a plain;

Its chequered squares of grass and grain;

The silvery rye, the golden wheat,

The flowery elders where they meet,--

Ay, even the springing corn I see,

And garden haunts of bird and bee;

And where, in daisied meadows, shines

The wandering river through its vines,

Move, specks at random, which I know

Are herds a-grazing to and fro.

[Footnote 98: Was born in Connecticut but has long resided in New York,

where he has combined an active business life with literary pursuits--a

favorite contributor to that magazines.]

* * * * *

=_John James Piatt,[99] 1835-._=

From "Landmarks and other Poems."

=_424._= LONG AGO.

Though for the soul a lovely Heaven awaits,

Through years of woe,

The Paradise with angels in its gates

Is Long Ago.

The heart's lost Home! Ah, thither winging ever,

In silence, show

Vanishing faces! but they vanish never

In Long Ago!

Ye toil'd through desert sands to reach To-morrow,

With footsteps slow,

Poor Yesterdays! Immortal gleams ye borrow

In Long Ago.

The world is dark: backward our thoughts are yearning,

Our eyes o'erflow:

Sweet Memories, angels to our tears returning,

Leave Long Ago.

We climb: child-roses to our knees are climbing,

From valleys low;

To call us back, dear birds and brooks are rhyming

In Long Ago.

Hands clasp'd, tears shed, sad songs are sung!--the fair

Beloved ones, lo!

Shine yonder, through the angel gates of air,

In Long Ago.

[Footnote 99: Of Western birth and education. His verse though somewhat

crude, has a flow of tenderness and freshness.]

* * * * *

=_Celia Thaxter,[100] 1835-._=

From The Atlantic Monthly.

=_425._= "REGRET."

Softly Death touched her, and she passed away,

Out of this glad, bright world she made more fair;

Sweet as the apple blossoms, when in May,

The orchards flush, of summer grown aware.

All that fresh delicate beauty gone from sight,

That gentle, gracious presence felt no more!

How must the house be emptied of delight!

What shadows on the threshold she passed o'er!

She loved me. Surely I was grateful, yet

I could not give her back all she gave me,--

Ever I think of it with vain regret,

Musing upon a summer by the sea:

Remembering troops of merry girls who pressed

About me, clinging arms and tender eyes,

And love, light scent of roses. With the rest

She came to fill my heart with new surprise.

The day I left them all and sailed away,

While o'er the calm sea, 'neath the soft gray sky

They waved farewell, she followed me to say

Yet once again her wistful, sweet "good by."

At the boat's bow she drooped; her light green dress

Swept o'er the skiff in many a graceful fold,

Her glowing face, bright with a mute caress,

Crowned with her lovely hair of shadowy gold:

And tears she dropped into the crystal brine

For me, unworthy, as we slowly swung

Free of the mooring. Her last look was mine,

Seeking me still the motley crowd among.

O tender memory of the dead I hold

So precious through the fret and change of years!

Were I to live till Time itself grew old,

The sad sea would be sadder for those tears.

[Footnote 100: A native of New Hampshire; long resident on the Isles of

Shoals, and remarkable for her vivid pictures of ocean life, in both

prose and verse.]

* * * * *

=_Theophilus H. Hill.[101] 1836-._=

From "The Song of the Butterfly."

=_426._=

When the shades of evening fall,

Like the foldings of a pall,--

When the dew is on the flowers,

And the mute, unconscious hours,

Still pursue their noiseless flight

Through the dreamy realms of night,

In the shut or open rose

Ah, how sweetly I repose!

* * * * *

And Diana's starry train,

Sweetly scintillant again,

Never sleep while I repose

On the petals of the rose.

Sweeter couch hath who than I?

Quoth the brilliant Butterfly.

Life is but a summer day,

Gliding languidly away;

Winter comes, alas! too soon,--

Would it were forever June!

Yet though brief my flight may be,

Fun and frolic still for me!

When the summer leaves and flowers,

Now so beautiful and gay,

In the cold autumnal showers,

Droop and fade, and pine away,

Who would not prefer to die?

What were life to _such as I_?

Quoth the flaunting Butterfly.

[Footnote 101: Born in North Carolina; in the intervals of his law

practice has published a volume of poems.]

* * * * *

=_Thomas Hailey Aldrich.[102] 1836-._=

From his "Poems."

=_427._= THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS.

Kind was my friend who, in the Eastern land,

Remembered me with such a gracious hand,

And sent this Moorish Crescent which has been

Worn on the tawny bosom of a queen.

No more it sinks and rises in unrest

To the soft music of her heathen breast;

No barbarous chief shall bow before it more,

No turbaned slave shall envy and adore!

I place beside this relic of the Sun

A cross of Cedar brought from Lebanon,

Once 'borne, perchance, by some pale monk who trod

The desert to Jerusalem--and his God!

Here do they lie, two symbols of two creeds,

Each meaning something to our human needs,

Both stained with blood, and sacred made by faith,

By tears, and prayers, and martyrdom, and death.

That for the Moslem is, but this for me!

The waning Crescent lacks divinity:

It gives me dreams of battles, and the woes

Of women shut in hushed seraglios.

But when this Cross of simple wood I see,

The Star of Bethlehem shines again for me,

And glorious visions break upon my gloom--

The patient Christ, and Mary at the Tomb!

[Footnote 102: Born in New Hampshire, but long connected with the press in

New York. Has produced several volumes of poetry of unusual beauty and

finish.]

* * * * *

=_Francis Bret Harte._=

From his "Poems."

=_428._= DICKENS IN CAMP.

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,

The river ran below;

The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting

Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted

The ruddy tints of health,

On haggard face, and form that drooped and fainted

In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure

A hoarded volume drew,

And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure,

To hear the tale anew;

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,

And as the firelight fell,

He read aloud the book wherein the Master

Had writ of "Little Nell."

Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,--for the reader

Was youngest of them all,--

But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar,

A silence seemed to fall.

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,

Listened in every spray,

While the whole camp, with "Nell" on English meadows,

Wandered, and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes--o'ertaken

As by some spell divine--

Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken

From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp I and wasted all its fire:

And he who wrought that spell?--

Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,

Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story

Blend with the breath that thrills

With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory

That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak and holly

And laurel wreaths intwine,

Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,--

This spray of Western pine!

* * * * *

From "East and West Poems."

=_429._= THE TWO SHIPS.

As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest,

Looking over the ultimate sea,

In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest,

And one sails away from the lea:

One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track,

With pennant and sheet flowing free;

One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback,--

The ship that is waiting for me!

But lo, in the distance the clouds break away!

The Gate's glowing portals I see;

And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bay

The song of the sailors in glee:

So I think of the luminous footprints that bore

The comfort o'er dark Galilee,

And wait for the signal to go to the shore,

To the ship that is waiting for me.

* * * * *

=_Charles Dimitry,[103] 1838-._=

=_430._= "THE SERGEANT'S STORY."

Our army lay,

At break of day,

A full league from the foe away.

At set of sun,

The battle done,

We cheered our triumph, dearly won.

* * * * *

All night before,

We marked the roar

Of hostile guns that on us bore;

And 'here and there,

The sudden blare

Of fitful bugles smote the air.

No idle word

The quiet stirred

Among us as the morning neared;

And brows were bent,

As silent went

Unto its post each regiment.

Blank broke the day,

And wan and gray

The drifting clouds went on their way.

So sad the morn,

Our colors torn,

Upon the ramparts drooped forlorn!

At early sun,

The vapors dun

Were lifted by a nearer gun;

At stroke of nine,

Auspicious sign

The sun shone out along the line.

Then loud and clear,

From cannoneer

And rifleman arose a cheer;

For as the gray

Mists cleared away,

We saw the charging foe's array.

[Footnote 103: Of a Louisiana family: is considered one of the most

promising of the young writers of the South. The present is a favorable

specimen of the poetry of the secession writers.]

* * * * *

=_John Hay._=[104]

From "Pike County Ballads."

=_431._= THE PRAIRIE.

The skies are blue above my head,

The prairie green below,

And flickering o'er the tufted grass

The shifting shadows go,

Vague-sailing, where the feathery clouds

Fleck white the tranquil skies,

Black javelins darting where aloft

The whirring pheasant flies.

A glimmering plain in drowsy trance

The dim horizon bounds,

Where all the air is resonant

With sleepy summer sounds,--

The life that sings among the flowers,

The lisping of the breeze,

The hot cicada's sultry cry,

The murmurous dream of bees.

The butterfly--a flying flower--

Wheels swift in flashing rings,

And flutters round his quiet kin

With brave flame-mottled wings.

The wild Pinks burst in crimson fire,

The Phlox' bright clusters shine,

And Prairie-cups are swinging free

To spill their airy wine.

* * * * *

Far in the East, like low-hung clouds

The waving woodlands lie;

Far in the West, the glowing plain

Melts warmly in the sky;

No accent wounds the reverent air,

No foot-print dints the sod,--

Lone in the light the prairie lies,

Rapt in a dream of God.

[Footnote 104: Born in Indiana. Gave up the practice of the law to become

Secretary and Aide-de-camp to President Lincoln. Served briefly in the

Rebellion war with the rank of Colonel, and was afterward Secretary of

Legation at Paris and Madrid, and for some months, Chargé d'Affaires at

Vienna. Subsequently applied himself to literature and journalism.]

* * * * *

=_Joaquin Miller._=[105]

From "Songs of the Sierras."

=_432._= THE FUTURE OF CALIFORNIA.

Dared I but say a prophecy,

As sang the holy men of old,

Of rock-built cities yet to be

Along those shining shores of gold,

Crowding athirst into the sea,

What wondrous marvels might be told!

Enough to know that empire here

Shall burn her brightest, loftiest star;

Here art and eloquence shall reign,

As o'er the wolf-reared realm of old;

Here learn'd and famous from afar,

To pay their noble court, shall come,

And shall not seek or see in vain,

But look on all, with wonder dumb.

Afar the bright Sierras lie,

A swaying line of snowy white,

A fringe of heaven hung in sight

Against the blue base of the sky.

I look along each gaping gorge,

I near a thousand sounding strokes,

Like giants rending giant oaks,

Or brawny Vulcan at his forge;

I see pick-axes flash and shine,

And great wheels whirling in a mine.

Here winds a thick and yellow thread,

A moss'd and silver stream instead;

And trout that leap'd its rippled tide

Have turn'd upon their sides and died.

Lo! when the last pick in the mine

Is rusting red with idleness,

And rot yon cabins in the mould,

And wheels no more croak in distress,

And tall pines reassert command,

Sweet bards along this sunset shore

Their mellow melodies will pour;

Will charm as charmers very wise,

Will strike the harp with master-hand,

Will sound unto the vaulted skies

The valor of these men of old--

The mighty men of 'Forty-nine;

Will sweetly sing and proudly say,

Long, long agone, there was a day

When there were giants in the land.

[Footnote 105: Cincinnatus Heine Miller, commonly known by his assumed

name of Joaquin Miller. Born in Indiana, but was taken when very young

to Oregon. After a wild career in Oregon and California, he at length

studied for the law. His poetry, like his life, is of an eccentric

cast.]

* * * * *

=_Joel Chandler Harris,[106] 1846-._=

=_433._= "AGNES."

She has a tender, winning way,

And walks the earth with gentle grace,

And roses with the lily play

Amid the beauties of her face.

When'er she tunes her voice to sing,

The song-birds list, with anxious looks,

For it combines the notes of spring

With all the music of the brooks.

Her merry laughter, soft and low,

Is as the chimes of silver bells,--

That like sweet anthems float, and flow

Through woodland groves and bosky dells,

And when the violets see her eyes,

They flush and glow--with love and shame,

They meekly droop with sad surprise,

As though unworthy of the name.

But still they bloom where'er she throws

Her dainty glance and smiles so sweet.

And e'en amid stern winter's snows

The daisies spring beneath her feet.

She wears a crown of Purity,

Full set with woman's brightest gem,--

A wreath of maiden modesty,

And Virtue is the diadem.

And when the pansies bloom again,

And spring and summer intertwine.

Great joys will fall on me like rain,

For she will be for ever mine!

[Footnote 106: A native of Georgia; is deemed one of the best of the

younger poets of the South.]