_OUR LIVES_
Our lives are songs. God writes the words,
And we set them to music at pleasure;
And the song grows glad, or sweet, or sad,
As we choose to fashion the measure.
We must write the music, whatever the song,
Whatever its rhyme, or metre;
And if it is sad, we can make it glad.
Or if sweet, we can make it sweeter.
One has a song that is free and strong;
But the music he writes is minor;
And the sad, sad strain is replete with pain,
And the singer becomes a repiner.
And he thinks God gave him a dirge-like lay.
Nor knows that the words are cheery;
And the song seems lonely and solemn--only
Because the music is dreary.
And the song of another has through the words
An under current of sadness;
But he sets it to music of ringing chords,
And makes it a pean of gladness.
So, whether our songs are sad or not,
We can give the world more pleasure.
And better ourselves, by setting the words
To a glad, triumphant measure.
_THE MESSENGER_
She rose up, in the early dawn,
And white, and silently she moved
About the house: Four men had gone
To battle for the land they loved:
And she, the mother, and the wife.
Waited for tidings from the strife.
How still the house seemed; and her tread
Sounded like footsteps of the dead.
The long day passed. The dark night came.
She had not seen a human face.
Some voice spoke suddenly her name.
How loud it sounded in that place
Where, day on day, no sound was heard
But her own footsteps. "Bring you word,"
She cried, to whom she could not see--
"Word from the battle plain to me?"
A soldier entered at the door,
And stood within the dim firelight.
"I bring you tidings of the four,"
He said, "Who left you for the fight."
"God bless you friend!" she cried, "speak on!"
For I can bear it. "One is gone?"
"Ay! one is gone!" he said, "Which one?"
"Dear lady--he, your eldest son."
A deathly pallor shot across
Her withered face: she did not weep.
She said, "It is a grievous loss,
But God gives his beloved sleep.
What of the living--of the three,
And when can they come back to me?"
The soldier turned away his head,
"Lady, your husband too, is dead."
She put her hand upon her brow.
A wild, sharp pain, was in her eyes,
"My husband? oh God help me now."
The soldier shivered at her sighs.
The task was harder than he thought.
"Your youngest son, dear madam, fought
Close at his father's side: both fell
Dead, by the bursting of a shell."
She moved her lips and seemed to moan.
Her face had paled to ashen grey--
"Then one is left me--one alone,"
She said, "of four who marched away.
Oh, Over-ruling, All-wise God,
How can I pass beneath Thy rod!"
The soldier walked across the floor.
Paused at the window, at the door--
Wiped the cold dew drops from his cheek
And sought the mourner's side again.
"Once more, dear lady, I must speak.
Your last remaining son was slain
Just at the closing of the fight,
'Twas he who sent me here to-night."
"God knows," the man said afterward,
"The fight itself, was not as hard."
1871.
_IDLE_
I sit in the twilight dim,
At the close of an idle day,
And list to the sweet, soft hymn
That rises far away
And dies on the evening air.
Oh, all day long they sing their song
Who toil in the valley there.
But never a song sing I,
Sitting with folded hands.
The hours pass me by,
Dropping their golden sands.
And I list from day to day
To the tick, tick, tock, of the old brown clock
Ticking my life away.
And I see the sunlight fade,
And I see the night come on;
And then, in the gloom and shade,
I weep for the day that is gone.
Weep, and wail, in pain,
For the misspent day that has flown away
And will not come again.
Another morning beams,
But I forget the last,
And sit in my idle dreams
Till the day is overpast.
Oh, the toiler's heart is glad
When the day is gone and the night comes on,
But mine is sore, and sad.
For I dare not look behind:
No shining, golden sheaves
Can I ever hope to find--
Nothing but withered leaves.
Ah! dreams are very sweet!
But will it please if only these
I lay at the Master's feet.
And what will the Master say,
To dreams and nothing more?
Oh, idler all the day!
Think, ere thy life is o'er!
And when the day grows late.
Oh, soul of sin, will He let you in
There at the pearly gate?
Oh, idle heart beware!
On, to the field of strife!
On to the valley there,
And live a useful life.
Up! do not wait a day,
For the old brown clock, with its tick, tick, tock,
Is ticking your life away.
1869.
_YE AGENTS_
These agent men! these agent men!
We hear the dreaded step again,
We see a stranger at the door;
And brace ourselves for war once more.
He bows and smiles. "Walk in," we say.
He smiles again. "I come to-day.
Dear Madam, with a great invention;
And Sir, pray give me _your_ attention;
Now here, you see, is something new.
And just the thing, my friends, for you."
In vain we interrupt and say:
"We shall not buy of you to-day."
"But, Madam, Sir, you have not seen
The beauties of this new machine;
When thus arranged, your old affair,
'Tis plain to see, is just nowhere."
"No doubt," I say; "'Tis very fine,
And quite superior to mine."
This gives him courage. On he goes,
And every sentence glibly flows,
Until his lesson is repeated
To "warranted if fitly treated."
"Yes, new and fine, and grand," we say,
"But still, we shall not buy to-day."
"But, Madam, Sir, pray list to reason,
'Twill buy itself in half a season;
You see the thing is bound to go."
"Oh, certainly, we see, we know.
But still, we do not wish to buy."
He turns and leaves as with a sigh.
And while we hasten to our labor
He goes and persecutes our neighbor.
But lo! another follows on,
Before the last is fairly gone.
One day a reaper, next a mower,
And then a fanning mill, and sower;
Machines of all kinds 'neath the sun,
Each better than the other one;
A rocker for each dining chair,
A brace to hold the broom in air,
A book, just out, and you must buy
Or give a proper reason why.
So, if we sometimes turn away
Abruptly, Sirs, you must remember,
That we have heard your tale each day
From early Spring to late December.
Why! if we listened to you all,
And gave you the required attention,
I think ere long each one would call,
The "county house," the _best_ invention.
1869
_WARNED_
They stood at the garden gate.
By the lifting of a lid
She might have read her fate
In a little thing he did.
He plucked a beautiful flower,
Tore it away from its place
On the side of the blooming bower,
And held it against his face.
Drank in its beauty and bloom,
In the midst of his idle talk;
Then cast it down to the gloom
And dust of the garden walk.
Ay, trod it under his foot,
As it lay in his pathway there;
Then spurned it away with his boot,
Because it had ceased to be fair.
Ah! the maiden might have read
The doom of her young life then;
But she looked in his eyes instead,
And thought him the king of men.
She looked in his eyes and blushed,
She hid in his strong arms' fold;
And the tale of the flower, crushed
And spurned, was once more told.
_LIFE_
An infant wailing in nameless fear;
A shadow, perchance, in the quiet room,
Or the hum of an insect flying near,
Or the screech-owl's cry, in the outer gloom.
A little child on the sun-checked floor,
A broken toy, and a tear-stained face,
A young life clouded, a young heart sore;
And the great clock, time, ticks on apace.
A maiden weeping in bitter pain,
Two white hands clasped on an aching brow.
A blighted faith and a fond hope slain,
A shattered trust and a broken vow.
A matron holding a baby's shoe,
The hot tears gather, and fall at will
On the knotted ribbon of white and blue,
For the foot that wore it is cold and still.
An aged woman upon her bed,
Worn, and wearied, and poor and old,
Longing to rest with the happy dead.
And thus the story of life is told.
Where is the season of careless glee?
Where is the moment that holds no pain?
Life has its crosses from infancy
Down to the grave; and its hopes are vain.
1870.
_STARS_
Astronomers may gaze the heavens o'er,
Discovering wonders, great, perhaps, and true!
That stars are worlds, and peopled like our own,
But I shall never think as these men do.
I shall believe them little shining things,
Fashioned from heavenly ore, and filled with light.
And to the sky above, so smoothly blue,
An angel comes and nails them, every night.
And I have seen him. You no doubt would think
A white cloud, sailed across the heavens blue.
But as I watched the feathery thing, it was
An angel nailing up the stars I knew.
And all night long they shine for us below;
Shine in pale splendor, till the mighty sun
Wakes up again. And then the angel comes,
And gathers in his treasures, one by one.
How sweet the task! Oh, when this life is done,
And I have joined the angel band on high,
Of all that throng, oh may it be my lot.
To nail the stars upon the evening sky.
1868.
_FADING_
She sits beside the window. All who pass
Turn once again to gaze on her sweet face.
She is so fair; but soon, too soon, alas,
To lie down in her last low resting place.
No gems are brighter than her sparkling eyes.
Her brow like polished marble, white and fair--
Her cheeks as glowing as the sunset skies--
You would not dream that death was lurking there.
But, oh! he lingers closely at her side.
And when the forest dons its Autumn dress,
We know that he will claim her as his bride,
And earth will number one fair spirit less.
She sees the meadow robed in richest green--
The laughing stream--the willows bending o'er.
With tear dimmed eyes she views each sylvan scene,
And thinks earth never was so fair before.
We do not sigh for Heaven, till we have known,
Something of sorrow, something of grief and woe,
And as a summer day her life has flown.
Then, can we wonder she is loath to go?
She has no friends in Heaven: all are here.
No lost one waits her in that unknown land,
And life grows doubly, trebly sweet and dear,
As day by day, she nears the mystic strand.
We love her and we grieve to see her go.
But it is Christ who calls her to His breast,
And He shall greet her, and she soon shall know
The joys of souls that dwell among the blest.
1869.
_HAUNTED_
"We walk upon the sea-shore, you and I,
Just two alone," you say. But there are three;
A tall and manly form is walking nigh,
And as I move, he moves along with me.
Your shadow? No, for shadows do not speak,
And he is speaking, tenderly and low,
Words that bring crimson blushes to my cheek,
You cannot hear, the sea is sounding so.
But it is strange you cannot see him there,
My darling with the broad and snowy brow.
You never saw a face so grandly fair.
I'll stand aside--there, do you see him now?
No! well you jest, or else you're growing blind;
Blue eyes are never very strong, you know;
This summer sun and wind are bad combined,
You should not walk here where the sea gales blow.
Ah, he who walks here at my side has eyes
That sun, nor wind can dim their eagle sight,
You've seen the thunder cloud in stormy skies--
Well, so his eyes are, full of purple light.
Dead! what a foolish thing for you to say,
When I can see him walking at my side;
Just as we walked a year ago to-day,
When first I promised him to be his bride.
Go, leave us. We had rather be alone.
Your words are wild to-day. Go, let me be
With him a while. And when an hour has flown
I'll follow you. But now he waits for me.
_GHOSTS_
There are ghosts in the room,
As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there
They come out of the gloom
And they stand at my side, and they lean on my chair.
There's the ghost of a hope
That lighted my days with a fanciful glow.
In her hand is the rope
That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.
But her ghost comes to-night,
With its skeleton face, and expressionless eyes,
And it stands in the light,
And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.
There's the ghost of a Joy,
A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much,
And the hands that destroy
Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.
There's the ghost of a love,
Born with joy, reared with Hope, died in pain and unrest,
But he towers above
All the others--this ghost: yet a ghost at the best.
I am weary, and fain
Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host
Make the struggle in vain,
In each shadowy corner, there lurketh a ghost.
1869
_TIM'S STORY_
I was out promenading one fine summer day,
When I chanced upon three bosom cronies to stray,
And a beer shop we happened to pass on our way.
"Now boys," said I, stopping them all with a wink,
"If you'll step round the corner, I'll treat to a drink;
How is it, my hearties? now, what do you think?"
So, into the bar-room we dropped in a flash,
And up to the keeper I went with a dash:
"Four glasses of lager, and none of your trash,
But the best and the foamiest money can bring,"
Was the order I gave, with the air of a king;
And mine host fluttered off, like a bird on the wing.
Just then an old toper dropped in from the street,
A jolly old soak, with a nose like a beet.
And he said, "Now, my rummys, I'll share in that treat."
But I said to my cronies, "Say boys, look ye there!
Do you 'spose such a nosey will fall to our share?"
Quoth the toper, "Keep drinking, my lads, and you'll wear
A nose like my own, or I miss in my guess."
"Why," said Ned, "it resembles the light of distress."
Said Tom, "It's the color of Sally Ann's dress."
Said Billy, "It looks like the sun's ruddy bed,
And shines like the top of my grandfather's head."
Said I, "It is ready, I think, to be bled."
"Now thank ye, my lads," said old soak with a bow,
"But gulp down your lager, 'twill soon show ye how
Red noses are painted and polished, I vow."
I turned to my cronies: "Now, boys, look ye here!
I wouldn't, I say, for ten thousand a year,
Have my nose grow to look like the one beaming near!"
"Nor I, sir!" "Nor I, sir!" "Nor I!" cried each chum;
Then, said I, "A good-bye to all beer, ale, and rum,
And hurrah for cold water! my boys, will ye come?"
"We are ready and willing," said Tom, Bill and Ned.
"Let's get us a pledge, boys, and sign it," I said--
And so at next meeting, four names were read
In the Temperance column. And now should you be
In these parts, and a fine-looking fellow should see,
You may know it is one of my cronies, or me.
By lectures, and preaching, some fellows are won,
But you see it is different with us: it was done
By the jolly old soak, with a nose like the sun!
1870.
_MEMORY'S GARDEN_
Back on its golden hinges
The gate of Memory swings,
And my heart goes into the garden
And walks with the olden things.
The old-time, joys and pleasures.
The loves that it used to know,
It meets there in the garden.
And they wander to and fro.
It heareth a peal of laughter,
It seeth a face most fair.
It thrills with a wild, strange rapture
At the glance of a dark eye there;
It strayeth under the sunset
In the midst of a merry throng,
And beats in a tuneful measure,
To the snatch of a floating song.
It heareth a strain of music
Swell on the dreamy air,
A strain that is never sounded,
Save in the garden there.
It wanders among the roses,
And thrills at a long-lost kiss,
And glows at the touch of fingers,
In a tremor of foolish bliss.
But all is not fair in the garden,--
There's a sorrowing sob of pain;
There are tear-drops, bitter, scalding,
And the roses are tempest-slain.
And I shut the gate of the garden.
And walk in the Present's ways.
For its quiet paths are better
Than the pain of those vanished days!
_MYSTERIES_
In God's vast wisdom, infinite and grand--
Too vast, too infinite, for mortal mind--
There are some things I cannot understand.
In all His paths, in all His ways, I find
Some subtle mysteries of life and death--
Some marvels that I cannot comprehend,
Nor can I hope to know them till the end,
When all shall be made plain, above--beneath.
There are so many of His righteous deeds--
There is so much that unto me is plain,
I have no time to wonder--have no needs
To question why, and wherefore. In the main
My _mortal_ eyes see that His works are good.
Whatever else seems strange, and dark, and dim,
I am content to leave in faith with Him,
And in His time, it will be understood.
These labyrinths wherein many souls are lost--
These waters, whereon some barks lose the shore,
But draw me nearer to the Heavenly Host,
But make me love and worship God the more.
There is enough that I do see and know--
There is enough that I can understand,
And sometime Christ shall take me by the hand.
Explaining all that seems so strange below.
1870.
_WHAT THE WINDS TOLD ME_
The winds come from the West,
Come softly, mildly,
"What tidings do you bring?"
I questioned wildly.
They sang a tender tune,
And answered lightly--
"Your darling's path is fair!
The sun shines brightly."
The winds came from the West,
Came shrieking, groaning.
"What tidings now, oh wind?"
My heart cried moaning.
They answered loud, and wild,
"When danger stalketh--
And death is waiting, near,
Your darling walketh."
The winds came from the West,
Came weeping, wailing.
"Oh, tell me, tell me, winds!"
My heart cried, failing.
"Where none are near to soothe,"
They answered sighing,
"In loneliness and pain,
Your love is dying!"
The winds came from the West!
Came sadly sobbing.
And with an awful fear,
My heart was throbbing.
I wildly questioned them
Amidst my weeping,
"All still, and white," they said,
"Your love is sleeping."
1870
_SOMETIMES_
Sometimes when I am all alone,
Away from noise and strife,
The many faults and weaknesses,
That rule my daily life
Seem to die out. And as I sit
From worldliness apart,
All that is good and pure obtains
The mastery of my heart.
And then my soul turns heavenward,
And I commune with God.
I long to tread the narrow path
That Christ before me trod.
I long to see his precious face--
To go where angels go,
To leave the fleeting, fading things
That make up life below.
My soul expands with ecstasy,
My heart grows brave, and strong,
To meet whatever lies ahead--
To battle down the wrong.
No sorrow can affright my soul,
No earthly ill, I fear,
While in that blessed trance I sit
And feel that God is near.
And then I mingle with the world.
And falter day by day,
Until at last I walk within
The olden, sinful way.
O, shall I even grow in grace,
O shall I ever be,
Ready to meet the judgment day--
Fit for eternity?
1869.
_BLIND SORROW_
One bitter time of mourning, I remember,
When day, and night, my sad heart did complain,
My life, I said, was one cold, bleak December,
And all its pleasures, were but whited pain.
Nothing could rouse me from my sullen sorrow,
Because you were not near, I would not smile.
And from a score of joys refused to borrow
One ray of light, to gild the weary while.
But all the blessing God has given, scorning,
I wept because we were so far apart,
And spent my time in idle, aimless mourning,
That only kept the grief fresh in my heart--
God pity me! I know now we were nearer.
With all these intervening miles of space--
That life was sweeter, and the future dearer.
Than when to-day I met you, face to face!
God meant to break it gently--ease my anguish,
But I rebelled, and caviled at His will.
Now, seeing His great wisdom, though I languish,
In bitter pain, I trust His mercy still.
_"BE NOT WEARY"_
Sometimes, when I am toil-worn and aweary,
All tired out, with working long, and well,
And earth is dark, and skies above are dreary,
And heart and soul are all too sick to tell,
These words have come to me, like angel fingers,
Pressing the spirit eyelids down in sleep.
"Oh, let us not be weary in well doing,
For in due season, we shall surely reap."
Oh, blessed promise! when I seem to hear it,
Whispered by angel voices on the air,
It breathes new life, and courage to my spirit,
And gives me strength to suffer and forbear.
And I can wait most patiently for harvest,
And cast my seeds, nor ever faint, nor weep,
If I know surely, that my work availeth,
And in God's season, I at last shall reap.
When mind and body were borne down completely
And I have thought my efforts were all vain,
These words have come to me, so softly, sweetly,
And whispered hope, and urged me on again.
And though my labor seems all unavailing,
And all my strivings fruitless, yet the Lord
Doth treasure up each little seed I scatter,
And sometime, _sometime_, I shall reap reward.
1870.
_TO THOSE WHO NEVER PRAY_
O! you who never bend the knee,
And never lift the heart,
How do you live from year to year,
And living, act your part.
How do you rise up in the morn,
And pass the whole day through,
Without the Saviour at your side
To guide and strengthen you.
How do you meet the daily ills
That try the temper so!
That fret the heart and wear the soul
More than some master woe.
How do you close your eyes and sleep,
And how your crosses bear;
(Each has a cross, or small, or large)
Without the aid of prayer?
How do you meet the mighty griefs,
That rush upon the soul,
Engulfing it in bitterness.
As angry waters roll?
How do you live _at all_, is one
Deep mystery to me.
Oh, you who never lift the heart
And never bend the knee.
1870.
_HUNG_
Nine o'clock, and the sun shines as yellow and warm,
As though 'twere a fete day. I wish it would storm:
Wish the thunder would crash,
And the red lightning flash,
And lap the black clouds, with its serpentine tongue--
The day is _too_ calm, for a man to be hung.
Hung! ugh, what a word!
The most heartless, and horrible, ear ever heard.
He has murdered, and plundered, and robbed, so "they say,"
Been the scourge of the country, for many a day.
He was lawless and wild;
Man, woman, or child
Met no mercy, no pity, if found in his path.
He was worse than a beast of the woods, in his wrath.
And yet--to be _hung_,
Oh, my God! to be swung
By the neck to, and fro, for the rabble to see--
The thought sickens me.
Thirty minutes past nine. How the time hurries by,
But a half hour remains, at ten he will die.
Die? No! he'll be _killed!_
For God never willed
Men should die in this way.
"Vengeance is mine," He saith, "I will repay."
Yet what could be done,
With this wild, lawless one!
No prison could hold him, and so--he must swing,
It's a horrible thing.
Outcast, Desperado, Fiend, Knave; all of these
And more. But call him whatever you please
I cannot forget,
He's a mortal man yet:
That he once was a babe, and was hushed into rest,
And fondled, and pressed, to a woman's warm breast.
Was sung to, and rocked,
And when he first walked
With his weak little feet, he was petted, and told
He was "mamma's own pet, worth his whole weight in gold."
And this is the end
Of a God-given life. Just think of it, friend!
Hark! hear you that chime? 'tis the clock striking ten.
The dread weight falls down, with a sound like "amen."
Does murder pay murder? do two wrongs make a right?
Oh, that horrible sight!
I am shut in my room, and have covered my face;
But the dread scene has followed me into this place.
I see that strange thing,
Like a clock pendulum swing
To and fro, in the air, back and forth, to and fro.
One moment ago
'Twas a man, in God's image! now hide it, kind grave!
What a terrible end, to the life that God gave.
1871.
_COMPASSION_
There is a picture, that I sometimes see,
Of Jesus, with a child upon his breast.
And other children clustered at his knee--
The little lambs of God, that he had blest.
And this one--lying on the Saviour's arm
Looks up and smiles, in that most sainted face,
And knowing he is well secured from harm
He falls asleep in that safe resting place.
To-night I am so weary, heart, and soul.
So worn out, with a thousand nameless ills.
My spirit longs intensely for its goal
And every fibre of my being thrills
With mighty yearning. "Oh, to be that child--
To lie upon my Saviour's breast." I weep,
"And looking on that face so meekly mild.
Forget my tears, and sweetly fall asleep."
It is not always so: sometimes the earth
And earthly friends, can satisfy my heart.
But now--to-night--I feel their shallow worth,
And feel, Oh, Christ my Saviour, that Thou art
And Thou alone, the only faithful friend
Who knowing all my sins, and seeing me
Just as I am, will pity to the end
And in compassion, judge me tenderly.
I am so weak, and sinful--every day
The sins and failings that I most condemn,
And most abhor in others--I straightway
Go forth, and wickedly walk into them.
But Christ, who was in mortal form one time
And dwelt upon the earth, will understand.
And through a love and pity most sublime,
Will write me out a pardon with His hand.
1869.
_FAME_
If I should die, to-day.
To-morrow, maybe, the world would see--
Would waken from sleep, and say,
"Why here was talent! why here was worth!
Why here was a luminous light o' the earth.
A soul as free
As the winds of the sea:
To whom was given
A dower of heaven.
And fame, and name, and glory belongs
To this dead singer of living songs.
Bring hither a wreath, for the bride of death!"
And so, they would praise me, and so they would raise me
Mayhap, a column, high over the bed
Where I should be lying, all cold and dead.
But I am a _living_ poet!
Walking abroad in the sunlight of God,
Not lying asleep, where the clay worms creep,
And the cold world will not show it,
E'en when it sees that my song should please;
But sneering says: "Avaunt, with thy lays!
Do not sing them, and do not bring them
Into this rustling, bustling life.
We have no time, for a jingling rhyme,
In this scene of hurrying, worrying strife."
And so, I say, there is but one way
To win me a name, and bring me fame.
And that is, to die, and be buried low,
When the world would praise me, an hour or so.
1870.
_HER MOTHER'S BEAUTIFUL EYES_
I met a young girl on the street;
I was a stranger to her, no more.
But the glance of her brown eyes, shy and sweet,
Set me to dreaming of days of yore.
Ah! _she_ does not know, but long ago
When life was as cloudless as June's blue skies,
Her _mother_ was all the world to me;
And she
Has her mother's beautiful eyes.
She lifted her lashes, and let them fall;
Raised them and dropped them as I passed by.
A grizzled old stranger, that was all
_She_ saw, for she could not know that I
In the dear, dear past
Too sweet to last
Had found my Eden, my paradise.
In her mother's beautiful eyes.
I loved, and was loved. But a word was said
In thoughtless jest, and the work was done.
The hopes I had cherished, lay blasted, dead--
My rival pleaded his suit, and won.
And their child--ah me! is fair to see;
I wonder if she's as good and wise,
As sweet and kind, and pure of mind
As the one who bequeathed her those beautiful eyes.
She has her father's step, and air.
Her father's brow, and his pale, dark cheek.
And her father's tawny, curling hair.
And her father's mouth, half sweet, half weak.
All very true.
And "she's like her father through and through,"
I said when we met on the street that day,
"And not like her mother in any way."
Then I caught my breath with a start of surprise,
(That she did not see)
For the child of my rival glanced up at me
With her mother's beautiful eyes.
1871.
_OLD TIMES_
Friend of my youth, let us talk of old times;
Of the long-lost golden hours.
When "Winter" meant only Christmas chimes,
And "Summer" wreaths of flowers.
Life has grown old, and cold, my friend,
And the winter now, means death.
And summer blossoms speak all too plain
Of the dear, dead forms beneath.
But let us talk of the past to-night;
And live it over again,
We will put the long years out of sight.
And dream we are young as then.
But you must not look at me, my friend,
And I must not look at you,
Or the furrowed brows, and silvered locks,
Will prove our dream untrue.
Let us sing of the summer, too sweet to last.
And yet too sweet to die.
Let us read tales, from the book of the past,
And talk of the days gone by.
We will turn our backs to the West, my friend,
And forget we are growing old.
The skies of the Present are dull, and gray,
But the Past's are blue, and gold.
The sun has passed over the noontide line
And is sinking down the West.
And of friends we knew in days Lang Syne,
Full half have gone to rest.
And the few that are left on earth, my friend
Are scattered far, and wide.
But you and I will talk of the days
Ere any roamed, or died.
Auburn ringlets, and hazel eyes--
Blue eyes and tresses of gold.
Winds joy laden, and azure skies,
Belong to those days of old.
We will leave the Present's shores awhile
And float on the Past's smooth sea.
But I must not look at you, my friend,
And you must not look at me.
1871.
_THIS WORLD_
This world is a sad, sad place I know;
And what soul living can doubt it.
But it will not lessen the want and woe,
To be always singing about it.
Then away with the songs that are full of tears,
Away with dirges that sadden.
Let us make the most of our fleeting years,
By singing the lays that gladden.
The world at its saddest is not all sad--
There are days of sunny weather.
And the people within it are not all bad,
But saints and sinners together.
I think those wonderful hours in June,
Are better by far, to remember,
Than those when the world gets out of tune
In the cold, bleak winds of November.
Because we meet in the walks of life
Many a selfish creature,
It does not prove that this world of strife
Has no redeeming feature.
There is bloom, and beauty upon the earth,
There are buds and blossoming flowers,
There are souls of truth, and hearts of worth--
There are glowing, golden hours.
In thinking over a joy we've known,
We easily make it double.
Which is better by far, than to mope and moan,
Over sorrow and grief and trouble.
For though this world is sad, we know,
(And who that is living can doubt it,)
It will not lessen the want, or woe,
To be always singing about it.
1872.
_GOING AWAY_
Walking to-day on the Common,
I heard a stranger say
To a friend who was standing near him,
"Do you know I am going away?"
I had never seen their faces:
May never see them again,
But the words the stranger uttered,
Stirred me with nameless pain.
For I knew some heart would miss him,
Would ache at his "going away,"
And the earth would seem all cheerless,
For many and many a day.
No matter how glad my spirit,
No matter how light my heart,
If I hear these two words uttered,
The tear drops always start.
They are so sad and solemn,
So full of a lonely sound:
Like dead leaves rustling downward,
And dropping upon the ground.
Oh, I pity the naked branches,
When the skies are dull and gray,
And the last leaf whispers softly,
"Good bye, I am going away."
In the dreary, dripping Autumn,
The wings of the flying birds
As they soar away to the southland,
Seem always to say these words.
Where ever they may be uttered,
They fall with a sob, and sigh;
And heart-aches follow the sentence,
"I am going away--Good bye."
Oh, God, in Thy blessed kingdom
No lips shall ever say,
No ears shall ever hearken.
To the words "I am going away."
For no soul ever wearies
Of the dear, bright, angel band,
And no saint ever wanders,
From the sunny, golden land.
1872.
_GOOD BYE_
He rose, and passing, paused by her.
They stood a moment in the door.
His dark eyes made her pulses stir
As they had never stirred before;
How soft the night bird sang above
The dull brown heath. Oh, Life, Oh, Love!
He took her hand, and said "Good bye."
Then, singing blithely, went across
The sodden fields: nor heard the cry
Her heart sent up, nor knew her loss.
How bleak, and wild, and desolate,
The wind blew down. Oh, Love, Oh, Fate!
The west turned suddenly aflame;
Striped here and there with blue and gold.
She shook with chills she could not name.
The air seemed strangely harsh, and cold.
How keen the winds were, and how rife
With wintry sounds. Oh, Love, Oh, Life!
She waited till she saw him pass
Across the meadow, out of sight.
His shadow fell upon the grass;
The winds were talking of the night.
How high they whirled the withered leaf;
How swift it flew. Oh, Love, Oh, Grief.
She shut the door, and turned away.
Some task was waiting for her hand.
She shut another door, where lay,
Her sweet dead hope. You understand.
"And they shall weep no more," God saith,
"Nor taste of pain." Oh, Life, Oh, Death.
_JAMIE_
In through the kitchen, the boys came trooping:
Will, and Sammy, and Bob and Fred,
And Johnny and Jamie, the twins, came after,
Setting the rafters, a-ring with laughter.
Woe for the words I said!
I looked at the floor I had swept and dusted,
And saw the litter the twelve feet brought;
And I sighed, and frowned, on the six bright blossoms,
And frowning, spoke my thought.
"Oh, was there ever so weary a woman!
I have been only twelve years wed.
But I've never a moment of peace or quiet.
Six rough boys, with their noise and riot,
Are wearing me out," I said.
"Six rough boys to mend and work for,
To clothe and feed--it is hard at best;
There's never an end to my weary labors,
There is no time for rest."
Dark fell the shadows around my little cottage,
Weeping I leaned over one little bed,
Vain were the tears on the tiny face falling;
In the dim distance I heard a voice calling--
"Come unto me," it said.
And down through the starlight an angel descended,
And stood by my Jamie's low bedside.
"Come! there is room with the angels," she whispered,
"Heaven is fair and wide."
"Fair are its meadows, and wide are its mansions,
And thousands of children are gathered there."
Vain were the prayers that I prayed, leaning o'er him,
Up to the mansions of heaven she bore him.
Woe for my heart's despair!
Oh, to recall the harsh words that I uttered!
Oh, for his litter and noise to-day!
Oh, for the labor his hands would make me!
Hands that are turned to clay.
Five sturdy boys troop into my cottage,
John, Will, Sammy, and Bob and Fred--
Five brave boys as e'er blessed a mother.
But always and ever I miss the other,
The dear, dear boy that is dead.
I miss the ring of his childish laughter,
Miss him and mourn for him night and day,
But wide are the mansions, and fair are the meadows
Where the feet of my Jamie stray.
1872.
_A MOTHER'S REVERIE_
The shadows drop down o'er the fields tinged with brown,
Where the snow-drifts were gleaming of late,
And the day shuts her eyes, while th' red western skies
Make ready the chambers of state.
How still the house seems! while round about gleams
Th' last mellow rays of th' sun.
There's no step on the stair--no voice anywhere,
Crying, "Mother, the last task is done!"
Can it be I'm alone? can it be there are none
Left of eight, who have called me that name?
Four boys and four girls, with their tresses and curls,
Four brave boys, four fair girls, that came
To my home one by one, like lost rays from the sun,
And where are they all now? I pray;
Like birds from the nest, the babes on my breast
Took wing, and have fluttered away.
There was John, my first child; as gentle and mild
As the maiden that grew at his side,--
First to come, last to stay; but death called him away,
It is two years, to-day since he died.
Hope, Mary, and Joe are all married, and so
Have gone into homes of their own;
Mark is over the sea, and Flora--hush! we
Never speak of the one who has flown.
My Will, bonny Will, fell at Champion Hill--
My dark-eyed, my raven-tressed son;
There was one at his side fell too; and Kate died
Of grieving for Will--and that one!
Yet bravely we try, my life-mate and I,
To be happy and cheerful alway.
God knows best what to do; yet I think if we knew
She were dead, 'twould seem better to-day.
1871.
_THE TWO GLASSES_
There sat two glasses, filled to the brim,
On a rich man's table, rim to rim.
One was ruddy, and red as blood,
And one was as clear as the crystal flood.
Said the glass of wine to his paler brother,
"Let us tell tales of the past to each other;
I can tell of banquet, and revel, and mirth,
Where I was king, for I ruled in might.
And the proudest and grandest souls on earth
Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.
From the heads of kings, I have torn the crown,
From the heights of fame, I have hurled men down;
I have blasted many an honored name,
I have taken virtue, and given shame;
I have tempted the youth, with a sip, a taste,
That has made his future a barren waste.
Far greater than any king am I,
Or than any army beneath the sky.
I have made the arm of the driver fail,
And sent the train from its iron rail.
I have made good ships go down at sea,
And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me;
For they said, 'Behold, how great you be!
Fame, strength, wealth, genius, before you fall,
And your might and power are over all.'"
"Ho! ho! pale brother," laughed the wine,
"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"
Said the water glass, "I cannot boast
Of a king dethroned or a murdered host;
But I can tell of hearts that were sad,
By my crystal drops made light and glad.
Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I've laved;
Of hands I have cooled, and souls I've saved.
I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain;
Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.
I have burst my cloud fetters, and dropped from the sky,
And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye.
I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain,
I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain;
I can tell of the powerful wheel o' the mill,
That ground out the flour, and turned at my will;
I can tell of manhood, debased by you,
That I have uplifted, and crowned anew.
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid,
I gladden the heart of man and maid;
I set the chained wine-captive free,
And all are better for knowing me."
These are the tales they told each other,
The glass of wine, and its paler brother,
As they sat together, filled to the brim,
On the rich man's table, rim to rim.
1872.
_TWILIGHT THOUGHTS_
The God of the day has vanished
The light from the hills has fled,
And the hand of an unseen artist,
Is painting the West all red.
All threaded with gold and crimson,
And burnished with amber dye,
And tipped with purple shadows,
The glory flameth high.
Fair, beautiful world of ours!
Fair, beautiful world, but oh,
How darkened by pain and sorrow,
How blackened by sin and woe.
The splendor pales in the heavens
And dies in a golden gleam,
And alone in the hush of twilight,
I sit, in a checkered dream.
I think of the souls that are straying,
In shadows as black as night,
Of hands that are groping blindly
In search of the shining light;
Of hearts that are mutely crying,
And praying for just one ray,
To lead them out of the shadows,
Into the better way.
I think of the Father's children
Who are trying to walk alone,
Who have dropped the hand of the Parent,
And wander in ways unknown.
Oh, the paths are rough and thorny,
And I know they cannot stand.
They will faint and fall by the wayside,
Unguided by God's right hand.
And I think of the souls that are yearning
To follow the good and true;
That are striving to live unsullied,
Yet know not what to do.
And I wonder when God, the Master,
Shall end this weary strife,
And lead us out of the shadows
Into the deathless life.
1869.
_ONLY A KISS_
Once, when the summer lay on the hilltops,
And the sunshine fell like a golden flame,
Out from the city's dust and turmoil
A gallant, fair-faced stranger came--
Came to rest in our humble cottage
Till the winds of autumn should blow again,
To walk in the meadow and lie by the brooklet,
And woo back the strength, that the town had slain.
I was young, with the foolish heart of a maiden
That had never been wooed, and the stranger bland
Awoke that heart from its idle dreaming,
And swept the strings with a master-hand.
I remember the thrill, and the first wild tremor,
That stirred its depths with a sweet surprise,
When I glanced one day at the handsome stranger,
And caught the gaze of his deep, dark eyes.
My cheek grew red with its tell-tale blushes,
And the knitting dropped from my nerveless grasp;
He stooped, and then, as he gracefully gave it,
He held my hand in a loving clasp;
We said no word, but he knew my secret,
He read what lay in my maiden heart,
No vain concealing was needed longer
To hide the tremor his voice would start.
We walked in the meadow and by the brooklet,
My sun-browned hand in his snowy palm;
He said my blushes would shame the roses,
And my heart stood still in a blissful calm.
He stroked my tresses, my raven ringlets,
And twined them over his finger fair;
My eyes' dark splendor was full of danger,
He said, for Cupid was lurking there.
And once he held me close to his bosom,
And pressed on my lips a loving kiss;
Oh! how I tremble with shame and anger,
Even now, as I think of this--
But in that moment, I thought that heaven
Had suddenly opened and drawn me in,
And kissed with passion the lips, so near me,
Nor dreamed I was staining my soul with sin.
But there came a letter one quiet evening
To the man who was dearer to me than life--
"A picture," he said, as he tore it open,
"Look, sweet friend, at my fair young wife."
A terrible anguish, a seething anger,
Heaved my bosom and blanched my cheek,
And he who stood there holding the letter,
He watched me smiling, but did not speak.
I took the picture and gazed upon it--
A sweet young creature with sunny hair
And eyes of blue. "May the good Lord keep you,"
I said aloud, "in his tender care--
You who are wedded and bound forever
Unto this man," and I met his eyes--
"This soulless villain, this shameless coward,
Whose heart is blackened with acted lies."
My heart swelled full of a terrible hatred,
And something of murder was burning there,
But a better feeling stole in behind it
As I looked on the picture sweet and fair;
I turned and left him, and never saw him--
Never looked on his face again,
And time has tempered my shame and sorrow,
And soothed and quieted down my pain.
But I always tremble, in awful anger,
That wears and worries my waning life,
When I think how he clasped me close to his bosom,
He--with a lawfully wedded wife.
When I think how I answered his fond caresses,
And clung to his neck in a trance of bliss,
And the tears of a life time and all my sorrow
Can never remove the stain of his kiss.
1869.
_WHEN I AM DEAD_
When I am dead, if some chastened one,
Seeing the "item," or hearing it said
That my play is over, and my part done,
And I lie asleep in my narrow bed--
If I could know that some soul would say,
Speaking aloud or silently,
"In the heat, and burden of the day,
She gave a refreshing draught to me;"
Or, "when I was lying nigh unto death,
She nursed me to life, and to strength again,
And when I labored and struggled for breath,
She soothed and quieted down my pain;"
Or, "when I was groping in grief and doubt,
Lost, and turned from the light o' the day,
Her hand reached me and helped me out,
And led me up to the better way."
Or, "when I was hated and shunned by all,
Bowing under my sin and my shame,
She, once, in passing me by, let fall
Words of pity and hope that came
Into my heart, like a blessed calm
Over the waves of the stormy sea,
Words of comfort like oil and balm.
She spake, and the desert blossomed for me."
Better by far, than a marble tomb--
Than a monument towering over my head;
(What shall I care, in my quiet room,
For head board or foot board, when I am dead)
Better than glory, or honors, or fame,
(Though I am striving for those to-day)
To know that some heart will cherish my name,
And think of me kindly, with blessings, alway.
1870.
_DON'T TALK WHEN YOU'VE NOTHING TO SAY_
It is well to be free in conversing,
It is well to be able to chat
With a friend on a subject of interest--
With a stranger on this thing or that.
Don't aim to be cold or reticent,
But listen to reason I pray,
And remember this wisest of mottos,
"Don't talk when you've nothing to say."
A gay, lively friend, or companion,
With wits that are ready and quick,
Is better by far, than a stupid,
And unconversational stick.
Yet speech at the best is but silver,
While silence is golden alway.
And remember at all times and places,
Don't talk when you've nothing to say.
I like to see well informed people
Who know _what_ to say, _how_ and _when_.
And a little good nonsense and jesting
Is not out of place, now and then.
But I dread the approach of a Magpie,
Who chatters from grave themes to gay,
Who talks from the morn to the midnight,
And always with nothing to say.
1871.
_THE FROST FAIRY_
All day the trees were moaning
For the leaves that they had lost,
All day they creaked and trembled,
And the naked branches tossed
And shivered in the north wind
As he hurried up and down.
Over hill-tops bleak and cheerless,
Over meadows bare and brown.
"Oh, my green and tender leaflets.
Oh, my fair buds, lost and gone!"
So, they moaned through all the daytime,
So, they groaned till night came on.
And the hoar-frost lurked and listened
To the wailing, sad refrain,
And he whispered, "wait--be patient--
I will cover you again;
"I will deck you in new garments--
I will clothe you ere the light,
In a sheen of spotless glory--
In a robe of purest white.
You shall wear the matchless mantle,
That the good Frost Fairy weaves."
And the bare trees listened, wondered,
And forgot their fallen leaves.
And the quaint and silent fairy,
Backward, forward, through the gloom,
Wove the matchless, glittering mantle,
Spun the frost-thread on her loom.
And the bare trees talked together,
Talked in whispers soft and low,
As the good and silent fairy
Moved her shuttle to and fro.
And lo! when the golden glory
Of the morning crept abroad,
All the trees were clothed in grandeur,
All the twiglets robed, and shod
With matchless, spotless garments,
That the sunshine decked with gems,
And the trees forgot their sorrow,
'Neath their robes and diadems.
1871.
_FLORABELLE_
Did you see Florabelle? has she passed you this morning?
A tall, slender Maiden, with hair like spun gold.
She has? then I pray you, dear sir, heed my warning,
It is just the old, oft rehearsed story re-told:
Florabelle is a jilt--a coquette--a deceiver.
She angles for hearts, with soft words and sweet smiles.
Forewarned is forearmed, don't you trust or believe her,
Be deaf to her cooing, be blind to her wiles.
She has eyes, like the heart of a blue morning glory,
She has lips like a rose-bud just sprinkled with dew,
'Tis the old hackneyed tale, 'tis the same wretched story,
A woman all fair, yet all false, and untrue.
With her soft silken hair, in its meshes and tangles,
With her pink and white cheek, and her full ruby lips,
With her eyes shining clear, like the heaven's bright sparkles,
She has wrecked as strong _hearts_ as the ocean has ships.
Those blue eyes are ever on watch for a stranger;
She thirsts for fresh conquests, and she has marked you,
I warn you, my friend, that your peace is in danger,
Take heed, lest the day that you met her, you rue.
Don't bask in her smiles, for one moment, but leave her,
Before you're entangled, and find it too late.
Florabelle is a jilt--a coquet--a deceiver,
I have given you warning! now choose your own fate!
1871.
_THE DOOMED CITY'S PRAYER_
(After the Burning of Chicago.)
I heard a low sound, like a troubled soul praying:
And the winds of the winter night brought it to me.
'Twas the doomed city's voice: "Oh, kind snow," it was saying,
"Come, cover my ruins, so ghastly to see,
I am robbed of my beauty, and shorn of my glory;
And the strength that I boasted--where is it to-day?
I am down in the dust; and my pitiful story
Make tearless eyes weep, and unpious lips pray.
"I--I, who have reveled in pomp and in power,
Am down on my knees, with my face in the dust.
But yesterday queen, with a queen's royal dower,
To-day I am glad of a crumb or a crust.
But yesterday reigning, a grand mighty city,
The pride of the nation, the queen of the West;
To-day I am gazed at, an object of pity,
A charity child, asking alms, at the best.
"My strength, and my pride, and my glory departed,
My fair features scorched by the fire fiend's breath,
Is it strange that I'm soul-sick and sorrowful hearted?
Is it strange that my thoughts run on ruin and death?
Oh, white, fleecy clouds that are drooping above me,
Hark, hark to my pleadings, and answer my sighs,
And let down the beautiful snow, if you love me,
To cover my wounds from all pitying eyes.
"I am hurled from my throne, but not hurled down forever,
I shall rise from the dust; I shall live down my woes--
But my heart lies to-day, like a dumb, frozen river;
When to thaw out and flow again, God only knows.
Oh, sprites of the air! I beseech you to weave me
A mantle of white snow, and beautiful rime
To cover my unsightly ruins; then leave me
In the hands of the healer of all wounds--'Old Time.'"
November, 1871.
_ONE WOMAN'S PLEA_
Now God be with the men who stand
In Legislative halls, to-day.
Those chosen princes of our land--
May God be with them all, I say,
And may His wisdom, guide, and shield them,
For mighty is the trust we yield them.
Oh, men! who hold a people's fate,
There in the hollow of your hand.
Each word you utter, soon, or late,
Shall leave its impress on our land,--
Forth from the halls of legislation,
Shall speed its way, through all the Nation.
Then may The Source of Truth, and Light,
Be ever o'er you, ever near.
And may He guide each word aright;
May no false precept, greet the ear,
No selfish love, for purse, or faction,
Stay Justice's hand, or guide one action.
And may no one, among these men
Lift to his lips, the damning glass,
Let no man say, with truth, again,
What _has been said_, in truth, alas,
"Men drink, in halls of legislation--
Why shouldn't we, of lower station!"
Oh, men! you see, you hear this beast,
This fiend that pillages the earth.
Whose work is death--whose hourly feast,
Is noble souls, and minds of worth--
You see--and if you will not chain him,
Nor reach one hand forth, to detain him.
For God's sake, do not give him aid,
Nor urge him onward. Oh, to me,
It seems so strange that laws are made
To crush all other crimes, while he
Who bears down through Hell's gaping portals
The countless souls, of rum wrecked mortals,
Is left to wander, to, and fro,
In perfect freedom through the land.
And those who ought to see, and know,
Will lift no warning voice, or hand.
Oh, men in halls of legislation.
Rise to the combat, save the Nation!
January, 1871.
_DECORATION POEM_
Gather them out of the valley--
Bring them from moorland and hill,
And cast them in wreaths and in garlands.
On the city so silent and still--
So voiceless, so silent, and still;
Where neighbor speaks never to neighbor,
Where the song of the bird, and the brown bee is heard,
But never the harsh sounds of labor.
Bring them from woodland and meadow--
As fresh, and as fair, as can be.
Bring them, all kinds, and all colors.
That grow upon upland and lea--
That spring in wild grace on the lea.
And rifle the green earth's warm bosom
Of each flower, and blow, till "God's acre" shall glow
And bloom, like a garden in blossom.
Bring them from vase, and from hot-house,
And strew them with bountiful hand.
There is nothing too rare for the soldier,
Who laid down his life for his land--
Who laid down _all things_ for his land;
And turned to the duty before him,
And how now can we prove, our thanks and our love
But by casting these May blossoms o'er him.
We know they will soon fade, and wither--
We know they will soon droop, and die;
But one time, I read, how an angel
Came down from the mansions on high--
In the night, from God's kingdom on high--
Came down where a poor faded flower
Lay crushed by rude feet, in the dust of the street,
And he carried it up to God's bower;
And laid it before the Good Master,
Who kissed it, and passed it to Christ,
On the throne at His side; and _He_ kissed it,
And the touch of those kisses sufficed--
The caress of the God-head sufficed--
And it bloomed out in wonderful splendor,
A thing of delight, and most fair in God's sight--
'Tis a fable, I know; but so tender;
So sweet that I like to believe it--
And I have been thinking, to-day,
That mayhap these soldiers, now angels,
Will come, when these wreathes fade away--
When they wither, and shrivel away--
And will bear the crushed things up to heaven,
And God, and His Son will kiss them, each one,
And new beauty, and bloom will be given.
And odd fancy, perhaps, yet dispute it.
And prove it untrue if you can.
There are strange, subtle ways, in God's workings
Now veiled from the knowledge of man,
Shut out from the vision of man.--
By a dark veil of deep, mortal blindness;
But when God deems it right, He will give us our sight,
And remove the thick veil, in His kindness;
And when we have entered His kingdom,
And all his strange ways understand,
Who knows but these very same flowers,
We shall find there abloom, in His land,
All fresh, and all fair, in His land;
And these soldiers, who went on before us,
As we wander and stray, through God's gardens, shall say:
"These are the wreathes you cast o'er us."
Then, strew ye the best, and the brightest
Of buds, and of blossoms full blown,
Over the graves, of the loved ones--
Over those labelled "Unknown!"
Oh! the pathos of that word, "Unknown!"
Bring hither the brightest, and rarest!
We reck not, if the clay, wore the blue garb, or gray!
We will give them the best, and the fairest.
For somebody mourned for the "missing,"
And wept for them hot, scalding tears,
And hoped against hope, for their coming;
And watched, and waited, months and years,
Such long, and such desolate years!
But the hearts are _so_ patient, that love them.
And some now watch and weep, for the soldiers who sleep
With the slab labeled "Unknown" above them.
Then gather from meadow, and woodland,
From garden, and hot-house, and vase,
The brightest and choicest of blossoms,
And scatter them here in this place;
This holy and hallowed place--
This city of rest, not of labor,
Where only the bird, and th' brown bee is heard,
And neighbor, speaks never to neighbor.
Forest Hill Cemetery, May 30, 1871.
_A BABY IN THE HOUSE_
I knew that a baby was hid in that house,
Though I saw no cradle, and heard no cry,
But the husband went tiptoeing 'round like a mouse,
And the good wife was humming a soft lullaby;
And there was a look on the face of that mother
That I knew could mean only _one_ thing, and no other.
"The _mother_," I said to myself; for I knew
That the woman before me was certainly that,
For there lay in the corner a tiny cloth shoe,
And I saw on a stand such a wee little hat;
And the beard of the husband said plain as could be,
"Two fat, chubby hands have been tugging at me."
And he took from his pocket a gay picture book,
And a dog that would bark if you pulled on a string;
And the wife laid them up with such a pleased look;
And I said to myself, "There is no other thing
But a babe that could bring about all this, and so
That one is in hiding here somewhere, I know."
I stayed but a moment, and saw nothing more,
And heard not a sound, yet I knew I was right;
What else could the shoe mean that lay on the floor--
The book and the toy, and the faces so bright?
And what made the husband as still as a mouse?
I am sure, _very_ sure, there's a babe in that house.
1872.
_POEM_
[Read at the Reunion of the Society of the
"Grand Army of the Tennessee," at Madison, Wisconsin, July 4th, 1872.]
After the battles are over,
And the war drums cease to beat,
And no more is heard on the hillside
The sound of hurrying feet,
Full many a noble action,
That was done in the days of strife,
By the soldier is half forgotten,
In the peaceful walks of life.
Just as the tangled grasses,
In summer's warmth and light,
Grow over the graves of the fallen
And hide them away from sight,
So many an act of valor,
And many a deed sublime,
Fades from the mind of the soldier,
O'ergrown by the grass of time.
Not so should they be rewarded,
Those noble deeds of old;
They should live forever and ever,
When the heroes' hearts are cold.
Then rally, ye brave old comrades,
Old veterans, re-unite!
Up root time's tangled grasses--
Live over the march, and the fight.
Let Grant come up from the White House,
And clasp each brother's hand,
First chieftain of the army,
Last chieftain of the land.
Let him rest from a nation's burdens,
And go, in thought, with his men,
Through the fire and smoke of Shiloh,
And save the day again.
This silent hero of battles,
Knew no such word as _defeat_.
It was left for the rebels learning.
Along with the word retreat.
He was not given to _talking_,
But he found that guns would preach
In a way that was more convincing
Than fine and flowery speech.
Three cheers for the grave commander
Of the grand old Tennessee!
Who won the first great battle--
Gained the first great victory.
His motto was always "Conquer,"
"Success" was his countersign,
And "though it took all summer,"
He kept fighting upon "that line."
Let Sherman, the stern old General,
Respond to the reveille,
Let him march with his boys through Georgia,
From "Atlanta down to the sea."
Oh, that grand old tramp to Savannah!
Three hundred miles to the coast!
It will live in the heart of the Nation,
Forever its pride and boast.
As Sheridan went to the battle.
When a score of miles away,
* He has come to the feast and banquet.
By the iron horse to-day.
Its space is not much swifter
Than the pace of that famous steed
That bore him down to the contest
And saved the day by his speed.
Then go over the ground to-day, boys,
Tread each remembered spot.
It will be a gleesome journey,
On the swift-shod feet of thought;
You can fight a bloodless battle,
You can skirmish along the route,
But it's not worthwhile to forage,
There are rations enough without.
Don't start if you hear the cannon;
It is not the sound of doom,
It does not call to the contest--
To the battle's smoke and gloom.
"Let us have Peace," was spoken.
And lo! peace ruled again;
And now the nation is shouting,
Through the cannon's voice, "Amen."
Oh, boys, who besieged old Vicksburg,
Can time e'er wash away
The triumph of her surrender,
Nine years ago to-day?
Can you ever forget the moment,
When you saw that flag of white,
That told how the grim old city
Had fallen in her might?
Ah, 'twas a bold, brave army,
When the boys with a right good will,
Went gayly marching and singing
To the fight at Champion Hill.
They met with a warm reception,
But the soul of "Old John Brown"
Was abroad on that field of battle,
And our flag did NOT go down.
Come, heroes of Look Out Mountain,
Of Corinth and Donelson,
Of Kenesaw and Atlanta,
And tell how the day was won!
Hush! bow the head for a moment--
There are those who cannot come.
No bugle call can arouse them--
No sound of fife, or drum.
McPherson fell in the battle,
When its waves were surging high.
Brave Ransom sank by the wayside;
'Twas a lonely death to die.
They walk God's fair, green meadows,
They dwell in a land of bliss,
Yet I think their spirits are with us
In such an hour as this.
Oh, boys who died for the country,
Oh, dear and sainted dead!
What can we say about you
That has not once been said?
Whether you fell in the contest,
Struck down by shot and shell,
Or pined 'neath the hand of sickness,
Or starved in the prison cell--
We know that you died for Freedom,
To save our land from shame,
To rescue a periled Nation,
And we give you deathless fame.
'Twas the cause of Truth and Justice
That you fought and perished for,
And we say it, oh, so gently,
"Our boys who died in the war."
Saviours of our Republic,
Heroes who wore the blue,
We owe the peace that surrounds us--
And our Nation's strength, to you.
We owe it to you that our banner,
The fairest flag in the world
Is to-day unstained, unsullied,
On the summer air unfurled.
We look on its stripes and spangles,
And our hearts are filled the while
With love for the brave commanders,
And the boys of the rank and file.
The grandest deeds of valor,
Were never written out,
The noblest acts of virtue,
The world knows nothing about.
And many a private soldier,
Who walks his humble way,
With no sounding name or title,
Unknown to the world to-day,
In the eyes of God is a hero;
All such he will reward,
No deed however secret,
Is hidden from the Lord.
Brave men of a mighty army,
We extend you friendships hand!
I speak for the "Loyal Women,"
Those pillars of our land.
We wish you a hearty welcome,
We are proud that you gather here
To talk of old times together
On this brightest day in the year.
And if peace, whose snow-white pinions,
Brood over our land to-day,
Should ever again go from us,
(God grant she may ever stay).
Should our Nation call in her peril
For "Six hundred thousand more,"
The loyal women would hear her,
And send you out as before.
We would bring out the treasured knapsack.
We would take the sword from the wall,
And hushing our own heart's pleadings,
Hear only the country's call.
For next to our God, is our Nation:
And we cherish the honored name,
Of the bravest of all brave armies
Who fought for that Nation's fame.
* This stanza was written after arriving at the hall, and
finding Sheridan among the Generals present, which may serve
as an explanation for the change of tense in that verse. Not
knowing that General Sheridan was a member of the Society,
no mention had been made of him when the poem was written.
_THE PEOPLE'S FAVORITE_
[A tribute to Ex-Governor Fairchild.]
God bless the hero of my song!
Six years the chieftain of our State!
We've held him, in our hearts, so long,
And proved him good, and true, and great.
That now, we could not let him go,
Even if he would have it so.
I hear the praises of his name
From east and west, and north and south,
His foes are silenced from sheer shame:
His deeds have silenced Slander's mouth,
And all the little imps of spite
He's crushed beneath the heel of Right.
He dropped an arm one bloody day,
In beating down the walls of wrong,
But no strength went with it away;
His other grew full thrice as strong.
Few men, with their two hands, have done
As noble deeds as he with one.
His soul speaks through his eye of blue,
And all men know him one to trust,
Because his heart is kind and true,
And all his actions prove him just.
I speak for thousands when I cry,
"The people's favorite for aye!"
May God be with him all his days--
With him and all he holds most dear;
And if my little song of praise
Should chance to fall upon his ear,
May he accept the offering,
And know that from my heart I sing.
1872
_DREAM-TIME_