PS 3527 
 .E815E3 
 
 1906 
 
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 EAGLE OAK 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 Samuel Henderson Newberry 
 
 OF 
 
 Bland, Va. 
 
 ^ Richmond, Va. 
 
 KVERKTT WADDEY CO. 
 
 1906 
 
 
 
 
 
UBRARY of CONGRESS 
 TW9 CoDJes Received 
 
 \ OCT 11 1906 
 
 ji Copyriffht Entry 
 CLASS A XXc, No. 
 
 ■E?is Ez 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1906 
 By SAMUEIv H. NEWBEIRRY 
 
SOUL-DREAMS, 
 
 AS IvOVK'S MKMORIAL WRKATH, 
 
 ARE AFFECTlONATEl.\' LAID UPON 
 
 THE GRAVE OF A DEVOTED MOTHER 
 
 AND THE LOVING WIFE 
 
 OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 WHEN the author of these effusions commenced writing them 
 he had no idea of ever giving them pubhcity during his 
 lifetime, but circumstances — unforeseen^ — have impelled, or rather 
 induced him, to submit them to the reading world, not because 
 they are of any great merit, but because the author saw fit to 
 write them in his leisure hours; and because it was a pleasure to 
 follow the wings of thought as they led him through the varied 
 fields of speculation in search of truth. 
 
 They cover a period of nearly fifty years of the author 's life, and 
 but very few of them have ever seen the light of publicity. They 
 have been written at odd hours, wherever the author chanced to be, 
 by the fireside, on the farm, in the saddle, on the train, in the 
 bivouac, in the sleepless hours of night; or wherever the call of 
 Muse wooed him, she always found a listening ear. 
 
 These are but a handful of her dreamings, and they are now sub- 
 mitted to a discerning and scrutinizing public, and its decision 
 is awaited by the author. 
 
 Bland, Va., Sept. 16, 1905 
 
TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 In a lonely chamber sitting — 
 
 Memory's Muse came round him flitting— 
 
 With a dirge of woe befitting, 
 
 Wrung from out his bosom's core; 
 Broken hearts — they stiU remember — 
 Through the Wintry life's December — 
 Long as life keeps warm an ember, 
 
 Her, the loved one, now no more. 
 
 From his presence she has parted — 
 She the loyal, angel-hearted — 
 On an unknown journey started, 
 
 To the realm where all must go; 
 From the shadows of life's dreaming — 
 With Hope's light her pathway gleaming — 
 Through the Valley's darkness — seeming, 
 
 She left to him the night of woe. 
 
 Death's the foeman of our being — 
 Lurking where no one is seeing — 
 Till his touch, the spirit freeing 
 
 From these tenements of clay; 
 Then outward bounding from its sighing — 
 No more living, no more dying — 
 A voiceless thought forever flying, 
 
 Where it wanders, none can say. 
 
 [7] 
 
When Life's Angel wings were folding — 
 Yearning for the City Golden — 
 Of its beauties often t olden, 
 
 Soon to meet her longing gaze; 
 In his hand her hand was pressing — 
 As life's pulse was retrogressing — 
 From his lips fell love's last blessing, 
 
 Her soul went out in glory's blaze. 
 
 Hands and hearts once locked together — 
 Facing every sort of weather — 
 Love unfeigned — the binding tether, 
 
 That no discord could ever rend; 
 Built on Hope a peaceful palace 
 Where life's last years might find some solace; 
 Sip life's wine from love's own chalice — 
 
 Live and love till life should end. 
 
 O'er her grave the mock bird's singing — 
 Whose sweet notes are wildly ringing — 
 To death's cold ear no music bringing. 
 
 To awake her sleeping soul; 
 It has gone to join the sainted — 
 Who have trusted, but not fainted — 
 Fought life's battle — Hope had painted. 
 
 With their names on victor's scroll. 
 
 Sorrow's sitting, ever brooding — 
 In the darkness, light excluding — 
 Only Memory's wings intruding. 
 
 Freighted with their burdened woe; 
 
 [8] 
 
None may know the heart's deep sorrow- 
 Not from Time can solace borrow — 
 Gloom must drape the coming morrow — 
 Gloom the world can never know. 
 
 Not a murmur, not a whisper — 
 From her lips before he missed her — 
 And the white-winged angels kissed her, 
 
 On whose soul was not a stain; 
 He'll not linger long behind her — 
 Memory's love to him will bind her — 
 And some day, somewhere may find her, 
 
 And their lives not lived in vain. 
 
 Green Meadows, Va., AvriZ 19th, 1905 
 
 [9] 
 
DAISY DARLING. 
 
 Daisy darling, she's been sleeping; 
 
 Yes, for more than thirty years; 
 If she knew that I was weeping, 
 
 It would fill her eyes with tears. 
 
 Her true heart was love 's own flower, 
 Ladened with life 's honey dew, 
 
 And, through some occult power, 
 Making one heart of our two. 
 
 As the night is filled with starlings — 
 So my eyes are filled with tears- 
 Still my love for Daisy Darling 
 Has no grave in memory 's years. 
 
 Love has wings that grow not weary- 
 Night has stars no eye can see; 
 
 Sunless days are never dreary 
 
 When her smiles come back to me. 
 
 October 7ih, 1895 
 
 [10] 
 
THE UNATTAINED. 
 
 I saw a stripling in his youth, • 
 Whose rustic garb was oft uncouth; 
 His horny hands and sunburnt cheek 
 The rust of hfe they still bespeak; 
 But what cared he for toil and work? 
 Life is a game no one can shirk — 
 Labor and lose or work and win, 
 That is the way all lives begin. 
 An uphill game for all who strive 
 To keep in touch with human hive — 
 The light of hope before him flamed 
 And pointed to the unattained. 
 
 I saw him in life's tender years 
 
 Wiping away the orphan's tears: 
 
 For she who gave to him his birth — ■ 
 
 To him, the dearest name on earth — 
 
 Had passed beyond the light of day 
 
 From whence none come who go that way 
 
 Whose soothing voice no longer heard — 
 
 More sweet than carolling of bird — 
 
 Like oil on troubled waters spent, 
 
 A timely benediction meant. 
 
 Though life was dark, young hope still reigned, 
 
 And far away — the unattained. 
 
 [11] 
 
When twenty summer's suns had shed, 
 Their mellow light above his head, 
 I saw him bid his friends farewell, 
 With strangers far away to dwell, 
 Unused to books and learning's lore, 
 Applied himself for a year or more, 
 Got a glimpse of the ocean wide, 
 Where none have reached the farther side. 
 Though cruising barques along its strand, 
 Have found some pearls among the sand — 
 The draught was sweet, the cup undrained, 
 As hope kept watch for the unattained. 
 
 I saw him as a soldier stand, 
 In defence of his father land, 
 In the front on the field of death. 
 Where life went out at every breath — 
 His untamed spirit would not yield, 
 Till maimed for life he left the field, 
 And life's red wine, from bosom rent, 
 Fell to the earth, a sacrament 
 In freedom's cause, where valor lost 
 And numbers won at fearful costj ! 
 Yet hope lived on — nor he complained, 
 But waited for the unattained. 
 
 Still up life's rugged path he climbed 
 Till Life and Love in union rhymed, 
 Their brewing cup he loved to drain. 
 That woke the music of his brain, 
 And then — the musings of his soul, 
 From whence the Muse's numbers roll. 
 
 [12] 
 
The idol of his dreaming years, 
 Before him then, unveiled appears, 
 With trembling hand his harp was strung 
 Attuned to numbers that he sung. 
 With joyous heart he starward aimed. 
 To find some day the unattained. 
 
 I saw him in the halls of state. 
 Where freemen met in free debate. 
 To spin and weave with loud applause. 
 Their tangled web of Statute laws, 
 Where right and wrong are intermixed, 
 Between the two the truth is fixed, 
 That barristers and jurists wise, 
 The puzzle solve and get the prize. 
 And still the Commonwealth must strive. 
 To keep the drowsy drones alive — 
 And equal rights are still proclaimed, 
 But Freedom's dream is unattained. 
 
 I saw him stand a freeman, tall, 
 In the breach of a broken wall, 
 Where every sleuth hound of the pack. 
 With snarl and snap, made bold attack. 
 But one by one was driven back — 
 Their savage hate would not forgive 
 That independent right should live. 
 But on the party cross was nailed. 
 And spit upon because he failed, 
 To be a puny boss's slave. 
 With ignominy on his grave — 
 Though party wrath was unrestrained. 
 Still he dreamed of the unattained. 
 
 .[ 13 ] 
 
I saw him a bow at fortune's beck. 
 
 And stand appalled above the wreck. 
 
 Of home and all its memories dear, 
 
 When Ufe's sunset was drawing near, 
 
 When friends forsook and turned away, 
 
 As greed was master of the day, 
 
 His faith went out as hope went down, 
 
 And sorrow donn'd its thorny crown, 
 
 Beneath, around, above his head. 
 
 The light of hope no more was shed. 
 
 And life's last dregs would soon be drained, 
 
 And not in sight the unattained. 
 
 I saw him on Ufe's outward wave. 
 When turning from ancestral grave, 
 With aching heart and empty hands. 
 The owner of no fatherlands ; 
 Not enough for his snowy head. 
 To suffice for a sleeping bed. 
 He dared not turn a backward gaze. 
 Where he had spent his manhood's days. 
 For fear one look might cause a sigh^ 
 And swelling heart might break and die, 
 On life's sad sea so long remained. 
 And life's ideal unattained. 
 
 I never saw him pale from fear, 
 
 And seldom saw him shed a tear — 
 
 The heart that's full can overflow, 
 
 Tho' his was dammed with a voiceless woe. 
 
 That the world will never know, 
 
 But running hot through every vein, 
 
 [ 14 1 
 
That ne'er could find an outward drain 
 Till brain was hot with fervent heat, 
 And burdened heart in sorrow beat; 
 When far away a wild bird sings, 
 The song that melancholy brings, 
 Till life's own muse, in sorrow chained, 
 Still sighs and sings for the unattained. 
 
 The heirs of life will come and go 
 Drifting o'er life's sea of woe, 
 Into the yawning gulf beyond. 
 From whence no echoes e'er respond. 
 The lapping waves on the beach of time 
 Will never cease their dirge sublime,- 
 The last surviving heir of all. 
 When looking from his crumbling wall. 
 With wistful gaze and searching eye, 
 Through all the earth and bending sky. 
 Will voice the fact, since man has reigned. 
 His own ideal is unattained. 
 
 January 21st, 1904. 
 
 [15] 
 
EAGLE OAK. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 My muse is longing for a song 
 
 To ease life's weary steps along, 
 
 Till passing through December's gloom 
 
 To find repose beyond the tomb. 
 
 One more song I want to sing, 
 
 One more touch of the wild harp string, 
 
 One more thrill of the fearless soul, 
 
 Ere it finds its waiting goal 
 
 When angel fife shall fold its wing, 
 
 And siren muse no longer sing. 
 
 These vagrant musings of the muse, 
 The thoughtless worlds may have no use, 
 But still, these children of the brain 
 Travelling on life's evening train 
 Will have their outing now and then. 
 To cheer "the foremost files of men" 
 Who guard the home and found the state; 
 Then make it free and grand and great, 
 A Pharos on life's troubled sea 
 That struggling men will strive to see. 
 
 Now guide, O muse, my withered hand; 
 Make it deft as the wizard's wand 
 
 [ 16 ] 
 
To wring sweet melody from strings, 
 Soft as the sweep of angel wings, 
 That fan and soothe an aching head, 
 While lounging on life's weary bed. 
 That wakes the harpstrings of the soul 
 With echoes thrilling as they roll, 
 Then die away as love's last knell. 
 And fall to sleep in life's farewell. 
 
 Old Eagle Oak saw Eagle Brave, 
 When standing by Kaweesee's grave 
 With moistened eye and aching heart; 
 To stay was death — and death to part, 
 As there was warring in his breast 
 For what was right — or which was best, 
 To stay and die — or even go 
 Bearing a burden none could know, 
 Whose life was blasted like the oak 
 That had incurred the lightning stroke. 
 
 A doleful voice the silence broke, 
 As from the heart of Eagle Oak, 
 A mournful message from the grave 
 Kaweesee sent to Eagle Brave, 
 The last survivor of his sons; 
 The rest had fallen one by one, 
 Full half a dozen brawny braves 
 Had gone to sleep in distant graves; 
 And thus Kaweesee's spirit spoke 
 Through its messenger — the oak. 
 
 'Go, Brave Eagle; go, haste away; 
 There's no room left where white men stay, 
 
 [ 17] 
 
They claim the earth — the heirs of all, 
 
 While dusky tribes before them fall, 
 
 And hves go out in whiffing smoke 
 
 As though the lips of fate had spoke; 
 
 The Red Man's hope will then be fled, 
 
 He'll have no place to lay his head. 
 
 While beasts have holes, and birds have nests, 
 
 Yet sorrow finds no place of rest. 
 
 Brave Eagle Brave — your doom is cast, 
 
 I feel it in the Autumn blast, 
 
 I hear the falling feet of fate 
 
 Advancing now beyond the gate; 
 
 "And when the future swings it ope, 
 Twill be the knell of dying hope. 
 The stars that watch above the dead 
 Have shed no blessings on your head; 
 The very night that you were born. 
 The full orbed moon changed its horn. 
 
 " Kaweesee's years were years of peace, 
 And plenty smiled with love's increase; 
 There was no murder in his heart, 
 Nor was there poison in his dart. 
 A chief who loved his brother braves. 
 Nor forced them into bloody graves, 
 A warrior too — without reproach. 
 On warriors rights would not encroach 
 A peaceful warrior who would dare 
 To do his duty anywhere. 
 
 " Life's bow is broke — its arrow lost. 
 While on time's turbid waves you 're toss'd 
 
 [ 18 ] 
 
Without compass, without a chart, 
 Without a purpose in your heart; 
 A shadow on your spirit falls 
 That the stoutest heart appalls, 
 A stern and cold remorseless fate 
 Has followed you with vengeful hate, 
 Evil, for good Kaweesee done — 
 Is heaped upon Kaweesee's son. 
 
 'I've seen a spiral moving cloud, 
 A Titan ghost that's ne'er been cowed. 
 Emerging from his starless tomb 
 With brow as black as midnight gloom; 
 His towering head amid the skies 
 With vengeance glaring from his eyes. 
 The winds were gathered in his fists 
 Without a rival in the list, 
 A very Jove — that naught could brook— 
 With mad defiance in his look. 
 
 "A swishing wave was heard at first. 
 As if some ocean dyke had burst 
 And fearless as the spark that sleeps 
 In the cloud before it leaps. 
 On it sweeps with gathering force. 
 With naught surviving in its course; 
 A besom in the hands of death. 
 With its brumal, blasting breath 
 Smiting earth and man and beast, 
 While the Gorgons have their feast. 
 
 " It was the pent up wrath of earth, 
 A giant at its very birth, 
 
 [ 19] 
 
An evil Genii of the air, 
 The harbinger of life's despair; 
 No one invites, no one controls 
 Its tangled web, as it unrolls, 
 And makes a winding sheet for all, 
 Who in its path are doomed to fall; 
 So you, Brave Eagle, Kaweesee's son, 
 Will fall before the white man's gun. 
 
 ' I've seen the lightning stand tip-toe, 
 Play hide and seek on hills aglow, 
 Applauding shouts in thunder's peal. 
 Whose re-percussions outward steal, 
 And die along the distant hills. 
 And mingle with the chanting rills; 
 The day god then with cheerful smile, 
 Once more the Red Man's hopes beguile. 
 But not Brave Eagle's, Kaweesee's son, 
 Who will fall by the white man's gun. 
 
 ' Kaweesee's tribe will then be lost. 
 When he, the silent stream has crossed. 
 And in these shades has found repose 
 From earth and time's contending foes. 
 The twanging string of bended bow 
 That made the singing arrow go. 
 When fallen from his quivering hands. 
 With none to guard our father lands; 
 Brave Eagle gone! Kaweesee's son. 
 The target of the white man's gun.'' 
 
 From Grand View hill, with watchful eyes. 
 He saw a rim of mountains rise, 
 
 [20] 
 
Where sky and earth in robes of mist 
 In fond embrace each other kissed. 
 An autumn sun was sinking down 
 Beyond the mountain's sunht crown, 
 With breaking heart and woeful soul, 
 He saw the chart of fate unroll; 
 He bowed his head and smote his breast, 
 And turned his footsteps to the west. 
 
 After he crossed a winding brook 
 Near where it makes a curving crook 
 A boiling spring comes bubbling up. 
 He pursed his hands into a cup. 
 Stooped, and raised them to his lips. 
 And one sweet draught of water sips; 
 Then, sprinkling some upon his head — 
 His last libation to his dead — 
 Where they for centuries had slept 
 While all the stars their vigils kept. 
 
 Anon he changed his cup like fist 
 And kneeling down, its waters kiss 'd, 
 And in that kiss a thrill was felt 
 That made his heart's emotion melt, 
 As turning off one tear he gave 
 That mingled with its limpid wave. 
 Though wild his throbbing bosom heav'd. 
 With measured step — he's loathe to leave. 
 Then pausing on a rising bank 
 Above the spring, where oft he'd drank — 
 The sweetest spot on earth to him — 
 As there began life's morning hymn. 
 
 [21] 
 
Twas there Kaweesee's wigwam stood, 
 From tripple poles of iron wood; 
 Tripod shaped, and firmly bound. 
 At top, as well as on the ground; 
 And then, with raw hides covered o'er, 
 With hanging bear skin for a door; 
 The inside lined with fur skins soft, 
 From basement floor to attic loft; 
 And on the ground as soft a robe 
 As hunters find on any globe. 
 
 Kaweesee was a daring chief, 
 The bravest of the sons of Lief; 
 The Powhatan of all his tribe; 
 Immune to gold and every bribe. 
 He'd never seen a white man's face, 
 For centuries his line could trace 
 Along tradition's oral path 
 When tribe on tribe their burning wrath 
 Was emptied on each other's heads 
 Where shadows flaunt their sleeping beds. 
 
 The dawning light was in the east 
 
 With silver flushes fast increased 
 
 Extending up the vaulted blue 
 
 The shining arrows upward flew; 
 
 And then, the mountains' crest was kissed. 
 
 Then chased away the morning mist; 
 
 And last — the sleeping vales below 
 
 Put on the blush of morning's glow. 
 
 When wide awake, the, king of day. 
 
 In his chariot rode away. 
 
 [ 22 ] 
 
Kaweesee, too, was wide awake, 
 
 He saw the morning's splendor break. 
 
 His eyes kept watch through all the night 
 
 In waiting for Aurora's Hght. 
 
 The rounded moon had changed its horn 
 
 The very night his son was born. 
 
 On looking out with anxious eye 
 
 He saw an eagle passing by, 
 
 And then and there the father gave 
 
 To him the name of Eagle Brave. 
 
 Then Laughing Leaf looked up and smiled 
 
 And to her bosom pressed their child 
 
 And closely kept it wrapped within 
 
 A flossy robe of rabbit skin. 
 
 The rolling years still onward rolled 
 With love and peace around their fold. 
 Their quiver full of budding braves 
 To sentinel their fathers' graves. 
 Whose spirits at life's evening tide 
 Had passed beyond the great Divide; 
 Who in the spirit land had found 
 Their dream of home and hunting ground, 
 Where love and peace in one embrace 
 Would still pursue their endless chase. 
 
 Kaweesee then had passed away, 
 
 And Laughing Leaf beside him lay; 
 
 The golden rod with yellow plume 
 
 Was swaying o'er their silent tomb. 
 
 The ripened nuts of forest brown 
 
 Were shattered through the tree-tops down, 
 
 [23] 
 
When, from an oaken branch a jay 
 An acorn seized and flew away, 
 But in a fearful fit of gloom 
 It dropped it on Kaweesee's tomb. 
 
 The truth of this, it might be said, 
 It feared to cross the sleeping dead, 
 As hoary legend long ago 
 Pronounced on it a fearful woe; 
 For what offense no one can say, 
 Unless acknowledged by the jay; 
 And ever since nine times a year, 
 In Pluto's presence must appear. 
 And penance do and answer well, 
 To stay its soul away from Hell. 
 
 Ere long the forest leaves came down 
 And made a blanket for the ground; 
 A pallet soft for winter's feet, 
 To shield from cold and ice and sleet 
 The dormant flowers of the earth 
 There waiting for their springtime birth, 
 Beside the seeds of autumn sown 
 That the dying year had gro^^Ti; 
 Future forest for field and flower — 
 Nature's never failing dower. 
 
 The genial sun of spring awoke 
 The dreamings of the infant oak, 
 But how^, from out its acorn shell, 
 It bounded out no one can tell. 
 Instinct with life — an unseen force 
 
 [24] 
 
Had pushed it in its upward course, 
 
 While downward ploughed the young taproot 
 
 And upward shot the tender shoot; 
 
 Its chief ambition was to rise 
 
 And flaunt its branches 'neath the skies. 
 
 The dateless years still onward flew, 
 
 While from the ground it upward grew, 
 
 Till centuries, with willing aid. 
 
 Had helped to spread its lofty shade. 
 
 On Grand View hill — as Saul it stood — 
 
 The tallest in its neighborhood; 
 
 An outlook from its leafy dome 
 
 Where squirrels built their summer home; 
 
 The ravens oft around it croaked. 
 
 And muses call it Eagle Oak. 
 
 ^olus sang a song divine, 
 
 Then hung his harp on swaying pine — 
 
 And ever since the mournful note 
 
 Around the earth forever floats — 
 
 And birdlings tune their throats to it 
 
 In every woodland where they flit. 
 
 Apollo then, the harp he took, 
 
 And tuned it from the running brook, 
 
 And to it gave its wondrous thrill 
 
 That every ear with music fills. 
 
 Five generations beneath its shade 
 Have lived, and loved, and often strayed; 
 The sixth — is but a prattling boy 
 Whose heart is bubbling o'er with joy, 
 
 [25] 
 
As life's expanding buds shall ope'' 
 To catch the light of dawning hope; 
 While he, in turn, may come some day 
 His leisure hours to while away 
 And drop one tear to wet the sod 
 Where long ago his fathers trod. 
 
 Beneath yon lonely sugar's shade 
 My great grandsire's form was laid, 
 More than a hundred years have fled 
 Since he's been sleeping with the dead. 
 His dust in the sugar's fibre 's grown — 
 Its roots have feasted on his bones. 
 The living feeding on life'^ dust, 
 A lesson taught us, not unjust. 
 As younger heels on older tread 
 Whose life lives on behind the dead. 
 
 How oft I've lounged beneath its shade 
 When memory holds its dress parade; 
 The panorama of the years 
 In grand review again appears. 
 The Red Man on Zuala's hills. 
 With all their thousand laughing rills, 
 Has passed away and out of view. 
 The White Man at his heels pursue, 
 And crowd him to the setting sun, 
 Whose last sad race will soon be run. 
 
 The Red Man's life was full of ease — 
 His wants but few — not hard to please — ■ 
 - As nature fed him from her store 
 And gave to him an open door. 
 
 [ 26 1 
 
Still dreamers dream, and poets sing 
 Of what the future years will bring, 
 And seers likewise with poets fail, 
 While time must tell the truthful talc — 
 As faulty gleams of erring sight 
 Mistake the shadows for the light. 
 
 The plausibility of wrong 
 
 May make a cause appear quite strong, 
 
 Through sophistry — the oil of speech — 
 
 Its visionary doctrines preach, 
 
 To prove a fact that needs no proof 
 
 When truth and reason stand aloof; 
 
 But right of language plain and clear 
 
 Its audience is slow to hear. 
 
 Because the truth no varnish needs 
 
 As facts are only truthful deeds. 
 
 When on the oak the eagle dreams. 
 
 Although I never heard his screams. 
 
 But, looking to the eastern sky 
 
 His silhouette could easy spy; 
 
 Perched upon a blasted limb — 
 
 The scudding clouds above him skim — 
 
 Far in the distance he can spy 
 
 Through his telescopic eye 
 
 The quarry that will suit him best 
 
 Before a meal he starts in quest; 
 
 As arrow straight he swiftly flies — 
 
 In his talons the victim dies. 
 
 I saw him once when bounding by 
 A flock of crows he chanced to spy, 
 
 [27] 
 
And, swooping down, at one fell bound 
 He scooped up one from off the ground, 
 Whose caws and cries and jabberings 
 Nor moment stayed his rapid wings; 
 Upward bounding toward the skies, 
 Heeding not the piteous cries, 
 Whose comrades started out to chase 
 But soon gave up the useless race. 
 
 Twice in my life I've made them fall 
 On Grand View hill from rifle ball. 
 Winding down as an autumn leaf, 
 Whose life was but a summer brief; 
 Their hooked bills were red with gore 
 From lambkin entrails they had tore, 
 And picked the flesh from all their bones. 
 All heedless of their dying groans. 
 An eagle's spirit is easily cowed 
 When he has left the rolling cloud. 
 
 Zuala was a sylvan wild. 
 The paradise of forest child, 
 Whose undulating mountains roll 
 Like ocean waves that outward stroll; 
 And frozen by some Borean blast. 
 As monuments now standing fast 
 With ether's robe around them hung. 
 And, at their feet, the babbling tongue 
 Of thousand streams with murmurs sweet 
 Their morning hymns must still repeat. 
 
 Though onward roll the rolling years 
 As noiseless as the rolling spheres; 
 
 [28] 
 
No white man's foot has ever pressed 
 The virgin vales or mountain crest; 
 No rifle shot was ever heard 
 To strike the ear of roaming herd, 
 But quick and oft, the twanging bow 
 That made the flying arrow go. 
 While in its flight some vital breath 
 Was waiting for the message — death. 
 
 The White Man came with pow^der-gun — 
 The dance of death was soon begun — 
 The powder's flash and w^hiz of ball 
 Was apt to make some Red Man fall: 
 The old flint-lock with powder pan 
 Did the w^ork for many a man; 
 For every drop of blood thus spilt 
 Some White Man's conscience felt the guilt. 
 The Red Man's arm — the arrowed bow — 
 Was all too short to reach his foe. 
 So man to day 'neath eastern skies, 
 With bow and arrow stands and dies. 
 
 The White Man's coming with his gun — 
 The battle royal was then begun. 
 'Twas take who will, and keep who can — 
 The battle cry of warring clan. 
 Since man, in fact, has had his birth, 
 It's the slogan around the earth. 
 Yet no one sings the song of peace 
 While warring members still increase; 
 Their banners all in one unfurled 
 Would half way reach around the world. 
 
 r 29 1 
 
There is no flattery in tears; 
 There is no smile in boding fears; 
 Though courage may be short of breath, 
 There is no compromise with death. 
 For self defence is nature's law; 
 Aggressors should not ever awe. 
 When Duty is the fearless Knight 
 Who dares defend inherent right — 
 Come weal or woe, come life or death, 
 The prize at stake is but a breath ! 
 
 Though fates decreed in embryo, 
 No shadows from the future show. 
 But waiting for the wrathful day 
 When man shall force them into play; 
 With bloody stains left on the roll 
 Of time's unbroken, endless scroll. 
 There is no providential will 
 That causes man his man to kill ; 
 But passions, born of lust and greed, 
 As taught in man's inhuman creed. 
 
 From Eagle Oak, when Eagle Brave 
 Was turning from Kaweesee's grave; 
 The living turning from the dead 
 With tearful eyes, and aching head: 
 The oaken branches bending low, 
 As if in sympathetic woe. 
 Forebodings filled him with a dread 
 That fate was holding o'er his head. 
 And danger hounding at his heels 
 With all the pangs the bosom feels, 
 
 [30] 
 
Up where the mountain makes a crook, 
 He paused, and turned a backward look, 
 And in that look a month of years 
 Was furrowed out for falling tears. 
 His wampum belt around him swung, 
 Where many a foeman^s scalp was strung: 
 With nimble foot he onward sped, 
 His back now turned upon his dead. 
 Who never more his life could trust 
 To stand above their sleeping dust. 
 
 The sugar leaves were coming down. 
 Their golden robe had turned to brown; 
 The chipmunk clucking o'er its store 
 Saw him, as he passed its door; 
 The frisky squirrel hopping around, 
 Was hiding chestnuts in the ground; 
 On south hill side an antlered buck. 
 On seeing him with fear was struck. 
 With head thrown back, and tail aloft, 
 On springy heels he bounded off. 
 
 Up where the Hoist on waters run, 
 All sparkling in the autumn sun, 
 And where its song begins to sing 
 When starting out from Sharon Spring; 
 When to the right he bent his course, 
 And northward from the water's source, 
 And passing on through Gullion's gap, 
 And through Big Swamp without mishap, 
 Then Wolf Creek Gap — he found his w^ay- 
 No wasted time that autumn day. 
 
 [31 ] 
 
Then passing near Great Dial Rock, 
 Whose brow had felt the lightning shock, 
 Whose crumbling crown o'erlooks a vale 
 Fraught with many a sanguine tale; 
 And near its base poor Dial died, 
 With comrade falling by his side, 
 When brave Mathias, Skyduskee's son, 
 Charged the Red. Men and made them run ; 
 But on it Dial left his name 
 Embalmed in everlasting fame. 
 
 As onward still he made his way 
 Where many laughing waters play, 
 Although in sorrow on he goes 
 Where still, the "Sunless River flows;'' 
 And oft his father's feet had pressed 
 When going to and from the west. 
 Now he must tread the beaten trail 
 Until his pulsing heart shall fail; 
 On down the path he passed alone, 
 But none his fate has ever known. 
 Though not a word he ever spoke 
 After he left old Eagle Oak; 
 And no one wept, and no one sighed 
 When the Voiceless Hero died. 
 
 The Oracle of fate had spoke 
 And read his doom from Eagle Oak; 
 Who, bowing with submissive will 
 Till time, the prophecy would fulfil, 
 Without a murmur from his lips, 
 While waiting for his life's eclipse: 
 
 \ 32 1 
 
His nerve of steel would not bend, 
 But break it must, when life shall end. 
 To fear, nor love, nor passion yield, 
 A Zeno in life's battle-field. 
 
 When sighing winds of Autumn fly, 
 We hear the Red Man's mournful sigh. 
 The limpid waves of purling streams 
 Have seen his form when sunlight' gleams; 
 The watchful hills and silent vales 
 Echo his long forgotten tales; 
 The plowshare turns the arrow head 
 He dropped above his sleeping dead; 
 His axe of stone and pots of clay 
 Lost, or dropped, as he marched away. 
 
 A white man came and took his place, 
 A scion of the Celtic race, 
 And where Kaweesee's wigwajn stood, 
 He built his cabin, rough and rude. 
 'Twas then a sylvan solitude 
 Of giant oaks and walnuts grand, 
 With sugar trees on every hand. 
 For centuries, the winter blast 
 Shook their branches as it passed, 
 As monoliths to-day they stand. 
 Guardians of the Red Man's land; 
 Whose race is run, whose tribe is lost, 
 A bubble on time's ocean tossed. 
 
 Out of the mountain's bosom sprung 
 A limpid stream with babbling tongue, 
 
 [33] 
 
And slowly through the fern it ploughs 
 Its way beneath the lynden boughs; 
 With lisping lips it laughs along 
 Singing its never ending song; 
 Northward winding from its source, 
 When in the vale it turns its course, 
 And westward gliding down the vale 
 Without a note of sorrow's wail; 
 
 Thence northward, curving as it flows 
 
 Where the rhododendron grows. 
 
 Between the hills an outlet seeks. 
 
 Its name is lost in Walker's Creek; 
 
 Although for many years before 
 
 Newberry's Run, the name it bore, 
 
 And by him named who saw it first. 
 
 When one cool draught had slaked his thirst, 
 
 And from its ripples hunted out 
 
 With his own hands the speckled trout. 
 
 Along its banks the golden rod 
 Waved its plumes to the zephyrs nod; 
 The black cohosh with snowy plume 
 Still grows above the Red Man's tomb; 
 The mountain fern with verdant leaf 
 Still hangs its head as if in grief; 
 When PodophylHn's fragrant breath 
 As incense at the Red Man's death; 
 And daisies dear, with eyes of blue. 
 Called pansies now, of every hue; 
 And buttercups, with golden lips. 
 Where straying fairies love to sip. 
 
 [34] 
 
An over ruling Providence 
 Has naught to do with man's offense 
 Against his brother fellow man — 
 That's a quarrel 'twixt clan and clan; 
 And blood for blood on battle field 
 The only way the feud is healed. 
 The scales of justice can ne'er decide 
 When might and mammon over-ride 
 And put to shame the moral law 
 From whence his inspirations draw. 
 
 The mind of man's been long at school — 
 
 Confucius taught the golden rule 
 
 Five hundred years before the Christ 
 
 On the Cross, with thieves, was sacrificed. 
 
 And now the Christians of the earth 
 
 Would like to claim they gave it birth. 
 
 Plagairism is still in vogue 
 
 Among the sects, as well as rogues, 
 
 So man and nature still survive 
 
 The offspring of an older hive. 
 
 What we discuss among ourselves, 
 Is dusty on our fathers' shelves; 
 And could we trace the birth of sin, 
 We'd find it where the race begins; 
 And, springing from the very cause 
 That ushered in the moral laws. 
 Before man's birth there was no sin, 
 So right and wrong with him begin; 
 And then the moral law, of course, 
 Since man's first start has been in force. 
 
 [35] 
 
The agency of man is free, 
 
 He syllables his own decree; 
 
 His fate is moulded by his deeds, 
 
 Right or wrong, in spite of creeds. 
 
 A misplaced faith may wreck his barque 
 
 And leave him groping in the dark; 
 
 The fault's his own, and not the rod 
 
 Of some unseen, avenging God, 
 
 Whose scourging hand his children smite 
 
 Because they fail to see the light. 
 
 The seas of blood that man has spilt 
 
 Upon his God, would charge the guilt, 
 
 Is but the teachings of the scribes 
 
 Of Oriental ruling tribes. 
 
 The creedal mongers of the East, 
 
 Whose faith was born of pampered priest. 
 
 Where superstitions bar the way 
 
 To truth, or reason's shining ray. 
 
 And still, the world in bondage holds, 
 
 That's bowing to the caM of gold. 
 
 Civilization wants the best 
 Of everything by earth possessed; 
 There's naught too good for it to own, 
 When justice sits upon the throne. 
 The genius of the searching mind 
 Will hunt it out to help mankind 
 In weeding out the chronic wTongs 
 That to man's nature still belongs; 
 Then, all the errors of the past 
 Will in time's rubbish heap be cast. 
 
 [36] 
 
The moral law must be its aim, 
 
 If permanence it would maintain; 
 
 But human progress knows no creed. 
 
 Its only foe is human greed, 
 
 Which knows no law, but grab and hold. 
 
 And serves no god, but gain and gold; 
 
 And, like Belshazzar in his feast, 
 
 Instead of man, becomes a beast; 
 
 And riot reigns where peace should rule. 
 
 And wisdom proves itself a fool. 
 
 All thinking minds in silence wait 
 To watch the sleight of hand of fate; 
 Its wonders new, will never cease 
 While truth and knowledge still increase; 
 Till nature opens wide her doors, 
 And conquering science, all explores; 
 For man's the wizard of the earth. 
 Who owns it by the right of birth; 
 The winds and waves, the light and air, 
 As couriers, his message bear. 
 
 Civilization is the test 
 
 Of human genius at its best. 
 
 The wealth of knowledge, and the will 
 
 To husband it, by wisdom's skill, 
 
 With equal rights and equal laws, 
 
 The very gist of freedom's cause. 
 
 Where one is weak, but all are strong. 
 
 In overcoming human wrong, 
 
 This wisdom of the ages teach. 
 
 That all should practice what they preach. 
 
 [37] 
 
Civilization's freedom's light, 
 That's driving out barbarian night, 
 And men are shaking off the gyves 
 That's fettered nations all their lives. 
 The will to rise and break the thrall, 
 The right that freedom gives to all; 
 Without a will, there's nothing done, 
 Without a race,, there's nothing won; 
 Struggle and toil, struggle and wait — 
 The corner stones of human fate. 
 
 A lofty dream that man has sought 
 Through all the cycles time has wrought, 
 As often found, as often lost, 
 Though never measured by its cost 
 Of wasted blood, muscle and brain. 
 He's reaching for the prize again; 
 But Fate, perhaps, may turn him back, 
 And leave his wreck along the track. 
 When, unaware, he learns too late. 
 He is the guiding hand of Fate. 
 
 He loves to climb, but learns to fall. 
 Then up the steep toboggan crawls. 
 Forgetting that he fell before 
 Overloaded with his selfish store; 
 His greedy hands were grasping all, 
 The parent cause of every fall; 
 His wisdom comes alas, too late. 
 To show the trend of human fate, 
 Till ruin claims the fallen heap 
 O'er which his race again must weep. 
 
 [38] 
 
Come now with me to Freeman's rock, 
 Though not the smallest in the flock, 
 As Big Bend Signal where it stands 
 Is not the giant of the land; 
 An airy outlook, that commands 
 The grandest sweep in all the land; 
 Where mountains like great billows rise 
 With foamy crests amid the skies, 
 Till sky and earth, the green and blue. 
 Are blended in one azure hue. 
 
 Old Connarook now comes in view. 
 It westward stands, full robed in blue, 
 The highest peak Virginia claims 
 Found in Appalachian chain. 
 Where pigmies lift their longing eyes, 
 But ne'er can pierce the bending skies: 
 Its hoary head, where lightnings dare 
 To cross their sabres in the air, 
 Grand old warrior, unscathed and free, 
 Fit emblem of the fame of Lee. 
 
 Beyond Burkes' Garden's rimof blue, 
 Great Dial Rock looms up in view; 
 Clinch River gushing from its base 
 And westward bounding in its race; 
 Its frowning brow, with clouds is hung. 
 From whence the lightning licks its tongue 
 With blazing hps and stamping heel, 
 Its voice is heard in thunder's peal: 
 The trembling vales and rocking 1 ills 
 Responsive to electric thrills. 
 
 [39] 
 
Now lift the straining eyes again 
 
 And southward turn their piercing lens, 
 
 Far out amid the seeming waves 
 
 Where naught but mountain — mountain laves; 
 
 A wilderness of rigid waves, 
 
 First built upon the Titans' graves; 
 
 There Clingman's dome lifts up its head. 
 
 The monument to ocean's dead, 
 
 Out of whose oozy bed it rose 
 
 To kiss the light when morning glows. 
 
 This is my muse's harvest field 
 And to the sickle now must yield. 
 Till every ripened sheaf is bound 
 And shocked upon its classic ground. 
 A dream that charms — a muse's pet — 
 Who once has seen, can ne'er forget. 
 Of beings self becomes a part — 
 The Idyls of the dreaming heart, 
 That lives, and loves, and only dies, 
 When life shall close its dreaming eyes. 
 
 Dec. 15th, 1901, to Jan. 1902 
 
 Part II. 
 
 Again, once more extend your gaze. 
 To where the morning's levelled ray; 
 Come peering over a rim of blue 
 Of mountain brows of azure hue; 
 And, as you gaze with swelling breast, 
 The first you see is Angel's Rest, 
 
 [40] 
 
A half-way ground 'twixt earth and sky 
 Where tireless angels often fly, 
 And pause a moment in their flight, 
 Then, on again beyond our sight. 
 
 Oft Peries from the vaulted deep. 
 
 Where human eye can never sweep. 
 
 And thought in truth must grope its way, 
 
 As reason fails to lend a ray; 
 
 Where fancy builds her castles grand. 
 
 Beyond the reach of mortal hands; 
 
 Where hope — perchance — may find some day, 
 
 A realm where peace would love to stay, 
 
 Nor wreck of time awake the fears, 
 
 That gave an outlet to our tears. 
 
 Here rural knights, and maidens fair, 
 In search of love — or purer air, 
 With joyous hearts and laughter gay, 
 In one fond glance can all survey 
 Each rural scene, and happy home. 
 As opened book — from airy dome, 
 That all may read the poem grand 
 That nature wrote with unseen hand; 
 A dream, that lives when poets die, 
 And painters drop their brush and sigh. 
 
 Across the vale from Angel's Rest, 
 Where Bald Knob rears his hoary crest, 
 As Saul — above his brothers stood. 
 He stands likewise in altitude; 
 No thunder peal can ever shake 
 From out his grasp his flowing lake, 
 
 [41] 
 
Athwart whose waves his shadows fling 
 Like purple robe of royal king; 
 While all his fellows round him stand 
 And yield obeisance at command. 
 
 Down at the foot of Angel's Rest, 
 Close leaning to the mountain's breast, 
 Lies Pearisburg, the county seat, 
 Where rich and poor together meet, 
 Where Justice holds an even scale. 
 And right o'er wrong sometimes prevail; 
 Where law and peace together hold 
 The realm of love more dear than gold, 
 Unless, perchance, some demon's knock 
 Shakes up the town with earthquake shock. 
 
 A timid parson one certain day, 
 Who had not time to watch and pray. 
 But turned his back upon his flock. 
 Much frightened by the seismic shock; 
 His faith was proven by his works, 
 Though faith sometimes its duty shirks — 
 He doubtless thought the Judgment Day 
 Was tumbhng down the Milky Way; 
 To save himself from even harm 
 He took an outing to his farm. 
 
 O'er yonder rolls New River's wave, 
 Just see its dashing waters lave 
 Along the base of mountains grand 
 As any scene in Switzerland. 
 Fed by a thousand laughing rills. 
 And leaping from a thousand hills, 
 
 t 42 ] 
 
And winding through a thousand vales, 
 Fraught with countless bloody tales 
 Of the Red Man of the West, 
 That the white man has oppressed. 
 
 It is the wonder of the earth, 
 
 From whence its lofty mountain birth, 
 
 In fairy lands above the skies, 
 
 Is where its infant waters rise. 
 
 And, thence from Alleghaniy's height 
 
 Comes rushing with a wild delight. 
 
 And bids defiance as it flows 
 
 And rushes on its barrier foes, 
 
 And charges through the mountains bold 
 
 With a volume naught can hold. 
 
 All the quaking hills around 
 Feel the tremor of its bound, 
 And onward ever — still it rolls — 
 With its plowshare slick as mole. 
 Threading every mountain pass' 
 As lucid as the looking glass. 
 Mirroring all the hills along, 
 As it hymns its ancient song, 
 Since these mountains had their birth. 
 The spinal columns of the earth. 
 
 Though Mountain Lake in years gone by 
 Was funnel like, with bottom dry; 
 The tiny branch that found its way 
 To the bottom, then oozed away. 
 When stockmen came, and made a halt. 
 To give their herds a lick of salt; 
 
 [43] 
 
When silt and soil, convincing proof, 
 Was pestled dpwn by trampling hoof; 
 Then, Salt Pond, was the name it bore 
 For half a century or more. 
 
 But, as the years went rolling by, 
 The funnel hole no longer dry, 
 Then, Salt Pond lost its rustic name. 
 Assuming one of lasting fame.^ 
 Where pleasure finds a time to sport, 
 And cupid holds his summer court; 
 Where city folks with country lass, 
 In gaiety their leisure pass, 
 And boating o'er the forest's grave 
 Where now the silver waters lave. 
 
 'Tis here, the mountain breezes bring 
 
 A freshness in their healing wings, 
 
 A fragrance from the leafy woods 
 
 In their lofty altitudes; 
 
 With free ozone in every breeze. 
 
 And healing as the breath of seas. 
 
 As hope looks out from windows clear 
 
 Where love is smiling all the year. 
 
 And life's young dreams once more awake, 
 
 With new born thrills at Mountain Lake. 
 
 Four thousand feet above the sea 
 This sparkling goblet you can see. 
 Its glinting waves in sunbeams shine 
 Like bead or bush in ancient wine; 
 The very gods would love to sip 
 Could Heba bear it to their lips; 
 
 [41] 
 
They'd cast ambrosia from their board — • 
 The nectar all have long adored — 
 One quaff alone, without mistake, 
 Would be enough their thirst to slake. 
 
 The stars that diadem the night 
 Throw back their kisses from its light; 
 And daring nymphs that watch its waves 
 Still in its glassy waters lave; 
 While on its shores, and all around, 
 The fragrant honeysuckle's found, 
 And rhododendrons bloom and blush — 
 You hear the song of mountain thrush. 
 Whose matin lay, or vesper hymn, 
 No forest choir can equal him. 
 
 Old Bald Knob, with naked crown, 
 A god of wrath, is looking down, 
 With knitted brow and vengeful ire, 
 With smoking lips and tongue of fire: 
 He holds the sleeping earthquake down 
 That shakes the hills for miles around; 
 And looks the Titans in the face, 
 Who dare not hurl him from his place; 
 Enthroned upon a base of rocks, 
 Defying all the seismic shocks. 
 
 January, 1903. 
 
 Part III. 
 
 Beneath the boughs of Eagle Oak 
 The muse's aid we still invoke; 
 The field is wide, the harvest great, 
 And none who see should hesitate 
 
 [45] 
 
To cast the shining sickle forth 
 When gazing to the west or north, 
 And see Burkes' Garden mountain rim 
 Outhned against the sky — and dim — 
 As swinging censor in the air. 
 Where memory's children oft repair. 
 
 No one its legends yet has sung, 
 Although for cycles it has swung 
 Not far below the shining stars, 
 When dropping kisses down to Mars; 
 The story of its wondrous birth, 
 With nothing like it on the earth, 
 When once a Lakelet in the sky 
 Till gravitation drained it dry; 
 And now, its waters running out, 
 As lemonade from pitcher spout. 
 
 'Twas long ago when Titan hands 
 Upheaved these mountains where they stand, 
 From out the ocean's ooze and slime 
 They rose as monuments of time; 
 Their naked backs toward the sky, 
 Exposed to winds and sun to dry, 
 A barren crust — nor blade nor leaf — 
 No living eye could find relief; 
 From every pore a gushing rill 
 Went bounding from its native hill; 
 
 And winding through the muddy vales. 
 Where ugly sharks and monster whales 
 All gambolled on the ocean's floor, 
 Though now debarred forevermore. 
 
 [46 ] 
 
The infant brook goes back to tell 
 To mother ocean's sighing shell 
 That beast and bird — then man would come- 
 To found in time the peaceful home 
 Where once the children of the waves 
 Are silent in their stony graves. 
 
 Though once the garden of the gods, 
 But now the land of golden rods, 
 Whose yellow plume in autumn waves 
 Where now — no more — the lakelet laves 
 The mountain's face — as long ago, 
 Before it had an outward flow, 
 'Till brimming full to azure rim 
 Where nymphs and nyads loved to sw^im, 
 Until the volimie with its weight 
 Was bearing on the beam of fate. 
 
 As northern wall was growing weak 
 And through a crevice found a leak, 
 And, trickling through a shivered rock 
 When, sudden as an earthquake shock. 
 The heaving mountain tumbled north 
 And through it leaped the waters forth 
 With frantic shout and thunder peal 
 That made the quaking mountains reel, 
 As on the maddened waters rolled 
 O'er leaping cascades, wild and bold: 
 
 Without a pause — in onward sweep 
 As from the clouds it seemed to leap, 
 And freedom found from prison wall. 
 Although from childhood kept in thrall: 
 
 [47] 
 
As unbound spirits fly away 
 
 To seek no more their house of clay, 
 
 Its tragic story can repeat 
 
 By giving murmurs — soft and sweety 
 
 Winding along with grassy brinks, 
 
 Where thirsty short horns get their drinks. 
 
 No more a lake, or miry swamp, 
 Where nature^s children loved to romp, 
 The polished beaver built its dam 
 With cot and clay, each crevice cram; 
 'Twas instinct taught him how to build. 
 And for reasons formed its guild. 
 His trowel-tail was put to use — 
 For idleness — there's no excuse. 
 The otter came with furry tail — 
 A turbine boat without a sail. 
 
 The buffalo, the elk and deer. 
 
 From all surrounding mountains near 
 
 Found their way in course of time 
 
 To rendevous in a fly less clime, 
 
 To browse and graze on toothsome grass. 
 
 When to or from the salt licks pass. 
 
 Till antlered heads and rounded forms 
 
 Were well equipped for winter storms, 
 
 Unless, perchance, the Red Man's bow 
 
 With twanging arrow laid them low. 
 
 Towards the west the mountains lift. 
 With shaggy brows, with clouds adrift, 
 Overshadowed with the somber brows 
 Of swaying balsam's, soughing boughs. 
 
 [48 1 
 
O'er jungle wild and rocky glen 
 
 No habitat of living men; 
 
 Where wolf and panther found a lair, 
 
 When hot pursued — the shambling bear, 
 
 And by tradition, handed down. 
 
 The classic name of Bruin Town. 
 
 Tradition's story may be stale. 
 
 But oft, it tells a truthful tale. 
 
 Though facts and fictions oft combine 
 
 To weave a story into rhyme. 
 
 The truth of this — I would rehearse, 
 
 And blend them in my humble verse, 
 
 Since half the legends of the earth 
 
 In tradition have their birth. 
 
 A fertile field for human thought, 
 
 That the muses all have sought. 
 
 When Burk took down his rifle gun 
 
 He little thought of such a run 
 
 As he, that day, would have to take 
 
 Before his game could overtake; 
 
 But passing down a nameless creek, 
 
 The light of sun on mountain peak, 
 
 A startled elk crossed o'er the stream 
 
 Along his back no forked beam; 
 
 The monarch of the wild domain, 
 
 Who to that creek bequeathed his name. 
 
 He bounded on with reckless speed. 
 To hunter's whistle paid no heed; 
 The Red Man's signal oft was heard, 
 The time to halt, as oft deferred; 
 
 [49] 
 
His only safety was in flight 
 
 As on he sped with all his might, 
 
 His springing heels were at their best 
 
 Before he reached the mountain crest, 
 
 When, pausing there — a moment stood. 
 
 With backward glance through barren wood. 
 
 To see if danger in his rear 
 Was far away, or drawing near, 
 Though not a moment had he lost 
 Since o'er the Elk Creek waters crossed; 
 Although not conscious of his name 
 Then being handed down to fame. 
 Life with him was the golden prize. 
 And not his name to immortalize; 
 Thus fortune's favors oft depend 
 On hated foe — and not on friend. 
 
 Then down a leading ridge he took 
 
 Toward another nameless brook, 
 
 When years ago he saw it first 
 
 And with his mother, slaked his thirst. 
 
 And heard the Red Man's singing dart 
 
 That pierced his mother through the heart; 
 
 With quivering limb and waning breath. 
 
 He saw her fall asleep in death; 
 
 From fright and fear he fled away 
 
 And shunned the spot from day to day. 
 
 But fate, it seemed, had changed its tide 
 And brought him to the place she died; 
 With no foreboding in his breast 
 He seemed to have a moment's rest, 
 
 [50] 
 
When, sudden as the Hghtning's flash 
 He felt a bullet through him crash, 
 When limping off with shattered limb, 
 As Burk was close pursuing him; 
 A cripple, then, for life, and lame. 
 But Cripple Creek had found a name; 
 To him a place by fate accursed 
 Since the day he saw it flrst. 
 
 There was no time to dodge or shirk 
 
 When on his trail was fearless Burk, 
 
 Whose wind was never known to fail 
 
 When blood was seen along the trail; 
 
 As swift as beagle on the track. 
 
 He never thought of turning back; 
 
 Whose eagle eye, of azure hue, 
 
 Could pierce the tangled brushwood through. 
 
 And scarcely ever missed his aim 
 
 When through his sights he saw his game. 
 
 In earnest then, the race began, 
 'Twas elk for elk — and man for man, 
 Or, Burk for elk — and elk for life, 
 A double purpose in their strife; 
 The one to find a safe retreat. 
 The other's aim to kill and eat; 
 Each, his level best was doing, 
 The first pursued — the last pursuing; 
 ^No time was lost on either side 
 Until they reached the great divide 
 
 That shoved the waters east and west. 
 When Burk a moment paused to rest, 
 
 [51 ] 
 
And, from his pouch a snack he took 
 And ate it by a running brook. 
 Then, up and on again he went, 
 With strong resolve and firm intent 
 To win or lose the valued prize 
 Before the evening star should rise, 
 As waning day would soon be spent, 
 And night would pitch her sable tent. 
 
 A firm resolve is hard to shake, 
 And nerves of steel are hard to break, 
 But he that has an iron will 
 Is hard to rule, unless you kill. 
 And so was Burk's determined heart 
 To bag his game from morning start; 
 Still trailing on with hopes renewed, 
 His wary game he still pursued: 
 Though never since he saw him limp. 
 Had been able to get a glimpse. 
 
 So, hope with him had never died. 
 As in the distance he descried 
 A lofty mountain looming up — 
 An ancient Titan's drinking cup — 
 Whose azure rim was near the stars, 
 Not far below the feet of Mars. 
 And when the day god sinks to rest 
 He drops his arrows on its crest; 
 And dusky eve — with seeming frown, 
 Then pulls night's sable curtains down. 
 
 Erelong he reached the mountain's base, 
 Though somewhat worried in the chase, 
 
 [52] 
 
Although a fruitless race as yet 
 
 Still, one more chance he hoped to get — 
 
 One more shot from rifle gun 
 
 Would put an end to the day's long run; 
 
 When half way up the mountain side, 
 
 Through an opening he espied 
 
 His wary game, in restive mood, 
 
 Then gazing backward through the wood. 
 
 When Burk to shoulder rifle pressed 
 And dramng bead upon his breast, 
 He bounded off, and out of sight, 
 Soon crossing o'er the mountain height. 
 And left his daring hunter, bold. 
 To fret, or fume, or swear and scold, 
 Who followed on in spite of luck 
 To satisfy his Irish pluck. 
 Till standing on the mountain's top 
 That seemed the hanging skies to prop. 
 
 When front and rear, and East and West, 
 Was one unbroken wilderness; 
 A poem grand that nature wrote, 
 And none but g ods could ever quote; 
 Before him, as a book was spread. 
 And none but Nature's God had read; 
 Yet man, with all his boasted lore 
 Has not unlocked half Nature's store, 
 Her hidden key he yet may find 
 Through proper training of the mind. 
 
 No white man's foot had chanced to press 
 This idle- wild and wilderness, 
 
 [53] 
 
A sylvan dream of pleasing thought 
 That oft inquiring minds had sought, 
 'Till fearless Burk — old hunter bold, 
 In search of game, worth more than gold, 
 Looked down upon the nameless land 
 As one of old, who had command 
 Of Israel's throng, when seeing sighed 
 And on the mount lay down and died. 
 
 But fearless Burk, he trod alone. 
 No voice he heard — except his own, 
 As down the rugged mountain side 
 He made his way by step or slide 
 Until he reached the vale below 
 And heard the purling waters flow. 
 That onward, moving further north, 
 To where a spring was gushing forth 
 On Eastern bank, and sunny nook 
 'Twixt sloping hill and lazy brook. 
 
 The evening sun was sinking low; 
 The mountain tops were all aglow; 
 Across the vale long shadows thrown. 
 And soon the sky with stars was sown. 
 The silver sheen of waning moon 
 Was reaching for its midnight's noon. 
 And silence slept on all the hills 
 With scarce a murmur in the rills. 
 As drowsy night a stillness brings 
 When e'er she spreads her ebon wings. 
 
 The weary hunter dozed and slept. 
 But by his side his rifle kept, 
 
 [54] 
 
Although recumbent on his couch, 
 Across his shoulder hung his pouch; 
 A polished horn with powder filled, 
 And leaden balls that bosoms stilled, 
 A battery of self defence, 
 Should foeman ever give offense. 
 Thus, caution keeps a watchful eye 
 When dangers may be lurking nigh. 
 
 Of childhood's home — perhaps he dreamed, 
 
 That far across the ocean gleamed 
 
 A jewel on the Ocean's breast 
 
 That Tyrant Wrong has long oppressed; 
 
 Where Tara's Hall remains the while. 
 
 But soon must be a crumbling pile. 
 
 Old Erin dear, must hope, and wait 
 
 The rising tide of coming fate. 
 
 When freedom will from ashes rise 
 
 And furl its banner to the skies. 
 
 That dear old home — when life was young- 
 He heard the songs his mother sung; 
 And memories still their echoes hold 
 As misers love to clutch their gold, 
 And live they must, while bosoms swell. 
 And death shall sound their final knell. 
 The race of heroes is not dead, 
 Though for a thousand years have bled. 
 It is no proof — since they have died. 
 That Freedom, too, was crucified. 
 
 The dreamer wakes, somewhat refreshed, 
 Ere day away the darkness brushed; 
 
 [55] 
 
He lost his game with seeming odds, 
 But found the palace of the gods; 
 The finder, then, to prove his claim. 
 Baptized it with his Irish name; 
 Then from his pouch potatoes took 
 And planted them beside the brook. 
 Again he came, the coming fall, 
 He dug and roasted, ate skin and all — 
 'Twas custom then in Donegal. 
 
 February 3rd, 1903. 
 
 Part IV. 
 
 Come, turn your eyes toward the East, 
 
 If you'd enjoy a muse's feast; 
 
 Follow yon mountain's line of blue 
 
 Till High Rock's brow shall greet your view 
 
 Who lifts his head above the vale 
 
 Where sleeps the hero of my tale. 
 
 Whose gallant sons beside him stood 
 
 In the mountainous solitude; 
 
 Their story brief, though coming late, 
 
 In simple verse I will relate. 
 
 Skyduskee, with his daring sons. 
 With horses packed, and rifle guns; 
 George Draper, too, who went along, 
 Must be remembered in my song. 
 In search of game, one autumn day, 
 They took their journey far away — 
 Perhaps a hundred miles or so, 
 To where Tug River's waters flow. 
 
 [56] 
 
The beechen mast was coming down, 
 And bears were plenty all around. 
 
 So, when they reached their camping gromid, 
 
 The sons were sent to search around 
 
 To see if any " Injun Sign " 
 
 Might be found along the line 
 
 Where they proposed their camp to make, 
 
 To roast or fry their venison steak; 
 
 If favored luck should grant their aim 
 
 And help them to their fancied game, 
 
 That each pack horse might have a load 
 
 To bear o'er hills without a road. 
 
 Skyduskee's sons, in searching around, 
 Soon foujid some Red Men's camping ground 
 Where they had spent the night before 
 And cooked and ate their meagre store; 
 The burning brands were scarcely cold, 
 Their present danger plainly told; 
 Then, hurrying back to camp, they found 
 Their horses hoppled ^11 around. 
 Who to their father made report. 
 With all the facts to give support. 
 
 Skyduskee was a woodsman born, 
 
 In danger reared — all fear to scorn, 
 
 Nor reckless in life's battle-field. 
 
 But prudent to no foeman yield 
 
 The vantage ground when life's the stake, 
 
 If duty bid precaution take: 
 
 As life was not a useless giftj 
 
 Though Red Men claimed the right to lift 
 
 [57] 
 
The scalp from any human head 
 Even before the scalped was dead. 
 
 Soon the horses were all repacked, 
 To make for home before attacked; 
 No time to parley, or to wait — 
 'Twas action then, and not debate 
 Their safety was in quick retreat, 
 But in good order and complete; 
 The older ones in front appear. 
 The Harman sons to be the rear. 
 The silent march was then begun — 
 Each hunter with his loaded gun. 
 
 While every eye was wide awake, 
 
 As looking for some poison snake, 
 
 The sullen Indian in his wrath 
 
 Was couched along his narrow path. 
 
 Six in number, behind a log. 
 
 Out of the sight of man or dog; 
 
 Two had bows and arrows strong — 
 
 Four had rifles near five feet long; 
 
 Had they but known their weapons, worth 
 
 They'd wiped the Harmans from the earth. 
 
 When at the signal of their chief 
 The awful silence found relief; 
 Four rifle balls went whizzing out 
 And followed close by savage shout. 
 Bad luck to them — their aim had missed — 
 Four bullets through the air had hissed. 
 The Harmans formed in hollow square, 
 But Draper was no longer there — 
 
 [58] 
 
His horse had bore him far away, 
 Out of reach of the bloody fray. 
 
 Skyduskee and his oldest son 
 
 Each to his shoulder found his gun, 
 
 And, quick as thought — with truest aim — 
 
 Indians two were limping lame; 
 
 Their combs were cut by Harman's gaffs 
 
 That made them squirm and devil's laugh; 
 
 The others, then, in maddened strife. 
 
 With tomahawks and scalping loiife 
 
 Around the three were closing in 
 
 To put an end to all the din. 
 
 But soon they found a loaded gun 
 Was leveled by the youngest son, 
 Who, at his father's wise request. 
 Had kept it to his bosom pressed 
 With seeming aim, he watched the fray, 
 And kept the savages at bay; 
 While father and the older son 
 Were sending death from smoking gun, 
 And he above with watchful eye, 
 Could hear the deathly missiles fly. 
 
 The time for him to act was near; 
 
 He saw the cheif tan's form appear; 
 
 So, anxious he, to try his luck, 
 
 As well to test his nerve and pluck. 
 
 Permission asked from father near, 
 
 Who gave it with a hearty cheer. 
 
 On wings of death a bullet flew, 
 
 That pierced the Shav/nee chief tan through, 
 
 [59] 
 
Who fell beneath a tall beech tree, 
 With daring spirit — forever free. 
 
 The older son, to tell the truth, 
 
 He had been lame from early youth; 
 
 His foeman saw him limping 'round, 
 
 Mistook his lameness for a wound> 
 
 And rushing on him for his scalp — 
 
 As well might he attack the Alps. 
 
 Though George was lame, he found him tough, 
 
 And wiry too — as well as rough — 
 
 A rough and tumble fight begun. 
 
 Without the aid of any gun. 
 
 George Harman's knife was in his belt, 
 Although for it he'd often felt; 
 With ease, he threw the Red Man down. 
 But could not hold him on the ground, 
 His shot pouch on his left side hung, 
 In his tussle to his back was clung. 
 In vain he sought his truant knife. 
 To put an end to the Red Man's life, 
 Though failing oft, the time came 'round, 
 And found him dead on the battle ground. 
 
 'Twas hand to hand — and tilt for tilt. 
 Until the Red Man's blood w^as spilt. 
 Whose scalping knife had turned that day, 
 And to his heart had carved its way; 
 Whose ghost went out where the knife went in^ 
 Stained with the blood of a brother's sin. 
 'Twas life for Hfe, the price that's paid 
 By all who join in the horrid trade — 
 
 [60] 
 
Savage, civilized — one and all — 
 The strongest rise, the weakest fall. 
 
 Mathias and George had done good work; 
 None but Draper had seemed to shirk; 
 Four out of six were put to rest, 
 The other two, their father pressed 
 With arrows flying from the bow, 
 'Till blood began to freely flow. 
 Whose nerve and pluck was of the best, 
 One arrow fastened in his breast. 
 Who seeing that their cheif was dead, 
 Became disheartened, turned and fled. 
 As through the forest on they sped. 
 Perhaps not mindful of their dead. 
 
 Though twice their number lost or killed; 
 Their beating hearts forever stilled; 
 Without a scalp on either belt, 
 Their woeful luck they keenly felt. 
 But keener was George Draper's sight, 
 Who saw them in their onward flight. 
 All but Draper their duty did ; 
 He, in a fallen tree top hid. 
 The old tree top he did disgrace 
 By making it his hiding place. 
 
 The battle o^er, the day was won, 
 By Henry and his worthy sons, 
 Though two to one had been the odds — 
 The brave are aided by the gods. 
 With willing hand, and willing heart. 
 Half the battle is in the start. 
 
 [ 61 ] 
 
The aim of justice is the right, 
 Though not always in the fight; 
 But courage is the god of will 
 Whose purpose is to rule or kill. 
 
 The time to fight had passed away — 
 To dress the wounded in the fray, 
 To get the arrow from the breast 
 Of their father, was then the test. 
 The bearded arrow head was flared — 
 And bleeding bosom must be bared 
 To get the horrid weapon out, 
 Though followed by a bloody spout. 
 With pocket knife they cut it loose, 
 Then worked away the gory sluice; 
 
 Then bound it up as best they could — 
 Determined, then, to leave the wood, 
 And leave the wilds and wilder still 
 The Red Man with his stubborn will; 
 With tomahawk and scalping knife. 
 Who had pledged his sacred life 
 To save his father's hunting ground. 
 Where trespassers were often found; 
 Which pledge he kept with bloody hand 
 Till driven from his father's land. 
 
 The homeward march was soon begun — 
 Brave Henry with his valiant sons. 
 Though somewhat damaged in the fight. 
 But living foes all put to flight : 
 Full conscious of their duty done 
 With hunting knife and trusty gun, 
 
 [62 ] 
 
Although their horses bore no packs, 
 But empty all, and going back, 
 They'd left their home in search of game, 
 Returning then — with naught but fame. 
 
 George Draper had before them sped — 
 Reported all the Harmans dead; 
 While he alone, was only left, 
 To tell the story to the bereft. 
 But, by and by, the Harmans came — 
 New laurels added to their name, 
 The heroes of a battle won, 
 Where none but Draper ever run: 
 The Harmans were of warrior clan — 
 Their sires came from the Isle of Man. 
 
 Skyduskee was of massive frame — 
 The Red Man gave to himx his name 
 Because he was of stately form, 
 Both tall and straight — a soldier bom, 
 With darkened brows and flashing eye, 
 From dangers front would never fly; 
 Whose motto was : To never yield 
 Till every foeman quit the field. 
 Rather than show the feather white. 
 Would sink his name in endless night. 
 
 IVe often seen their battle ground 
 And fancied I could hear the sound 
 Of whizzing balls and twanging bows 
 Between the Harmans and their foes; 
 Or faintly hear the raven's croak 
 Amid the branches of the oak, 
 
 [63] 
 
And flying vultures from afar — 
 The filthy scavengers of war, 
 All, it seemed, had heard the groans, 
 And swiftly came to pick the bones. 
 
 Near six score years have rolled away 
 Since that fearful autumn day; 
 An Indian, and hunting knife. 
 With rifle gun, and date of strife. 
 Were carved upon the bole of beech, 
 As high as carving hand could reach. 
 
 That noted beech no more appears, 
 Although it stood a hundred years 
 As monument to mark the place 
 Where Draper did his name disgrace. 
 The sacriligeous hand of man 
 Has marred the spot, where savage clan 
 Once dared to lift his feeble hand 
 In the defence of native land; 
 With erring judgment, staking all, 
 And saw his sylvan empire fall. 
 
 We must admire his courage grand 
 Who gave his all for native land, 
 And in its fall without a stain. 
 Of cowardice upon his name. 
 Likewise, the daring Boer sought 
 To save his native land, and fought ^ 
 To found a nation of his own. 
 And not to prop a waning throne; 
 His blood all spilt without avail. 
 He's now a wisp in the lion's tail. 
 
 [64] 
 
The grasping paw of man is such, 
 His hands can never hold too much, 
 The power to take gives right to hold, 
 Which human laws have not controlled; 
 His will becomes the higher law, 
 That justice fails to overawe: 
 His will to have is all he needs 
 To satisfy his cultured creeds; 
 His avarice with greed combined, 
 Becomes the master of his mind. 
 
 From High Rock's base, some miles below, 
 Near where two creeks together flow, 
 Some years ago a cabin stood, 
 Begirt around with virgin wood, 
 Whose inmates were of humble birth. 
 Not wealth, but virtue's real worth— - 
 A heritage still handed down 
 To all who wear a worthy crown; 
 And to them, in the course of time, 
 A son was given in their prime; 
 
 Whose uphill life was soon begun — 
 'Twas work and wait from sun to sr,n — 
 His tender years inured to toil, 
 To dig a living from the soil; 
 Its recompense was poor indeed. 
 With many empty mouths to feed; 
 His meager wants, so oft denied. 
 The lamp of hope, in part supplied, 
 Which lured him on where honors wait 
 For those who strive to shape their fate. 
 
 [ 65 ] 
 
The pine knot was his lamp at night, 
 With inky smoke and rosin hght, 
 When o'er some borrowed book he pored 
 And in his mind its treasures stored. 
 With yearning soul and aching heart 
 He dared to do a brother's part; 
 A mother's aid and helping hand, 
 Whose love was but the magic wand 
 That moulded him to be a man 
 Whose like we ne'er may see again. 
 
 *The matchless son of all his race. 
 With none, as yet, to take his place; 
 Whose poverty and want withal 
 Could never grace a college hall. 
 But high resolve to emulate 
 Could leave behind the graduate. 
 On faith and hope his genius fed 
 When labor was his daily bread. 
 But plodding patience with lofty aim— 
 The master-builder of his fame. 
 
 The wonder of his intellect; 
 The master of our dialect; 
 Where no discordant notes appear 
 When his reasoning greets the ear; 
 When truth and logic together joined. 
 They brought conviction to the mind; 
 And doubt no longer doubt remains 
 Where light of truth and reason reign; 
 No sophistry, with language sooth. 
 Can cover up the Ught of truth. 
 
 [ 66 ] 
 
The ocean of his intellect; 
 From ebb or flow you might expect 
 A rhythm grand from out its deep 
 And through impassioned bosoms sweep- 
 To thrill with wonders of its force 
 On any theme he might discourse, 
 With voice as melody of seas 
 And oratory's mysteries, 
 When, blended in one sweep sublime, 
 As diapason half divine. 
 
 In life we took an even start — 
 Only a year or two apart; 
 But he has left with all his sheaves 
 And gone beyond life's dusky eaves; 
 While I have lived near twice his years, 
 No ripened sheaf as yet appears. 
 With empty hands, I pause and wait 
 To hear the falling feet of fate, 
 Whose coming is not far away 
 In the future's shadows grey. 
 
 The flying shuttle of life's muse 
 Is waiting — watching for its truce. 
 But never pausing in its work. 
 And never daring duty shirk. 
 And filling in its wondrous woof. 
 With self assertion, conscious proof; 
 Although its checkered web appears 
 To bear the stain of sorrow's tears, 
 With here and there, a sombre thread 
 In memoriam of the -dead, 
 
 167] 
 
Whose lives with faithful deeds were crowned, 
 Ere life's setting sun went down. 
 
 We're coming in and going out, 
 
 Along the same old beaten route, 
 
 For half a million years or more. 
 
 Across the same untrodden shore, 
 
 And never heard of any more, 
 
 "On the night's Plutonian Shore" 
 
 Where phantom forms forever fly, 
 
 Above the dust their spirits sigh. 
 
 Who lived and laughed, and loved and died. 
 
 While we, in turn, our time abide. 
 
 In many lives a hidden rill 
 That murmurs in the bosom still. 
 Whose outward flow can never reach 
 The open gate of human speech. 
 "Its music, all is hemmed within. 
 Though not the penalty of sin. 
 But environments that enthrall 
 And hold within its ancient wall 
 The hopeless and the yearning soul 
 That fate has sealed beyond control. 
 
 O'er threescore years and ten have shed 
 
 Their hoary frost upon my head, 
 
 Through life's rough path I've found my way; 
 
 On life's hill-top I pause to-day. 
 
 And backward turn my tearful gaze 
 
 To sunlit hills of manhood's days, 
 
 And see the wreck along life's path. 
 
 Where death has emptied out its wrath 
 
 [68] 
 
With ruthless hand, and shining blade. 
 In the dust love's flowers have laid. 
 
 Life's friends are gone, almost alone 
 I v/alk life's vale, with scarce a tone 
 Of voice of loved ones of my youth 
 When life was but the bud of truth; 
 When after years its bloom was shed 
 And scattered o'er the loved and dead; 
 Yet, memory holds her vigils still. 
 Whose guardianship will ever fill, 
 While heart shall throb, or pulse shall beat. 
 The last tattoo of life's retreat. 
 
 *Dr. Wm. Elbert* Munsey. March, 1903. 
 
 Part V. 
 
 One more vision from Eagle Oak — 
 Just one more dream, I would invoke, 
 Although from it I've gone aw^ay, 
 Beneath its boughs no more to stray; 
 Yet bright it lives in memory's beam, 
 Radiant as some muse's dream: 
 Some bright ideal of his soul 
 O'er whose wild wing there's no control; 
 That only lives in poet's eye 
 And finds an answer in his sigh. 
 
 How weak are words, how vain is speech, 
 Whene'er we try the truth to teach — 
 Our thoughts have wings wherewith they fly 
 To tell their story ere they die; 
 
 [69] 
 
And words are messengers of thought, 
 The art of man has wooed and caught 
 To tell life's story to his kind 
 Where'er in bondage he may find 
 One human soul, a priestly slave, 
 From childhood's cradle to the grave. 
 
 One more wreath, the last, to twine 
 Around the oak that once was mine. 
 Where hopes and harp so long had hung 
 And wooed the song my muse has sung. 
 Sad memories now, they sigh and roll 
 To every moaning of my soul; 
 As echoes steal across the vale 
 So sighs come up with sorrow's* wail, 
 Whose mournful chantings sob and sigh. 
 And in the bosom faint and die. 
 
 Send out the light, O ! fearless soul. 
 And let the page of truth unroll. 
 And find its way to hearts of men. 
 Where sullen darkness long has been. 
 From birth of man to highest noon, 
 A song he's sung to fable's tune, 
 Echoing up through all his years 
 Through priestly lips, and would be seers, 
 Who filled his hfe with bloody deeds 
 And then his mind with senseless creeds. 
 
 Then, like a scape goat turned him out 
 To make his way beyond a doubt. 
 With dogma's brand upon his soul. 
 That reason's hght should not console; 
 
 [70] 
 
Whose destiny was in a groove 
 Outside of which no thought could move; 
 Then, greedy, grasping, cunning man 
 Became the master of his clan 
 And since with iron rod has ruled 
 Every soul that could be fooled. 
 
 Three-score years and ten and five 
 
 I joined this busy human hive — 
 
 " An infant crying in the night. 
 
 An infant crying for the light, 
 
 And with no language but a cry," 
 
 And still my voice is but a cry. 
 
 As night has hung her curtain out 
 
 Where thought is groping all about 
 
 In quest of truth — though hard to find 
 
 Without the searchlight of the mind. 
 
 As doubt is ever on the wing 
 
 To question every living thing. 
 
 To know the whereofs and the whys 
 
 Of every thing beneath the skies. 
 
 'Tis well to question everything. 
 And truth from out of error bring; 
 For man the truth he wants to know, 
 Whose thoughts have wandered to and fro 
 Twixt honest doubt and blind belief 
 That's caused his race the sorest grief. 
 Yet stubborn blindness will not yield 
 When reason seems to hold the field 
 With truth and facts that plainly show 
 To just believe, is not to know. 
 
 [71] 
 
Faith, on wings of hope can fly 
 Around the earth, above the sky, 
 Then droop her wings o'er sorrow's tomb 
 Where hfe gives up its sweet perfume: 
 Not one good deed has e'er it done; 
 Not one victory ever won 
 Without the aid of reason's wand, 
 Without the touch of labor's hand: 
 The tribune of the will of man, 
 The interpreter of nature's plan, 
 The key to open every door, 
 The mysteries of life explore. 
 
 Science is the light that shines 
 To drive the darkness from our minds. 
 The world can never rightly live 
 Until it learns to love and give. 
 As nature's laws are always just, 
 And prove the ethics of the dust. 
 Yet man receives, but will not give 
 To help his starving brothers live. 
 But takes, and keeps, and never gives 
 What comes his way while e'er he lives. 
 
 A simple faith that has no doubt. 
 That reason kicks and cuffs about. 
 Without one fact to prove its cause, 
 Without transgressing nature's laws; 
 Is something queer, no one can find. 
 Because it's crossways in the mind: 
 That custom's wove in woof of brain, 
 Like prejudice, will long remain, 
 
 [72] 
 
Though born in flesh, and bred in bone, 
 It has no will it calls its own; 
 A passive servant sometimes, true, 
 But never knows just what to do; 
 Hence, it waits — but never acts — 
 Recorded deeds are living facts — 
 And shining beacons on life's wave 
 Between the cradle and the grave. 
 
 If facts are truths, and truths are factsj 
 That faith believes, but never acts; 
 Our acts speak louder than our words: 
 The voice of faith is never heard; 
 It lives in thought, but not in deed; 
 It does no work to found its creed; 
 It trusts in things no eye has seen; 
 It hears great things behind life's screen; 
 It hopes all things, but nothing proves; 
 It just believes, its belief approves: 
 It hopes to win, when life shall close — 
 But faith, like hope, has waiting foes, 
 Lurking along life's irksome way 
 To stab with truth some coming day. 
 
 All thinking minds conclusions reach, 
 And all analogies seem to teach 
 In every field of human thought 
 Where the inquiring mind has sought 
 To solve the mysteries of hfe 
 Amid its maze of hidden strife. 
 We pause upon the border line 
 Where light of truth can never shine; 
 
 [73] 
 
We seem to question and to guess; 
 
 No more can do, nor even less. 
 
 We pause, and grope amid the gloom 
 
 That overshadows every tomb; 
 
 The way is dark, all light is lost, 
 
 And hope is wrecked, or tempest tossed. 
 
 Yet doubt can wait, but faith is dumb, 
 When reason to the rescue comes. 
 Whose light has shown in every place 
 Where maze or myth their windings trace, 
 To hide the truths that man has sought, 
 That out of darkness, light has brought. 
 She comes with answer to the front. 
 To answer doubt as she is wont; 
 Not mumming words of darkened speech 
 That hides the truth it fears to preach; 
 To this conclusion she arrives: 
 The thing that's dead is not alive. 
 
 Still nature's voice in language clear 
 
 Must speak to every listening ear; 
 
 That every living thing of earth 
 
 That ever lived or now has birth 
 
 Some time, in time will pass away, 
 
 As all are subjects of decay. 
 
 They spring and bloom, then fade and fall — 
 
 The destiny of one and all. 
 
 Though man's endowed with wondrous gifts, 
 
 The future veil he cannot lift; 
 
 But loves to dream what faith has taught* 
 
 If there is not he thinks there ought 
 
 [74] 
 
Somewhere, out in the fields of time, 
 There is somewhere a sunbright chme, 
 Where hopeful dreams and dreams of liope 
 The gate of life will still stand ope, 
 And faith will lead the wandering in 
 From this outside world of sin. 
 That phantom souls on phantom wings 
 Their phantom songs a phantom sings. 
 And a phantom life's a phantom bliss 
 Better than real life like this. 
 
 Since nature's laws have been in force 
 Each flying world has kept its course; 
 From circling paths they never swerve. 
 And smoothly rounding every curve^ 
 There is no jar in the universe — 
 An onward move, and no reverse; 
 Circle and swing where'er they roll, 
 With never a wreck from pole to pole; 
 Rhythm and rhyme where'er they swing. 
 The story of peace, they always sing. 
 
 Order's the language of the spheres. 
 Where no discord ever appears; 
 A rounded whole, a unit square. 
 That fricton's force can never wear. 
 But here on earth, where man has sway. 
 Chaos and caucus rule the day; 
 And might and greed are champions bold; 
 -Who claim the right to have and hold. 
 This little patch we call the earth — 
 Where man has quarrelled since his birth 
 And made his life of little worth; 
 
 [ 75 ] 
 
And now he wants to change his berth — 
 
 Transfer it to some other chme 
 
 That he's not cursed with blood and crime. 
 
 His craft and creed are full of wiles; 
 
 He smiles, and winks, and winks, and smiles, 
 
 And then puts on a foreign air 
 
 To make you think he's debonair. 
 
 And means to ship you right away 
 
 To where no living thing can stay. 
 
 Yes, freight you where no one can tell, 
 
 Just to keep you out of hell; 
 
 When earth's the only hell that's known. 
 
 Where wrong is always on the throne; 
 
 Where man has ruled through all the years, 
 
 Through priests, and popes, and ancient seers. 
 
 Who claimed the right to know God's will, 
 
 And issued orders man to kill; 
 
 And from their day on down to this. 
 
 Our kindred dead, our mother's kiss, 
 
 And this the creedal mongers teach. 
 
 And this the gospel christians preach. 
 
 This is the ethics of man's creed, 
 When joined in wedlock with his greed 
 The twain are cruel, selfish, cold; 
 Their stock of trade is love of gold. 
 They've built a gulf 'twixt love and life, 
 And filled it with the sea of strife. 
 Where sorrow surging, darkly rolls, 
 Where drowning hopes and moaning souls 
 Fling on the waves the saddest moan 
 That sweeps this earth from zone to zone. 
 
 [76] 
 
Then, backward lapping o'er the waves, 
 Ne'er rocked to sleep in ocean's caves. 
 Whose sad refrain caught on the breeze; 
 Whose elfin feet trip all the seas; 
 And mermaids sigh, and sirens sing. 
 And life is mammon's own plaything. 
 And mem'ry's sorrows outward roll 
 Where there's no hope for worn out souls 
 
 Old hoary thought keeps in a groove 
 
 That younger thought cannot approve; 
 
 There is a clash between the twain, 
 
 The mighty giants of the brain 
 
 For right of way they both contend — 
 
 The truth, the object in the end. 
 
 Since right and wrong, the cause of war. 
 
 And truth and falsehood still must spar. 
 
 So man with man keeps up disputes — 
 
 Likewise the instinct of the brutes : 
 
 No reason show^s in all its life. 
 
 Not wanting peace, but always strife 
 
 The inborn nature of each breed 
 
 To keep up strife between its seed. 
 
 So life is war, and war is hell. 
 That men make hot where'er they dwell; 
 Their faith has taught them how to fight. 
 When dogma tells them what's their right; 
 Not well informed enough to know 
 Who is their friend, or who's their foe. 
 When conscience does not even speak. 
 And duty's voice is hushed or weak. 
 
 [77] 
 
And manly courage not so brave, 
 But cringing, often, like a slave; 
 Which should stand up with godlike mien 
 And face all falsehood, when it's seen, 
 And let God's truth, unpolished shine. 
 And break on wheel this right divine, 
 
 That man's usurped through years untold; 
 In bondage still, his race would hold. 
 With law tied hands and creed bound souls. 
 And mortgaged lips, he still controls. 
 Save, now and then, some princely soul 
 Dares to assume its own control; 
 Who hurls his shaft of burning ire, 
 Tipped with truth and scorching fire, 
 Till squirming fraud, each shaft has felt, 
 That struck him just above the belt; 
 His writhing pain he would conceal. 
 Although the wound will never heal. 
 For truth is on the wing to-day — 
 The grandest warrior in the fray — 
 His star is rising in the east 
 To lead from thralldom of the priest. 
 
 Some old beliefs are wearing out, 
 Rubbing against an honest doubt 
 That error long has kept in night 
 But truth has fished up with its light. 
 But time and tide will have their way, 
 And man in turn abides his day. 
 The honest mind with honest thought, 
 That for the light has always sought, 
 
 [78 ] 
 
And saw the glinting far away — 
 The breaking dawn of coming day. 
 
 Holy Alliance has done its best 
 To check this spirit of unrest 
 That is moving o'er all the earth, 
 Demanding freedom of its birth. 
 Old Orthodoxy holds in chains, 
 With brazen shackels on the brains, 
 To keep free thought from finding wing, 
 Which to all, new life would bring, 
 And give the soul some breathing air 
 Outside the walls of priestly care. 
 
 Its will is law, and greed its guide; 
 If conscience chose, it may decide; 
 But biased often by its will. 
 And yet it claims a conscience still; 
 It is the conscience of the clan 
 That keeps the conscience of the man. 
 And is the conscience that controls. 
 But not the conscience of the soul. 
 
 Come warrior soul, help in the fight 
 Where priestly rule has left its blight; 
 Where withered hopes and love have died. 
 And aspirations crucified; 
 Whose pinched up souls no light can find 
 Because of midnight in the mind. 
 With favored few, with courtly swell, 
 Are kept on watch around corrall 
 That holds within its iron gate 
 The hope of millions that must wait 
 
 [ 79 ] 
 
Till the avenger, Truth shall come, 
 And strike old Orthodoxy dumb. 
 
 Come fearless soul — send out your light, 
 Some brother gasping in the night 
 Would smile to see its glim 'ring ray 
 That's leading to some dawning day 
 Where truth will light the wide world o'er 
 And warring creeds will be no more; 
 When thought from bondage has awoke. 
 And truth is free and not a joke, 
 With wings unfettered, and soul alive, 
 Humming around this earthly hive. 
 
 This is the dream that poets dreamed; 
 Just like the dream that love has dreamed; 
 The same indeed that peace has dreamed; 
 Also a dream that faith has dreamed; 
 The same, in fact, that hope has dreamed. 
 The same, old thing that man has dreamed, 
 When in the night the light has streamed; 
 Out of his brain a hope has gleamed; 
 Deep in his soul a truth has seemed 
 To hold thought free until redeemed 
 From a priesthood, that has schemed 
 To murder conscience, if it screamed, 
 Or dared rebel against the Pope 
 Who holds the g'ate of hfe and hope. 
 
 Life's sinking sun will soon go down; 
 For me there's no expectant crown. 
 As crownless I have been through life. 
 The same will be when ends the strife. 
 
 [ SO ] 
 
There is no life beyond the grave — 
 A hfeless Ufe I do not crave — 
 When hope and love go out in death 
 The spirit has no use for breath. 
 Soul or spirit cannot survive, 
 When flesh and blood are not alive; 
 The body severed from the mind, 
 Never a thought from either find. 
 The soul can never live alone 
 When once it's toppled from its throne. 
 
 It takes the twain to make a life, 
 Though in the grave is there no strife; 
 Shut up life's house, no one can find 
 The soul light windows of the mind. 
 The sensuous brain is cold and dead, 
 And lightning thought on wings has fled. 
 And coldness wraps the lifeless clay 
 From whence all sense has passed away. 
 Then back to dust, again will turn. 
 Where love life's lamp no more will burn; 
 Shadows will never even rise 
 From out the grave where it lies. 
 'Tis moving water turns the wheel; 
 But senseless bodies cannot feel. 
 
 Emitted heat from yonders sun 
 No more to it will e'er return; 
 As actions are the spring of life, 
 So silence is the end of strife. 
 
 This deathless thing we call the soul 
 Is only thought without control; 
 
 [81 ] 
 
A voiceless, painless thing that flies 
 Without the memory of its sighs; 
 An echo that has rolled away 
 From its fallen house of clay; 
 Love's last note of life's last song, 
 Sung for right or sung for wrong. 
 
 Though once it sat in rounded dome — 
 A princely palace for its home — 
 And o'er a kingdom, scepter swayed, 
 As hope and love life's fields surveyed, 
 When horizon around grew dim 
 And life was thrumming its last hymn, 
 The silent footed angel death 
 Then closed the gateway of the breath; 
 The breathless thing then passed away 
 Into a night that has no day. 
 
 It is waste of time and breath 
 
 To postulate what's after death, 
 
 As none can know what is unknown, 
 
 Where hght of truth has never shown. 
 
 So make yourself at home in life, 
 
 And be a unit in its strife; 
 
 No other life you'U ever live, 
 
 As nature only one will give. 
 
 The earth is floating in the air. 
 
 So you must float, but don't despair. 
 
 Believe a thing, or don't believe; 
 
 Just take your choice, but don't deceive. 
 
 But' be a man, or be a mouse. 
 
 The sovereign keeper of your house. 
 
 [82] 
 
Its members all you must control 
 To be the master of your soul, 
 And let convictions be your guide, 
 Face the current and watch the tide. 
 Drift-wood down the stream can float, 
 But nerve and will must shove the boat. 
 The right to rule gives right to win; 
 The battle's won when rights begin. 
 
 This is the life to make sublime, 
 The life we live in earthly cHme: 
 The only place where life is known; 
 No other life has e'er been shown. 
 The life to come may never come. 
 As earth is man's abiding home; 
 This is the life to live divine. 
 By living truth that it may shine 
 To show to others where to tread 
 When we are sleeping with the dead. 
 
 This is the life where love is found; 
 It is the life where worth is crowned; 
 It is the field where fame is won. 
 Where the victor's work is done. 
 If true to self, you're false to none. 
 The work of life, it must be done. 
 And none but self can do your work 
 And you should not your duty shirk. 
 It matters not what others say, 
 You must live it your own way. 
 It is your life you've got to live, 
 And to another you should not give. 
 
 [83] 
 
Whose life is this that I must Uve? 
 
 It, to a bondage must I give. 
 
 Who gave it me ? and why should I 
 
 Just trade it off before I die ? 
 
 To be some creed or party's tool, 
 
 To prove, in fact, I was a fool. 
 
 Just what is right, and what is wrong, 
 
 Is still the burden of life's song; 
 
 This, every conscience must decide, 
 
 Where right and wrong the lines divide. 
 
 I question not the love of God, 
 Who will not smite me with his rod. 
 Because he does not smite his own — 
 The proof of which has ne'er been shown. 
 He does not strike his children down. 
 Nor blight their lives with angry frown; 
 For he is strong, and I am weak, 
 Yet I'm constrained the truth to speak; 
 Because I know he does despise 
 The man whose life is filled with lies; 
 Who fears to tell the truth he knows 
 Because afraid of making foes. 
 He courts the current of the tide 
 And in life's tilt on neither side. 
 A foe to God, and to his race — 
 A hypocrite is God's disgrace. 
 
 Then why should man disguise the truth? 
 That which is false is most uncouth. 
 One life is all we've got to live; 
 One honest effort let us give 
 
 [ 84 ] , 
 
To lift up truth, where it is down, 
 And make old falsehood doff his crown, 
 And tell the free-born soul of man 
 That God makes war on no man's clan. 
 When God's at peace wdth all his works. 
 But greedy man is full of quirks; 
 Who snatches bread from hunger's mouth 
 And lays on God the rainless drought, 
 And charges up to famine's jaw^s 
 The deaths that's caused by human laws. 
 Where robber wrong has ruled so long; 
 The weak made servants by the strong — 
 Life's burdens bear in w'ar and peace. 
 And yet life's burdens still increase. 
 
 Life sprung up from the w^omb of time 
 Out of the ocean's ooze and slime; 
 Two tiny cells together clung, 
 And out of them a form was sprung 
 That shaped itself through primal laws 
 Backed up by Energy and Cause. 
 Then outward reaching for the light, 
 And upward tending in its might, 
 A hving thing wherever found, 
 In the waters or on the ground; 
 On hydrogen and air still fed 
 Until its form is cold and dead. 
 
 Fishes and fowls, and hairy beast, 
 Nor man the last, nor yet the least; 
 But all the same from cells have sprung, 
 And life the song they all have sung. 
 
 [85] 
 
It takes a pair to start a life 
 In every field of strenuous strife: 
 No single one can e'er succeed 
 In sowing by itself its seed. 
 One, is a neutral without force; 
 Two, can organize, of course. 
 And found a type, we call its own, 
 In whose descending line is shown. 
 One, like itself, it will produce. 
 Though varied others for a use 
 That nature holds in store for man 
 Whene'er the truth he learns to scan. 
 
 Sweet light, the smile of heaven flies 
 And makes its home where darkness lies; 
 When day comes forth with shining spade 
 And digs a grave where night is laid; 
 When lo ! from out the tomb of night 
 A new day springs with gladsome light; 
 Thus night and day each other chase, 
 Without an ending of the race; 
 Like hide and seek, the children play, 
 Resembles somewhat Night and Day. 
 
 Through all the ages they have run 
 Before the race of man begun; 
 The eldest born of time or things, 
 And light and shadow were the wings; 
 When reaching outward from the Sun 
 Before the birth of worlds begun. 
 Light saw each planet take its course. 
 In orbit swing around its source, 
 
 [86] 
 
Till empty space of the universe 
 Was rife with songs no lips rehearse. 
 O'er vacant fields the stars were sown 
 Ere day and night were ever known, 
 Till earth swung out in swaddling clothes, 
 It's older now — but circling goes — 
 To rhythmic time it whirls and spins. 
 And spins and whirls, till man begins. 
 
 To tell the story of the earth 
 That gave to day and night their birth, 
 So far as we may know or say 
 That was the first of night and day. 
 The first is last, the last is first. 
 And every time they are reversed; 
 'Tis night and day, and day and night- 
 One is shadow and one is light; 
 The light was first, but shadow last. 
 Prove life's story when life is past. 
 
 Man's storm center is found in strife; 
 They are but emblems of his life. 
 They typify his birth and death, 
 As symbolized in air and breath. 
 His birth is day, but death is night — 
 So shadows follow after light; 
 Death treads close on the heels of birth. 
 As night's wings fold about the earth. 
 As day is birth, so death is night, 
 And night ends day, the end of light. 
 
 His birth is first, his death is last — ■ 
 Between the two his life is passed, 
 
 [87] 
 
Though death was last, and birth was first, 
 The two terms can't be reversed. 
 One day, then night — with birth comes breath- 
 'Tis hght makes day, but darkness death. 
 These parallels are somewhat new — 
 Analogies, but prove them true. 
 
 Yet every living thing of earth 
 That lives or moves, or had a birth, 
 Is guided by one primal law 
 AVherein there's never fleck or flaw. 
 To think and form, construct and plan, 
 And prove himself to be a man, 
 Whose godlike reason made him stand 
 Above the beast in every land. 
 
 'Tis reason makes the man a man; 
 To talk, to think, to search and scan; 
 To will, to work, to shape and plan; 
 To all be good where'er he can. 
 To found an Eden on the earth 
 Where truth is valued for its worth; 
 Where love's the aim of every deed. 
 And mind is freed from every creed; 
 Where all are free to use their mind. 
 And none to keep his brother blind. 
 And every soul with life a thirst. 
 Though in bondage long accursed. 
 Shall breathe the air the heavens give, 
 While on this earth he has to live. 
 Give back to him his right of birth — 
 ■ Inheritance of priceless worth — 
 
 [88 ] 
 
Through all his bondage and despair 
 He's never tasted freedom's air. 
 
 O'er fowl, and beast, and things that crawl, 
 Instinct — the master over all — 
 Unerring as the light of day; 
 O'er everything it holds its sway. 
 Through all the changes life has run, 
 From present type to first begun, 
 There's been no back or forward force — 
 No stream runs higher than its source — 
 On one level instinct must stand, 
 And impotent to give command. 
 
 There are many things he wants to say, 
 But wants to say them his own way; 
 The little he knows, he wants to tell. 
 As guess-work does not answer well; 
 And what he tells he must believe. 
 Because the truth will not deceive. 
 He's the only thing in the universe 
 With anything can hold converse; 
 He questions every thing that lives. 
 But naught to him an answer gives. 
 
 The lightnings speak in volumes loud. 
 In thunder's voice from angry cloud; 
 The fowls hold converse in their way — 
 The bo vines low, the equines neigh; 
 The feline mews, the canines howl; 
 The lions roar, and tigers growl; 
 The serpents hiss, and insects sing — 
 There's noise or sound in every thing. 
 
 [89] 
 
Flowers that bloom, speak through their breath; 
 
 Nothing is voiceless, save but death. 
 
 The earth seems dumb, but yet it sings 
 
 Through lapping waves, and purUng springs 
 
 The sighing leaf, the autumn's wail, 
 
 Each whispers sorrow in its tale. 
 
 Nature speaks from the igneous rock; 
 
 A voice comes up from seismic shock; 
 
 The oceans moan, the hills rejoice, 
 
 And man replies with cultured voice. 
 
 But here comes one with lofty crest, 
 
 With head and shoulders o'er the rest; 
 
 The prince of all, he stands erect, 
 
 Endowed with mind, or intellect. 
 
 The faculty of thought we find, 
 
 Was uncultured in the mind. 
 
 The germ or blossom of the mind 
 
 Was waiting for some thought to find, 
 
 When thrill of nerves awoke the train 
 
 That started from the station — brain. 
 
 With consciousness in every thrill. 
 
 To bow to none but human will; 
 
 To whose decision all must yield 
 
 Where reason claims to hold the field. 
 
 By right divine as truth proclaims 
 
 In everything that man attains. 
 
 Without it, man could never teach 
 
 The cultured art of human speech. 
 
 A thought is symbolized in word 
 
 The ear of man through voice has heard; 
 
 That pendulum, you'll always find, 
 
 That's swinging clear 'twixt mind and mind. 
 
 [ 90 ] 
 
This art of speech then came along — 
 
 Gave birth to voice, as well as song. 
 
 The voiceless music of the spheres 
 
 Was ringing then, in no one's ears. 
 
 When man first spoke, the sound was heard — 
 
 Only the mummel of a word — 
 
 But it fell from the lips of man, 
 
 Coined from the brain of rising clan. 
 
 Though rude and rough, the words he spoke — 
 
 The night of silence then was broke. 
 
 Thoughts were breathed into things called words, 
 
 Resembling much the note of birds. 
 
 And in man's ears his words still ring, 
 
 Fashioned after the birds that sing. 
 
 An idle mind's a lazy will, 
 But healthy thoughts are never still. 
 Necessity obeys no laws — 
 Ready to aid in any cause — 
 They bow to none, but master will, 
 To love or hate, invent or kill. 
 
 As beads together on strings are strung, 
 Man's words and thoughts — together hung — 
 When reason, genius of the mind. 
 Word with word was soon conjoined. 
 His web of song began to weave 
 Into language to not deceive. 
 But tell his wants and aims of life; 
 Who was adrift from cosmic strife;. 
 Trimming his sails to journey out 
 Without compass, to point his route 
 
 [91 ] 
 
O'er a wide and unknown sea, 
 And drifting where no one could see, 
 With faith and hope and love, his chart, 
 And new impulses in his heart. 
 
 His language is the art of speech, 
 Through which he tries the truth to teach. 
 This golden chain goes around the earth; 
 Each cycle gave some new word birth. 
 Through throes of life and sands of time. 
 Have made it bright in every clime; 
 Where man can lisp his mother tongue 
 The harp of life is deftly strung. 
 And thought's the music of its strings. 
 When, to our listening ear, it brings 
 The far off voice in friendly tone 
 Through the lips of the telephone; 
 Or 'neath the waves the cables bear. 
 And message flies through earth and air 
 To do the work of thoughtful man 
 Within the scope of nature's plan. 
 
 His voice is potent o'er the earth ; 
 The master spirit since his birth. 
 This monarch builder, lordly man, 
 The creedal founder of his clan. 
 The only voice in the universe. 
 Its own lost story could rehearse. 
 Out of the tomb of long dead years 
 Its ghostly voice is in my ears; 
 I hear its doleful echoes roll 
 The sad refrain of many a soul, 
 
 [92] 
 
Whose all of life was but a sigh 
 
 That bubbled up in time to die. 
 
 Out of the crypt of buried years 
 
 Those mummied cheeks once felt the tears, 
 
 Though four thousand years have slept 
 
 Since it in its bondage wept. 
 
 Man has an orbit of his own, 
 No eye or guiding hand has shown. 
 A rayless path he will pursue 
 Which none before him ever knew; 
 And he who follows on behind 
 The way may search but will not find — 
 Unless his thoughts have left some track 
 When starting out or coming back. 
 Though each in separate orbits swing, 
 And each a different song will sing. 
 Fulfilling laws by which they live. 
 But right of way will neither give. 
 Though clash may come before their end- 
 They may be foes, or may be friends. 
 Their even tenor they will pursue; 
 To self and duty must be true. 
 Though each is master of his fate, 
 Unless some creedal brothers wait 
 And lasso him with greedy laws 
 That make him toil in mammon's cause, 
 And grind out life in dogma's mill. 
 Where voice is silent as his will. 
 Whose hopes-a martyr on a cross — 
 Where theives but seldom suffer loss 
 
 [93] 
 
His heart is touched by many things; 
 The harp of Ufe no longer sings. 
 Though many things remain unsung, 
 The harp of truth is still unstrung. 
 Some gifted bard some future day 
 May tune his harp and come this way 
 And strike the lost chord of the soul, 
 Though struggling long for self control; 
 That through the centuries of wrong 
 Has been in bondage to the strong. 
 
 The Nazarene 's the model man 
 
 Of any tribe and every clan; 
 
 Guileless as the noon-day's light, 
 
 That falsehood's tongue could only blight; 
 
 Where nature tried and did her best. 
 
 But Priesthood could not stand the test. 
 
 A mother's child, like you and I, 
 
 Who for his people had to die. 
 
 He died as many others died — 
 
 Who for the truth was crucified. 
 
 No God would ever violate 
 
 The chastity of Joseph's mate; 
 
 It is a slander on the truth 
 
 To teach such doctrine to our youth. 
 
 Of all the crime that man has done 
 
 No one is viler than this one. 
 
 The truth must blush to own the shame 
 
 That's heaped upon our maker's name. 
 
 A thousand hammers struck by youth 
 
 May never hit the nail of truth. 
 
 [94] 
 
Because the truth is all left out 
 To scare away some honest doubt. 
 The dog's still sleeping on the hay; 
 The hungr}^ ox is kept away. 
 The truth's a dangerous thing to know — 
 It might unveil this hell of woe 
 That's hid beneath the sham of creeds 
 That God or man, no longer needs; 
 Yet man, the truth will learn some day. 
 And from such idols turn away. 
 
 As light must shine, while man must live, 
 And God the truth in time will give. 
 Though ignorance still her vigils keep; 
 Man's conscience will not always sleep, 
 Though centuries of midnight gloom 
 Has sheathed it in its voiceless tomb, 
 The night will lift, the dawn must break, 
 When right the wrong will overtake; 
 As truth's immortal as the spheres, 
 Her circle widens as the years. 
 
 Sweep doubt and dust from thinking minds; 
 The thoughtless, groping on behind — 
 Who grasp the shadow for the truth. 
 Have bowed to it since mankind's youth. 
 Afraid to think, lest thought might find 
 A living lamp in every mind, 
 That reason trims, and guides at will, 
 That each — its destiny should fulfil. 
 Untrammelled by tradition's creed 
 That honest hearts no longer need. 
 
 [95] 
 
If conscience lived for conscience' sake, 
 That justice would soon overtake — 
 But justice is so slow, it seems — , 
 It never comes to those who dream, 
 But to the fearless souls, who strive 
 To keep one spark of hope alive, 
 Who will and work with might and main, 
 Success in time they will attain. 
 Though justice holds a wavering scale. 
 The man that wills, can scarcely fail. 
 As man alone decides his fate. 
 Who wills and works, don't always wait. 
 
 'Tis said, sad Life, that we must part, 
 Although it may not grieve my heart, 
 But when we leave our clay-built cell, 
 Come, let us say our last farewell. 
 In our old house we've dwelt so long 
 And to each other done no wrong. 
 We loved each other for love's sake. 
 And naught but death our ties can break. 
 There's been no strife 'twixt you and I, 
 We've lived in peace, in peace we die. 
 'Tis hard to part with dear old friends. 
 But soon, sad Life, our journey ends. 
 And when we part we'll meet no more— 
 'Twill end the chapter on earth's shore. 
 And night must reign when day has fled 
 And we forgotten with the dead. 
 The thought is sad, but truth is true; 
 There's nothing else for us to do. 
 As fate, our book of life has sealed 
 Whose pages will not be revealed. 
 
 [96] 
 
Thought by thought, man upward climbed 
 Out of a thoughtless night of mind, 
 Where the embryons long had slept, 
 Till the dawn of light inward crept, 
 And touched the germ of dormant thought, 
 That woke to life and quickly caught 
 The sight of Psyche as she rose 
 Out of her dream of long repose. 
 As boon companions, on they flew, 
 The two in one and one in two: 
 For thought and soul are synonyms, 
 That through life's battle hymn one hymn. 
 
 The saddest birth-day of my life, 
 Without the smile of loving wife, 
 Whose birthday came along in June, 
 That kept our hearts with love in tune. 
 Whose life went out when spring awoke. 
 And to me since has never spoke. 
 Two hearts were broke that April day 
 When she from me was called away. 
 Now sad the day that comes around 
 And finds my life with sorrow crowned. 
 Though in memoriam of our birth, 
 I am the saddest man of earth; 
 
 As love and faith and hope have fled — 
 
 I only stay among the dead. 
 
 Alone! Alone! I tread alone 
 
 The path that leads where naught is known. 
 
 Not love, nor hope, nor life, nor faith, 
 
 Can e'er invade the realm of wraith. 
 
 June 19th, 1905. 
 
 [97] 
 
THE MESSAGE. 
 
 Away, away, thou sweet bouquet, 
 
 To my cousin Mollie Steel, 
 Whose merry heart will almost start 
 
 When this posy she unseals. 
 
 This much I hope — when this you ope — 
 Be careful when you're peeping, 
 
 Or else you 11 miss the little kiss 
 That outward will be leaping. 
 
 These roses wild, when first they smiled 
 
 In Flora 's constellation. 
 Were brighter far than any star 
 
 And sweeter than carnation. 
 
 I do confess, I did impress 
 
 One kiss — my dearest cousin — 
 
 Affection's tie that ne'er can die; 
 One kiss — perhaps, one dozen. 
 
 I hope you '11 not from memory blot 
 My name for such a present; 
 
 For kissing work is hard to shirk — 
 Indeed, I think it's pleasant. 
 
 [98] 
 
For life itself — the airy elf — 
 
 On hopeful dreams reposing; 
 We kiss the hours and then the flowers, 
 
 The kiss of death — the closing. 
 
 The way of life — with trials rife, 
 
 Though sorrow ne 'er reposes ; 
 I here can say to you to-day, 
 
 We find more thorns than roses. 
 
 VerTion Springs, Iowa, July 25th 1858 
 
 LOFC. 
 
 99] 
 
TO A VIOLET. 
 
 Blush not, sweet violet fair — 
 
 Child of the prairies wild — 
 Your name my song shall bear, 
 
 Gem of the Emerald Isle. 
 Your sister twin — the rose — 
 
 IVe doomed to share your fate, 
 Though blushing smiles it shows — 
 
 With expectancy must wait. 
 
 Pale not, ! violet fair, 
 
 As the glebe shall bend you down, 
 Tis not my wish to tear 
 
 You from your mother ground. 
 But heaven has decreed — 
 
 By toil and sweaty brow — 
 That earth shall yield her seed, 
 
 And man must speed the plow. 
 
 Then give me not the blame. 
 
 Because your life is fleet; 
 I toil in heaven's name, 
 
 And mourn the fate you meet. 
 Over this tomb of thine, 
 
 With mournful thoughts I tread — 
 My violet sister twines 
 ^ In the valley of the dead — 
 
 [100] 
 
Death's cold and icy touch 
 
 Congealed her little veins. 
 Her cheeks, like yours, were such 
 
 When kissed by gentle rains; 
 Her life was very brief, 
 
 Not quite two summers long — 
 But yours — the autumn leaf. 
 
 To which no years belong. 
 
 My sister should you see 
 
 Beyond tbe port of time, 
 Oh, tell her then for me, 
 
 I long with her to shine. 
 My angel mother, too. 
 
 Has gone to join her song — 
 When life on earth is through, 
 
 I then will join their throng. 
 
 Not silent is my heart, 
 
 But silent is my tread; 
 One tear must yet depart. 
 
 Before I leave the dead. 
 A tribute to their memory 
 
 My eyes can freely shed — 
 I love the early faded, 
 
 And mourn the early dead. 
 
 August 17th, 1858. 
 
 [101] 
 
WE HAVE SAID IT IN OUR HEARTS. 
 
 We have said it in our hearts, 
 
 And we feel it in our veins, 
 That we never will submit 
 
 To Abram Lincoln's rei'gn; 
 Though his legions as the sand 
 
 Heaped on the ocean's shore — 
 They will fail to crush the band 
 
 On fields of blood and gore. 
 
 Though as thick as autumn leaves 
 
 When the winter's breath has blown, 
 You will find the battle field, 
 
 With the dead or dying strown. 
 You can never keep the stars 
 
 From shining on the earth, 
 And you'll never crush the spirit 
 
 Of the band of Southern birth. 
 
 Our fathers met the foeman 
 
 And gave him lead and steel, 
 And in our throbbing bosoms 
 
 Our fathers' blood we feel. 
 'Twill be a sweet libation 
 
 To pour the crimson tide. 
 On fields of death and carnage. 
 
 Since friends and kindred died. 
 
 [ 102 ] 
 
There's yet a host — a legion — 
 
 Whose hearts are stout and strong 
 Who'll battle on for freedom, 
 
 Ere right shall yield to wrong; 
 And should the booming cannon, 
 
 E'er tell our last farewell, 
 'Twill be the shriek of freedom, 
 
 And Dixie's parting knell. 
 
 The dark and deathly silence — 
 
 That now pervades the scene — 
 Is only gathering thunder 
 
 From cloud and sky serene; 
 As Etna's tide of lava. 
 
 That bursts from cavern deep, 
 'Twill shake the hills of nature, 
 
 As the lightning's glaring leap. 
 
 Then up again our heroes — 
 
 Our banner still unfurled. 
 We love its folds — though gory — 
 
 And proclaim it to the world. 
 And victory's glorious banner — 
 
 Though red with human gore — 
 Shall float again triumphant, 
 
 As it did in days of yore. 
 
 Though many noble spirits 
 Shall greet its folds no more, 
 
 Their names will live in anthems, 
 To be sung on every shore. 
 
 [103] 
 
The soldier loves the soldier, 
 
 Where'er he lives or dies, 
 As every child in bondage, 
 
 For freedom always sighs. 
 
 Then strike again, my brother, 
 
 I hear the Southrons' cry. 
 For the birthright of our fathers 
 
 'Tis a noble death to die. 
 Then strike with steel that's burnished 
 
 Till a sea of blood shall flow, 
 And backward hurl the foeman 
 
 From our fathers' land shall go. 
 
 " We will die, or win our freedom, ' 
 
 'Tis the slogan of the brave; 
 Or the blood of martyred kindred 
 
 Will be wasted in the grave. 
 The god of battle wooes us 
 
 To the field again to fly, 
 To win the guerdon freedom 
 
 For our children ere we die. 
 
 Note. — This poem was written just two days before the 
 battle of Chickamauga was fought. The old soldier, 
 like Job's war-horse, could snuff the battle from afar. 
 
 September 22nd, 1863 
 
 [104] 
 
THE SEQUEL. 
 
 Away to the South let us speed — • 
 
 Secession's the order of the day — 
 These Yankee lords give scanty meed 
 
 For all of summer's chanting lay. 
 These icy lakes and pinching frosts, 
 
 These snowy days of windy weather, 
 One-half my plumage now is lost, 
 
 Such winds would wear out wings of leather. 
 
 I am tired of this Northern strand, 
 
 And when my nestlings all have flown, 
 I'll move them down to Dixie's land, 
 
 To where the cotton seeds are grown. 
 The high born souls who till and toil — 
 
 Where earth a bounteous harvest yields 
 And from her warm prolific soil, 
 
 And merry songsters glean the field. 
 
 To yonder farmhouse o'er the lake, 
 
 I journeyed to one summer day. 
 Of some refreshments to partake 
 
 Should any he along my way. 
 My little nestlings chirrup 'd loud, 
 
 As swift I flew across the lake. 
 While my heart beat quick and proud — 
 
 For my darling nestling's sake. 
 
 [105] 
 
I searched the garden — round the house — 
 
 On hurried wing and curhng speed, 
 I saw by chance, an aged mouse 
 
 Carrying off some luscious seeds 
 That I thought would be a treat, 
 
 Could I only be the winner; 
 I darted forth — my wing was fleet — 
 
 The mouse vamoosed — I claimed his dinner. 
 
 On fleeter wings than e'er before, 
 
 I bore the spoils far o'er the lake 
 To my leafy home by the sycamore. 
 
 And found my nestlings wide awake. 
 My lordling mate on swinging limb 
 
 With sweeter look than e'er before. 
 Tuned his throat for a vesper hymn, 
 
 To ring along the lakelet's shore. 
 
 He left the limb, and by my side 
 
 With fond parental pride he stood; 
 I was his first — his only bride — 
 
 Amidst the forest's solitude. 
 Three little bills were upward turned. 
 
 Imploring for their daily bread; 
 The fourth — the flight of death had learned — 
 
 And now is numbered with the dead. 
 
 Each opened mouth received a seed — 
 I thought they were so sweet and good— 
 
 I tasted one — oh, shame indeed — 
 Nothing but Yankee seeds of wood. 
 
 [ 106 ] 
 
My gallant mate with ruffled wing, 
 And darting fii'e from both his eyes, 
 
 Vowed in his heart with hfted wing 
 To make his home 'neath Dixie's skies. 
 
 ^'Submit to such a ruse as this? 
 
 'Tis vain to talk or with me plead — 
 I'd rather dwell where serpents hiss, 
 I'll leave the North — I will secede — 
 
 'Speak not so loud," I gently said, 
 
 "Think not my words are light derision. 
 Old Abe will have you caught and led, 
 
 And caged in some darksome prison." 
 ''Old Abe the deuce — who dares deny — 
 
 The right of freedom to the free?" 
 He spoke in tones which pierced the air, 
 
 And echoed loud far o'er the sea. 
 
 ''His hired minions of the world 
 Can never chain my spirit free, 
 Although his fleet — as cloudlets curled — 
 I have a wing more fleet than he." 
 
 "Be cool and calm, and with me reason 
 
 As you have done in days before; 
 Such words are termed the seeds of treason. 
 
 That yield not love but crimson gore." 
 " Seeds of treason did you call them. 
 
 Then must my children eat such food? 
 A better fate shall yet befall them. 
 
 Than eating seeds of maple wood. " 
 
 [107] 
 
With Dixie's land, my fate is cast 
 
 Beneath her warm and sunny skies, 
 Where \Ndnter's winds and howUng blasts 
 
 Through breaks of cane can never sigh. 
 Our little flock— ere long can soar — 
 
 And curve with ease their downy wings, 
 But cross o'er yonder lake no more, 
 
 Else sorrow to my bosom brings. 
 
 Instruct their little wings to fan 
 
 Through ether's fields as rays of light, 
 As fleet as he, who leads the van 
 
 In songs of love or swifter flight. 
 To-morrow's sun shaU see me o'er 
 
 The crystal stream and forest deep. 
 Our home shall be where waters pour 
 
 From mountain's brow and rugged steep. 
 
 The busy loom and shuttle swift. 
 
 Feed not the tenants of the grove; 
 Deception is the Yankee's shift. 
 
 And destitute of truth and love. 
 Tradition teUs me of the race, 
 
 There's nothing noble in the line, 
 To dwell with such is my disgrace, 
 
 As honesty winks not at crime. 
 
 Nwemher 26th, 1863. 
 
 [108 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BROTHER 
 
 John Weaver Newhen^, who was wounded at the battle of Cynthianna, 
 Ky., June 12th, I864., and since not heard from, these.lines are affection- 
 ately dedicated. 
 
 Thou 'It come no more, my brother, 
 
 From the " Dark and bloody ground " 
 Where thy comrades had to leave thee 
 
 With thy bleeding triple wound. 
 There was none stood by to watch thee, 
 
 Or to cheer thy drooping heart. 
 When in life's closing ebbings 
 
 The fleeting soul should start. 
 
 How sad these hours, and lonely — 
 
 Thy suffering all unknown — 
 How bitter were their teachings, 
 
 And thou, perhaps, alone. 
 Perhaps in gloomy forest deep. 
 
 Beneath the moon's pale light. 
 The patient soul shook off its clay 
 
 And took its upward flight. 
 
 Oh, had I been by thee — brother, 
 
 To fan thy burning brow, 
 And soothe thy bosom bleeding, 
 
 As mine is bleeding now. 
 
 [ 109 ] 
 
Methinks of home — sweet visions 
 
 Still lingered in thy heart — 
 But none did catch the murmured words, 
 
 When the quivering lips did part. 
 
 The stranger looked upon thee — 
 
 If any looked at all; 
 The land was strange around thee, 
 
 With none to heed thy call, 
 To hear farewell to kindred 
 
 In thy bleeding Mother State, 
 Whose aching hearts were breaking, 
 
 Alas, to learn thy fate. 
 
 With yearning hearts some wish and look, 
 
 And hope for thy returning, 
 With that manly brow of thine, 
 
 And freedom's fires still burning. 
 If cold that generous heart of thine 
 
 That bled on freedom's altar. 
 Preferred to die a noble death 
 
 Than in danger's hour falter. 
 
 That thou paid the price of freedom- 
 Right dearly earned with blood — 
 
 And joined the martyred army 
 Across the ensanguine flood. 
 
 The storm's bold rushing spirit, 
 That knows no beaten track. 
 
 Than thine was not more fearless- 
 Defiance hurhng back. 
 
 [110] 
 
Thy soul, as doth the eagle. 
 
 Above the tempest soar, 
 Exults amid the thunders 
 
 Of the cannon's deadly roar. 
 To subdue was to destroy thee. 
 
 To wound thee unto death — 
 The birthright of thy fathers — 
 
 Thou could 'st yield but with thy breath 
 
 Still we deeply mourn thy fate — 
 
 A fate to us unknown — 
 But I know thy spirit brave 
 
 Was the kindred of my own 
 Ere to any tyrant yield, 
 
 Or bow at his behest, 
 Would rather let life's spark go out 
 
 That warms a freeman's breast. 
 
 I've long delayed this tribute 
 
 To thy memory fondly dear; 
 Long hoped among the living 
 
 Thou wouldst again appear. 
 My heart is full to breaking 
 
 O'er thy untimely fate, 
 For alas! to truth I'm waking — 
 
 None can my grief relate. 
 
 The winds of cold December 
 
 Sigh round my window sill, 
 Reminding of love's embers 
 
 That warm my bosom still. 
 
 [Ill] 
 
As a mighty tide comes rushing — 
 Fond memory with her train — 
 
 That fills me with a sorrow^ 
 For my noble brother slain. 
 
 Thou 'It come iio more, my brother — 
 
 As I've seen thee come in youth — 
 With thy manly, noble bearing. 
 
 With thy gushing heart of truth. 
 Thy childhood's joyous brightness 
 
 Foretold the early tomb — 
 So when morning paints the heavens, 
 
 The evening sets in gloom. 
 
 Farewell, no more I'll meet thee 
 
 On this side death's dark river. 
 But up yonder may we greet thee 
 
 Where joy shall reign forever. 
 May the rosy hps of morning 
 
 Kiss for me thy nameless grave, 
 For the golden sunbeams never 
 
 Shone o'er a heart more brave. 
 
 December 24th, 1864 
 
 [112] 
 
BURY ME ON THE FIELD, MY BOYS." 
 
 Bury me on the field, my boys, 
 
 Where the dead and dying He; 
 Together we stood in hfe, my boys, 
 
 And together let us die. 
 
 On many a gory field, boys, 
 
 As brothers should always stand. 
 
 And firm as our native hills, boys, 
 Defending our mother land. 
 
 But onward bear our banner, boys — 
 Freedom's tryst or winding sheet — 
 
 Though bullet-torn and pierced, boys. 
 Freedom's shout it yet may greet. 
 
 Then nerve with steel your hearts, my boys, 
 And close up our shattered lines; 
 
 Avenge my death, avenge, my boys. 
 And vict'ry shall be thine. 
 
 The sigh of the moaning winds, boys. 
 
 My requiem it shall be — 
 And my soul on gentle wings, boys, 
 
 Shall be wafted home and free. 
 
 [113] 
 
The sentinel stars shall watch, boys, 
 And their beams shall gently lave, 
 
 Till flowers of spring come, boys, 
 To blossom above my grave. 
 
 It is night around my soul, boys, 
 But now its growing light. 
 
 As I hear the distant wings, boys, 
 That shall bear me home to-night. 
 
 ^Written in summer of ISSJ/.. 
 
 *The dying words of Col. Chatham Roberdean Wheat, who 
 was killed at the battle of Gaines' Mill, June 27th, 1862. 
 
 [114] 
 
FIRST IN MY HEART. 
 
 First in my heart of earthly mold 
 Is she who lonely dwells afar; 
 
 Whose listening ear my lips have told, 
 In the sky of my heart's the ruling star. 
 
 Messenger thought, when outward bound, 
 Bears her oft to my raptured breast, 
 
 And every heart beat's throbbing sound, 
 I hear as though to bosom pressed. 
 
 The last I kissed when I turned away — 
 First again when we shall meet — 
 
 And long to me shall seem the day 
 
 Till her fond smiles my own shall greet. 
 
 Time, whose wonderous wings of flight 
 But speeds the moments slowly on; 
 
 All day long and through the night 
 I think and dream of only one. 
 
 O ! raptured dream ! that thrifls my breast 
 With hope and Love's devotion true; 
 
 When shall I soothe the aching smart 
 And take away the sting — Adieu. 
 
 [115] 
 
My loyal heart — her loyal own — 
 Shall throb to each responsive thrill, 
 
 And love shall make our hearts its throne 
 Till every throb of them is still. 
 
 January 16th, 1867. 
 
 [116] 
 
A LOVE LETTER. 
 
 Kiss them, darling, for their father. 
 
 Whose feet have wandered far away; 
 Still their forms are bright before him. 
 
 To live in each succeeding day. 
 Guard them with an eye unceasing — 
 
 But who can doubt a mother's love? 
 They are jewels trusted to us 
 
 To polish for the courts above. 
 
 Kiss them, darling, for their father, 
 
 When their childish prayers are said; 
 When their arms entwine each other, 
 
 And angels hover round their head. 
 With a mother's blessing on them, 
 
 And an absent father's prayer. 
 Meeting at the throne of mercy. 
 
 Though now divided as we are. 
 
 Kiss them, darling, for their father, 
 
 When the night has passed away, 
 And Aurora 's jeweled fingers 
 
 Opens wide the gate of day; 
 When their hearts are filled with gladness. 
 
 And hope expectant on the wing. 
 Gazing on life's golden picture — 
 
 As every day fresh pleasures bring. 
 
 [117] 
 
Kiss them, darling, for their father, 
 
 For hfe is bright before them now, 
 Ere its shadows fall upon them, 
 
 And care shall settle on their brow. 
 The silver lining of life 's clouds 
 
 With joyous hearts they now behold, 
 While the dew from life 's first flower 
 
 Is like a draught from cups of gold. 
 
 Kiss them, darling, for their father. 
 
 Though his warm kiss may never more 
 Press their lips with love undying. 
 
 As often he has pressed before; 
 And tell them of his lonely hours, 
 
 And how he yearns with them to be, 
 Whose prattling tongues with magic power. 
 
 Could make his spirit light and free. 
 
 Kiss them, darling, for their father. 
 
 The two on earth that yet remain; 
 The angels kiss the one in heaven, 
 
 The one that trips the golden plain. 
 Though from us — she has been severed — 
 
 And both our hearts have felt the blow^ 
 With two on earth and one in heaven. 
 
 Let us be patient here below. 
 
 December 20th, 1874. 
 
 [118 
 
THE SPIRIT'S DREAM. 
 
 One morning in my chamber — in slumbers wrapped the 
 
 while — 
 A vision passed before me with more than earthly smile; 
 A mansion in its beauty — its grandeur and its sheen — 
 Surpassing in its splendor all that eye has ever seen. 
 
 Around its portals twining were flowers in their bloom, 
 And rich with all their fragrance, and shedding sweet 
 
 perfume, 
 With a landscape smiling ever — and verdure ever green — 
 The sight would angels covet, if by them could be seen. 
 
 There was joy in its boding that earth has never known — 
 As sorrow from its chambers had all forever flown — 
 And peace with dreamy stillness was brooding all the 
 
 while, 
 And shedding on its beauty her soft and sweetest smile. 
 
 With melodies enchanting — pealing out upon the air — 
 Driving from my bosom every symptom of despair — 
 Till my spirit was enraptured with symphonies divine, 
 And bowed in sweet obeisance before its vestal shrine. 
 
 The gales of Eden fanned me, and ladened with perfume, 
 And sported with the flowers that circled me in bloom; 
 
 [119 1 
 
Till roused from this Elysian where the spirit loved to dwell, 
 I lingered with a fondness — no human tongue can tell. 
 
 Then awaking from my slumbers, and pleasures of my 
 
 dreams, 
 A Sabbath sun was shining with soft and mellow beams, 
 And the song I heard them singing was ringing in my ear; 
 " Go on, go on, laborers, '' these words could plainly hear. 
 
 ''Go on, go on, laborers," who are toiling all the day. 
 That a gay and idle world may have more time to play; 
 Gather bread and fruitage from every field and flower. 
 And feed the hungry everywhere in hovel and in bower. 
 Yours is the task most toilsome — ye toilers of the sod — 
 Whose briny sweat is poured — a libation unto God. 
 
 " Go on, go on, laborers, " nor halt along the way. 
 To hear the bitter chidings the world may have to say. 
 Its envies and its gibings may grate upon the ear, 
 But look aloft and listen till the golden harp you hear. 
 For you the task most toilsome — ye toilers of the sod — 
 Whose briny sweat is poured — a libation unto God. 
 
 ''Go on, go on, laborers," in freedom's cause and right, 
 Your eyes on the polar star — though twinkling in the 
 
 night — 
 Though gloom may thicken deeper and tyrants still 
 
 oppress, 
 The true and giant hearted are worthy of success; 
 To you the task undying — ye watchers of the free — 
 Then keep your vestal fires bright, that all the world 
 
 may see. 
 While the spirit of our fallen are marshalled in array, 
 
 [ 120 ] 
 
And gazing on that banner that is folded now away; 
 Whose names are still enchanting — their valor all admire, 
 Who left us on the field and went up on wings of fire; 
 To them the Noble prowess — bright watches in the sky — ■ 
 Who taught the world how to live — then taught it how 
 to die. 
 
 " Go on, go on, laborers, " in poetry and song, 
 To you in love or sorrow the fitting tasks belong; 
 Whose souls with warmest gushings their raptures often 
 
 tell. 
 When dead their harps left sighing as mother ocean 's 
 
 shell ; 
 To you the task most glorious — toilers of the mind — 
 Whose love and tears are poured — a libation to mankind. 
 
 'Tis for you to build an Eden in the regions of the air, 
 And sing amid its flowers of that peace you ne'er share; 
 And scatter to the winds — its fragrance and its flowers — 
 And seldom taste the nectar, distilled from its bowers; 
 To you the task most glorious — toilers of the mind — 
 Whose life and love are poured — a libation to mankind. 
 
 But could you paint the rainbow with all its varied hues, 
 Or gather from the flowers their sweet and honied dews; 
 'Twould never soothe your spirits — no soothing can they 
 
 find. 
 But live on gloomy sorrow — creations of the mind. 
 
 "Go on, go on, laborers," keep watching for the light, 
 Clouds that look so dark to-day may be your lamp to- 
 night; 
 
 [121] 
 
Then tremble not at shadows but see the spanning bow, 
 Save the sunny tints of hfe and let its shadows go; 
 To you the task forever — meek toilers for the crown- 
 Eyes upon the silver cloud when life 's last sun goes down. 
 
 You live for God and country with heaven in your eye, 
 And know your duty 's never done if its lid be dry ; 
 Abide your time with patience — life 's dream will soon 
 
 be o'er — 
 When your labor here on earth's transferred to another 
 
 shore ; 
 To you the task most patient — meek toilers for the crown 
 With eyes on the bloody cross when life 's last sun goes 
 
 down. 
 
 Around that mansion lovely my thoughts are wont to 
 
 dwell, 
 Though painted in my vision as none can e 'er excel. 
 Where the roses in their freshness bloomed beyond their 
 
 time. 
 As stars sometimes when night has passed — continue still 
 
 to shine. 
 
 There was music in that mansion, where angel notes were 
 
 sung, 
 That filled the wide pavilion with echoes as they rung; 
 I heard them in my dreaming and caught their melting 
 
 song. 
 That filled me with a yearning to join that mansioned 
 
 throng. 
 
 I have studied and I Ve listened and ponderea in my 
 
 brain. 
 That I might find the key to that loved and sweetest strain; 
 
 \ 122 1 
 
But how fruitless is the task — all efforts prove in vain, 
 I Ve painted but the shadows — the substance must remain. 
 
 By and by when life's ended, and its music all is sung, 
 This spirit bounding outward with its harp forever strung, 
 Shall hear again the anthem that I Ve vainly tried to sing, 
 And shall play it with the angels on harp of golden string. 
 
 December 28tli, 1875. 
 
 123 J 
 
CLARA BEAUMONT. 
 
 There came floating down from heaven- 
 By a spirit's wing 'twas driven — 
 And to fondest parents given, 
 
 A true magnet of the skies; 
 Who, when gazing on its dimples, 
 Chasing smiles up to its temples, 
 With an air so sweet and simple, 
 
 Thought to own it was a prize. 
 
 Angel form in every feature 
 Was that darling little creature. 
 And a smile could not be sweeter 
 
 When it met its mother's gaze; 
 Whose deep love was like a river — 
 That huge mountains could not sever — 
 But that onward flowed forever 
 
 To the ocean in the skies. 
 
 By and by an angel told it. 
 
 That our love could not withhold it 
 
 From the arms t-hat now enfold it 
 
 In the paradise above; 
 When its cheeks, like budding roses, 
 But a paleness soon discloses. 
 Where the bloom of hope reposes — 
 
 As the symbol of its love. 
 
 [124] 
 
'Twas our sweetest darling dovelet, 
 
 And to see it was to love it, 
 
 Though the stars may shine above it, 
 
 It is resting in the skies. 
 I no more will hear its cooing — 
 But its flight I am pursuing — 
 Never for a moment rueing, 
 
 Here no more to hear its cries. 
 
 It was like a summer flower — 
 Only blooming for an hour — 
 Then must quit this earthly bower 
 
 For an Eden far away; 
 Where love's flowers will never fade. 
 Nor where the hand of death is laid. 
 But there to bloom without the aid 
 
 Of the changing light of day. 
 
 When from earth it passed to glory 
 With its brief and baby story, 
 And outstripped a father hoary 
 
 And the crown before him won; 
 Little arrow from his quiver. 
 Flying upward to deliver 
 This short message to life's giver 
 
 Others, too, are coming on. 
 
 Ere the silver cord was broken — 
 When some angel watch had spoken- 
 And its eye had caught the token 
 
 [125] 
 
From the signal house above; 
 Then a smile upon it gleaming, 
 With a face angelic, beaming, 
 Thus my darling left me, seeming, 
 
 Floating on the wings of love. 
 
 Twas too pure for earthly dwelling, 
 And its little tongue's now telling 
 Of the fount of love that's welling. 
 
 With its fathomless supplies; 
 While a ransomed host is singing. 
 And the melodies are ringing, 
 As the tidal waves are bringing 
 
 Sweetest echoes from the skies. 
 
 By and by this life so dreary 
 Shall have end to all its weary. 
 As the future looks more cheery — 
 
 Far beyond the water's roll; 
 With the loved ones there united. 
 Where our hopes shall ne'er be blighted. 
 But with lamps forever lighted, 
 
 And immortal as the soul. 
 
 December 30th, 1875. 
 
 [126] 
 
SOMETIMES. 
 
 Sometimes I feel a pleasant thrill 
 Quickening every pulse at will, 
 Firing the soul for joyous dreams, 
 Painting afresh its morning beams. 
 Undimmed by clouds with sky serene — 
 The soul looks out on dazzling sheen, 
 Filling my heart with tidings sweet. 
 As I list again for pattering feet, 
 That tripped with mine along life's wa}^. 
 And kept apace in youth's bright day. 
 
 But ah ! those footsteps come no more. 
 Their fall is heard on the other shore; 
 Over the waters they've passed before. 
 Leaving me on this earthly shore. 
 Tripping along the golden street, 
 Where, with a smile the angels meet; 
 And time is marked by falling feet, 
 Who march and sing to numbers sweet; 
 The chorus of Love they all repeat, 
 Making the sum of life complete. 
 
 Sometime when the dream of hfe is o'er 
 I'll find some rest on the other shore, 
 Where the dead's aUve and the lost are found, 
 And love and peace the more abound. 
 
 [ 127 ] 
 
Where tears of joy will then be shed — 
 And none shall mourn for absent dead — 
 But love requited shall ever reign, 
 And shed her smiles along the plain, 
 And weary limbs shall find repose. 
 And flowers immortal bloom disclose. 
 
 Sometimes — this life's weary and long — 
 We must submit to grievous wrong, 
 When we feel the world has colder grown. 
 All of its joys withered or flown. 
 Friendship and love — twins of the soul — 
 Their golden links no more control. 
 And a listless world with heartless smile 
 Has no concern for a wayward child. 
 But selfish aim and heart as cold," 
 As ice around the northern pole. 
 
 Sometimes we feel to have a friend — 
 Who like a brother will see the end; 
 Whose manly breast to the tempest bare 
 Ready to live or perish there; 
 Whose soul is warmed by generous tide 
 That ebbs and flows with conscious pride; 
 Whose strong arm in the cause of right, . 
 Ne'er grows weak in the battle's fright; 
 Nerved with the will that makes the man, 
 Who does his duty whene'er he can. 
 While he who skulks and hides away, 
 As timid hares from light of day. 
 Led by whims of a venal crew, 
 Who in the background still pursue, 
 
 t 128 ] 
 
Knowing full well how far to chase, 
 The game that moves with easy pace, 
 Lest they might by fatal blow 
 From his right arm, the chase forego. 
 
 Sometimes when weary in this life — 
 All is dark from coming strife — 
 When cares and sorrows press the while, 
 And hope withholds a friendly smile, 
 And gloom doth circle round the soul, 
 As midnight hovers round the pole. 
 Most gladly we would wish to know. 
 That life had reached the end of woe; 
 And its last dirge might then be sung. 
 And o'er the grave a truce be hung. 
 
 Sometimes the gathering winds of strife 
 Are tossing our bark on the streams of life, 
 Or o'er the deep we're drifting away, 
 Out where the angry breakers play; 
 And feel that our arms are weak and vain 
 To guide a helm on the treacherous main. 
 Then in the dust the heart bows down. 
 And hope mounts up on new wings bound; 
 And then by faith the compass of life, 
 We see through the gloom — the end of strife- 
 And shining above the element's war — 
 The mariner's hope — life's polar star. 
 
 Sometime in the distant years away. 
 This form has mouldered back to clay. 
 Some rude head-stone to mark the spot 
 With moss o'er grown — perhaps forgot — 
 
 [ 129 ] 
 
On tireless wing at evening's close, 
 And mountain crest with sunset glows, 
 The spirit may wander back again, 
 Reviewing the scenes where it has been 
 And hovering o'er its sleeping dust, 
 Abiding faith's unshaken trust. 
 
 I hear the clock now striking four. 
 And should I hear it strike no more. 
 Know then these truths — enough to know- 
 That life has reached the end of woe. 
 And that the sting of death is past. 
 And victory o'er the grave at last; 
 Whate'er betides or waits the soul. 
 Know it is free from sin's control, 
 And then Sometime — when time's no more— 
 We shall meet on the other shore. 
 
 • January 24(71, 1870. 
 
 130] 
 
MEMORIES. 
 
 Many a weary day that's gone 
 
 Comess back with pleasant memories; 
 But none come back with dream so sweet 
 
 As those from childhood's morning; 
 When pattering feet along life's way — 
 
 Unconscious of its sorrow — 
 Nor dreamed that joys would pass away— 
 
 The victims of to-morrow. 
 
 Many a sparkling eye that shone 
 
 With love and hope abiding, 
 Have set beyond the verge of time, 
 
 To where I'm swiftly gliding. 
 As o'er the lapse of buried years — 
 
 Faint echoes ever stealing — 
 While love its tribute pays in tears, 
 
 Though wrung from every feehng. 
 
 Many a voice that thrilled my soul 
 
 With songs of love and gladness, 
 Come back as echoes o'er the wold, 
 
 And fill again with sadness. 
 How can my burning soul forget 
 
 Those forms that live forever — 
 That haunt the urn of memory yet, 
 
 That death can only sever? 
 
 [131] 
 
Many a lip that touched my own 
 
 And thrilled me with love's fever 
 Lisps no more its sweetest tone, 
 
 But gone — or cold — forever. 
 While sorrow sits with drooping head, 
 
 And mourning o'er the vanished — 
 A halo shines around the dead, 
 
 Which time can only banish. 
 
 Many a gilded dream has flown — 
 
 That fancy often painted — 
 Bright waifs on waves forever strown, 
 
 That memory holds as sainted. 
 And still her bright and gentle wings 
 ^ Are hov'ring o'er these pleasures, 
 As magnet doth the needle bring 
 
 To pause o'er hidden treasures. 
 
 The spring of hfe has passed away, 
 
 Though memories still remind us 
 Of summers bright with flowers gay, 
 
 Now smiling far behind Ui4. 
 And autumn with her little store, 
 
 That I have called in sorrow — 
 An humble wreath — when winter's o'er- 
 
 To live beyond to-morrow. 
 
 October l5tk, 1876. 
 
 [132] 
 
SOUTHWARD THE BLUEBIRD. 
 
 Southward the bluebird takes its \f light — 
 
 Twittering as it flies — 
 A sad farewell to summers bright, 
 
 Beneath her tranquil skies. 
 
 And in the sunland far away 
 
 Where winters never come, 
 'Twill chatter then its roundelays 
 
 In its bright and sunny home. 
 
 So will the spirit — by and by — 
 When this life 's summer 's o 'er, 
 
 Plume its wings for a brighter sky 
 Where tempests never roar. 
 
 There with the loved of other days, 
 Where spring eternal blooms, 
 
 And winter's cold and cheerless rays 
 Are left this side the tomb. 
 
 When in the sun-land of the soul — 
 
 Our spirits then shall be — 
 While harpmg tongues their numbers roll 
 
 Sweet anthems of the free. 
 
 [ 133 ] 
 
And thus the longing spirit sighs 
 
 For rest beyond this vale, 
 And soon will spread its wings for skies 
 
 Where storms no more assail. 
 
 April 29th, 1876 
 
 [134] 
 
SOUTH CAROLINA. 
 
 I sat by the fire one winter night, 
 
 When the fretful wind was howhng low; 
 
 And I gazed on the grate whose waning light 
 Was flickering above the embers' glow. 
 
 I thought as I gazed on the curling smoke — 
 As it upward rose through the chimney flue — 
 
 That the voice of one in the darkness spoke 
 With a piercing tone, and trembling too. 
 
 The spirit of the storm was loud and wild 
 Chattering its teeth at my window sill; 
 
 And shaking the blind as a wayward child, 
 That knows very well but can't be still. 
 
 As I list to the storm as it louder grew — 
 To catch the sound should it come again — 
 
 For I knew none could live the bleak night through, 
 Who in the tempest very long had been. 
 
 The pulsing heart — I could hear it beat — 
 And trickling waters from the hydrant fall, 
 
 The eddying gust in the midnight street, 
 With a shriek and cry as a demon's call. 
 
 [135] 
 
And again the dolorous sound was heard. 
 As the winds fall back as a broken wave. 
 
 I caught the fragment of a broken word, 
 
 As it sped on the air from the good and brave. 
 
 Twas the wail of a dying sister's cry, 
 
 That sped for help on flying wind, 
 Whose tears are watched by a nation's eye, 
 
 And the craven hearts that lag behind. 
 
 Twas the voice of a dying sister State — 
 Thrilling the pulse of the winter bare — 
 
 Struggling in the arms of a tyrant great, /" 
 
 And yielding a look of brave despair. , 
 
 " Down with your bayonet, you drunken fool. 
 And hide your face in breast of shame; 
 
 We have all been taught in a higher school. 
 That bayonets can't prop your waning fame. " 
 
 " A blight on the hand that would dare to smite 
 One link in the chain that binds us all, 
 
 Or sully one star in escutcheon bright. 
 And lead the way for a nation's fall." 
 
 And still I sat on my cushioned chair. 
 
 And mused on the burning embers low, 
 And sighed for a commonwealth's despair, 
 - And impotent too, to strike one blow. 
 
 Thus we are fettered by a tyrant's will. 
 Who mocks the voice of the public weal. 
 
 Who rules with a rod of iron still. 
 
 And the nation's heart is afraid to feel. 
 
 L 136 ] 
 
Come brave spirits of the sainted dead — 
 
 Who in storms hke this have led us through^ 
 
 With a faith in right and God o'er head — 
 Point out the way we should pursue, 
 
 And bring back peace to our fatherland, 
 And the old ship back to her moorings true. 
 
 With a high resolve and a mission grand, 
 As she leads in the front of nations too. 
 
 December 10th, 1876 
 
 [137] 
 
DOWELL, DUDLEY, DOVE. 
 
 Dear brethren of the mystic rite 
 In convocation here to-night, 
 We miss the forms of those we love — 
 The names of Dowell, Dudley, Dove. 
 
 The rolHng year has passed away 
 With many a hoary pilgrim grey, 
 Among them to the Lodge above 
 The souls of Dowell, Dudley, Dove. 
 
 The Tiler — Death, has passed them in — 
 Their lambskin robes were free from sin— 
 And three new harps are tuned above 
 For Dowell, Dudley, and for Dove. 
 
 And with the Master in the East 
 To-night are joining in the feast. 
 With those he's passed and raised above, 
 To live with Dowell, Dudley, Dove. 
 
 Their names shall live in mystic lore, 
 Nor Lethe's waves can pass them o'er; 
 But loved on earth and blessed above — 
 The names of Dowell, Dudley, Dove. 
 
 [ 138 ] 
 
No more their coming shall we greet, 
 Nor on the level with them meet, 
 Since here we part, we should prepare 
 To meet above, and on the square. 
 
 And when the Master 's gavel falls — 
 From labor to refreshments calls — 
 The absent we shall meet above, 
 And with them, Dowell, Dudley, Dove. 
 
 A trio from the mystic train 
 That girts the world with golden chain. 
 And holds it by the bonds of love 
 With hearts like Dowell, Dudley, Dove. 
 
 December 12th, 1876. 
 
 [139] 
 
ENGINEERING. 
 
 If an engine meet an engine 
 
 Coming in the dark, 
 Can't an engine like an engine 
 
 Give a warning spark? 
 
 If an engine meet an engine 
 
 On a river's brink, 
 Ought an engine tell an engine 
 
 Not to stop to drink? 
 
 So that engines meeting engines 
 May their lives preserve, 
 
 When an engine strikes an engine 
 Coming round a curve. 
 
 When an engine meets an engine 
 
 Coming on the sly, 
 And that engine butts an engine 
 
 Some one's apt to cry. 
 
 When an engine leaves an engine 
 
 On a bridge of sighs. 
 Can an engine help an engine 
 
 'Mid the wreck and cries? 
 
 [ 140 ] 
 
Once an engine met an engine 
 
 Breaking up our nap, 
 And an engine spoilt an engine 
 
 In the sad mishap. 
 
 When an engine strikes an engine 
 
 In the rear or back, 
 Ought an engine ask that engine 
 
 In honor to retract? 
 
 These are questions — engine questions — 
 
 Asked along their trails, 
 Where these engines — human engines — 
 
 Ride on bloody rails. 
 
 There comes an engine — silent engine — 
 
 Chilling every breath. 
 Gloomy engine — saddest engine — 
 
 The mighty engine — death. 
 
 January 15th, 1877 
 
 [141] 
 
WRITTEN ON THE BIRTHDAY OF 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Genial spirit of Robert Burns 
 I would invoke the passing hour, 
 
 To kindle- in my bosom's urn 
 
 A flame to warm life's waning power. 
 
 And on this altar heart of mine — 
 An incense- offering I would burn — 
 
 In honor of the Bard sublime, 
 Who painted life at every turn. 
 
 Whose genial soul was full of song, 
 
 That thrilled the world with numbers sweet; 
 
 Whose echoes still will chant along, 
 The same each rolling year repeat. 
 
 That genial son with gushing soul, 
 
 Whose heart was full of laptured song; 
 
 Whose melodies and numbers roll, 
 And find repose in every throng. 
 
 Who painted nature in every mood. 
 And painted with an artist's hand; 
 
 Could stir the passions' solitude, 
 
 And hold them at his own command. 
 
 [ 142 ] 
 
Whose hand could guide the plow or pen — 
 The symbols, each, of bread and thought- 
 
 Who sowed his seed as other men, 
 And they a double harvest brought; 
 
 And still are spreading far and wide, 
 Till every clime beneath the sun 
 
 Shall raise its voice in love and pride, 
 To lisp the name of Scotia's son. 
 
 Whose patriot soul was ever warm — 
 
 And throbbed with every impulse true — 
 
 And love, whose every glance could charm. 
 And make his harp responsive too. 
 
 Whose name is melody on earth, 
 And current on the lips of praise, 
 
 And as we celebrate his birth, 
 Shall others do in coming days. 
 
 Who earned his bread by sweat and toil — 
 And toiling, earned a prouder name — 
 
 Whose ploughshare struck the deeper soil 
 That made a farmer poet's fame. . 
 
 And as he sped his plow along. 
 
 Or checked his team with hempen line, 
 
 Pegasus pulled the plow of song, 
 
 While Muse's feet gave out the rhyme. 
 
 And furrows deep in human hearts — 
 The impress shows of shining share — 
 
 That time can ne'er from memory part, 
 But still their channels deeper wear. 
 
 [ 143 ] 
 
His golden sheaves are gathered now, 
 And shining in the wreath of fame; 
 
 While amaranths entwine his brow, 
 And shed their bloom upon his name. 
 
 January 25th, 1877. 
 
 [144] 
 
FAREWELL TO THE SENATE. 
 
 Farewell to the senate, the house and the hall, 
 To officers, clerks, pages and all; 
 I go with the sovereigns to mingle again — 
 Locked in the mountains, the truest of men — 
 The avalanche that comes from regions of snow 
 Would not be more swift than they on the foe; 
 The last to look back when freedom shall call. 
 To stand as they stood by peerless Stonewall, 
 Whose watchword as freemen in future shall be 
 Living or dying — devotion to Lee. 
 
 And now as I leave this chamber and hall — 
 Upon other shoulders my mantle may fall — 
 But let me to those who gave me their trust 
 Say, that it has never been trailed in the dust, 
 But grateful to them for honors bestowed, 
 I Ve tried to discharge the debt that I owed. 
 With faith in the teachings our fathers have taught 
 Too rich for a bribe, too poor to be bought — 
 But firm in my own convictions of right, 
 Not guided at all by partisan light, 
 But reason my law, and justice my scales, 
 And conscience my judge — whose wisdom ne'er 
 fails. 
 
 [ 145 ] 
 
Here in this chamber for weary, long years — 
 Each for his section contending with peers — 
 And trusting that not a word on my part 
 Has wounded the feeling of any one 's heart. 
 On questions of law — quite often diverse — 
 Some voting one way — the rest the reverse — 
 But each in his way was doing his best 
 To balance the rights of the east and the west; 
 Though failing perhaps, to reach in the end, 
 The object we sought — still we are friends — 
 And ready to battle — come weal or come woe — 
 Our hearts for the right and our face to the foe. 
 
 Although in debate I seldom engaged, 
 Where tempest of words have often been waged 
 But held in reserve, to charge on the foe 
 With bayonet thrust from the word aye or no 
 And firm at my post, I stood at my gun 
 Ready to spike it but never to run, 
 And many a worthy knight had to yield. 
 Whose sabre was broken or left on the field. 
 Who showed by his valor or gallant retreat — 
 The bravest are always brave in defeat. 
 
 And in the debates — though weary and long — 
 The battle was not to the swift or the strong, 
 For often the first on the track for the race 
 Was last in the homestretch, losing his place. 
 But justice demanded when holding the scale, 
 That right over wrong should always prevail; 
 When senators all proclaimed from their seats, 
 That was the spirit in which we should meet. 
 
 [ 146] 
 
Though many a gallant limb of the law 
 
 Was forced from its scabbard — his sabre to draw, — 
 
 With flashing of fire from blade ever true, 
 
 With courage that rivalled a Rhoderic Dhu, 
 
 Sparring and fencing with wonderful skill, 
 
 Striving to conquer — but never to kill — 
 
 Till weary and worn the day was far spent, 
 
 Each in good order fell back to his tent; 
 
 The battle again to renew, when the morn 
 
 Should come with her smiles to refresh and adorn 
 
 Proving that nothing was gained by the fight. 
 
 'Twas only a privilege — all had the right- — 
 
 And showing in fact without any joke, 
 
 No shedding of blood — but a raising of smoke. 
 
 Then doctors came forth with magical skill, 
 Ignoring forever — the blister and pill — 
 Declaring that debt's an awful disease, 
 A cancer that 's eating — and nothing can ease — . 
 Unless there 's something done for the State, 
 Dishonor will be her ultimate fate. 
 That they Ve been searching the country around 
 For herbs and minerals, and none can be found; 
 But say they Ve discovered with pleasing delight, 
 That the hair of the dog is good for the bite, 
 And now have proposed to give us their aid — 
 Free from all charge if an effort is m^ade — 
 And pledge us they Ve found a cure for the ill, 
 A musical dose with punch in their bill. 
 
 The farmers perhaps — it is well to remark — 
 Never could see what they heard in the dark, 
 
 [147] 
 
Not learned in the law, or full of debate, 
 But ready to listen if never to prate, 
 Reminded of him who was modest and meek — 
 That old law giver who knew what to speak — 
 And measure out justice to one and to all. 
 Nor propp 'd up kingdoms when ready to fall. 
 Whose purpose it was to promote if he could. 
 To the greatest of numbers — the greatest of good. 
 
 And now as I turn to bid you adieu. 
 With heart ever warm and pulse ever true. 
 Feeling there's not in this bosom of mine, 
 A thought of ill-will I would not resign. 
 The only regret that swells in my heart 
 Is, we shall ne 'er meet again when we part — 
 But not without hope when life shall be run — 
 Its last battle fought and the victory won. 
 And over the river on the other shore — 
 Resting from labors and toil evermore. 
 
 It matters but little with you or with me — 
 For the spirit is happy wherever it's free — 
 As I know for a truth wherever you roam. 
 The good and the true are happy at home. 
 Knowing full well the day is not far 
 When we shall put off this armor of war. 
 And sound a retreat when the battle is done. 
 And lie down to sleep with the glories we 've won. 
 So farewell again — with heart ever true — 
 To one and to all — forever adieu. 
 
 Apnl 4th, 1877. 
 [ 148 ] 
 
VIRGINIA'S CAPITAL. 
 
 Proud old capitolian hiU — 
 
 Where patriots rise and traitors fall — 
 My soul with inspiration fills, 
 
 While gazing on your ancient waU. 
 
 The temple of our fathers dear — 
 Who reared it in the olden time — 
 
 Their blood was mingled with their tears, 
 That peace should blossom in our clime. 
 
 They gave to glory and to fame 
 Enough to make a people brave, 
 
 Virtue cro^Tied their every aim, 
 And Honor sentinels their graves. 
 
 The glories of a hundred years 
 
 Still cling around your sacred dome, 
 
 Freedom 's guardian and her seers 
 Plann 'd it for the freeman 's home. 
 
 IVe sat within your sacred walls. 
 
 And dreamed the dreams of other days; 
 
 And heard their echoes rise and fall. 
 Which kindled in my heart a blaze, 
 
 [149] 
 
That warmed my very inmost soul, 
 And filled it with a high behest; 
 
 To leave a name on honor's scroll, 
 To live and shine when I 'm at rest. 
 
 See yonder's proud old monument — 
 The Atlas of a nation 's fame — 
 
 The Mecca of a continent, 
 
 Immortal as their brazen name. 
 
 Here glory yields her glittering crown. 
 And fame's encamped for time to be; 
 
 As freedom with a smile looks down 
 Upon the temple of the free. 
 
 Here — lordly elms and poplars tall — 
 Embracing arms of sycamore, 
 
 Amid whose boughs the sparrows call, 
 And crystal fountains 'neath them pour. 
 
 The wigwam fires of Powhatan 
 
 Illumed the scenes of splendor wild, 
 
 Ere Anglo-Saxon laws began 
 
 To drive perforce — the forest child. 
 
 An. empire in the wilderness 
 
 Unconscious of its potent sway — 
 
 Just waking from its drowsiness, 
 The savage night to drive away. 
 
 The savage Red Man of the wild — 
 Then Monarch of the solitude — 
 
 Soon westward turned his face, nor smiled, 
 , But moved along in sullen mood. 
 
 [ 150 ] 
 
Now centuries have rolled away — 
 Their impress left upon our land — 
 
 Two oceans in their arms to-day, 
 An empire hold, superb and grand. 
 
 The dashing waves of the classic James, 
 Still tumbling on its granite bed, 
 
 Reflected once the burning flames, 
 
 When war had gorged himself with dead. 
 
 But time has healed the wounds of war. 
 And peace is back to claim her owtl; 
 
 The blackened walls no longer mar, 
 But Phoenix like — from ashes grown. 
 
 April 1st, 1877. 
 
 [151] 
 
CUMBERLAND GAP. 
 
 These mountains of rock — now hoary and gray — 
 Are crumbhng and falhng by piecemeal away. 
 The stormking — his banner hangs high in the air — 
 And hghtning comes out in the battle to share. 
 The eagle and falcon — not daunted are they — 
 They perch and look on in the battle's array; 
 Their callow secure in the cleft of the rock, 
 As they nestle the while — not fearing the shock — 
 When the tempest is past and the clouds fly away, 
 Then the fogs climb up to sport and to play. 
 
 While out from the mountain's bosom of stone- 
 Rippling and purhng in low undertone — 
 A spring brook ghdes on with a rhythm so sweet, 
 As it winds down the vale that lies at my feet; 
 Whose still lisping tongue still tells as it flow^s. 
 The deeds of a race with arrows and bows. 
 Of fair dusky maidens who paused on its brink. 
 And saw their own forms as they stooped there to drink ; 
 In nature's bright mirror they gazed with dehght. 
 And thought of their braves in chase or in flight; 
 Then bounding away with a thrill in the heart, 
 That warraed every wish young love could impart. 
 
 [ 152 ] 
 
But he who first passed this wild rugged way— 
 And found an empire that's Uving to-day — 
 Proud of the honor and proud of its fame, 
 But prouder of him who gave it a name. 
 Whose valor and deeds we love to admire, 
 Which fills every heart with patriot fire — 
 The grandest empire and vast in its sweep — 
 Whose Pioneer Prince in its bosom should sleep. 
 And over whose grave in shining festoon, 
 Inscribing the name of — brave Daniel Boone. 
 
 Now gazing away to the south and the east — 
 Till vision is lost in its wonderful feast — 
 And the mountains of blue in their stretches away, 
 Are lost in the clouds that stoop down to play. 
 And the splendor of Autumn begins to unfold 
 Her mantle — so gaudy of scarlet and gold — 
 And the azure, blue mist that circles the whole, . 
 Awakens new thought down deep in the soul. 
 
 As I gaze with delight — still wondering gaze — 
 All the visions before me in splendor's full blaze, 
 And feel in my heart as I turn from the spot, 
 The scene shall still live when I am forgot. 
 Though never in life should I gaze on it more — 
 In the mind it shall live till life shall be o'er — 
 And poets unborn shall rise in their day, 
 And paint what in vain — I've tried to portray. 
 
 September 19th, 1877 
 
 [153] 
 
GAPT. THOMAS B. HARMON. 
 
 Dear Tom, do you know that in passing to-day, 
 I looked on your grave — the spot where you lie — 
 
 And I felt in my heart treasured away, 
 
 A remembrance — still sweet, that never can die. 
 
 As I looked on the waves that were dashing along. 
 Rippling and purhng with melodies' sweet, 
 
 I felt in my heart the gushing of song, 
 To chime with theirs as they rolled at my feet. 
 
 I know that your spirit is hovering not far 
 
 To welcome my own to the home of the just — ■ 
 
 Now watching from some bright heavenly star, 
 When mine shall shake off its terrestrial dust. 
 
 God in his goodness has left me behind, 
 To battle with sin for a season or more; 
 
 To sing of my comrades in memory shrined. 
 Who have outstripped me and gone on before. 
 
 Dear Tom, I still love to entwine for the brow 
 A wreath that shall live when I am no more, 
 
 While friends of my youth have gone from me now, 
 And wait with fond hopes on the opposite shore. 
 
 [ 154 ] 
 
And there with their harps — ^^forever in tune — 
 
 Responsive to every wish of the soul; 
 And my own with theirs — ere long shall attune — 
 
 And happy and free from earthly control. 
 
 Dear Tom, in the battle when freedom went down, 
 And the blood of the brave hke water was poured; 
 
 Then tyranny rose with insolent frown. 
 
 To wound every heart untouched by the sword. 
 
 This tribute, though humble, is offered by one 
 Who stood by your side in war's bloody line; 
 
 Who lives but a wreck to still battle on, 
 
 With a tear for the brave — who fell in their prime. 
 
 Down in that valley of historic fame — 
 
 You fell in the front while leading your line — 
 
 True to your country, and true to your name. 
 And bright on the roll of honor to shine. 
 
 January 16th, 187S. 
 
 [155 
 
IN MY DREAMS. 
 
 In my dreams last night, dear mother, 
 Amid the darkness and the gloom, 
 
 I stood, methought — the child of sorrow- 
 With teardrops falling on your tomb. 
 
 While the burden of that sorrow, 
 Like a cloud hung round my soul, 
 
 Still, I saw the silver lining 
 Fringed upon its outer fold. 
 
 Still your spirit hovers, mother, 
 
 And beckons mine from earth away; 
 
 Soon on wings as fleet as morning. 
 Mounting upward — shall find the way. 
 
 Though you left me in life's morning, 
 With love's blessing on my head; 
 
 Angel echoes — coming, going — 
 Between the living and the dead. 
 
 Long have been the years that glided 
 Since I looked upon your face; 
 
 And many, too, the tears have fallen. 
 Though their channels none can trace. 
 
 [ 156 ] 
 
Oft I've been amid the breakers, 
 And heard the tempest wildly roar; 
 
 Shrouded in the gloom of darkness — 
 Drifting outward from the shore. 
 
 But the star that shone effulgent — 
 That star of hope that never sets- 
 Shining with its morning luster 
 Shall bring me in the haven yet. 
 
 In the future twilight gleaming — 
 Far behind the billows roll — 
 
 With the light of glory shining 
 In the temple of the soul. 
 
 Still your picture — memory's keeping — 
 Still undimmed by flight of time, 
 
 Mirrored in my soul forever, 
 Photographed by light divine. 
 
 July SOih, 1878. 
 
 [157] 
 
SWEET HARP. 
 
 Sweet harp, thy string is breaking, 
 Still many the songs unsiing; 
 
 Echoes will soon be waking 
 Where angel harps are strung. 
 
 The hand that struck thee early, 
 Will quit thee very soon; 
 
 The heart that loved thee dearly, 
 Its fires itself consume. 
 
 Ah ! many a lonely hour, 
 IVe wooed thee all alone. 
 
 And felt thy soothing power 
 In every breathing tone. 
 
 The rapture of thy numbers — 
 How soothing still they roll — 
 
 Awaking from their slumbers 
 The echoes of the soul. 
 
 The eye that shone upon thee 
 Through many falling tears. 
 
 Will soon be closed from thee 
 From earth and all its fears. 
 
 158] 
 
The ear that ever wooed thee 
 Will woo thee soon no more; 
 
 Thy memories shall pursue me 
 When I walk the other shore. 
 
 The tide of hfe's abating, 
 Its fires are burning low; 
 
 I am waiting — only waiting- 
 Fond harp, I soon must go. 
 
 Thy echoes still shall linger 
 When I have passed away; 
 
 iEolus' gentle fingers — 
 The same shall ever play. 
 
 August 4th, 1878. 
 
 [ 159 ] 
 
''MY OWN." 
 
 The love that is wrapped in the words " My Own, '' 
 No mortal on earth its meaning can know; 
 
 As it trills in the heart — that scepterless throne — 
 Awaking its waves in wavelets to flow. 
 
 The angels, perhaps, as they circle above, 
 And smile on the earth as it circles below, 
 
 May know of '^My Own" and her undying love. 
 Which the children of time never can know. 
 
 But when the sunlight of Eternity 's Morn 
 Shall sever the gloom that 's fettered my soul, 
 
 1 11 taste of that love that 's heavenly born — 
 That reigns upon earth through Heaven 's control. 
 
 Its fountains unsealed in realms far away. 
 Where life never ends and hope never dies; 
 
 But here — in the meshes of time for a day — 
 We taste, and but dream of love in the skies. 
 
 How often I Ve heard it in love 's richest tone. 
 Thrilling and warming the depths of my heart; 
 
 Till I felt that her heart and her love were " My Own, 
 And mine in return were hers for her part. 
 
 February 6th, 1881. 
 
 [ 160 ] 
 
LEONANIE. 
 
 Leonanie, Bonnie Darling, 
 Thou hast wandered far away, 
 
 Leaving me alone and lonely, 
 Till we meet some future day. 
 
 And I know that day is coming, 
 Coming too — not far away — 
 
 When the light shall fade as even, 
 And Morn put on the robe of day. 
 
 See, yon queenly crescent climbing. 
 
 With her retinue of stars, 
 Glowing in the realm of ether. 
 
 Pouring light on Morning's bars? 
 
 Go thou, darling, gaze upon her; 
 
 Canst thou see from Heaven's light? 
 Then, I know the light of glory 
 
 Will be reflected to my sight. 
 
 Then a smile — angelic, beaming — 
 Shall come dov^n each shining ray, 
 
 Lighting me from earthly sorrow 
 To thy home of endless day. 
 
 [ 161 ] 
 
Where the wicked cease from trouble; 
 
 Where the weary are at rest; 
 Then again, my darUng, nestle 
 
 In a happy father's breast. 
 
 February Uih, 1879. 
 
 [162] 
 
IN THIS LIFE. 
 
 In this life of toil and sorrow; 
 
 In this land of sweat and pain, 
 Must we wear the yoke of bondage, 
 
 Forged from Mammon's golden chain? 
 
 Must we be the slaves of party — 
 Slaves to all that justice hates — 
 
 Bowing when our masters bid us, 
 To enslave our native state? 
 
 Hew the wood and draw the water; 
 
 Till the soil and make the bread ; 
 Bare our breast to every danger — 
 
 That idle drones may still be fed? 
 
 Brave the spirits of our fathers — 
 When they broke the tyrant's rod — 
 
 Planting freedom in the forest, 
 
 And placing faith in none but God. 
 
 But alas ! how far we've wandered 
 From the moorings — long ago — 
 
 And the heritage we've squandered, 
 Bequeathed to us by sires of yore. 
 
 [163] 
 
How my spirit sinks within me 
 When I think of Freedom lost; 
 
 When the blood we poured like water — 
 Showing what our bondage cost. 
 
 Get thee, Satan, now behind us; 
 
 We have learned a lesson true; 
 We no more will bow to party — 
 
 For party always bows to you. 
 
 February 16th, 1879 
 
 [164] 
 
SUCH IS LIFE. 
 
 The world is drunk on the wine of sin— 
 For the sin of wine has made it so — 
 
 And crime and hate so near akin, 
 
 They hand in hand through time shall go. 
 
 Sowing the seeds of pain and woe, 
 In virgin fields of mind and heart; 
 
 Damming the stream of life below. 
 Poisoning fountains as they start. 
 
 While justice seems to hide her eyes — 
 Though holding in her hands the scales — 
 
 When truth is battling for the prize 
 That falsehood 's wand must not prevail. 
 
 Yet man with all his wisdom 's lore, 
 Has learned but little of himself; 
 
 He conquers others by the score. 
 But always fails to conquer self. 
 
 A hero in the world 's great fight — 
 Caring not for those around him — 
 
 But guided by a phantom light, 
 
 That will leave him as it found him. 
 
 [165] 
 
We sow the ills that others reap, 
 And garner those our fathers sowed; 
 
 As in life's treadmill track we keep; 
 Still over-burdened with our load. 
 
 Till cumbered with the years of time, 
 As life's embers seem to smother; 
 
 Or nipped in life's morning prime; 
 Our place is filled by some other. 
 
 Such is life, and such forever. 
 
 The same ere long, will be our fate: 
 
 And those who follow, will they never 
 Learn to love, instead of hate? 
 
 Febniary 9th, 1881. 
 
 166 
 

 BURK'S GARDEN, 
 
 "No white man's foot had chanced to press 
 
bis iiUe-wlId- and wilderne«? 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 There is a green isle in the ocean's blue wave 
 Where the dust of my fathers sleeps in the grave; 
 Though centuries have swept down the river of Time, . 
 Their memories are sacred in this bosom of mine. 
 My eyes have not seen that beautiful land, 
 Which shines like an emerald in old ocean grand, 
 But Fancy — an artist — with colors so true, 
 Has painted it for me in richest of hue; 
 As a halo it circles my hopes and my heart, 
 And the compass of love has compassed its chart. 
 
 'Tis the home of the harp, and the home of the brave. 
 Where Goldsmith and Emmett sleep in their graves; 
 Whose songs and whose deeds remembered and sung, 
 Still awaken fresh hope in the old and the young. 
 And the fires that kindled the thoughts in the mind, 
 Are kindling in, others to follow behind; 
 Like angels of mercy on missions of love, 
 Who wait for the soul light to burst from above. 
 The spirit of freedom is waiting not far, 
 And soon will put on his armor of war. 
 
 The army of heroes in the future that sleeps — 
 Abiding its time while liberty weeps — 
 
 [ 167 ] 
 
Shall awake with a shout, the shout of the free, 
 
 Whose echoes shall roll far over the sea; 
 
 As the lava that rolls from a mountain of fire — 
 
 Thy children aroused shall come forth in their ire; 
 
 And tyrants shall feel for their head and their crown; 
 
 When freemen look up, the despots go down, 
 
 And the cloud that has hung o'er the land of our hope, 
 
 Will scatter like mist when the morning doth ope. 
 
 'Tis the home of the harp and the home of the brave, 
 Whose blood and whose tears make sacred the grave; 
 The idyl of fancy, the framework of dreams, 
 Which glosses itself in sweet memory's streams; 
 And living like Love far down in my soul, 
 Where Lethean waters never can roll. 
 Till life's last Sun shall set in the West 
 And the pall of forgetfulness cover my breast. 
 With a smile I will brighten, with a tear I'll bedew, 
 The home of my fathers, the brave and the true. 
 
 March 31st, 1881. 
 
 [168] 
 
MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Beautiful mounains, how grand to behold, 
 When robed in your light of azure and gold; 
 Like gods, ye stand in the temple of light, 
 Where angels encamp in their missions of right; 
 And the storm king gathers his might and his main. 
 Unfurling his banner o 'er valley and plain ; 
 Whose batteries masked in the depths of the sky, 
 With their fiery tongues to speak as they fly; 
 Whose electrical shock with tremulous shake 
 Makes valleys and hills and forests to quake. 
 
 Ye giants of nature, the marvels of time. 
 
 So hoar}^ with age, and truly sublime ; 
 
 A feast for the vision, as it wanders afar. 
 
 And drawn in fancy's beautiful car; 
 
 While mount over mount still stretching away. 
 
 Till the clouds stoop down on their summit to play. 
 
 While charms doth inspire with soothing delight. 
 
 As vision is lost in its marvelous flight, 
 
 And the soul in its rapture, thrilling and sweet. 
 
 Onward still looking when life is complete. 
 
 Beautiful mountains, yes, grand to behold. 
 When robed in your light of azure and gold; 
 
 [169] 
 
As I gaze on your brows of shadowy sheen, 
 Now soon to be crowned with a chaplet of green; 
 My memory goes back to a mount in the east 
 Where hung on the cross the Sinner's High Priest, 
 Whose blood run down to the foot of the cross 
 To cleanse every soul from sin and its dross; 
 The martyr of heaven, the Son of the sky 
 Who lived as a beggar, as a God he must die. 
 
 Symbols of majesty. Sentinels bold, 
 Lifting your locks of azure and gold; 
 The Rostrum of Heaven 's Messiah and King, 
 When speaking to prophets good tidings to bring; 
 The spirit of Freedom is born in your wild, 
 Where the Muses come forth to foster the child, 
 And genius embraces the twain in her arms 
 Till virtue and truth enfold every charm; 
 When Love and its labor are ended below, 
 And life is the crown in the land where we go. 
 
 April Uth, 1881 
 
 [170] 
 
ON FOND MEMORY. 
 
 On fond memory 's canvas painted 
 
 Is a face I used to see; 
 In my heart her name is sainted, 
 
 As a mother's name should be. 
 
 And the songs I Ve heard her singing 
 
 In the years of long ago, 
 In my heart their echo 's ringing 
 
 As their numbers sweetly flow. 
 
 Years have fled and still are flying 
 As memory follows in their wake, 
 
 And her words of love undying 
 Their impressions deeper make. 
 
 Stirred is every fount of feeling 
 With its warm and tender thrills. 
 
 When her name o 'er memory stealing 
 Moves upon its waves at will. 
 
 Come, sweet memories, oft and ever, 
 Come in waking and in dreams; 
 
 Be my guard and leave me never 
 
 Till I Ve crossed life 's chilling stream. 
 
 [171] 
 
Then I '11 hear the song she 's singing- 
 Not the ones she sung before — 
 
 But salvation 's anthem ringing 
 As from angel harps they pour. 
 
 April 2nd, 1882 
 
 [172] 
 
THIS WAY, FREEMAN I 
 
 « 
 
 This way, Freemen, proclaim it aloud, 
 
 And tell it where men in bondage are bowed; 
 Shout it on earth and tell it on sea, 
 Till all who hear it shall die or be free. 
 
 Tell it to freemen and tell it to slaves; 
 Tell it to bosses and all of their knaves; 
 Shout it to soldiers — the noblest from birth — 
 And tell it to cowards — the shame of the earth. 
 
 Tell to the winds and they to the waves. 
 Those that love freedom can never be slaves — 
 The stars that shine in the temple of night 
 Are beacons to guide all freemen aright. 
 
 The genius of freedom is waiting not far 
 To drive from her temple the gluttons of war; 
 Though gorged to the full, they inwardly grieve 
 That the Goddess of Freedom will harbor no thieves. 
 
 When peace like the dove to the ark shall return, 
 Where the vestals of Freedom cease not to burn; 
 And hope in our hearts shall mount on new wings, 
 And sing of that peace — that peace only brings. 
 
 [ 173 ] 
 
This way Freemen ! Yes, shout it again, 
 Till earth and her isles shall hear the refrain; 
 That echoes may sound it till sounding remote, 
 The angels above may welcome each note. 
 
 Then striking their harps with angelic skill. 
 Till orbs and all space their melodies fill, 
 Inspiring God 's children wherever they be 
 On orb or on earth — that sigh to be free. 
 
 Tell it to fathers, they'll tell to their sons; 
 Tell to the waters, they'll tell as they run; 
 And tell it to-night and shout it to-day 
 Till echoes come back and tell what they say. 
 
 Tell it to poets, they '11 tell it or try. 
 Though singing like swans, still sing as they die; 
 When life's last ray from their bosom has fled. 
 They live with the living — but sleep with the dead. 
 
 Tell it to mothers — the last and the best — 
 They are more patient than all of the rest; 
 They fallow the heart when tender and young, 
 And sow it with truths the poets have sung. 
 
 Then tell it to time who tells as he flies. 
 And tell it to truth till Father Time dies; 
 Though shouting through hfe with unfailing breath, 
 But loudest and last in the cold ear of death. 
 
 This way. Freemen! Come, shout it once more, 
 Wake up the sleepers on Lethe's dark shore, 
 Who hearing the sound shall sound it afar. 
 Till echoes shall tell it to morning 's bright star. 
 
 [174] 
 
Sigh it, ye winds, wherever you blow; 
 Lisp it, ye waters, wherever you flow; 
 Chime it, old ocean, wherever you roar; 
 And sound it, O! Earth, till earth is no more. 
 
 Oh! Tell it, ye clouds, wherever you float, 
 And pipe it, ye birds, with musical throat; 
 Harp it, ye forests, wherever you wave. 
 To shelter this earth or shadow the grave. 
 
 Sing it, dear mothers — as mothers can sing — 
 Whose love as some river with bottomless spring; 
 Impress it on mind, enbalm it in heart; 
 Baptize it in love, 'twill never depart. 
 
 Let matter and spirit together combine. 
 And sound one chorus to ending of time. 
 When echoes rebounding, upward shall roll. 
 Till striking the walls of the home of the souL 
 
 November, 1882. 
 
 [175] 
 
LINES WRITTEN IN COUSIN JNO. A. BOGLE'S 
 AUTOGRAPH ALBUM. 
 
 You on life's battle field, my boy 
 
 Must do the best you can; 
 And keep your head above the waves, 
 
 And prove yourself a man; 
 
 For God helps those who help themselves — 
 
 Then never thwart his plan ; 
 But strive to show that love to Him 
 
 He shows to you, a man. 
 
 You must not shrink from duty's task, 
 
 But face it best you can; 
 Make coward fear — fall in behind — 
 
 And be an honest man. 
 
 The world is full of little men 
 Whose little acts we scan — 
 ^ Because they try to make a show, 
 But fail to show the man. 
 
 As virtue is its own reward. 
 
 And always leads the van. 
 So honest deeds and love make up 
 
 The living parts of man. 
 
 [ 176 ] 
 
Then live for him who hves for you, 
 
 For hfe is but a span — 
 This earth is not our dweUing place — 
 
 Heaven's the home of man. 
 
 Then steer your bark for that dear home 
 
 Where Hving zephyrs fan, 
 And life shall never cease to bloom 
 
 On never-dying man. 
 
 November 28th, 1883. 
 
 [177] 
 
A MAN'S A MAN WHO ACTS THE MAN. 
 
 A man 's a man who acts the man 
 With brother or with stranger, 
 
 And in whose heart no secret plan 
 Is found to lead to danger. 
 
 But frank as truth and clear as light 
 He moves with purpose steady; 
 
 To do his duty and the right 
 You '11 always find him ready. 
 
 His feet are shod with peace and love 
 
 And love to do their duty, 
 As softly o 'er the earth they move 
 
 Like angels clothed in beauty. 
 
 His hands are filled with golden alms 
 To help the poor and needy; 
 ^ He scatters from his honest palms 
 And strives not to be greedy. 
 
 He learns to give with cheerful heart, 
 
 As God to him has given; 
 And strives on earth to do his part, 
 
 And earn his way to Heaven. 
 
 [ 178 ] 
 
And in his heart of hearts you'll find 
 
 A gushing fount of feeling 
 That ebbs and flows to human kind, 
 
 Responsive to appealing. 
 
 And when his deep impassioned soul 
 Is touched by earthly sorrow, 
 
 He stoops to pity and console 
 And bind up for to-morrow. 
 
 No fawning smile lights up his face 
 
 To kiss you like a Judas, 
 Nor willing hand in any place 
 
 To stab you like a Brutus. 
 
 Down in his deep and throbbing heart, 
 That makes the world akin, 
 
 No envy lives to cause a smart. 
 Or mar his peace within. 
 
 The noblest work of God — he stands — 
 The master piece of Heaven; 
 
 Not angels in the glory land 
 Can boast such power given. 
 
 November 29tk 1895. 
 
 [179] 
 
I LIST AND I SIGH. 
 
 I list and I sigh 
 As the winds go by; 
 
 To the winds that are hsting and sighing 
 With melodies wild; 
 That make me a child; 
 
 And I think of the names undying. 
 
 When out of my heart 
 Sweet memories start , 
 
 And fraught with the name of a brother, 
 Who left us one day 
 In search of the way 
 
 That leads to the home of our mother. 
 
 Though long years ago, 
 She left us below. 
 
 And told us in heaven to meet her. 
 Since, two sisters sweet 
 With swift flying feet 
 
 Have left us and gone up to greet her. 
 
 Still here I must wait 
 Who stands at life's gate, 
 
 And list to the winds that are sighing, 
 
 [ 180 ] 
 
Till message shall come 
 To welcome me home — 
 
 To live where our love is undying. 
 
 Then help me, oh God! 
 To lean to thy rod 
 
 When nearing the brink of death's river; 
 Then over my grave 
 Let victory wave 
 
 Her banner triumphant forever. 
 
 December 22nd, 1883 
 
 [181 
 
OH! BEAUTIFUL SEA, 
 
 The sea, the sea, oh, beautiful sea. 
 
 On whose deep bosom I've longed to be; 
 
 As a child would sigh for its mother's breast, 
 
 So I on thy bosom have longed to rest. 
 
 Where the crested waves must dash and foam 
 
 As they break on the beach with a solemn moan; 
 
 Awaking a thousand memories sweet. 
 
 That the breaking waves must still repeat; 
 
 Filling my soul with their weird song 
 
 That chime with the waves as they roll along. 
 
 Over thy bosom — deep, beautiful sea — 
 Stretching as far as the eye can see. 
 Till the azure rim of the ocean's Lue 
 Is lost in welkin 's still deeper blue. 
 I gaze with a wonder that none can know 
 At the rolling waves as they come and go. 
 Reminding me of my bosom's woe 
 Whose wonderful tide must ever flow. 
 Till the aching heart and sighing breast 
 Shall find somewhere a place of rest. 
 
 The breeze, the breeze, oh, life-giving breeze. 
 Fanning forever the fathomless seas ; 
 
 [ 182 ] 
 
To the bleeding bosom now gladly brings 
 Its balming breath and healing wings. 
 Thou restless spirit of the mighty deep, 
 Like one in my bosom that never sleeps, 
 But roaming and yearning for a higher sphere. 
 And seeking that rest it finds not here, 
 Where sorrow and sadness sadden the heart 
 And leaving their gloom to never depart, 
 Till hope in my bosom has withered and died 
 And the fount of my song, abated, or dried. 
 
 There's a shell on thy shore, oh! wonderful sea. 
 Whose spirit, like mine, still sighs to be free; 
 Though the shell on thy shore sighs not in despair. 
 As I for a crown I never may wear; 
 But still like the shell, and sighing alone, 
 May the song I sing be as sweet in its tone; 
 Living and sighing when I am no more 
 As the harp of the sea that lies on its shore. 
 
 August 2J^th, 188^. 
 
 [183 J 
 
A SEA DREAM. 
 
 I stood upon the ocean's shore 
 And heard its dashing waters roar; 
 I saw its crested breakers foam 
 And heard their sad and dying moan; 
 And as they died along the shore- 
 As early hopes — that come no more — 
 But waking in my dreamy soul, 
 Its burning waves that still must roll, 
 And break their force upon my heart. 
 Now bleeding, sore in every part. 
 
 Upon the solitude of waves, 
 A mighty tomb, where sleep the brave, 
 Although uncoffined and unknov.n — 
 A charnel house of human bones. 
 I gazed with wonder and surprise 
 On nature's mirror of the skies. 
 Where all the stars look down and see 
 Their faces in the deep blue sea, 
 And gazing thus, they blush the while, 
 And light the ocean with their smiles. 
 
 I heard a sigh along the shore; 
 
 It came from out the ocean's door, 
 
 [ 184 ] 
 
And never in my life before 
 Was I compelled to hearken more: 
 The waves were talking as of yore 
 About their legendary lore, 
 And all the melody they bore 
 Bounded over the sandy shore, 
 To die upon my ear no more 
 Till I shall cross life's ocean o'er. 
 
 Many a wild and mystic speech 
 Was murmured on that sandy beach, 
 And murmured too, for mystic years, 
 Before the face of man appears; 
 And none but nymphs or nerieds knew 
 The meaning of their story true; 
 But humming sounds of voiceless words 
 Are all the ear of man has heard, 
 While mystery's unbroken seal 
 Its legends dark will not reveal; 
 Their epic song no harp has rung, 
 Except the one the conch has sung. 
 
 Here pearly shells of varied hue, 
 From rosy tints to heaven's blue. 
 Are found within its caverns deep 
 Where all the slimy monsters creep; 
 And where the coral army keeps 
 Its vigils in the silent deep, 
 Whose tiny hands beneath the waves 
 Are building houses for their graves. 
 
 [185] 
 
Whose monuments as trophies stand, 
 Attesting skill in every land. 
 Beside the works of man they smile. 
 As grand as his along the Nile. 
 Still man with all his boasted pride 
 Would have the honor on his side, 
 So selfish is his little heart, 
 No fame to others will impart. 
 
 I saw Aurora's sparkling eyes 
 Dispensing light in eastern skies. 
 And Night receding to the west 
 With darkness folded on her breast. 
 The badge of mourning — not despair — • 
 The living for the dead should wear. 
 And then above the liquid wave 
 Up rose the sun as from the grave, 
 With burning eyes and cheeks aglow 
 To shed his smiles on all below; 
 And as his light fell on the fort 
 I heard the cannon's loud report- 
 It was the soldier's morning gun. 
 To greet the morning's rising sun. 
 
 It sounded o'er the prison walls. 
 And, as a clap of thunder falls 
 Upon the unsuspecting ear. 
 It shook the nerves, but not with fear; 
 But rousing at forgotten thoughts 
 That slumber only as they ought; 
 Then, gazing on the m^ortared walls. 
 As morning's mellow sunlight falls, 
 
 [ 186 1 
 
I thought of one whose noble soul 
 Would never bow to tyrant's role; 
 Who dared this prison or the stake, 
 And lived and died for conscience' sake. 
 He bowed to none except to fate, 
 And when to it, it was too late. 
 
 While those opposed with hearts less bold, 
 Their country's freedom gave for gold, 
 And thus they bartered freedom's cause 
 To override a nation's laws. 
 Their biased hearts surcharged with hate. 
 Despised the hands that made them great; 
 Nor deemed the hand that freed the slave 
 Was scooping out itself its grave; 
 But Samson-like, were blindly led, 
 And pulled the temple o'er their head. 
 
 I heard the ocean's pulsing heart 
 Throbbing strong in every part. 
 And sending out its breath of waves 
 To strike the earthen feet they lave. 
 Pulsating with a mighty will. 
 The destiny of time to fill ; 
 And mocking man whose feeble breath 
 Is but an ebb from birth to deaths — 
 A bubble on the sea of time, 
 A puff of wind that only shines, 
 And like it — bursts upon the wave — 
 And sinks forgotten in the grave. 
 
 [ 187 ] 
 
Upon another shore I stand 
 Beneath my feet I feel the sand; 
 The sands of time that steal away 
 Beneath my feet each passing day. 
 Then soon upon a shoreless sea 
 When time shall ebb away from me, 
 My feet shall press the shining shore 
 Where tide and time shall be no more; 
 Where suns will never rise nor set, 
 Where cheeks with tears are never wet; 
 Where bleeding hearts with aching core 
 Shall find some rest and bleed no more. 
 
 This poem was suggested on a visit to Fortress Monroe, 
 August 25th, 1884. 
 
 [188] 
 
LIFE'S DUTY. 
 
 Hearts that throb to human love 
 Are cups of earthly pleasure, 
 
 Which sparkle in the sun of -life, 
 When filled with Heaven 's treasure. 
 
 Feet that hurry, feet to meet 
 In life 's low vale of sorrow, 
 
 Are messengers that fly between 
 To-day and each to-morrow. 
 
 Eyes that give their love for light 
 Are eyes that shine the brightest; 
 
 Hearts that bleed for those that need 
 Are hearts that beat the lightest. 
 
 Hands that feel the pulse of want. 
 And hands that do their duty, 
 
 Scatter smiles on faded cheeks 
 That blossom into beauty. 
 
 Ears that hear the cry of woe 
 Will learn its tale of sorrow, 
 
 And pour the balm in aching heart. 
 And make it light to-morrow. 
 
 [189] 
 
Lips that love to speak the truth — 
 With tongue to tell the story — 
 
 Must learn on earth to sing love's song 
 Before they sing in glory. 
 
 The soul its energies must bend 
 To mount on wings still higher, 
 
 And reach that home above the stars 
 In love's chariot of fire. 
 
 January 15th, 1885^ 
 
 [190] 
 
TO THE WASHINGTON MONUMENT. 
 
 With grateful hearts we would to-day 
 
 Do honor to Virginia 's son, 
 With "First in war and first in peace" 
 
 Must stand the name of Washington. 
 
 A nation rears this monument 
 In memory of her greatest son, 
 
 When it has crumbled into dust. 
 Will live the name of Washington. 
 
 So lift the marble shaft on high 
 To greet the light of yonder sun, 
 
 And let it tell around the world, 
 Tis built to honor Washington. 
 
 Its shining crown is higher far 
 Than any work that man has done, 
 
 So highest on the scroll of fame, 
 Will live the name of Washington. 
 
 When crowns have crumbled into dust, 
 And kings have left their work half done; 
 
 America — with trumpet tongue, — 
 Will sound .the name of Washington. 
 
 [191] 
 
The child of Freedom and of Fame, 
 And heir to all devotions won; 
 
 Now half the people of the globe 
 
 Have learned the name of Washington. 
 
 Embalm his name in every heart, 
 Let father hand it down to son; 
 
 Till every child of earth shall learn 
 To love the name of Washington. 
 
 And while a spark of freedom glows, 
 And planets travel round the sun; 
 
 Down in the heart of man will live 
 The honored name of Washington. 
 
 No child of freedom ever died 
 
 With grander trophies than he won. 
 
 No heir of heaven wears a crown 
 Outshining that of Washington. 
 
 Then lift the polished shaft on high 
 To meet in clouds the rising sun, 
 
 And let it shine amid the stars 
 
 In memory of George Washington. 
 
 When freedom 's banner shall unfold, 
 And clasp the nations all in one; 
 
 The brightest name in Time 's record 
 Will be the name of Washington. • 
 
 When time shall measure out his years, 
 
 And ages roll the cycles on; 
 Bright in the future 's dying day 
 
 Will live the name of Washington 
 
 [ 192 ] 
 
Then let us give to Him the praise, 
 Who gave to us his only Son; 
 
 And through His Son immortal life, 
 And Liberty through Washington. 
 
 January 23rd, 1885 . 
 
 [193 
 
THE RIVER OF LIFE. 
 
 I've read of a classic river 
 
 On whose banks I hope to stand, 
 
 When the pulse of life shall quiver 
 And I leave this darkened land. 
 
 When the darkness of all ages 
 
 As a scroll shall pass away, 
 And a book of countless pages 
 
 Shall be opened as the day. 
 
 Which the bright recording angel — 
 Through the fleeting years of time — 
 
 ■ As some faithful soul's evangel 
 Wrote the deeds of every clime. 
 
 When this Faith that Hope has cherished 
 Through the bitter years of time, 
 
 Though its fruits have never perished, 
 But in wreaths of glory shine. 
 
 While the murmurs of it waters, 
 Like sweet melodies shall float, 
 
 With the harp of heaven's daughters, 
 And their never dying note. 
 
 [ 194 ] 
 
Ever flowing is this river 
 
 Through a city we are told, 
 As its crystal waters quiver 
 
 Through the streets of burnished gold. 
 
 While its glassy waters shimmer 
 'Neath a sky of molten gold, 
 
 Where no fading can e'er glimmer, 
 For it never waxes old. 
 
 I believe this classic river 
 Is the fountain head of Love, 
 
 Where God — the Life and Giver — 
 Ever welcomes all above. 
 
 When life's desert journey's ended 
 
 And its Meribahs are dry, 
 And the soul its way has wended 
 
 To that city in the sky, 
 
 There to join the sea of voices 
 
 Who have stemm'd the tide of strife. 
 
 And with earth's redeemed rejoices, 
 'Neath the fruitful tree of life. 
 
 January 29 ih, 1885 
 
 [195] 
 
THE CROWN IS FOR ALL WHO FIGHT TILL 
 THEY DIE. 
 
 Old soldier, come listen, good tidings I bring 
 From the army of nations, whose leader is king; 
 To the ends of the earth his banner unfurled. 
 And the foe is retreating all over the world. 
 Then stand by your colors whenever they fly. 
 For the crown is for those who fight tiU they die. 
 
 The kingdom of darkness is passing away, 
 
 As the light of the truth is shedding its ray; 
 
 India and China and Africa — ^all. 
 
 Are coming, or waiting to come at the call. 
 
 Then stand by your colors wherever they fly, 
 
 For the crown is for those who fight till they die. 
 
 Come, listen, old soldier, the truth you must know. 
 
 Old Satan is routed and trembling below; 
 
 His sentence of doom you can read in the glare 
 
 Of the light that comes up from the wail of despair. 
 
 Then stand by your colors wherever they fly. 
 
 For the crown is for those who fight till they die. 
 
 Michael — when leading the armies above — 
 Drove him you, know, from the kingdom of love; 
 
 [196] 
 
Now Jesus has charge of the armies of men, 
 And is leading the charge to rout him again. 
 Then stand by your colors wherever they fly, 
 For the crown is for those who fight till they die. 
 
 Then listen, my brother, though faint is my breath — 
 To conquer the world, you must conquer in death; 
 Then gird up your loins, still valiant and brave. 
 And triumph at last over death and the grave. 
 Then stand by your colors wherever they fly. 
 For the crown is for those who fight till they die. 
 
 The angels are camping about us we know, 
 To strengthen our hands when weary we grow; 
 Their forms we shall see when the battle shall cease 
 As they lead us away to the kingdom of peace. 
 Then stand by your colors wherever they fly, 
 For the crown is for those who fight till they die. 
 
 January 30th, 1885. 
 
 [ 197 
 
THE POET'S SONG. 
 
 I sing of one that Heaven 
 Endows with wondrous skill; 
 
 Who treads alone the winepress, 
 His mission to fulfil. 
 
 His heart's a sea of music; 
 
 Each wave a breath that lives 
 To fill the world with rapture, 
 
 When soul to song he gives. 
 
 There's a melancholy sorrow 
 In the rhythm of his song, 
 
 Which shadows forth the burden 
 His spirit bears along. 
 
 There's pathos in his sadness; 
 
 A thrill in every line, 
 To sooth some bosom's sorrow, 
 
 Or cheer it with his chime. 
 
 As long as time shall measure, 
 Or pulse of man shall beat. 
 
 They'll fill with wine of gladness 
 The bosom they shall greet. 
 
 [ 198 ] 
 
As some grand old Promethus 
 With finger on his lyre; 
 
 His eyes upturned to heaven — 
 His soul invoking fire. 
 
 Till sparks from Heaven's altar 
 Descend; upon its strings; 
 
 Awaking sleeping anthems 
 That angels love to sing. 
 
 Whose sweet and living numbers 
 Ne'er stop or cease to flow; 
 
 Like dying echoes waken 
 New echoes as they go. 
 
 Which rolling down the ages, 
 With rhythm most sublime, 
 
 To die amid the dirges 
 
 At the knell of father time. 
 
 January 31st, 1885. 
 
 [199] 
 
HOLD ON, DEAR CHILDREN. 
 
 Hold on, dear children, and hear what I say, 
 And hold to the lesson I teach you to-daj. 
 And when from Ufe's walk IVe passed to the tomb, 
 Its truth in your heart shall blossom and bloom. 
 
 Hold on to your tongues when ready to swear. 
 And hold to the truth wherever you are, 
 And do not forget wherever you roam 
 That halo that circles your childhood's home. 
 
 Hold on to the names in memory dear 
 Who cherished and loved you in life's dawning year; 
 Though living on earth or in heaven above, 
 They're waiting or watching with undying love. 
 
 Hold on to your heart when the tempter is nigh 
 And hold to your name — his money can't buy — 
 And honor will weave a wreath for the brow, 
 For those who never to mammon would bow. 
 
 Hold on to virtue — the pearl of great price — 
 The key that locks all — you may lose in a trice — 
 The gem of all jewels, then guard it aright, 
 And time will but garnish and make it more bright. 
 
 [ 200 ] 
 
Hold on to Hope's Faith, bright wings of the soul 
 Surmounting life's waves wherever they roll, 
 Till the heavenly Port shall dawn into sight 
 And the last of old earth shall sink into night. 
 
 November 13th, 1885. 
 
 [201] 
 
SAND IN HIS CRAW. 
 
 There is a game bird that is game to the core, 
 So doubt not his mettle or inference draw, 
 
 When he stands on the fence — not far from the door, 
 And says, "I'm the cock with sand in my craw." 
 
 He means it, and feels it, and says what he knows, 
 And looks like a knight that nothing can awe; 
 
 Then flapping his wings still louder he crows. 
 
 And says, "I'm the cock with sand in my craw." 
 
 Now look on the judge who sits on the bench 
 And tries to expound the mazes of law; 
 
 But when from the poor their rights he would wrench 
 He argues in fact there's no sand in his craw. 
 
 The pastor can boast of the growth of his church, 
 And dwell on the justice of heavenly law; 
 
 The moment he leaves his flock in the lurch. 
 
 He proves to the world there's no sand in his craw. 
 
 The doctor may boast of his medical skill. 
 
 And cover his patients with blisters that draw; 
 
 Could he but cure the half he doesn't kill. 
 
 Then take it for granted there's sand in his craw. 
 
 [ 202 ] 
 
The lawyer will boast of the cases he's won, 
 And show in his brief the infractions of law; 
 
 When fee'd on both sides instead of but one, 
 He only shows dirt — not sand in his craw. 
 
 The farmer w^ho boasts of his wonderful store — 
 His oceans of wheat and his mountains of straw— 
 
 If he strikes from his measure, robbing the poor, 
 He's not a full measure of sand in his craw. 
 
 The banker will have his millions of gold, 
 
 And fastened with staples no burglar can draw; 
 
 If rich — you can borrow enough — I am told. 
 To prove by his rates he's no sand in his craw. 
 
 The merchant who lives in country or town, 
 His scales are adjusted each fraction to draw; 
 
 As your goods go up and his weights come down 
 With sand in his coffee, but not in his craw. 
 
 The soldier — God bless him — stands in the fight; 
 
 His eye from his duty nothing can draw; 
 His honor's his shield that nothing can blight; 
 
 Living or dying there's sand in his craw. 
 
 The poet's a riddle that no one can solve; 
 
 A problem that nature will have to withdraw; 
 For nothing but time can ever evolve. 
 
 Or measure the sand he has in his craw. 
 
 Go hunt me the man that office won't buy; 
 
 Waste not your time with the learned in the law; 
 And when you have found him — this maxim apply- 
 
 "He's honest, put poor" — with sand in his craw. 
 
 November, 1885. 
 [ 203 ] • 
 
VOICES. 
 
 Over the mystical river, 
 
 In melodies soft and low, 
 I hear the voices of others 
 
 I knew in the long ago. 
 They came when the morning blushes— 
 
 When the zephyr's voice is low; 
 When the evening shadows thicken; 
 
 As they hide the sunset glow. 
 
 They come as the dreams of Heaven 
 
 To help the soul in its fight, 
 To win the crown that is waiting 
 
 For those who battle aright. 
 One is the voice of a mother, 
 
 When prone on the bed of death. 
 Whose prayer for her orphan children 
 
 Was warm in her dying breath. 
 
 Some are the voices of soldiers 
 
 Who stood in the ranks of war, 
 Whose thunders shook the waters. 
 
 And the mountain felt the jar. 
 They tell of hopes once blighted 
 
 And of dreams forever flown; 
 Of hearts though broke when plighted. 
 
 With their story still unknown. 
 
 • [204 1 
 
And some I heard in my childhood 
 
 And followed wherever they led; 
 But now they come from the valley 
 
 Which holds the dust of the dead. 
 How soft and sweet their music ! 
 
 Reminding the soul of its youth, 
 Ere sin its mantle had woven, 
 
 Which shadows the brow of truth. 
 
 I soon must follow their echoes. 
 
 To mingle my own once more 
 With those I loved in my childhood. 
 
 Who live on the shadowy shore. 
 Over the desert of shadows 
 
 The faith of my heart still flies — 
 In search of the land of promise — 
 
 The Canaan above the skies. 
 
 Darkness that nothing can fathom — 
 Not even the wing of thought — 
 
 Lies in the womb of the future, 
 Out of which destiny 's wrought. 
 
 November 22nd, 1885. 
 
 [205] 
 
I AM DYING, MOTHER— DYING. 
 
 I am dying, mother, dying, 
 
 Soon from earth 1 11 pass away; 
 Up to thee my hopes are flying 
 
 To that realm beyond to-day. 
 Long the years since you have left me, 
 
 Still your name is doubly dear; 
 Of your love. Time 's not bereft me, 
 
 For in dreams you oft appear. 
 
 With those smiles that childhood greeted 
 
 Playing on that sainted face, 
 Whose kind words so oft repeated — 
 
 Live in holy memory 's place. 
 Life has been a fearful battle. 
 
 With a foe that's always strong; 
 Though amid its shocks and rattle 
 
 I have heard the siren's song. 
 
 But I Ve never shrunk from duty 
 
 In the battle for the right; 
 Neither have I fought for booty, 
 
 But for justice over might. 
 Yes, I'm dying, mother, dying, 
 
 Soon from earth I shall be free; 
 Listen to my spirit's sighing, 
 • Going up to God and thee. 
 
 [206 1 
 
Preying on this aching bosom 
 
 Is a pang that none can know; 
 Like the canker in the blossom 
 
 Gnawing till it withers low. 
 Who can bear a wounded spirit, 
 
 Bleeding at its inmost core? 
 I have felt the dagger pierce it, 
 
 Still must feel it evermore. 
 
 Now my hopes, like withered flowers 
 
 When the breath of summer 's gone ; 
 Dead within a leafless bower 
 
 Only guarded by a thorn. 
 On the ruins of another 
 
 I have scorned to build a name; 
 Rather die, than have a brother 
 
 Say I 'd robb 'd him of his fame. 
 
 Honor is the brightest jewel 
 In the coronet of man; 
 
 Let it shine till life's renewal 
 Shall reveal our Maker's plan. 
 
 When ambition 's torch was lighted 
 And my bosom caught the flame, 
 
 Then my muse — but since benighted- 
 Panted for a breath of fame. 
 
 But, alas! that dream has ended, 
 And its hopes no more can please; 
 
 Never though by fate defended. 
 Still I bow to her decrees. 
 
 [207] 
 
Though Ufe's labor's unrewarded, 
 And its hopes have been in vain; 
 
 But by those I Ve served — discarded, 
 Is the pang that gives me pain. 
 
 Oft impatient, sometimes fretful, 
 
 At the chafings in the strife; 
 While the world is cold, forgetful, 
 
 Of the burdens in this life. 
 Help me, Father, bear life 's burden, 
 
 Like a valiant soldier strong; 
 Though on earth there is no guerdon, 
 
 There is one somewhere belongs. 
 
 From my bosom lift its sorrow; 
 
 Let my heart beat light again; 
 That I may forget to-morrow 
 
 "Man's ingratitude to man.'' 
 Go, false world, and all false-hearted, 
 
 Cling to those who cling to you; 
 Though my hopes have all been thwarted, 
 
 Still, I've never been untrue. 
 
 Let your sickly smiles be lavished 
 
 On your fawning devotees; 
 Maudlin souls are easy ravished 
 
 With a rapture not for me. 
 By the world I have been hated — 
 
 Let her hate be still allowed — 
 At her court I've never waited; 
 
 At her shrine I 've never bowed. 
 
 If to her I should be debtor, 
 ^Tis because I could not pay; 
 
 [ 208 ] 
 
Still, I 've tried to make her better 
 While on earth I have to stay. 
 
 When this weary life has ended 
 And its suns shall rise no more, 
 
 Then this Harp, with angels blended, 
 Its notes shall wake on Heaven 's shore. 
 
 Then on viewless wings immortal — 
 
 Swifter than the wings of thought — 
 Up to Heaven 's open portal 
 
 Flies the soul, redeemed and bought. 
 I am dying, mother, dying. 
 
 Hear the prayer I breathe to thee; 
 Canst thou hear my spirit sighing 
 
 In its struggle to be free? 
 
 Dost thou hear me, spirit mother. 
 
 In the angel home afar? 
 Knowest thou my spirit's broken 
 
 Through the world's unceasing war? 
 Day and night with wings unfolded 
 
 Waiting in its home of dust; 
 'Till the door — now barred or folded^ 
 
 Shall release its precious trust. 
 
 DecemUr 22nd 1885. 
 
 [209] 
 
ECHOES. 
 
 Sometimes I fancy in my dreams — 
 Such thoughts I never smother — 
 
 Because they bring to me again 
 The sainted name of mother. 
 
 And others, too, I often hear, 
 
 As soft as angels' whispers, 
 Whose memories within m^y heart 
 
 Remind me of my sisters. 
 
 And still one more I '11 ne 'er forget — 
 
 As brave as any other — 
 Who gave his life for freedom's cause — 
 
 My faithful soldier brother. 
 
 And yet one more sweet cooing voice — 
 More soft than purling water, 
 
 Whose melodies bring back to life 
 My darling baby daughter. 
 
 And others still I might repeat 
 
 Of long familiar voices, 
 Who loved me in my younger days, 
 
 But now no more rejoices. 
 
 [210] 
 
And last of all I '11 ne 'er forget 
 
 The daring, fearless soldiers, 
 Whose front was like a blazing wall, 
 
 With shoulders pressed to shoulders. 
 
 Now may those voices ever come — 
 While memory 's fainter traces — 
 
 8hall keep ner vigils round the heart, 
 And all its sacred places. 
 
 Oh, sacred be your memories all. 
 Who haunt me with your voices. 
 
 Till I shall cross death 's chilling stream, 
 And mine with yours rejoices. 
 
 January 27ih, 1886. 
 
 [211] 
 
MY BLEEDING COUNTRY, 'TIS FOR THEE I 
 SIGH. 
 
 My bleeding country, 'tis for thee I sigh, 
 For thee I Ve lived and for thee would die, 
 If peace again would come with smiling ray, 
 And cheer our heart as life must ebb away. 
 'Twould be a boon to know ere life is done 
 That freedom's light still circles glory's sun; 
 For thee in vain the bloom of life was spent, 
 Who dreamed of freedom in the soldier's tent. 
 Whose courage wasted on the battle field. 
 And dragon 's teeth is all the harvest yields. 
 
 For war indeed is often freedom 's bier. 
 Where patriots stand and drop the burning tear. 
 Whose bleeding hearts must feel the pang of woe, 
 And nurse the sorrow that their bosoms know. 
 Their arms too short to reach the daring foe. 
 But feel the stroke that laid their country low. 
 Who see the Shylocks in their greed for gold 
 Forge the fetters that still their freedom hold; 
 A league of villains who enact the laws. 
 And bend the same to suit themselves or cause. 
 
 While the party judge with his broken oath, 
 Who knows his duty but to do it loath, 
 
 [ 212 ] 
 
Who twists the law to serve his party 's end, 
 Aiid robs the poor to serve some wealthy friend. 
 His lack of virtue makes him seek his place, 
 To serve himself and then his State disgrace; 
 Whose slimy trail upon a nation's fame 
 Is felt and traced by pointing at his name; 
 While justice seldom in his biased mind. 
 With even scales with even weights can find; 
 Though blind to all — her even scales she holds, — 
 Nor sells herself — like him — for shining gold. 
 
 In war and peace I Ve stood in duty 's place, 
 Gave blood and sweat to wipe the foul disgrace. 
 And now would empty what these veins still hold 
 To free my country from a leprous fold. 
 With sneering smiles they mock our helpless fate, 
 And think we toil to only make them great; 
 The truth, — in fact, — is quite apparent now. 
 They hold a mortgage on the land we plow. 
 Whose yearly rent on taxless bonds are paid, — 
 While they, — untaxed beneath some cozy shade 
 Spend their idle hours with their stolen gain. 
 And laugh at labor with its galling chain. 
 
 There's a time for all things beneath the sun, 
 A time when freedom yet will know her sons. 
 And those who mock her in her wounded pride 
 Will crouch and cringe to save their craven hide. 
 The wrath of all, — whose hearts have felt the 
 
 pain, — 
 Will no pity show to those who forged their 
 
 chain, 
 
 [213] 
 
Who stamped their manhood in the lowest dust. 
 And robbed their temple of a sacred trust: 
 Like some pent up stream, when its dykes are 
 
 broke, 
 Shall onward rush with resistless stroke 
 Till every barrier in their track must yield, 
 Who guides the plow, the sword as well can 
 
 yield. 
 
 These sons of toil, who from the forest wild, 
 Where once the savage, swarthy Red Man smiled. 
 Whose wigwams rise where now the sun goes 
 
 down 
 With its setting rays on the mountains brown, 
 Have hewed out commonwealths from the wild 
 
 domain, 
 And sowed their field with the golden grain. 
 And reared proud cities on the ocean's shore. 
 And tunnelled the earth for its buried ore, 
 Till their briny sweat as a sacrament 
 Is drunk by the world 's great continent. 
 
 Robbers of Labor and Barons of purse. 
 
 Who ruin their country, — themselves but curse, — 
 
 Who blight fair freedom with their poisoned 
 
 breath. 
 And their leprous touch is worse than death; 
 While Princess Virtue with her modest mien 
 In a Nation 's Halls is but seldom seen. 
 She has hied away to some genial clime, 
 Till the sword shall purge our land of crime. 
 
 Apnl 5th, 1886. 
 [214] 
 
THE WARM CORN DODGER. 
 
 Let poets sing their epic story, 
 And tell the fate of some old codger; 
 
 But give to me the humble glory 
 To give to song the warm corn dodger. 
 
 The staff on which the honest farmer 
 Must lean to bear his heavy burden, 
 
 Whose brawny arm is freedom's armor, 
 And honest heart his proudest guerdon. 
 
 Its golden crust was once dehcious — 
 My molars then were sharp and shiny— 
 
 But now, alas ! they seem suspicious, 
 And only grind when bits are tiny. 
 
 Let epicures and swinish gluttons 
 
 Make boast of what is in their larder. 
 
 And sound the praise of veal or mutton — 
 Both raw and rare to suit their order. 
 
 I have no relish for such dishes. 
 Although sometimes a city lodger; 
 
 And then but seldom get my wishes 
 In the shape of warm corn dodger, 
 
 [215] 
 
So here 's a health to those who bake it, 
 And give it room while e 'er they 're able — 
 
 A blessing on the hands that break it, 
 And all who eat it round the table. 
 
 AprU 8th, 1886. 
 
 [216] 
 

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 OH 
 
FATHER A. J. RYAN. 
 
 Song bird of the south, youVe plumed your flight 
 
 To some bright realm afar, 
 To tune your harp beneath the light 
 
 Of some effulgent star; 
 Away from earth and all its blight, 
 
 And leprous touch of sin. 
 Which blackens every soul that's bright, 
 
 And plants a sting within. 
 
 The desert wilds of life you've crossed — 
 
 Its bitter dregs have drained — 
 The trophies in this life you've lost 
 
 In yon will be regained; 
 For every pain that earth can give, 
 
 There is a balm to heal; 
 A life beyond the grave to live. 
 
 Where death can never steal. 
 
 The widowed muse in silent grief, 
 
 The weeds of mourning show. 
 Since harp no more can give relief 
 
 To soothe the spell of woe; 
 A broken harp's undying notes 
 
 Are sighing o'er your grave, 
 As requiem shall ever float 
 
 Around the true land brave. 
 
 [217] 
 
The harp that touched the soldier's heart — 
 
 And warmed it with its fire — 
 Is severed from the hand apart 
 
 And tuned for regions higher; 
 While breathing notes within the land 
 
 Made sacred by your song, 
 As echoes sigh along the strand, 
 
 To glory shall belong. 
 
 The flashing light of noble deeds — 
 
 That shine when life is done — 
 Is but the breath of fame indeed. 
 
 That circles glory's sun. 
 
 June 3rd, 1886 
 
 [218] 
 
A POET'S CREED. 
 
 I have no faith in a party 
 
 That promises a thousand things, 
 But never redeems its pledges, 
 
 Unless it 's a pledge to the rings. 
 
 I have no faith in the parson 
 
 Who preaches the best that he can, 
 
 But fails to practice his sermons — 
 Preached to the children of men. 
 
 I have no faith in the la wyer 
 
 Who has so much faith in himself, 
 
 But sells his soul to the devil, 
 And pockets the valueless pelf. 
 
 I have no faith in the soldier 
 
 Who talks of the battle's hot fray, 
 
 But pales at the sight of danger, 
 And then with himself runs away. 
 
 I have no faith in the statesman 
 Who fancies himself is the state — 
 
 Steals all he can from the people 
 To make them believe he is great. 
 
 [219] 
 
I have no faith in the poet 
 
 Who flatters and wheedles for fame, 
 Instead of unfurhng his banner 
 
 And trusting to truth for a aame. 
 
 I have no faith in a fashion 
 Where modesty loses its blush, 
 
 And health must bow at its altar, 
 That 's robbing the cheek of its flush. 
 
 I Ve faith in a code of morals 
 That justice can easily scan, 
 
 Where honor's the only standard 
 To measure the stature of man. 
 
 This is a rule that is olden, 
 
 It is well to never forget 
 Where justice measures so golden, 
 
 It is good to measure by yet. 
 
 Virtue is a priceless jewel — 
 
 That never is bartered or sold — 
 
 Brighter than diamonds or rubies, 
 And not to be measured by gold. 
 
 And this is my code of morals — 
 The eye of Heaven can scan — 
 
 Which measures the height of angels, 
 As well as the stature of man. 
 
 June 6th, 1896. 
 
 [220] 
 
I WOULD NOT HAVE IT SAID THAT I. 
 
 I would not have it said that I 
 
 Was miserly inclined, 
 Or deaf to any human cry — 
 
 To all but self was blind. 
 
 I would not have it said that gold 
 
 Was treasured in my heart, 
 With charity so bitter cold — 
 
 No feeling could impart. 
 
 The human heart's no banker's vault, 
 Where gold should hide and rust. 
 
 Where hungry want in rags must halt, 
 And beg for but a crust. 
 
 It is the temple of the soul— 
 
 The citadel of Love — 
 Whose every deed the will controls, 
 
 If conscience but approve. 
 
 It is the altar of our faith 
 
 That climbs above the sky, 
 And to dying man it saith. 
 
 The soul shall never die. 
 
 [221] 
 
I would not live for self alone 
 
 And shame my race and kind, 
 And garner what another's sown, 
 
 Then leave it all behind. 
 
 Though humble be the path I tread — 
 
 I tread it with a will — 
 To leave a name when life has fled — 
 
 To be remembered still. 
 
 The harvest of the heart and mind 
 
 Will yield a thousand fold, 
 If sown with deeds of human kind. 
 
 Instead of thought for gold. 
 
 If men should never sow and reap. 
 
 The harvest would be small; 
 While these that follow, those that sleep, 
 
 Would live in midnight thrall. 
 
 These human flowers on earth that ope 
 
 Must bloom in fairer climes; 
 Then live not here without a hope 
 
 Beyond the flight of time. 
 
 But sow this life with noble deeds 
 
 To shine when life is done; 
 As daisies smile among the weeds 
 
 To greet the rising sun. 
 
 June 21st, 1886. 
 
 I" 222] 
 
THERE'S A RAPTURE, SWEET AND HOLY. 
 
 How sweet is the dream of childhood 
 
 When the sky of hfe is clear, 
 And the star of Hope is lending 
 
 Its morning light so dear! 
 Ere the clouds of darkness hover 
 
 O 'er the future 's rising sun, 
 And its rainbow lures us onward 
 
 Till the dream of life is done. 
 
 Oh, how sweet the breath of flowers, 
 
 When the morning zephyrs wake, 
 And from soft and dewy pinions 
 
 All their balmy fragrance shake! 
 Till the air is filled with sweetness. 
 
 Like the balmy breath of love, 
 When the heart's first petals open 
 
 To the wings of Heaven 's dove. 
 
 And how sweet the voice of dear ones 
 
 We heard in the long ago. 
 Like the angel harps of Heaven 
 
 When we heard their music flow I 
 And as oft in memory's mirror, 
 
 We must look with thoughtful eyes. 
 Till the heart's deep fount is broken 
 
 And it bubbles up with sighs. 
 
 [ 223 ] 
 
There 's a rapture — sweet and holy — 
 
 That my musings often find, 
 When the wings of thought are flitting 
 
 Through the sohtude of mind; 
 Where the words of songs immortal 
 
 Find their echoes in my soul, 
 That no tongue can ever utter 
 
 Nor can make their numbers roll. 
 
 O ! how sweet the angel whispers 
 
 That come with the evening air, 
 In quick answer to our yearnings 
 
 And the soul's undying prayer; 
 As a holy incense rising 
 
 On the tireless wings of faith, 
 As it looks beyond life 's shadows 
 
 O 'er the icy gates of death. 
 
 There are dreams we dare not ravel, 
 
 And dear songs we cannot sing, 
 That are sleeping in our bosoms — 
 
 In our being's inner spring; 
 They must sleep till life is over. 
 
 For the world must never know 
 That a tide of song is ebbing 
 
 From our bosoms deepest woe. 
 
 January 28th, 1886. 
 
 [224] 
 
EARTH IS GOD'S TEMPLE. 
 
 Earth is God 's temple, the sky is the dome ; 
 Man is His creature, who's wandered from home, 
 To journey awhile in the desert of sin 
 In search for that Canaan where life shall begin. 
 
 His eye, as the prodigal, homeward oft turns. 
 To 'see if a light in God's window still burns, 
 To welcome him back to the home of his birth, 
 Away from the husks and swineherds of earth. 
 
 With Faith and Sweet Hope to point him the way- 
 His pillar of light by night and by day — 
 Around his encampment wherever it's found, 
 God's blessings, like manna, cover the ground. 
 
 To cheer his lone heart if tempests should howl. 
 And Pharaoh-devils around him should prowl, 
 God 's angels come down to camp round his tent, 
 To shield him from those of evil intent. 
 
 His earthly probation will end at the grave — 
 For he that strikes down has power to save — 
 And chase the dark shadows away from the tomb. 
 As Heaven 's own light his pathway illumes. 
 
 225 
 
When crossed is life 's Jordan and death is no more, 
 And Ufe has begun on the pearly white shore, 
 Where angels and cherubs and seraphs adore — 
 Man in his glory above them will soar. 
 
 His kinship with Jesus will make him God 's son, 
 And give him a crown, Redemption has won; 
 While Heaven shall ring with matchless acclaim 
 All glory to God through Jesus' name. 
 
 July etii, 1886. 
 
 [226 ] 
 
LET ME WRITE MY COUNTRY'S SONGS. 
 
 Let others write my country 's laws, 
 
 To me a nobler task belongs; 
 I am not fond of wild applause — 
 
 I only ask to write her songs. 
 They write their deeds in musty tomes, 
 
 And fill the world with aching smarts; 
 But I shall strive in days to come 
 
 To write my name in human hearts. 
 
 Though humble be the task assigned 
 
 To one who humbly seeks no more 
 Than have his name with freemen shrined — 
 
 Embalmed in every bosom's core — 
 A noble task for him who dares 
 
 To tread the shining path of fame. 
 To earn the laurels genius bears 
 
 To twine around a deathless name. 
 
 Since laws are like the shifting sands, 
 
 Opinion's waves can easy shake; 
 While songs are like some spirit 's wand 
 
 Whose potent spell no power can break. 
 Their impress on the plastic mind 
 
 Will live while thought shall run its course 
 And those who follow on behind 
 
 Will fail to see it lose its force. 
 
 [227] 
 
Heaven has chiselled out a groove 
 
 In which serenest thought must run, 
 As shining worlds above us move, 
 
 All traveling around a central sun. 
 Our thoughts are only shooting stars 
 
 That flash along the mental sky, 
 With borrowed light from Heaven 's bars 
 
 That shine or sleep — but never die. 
 
 So human thoughts are but the same. 
 
 All circling as the cycles roll, 
 With now and then some deathless name 
 
 Enscribed upon the lengthened scroti. 
 Each mind must have its polar star, 
 
 And will to steer the helm of thought, 
 With Fancy in her dreaming car 
 
 To photograph the vision sought. 
 
 Whose daring wing still dares to soar . 
 Above the dreaming realm of man. 
 
 Where Iris opes her golden door. 
 For poesy to eye and scan. 
 
 Then let me write my country's songs- 
 It matters not who frames the laws — 
 
 The meed of praise to him belongs. 
 Who strikes a note in freedom's cause. 
 
 May freedom 's light forever shine, 
 And human thoughts still higher soar, 
 
 'Till ignorance — the night of time — 
 And tyranny shall be no more. 
 
 July 10th, 1886, 
 
 [228] 
 
DR. WM. E. MUNSEY. 
 
 Wonderful genius — and wonderful man — 
 Grand in his make-up, whoever may scan; 
 Heaven's own patent, both rare and complete, 
 Where nature's extremes in harmony meet. 
 So lofty in thought, so earnest in speech; 
 An expert in science, a model to teach; 
 Humble and patient, nor timid, nor bold — 
 As modest as virtue, as honest as gold — 
 Such rare combinations together ccm.bined 
 Made the endowment of a wonderful mind. 
 
 The Paul of the pulpit whose eloquent tongue 
 
 Could touch every chord that being has strung 
 
 Till the tide of emotion in triumph would roll, 
 
 Filling to fulness the depths of the soul; 
 
 Whose hearers — entranced with rapturous thrill — 
 
 Would bow at his beck, or rise at his will. 
 
 With feelings so wrought, unconscious would gaze. 
 
 At the light of his face with glory ablaze; 
 
 While all of their nerves to the utmost were strung. 
 
 They drank the eloquent words of his tongue. 
 
 His sermons are poems of wonderful thought, 
 That genius and fancy together have wrought; 
 
 [ 229 1 - 
 
Marvels of beauty and classical skill, 
 Reared by the magical wand of his will; 
 Whose spell was so potent that darkness gave way 
 When the wing of his thought journeyed away, 
 In search of some truth in the kingdom of mind. 
 Which others had sought — but never could find — 
 Whose search was so searching with learning's bright ray, 
 He found what he sought before he gave way. 
 
 His power of reason — so fearful and clear — 
 
 The blind could most see, and the deaf could most hear; 
 
 With logic so perfect that sophists must yield, 
 
 As doubt and all shadows withdraw from the field; 
 
 And truth, full, resplendent, shine bright on the soul. 
 
 Illuming the dark, enlivening the whole. 
 
 Till conviction comes home to dwell in the heart. 
 
 And bidding all spirits unclean to depart; 
 
 As conscience — the judge in the kingdom of men — 
 
 Subscribes to the truth with a hearty amen. 
 
 His fancy ne'er flagged when pluming its flight 
 
 To worlds above worlds, ah swimming in light 
 
 Surveying them all at a glance of the mind. 
 
 Then turning away — if others to find — 
 
 Still wrapped in their swaddlings of darkness and gloom 
 
 Which the light of the sun can never illume. 
 
 Where arrows fall short of reaching the mark. 
 
 But drop in some chaos — abysmal and dark — 
 
 To wander unseen, as the soul that is lost — 
 
 On the fathomless waves of emptiness toss'd. 
 
 July 19th, 1886. 
 [ 230 ] 
 
A CLOUD DREAM. 
 
 When morning oped her dewy eyes 
 And flashed her hght along the skies, 
 Above the mountains azure crest 
 And slowly drifting from the west, 
 I saw a cloud of fleecy fold 
 Befringed with silver and with gold; 
 And turrets crowned with beam of light, 
 As from a molten sea — and bright — 
 A fairy home or angel 's tent . 
 Journeying to the Orient. 
 
 That lonely cloud was floating by 
 As some bright spirit of the sky, 
 Had wandered from the deep abyss 
 Of yonder world to look on this. 
 Above the horizon 's verge of blue 
 No other cloud was seen in view. 
 And floating far above the land, 
 Some larger than a prophet 's hand. 
 
 The empty space and viewless air, 
 With silence brooding everywhere, 
 Whose golden lips are always sweet, 
 As nimble sound with flying feet, 
 Till now and then some zephyr brings 
 The measured stroke of angel wings ; 
 
 [231 ] 
 
Who, flying on their mission far — 
 From world to world — from star to star — 
 And pausing oft in hearts of men, 
 As they go out and back again; 
 Angelic hive in Heaven 's bower. 
 Dispensing love with subtle power, 
 And weaving sunbeams in our hearts 
 With silken love in every part; 
 Till warp and woof of endless roll 
 Makes the life of a deathless soul. 
 
 It was the lightning 's sleeping tent, 
 
 Whose flashing spear was never bent, 
 
 Then passing o ^er a continent. 
 
 On some royal mission sent; 
 
 Reminding us of human thought, 
 
 In mind 's secret kingdom wrought. 
 
 Just floating out on Fancy 's wing 
 
 In search of some Pierian spring, 
 
 To slake its thirst — a quenchless flame — 
 
 And yield to glory and to fame. 
 
 July 23rd, 1886 
 
 [232 [| 
 
UNSHED TEARS. 
 
 The fount of tears that often rise — 
 
 Though gushing from the bosom's main — 
 
 Can find no passage through the eyes, 
 But backward flows upon the brain; 
 
 Whose burning tide like lava's flow, 
 
 That from some mountain's heaving breast, 
 
 Whose inward burning none can know. 
 Submerged in every dream of rest. 
 
 Ah 1 those are tears that burn the soul. 
 
 And rob it of life's proud behest; 
 While those that from the eyelids roll. 
 
 Assuage the pangs that rend the breast. 
 
 Oh, blighted hopes, and faded dreams. 
 That still must live in memory's urn; 
 
 To die when life's last fitful gleam. 
 Shall flicker and forget to burn. 
 
 If hope could live and memory die, 
 
 And all that's been forgotten be, 
 'Twould ope the fountain of the eye 
 
 And drain the bosom's surging sea. 
 
 September 2nd, 1886. 
 [ 233 ] 
 
HOW SWEET IS THE HAUNT OF THE 
 WILDWOOD. 
 
 How sweet is the haunt of the wildwood 
 Where the wild birds sweetly sing, 
 
 And our thoughts go out as angels 
 
 From the heart 's deep fountain spring. 
 
 When the laughing fountains murmur 
 
 As they ripple to the sea. 
 And the giant forest 's shadows 
 
 In their waters we can see. 
 
 When our hopes like angels hover 
 O 'er the devious path we tread, 
 
 To guide us in life 's journey 
 From the hving to the dead. 
 
 When the spirit's wings are folded, 
 
 And forgetting every care, 
 As it dreams of that elysian 
 
 Where there never comes despair. 
 
 There's a silence sweet and holy — 
 That our bosoms seldom feel — 
 
 As it moves upon our spirits, 
 And through our being steals; 
 
 [ 234 ] 
 
And it stirs our better nature, 
 
 And that latent spark — divine- 
 That buoys us in Hfe's battle, 
 To live a life sublime. 
 
 September 2rd, 1886 
 
 [235] 
 
SONG. 
 
 Lovers when parted, 
 Feel broken hearted, 
 
 Their hopes are followed by tears; 
 But when reunited 
 Love is replighted — 
 
 Hope smiles again through their tears. 
 
 Life dreams that quiver, 
 On memory's bright river, 
 
 Bring to the bosom a sigh; 
 Like stories once told. 
 Never grow old, 
 
 But deep in affection must lie. 
 
 Friendship once broken, 
 By hasty words spoken, 
 
 That time can heal never more; 
 Then wasted hope's treasures. 
 That none but love measures, 
 
 Lost on life's desolate shore. 
 
 "We hope each to-morrow. 
 Will bring us no sorrow, 
 
 To darken our pathway below; 
 But somber clouds lifted, 
 As sunshine is sifted. 
 
 To soften the memory of woe. 
 
 September 4th, 1886 
 
 \ 236 1 
 
HULL-GULL. 
 
 Oh, don't you remember the days of our childhood, 
 When the heart with its joys was swelhng brimful"; 
 
 And we gathered the chinquapins down by the wildwood, 
 And joined in the game of playing Hull-gull? 
 
 When homeward returning, with pockets distended, 
 And cracking at will their dark shiny hulls. 
 
 To meet the loved one our childhood attended. 
 
 Who laughed at her children — when playing Hull-gull. 
 
 Oh, yes, we remember, with sorrowful pleasure. 
 The hopes that then filled our bosoms so full; 
 
 Though httle we thought they 'd fail in their measure, 
 As they leaped from our heart when playing Hull-gull. 
 
 Those sweet loving eyes that rose with life 's morning. 
 Whose light filled our heart with rapture so full. 
 
 And kindled love 's flame in youth 's lovely dawning. 
 And taught us to love the game of Hull-gull. 
 
 The light of that love in our bosom still lingers, 
 When its commotions a moment but lull. 
 
 As memory turns o 'er with delicate fingers 
 
 Each page that we loved when playing Hull-gull. 
 
 [237] 
 
And sweet are the dreams in memory still floating, 
 When Lethe's dark waves for a moment but lull; 
 
 Where idyls on which our heart is still doting, 
 Are seen in the bygones — when playing Hull-gull. 
 
 Oh, shall we forget the scenes that have faded, 
 
 When Love was the flower that Hope wished to cull; 
 
 And the heart was a fortress w^here Cupid paraded. 
 And led in the charge when playing HuU-gull. 
 
 Should memory forsake her guerdon of treasures, 
 And the fire in this bosom grow cheerless and dull, 
 
 The heart will beat time to youth's early pleasures, 
 And throb with delight at the name of HuU-gull. 
 
 Septemler 9th, 1886. 
 
 [238] 
 
THE ANGEL OF AUTUMN. 
 
 The angel of Autumn with a tint on its wing, 
 
 Is out in the forest to paint everything, 
 
 And the song bird that warbled the summer days 
 
 through 
 Is changing its note to fly away^ too. 
 
 For change ana aecay is the order of time, 
 As nature is moodish in all of her climes; 
 On time's rapid pinions mortality rolls, 
 And naught is immortal excepting the soul. 
 
 There's a sorrowful strain that comes to my heart, 
 Whose deep mellow notes can never deuart 
 Till the Autumn of life shall wither and fade, 
 And the Winter of death on my bosom is laid. 
 
 There 's a sigh from the forest that comes to my ear 
 That reminds me again of the death of the year — 
 'Tis the song of the leaf as it sighs on the trees 
 And sings its own dirge as it shakes in the breeze. 
 
 Soon Borean winds shall howl in their course. 
 Denuding the forest with tremulous force; 
 And the eddying gust shall sweep o 'er the vale, 
 As a sigh from the heart when sorrows prevail. 
 
 [ 239 ] 
 
Then cheerless and lone as the soul in despair 
 The mountains will look with their bosoms so bare, 
 Till the Snow King his mantle has lifted from earth, 
 And the advent of spring proclaims a new birth. 
 
 Like the sleep of our dust — that nothing can wake 
 Till the trumpet of doom its silence shall break — 
 Then merging again from darkness and gloom 
 To don a new robe of verdure and bloom. 
 
 Sweet Poet of Nature and wizard sublime! 
 Whose genius surpasses the children of time, 
 Whose magical touch makes crimson or gold, 
 And changes the woof of forest and wold, 
 
 Till a blending of hues in gorgeous display. 
 As wide as the sweep of the gates of the day. 
 A canvas sublime, creation has hung — 
 A model for Song, that no one has sung. 
 
 Yes, the angel of Autumn is out on the wing, 
 With palette and brush to paint everything; 
 His pigments are rich and grand to behold — 
 Purple and yellow, crimson and gold. 
 
 September 23rd, 1886. 
 
 240] 
 
DESPAIR. 
 
 Now comes despair — my soul 's midnight- 
 For hope has lost her wonted light, 
 And darkness all its gloom unfurls, 
 As scepter o 'er the mental world. 
 But onward still I 'm forced to grope, 
 And with the world still forced to cope, 
 Whose fickle smiles and sordid thirst 
 Have blighted all my hopes have nursed ; 
 Hopeless, aimless, in bondage still — 
 As fate is master of my will — 
 While specters of a blighted fame 
 Are hovering o 'er a dying name. 
 
 And yet despair — the doom of life — 
 The ghoul of hope in every strife, 
 Whose garb is like the raven 's plume, 
 With dolorous croak above the tomb. 
 And from the future 's mystic shore, 
 I hear it strike fore verm ore: 
 " Your name will soon forgotten be ; 
 As soon from earth as you are free. 
 Oblivion 's wave shall claim her own 
 And on your tomb erect her throne. " 
 
 [241 \\ 
 
Though fame was once hope's ruUng star 
 That lured me on through hfe 's war, 
 And dazzUng oft my mental sight 
 With corruscations of its light, 
 Whose mellow beams around my soul 
 Made tranquil every current's roll. 
 Till peace of mind — enchanting theme — 
 Was sweet as holy angel's dream. 
 And life a bud of wondrous power 
 To unfold a deathless flower. 
 
 But ah, that dream has faded now; 
 Its wreck is marked upon my brow, 
 And in my bosom's — deepest core — 
 Whence buried hope can spring no more: 
 As life is waning to its close, 
 These weary limbs must find repose; 
 This aching heart must cease to beat; 
 This martyred soul from earth retreat, 
 And wend its way above the skies 
 To where no broken spirit sighs. 
 
 Then mock my woe, oh, demon wild, 
 I'm nature's melancholy child; 
 I 've drank the dregs of every woe, 
 And still its draught must not forego. 
 Sweet nepenthe can never heal 
 Or soothe the pang my bosom feels. 
 Now on my heart dark shadows fall 
 Of boding ills, to rend life's thrall. 
 As darkness hovers round the pole, 
 So midnight reigns about my soul; 
 Though courting death at every turn — 
 The idle offer — still it spurns. 
 
 r 242 1 
 
Then shriek your numbers wild and loud, 
 
 And weave for me my winding shroud. 
 
 And weave it in Erebus ' loom, 
 
 With warp and ^voof of midnight gloom. 
 
 Oblivion has no pang for me, 
 
 'Tis sweeter far than not be free, 
 
 And wear the yoke of slavery. 
 
 Then weave it soon — or weave it late — 
 
 You '11 see me kiss the hand of fate, 
 
 Nor shrink my soul from his decree 
 
 To blot my name from memory. 
 
 The world will mock when I am gone; 
 The proud will laugh, as oft they've done; 
 But none of these a tear will shed 
 Above the sod where rests my head. 
 For poverty 's the only crime 
 The world ahbors in every clime. 
 It matters not what merit claims ; 
 Wealth can always buy the same; 
 And still it strives with all its might 
 To blight the few who do the right; 
 Just like the God-destroying Jew 
 Who murdered truth because 'twas true. 
 
 The Devil's angel — shining gold — 
 With serpent charm, and courage bold, 
 Still leads the van and climbs the fort 
 Where freedom holds her boasted court; 
 Where love invites with pleasing smile 
 Life 's weary moments to beguile. 
 But Virtue in her own stronghold 
 Still spurns the proffered hand of gold, 
 
 [ 243 ] 
 
And conscious of her right divine 
 To not be bartered by mankind. 
 
 The world for me no wreath will make, 
 Because I Ve lived for conscience' sake. 
 'Tis best to live without a name, 
 Or let it die with me the same, 
 Than have it live a burning shame. 
 Then Lethe's cold and friendless wave 
 Shall sweep in silence o'er my grave; 
 The night of its wings then shall spread 
 Over the tomb 's forgotten dead. 
 
 And now, Despair, to you I yield — 
 The last Nemesis of the field — 
 Except remorse — the fiend of Hell — 
 Who comes as agent here to dwell. 
 With him I 've never crossed a lance. 
 Because I 've never had a chance. 
 I ' ve fought all foes that man has known ; 
 Made friends of some — some overthrown; 
 But none like you has stood so long; 
 Gave blow for blow with arm so strong; 
 Till prostrate at your feet I lie 
 And ask in peace to let me die. 
 
 Like one when chained on ocean's rock 
 Where hungry vultures loved to flock; 
 While feasting on his bleeding heart. 
 They tore its tendrils wide apart, 
 Till gorged — they sat around their prey — 
 Then flopped their wings and flew away. 
 
 [ 244 ] 
 
But soon returned to feast again, 
 Where oft before they 'd often been. 
 As nature healed the wounded part, 
 They came as oft to rend apart: 
 And thus for years, the vultures fed 
 Upon the dying — but never dead — 
 Till grief wore out his bleeding heart 
 Before his patient soul could part. 
 
 But you, Despair, with vulture beak, 
 
 That on me all your vengeance wreak; 
 
 Not vulture-like, you fly away. 
 
 But haunt my bosom night and day; 
 
 Disturb my sleep in fitful gleams; 
 
 Rob me of my slumber's dreams. 
 
 And make my life a living hell, 
 
 Where love, nor hope, nor peace can dwell. 
 
 I am your victim — fell Despair — 
 And you can lead me anywhere: 
 Along the earth, amid the tombs. 
 Overshadowed by their silent gloom; 
 Where sorrow's billows darkly roll 
 To drown the agonies of the soul; 
 Though groaning in their prison's wall 
 Until their groaning makes them fall; 
 Then freed spirits will fly away 
 And leave life 's crumbling house of clay. 
 
 Augnst 2MK 1886. 
 
 245 
 
ON MANASSAS' BLOODY FIELD. 
 
 On Manassas' bloody field, 
 When the cannon loudly pealed, 
 And the Northmen backward reeled 
 
 'Neath the Southerns' lead and steel; 
 'Twas then a Jackson ordered all 
 To charge the foe; they heard his call; 
 It gave to him the name Stonewall, 
 
 The bayonet — his last appeal. 
 
 And when the charge was made that day 
 A son and father led the way, 
 And ere the broken line gave way. 
 
 That only son was fallen low. 
 It was no time for tears to fall. 
 But victory or death to all 
 Was the watchword of Stonewall — 
 
 Their duty none should fail to know. 
 
 And when that father saw his son. 
 He stooped and kissed his dying one, 
 And gave him water as he run 
 
 To keep his place in charging line. 
 No farewell look behind him cast. 
 As o'er the dead he hurried past. 
 To do his duty to the last — 
 
 The lone survivor of his line. 
 
 [ 246 ] 
 
Oh, patriot love, how dear thou art 
 When valor fills the human heart. 
 And conscience bids us do our part. 
 
 Though on the bloody field of death. 
 A life to fate is then resigned. 
 And kindred ties no longer bind, 
 But Liberty — the dream of mind — 
 
 The prayer of every earnest breath. 
 
 But when the leaden storm was o'er, 
 And while the cannon's deafening roar 
 Was dying on Potomac's shore. 
 
 Then the shout of victory rung. 
 But ah ! the price that freedom gave 
 Was deathless glory to the brave. 
 And laurel wreaths on every grave, 
 
 And many anthems still unsung. 
 
 October 26th, 1886. 
 
 [2471 
 
THESE HUMAN EYES. 
 
 These human eyes electrify, 
 
 And fill the soul with gladness, 
 Which thrills the heart with wondrous art, 
 
 And keeps us oft from sadness. 
 
 But eyes of blue — so fondly true. 
 
 And said to be the truest — 
 Their wondrous beams from heaven gleams 
 
 With love and light the newest. 
 
 'Tis love 's delight to drink their light, 
 
 And bask in dreams of pleasure; 
 Till raptured soul — 'neath their control — 
 
 Is filled with blissful measure. 
 
 Sparkling eyes beget our sighs, 
 
 And bring us much of sorrow; 
 While dewy eyes where hope's light lies. 
 
 Still cheer us for to-morrow. 
 
 But jetty eyes, where lightning lies, 
 
 Concealed beneath their lashes 
 Their dangerous work is hard to shirk. 
 
 And brave their burning flashes. 
 
 November 7th, 1886. 
 [ 248 ] 
 
WHEN LOVE LOOKS OUT FROM 
 LAUGHING EYES. 
 
 When love looks out from laughing eyes, 
 
 And fans the flame our bosom feels, 
 Swift the electric current flies 
 
 And tKrough impassioned nature steals; 
 Awaking every pulsing rill 
 
 That ripples in our wondrous whole, 
 Till every sense with pleasure thrills — 
 
 Responsive to a yearning soul. 
 
 As memory wanders through the years 
 
 In search of one we loved of yore, 
 We see her through a cloud of tears, 
 
 Although she walks the earth no more. 
 Those lovelit eyes, whose sparkling ray 
 
 Woke first life's morning dream of love, 
 Have faded from the earth away. 
 
 And with the stars — give light above. 
 
 When life loves on and love is lost, 
 Then we think it's time to die; 
 
 When every hope of life is crossed. 
 
 And nothing wounds but memory's sigh; 
 
 [249f] 
 
And life is dead save mem 'ry's dream, 
 
 That phantom like above the grave 
 Is waiting for oblivion 's stream, 
 To go down beneath the wave. 
 
 March 18th, 1887 
 
 [250] 
 
THE SOUTH. 
 
 Oh, Sunland, awake and shake off the gloom, 
 Though mantled with flowers from youth^s early bloom; 
 The future is waiting to crown you her queen — 
 The gayest, the brightest the world's ever seen. 
 
 Off with your sack-cloth, your ashes, your dust, 
 Trust to no sabre corroded with rust; 
 Furbish your armor till the hght of its sheen 
 Shall mirror your grandeur wherever 'tis seen. 
 
 The song of the slave your siren has been. 
 Which lured you away to the deserts of sin; 
 Till mildew and bhght had withered your aims, 
 And apathy chilled the blood in your veins. 
 
 Now turn from the past — its deeds and its wrongs — 
 Forgetting all hate and learn to be strong; 
 Strong in that faith that virtue is right 
 And freedom and truth her pillars of light. 
 
 The good and the brave who fell in the fight, 
 Gave their heart's blood in a cause that was right; 
 Though might is not right — it sometimes prevails — 
 When fate is provoked to balance the scales. 
 
 [251] 
 
The night of the Bourbon is passing away 
 He's ruled without wisdom for many a da}^ — 
 The scepter at last has passed from his hand, 
 And strangers have come to dwell in his land. 
 
 And now in despair he curses his fate — 
 He wasted your freedom, but clings to his hate; 
 Yet no one can tell the bent of his mind — 
 Not willing to lead, nor follow behind. 
 
 'Twas blindness that lead jouv leaders astray — 
 Like Balaam, they stood in the blaze of full day — 
 Not seeing the sword that guarded the path, 
 Till heaven had emptied her vials of wrath. 
 
 Oh, havoc and death! your reign is now o'er — 
 The vultures of war have passed from your shore— 
 A leaf from the olive in the beak of the dove, 
 Now augurs a peace as tranquil as love. 
 
 The Night of your gloom is passing aw^ay; 
 
 The Morn with its light is coming to stay 
 
 Till the splendor of Noon in triumph shall shine — 
 
 The pride of the world and wonder of time. 
 
 How wild is the thrill that courses your veins. 
 That's giving new life to muscle and brains; 
 Arousing those hopes despair had suppressed. 
 Till "leaping like angels" now from your breast. 
 
 Your soldiers who fought — so gallant and brave — 
 For a cause their valor never could save. 
 Till broken in spirit and wounded in pride. 
 And hope in their bosom sickened and died. 
 
 [ 252 1 
 
For Bourbons were sullen, stubborn and blind; 
 Like Ephraim of old — to their idols were joined — 
 And rather than give to Freedom their slaves, 
 See Glory and Empire sink in their graves. 
 
 One crime of the nation no longer remains, 
 
 As fire and blood have washed out the stains; 
 
 But the Greed of the foemen who hemm'd you within 
 
 Made you the scapegoat to bear off the sin. 
 
 On in life's battle where Freedom shall lead, 
 With truth for your banner and right for your creed. 
 And the light of your genius shall reach every isle. 
 And the Shebas shall come to bask in your smile. 
 
 Power shall spring from the light of your beam, 
 As wealth and its pride, still onward shall gleam, 
 Till the scepter — ^^that once was held in your hand — 
 Shall sway as before this God given land. 
 
 The splendor of Greece in the noon of her day. 
 As starlight shall pale in the blaze of your ray; 
 Twin oceans now clasp you close to their breast. 
 The pride of their wave — sw^eet land of the west. 
 
 Oh, land of our hopes and home of our birth — 
 The sweetest and dearest of all of the earth — 
 Made sacred by blood that watered your sod, 
 The bravest e'er spilt for Freedom and God. 
 
 April Uth, 1887. 
 [ 253 ] 
 
LIFE. 
 
 We feel in this frame a wondrous thrill, 
 
 Naught but the hand of deatn can still, 
 Threading each vein at swiftest speed. 
 Passing each pulse with but a heed; 
 Swelling the heart as it onward goes. 
 Around again, it circling flows; 
 Swift as the lightning's arrows fly. 
 Chasing the tempest o'er the sky; 
 Till the sanguine tide must wear away 
 Each fiber in this home of clay, 
 And the shrivelled form — though once robust- 
 Shall crumble back again to dust. 
 
 We call this hfe — that subtle thing 
 That moves on with noiseless wing, 
 With scarce an effort on our part 
 It thrills and warms the throbbing heart; 
 Filling it with a thousand hopes, 
 Ere the dawn of the future opes; 
 Awaking in our wondrous whole 
 The longings of a deathless soul — 
 As down the rapid stream of time 
 We swiftly glide amidst its chime, 
 Till o 'er the waves of life 's dead sea 
 We launch into eternity. 
 
 [ 254 ] 
 
Up in this osseous dome we find 
 The silent workshop of the Mind; 
 Where Reason holds supreme control, 
 And conscience guides the realm of soul; 
 Where fiery nerves on rapid wing 
 From every part their tidings bring; 
 Where thoughts like scintillations fly, 
 As shuttles through the mental sky; 
 And weaving in our web of life 
 The deeds of love; the ills of strife; 
 Till the hands of death no longer wait 
 And the treadles break in the loom of fate. 
 
 These bones — though clothed with muscles 
 
 strong — 
 Are aching as we jog along; 
 These feet have known the paths of sin, 
 And feel the thorns still sticking in; 
 This heart has felt some pain — we know — 
 Whose ebb has been a throb of woe; 
 These ears have heard the mournful tale 
 That sorrow told in life 's low vale ; 
 These hands have labored to be free 
 From pinching want and tyranny; 
 These lips have sipped the cup of gall, 
 When pleasure 's cup to earth did fall. 
 And hopes like drooping flowers hung, 
 When the muse's song was left half sung. 
 
 Swift as the angel 's noiseless wing 
 Faith goes up to the fountain spring, 
 On through the mystic realm of Time 
 Where life took form in Eden 's prime. 
 
 [ 255 ] 
 
Though we — not here can find its source, 
 On still further we track its course, 
 Up through the pathless realm of blue, 
 Where stars — like eyes — are peeping through; 
 Whose twinkling rays forever shine. 
 Pointing the way to hands Divine. 
 On, still on, where the king of day 
 Fills up space with his dazzling ray. 
 Till the far-off rim that circles all 
 Is lit with the light of a Jasper wall. 
 There somewhere — in the fields of light — 
 Is a limpid stream, as amber bright, 
 Whose crystal waters forever roU — 
 The Eldorado of the soul. 
 
 If life is force, then what is death? 
 
 Between the two there's but a breath; 
 
 And when from life that breath has fled. 
 
 The hving then are but the dead. 
 
 Life is spirit — and life is force — 
 
 As water rises to its source, 
 
 So upward springing to the skies. 
 
 Life still lives and never dies. 
 
 'Tis just the bloom that fades or dies — 
 
 The seed finds wings and onward flies — 
 
 Life, in truth, is life's ideal, 
 
 Struggling for a life that's real. 
 
 Upward reaching in its course 
 
 To its fountain head and source. 
 
 " Vent! Vidi! " still it cries 
 
 For its home above the skies. 
 
 [256] 
 
It is something all inherit — 
 
 Handed down from Father Spirit — 
 
 Self-surviving and reaching back 
 
 Through time's realm and chaos' track; 
 
 And like the phoenix, bird of old, 
 
 In hoary legend often told, 
 
 Upon its funeral pile alone 
 
 Utters its melancholy tone; 
 
 Whose trembling wing must fan the flame, 
 
 Till dust and ashes but remain; 
 
 When, lo! from out its ashes springs 
 
 The bird again on joyous wings. 
 
 Ethereal spark in earthly mold, 
 Before the earth "thou wast of old"; 
 Out of the womb of the morning sprung 
 Before the stars their matins sung. 
 And when this earth like winding scroll. 
 And fervent heat around shall roll, 
 And startled worlds from orbits fly. 
 To read their doom along the sky; 
 While Ruin smiles amid the gloom. 
 And Chaos builds upon the tomb. 
 Then thou, eternal, deathless thing. 
 Above the wreck shall sweetly sing. 
 And angel troupe shall with thee fly, 
 Not knowing what it is to die. 
 
 April 28th, 1887. 
 
 [257] 
 
LIFE'S BATTLE CHARGE. 
 
 Up in the battle of life, my son, 
 Fight for the truth till life is done, 
 And the victory shall be won — 
 
 In every fray. 
 Come to the scratch with sabre bright, 
 And strike in time and for the right. 
 And will and vim are same as might — 
 
 To win the day. 
 
 Cowards of time are those who wait 
 
 To hear the tread of coming fate, 
 
 And then they strike, but strike too late — 
 
 And fall its prey. 
 The bravest men are those who lead, 
 And tell the world they have a creed, 
 And for its cause will die or bleed — 
 
 Nor skulk away. 
 
 Go where duty shall lead the way. 
 Follow her banner night and day, 
 Take no heed what the world may say — 
 
 But fight your way. 
 'Tis better to live for conscience' sake — 
 The narrow way is the way to take — 
 Than wear the gyves that fashions make — 
 
 And lose the day. 
 
 [ 258 ] 
 
Go where honor and freedom wait, 
 Their tryst of love to concentrate; 
 They'll crown you victor over fate — 
 
 Without delay. 
 There's where the bravest love to die, 
 In face of death you'll hear them cry, 
 As onward still their banners fly — 
 
 Through coming day. 
 
 One short hour on glory's field ^ 
 With heaven's smile upon your shield, 
 Is worth an age that bondage yields — 
 
 In slavery. 
 One wild note from the battle's din; 
 One wild shout as the charge begins. 
 To fill with fire the heart within — 
 For victory. 
 
 May 3rd, 1887. 
 
 [ 259 1 
 
MOTHER. 
 
 Still holy memory fondly clings 
 
 To a name that time would smother, 
 
 And bears upon its faithful wings 
 
 The loved and sainted name of mother. 
 
 Though more than three score ripened years, 
 I have rounded up, my brother; 
 
 But nowhere in this vale of tears 
 Found a love like that of mother. 
 
 Of all the names on earth that 's dear — 
 Should one be dearer than another — 
 
 The one that's sweetest to the ear 
 Is the name of sainted mother. 
 
 As all affection 's tendrils cling 
 Around her, as around no other; 
 
 Still Love and Memory jointly bring 
 Us face to face — again with mother. 
 
 When life 's last dream shall fade and die. 
 And darkness like a pall shall smother. 
 
 Then Hope shall onward, upward fly— 
 With Memory go our sainted mother. 
 
 [260] 
 
Let friends depart as time rolls on — 
 To free us from the cares that bother — 
 
 The polar star we gaze upon 
 Is the smile of absent mother. 
 
 December 16th, 1887. 
 
 [261] 
 
AMERICA! ALL HAIL THE NAME. 
 
 My feet have trod no foreign lands 
 Whose classic fields live in story; 
 
 Where genius with her patient hands 
 Wove a crown of endless glory. 
 
 Where heroes lived and poets sung, 
 Whose footprints mark the rising ages; 
 
 Till freedom from oppression sprung, 
 
 And crown'd her sons — the best of sages. 
 
 My eyes have seen no tyrant's slaves, 
 
 Who — struggling live to bear their burden- 
 
 Who have not courage to be brave, 
 
 Or know the worth of freedom's guerdon. 
 
 They bear the burden of life's woes 
 With all the patience of a stoic; 
 
 But kiss the hand that gives them blows 
 With a courage unheroic. 
 
 They toil and make their fetters strong, 
 And blindly hug their clanking irons; 
 
 Scarce conscious of oppression's wrong, 
 Which their Liberty environs. 
 
 [262] 
 
Although among m}^ native hills 
 
 I've loved to dwell in peaceful quiet; 
 
 Still far from those disturbing ills 
 That fester into feuds and hot. 
 
 And yet, Oh! yet, I love the land 
 
 Where poets wrote their shining pages; 
 
 Who built their fame not on the sand, 
 But on the bottom rock of ages. 
 
 And while the storm of Time shall swxep 
 Onward with its darkling surges, 
 
 The Bard shall o'er their ashes weep 
 And tune his harp to mournful dirges. 
 
 And yet, Oh! yet, I love the land 
 Where the tyrant still oppresses; 
 
 Where blood is poured upon the sand 
 As juice is poured from vintage presses 
 
 And yet the more I love all lands 
 Where the foot of bondmen presses; 
 
 Who cannot see the waiting hands 
 Holding out to them caresses. 
 
 America ! all hail the name — 
 Chiming down the passing ages; 
 
 Whose march shall win the proudest fame. 
 Blazon'd on time's gilded pages. 
 
 It is her mission to be free 
 
 And lead the way for human freedom; 
 To stretch her arms beyond the sea 
 
 And gather in the lost of Eden. 
 
 [ 263 ] 
 
When Peace shall fly around the earth 
 From center to its outer border; 
 
 Good cheer shall smile around each hearth 
 And lull to rest all wild disorder. 
 
 When superstition ^s darksome blight — 
 Which long has blurred the darker ages — 
 
 Shall yield its place to truthful light, 
 And error's war no longer rages. 
 
 Then universal Peace shall smile 
 With just reward for honest labor; 
 
 No haughty tyrant shall beguile, 
 
 But know — and love his honest neighbor. 
 
 America ! All hail the name — 
 
 The brightest on the roll of ages- 
 Old Time will crown her first in fame 
 When he shall close his hoary pages. 
 
 November 20th, 1887. 
 
 [264] 
 
CAPT. JAMES BARRON HOPE. 
 
 {Written after reading his last poem, ''Memoriam.'^) 
 
 Mourn Virginia — for the gifted — 
 
 And the poUshed child of song, 
 Who for you, his sabre lifted 
 
 In a cause to right your wrong. 
 Foremost in the van of soldiers — 
 
 As the War-god Southward sped — 
 Rolling down as mountain boulders; 
 
 Strewing valleys with the dead. 
 
 Forth he stood in all your battles. 
 
 When it tried the souls of men; 
 His sword and pen not as chattels 
 
 To be bought and sold again. 
 But for God — for country — neighbor — 
 
 They were wielded with his might; 
 Duty was his constant labor, 
 
 When a cause he thought was right. 
 
 Whose great heart but ceased to quiver 
 
 "In Memoriam" of our Lee; 
 Though 'twas finished — and forever — 
 
 Shall his memory sacred be. 
 Though his life drops then were wasted 
 
 In his tribute to the brave; 
 
 [265] 
 
Still his effort was not blasted, 
 But a wreath upon his grave. 
 
 Long I watched his soaring pinion 
 
 Mounting as the Eagle strong, 
 Making conquest for dominion 
 
 In the paradise of song. 
 Bringing down its golden flowers 
 
 With his hand on cannon's mouth; 
 Wreathing by his mighty powers — 
 
 Daring wizard of the South. 
 
 Coins of genius, richest, rarest, 
 
 Quarried from his cultured mind, 
 Set within a frame the fairest, 
 
 Still to glitter on behind. 
 Woven in the loom of genius — 
 
 Warp and woof of threads of gold- 
 Silver edged, with light of Venus, 
 
 As the wand that fancies hold. 
 
 Roll his anthems down the ages; 
 
 Fling them on the waves of time; 
 Let the future read his pages — 
 
 Blossoms of our southern clime; 
 Gathered from her legends hoary. 
 
 Twining 'round her classic name, 
 As a coronet of glory 
 
 In her diadem of fame. 
 
 Amaranths with myrtle woven; 
 
 Fittest wreath for poet's brow; 
 Though to conquer he has stroven. 
 
 Though not dead but sleeping now. 
 
 [ 266 ] 
 
Still around his muse will linger, 
 
 Though his Harp is now unstrung; 
 But no more shall fall of finger 
 
 Wake the notes he fondly sung. 
 Roll his anthems down the ages, 
 
 Fling them on the waves of time, 
 Till the loving — learn his pages — 
 
 Blossoms of our southern clime. 
 
 January J^ih, 1888. 
 
 [267] 
 
GABRIEL PRICE. 
 
 Into the ward of a hospital, 
 
 I was borne one Sabbath day, 
 Where many a Southern soldier 
 
 His life was ebbing away. 
 On the banks of Cumberland River, 
 
 The brave little city stood, 
 Famed for its ^drtue and valor 
 
 In its rural solitude. 
 
 With many a heart- wish leaping 
 
 For the loved ones far away, 
 Whose hearts were steeped in anguish 
 
 For the boys who wore the Gray; 
 While many a throbbing bosom, 
 
 That stood in the front of death; 
 As a shield for home and country 
 
 Was yielding up its breath. 
 
 While the angel form of woman 
 
 With her soothing words so dear, 
 On her mission through the dying 
 
 With her hopeful words of cheer. 
 Like the benediction falling 
 
 From a mother's loving heart, 
 As she points the way to heaven. 
 
 When from children she must part. 
 
 [ 268 ] 
 
In my memory lives a picture. 
 
 As a dream of one I saw. 
 As he lay upon his pallet 
 
 Made of shucks or wheaten straw; 
 When he fancied in his dreaming, 
 
 He was in the fight again, 
 And was cheering on his comrades, 
 
 Though himself among the slain. 
 
 In his dreamings of the battle, 
 
 In delirium's frantic joys, 
 He was shouting in a chorus, 
 
 " Hurrah, my Southern boys. " 
 And his voice was wild and thrilling 
 
 As the fife or bugle 's tone, 
 And it roused the burning valor. 
 
 That a soldier 's heart had known. 
 
 As he felt the tear-drops rising, 
 
 As a tribute to the brave 
 Who had poured their blood as water, 
 
 For a cause they died to save. 
 Still amid the wounded, — dying, — 
 
 There was one with gasping breath. 
 Who had led the charge in battle. 
 
 And was leading it in death. 
 
 Who perhaps was but a private, 
 With no rank or title known. 
 
 Who v/as fighting not for " booty, " 
 But for duty and alone; 
 
 [269 1 
 
Whose spirit nursed by freedom 
 Bowed not to might or wrong; 
 
 But preferred to be a martyr, 
 Than a craven coward strong. 
 
 He had stood among the living, 
 
 As a target for our foes; 
 But was now among the dying, 
 
 But to conquer as he goes; 
 With his shibboleth still ringing, 
 
 As he gasped his dying breath, 
 And the angels caught the echo, 
 
 As he fell asleep in death. 
 
 Still I see him in my fancy, 
 
 And I hear his raptured joys. 
 And his soul-inspiring chorus, 
 
 "Hurrah, my Southern boys;" 
 As he neared the Jordan 's waters. 
 
 And their numbing touch of ice, 
 He closed his eyes forever; 
 
 'Twas the last of Gabriel Price. 
 
 Ever cherished be his memory 
 
 In the land he died to save, 
 Though forgotten or neglected 
 
 Is that noble soldier's grave; 
 Though Kentucky loves her soldiers,- 
 
 There is one she might forget — 
 Who was led by Colonel Hanson, 
 
 And as brave as foe e 'er met. 
 
 [270] 
 
He was wounded in the battle 
 
 On the field of Donelson, 
 Where we drove them to their gunboats, 
 
 And thought the victory won; 
 But the foe, — their number doubled — 
 
 With their seven to our one, 
 Though four days and nights we'd battled, 
 
 And had saved Fort Donelson. 
 
 As the wing of night was drooping 
 
 To hide the field of gore. 
 The victors found the foeman 
 
 Was then stronger than before; 
 While the foeman dreamed of laurels 
 
 To wear some future day; 
 We left him in his slumbers. 
 
 And marched that night away. 
 
 ' March 23rd, 1888. 
 
 [271] 
 
FIFTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 Some fifty years ago to-day 
 
 I was a wayward child, 
 And thought the hght of heaven shone 
 
 Whene'er my mother smiled; 
 For there was something in her look 
 
 That drew me to her side, 
 Which told me of her angel love 
 
 That death could ne'er divide. 
 
 When in my own dark eyes she looked, 
 
 From her deep eyes of blue, 
 I thought two angels from the skies 
 
 Were peeping through them too; 
 For such a holy light that shone 
 
 From out their azure skies, 
 Which kindled in my bosom's core 
 
 That love that never dies. 
 
 And as she pressed me to her breast, 
 
 And fondly there I clung, 
 I drank the melody of song 
 
 No other lips have sung. 
 In the memory of my soul 
 
 Their echoes still I hear. 
 Which thrill me with their weird tone 
 
 And wake the sleeping tear. 
 
 [272] 
 
Before a score of years had passed 
 
 She left me sad and lone; 
 The angels took her up to God 
 
 To wait about his throne. 
 And there to-day she's looking out 
 
 Towards the earth to scan, 
 If she can see that wayward child 
 
 That's now a hoary man. 
 
 Still in my memory's sacred heart 
 
 Her name is ever shrined ; 
 The talisman to lead me on 
 
 When life is here resigned. 
 The Hope-light in my bosom springs — 
 
 And mounting as it flies, 
 And lifts my spirit from the dust 
 
 To magnets in the skies. 
 
 Not strange that I should sing this song 
 
 In words of saddest chime. 
 And wake the strings in memory's harp 
 
 To melodies of rhyme; 
 For still around my head I know, 
 
 A mother's angel wing 
 Is poising as I lisp her name. 
 
 To hear me— while I sing. 
 
 For more than fifty years to-day, 
 This hollow world I've tread. 
 
 And sorrow's been the price I've paid 
 For walking o'er the dead. 
 
 [273] 
 
A few more fleeting years and then — 
 Life's battle will be done — 
 
 The humble wear the crown of thorns 
 Before another's won. 
 
 March 28th, 1888. 
 
 [ 274] 
 
WINSOME WINNIE. 
 
 Have you seen my winsome Winnie — 
 
 Fairest maiden of the South — 
 With her teeth of pearly whiteness, 
 
 And two roses for a mouth? 
 Tripping through the blooming flowers 
 
 With a step of grace and ease, 
 Whose sweet lips distilling nectar, 
 
 Oft mistaken by the bees. 
 
 Great big eyes — like blooming pansies- 
 With love's light in every beam; 
 
 Countenance like bright Aurora 
 Waking from a blissful dream; 
 
 Melody from lips of roses 
 Falling on the waiting air, 
 
 As some telephonic message 
 
 That the angels often bear. 
 
 Oft she tells me in a whisper 
 
 That her heart is mine alone; 
 In my heart, oh! yes, forever — 
 
 She has built her queenly throne. 
 Two dewdrops on swaying roses 
 
 Sparkle in the morning sim, 
 Till the silken wings of zephyr 
 
 Touches — and the two are one — 
 
 [275] 
 
So our hearts in love united 
 
 With one throb between the two, 
 
 Each glad bosom swells with rapture 
 As life 's path we still pursue. 
 
 November 21st, 1888. 
 
 276] 
 
> z 
 
 f^ OJCO 
 
 CO 
 
MANASSAS. 
 
 I passed by the field of Manassas, 
 
 When summer her flowers had spread; 
 Where the bravest soldiers had fallen, 
 
 Whose spirits' were gathered overhead; 
 Who then from the fields of Elysian, 
 
 Arrayed in their robes ever white, 
 Looked down on the scenes of their glory. 
 
 And knowing they died for the right. 
 
 And I thought of Jackson, immortal, 
 
 Who never turned back on a foe; 
 Who sleeps in the valley of roses 
 
 Where flowers of valor still grow. 
 And I thought of a Bee's baptism. 
 
 When he gave him the name of Stonewall, 
 As he fell in the arms of angels. 
 
 To answer to Heaven's roll-call. 
 
 The roll of the drum is now silent; 
 
 And the fife is nevermore heard. 
 In a copse the drum of the pheasant, 
 
 Is the bass to the song of the bird. 
 The farmer now gathers his harvest, 
 
 And stores it away in the mow; 
 The swords are bent into sickles, 
 
 And hang in the shed with the plow. 
 
 On the hills where cannon once bellowed 
 With their lips of iron ablaze, 
 
 [ 277 ] 
 
Now a herd of beautiful Durhams 
 
 So quiet and leisurely graze. 
 The mountains that loomed in the distance — 
 
 Unseen from the smoke in the fray, 
 Hurled back in thundering echoes 
 
 Their shouts to the Blue and the Gray. 
 
 As I paused on the hill to listen; 
 
 As I dreamed of the long, long ago, 
 I heard the shout of the victor. 
 
 As they charged on the vanquished foe; 
 Till the din of the phantom battle 
 
 Over the hills was dying away. 
 And was rocking itself to slumber 
 
 As a child worn out with its play. 
 
 And again I paused to listen, 
 
 As my heart was beating so strong. 
 And I heard the notes of Dixie, 
 
 Whose music went purling along; 
 Then my heart came up in my bosom. 
 
 And a tear came down from my eye, 
 As I wept for soldiers, the bravest, 
 
 That ever for country did die. 
 
 When Clio shall write up their story, 
 
 And poets shall weave them in song, 
 True soldiers will honor their valor, 
 
 Nor ask for the right or the ^\Tong. 
 The mother oft tells of her sorrow 
 
 That none of her children have known. 
 Of the son who went with his father. 
 
 And neither came back to their own. 
 
 November 22nd 
 
 [278] 
 
MY SOUL, LOOK UP. 
 
 My soul, look up and onward, 
 
 Beyond earth's rim of blue, 
 Where skies are never frowning, 
 
 And all is bright and true, 
 Where sin is never lurking 
 
 In paths for weary feet, 
 To lure them from the goal 
 
 That all would long to meet. 
 
 My harp, awake sweet numbers. 
 
 That slumber on each string. 
 And fill my soul with music 
 
 That none but angels sing. 
 Let sorrow leave my bosom, 
 
 And hope on joyous wing, 
 Come back to guide my spirit 
 
 To where the angels sing. 
 
 Oh, stir life 's waning embers 
 
 With breath of Heaven 's love. 
 And make my pinions stronger 
 
 To bear me home above. 
 Let melody and rapture. 
 
 With all their soothing tones. 
 Enfold my waiting spirit. 
 
 Till reaching Heaven 's throne. 
 
 [279] 
 
Better to soar on pinions, 
 
 Although, perchance, we fall, 
 Than sit with wings all folded. 
 
 And never try at all. 
 Better to live for Heaven, 
 
 Where lasting anthems roll. 
 Than have the world 's applauses 
 
 And lose a priceless soul. 
 
 The crown 's for all who struggle, 
 
 And struggling, fondly wait. 
 Till patience crowns them victors 
 
 In spite of every fate. 
 As sorrow folds her pinions, 
 
 When hope illumes the way, 
 So night her glowing scepter. 
 
 Must yield to king of day. 
 
 December Uth, 1888. 
 
 [280] 
 
THE ONE. WE MISS. 
 
 The one we miss had lovely eyes — 
 
 As soft as Heaven's blue; 
 But now we know beyond the skies 
 
 They're looking for us too. 
 The one we miss had rosy lips 
 
 That ne'er had framed a word, 
 But now from life 's sweet fountain sips 
 
 Where Angel's lips are heard. 
 
 The one we miss had tiny feet 
 
 That ne'er had touched the earth; 
 But now they walk the golden street, 
 
 Like angels from their birth. 
 The one we miss had fairy hands — 
 
 As fair as lilies white; 
 But now she 's with the happy bands, 
 
 And robed like them as bright. 
 
 Those hands now sweep a harp of gold 
 
 Around a burning throne; 
 Those lips a story can unfold, 
 
 That we have never known. 
 Those feet, like messengers, now run, 
 
 Where angels loved to soar; 
 Those eyes lit up by glory's sun, 
 
 Will shine for evermore. 
 
 [ 281 ] 
 
The one we miss we '11 find some day, 
 
 Amid a shining throng; 
 When we have thrown this harp away, 
 
 To hear her sweeter song. 
 Her arms around our necks shall twine. 
 
 Her lips to ours shall press; 
 Her face aglow, with love divine 
 
 In Heaven's happiness. 
 
 December 31st, 1888 
 
 [282] 
 
A PARODY. 
 
 How doth the hungry pohtician 
 
 Improve each passing hour? 
 In hunting up the horny hands 
 
 To help him into power. 
 
 How artfully he makes his speech, 
 How thick he spreads his soap ; 
 
 And labors hard to make them think 
 He is the nation 's hope. 
 
 In jobs or tricks, for monstrous pay, 
 
 You '11 always find him true, 
 For satan has no other work 
 
 For such as him to do. 
 
 He '11 serve his master long and well, 
 
 And serve him everywhere; 
 And when he leaves the world, they'll say- 
 "He was a millionaire." 
 
 And then a monument they'll build. 
 
 Up-pointing to the skies, 
 Where none will think his soul has gone. 
 
 But down beneath, it lies. 
 
 [283] 
 
While history may write his name, 
 And fame, with trumpet tongue, 
 
 May pass it on from age to age, 
 While minstrel 's harps are strung. 
 
 But, by and by, when time shall end, 
 As earth from orbit rolls — 
 
 Oh, where shall politicians fly 
 To hide their perjured souls? 
 
 How many souls he starved to death 
 
 Statistics never told; 
 But all believe he robbed the poor 
 
 To swell his heaps of. gold. 
 
 Kind pity ne'er will drop her tears 
 
 Above the costly tomb; 
 Who robs the living of the bread 
 
 That avarice consumes. 
 
 March 21st, 1889. 
 
 I 284 ] 
 
SONG. 
 
 Could we but lift the latch of the door 
 
 And see what the future has in its store; 
 
 We know we would look, with wondering eyes, 
 
 And see all the blessings hid in disguise. 
 
 For God in his wisdom, gives darkness and light, 
 
 To teach us to journey by faith and by sight. 
 
 Though shrouded in gloom, in the bosom of night. 
 Slumbers the sheaths and arrows of light; 
 Morning shall fling them from quiver and bow, 
 And darkness go down wherever they go. 
 Then bear up life's Cross, though devils may frown. 
 On Calvary's top there's waiting a crown. 
 
 Onward and upward, O! soul, in your flight. 
 Fly for the Ark as the dove in its flight. 
 The Deluge of Sin is sweeping earth's shore; 
 The Empire of Death shall know you no more; 
 For soon shall your temple, its passions and lust, 
 Fall down and mingle again with the dust. 
 
 June 1st, 1889 
 
 [ 285 ] 
 
PARTY CRIES, NOT PRINCIPLES. 
 
 "Party cries are not always principles ; Partisanship is not Patriot- 
 ism, and success is not always right. ' ' — Robt. G. Ingersoll. 
 
 If principles were party cries, 
 It would be well to heed them, 
 
 But when a party leader lies. 
 No more the people need them. 
 
 If patriotism is a farce. 
 
 With some grimaces funny; 
 
 Then love is not the sealing wax 
 Of matrimony's honey. 
 
 If partisanry is success. 
 
 The devil is no sinner; 
 The way to be an honest man 
 
 Is, steal a neighbor's dinner. 
 
 If politicians are a clique 
 Of demagogues and scoffers. 
 
 Who rob the people of their rights, 
 Then rob the people's coffers. 
 
 Is freedom but the talisman 
 To swell the party's boodle, 
 
 And help the game of hide and seek 
 To solemn Yankee Doodle? 
 
 [ 286 ] 
 
Now tell us, Colonel, what to do 
 To purge this wicked nation — 
 
 To wrench it from the devil 's grip 
 And save it from damnation? 
 
 Tell us what to do with trusts 
 That rob the nation 's larder — 
 
 Making millionaires of some. 
 
 That thousands work the harder. 
 
 Tell us how to break the ring. 
 
 That makes the nation's whiskey; 
 
 Which sows the seed of moral death 
 And makes salvation risky. 
 
 So tell us, too, in numbers round — 
 
 Just put it down in figures — 
 What the people paid in blood 
 
 To free the lazy niggers. 
 
 When poverty is obsolete. 
 And wealth the only fashion ; 
 
 Who, then, will raise the bread and meat, 
 And give the world its rations? 
 
 Say, has the majesty of law 
 
 Lost its weight judicial; 
 And the thing we call a judge, 
 
 Merely judge-official? 
 
 Is he but a party tool 
 
 To do the party's bidding. 
 Instead of meeting justice out — 
 
 The villians — of us ridding? 
 
 [287 1 
 
Come, tell us how to live discreet; 
 
 How all may do their duty; 
 And how to live a life of faith, 
 
 And not to live for booty. 
 
 Turn your battery on sin, 
 And wage a war most civil; 
 
 Till every one has got his due, 
 And you've escaped the devil. 
 
 
 June 1st, 1889. 
 
 [288] 
 
ELELE. 
 
 In the mountains of Virginia 
 
 Lives a story none has told, 
 Where once dwelt a sturdy farmer, 
 
 Whose great wealth was not in gold; 
 Though his broad paternal acres 
 
 Were a feast to gaze upon, 
 Where his father's father's ashes 
 
 Still were guarded by his son. 
 
 While his children in the future 
 
 Would keep watch above his head. 
 When he'd pass beyond the shadow 
 
 Where must sleep the sainted dead. 
 They upon his tomb would scatter, 
 
 As he'd scattered long before. 
 Flowers over dust paternal, 
 
 Like his fathers did of yore. 
 
 His mind was well stored with knowledge. 
 
 And his heart was filled with love, 
 As he labored in life's vineyard 
 
 For his master's cause above; 
 Though his hands were never empty 
 
 Till the poor had shared his bread, 
 Like some Joseph, always ready, 
 
 That his brother should be fed. 
 
 [ 289 ] 
 
And the more he gave to others, 
 
 Still the more was given him; 
 So the hand that scatters wisely 
 
 Reaps a harvest never slim. 
 Bread that's cast upon the waters 
 
 Shall return again some day, 
 As wall blessings to the giver 
 
 Help him in life's rugged ways. 
 
 There was purpose in his wisdom, 
 
 And true wisdom in his ways, 
 For his precepts were but lessons 
 
 That should tell through coming days. 
 When the evening of life's shadow^s 
 
 Fall along life's narrow vale, 
 When the almond tree would flourish, 
 
 And life's burning passions fail; 
 
 And the heart go out in yearning 
 
 For a draught of purer air, 
 Far above the mountains azure 
 
 Where the cooling zephyrs are; 
 Where new hopes shall spring before us. 
 
 Dancing o'er life's shining way, 
 And earth's cares are left behind us 
 
 With this cumbrous house of clay. 
 
 Years to him were simply blossoms, 
 That foretold a fruitful clime. 
 
 Where life's deeds as fruits are gathered 
 From the harvest field of time; 
 
 When old time with rounded measure, 
 
 [ 290 1 
 
Empties out his countless souls; 
 And the lap of judgment trembles 
 With the mighty weight it holds. 
 
 Fate, who loves to work in secret, 
 
 Till each purpose shall unfold, 
 As some miser in his chamber 
 
 Counts and clutches fast his gold; 
 She was busy with her distaff, 
 
 Spinning out the brittle thread. 
 Tying loving to the living; 
 
 Parting living from the dead. 
 
 Seemed there some impending evil, 
 
 Shapeless in the future's womb, 
 Brooding as a hungry vulture 
 
 Ere it flaps its wings of doom; 
 Evil omens drop their shadows 
 
 In the path that man has led, 
 Signals from the mystic future 
 
 With destruction in their tread. 
 
 Horrid war, with dire ruin, 
 
 Dared to flaunt its banner forth; 
 When the demon spirit, Envy, 
 
 Growled and muttered from the North. 
 Long the pent up wrath had gathered, 
 
 Now it seemed to find a mouth; 
 And its poison only w^aited 
 
 To be spit upon the South. 
 
 Peace was sleeping in his palace; 
 Plenty smiling in its store; 
 
 [291] 
 
Love was nestling in his bosom — 
 Heaven watching at his door. 
 
 All that life, or love could cherish; 
 All that earth or time could give, 
 
 Were to him as blessings given, 
 Teaching freemen how to live. 
 
 Around him trooped his happy children- 
 Happy in a father's smile; 
 
 With a mother's soft embraces, 
 Care corroding to beguile; 
 
 Sons as valiant as their father 
 Gathered round the frugal board; 
 
 Elele, the only daughter. 
 And the idol all adored. 
 
 As the lily, she was graceful. 
 
 With a winsome winning mien; 
 And the rose of human flowers. 
 
 To be loved, was to be seen. 
 Her young heart was welling over 
 
 With those thoughts that always thrill 
 Which set fire to patriot bosoms, 
 
 And their hearts with valor fill. 
 
 Summer, shod in shining sandals. 
 Had usurped the reign of spring; 
 
 Man and bird and bee were busy 
 With fresh life in everything. 
 
 Fields were clothed in velvet verdure. 
 Nature in a smiling mood; 
 
 Rippling rills and running rivers 
 ' Hummed their hymns in solitude. 
 
 [ 292 ] 
 
In the gloomy glens of laurel 
 
 And the cedar's rank perfume, 
 And the swaying boughs of cypress 
 
 Shook their pollen from their bloom. 
 Whence a dim and dusky shadow — 
 
 Poets call the Angel Death — 
 Mars was on his bloody charger; 
 
 Hell was burning in his breath. 
 
 Demons darted from their dungeons — 
 
 Speaking from the hearts of men — ■ 
 Till it seemed that hell was empty 
 
 And this earth a dragon's den. 
 Soon the tread of mighty armies 
 
 From the North and from the South, 
 With the gage of coming battle 
 
 Waiting at the cannon's mouth. 
 
 From the country, from the cities, 
 
 Poured that living volume forth. 
 The South — it seemed a dauntless David 
 
 Halfway meeting Goliath's North — 
 Horrid years of horrid havoc 
 
 Rolled around in reeking gore. 
 While the thunder peal of cannon 
 
 Shook the earth as ne'er before. 
 
 Mammon hired her musty minions 
 War to wage on freemen true; 
 
 Hell sent out her burning torches 
 To do what only fiends could do. 
 
 Hunger, want and waning numbers 
 Were more potent than the foe — 
 
 [ 293 ] 
 
They did rout the ragged rebels 
 Yankees ne'er could rout before. 
 
 Ruin reigned where peace and plenty 
 
 Reveled in the days of yore, 
 And the hearts that were not bleeding — 
 
 Aching to their very core. 
 Not a circle left unbroken, 
 
 Not a heart without some pain — 
 Sires fell at the post of duty 
 
 With their sons around them slain. 
 
 Even servants in their bondage 
 
 Shared the pain their owners felt, 
 And beseeched the King of armies, 
 
 As around one altar knelt. 
 There were ties that bound them closer 
 
 Than the ties that greed could bind; 
 That the sword alone could sever 
 
 With its gaping wound behind. 
 
 Some were houseless, homeless, friendless- 
 Strangers in their native land — 
 
 While the homesteads of their fathers 
 Were a charr'd and blacken 'd brand. 
 
 Here and there a city's ashes 
 Danced and sported in the wind. 
 
 Proving that the devil's demons 
 Had possessed the maddened mind. 
 
 Envy marshaled all her minions — 
 
 Formed them in a hollow square. 
 And demanded that a woman 
 • Should be dangled in the air. 
 
 [ 294 ] 
 
 I 
 
Hate sprang up as teeth of dragons 
 Ere the dove of peace returned; 
 
 And the vile and vicious passions 
 In the beastly bosoms burned. 
 
 Hate was made the test of party, 
 
 Till a chasm yawning wide 
 Gaped as hell between the sections 
 
 For the purpose, to divide. 
 Plunder was the pressing problem 
 
 Pious patriots had to solve. 
 Ere the union of our fathers 
 
 From the chaos could evolve. 
 
 Now the reign of carpet-baggers 
 
 Ruled and reigned throughout the South, 
 Reminding one of busy buzzards 
 
 When there's famine or a drought. 
 What the armies had not taken, 
 
 What was left for buzzard bait, 
 Those newcomers soon devoured 
 
 Without parley or debate. 
 
 While the poor deluded darky 
 
 With no larnin' got in school, 
 Still believed that forty acres 
 
 Were for him, besides de mule. 
 Freedom was to him a puzzle 
 
 Which he could not understand, 
 Why the white man should be murdered 
 
 To give him freedom in the land. 
 
 [ 295 ] 
 
Old Virginia sat in ashes 
 
 With her hand beneath her head, 
 Weeping for her slaughtered children 
 
 All around her lying dead. 
 At her heart ten thousand sabres 
 
 Had been thrust to lay her low, 
 But the Captain of her army 
 
 Always parried off the blow. 
 
 He the knight of all the knightly — 
 
 Grandest knight of knightly men — 
 He could never sleep in bondage, 
 
 Nor his like be found again. 
 There's no words to tell her sorrow; 
 
 Grief is but a voiceless pain 
 That no subtle thought can fathom 
 
 As it blisters on the brain. 
 
 Hear the wail of woeful sorrow; 
 
 See the grandeur of her gloom. 
 As she spreads her shield of honor 
 
 O'er a labyrinth of tombs. 
 Hear the wild winds wake the echoes. 
 
 As the trumpet tongue of time 
 Sends them down through all the ages 
 
 With a cadence sad, sublime. 
 
 Elele with heart as tender 
 
 As ever throbbed in woman's breast 
 Had the courage of a martyr 
 
 And a will that few possessed. 
 
 [ 296 ] 
 
Schooled in every sort of danger, 
 She had always done her part 
 
 With the daring of the soldier, 
 Still she had a woman's heart 
 
 Full of love and full of pity. 
 
 And a tenderness of soul 
 That wells up in heart of woman. 
 
 Whence life's sweetest currents roll. 
 Once she was the heir of freedom, 
 
 With bright hopes and heart elate; 
 Now her idols all are broken. 
 
 And she's but the ward of fate. 
 
 All was laid on freedom's altar; 
 
 All was lost, but honor won. 
 Though again to fight it over 
 
 She would do as all had done. 
 She now lonely as some flower 
 
 Clinging to some ruined w^all. 
 Swaying in the winds of Autumn 
 
 Soon to wither, fade and fall. 
 
 Or some birdling in the wildwood, 
 
 When the flowers all are dead. 
 Whose sweet chirrup dies unanswered, 
 
 As its foundlings all have fled. 
 Thus was life to her so lonely. 
 
 Whose young heart was once so gay; 
 Like some harp string strained till broken. 
 
 Whose lost music none could sway. 
 
 She had met a Northern soldier 
 Who to her was very kind; 
 
 [ 297 ] 
 
Who politely tendered succor — 
 
 As politely she declined. 
 She was poor, but not a beggar; 
 
 She was friendless, and alone; 
 She was not the nation's warden 
 
 Though her country overthrown. 
 
 She looked kindly on the soldier 
 
 Who to her had been so kind; 
 Still, she fancied in his bosom 
 
 There was something still behind. 
 There was something in his manner, 
 
 And a shyness in his eye. 
 That in spite of all his tactics 
 
 She, his purpose could descry. 
 
 In her heart she could but pity, 
 
 Though her bosom never felt 
 The pang of love for any lover 
 
 As the soldier by her knelt. 
 With his words of fond endearment 
 
 As they fell upon her ears. 
 Woke afresh a thousand memories 
 
 Long embalmed in sorrow's tears. 
 
 With a look that none would covet, 
 
 She rose up and walked away. 
 He could feel a storm was brewing, 
 
 As he saw the lightning's play. 
 Then in voice as sweet as music — 
 
 With love's sorrow in each tone, 
 She to him made this answer 
 
 In a spirit seldom shown: 
 
 [ 298 ] 
 
"There's a gulf of blood between us 
 
 " That no bridge can ever span — 
 " Deep and wide as Hate's abysm 
 
 "That love's eye can never scan. 
 " Darkness spreads its sable bannei 
 
 " Where hope's light can never come, 
 " Barring all that love might cherish 
 
 " Should it try to pierce the gloom : 
 
 " Should your love flow like a river, 
 
 " My heart would never be its sea, 
 " For its soundings none can fathom 
 
 " In its night of misery. 
 "All its gushings are but echoes 
 
 " From the hearts that throbbed for me 
 " Who are silent in death's chamber, 
 
 "And from sorrow now are free: 
 
 " One by one they fell in battle, 
 
 "Fighting for their legal rights; 
 "Not as traitors, nor as rebels, 
 
 " Were they marshaled in the fight. 
 "Martyrs on their country's altar, 
 
 " Without stain upon their name; 
 " Honored by the best of soldiers, 
 
 " And the legacy of Fame. 
 
 " There is naught to grieve my spirit 
 "That they died as freemen die; 
 
 "Still I'm proud they did their duty, 
 "And invaders did defy. 
 
 [ 299 ] 
 
" I'd rather weep above their ashes 
 
 "Than have them Uve as fawning slaves, 
 
 " With no honor in their bosoms 
 " And not courage to be brave. 
 
 " Think you that my heart is craven 
 
 " When my father's house is slain? 
 "I, the only scion living — 
 
 " All are dead — and I remain. 
 " Must I be the victim's victim? 
 
 " Can I be a cringing slave, 
 " When my father and four brothers 
 
 "Now are sleeping in the grave? 
 
 " Would their slumbers still be quiet, 
 
 "Should I give my hand to you? 
 " Think you that they would not waken 
 
 "And tell me that I was untrue? 
 "They were all that love could cherish; 
 
 " They were all that life could give. 
 " Love can only mourn their absence; 
 
 " Life can only wait to live. 
 
 " Go through all our wasted valleys 
 
 "Where your comrades' feet have tread; 
 "Gaze upon our blackened homesteads, 
 
 "Ask me then if I should wed. 
 "Though our hands were joined together, 
 
 " Still our hearts would be apart — 
 " Where no love — there is no union — 
 
 " Is the law of every heart. 
 
 "Though I'm Southern, still I'm human — 
 "To my kith and kin am true; 
 
 [ 300 ] 
 
 t 
 
"I'm a daughter of Virginia, 
 " And her love will ne'er eschew. 
 
 "Taught to love her in my childhood 
 "When my heart was blithe and gay; 
 
 "When she was the nation's mother — 
 "Is she not the same to-day? 
 
 " Is she not the grand encampment 
 
 " Where immortal spirits stray, 
 " Who stand sentinel for freedom 
 
 " In its onward march to-day? 
 " Is her dust not filled with valor — 
 
 " Making soldiers of her men 
 "That the w^orld has never rivalled, 
 
 " If it equalled — tell us when? 
 
 " Men of virtue, men of genius, 
 
 " In the galaxy of fame, 
 " Whose great deeds shed a glory 
 
 " To embalm their every name. 
 "Proud Virginia! Dear Old Mother! 
 
 " On your bosom let me w^eep 
 " Till life's burning fever's over, 
 
 " Then with kindred let me sleep. 
 
 " Let the serpent tongue of envy 
 
 "Spit its poison on her name; 
 " She v/ill rise the queen of nations 
 
 " With a glory — you to shame. 
 " Mock her not, although in ashes 
 
 "Her mantle may be trailing now; 
 "She has ne'er been false to any, 
 
 " Nor to union broke her vow. 
 
 [301 ] 
 
" Southern minds conceived this Union, 
 
 " Northern hate has spht it twain ; 
 "And the blood that bought our freedom, 
 
 "All, alas! was spilt in vain. 
 " Not for it — you marshaled armies 
 
 " Mighty as some mountain wave 
 "Rising on an angry ocean 
 
 " No frail barque could ever brave. 
 
 " But it was the spirit — Envy — 
 
 " Always found in narrow minds — 
 "Picking quarrels with its neighbors; 
 
 "Sweeping where it seldom finds. 
 " Demon spirit that possessed you, 
 
 " Worse than in the herd of swine, 
 " To make war upon your household— 
 
 " Equal guilty of the crime. 
 
 "Force can never make a people 
 
 " Love the hand that loves to smite — 
 "Equal rights are freemen's ethics; 
 
 " Must resist the hand of might. 
 "Though your poison bullets flying 
 
 " With the scorching breath of hell, 
 " Who but demons e'er invented — 
 
 "History's ashamed to tell. 
 
 "Peace is but the fruit of friendship; 
 
 " Hate is but the seed of strife, 
 "And the discord you've engendered 
 
 " Sowing dragons teeth for life. 
 
 [ 302 ] 
 
" Tell me not that peace is coming 
 " To resume her wonted place, 
 
 *' When in truth she has departed — 
 " Dust and ashes on her face. 
 
 " I respect you as a soldier, 
 
 "If you fought for conscience' sake; 
 " None should ever shrink from duty, 
 
 " Though it leads them to the stake. 
 " No spite I hold against your people 
 
 " Except the selfish crime of old, 
 " Who have ceased to worship freedom, 
 
 " But are bowing down to gold. 
 
 ''All entreaties are but idle; 
 
 ''All your passions burn in vain; 
 "All your sighings are not equal 
 
 "To the tortures of my brain. 
 "All the dreams that life once cherished 
 
 "Now have faded from my view, 
 "And my heart is like a desert 
 
 " Where no flowers ever grew. 
 
 "There are those who live for heaven; 
 
 "Turn their backs on things of earth; 
 "Who make life a sacred duty; 
 
 " Fight each battle for its worth. 
 " Come what will — unfurl their banner — 
 
 "Hopes forlorn, they dare to lead; 
 " Loyal to their goddess, duty, 
 
 "Who has balm for all who bleed. 
 
 "Go then, Northman, peace go with you 
 " Wheresoe'er your feet may tread, 
 
 [ 303 ] 
 
" In my heart you are forgiven, 
 " Not forgotten — nor my dead — 
 
 " They must Uve in this lone bosom ; 
 " Hold their vigils night and day, 
 
 "Till my heart shall break with sorrow 
 " And my spirit pass away. 
 
 "Go your way, and soothe my sorrow 
 
 "With the absence of your love; 
 "Nowhere in my heart's affections 
 
 " Can you find a place to rove. 
 "There's not room in any chamber 
 
 "Where one hope can e'er be hung; 
 "All is filled with love's burnt ashes 
 
 " Where no phoenix ever sprung. 
 
 "Go back northward, find some maiden 
 
 " Whose young heart is not a tomb 
 "Where lies buried all her kindred, 
 
 " And enshrouded with life's gloom 
 " May she be to you an angel 
 
 " In the form of love divine. 
 "Whose true heart's to you a mirror 
 
 "Where love's sun must ever shine." 
 
 My 21st, 1889. 
 
 [ 304 ] 
 
THEN YOU WILL THINK OF YOUR DARLING. 
 
 Then you will think of your darling 
 When from earth's sorrows I'm free, 
 
 As I walk the starlight of azure, 
 And you o 'er the earth or the sea. 
 
 Memory shall foUow as angels 
 That follow the steps of the true, 
 
 All through the mazes of being, 
 Not quitting till death shall ensue. 
 
 Should earth seem drear in my absence^ 
 
 Remember wherever you are. 
 That heaven will never be heaven, 
 
 'Till you shall join me up there. 
 
 Down through the valley of shadows, 
 I walk in the darkness of gloom; 
 
 Knowing the smile of a Savior 
 
 Will scatter the night of the tomb. 
 
 October 17th. t889. 
 
 [ 305 ] 
 
THE BRIDE'S PRESENT. 
 
 {To my Cousin, Minnie Macon.) 
 
 IVe never been blest with earth's riches, 
 
 Nor rocked in the cradle of ease ; 
 But still I've a jewel that's rarer 
 
 And richer than any of these; 
 To me it is life's dearest chalice, 
 
 Full brimming with rubiest wine. 
 Distilled in the cup of our being 
 
 Through the alembic divine. 
 
 My friends have given of their treasures. 
 All sparkling and shining as gold; 
 
 And valued by me in a measure, 
 
 • But not as the one that I hold. 
 
 It may be the cup of my sorrow. 
 As now it's the cup of my bliss, 
 
 And when I have emptied to-morrow, 
 It cannot be sweeter than this. 
 
 To you I now give up my jewel — 
 Oh, help us, fair angels above — 
 
 'Tis only the heart of a woman, 
 
 But brimming, full brimming with love 
 
 [ 306 ] 
 
Oh! treasure it deep in your bosom, 
 And guard it with heavenly eare; 
 
 The ark of hfe's hope is anchored, 
 Together our destinies share. 
 
 November 30th, 1889. 
 
 [307] 
 
JEFFERSON DAVIS. 
 
 Grand old leader of the South, 
 Who could face the cannon 's mouth 
 In the cause of human right, 
 Oh! lisp his name, lips of fame — 
 For his honor still is bright. 
 
 Sound it through the rolling years. 
 Fresh bedewed with human tears; 
 Trump it in the van of time. 
 While men brave, above his grave 
 Keep quick step to freedom 's chime. 
 
 Chieftain of a noble cause. 
 In defense of written laws. 
 Sacred as the right to live; 
 But when might conquered right. 
 Craven foes would not forgive. 
 
 So he died, as died the brave. 
 Honored ever be his grave. 
 World renowned with matchless Lee, 
 Both their names, entombed in fame- 
 Heirs of immortality. 
 
 [308] 
 
Though aUens in their native land, 
 Because of it, they dared to stand 
 Against the evading foe, 
 Whose ruthless hand smote our land 
 Making it a scene of woe. 
 
 Now we challenge all the earth, 
 Where true greatness has its birth 
 For the equals of the three, 
 Matchless names, that glory claims — 
 Davis, Jackson and a Lee. 
 
 Not with sword and firebrand, 
 Swept they through a christian land, 
 As some savage, maddened fiend. 
 Whose jaundiced mind against their kind 
 That no ethics can defend. 
 
 But with lofty courage, grand, 
 
 In defence of native land. 
 
 Each a stainless saber draws. 
 
 Like christian knights, demand their rights, 
 
 Though they fail to win their cause. 
 
 Loose the cannon 's deafening tongue. 
 Let it peal to the old and young, 
 As we lay him down to rest; 
 His memory dear, his name revere, 
 Canonized in every breast. 
 
 Toll it, softly, chiming bells. 
 Till the mountain 's silent dells, 
 
 [309] 
 
Answer back the sad refrain, 
 Ocean 's waves where 'er they lave, 
 Bear it o 'er the solemn main. 
 
 Let the millions' pent-up woe, 
 Burst with tears and outward flow; 
 For their hearts are filled with love. 
 For hero brave in honored grave, 
 Whose great soul has gone above. 
 
 Bow your heads oh, lofty pines; 
 Tune your boughs to mournful chimes, 
 For the stately oak is low; 
 It dared provoke the lightning stroke; 
 But never quailed beneath the blow. 
 
 When the young republic died, 
 All our hopes were crucified; 
 And our hearts were craped in gloom; 
 No silver ray to point the way, 
 To avert a threatened doom. 
 
 Then in chains they bound him fast. 
 Till two weary years wxre past. 
 Daring eagle of the free; 
 While vultures rage around his cage, 
 And gorge themselves with mockery. 
 
 Patience made his spirit strong; 
 Taught him how to suffer wrong; 
 While a target for our foes; 
 While thick and fast flew hate's shaft. 
 But never broke his stem repose. 
 
 [ 310 1 
 
A volume of immortal deeds, 
 
 Filled with freemen 's sacred creeds, 
 
 Folded for the judgment day; 
 
 Whose withered leaves, a nation grieves; 
 
 Hero of the fearless Gray. 
 
 Sculptor's chisel, painter's brush, 
 Poet's song as sweet as thrush; 
 In their glorious work sublime, 
 His name enroll on lasting scroll. 
 For the Pantheon of time. 
 
 Daring soldiers of the South, 
 Who have kissed the cannon's mouth, 
 For the land that gave you birth; 
 With bated breath, smiled at death. 
 Fighting armies of the earth; 
 
 Build him monument so high. 
 Reaching up to dome of sky. 
 For the future's muse to scan; 
 When martyr 'd right conquers might, 
 And truth can vindicate the man. 
 
 A monument that knightly men, 
 Through the world's deceitful ken. 
 Can look upon with honest pride; 
 And feel no smart to wound the heart, 
 With Justice on the weaker side. 
 
 December 13th, 1889. 
 
 [311] 
 
IDEAL. 
 
 I wandered away in my dreaming — 
 
 It mattered but little to me 
 The way that my feet were wending 
 
 So long as my spirit was free. 
 So weary was I of earth's travel, 
 
 I journeyed away to a clime 
 To find for my soul — some Eden — 
 
 Not found in the desert of time. 
 
 Some rest for a heart that was weary ; 
 
 Some place for the spirit's prayer, 
 Where the soul was bowed in its sorrow 
 
 And fighting to conquer despair, 
 'Till the sky of my hope would brighten, 
 
 And the night of its gloom give way; 
 As darkness gives way in the morning 
 
 To welcome the opening of day. 
 
 I sighed for a draught of its waters — 
 
 That murmured through velvety vales- 
 And longed to inhale but the odors 
 
 So sweet in the breath of its gale. 
 To pluck from its garden of flowers 
 
 A wreath to encircle a name. 
 And give it a fragrance forever 
 
 To live in the temple of fame. 
 
 [ 312 il 
 
So light were the wings of my spirit — 
 
 As away from earth's shadows I stole — 
 Each throb of my heart was a rapture 
 
 That found a response in my soul. 
 As a bird just out of its prison, 
 
 Not knowing the speed of its wing, 
 My spirit moved on as an arrow 
 
 That flies at the twang of the string. 
 
 Away, through the valley of silence 
 
 I journeyed in silence alone, 
 Not hearing the fall of a footstep — ■ 
 
 Not even the sound of my own. 
 With many a thrill in my bosom — 
 
 That told of a wonderful thrill — 
 As a bevy of thoughts — like angels — 
 
 Were bounding away at their will. 
 
 Ah ! these were the children of fancy — 
 
 The sweet little nymphs of the soul — 
 Who had come out for a ramble. 
 
 As I had come out for a stroll. 
 Now quickly they moved into stanzas, 
 
 And formed in the column of song. 
 To help me fashion my idyl, 
 
 As fancy should bear me along. 
 
 Like flowers, they spring in life's garden 
 To cheer us wherever we tread; 
 
 As soft as the whisper of angels. 
 
 That sweetens the sleep of the dead. 
 
 [ 313 ] 
 
As the fragrance of flowers they'll linger 
 
 When we shall have passed from earth's shore, 
 
 Like children — who walk in our footsteps — 
 As we in our fathers' before. 
 
 On through the shadows of dreamland — 
 
 Which none but the dreamer has known — 
 Where the wonderful m^irage of heaven 
 
 Like the face in a mirror is shown. 
 And the heart entranced with the rapture 
 
 That springs every hope of the soul, 
 As it sweeps o'er the vales of Elysian, 
 
 Where the fountains of ecstasy roll. 
 
 On through a palace of mirrors 
 
 With tapestry whiter than snow, 
 Resembling the portals of heaven — 
 
 The entrance for mortals below. 
 So radiant of all that was lovely; 
 
 So charming with all that was true — 
 No shadow to darken the idyls, 
 
 When robed in their magical hue. 
 
 Far over the hills of enchantment. 
 
 With intricate mazes and fold. 
 Up to the Palace of Iris, 
 
 All flashing with rubies and gold. 
 Till I stood on the mountain of Fancy, 
 
 In its sheen of heavenly glow. 
 With its magical worlds above me, 
 
 And its radiant ones below. 
 
 As one is athirst in a desert 
 
 Where never a fountain shall spring, 
 
 [314] 
 
I sighed for a quaff of the nectar 
 That none but the Muses can bring. 
 
 One sip from their beautiful chahce — 
 Full brimming with richest of wine — 
 
 For one that was wild with delirium 
 To revel in blisses divine. 
 
 Rolled outward an ocean of ether 
 
 That swept with its billows of blue, 
 Till they laved at the gate of a city — 
 
 The highway that angels pursue. 
 How wildly I gazed in my rapture, 
 
 As I dreamed of the songs to be sung, 
 And drank from the fountain of music 
 
 As it fell from harps that were strung. 
 
 O! beautiful home of the poet, 
 
 And theme of his heavenly song, 
 How sweet is the tread of the numbers 
 
 That flow with the ages along! 
 Not fashion or fortune can ever 
 
 Entice him away from its charms. 
 Till a chorus of Angels shall beckon 
 
 And bear him away in its arms. 
 
 O! this is the land of Ideal, 
 
 Where visions of beauty will throng; 
 Where the Muses keep step to the music 
 
 That flows from the fountains of song. 
 Where poets have come from all ages, 
 
 When seeking the love of renown, 
 To bask in the shade of the laurels 
 
 And weave from its branches a crown. 
 
 [315] 
 
Through valleys of myrtle and ivy 
 
 The waters of Helicon flow, 
 Whose murmurs are melody's whispers 
 
 That harp-strings are waiting below — 
 To stir up the deep of our passions 
 
 And set them for glory aflame; 
 To soar as the Phoenix from ashes, 
 
 Surpassing the angels in fame. 
 
 I looked on the mountains of laurels — 
 
 For many a wreath yet to be — 
 But none could I see in the forest 
 
 That even was growing for me. 
 And I sighed to think that life's struggle 
 
 Is always a struggle with fa.te; 
 But knowing the patient must conquer 
 
 If only they've patience to wait. 
 
 The wings of my spirit — not drooping — 
 
 As on through the silence I stole, 
 And lifted the veil of the mystic 
 
 To look for the names on the scroll. 
 Though many the names were emblazoned 
 
 On the lasting escutcheons of time. 
 Like stars that gleam through the azure 
 
 When circling some heavenly clime. 
 
 Many harps lay scattered and broken, 
 That never a minstrel could string. 
 
 Who sighed for the land of Pieria, 
 • But never could drink from its spring. 
 
 [ 316 ] 
 
As poverty stood in their pathway 
 
 And barred them frona learning's rich store; 
 
 Their music went back with their spirits 
 Where angels had sung it before. 
 
 The earth has been robbed of their music, 
 
 And they have been robbed of their fame; 
 But Justice will crown them as martyrs 
 
 Who suffered through poverty's name. 
 Nor think you their harp-strings are silent, 
 
 Because they were silent on earth — 
 When heaven is filled with their music 
 
 The angels have sung from their birth. 
 
 And I said to my soul in its sorrow — 
 
 Keep watch till the dawning appears — 
 Nor hope to find pleasures full ripened 
 
 Unless they are watered with tears. 
 In truth, you will find where the roses 
 
 Oft blush on the shrub they adorn. 
 Are filling the air with their fragrance, 
 
 But guarded with many a thorn. 
 
 Old earth has no balm that is healing — 
 
 Its patients are never made whole — 
 And faith is the only physician 
 
 That has any salve for the soul: 
 So hope is the angel of Promise 
 
 That follows wherever we tread, 
 And softens the bed of the dying. 
 
 And w^atches the dust of the dead. 
 
 The angel of Life on new pinions 
 
 ShaU flutter and bound from its clay, 
 
 [317] 
 
And winging its flight through the portals 
 That ope to the splendors of day. 
 
 Not weary nor worn in its journey — 
 A spirit immortal, sublime — 
 
 The wonder of earth and of angels, 
 Well tried in the furnace of time. 
 
 Then homeward I turned in my journey 
 
 To wait in the prison of time, 
 Till the pitcher should break at the fountain, 
 
 And spilling the last of life's wine. 
 When fate shall let fall from her fingers 
 
 The shuttle in destiny's loom — 
 Whose eyes are as dry as the desert, 
 
 Where never a flower can bloom. 
 
 December 26th, 1889. 
 
 [318] 
 
COME, SWEET MESSENGER. 
 
 Come, sweet messenger, come to our bosom. 
 
 Come for our heart is weary of sin; 
 Come, and the door of our heart shall open; 
 
 Come, and you 'U find a welcome within. 
 
 Break every idol sin has in its chamber; 
 
 Hang in their stead the red reeking cross; 
 Fill us with love that time cannot measure, 
 
 Free from the dregs of sin and its dross. 
 
 Kindle afresh in this penitent bosom, 
 A flame of that love that never can die, 
 
 And fan it with wings of heavenly power. 
 Till earth shall be quit to dwell in the sky. 
 
 Tarry no longer, but come to our bosom. 
 Let all your wooings our spirit console, 
 
 Lifting our hearts away from earth's sorrow; 
 Come, sweet messenger, bird of the soul, 
 
 And bring us that love that passes all knowledge — 
 " Filling to fullness the depths of the soul — 
 Till love flows out, the river of heaven. 
 Making more love wherever it rolls. 
 
 June 2nd, 1890. 
 
 [319] 
 
GOLD. 
 
 Gold, gold, oh, cursed gold; 
 
 Half your curses none have told; 
 
 Since the birth of father time 
 
 You Ve stood first at the head of crime, 
 
 With your shining locks so old — 
 
 Hoary idol — coward gold. 
 
 The purchased slave — though called a wife — ; 
 Without love's love through wasted life; 
 The miser 's god — the pauper 's need — 
 The Shylock's pound — insatiate greed — 
 The tyrant 's rod — -the devil 's wand — 
 To drive fair freedom from our land. 
 Half the caverns in hell are cramm 'd 
 With the souls that you have damn'd; 
 Wide dominion still you hold — 
 Robber tyrant — demon gold — 
 Had I the power in my hand 
 I 'd drive you from my native land. 
 
 Still the Jew — with his brazen laugh — 
 Bows the same to his golden Calf; 
 Time with him no change can make. 
 Who ne'er lives for conscience' sake; 
 In whose lean soul no yearnings sigh, 
 For the God that gold can't buy. 
 
 December 20th, 1890. 
 
 [320] 
 
HOLD, YOUNG MAN. 
 
 Hold, young man, don't hurry so fast, 
 Youth's sunshine will not always last; 
 Stay in its light as long as you can — 
 There's time enough yet to be a man. 
 Joy and love you'll find in its beams, 
 Spanning young hope's bewitching dreams; 
 And sure as fate, in the rift of years, 
 A time will come for sorrow's tears. 
 
 Manhood's years are burdened with care; 
 None are willing its burdens to share. 
 Earth has sorrows enough of its own; 
 None are willing to help you to groan. 
 Duty demands of every man 
 To fight his battle as best he can. 
 Honors await on the tented field 
 To crown the brave who never yield. 
 
 Nerve your soul with a hero's will; 
 Come to the front with a soldier's skill; 
 Now is the time for glorious deeds. 
 When Freedom sings and country bleeds. 
 An arm of steel must strike the blow 
 To break the shackles of our foe, 
 And parry off the dagger'd hand 
 UpUfted 'gainst our native land. 
 
 [321]. 
 
Years roll by as a gliding stream 
 
 On whose deep waves the sun's light gleams; 
 
 Whose noiseless tread no ear has heard — 
 
 Not from the lips a parting word; 
 
 On they flow with a surge sublime 
 
 Into the abysmal sea of time. 
 
 Apnl M'h, 1891^ 
 
 [322] 
 
THE TILLERS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Ye tillers, and ye toilers, 
 
 Who make the nation's bread. 
 You bear its heavy burdens, 
 
 And on the crumbs are fed; 
 You feed the idle millions 
 
 Who sun themselves in ease. 
 And rob you at their leisure, 
 
 And tax you as they please. 
 
 And, as the patient donkey, 
 
 You've borne the burden long, 
 Till virtue's made you patient, 
 
 And patience 's made you strong. 
 Assert your rights as freemen; 
 
 Dethrone the tyrant gold. 
 And tell the labor robbers 
 
 Your birthright is unsold. 
 
 There's a tax on all your muscles, 
 
 And sweat on all your brows, 
 And still you bow to party. 
 
 That never keeps its vows. 
 The curse of human freedom, 
 
 The ban of equal rights. 
 The king that makes the caucus — 
 
 The caucus proves its might. 
 
 [ 323 ] 
 
Go, journey down the ages, 
 
 Along the wreck of time, 
 And see repubhcs buried 
 
 Through party's filthy slime. 
 Throw off the yoke of bondage 
 
 That party bids you wear. 
 And vote an honest ballot 
 
 Though all the bosses swear. 
 
 Ye tillers, and ye toilers, 
 
 Say, were you freemen bom. 
 And will you be the servants 
 
 Of those your freedom scorn? 
 Say, will you bow to party 
 
 And be its cringing slave. 
 Or be the heirs of freedom 
 
 That gold can ne'er enslave? 
 
 Arouse that noble manhood 
 
 That burns in every breast, 
 And strike for home and country, 
 
 And God will do the rest. 
 Let '' Patience " be your motto. 
 
 And "Equal Rights" your prayer; 
 Your hymn "Our home and Country" — 
 
 Its blessing all must share. 
 
 May lOih, 1891. 
 
 [324] 
 
SORROW'S SONG. 
 
 Weeping winds with wailings low 
 Wake the memory of hfe's woe; 
 Hope's last ray o'er memory's grave 
 Sinks to rest in Lethe's wave. 
 
 Sorrow sighs where hope should sing; 
 Memory mourns o'er wasted years; 
 Love's last flowers only spring, 
 To be watered by love's tears. 
 
 February 11th, 1891. 
 
 [325 3 
 
HEAR IT, FREEMAN BOLD. 
 
 We hear fair Freedom 's sighs 
 Upreaching to the skies, 
 And the god of Battle cries, 
 
 "To your tents;" 
 Oh, toilers of the field. 
 And shopmen will you yield, 
 Or sleep upon your shield, 
 
 At events? 
 
 You come with homy hands — 
 The bulwark of all lands — 
 The god of right commands, 
 
 You must win. 
 Let cowards fall behind 
 In the march of human mind; 
 The blind must lead the blind 
 
 To fall in. 
 
 We hear the millions cry, 
 To the rescue let us fly. 
 And for our Country die, 
 
 Or be free. 
 Let party bosses rave — 
 We are no more their slave — - 
 But stalwarts of the brave, 
 
 Let us be. 
 
 [326] 
 
America 's our themC; 
 
 The patriot ^s constant dream 
 
 About his soul must gleam, 
 
 Till he dies. 
 Sweet freedom's synonym 
 And poet's thrilling hymn, 
 With a burning soul for Him 
 
 In the skies. 
 
 In the hollow of His hand 
 
 Is the fate of every land, 
 
 Arid we bow at His command — 
 
 He must rule. 
 No party boss'es hand 
 Can wave us where to stand. 
 When duty gives command, 
 
 Once their tool. 
 
 We have cut a cable loose — 
 The target for abuse — 
 But never flag of truce 
 
 Will we wave; 
 Until wrong shall yield to right, 
 And Justice conquer might. 
 And all must cease to fight 
 
 At the grave. 
 
 Oh, hear it, freemen bold. 
 Who never worship gold. 
 In bondage you are sold, 
 Is it true? 
 
 [327] 
 
Are your father's children slaves 
 With a mortgage on his grave, 
 That your labor cannot save, 
 When it's due? 
 
 Have they robbed you of your bread, 
 While your children go unfed, 
 And soon they '11 be your dead. 
 
 In their claws; 
 Hyenas of the mind. 
 Who prey upon their kind, 
 Devouring all they find — • 
 
 Greedy jaws. 
 
 May 28ih, 1891. 
 
 [328] 
 
VOTE AS YOU PRAY. 
 
 The preachers advise in their sermons, 
 And layman talk the same way; 
 
 That to be true to our conscience 
 We should all vote as we pray. 
 
 And that is the way weVe been doing; 
 
 With sorrow the truth I must note; 
 Our eyes have been shut when praying, 
 
 As well as when going to vote. 
 
 But now we advise in tke future — 
 What Justice and Reason both say — 
 
 To vote with our eyes wide open, 
 
 But still keep them shut when we pray. 
 
 This is the logic of conscience — 
 No matter what others may say — 
 
 The Truth is the object of reason, 
 To teach us to vote and to pray. 
 
 It is the misfortune of many — 
 Who vainly endeavor to teach — 
 
 But have not the courage or manhood 
 To practice the doctrine they preach. 
 
 [ 329 ] 
 
'Tis idle to talk of reforming 
 
 A nation that's rooted in sin, 
 If churchmen follow their parties 
 
 When the slogan 'gainst vice shall begin. 
 
 Duty demands of her soldiers — 
 
 Wherever her flag is unfurled — 
 Allegiance to morals and measures, 
 
 All over the face of the world. 
 
 Theii trust to your ballot, my brother, 
 
 To remedy wrongs of the past, 
 The future is waiting to welcome. 
 
 And crown you the victor at last. 
 
 November 18th, 1892 
 
 [330] 
 
THE PEOPLE'S WANT. 
 
 Let me tell you what we want — 
 Not all the people know it — 
 
 But few have courage of their own, 
 And fewer fear to show it. 
 
 'Tis not numbers that we need 
 
 To join us in the battle, 
 But honest men with nerves of steel, 
 
 Who fear no sabre 's rattle. 
 
 Men of courage, and the will 
 That knows of no denying. 
 
 When duty calls them to their work, 
 You'll always find them trying. 
 
 Men that office cannot buy — 
 
 Though light their purse and larder- 
 
 Who will stand for equal rights 
 With unabating ardor. 
 
 Men who to their country give 
 Their talents and their labor. 
 
 That justice shall be measured out, 
 To everybody 's neighbor. 
 
 [ 331 ] 
 
Men who never stoop to fraud 
 
 To triumph o 'er another, 
 Wearing honors not their own, 
 
 But stolen from a brother. 
 
 Men whose conscience will not yield 
 To bribes, — our greatest evil, — 
 
 But serve their country and their God, 
 And put to shame the Devil. 
 
 Men can make a nation great — 
 As some have made it slavish — 
 
 Virtue makes a people brave ^ 
 Without it, only knavish. 
 
 Men have won their way to fame 
 By fighting for the masses, 
 
 Others sunk to infamy 
 In working for the classes. 
 
 Men who guide the ship of state — 
 With living freight of human — 
 
 Should be men with feeling heart, 
 As well as keen acumen. 
 
 Men who dare to do the right, 
 
 Though bosses growl and grumble, 
 
 'Tis best to see a nation stand. 
 Though all the parties crumble. 
 
 Give us men with honest hearts, — 
 From brawny sons of labor — 
 
 Who can guide the plow and state. 
 As well as wield a sabre. 
 
 [ 332 ] 
 
A nation 's hope is in the hearts 
 Of those who bear its burden, 
 
 Whose lives are all a sacrifice, 
 And toil their only guerdon. 
 
 In our land where freedom smiles 
 A man with man is equal; 
 
 Equal laws and equal rights 
 Should follow as a sequel. 
 
 The pen is mightier than the sword, 
 As taught by every scholar; 
 
 But the mightiest might of man — 
 Is the almighty dollar. 
 
 It's argument but few resist 
 When once they hear it rattle, 
 
 But sell their country and their souls- 
 As ranchmen sell their cattle. 
 
 January 6th, 1893. 
 
 [333 ] 
 
LONELY. 
 
 Lonely, lonely, sad and lonely 
 Is the heart that beats alone,^ 
 
 With no sigh from human bosom, 
 Save the sighing of its own. 
 
 As some harp with strings all broken, 
 Hanging in some lonely hall, 
 
 Whose sweet numbers now are silent, 
 Answers not to master's call. 
 
 Sweet remembrance time ne 'er darkens. 
 Though our years glide swift away; 
 
 Love's first sunbeams shine forever, 
 Gilding life's last closing day. 
 
 December 28ih, 1893. 
 
 [334!| 
 
A LEAP YEAR STORY. 
 
 Lizzie Newley and John Dooly 
 Went down to town one day, 
 
 With a mooly — that so truly — 
 Pulled them in a shay. 
 
 Tender hearted, seldom parted — 
 
 Was the happy twain — 
 Pleasant hours, shady bowers, 
 
 Not always spent in vain. 
 
 Twenty summers with new comers, 
 
 They had lived to see; 
 Winters brighter — hearts still lighter- 
 
 And filled with merry glee. 
 
 He was oldest, she was boldest — 
 Both were bright and fair — 
 
 She the sweetest, he the neatest — 
 A charming lovely pair. 
 
 Years of trouble, seldom double 
 
 On such hearts as these. 
 He was steady, she was ready — 
 
 Both like busy bees. 
 
 [ 335 ] 
 
All the neighbors quit their labors 
 
 To see them pass that day; 
 Cheeks were cherry, hearts were merry — 
 
 And all the world looked gay. 
 
 Little cousins, by the dozens, 
 
 In innocence and glee — 
 Not a weeping, but a peeping, — 
 
 To see if they could see. 
 
 Some were winking, some were thinking- 
 
 As they drove away; 
 Who believed if not deceived, 
 
 'Twould make a match some day. 
 
 But if Cupid was not stupid 
 
 With his work half done, 
 Was wide awake, their hearts to break, 
 
 And melt them into one. 
 
 But that rover was in clover 
 
 With his shining darts; 
 Little arrows — hearts to borrow, — 
 
 And to feel the smart. 
 
 While John Dooly loved her truly, 
 
 Yet still his timid heart 
 Was faint and weak, and could not speak. 
 
 But felt the stinging dart. 
 
 " Now, John Dooly, let me truly. 
 
 Tell you what is true; 
 Long I Ve waited — still not mated — 
 
 Waiting still for you. " 
 
 [ 336 ] 
 
" Now this wooing should be doing, 
 
 For my time is late; 
 Silent courting is but sporting, 
 
 Say, will you be my mate?" 
 
 "Amid the strife of wedded life, 
 
 I'll be your ruling star; 
 With shining ray through life 's long day — 
 
 Your love to never mar." 
 
 Then John Dooly — calm and truly — 
 
 Answered her as free; 
 "Since you are willing, I've the shilling 
 
 To pay the parson's fee." 
 
 "I'm not joking, nor fun poking, 
 
 Will you have me, John? 
 Speak it easy, do not tease me, 
 
 And let the shay go on. " 
 
 "I shall love you, while above you 
 
 The stars shall ever shine. 
 And the lightest and the brightest 
 
 Shall be forever thine. " 
 
 " Of the roses and the posies 
 
 That blossom in the spring, 
 All the neat ones and the sweet ones 
 
 To thee I'll fondly bring." 
 
 '< You know, my dear, that soon leap year 
 
 Will be forever gone. 
 Then I must wait without a mate 
 
 In sorrow and forlorn." 
 
 [ 337 ] 
 
'' Time is fleeting — pulses beating — 
 
 And life is running fast, 
 Love's sweet flowers to-day are ours, 
 
 But cannot always last." 
 
 "No more delay, but now to-day 
 I'll be your wife, dear John; 
 
 So tell me easy, do not tease me, 
 But let the shay go on." 
 
 Then John Dooly — gallant truly — 
 
 Answered in this wise; 
 " I am. Miss Newly, your most truly, 
 
 Your suit I '11 not despise. " 
 
 '^' For in my heart I We felt the smart 
 
 Before Leap Year begun. 
 Without a doubt, before it's out. 
 
 Our hearts will beat as one. " 
 
 " So now to-day — without delay — 
 
 I'll take yoii for my wife; 
 I '11 search the town for Parson Brown, 
 
 To make us one through life. " 
 
 No more baiting, no more waiting — 
 
 The work of life 's begun — 
 No more sporting, no more courting. 
 
 Love 's tournament is done. 
 
 Hands united, true love plighted 
 With hearts to beat as one; 
 
 Words well spoken — true love 's token— 
 The marriage work was done. 
 
 [ 338 ] 
 
Along the street their busy feet 
 
 Were flying fore and after, 
 With sweeter smile, that paused the while 
 
 Before the ringing laughter. 
 
 Their merry hearts — no more apart — 
 
 But beating warm together, 
 With solemn vow to ne'er allow, 
 
 A change in any weather. 
 
 December 31st, 1885. 
 
 [339] 
 
MOVING FORWARD. 
 
 Yes, the world is moving forward 
 
 From the fields of feudal strife — 
 Climbing up the hill of science, 
 
 Reaching for a higher life. 
 Yes, the thrill is in our pulses — 
 
 Flashing fire through every vein — 
 Proving man a living engine 
 
 With no throttle on the brain. 
 
 Chmbing upward, onward, ever. 
 With a yearning in the soul. 
 
 For the hidden key of nature 
 To unlock the wondrous whole. 
 
 Whose thought-power none can fathom- 
 Save the father of mankind — 
 
 Whose truth-light guides his children 
 With love's message through the mind. 
 
 On a higher plane of freedom 
 
 Than the world has ever known, 
 Man will build a peaceful kingdom — 
 
 Right forever on the throne. 
 Failure long has been the fashion. 
 
 Till the world is growing old. 
 And mankind has bowed in sorrow 
 
 When he heard the story told. 
 
 [ 340 ] 
 
Thought is searching in the present 
 
 For the errors of the past, 
 With its grasp upon the future — 
 
 Human bondage cannot last. 
 Error yields when human reason 
 
 Dares defend a human right; 
 Wrong will cease when even justice 
 
 Stays the bloody arm of might.^ 
 
 Men will think in spite of tyrants — 
 
 Who make laws to prop their throne — 
 Though men's thinking may be treason — 
 
 Honest men will do their own. 
 Mind no longer will be mortgaged 
 
 With the dogmas of the dead — 
 Thought and conscience cry for freedom, 
 
 As inspired by God o'er head. 
 
 Men no longer will be bonded 
 
 For the debt they never made; 
 Leave a mortgage on their children, 
 
 By their labor must be paid. 
 This the soul abhors as treason. 
 
 And replies with righteous scorn — 
 Believing God — a loving father — 
 
 Owns his children equal born. 
 
 Human reason is no sophist 
 
 With a plausible pretence. 
 When the scepter that it uses 
 
 Is the for-ce of common sense. 
 
 [ 341 ] 
 
Greed entrenched behind false logic 
 Long has held the truth at bay; 
 
 Now old fogy fogs are flying 
 As the bats from blazing day. 
 
 Every step of human progress 
 
 Has been stained with human gore 
 Greed has challenged every pathway; 
 
 Making Freedom's battle sore. 
 Still the colunm's moving forward 
 
 With a speed that naught can stay, 
 And the world's decisive battle 
 
 Will usher in a brighter day. 
 
 Time will cool the angry passions 
 
 That are surging through the land, 
 Then the badge of brutal bondage 
 
 Will be struck from every hand. 
 Stand erect, O! bold reformer, 
 
 Freedom's Ark is in your care; 
 Mankind looks to you for succor, 
 
 O ! man be true — where'er you are. 
 
 January 14th, 1895. 
 
 [342] 
 
SING, MY BROTHER. 
 
 Sing, my brother — the world spins by, 
 
 Unmindful of the sorrow 
 That ebbs and flows from human woes, 
 
 That misery's forced to borrow. 
 
 Toil, my brother — the idl^ world, 
 
 Enjoys our fruitful labor; 
 For man decrees that men like bees, 
 
 Must feed their dronish neighbor. 
 
 Think, my brother — the hungry world. 
 
 Is fed from labor's larder; 
 Our sweaty yield from shop and field, 
 
 But makes us live the harder. 
 
 Work, my brother, with hands and thought. 
 
 To keep off wolfish famine; 
 For want and work no one can shirk, 
 
 Except the sons of mammon. 
 
 This leisure world has cunning grown— 
 
 Remember that, my brother; 
 It rules the land with iron hand 
 
 By robbing one another. 
 
 [343] 
 
Sing, my brother, the world's sad sorig- 
 
 The gift to few is given — 
 Mortals below but seldom know, 
 
 Music's the song of Heaven. 
 
 Sing, my brother, the song of love, 
 For bleeding hearts are tender; 
 
 Though tearful eyes and broken sighs 
 But little solace render. 
 
 Sing, my brother, life's closing song, 
 For thought — not time — is fleetest; 
 
 Your swanlike song will not be long — 
 The last should be the sweetest. 
 
 May 13th, 1895. 
 
 [344] 
 
MOTHER EARTH. 
 
 Mother earth is a kind old mother, 
 She yields enough for all who need; 
 
 Though through all her years of plenty 
 She's not enough for the gut of greed. 
 
 "Give me more/' the horse-leech crieth, 
 Blood, more blood — its daily feed — 
 
 It just eats, to rob the living 
 Of the food that others need. 
 
 Hungry children, crying ever, 
 
 And begging for their daily bread. 
 
 Whose whole life is but a sorrow. 
 
 With yearning heart and aching head. 
 
 Helpless waifs in life's stern battl 
 Beggared by the laws of wealth — 
 
 Not by fate have they been cheated. 
 But the iron grasp of stealth. 
 
 So it's been through all the ages — 
 
 Will it be so ever more? 
 One half our race die as beggars, 
 
 With wolfish want e'er at their door. 
 
 August 1st, 1895 
 [345] 
 
SONG OF LIFE. 
 
 Life 's a never-ending flood 
 That sweeps the cycles by, 
 
 Flowing as the love of God, 
 That time will never dry. 
 
 Through the gate of birth it pours^ 
 A constant bubbling wave — 
 
 Outward through the gate of death, 
 And on beyond the grave. 
 
 An endless circle — on it flows — 
 Unchanging in its course, 
 
 Till laving at the feet of him — 
 The Ocean of its source. 
 
 Its rhythm thrills the longing soul 
 That craves a life sublime; 
 
 Somewhere in the realms beyond 
 The earthly scene of time. 
 
 Man on earth will cease to live 
 
 When the God of nature dies; 
 As life from antecedent life 
 . Must draw its fresh supplies. 
 
 [ 346 ] 
 
Life's deep fountain has no leaks 
 
 Where energies are lost, 
 Self-supplying nature feeds 
 
 The stream on which we 're toss 'd. 
 
 With listless swirl, on it flows 
 Through all the realms of time, 
 
 With no abatement in its tide, 
 In wonderment cublime. 
 
 What lies beyond the outer gate 
 
 No mortal eye has seen; 
 We only dream of what we hope. 
 
 Is hid beyond the screen. 
 
 And what that hope is based upon — 
 We still must dream again — 
 
 Till reason gives an answer forth. 
 To fix the faith of men. 
 
 Reason shows the only way — 
 The hght of truth to find— 
 
 And bring conviction to the heart 
 Of every thinking mind. 
 
 There is no end to love or life, 
 Or time's un weary wings; 
 
 For life is but the breath of God — 
 His love the song it sings. 
 
 August, 1895. 
 
 [347] 
 
I'VE WISHED AND WATCHED. 
 
 I've wished and watched, and waited long — 
 Thinking that right would conquer wrong, 
 Till my locks are gray with the mist of years, 
 And my eyes are filled with sorrow's tears. 
 And my heart is sick with hopes deferred. 
 And my muse is sad as an autumn bird. 
 I wait and dream, and dream and wait, 
 For hurrying feet of cruel fate; 
 There's no relief we're plainly told — 
 Labor must bear this cross of gold. 
 
 I sigh and sing, and sing and sigh — 
 The sordid world goes laughing by. 
 Heeding no sigh, nor even the song 
 I sing as it goes waltzing along. 
 Where greedy man through tyrant gold 
 Has robb'd his brother from time untold. 
 Lazarus sings, the Dives' feast — 
 The world is ruled by party and priest; 
 Gold and gain and grab and greed — 
 The only basis of the creed. 
 
 'Tis toil and sweat, and sweat and toil- 
 The fate of those who till the soil; 
 
 [348] 
 
The idle drones enjoy repose, 
 But own the crop before it grows. 
 Soon must labor learn the cause — 
 How it's robb'd through human laws — 
 Or be forever mammon's slave — 
 Doomed to fill a pauper's grave. 
 
 My life's sunset is drawing near — 
 The night of time will soon appear — 
 The unseen worlds shall meet my gaze, 
 Far out beyond the day's full blaze. 
 The full-fledged soul on new-tried wing, 
 Will sweep the field where Angels sing, 
 And there, somewhere — God knows best- 
 This weary soul will have some rest. 
 
 October ^th, 1895. 
 
 349] 
 
LITTLE GUS. SMITH. 
 
 (8 years old.) 
 
 Little Gus. Smith's a darling girl — 
 Voice as sweet as water's swirl; 
 Soft as sweet, and ringing clear, 
 Making music in my ear; 
 Waking echoes sweet and wild, 
 In my heart, my darling child. 
 
 Little Gus. Smith's a charming bird- 
 Song as sweet as ear has heard. 
 Trilling notes that ring so clear, 
 Always welcome to my ear. 
 Making echoes sweet and wild, 
 In my heart, my darling child. 
 
 Little Gus. Smith has lustrous eyes. 
 Where love's lurking lightning lies. 
 Darker than the wings of night. 
 Ere Aurora's glinting light 
 Wakes the echoes sweet and wild. 
 In my heart, my darling child. 
 
 Little Gus. Smith I'm now bereft — 
 On your cheek my kiss was left^ — 
 Love's good bye then was heard, 
 Like the chirp of lonely bird; 
 
 [ 350 ] 
 
Sorrow's sigh its pang imparts 
 My darling — little queen of hearts. 
 
 Little Gus. Smith should come to me — 
 Lonely waif on life's rough sea — 
 When its storms shall beat and chafe, 
 In my bosom she will be safe; 
 Soothing echoes sweet and wild 
 In my heart, thou darhng child. 
 
 December 6th, 1895. 
 
 [351] 
 
I SAW IN MY DREAMS. 
 
 I saw in my dreams a charming lass 
 Standing before my dreaming glass, 
 Smoothing her glossy locks of hair 
 Over a brow so bright and fair, 
 Shading those dreamy eyes below. 
 Like liquid pearls 'neath brows of snow; 
 And a latent spark within their lids — 
 Where often the charm of love is hid — 
 Till it sallies forth in quest of game, 
 To fire the heart with passion 's flame. 
 
 Her form was wrought in beauty's mold. 
 To live while memory 's treasures hold. 
 With jewels rare that love would bless, 
 Down in the bosom's deep recess. 
 Not in the lapse of time before, 
 A form so fair to love, adore; 
 Who woke in my heart a thousand thrills, 
 To throb and burn — but never still — 
 Till my heart was wild with love 's delight. 
 Which follows her form as shadows the light. 
 
 A part of my being she seems to be — 
 The only part that is living free — 
 
 [352] 
 
Forgetting this treacherous world of sin, 
 Where the worthy but seldom win, 
 But looking beyond the scenes of time, 
 Where life shall be a life sublime. 
 Never a word she deigned to speak — 
 Merit, in fact, is always meek — 
 Modesty, too — her crowning grace — 
 Queen-like shone in a queenly face. 
 Over a soul-lit face the while, 
 Suffused with love 's bewitching smile, 
 Like ripples over some placid lake 
 That zephyr's wings can easy wake; 
 Then quivering on the tranquil deep 
 And soon again are lost in sleep. 
 
 Then to the maiden, thus I spoke, 
 Who from her reverie awoke. 
 "What is your wish, O! maiden fair — 
 You with the soft and flowing hair — 
 Has Cupid 's arrow found its way 
 Into your heart this winter day? 
 What has this life for you in store — 
 Tears for your love and nothing more; 
 Or dost thou live to seek that fame. 
 Though when found is an empty name?'' 
 
 Then with a winsome smile she said — 
 With a toss of her curly head — 
 " I have no wish as you should know, 
 The Child of Fiction has no woe. 
 
 [ 353 ] 
 
I have no heart that man can bleed; 
 I have no wealth to fill his greed; 
 I am the food for fame indeed — 
 And on the like it must succeed. 
 And what the world may have in store 
 Is not for me or one as poor; 
 I only live in realms of air, 
 Where the ideal beauties are. " 
 
 " I live for him who loves me most, 
 And light his lamp when he is lost; 
 And when from earth he 's pass 'd away, 
 I still live on through endless day; 
 Not waning years nor ruthless time 
 Can steal or blot a thing of mine. 
 He that loves me must love me strong, 
 And wreath my love in living song. 
 So love me true and love me long. 
 And you with me shall live in song. " 
 
 " I am the maiden none can bind — 
 I only live in the Poet's mind — 
 The Child of Fancy and of Song, 
 And he who wins me, wooes me long. " 
 Out in the shadows dark and gray. 
 Then from my dream she passed iway 
 Into the silent gloom of night. 
 Flashing along as a meteor bright. 
 Wooing me on witn loving eyes — 
 Filling my heart with broken sighs. 
 
 [354] 
 
With yearning hopes that none can know 
 Who tread this vale of earth below; 
 Whose hopes are anchored on that shore 
 Where earthly dreams can come no more; 
 Where life is not a fading dream — 
 A bubble on wild fancy 's stream — 
 A hving truth that death defies; 
 A living soul that never dies — 
 Immortal in its every part — 
 Now burning in this aching heart. 
 
 December 13th, 1885 
 
 [355 
 
BACKWARD AND FORWARD. 
 
 Backward and forward the pendulum swings — 
 Keeping its beat to the measure of time; 
 
 The weights give motion to all of its springs, 
 Never one pause for its rhythm or chime. 
 
 Backward and forward the blood in our veins 
 Pulses and runs with its melodies rife. 
 
 Awakening new thoughts asleep in our brains; 
 Thrilling each soul with the music of life. 
 
 Backward and forw^ard the waters all run, . 
 
 Humming and singing down to the sea; 
 Then they go up on the beams of the sun, 
 
 And back to the earth in musical glee. 
 
 Backward and forward the numberless worlds 
 ST\dng to a center as needle to pole; 
 
 On through the endless sweep they must whirl- 
 God is the magnet around which they roll. 
 
 Backward and forward in the loom of time 
 
 The shuttle of hfe is flying fast; 
 On it will fly ^dth a rhythm sublime, 
 
 As long as the breath of God shall last. 
 
 [ 356 ] 
 
Onward, still onward, the march of old time 
 Measures and moves with a noiseless tread; 
 
 Still digging new graves in every sun clime, 
 To hide forever his numberless dead. 
 
 Everything circles wherever we gaze, 
 
 As matter and mind must circle and swing; 
 
 Matter's the same from the ancient of days. 
 While mind of its own eternity sings. 
 
 December 30th, 1895. 
 
 [3571 
 
THE BATTLE OF BALLOTS. 
 
 The battle of ballots this morning begun 
 When the sun lit up the hill tops of Maine, 
 
 And the battle will end when the day is done 
 And the light shall glint the western plain. 
 
 From ocean to ocean the lines are drawn; 
 
 To the wild, wild wind the banners are furled; 
 A shock must come when the day is done 
 
 That will wake the echoes around the world. 
 
 For a nation's fate in the scales is hung. 
 
 And her sons must strike with an arm that's bold; 
 
 Or bondage awaits the old and the young — 
 If all must bow to the idol of gold. 
 
 The battle of freedom to-day will be fought; 
 
 The alien no longer his grip must hold; 
 America's willing to father the thought — 
 
 Freemen for silver and robbers for gold. 
 
 Ring out the shouts, oh sons of the soil. 
 
 Echo the same from the shop and the loom; 
 
 Aliens no longer our heritage spoil, 
 
 And rob our fields of fruitage and bloom. 
 
 [ 358 ] 
 
Then stand by your ballots till bullets shall come — 
 For bullets and bayonets are better than slaves; 
 
 The music of cannon — the roll of the drum — 
 Will always be sweet in the ear of the brave. 
 
 Millions on millions are waiting to-day 
 To hear us send forth the slogan of war; 
 
 So long has the bayonet kept them at bay, 
 They're waiting the signal from freemen afar. 
 
 Be true to yourselves; be true to the brave; 
 
 Let Shylocks and Tories wheedle and whine; 
 Our fathers spilt-blood cries from the grave — 
 
 Freedom must live if our lives we resign. 
 
 November 3rd, 1896. 
 
 [359] 
 
LOVE'S LIFE'S LABOR'S LOST. 
 
 The stars may cease to shine, 
 
 The sun may fail to set, 
 But you will not forgive, 
 
 And I will not forget. 
 Some hearts are curious things — 
 
 Not valued at their cost — 
 But broken cups of love 
 
 With all their treasures lost. • 
 
 Love's life's labor's lost 
 
 With sorrow and regret, 
 Still you will not forgive, 
 
 And I cannot forget. 
 Life's battle has been long, 
 
 Its pleasures have been fleet. 
 The saddest thought of all — 
 
 We never more shall meet. 
 
 We have parted in life's maze 
 With no sorrow but regret. 
 
 You may ne'er forgive, 
 And I will ne'er forget. 
 
 The pang that severs hearts 
 Must leave a sting behind. 
 
 To rankle in the soul 
 
 . And fester in the mind. 
 
 [ 360 ] 
 
Oblivion has a charm — 
 
 We covet and coquette — 
 For you will not forgive, 
 
 And I can ne'er forget. 
 Then vain is love and hope, 
 
 And vainer still is hfe. 
 When martyred love must die 
 
 On the surging sea of strife. 
 
 Nmember 26th, ISSG. 
 
 [361 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 'Tis a crispy Christmas morning, 
 With its promise bright and fair; 
 
 Old Jack Frost has left his castle 
 In my window, over there. 
 
 Fairy forests filled with flowers, 
 And the frondous mountain fern. 
 
 In a web of beauty woven — 
 
 The art of muse may never learn. 
 
 He's the poet king of genius, 
 With his weird wisp and wand; 
 
 That is etching for the muses. 
 That no one can understand. 
 
 Fairy forms that fancy fashions — 
 True ideals of the soul — 
 
 That start up in silent dreaming, 
 That no muse can e'er control. 
 
 Dreams that memory holdeth ever, 
 That this world may never know. 
 
 Whose love song none can fathom, 
 As it has no outward flow. 
 
 [ 362 ] 
 
Circling on life's shoreless ocean — 
 Out beyond the muse's reach — 
 
 Where the wing of thought can wander, 
 But never blossom into speech. 
 
 So our heart throbs beat responsive, 
 
 To the tenor key of life, 
 As w^e swing in line for duty 
 
 Through the bogs of bitter strife. 
 
 There's a thrill in every fibre 
 That keeps pushing life along, 
 
 With a hope that's leaping forward — 
 Every heart beat is a song. 
 
 Guardian angels of our being — 
 That forever come and go — 
 
 To the flowers in love's garden. 
 The outer world will never know. 
 
 1896 
 
 363] 
 
THE WHITE MAN'S BURDEN. 
 
 Suggested by Kipling's poem "Take Up the White Man's Burden." 
 
 Lay down the white man's burden — 
 
 A self-imposing task — 
 You took it up for plunder — 
 
 The truth you cannot mask. 
 You load your ships with cannon, 
 
 And plow the oceans wild, 
 To conquer naked people. 
 
 And bondage every child. 
 
 Lay down the white man's burden — 
 
 Not savage wars, but peace — 
 And fill the mouths with plenty. 
 
 And bid starvation cease. 
 And feed no more the vultures 
 
 On flesh of human kind. 
 And quit this brutal folly, 
 
 And be not heathen-blind. 
 
 Lay down the white man's burden — 
 
 The iron law of Kings, 
 That steals from honest Labor 
 
 The Wealth that labor brings. 
 The fields that Labor enters, 
 
 While millions tramp and tread, 
 There's not much room for living, 
 
 And barely room for dead. 
 
 [ 364 ] 
 
Lay down the white man's burden— 
 
 And reap a new reward — 
 Don't rob him of his country, 
 
 And force him with your guard. 
 To cry that Justice humors 
 
 In asking for the right, 
 And not to be in bondage 
 
 To Gold and Greedy Might. 
 
 Lay down the White Man's burden- 
 
 And dare to stoop to less, 
 And call aloud to Freedom, 
 
 To help all wretchedness. 
 Don't talk to them in whispers; 
 
 Let all your words be true, 
 That ignorant, sullen people 
 
 May trust their God and you. 
 
 Lay down the White Man's Burden- 
 Have done with Murder's ways, 
 
 That gives not Christians honor. 
 But only bloody praise. 
 
 Go, search for noble manhood 
 Through all the wreck of years. 
 
 And learn the waste of Wisdom — . 
 The want of honest peers. 
 
 Lay down the White Man's Burden- 
 You took it up for pelf — 
 
 And not to help the heathen, 
 Before you help yourself. 
 
 [365] 
 
'Tis not to help the heathen 
 
 That Christians go to war, 
 To civiUze their brothers 
 
 With Missions always far. 
 
 Although with god-hke Reason, 
 
 They keep their devihsh Greed, 
 And aim to tame the heathen 
 
 By kilhng out his breed. 
 And yet — that maxim olden — 
 
 So oft we've heard it said — 
 " You never find good heathens, 
 
 Unless you find them dead. " 
 
 We dare not follow England — 
 
 She's marching round the world, 
 And wants another Planet 
 
 To have her flag unfurled. 
 Not for the love of human, 
 
 Not for the love of God, 
 Your armies stand in waiting, 
 
 To move at beck or nod ; 
 
 To crush some weaker nation. 
 
 And please your god of gain — 
 To fill with gold your coffers — 
 
 You'd rack the earth with pain. 
 To find new marts for traffic, 
 
 You'd compass land and sea, 
 And bondage all the living 
 . Instead of making Free. 
 
 February 22nd, 1899 
 [ 366 ] 
 
TELL ME, OH LIFE. 
 
 Tell me, oh life, in the rush of your wave, 
 
 If the tide ebbs on when over the grave, 
 
 With a rhythm like this we find on the earth — 
 
 A sigh or a song sung from our birth — 
 
 The saddest when old, the sweetest when young- 
 
 The song of the heart that sorrow has wrung? 
 
 I dream not, oh life, in the rush of your wave; 
 I will feel your swirl when over the grave. 
 When life has ebbed out it ebbs no more in ; 
 As the day dies out the night must begin. 
 As life is a song we sing in our day, 
 And singing but once, then passing away. 
 
 Tell me, oh life, as you're gliding along, 
 What force gives rhythm to all of your song; 
 Now leaping, then dashing wildly away 
 With a laugh or a sigh left on the spray; 
 Then sinking back in the maelstrom of time — 
 A bubble — that bursts in every earth clime? 
 
 Tell me, oh life, in the sweep of your wave, 
 If the soul lives on when over the grave; 
 If life is but a song, and death but a dream, 
 And hope but a phantom of lusterless gleam; 
 
 [367] 
 
If memory is lost in the wreck of life's years, 
 And sorrow gives birth to all of our tears? 
 
 What is your destiny — tell me, oh life — 
 Will you flow on through eternity's strife? 
 The inquisitive mind is thirsting to know 
 The source of your ebb — the end of its flow — 
 Your volume has swept the shores of old time. 
 Till the Eons are grey and frosted with rime; 
 But never a lull in the rush of your tide — 
 The living and dead — you surely divide. 
 
 No answer comes back from the rush of life's wave, 
 As nothing but silence is found in the grave; 
 The wing of life's thought is folded for aye, 
 And Night holds the scepter when life ebbs away, 
 And silence unbroken — forever — must sleep. 
 As time's horologue the vigils must keep. 
 
 The soul is a phantom of sterilized thought, 
 That dogma and creeds have cunningly caught, 
 And robbed it of what kind nature made sweet, 
 And filled it with fear it would not repeat; 
 But sighing adieu — it turns from the earth — 
 Forgetting the song it sung from its birth. 
 
 Backward, oh, life — I glance on your waves — 
 And think of the dreams that sleep in their graves; 
 Now phantom like barques on memory's dark sea 
 Are drifting away — forever from yrx^. — 
 Angels of hope — once dear to my soul — 
 Wrecked in life's storm I could not control. 
 
 August Uth, 1899. 
 
 [ 368 ] 
 
CIVILIZATION IS BOOMING. 
 
 Civilization is booming — 
 
 Fighting for glory and gold — 
 The strong — the battle is leading— 
 
 The story that's always been told. 
 Might is astride in the saddle , 
 
 Charging the ranks of the weak, 
 With bayonet, Mauser and Maxim — : 
 
 I shudder — the truth when I speak. 
 
 I never take sides with the bully, 
 
 Whose arm is stronger than mine; 
 If Right is crushed by his minions,. 
 
 Claiming his cause is divine. 
 God is no partner with tyrants, 
 
 Whose greed he never could fill, 
 Though robbing the angels of heaven, 
 
 And leading his armies to kill. 
 
 The Church is praying to save them; 
 
 The Army is shooting to kill; 
 And God is watching in silence 
 
 As neither is doing his will. 
 The quarrel is not of his choosmg. 
 
 As right is never in wrong. 
 Devils lead nations to murder. 
 
 And trample the weak by the strong. 
 
 [369] 
 
The Church seems pious — but craven— 
 
 The Army is cruel and brave; 
 Yet both are the agents of Mammon, 
 
 Damning the souls they should save. 
 It's Creed that's leading the Churches; 
 
 And Greed that's guiding the state; 
 But Craft is the boss of their numbers 
 
 That shadows the dial of fate. 
 
 Greed in the vanguard is leading — 
 
 The Church is closing the rear; 
 The Army is doing the killing; 
 
 The Church is drying the tear. 
 Orphans and widows are wailing, 
 
 And Famine is clapping its hands. 
 While earth is gloated with victims 
 
 Filling the grave in all lands. 
 
 The gods look blue on Olympus — 
 
 Valhalla's heroes are gay — 
 Blood has crowned them with laurel, 
 
 Embalmed forever and aye. 
 There is no hope for a nation 
 
 That loves to wallow in blood, 
 Under the cloak of the Christian, 
 
 When tapping humanity's flood. 
 
 Earth's hungry grabbers are reaching 
 To husband the Isles of the sea, 
 
 That Robbers of Labor may fatten, 
 Whose people they never will free. 
 
 [370 1 
 
The Lords of the Dollar are ruling; 
 
 Republics are crying in vain — 
 The Giant of nations has faltered, 
 
 And apathy courses its veins. 
 
 The siren of Empire is luring 
 
 Out on the treacherous waves, 
 Where Rome and Greece and Assyria 
 
 Sleep in their desolate graves. 
 The Lord of the earth is sowing, 
 
 But Death is binding the sheaves; 
 The eyes of Freedom are swollen 
 
 That hope no longer relieves. 
 
 The Gospel of Peace is not wanted — 
 
 Since war is the slogan of man — 
 Up through the centuries ringing, 
 
 And downward, not changing his plan. 
 Till ocean's red foam is a lather; 
 
 Her strand is drifted with bones; 
 Her dirge — an anthem of sorrow — 
 
 Echoed through all of earth's zones. 
 
 Oh, shame on the English Soldier! 
 
 While fighting on Spion Kop, 
 Whose bayonet plunged in woman 
 
 Till drinking her heart's last drop. 
 Foul demons should haunt his musing 
 
 And blacken his path to the grave; 
 No soldier that wars on woman 
 
 Is worthy a mother that's brave. 
 
 [371] 
 
The Kiplings and Austins are rhyming — 
 
 Disgracing fair Liberty's muse — 
 They sing at the bidding of tyrants; 
 
 And pay is their only excuse. 
 These poets of blood and of Carnage, 
 
 Now sowing their dragon's teeth — 
 Will reap some day a harvest, 
 
 Grown on their own native heath. 
 
 Yes, civilization is booming — 
 
 All savagery dying or dead — 
 While Chamberlain, McKinley and Hanna 
 
 Are painting the earth all red. 
 The Giants of Greed have united; 
 
 The Titans must cower and wail; 
 This brace is backing the dollar — 
 
 Thinking it never can fail. 
 
 Friendship that's measured by dollars 
 
 Is always a spurious kind; 
 Coined in the heart of a miser. 
 
 To pass on those that are blind. 
 Instinct — the mother of reason — 
 
 Unerring as light of the suns. 
 Never accused of deceiving — 
 
 The wiles of hypocrites shuns. 
 
 April 15ih, 1900. 
 
 [372 1 
 
THREE KINGS. 
 
 Kotton, Korn and Koal are Kings — 
 The busy world cannot disown — 
 
 And Uncle Sam in spite of things 
 Keeps the triune on their throne. 
 
 The world may jeer, or smile, or frown- 
 No difference it makes with him — 
 
 While Freedom's stars are in his crown 
 Their holy hght will never dim. 
 
 May 2 1st J 1900. 
 
 373 
 
LOVE'S SONG. 
 
 Come where the flowers are blooming; 
 
 Come with a lover's care; 
 Come to our place of trysting, 
 
 You'll find me waiting there. 
 
 When heart to heart is beating 
 
 When lip to lip is pressed, 
 And soul with soul is dreaming, 
 
 And love with love is blessed. 
 
 Our hearts are made for loving; 
 
 Our lips are made to kiss, 
 And love's the wage for loving — 
 
 The seal of earthly bliss. 
 
 I hear the spring birds singing 
 Their sweet and trilling note, 
 
 Till woodlands ring with music 
 On airy wings afloat. 
 
 I dream the dream of lovers, 
 When life was in its spring; 
 
 When love was just a blossom — 
 A budding tiny thing; 
 
 r 374] 
 
And hope a star effulgent — 
 With no ecUpse in sight — 
 
 Was gilding life's horizon, 
 But sank at last in night. 
 
 April 23rd, 1900. 
 
 [ 375 ] 
 
LIFE'S DREAM IS FADING. 
 
 Life is a dream that is fading; 
 
 My locks are white with the years; 
 My eyes are dimmed with a sorrow 
 
 That's flooded them often with tears. 
 
 Life's hopes are withered and dying, 
 They spring in my bosom no more; 
 
 There is no beacon now shining, 
 Guiding the ship to a shore. 
 
 Though time has taught me a lesson. 
 
 And quieted all of my fears; 
 His plowshare — though rugged — has furrowed 
 
 A channel for all of my tears. 
 
 My bosom is drained to its center; 
 
 Its moodings of sorrow have passed, 
 And nothing is left but the aching; 
 
 The crisis is coming at last. 
 
 Of the dreams that lurk in my bosom — 
 The one that thrills me the most, 
 
 Is knowing life's fever is over 
 On earth's dark desolate coast. 
 
 [376] 
 
Outside of the pale of the living, 
 Where memory's sure to forget, 
 
 And rest is the pillow of sorrow, 
 That Life can never regret. 
 
 April 24th, 1900. 
 
 [377] 
 
JOHN BULL. 
 
 John Bull is on the rampage — 
 
 His bloody hands must rule- 
 He's searching now in Africa 
 To find the Golden Stool. 
 
 Yes, all the gold and diamonds 
 Are coveted by John — 
 
 Except the Golden Rule — 
 And that he's sitting on. 
 
 John's in love with mammon — 
 The foulest fiend of night — 
 
 His hands are always bloody 
 From crucifying right. 
 
 April 26, 1900. 
 
 [378 ] 
 
THE MAN WITH A GUN. 
 
 Pause in the front of life 's battle 
 
 And look at the man with a gun 
 Who thinks he 's fighting for freedom, 
 
 But freedom he never has won. 
 He still is the tool of the tyrant — 
 
 Enslaved in the childhood of life — 
 His blood 's been wasted as water, 
 
 Not calming the tempest of strife. 
 
 Ignorance has kept him in bondage — 
 
 And still he 's unwilling as yet 
 To leave the god of his fathers. 
 
 Who ^s altar he 's slow to forget. 
 He is at war with the heathen, 
 
 And he seems in truth to believe, 
 That God is backing the christian, 
 
 Who causes so many to grieve. 
 
 If the gun is the world 's civilizer. 
 
 Then the God of nature is wrong — 
 Who sets up the weak as a target — 
 
 The sport of the greedy and strong. 
 Then destiny 's nothing but murder — 
 
 No being his duty can shirk — 
 If man is the agent of Heaven, 
 
 He is doomed to do bloody work. 
 
 [379] 
 
Something we find in his nature, 
 
 And puzzling it is to his mind — 
 Not even the wisest of wise men 
 
 Have ever been able to find. 
 Still nature is nature forever, 
 
 And nature will never weed out, 
 While man 's out gunning for heathens 
 
 In islands all scattered about. 
 
 Civilization is marching 
 
 Out of the night of the past, 
 Into the night of the future, 
 
 Not knowing how long it will last. 
 Greed has a hold on the throttle, 
 
 Astride of the sea and the land, 
 Holding the coffers of mammon 
 
 Enclosed in the palms of his hand. 
 
 History often has told us — 
 
 Her story should never grow old- — 
 That freedom is wasted by tyrants. 
 
 And done through the power of goldr 
 While the man with the gun keeps killing. 
 
 And sorrow still follows his trail; 
 Till all earth 's heathens are murdered 
 
 The christian can never prevail. 
 
 June 21st, 1900. 
 
 380] 
 
OUR LINEN WEDDING. 
 
 Thirty-five years to-day, sweet wife, 
 We've jogged life's road together, 
 
 With hand in hand, and heart to heart, 
 Through calm and rugged weather. 
 
 Fortune has wasted no smiles, sweet wife — 
 
 Making us happy together — 
 As troth for troth has been love 's faith, 
 
 Regardless of the weather. 
 
 Many dear friends have left, sweet wife. 
 Since we joined hearts together; 
 
 But memory still their names keep sweet. 
 In life's unchanging weather. 
 
 Our love still holds the fort, sweet wife. 
 
 In spite of wintry weather; 
 Though storms may toss our sinking barque. 
 
 We '11 brave the waves together. 
 
 ^Life's sun is going down, sweet wife. 
 
 As down we ghde together; 
 But no forecast beyond its set, 
 
 Can tell the change of weather. 
 
 [381] 
 
Life 's dream will then be o 'er, sweet wife, 
 When death shall snap the tether, 
 
 And silence reign, where love once sung, 
 Its song — for us — together. 
 
 July 10th, 1900. 
 
 [382] 
 
THE NEW CENTURY. 
 
 Light is the step of the new bom year 
 
 That starts the century apace; 
 'Twill drain the eyes of many a tear 
 
 And flood the cheek of the human race. 
 A bloody grave for the dead old year; 
 
 A bloody crown for the new born heir. 
 Is there a hope not fraught with fear — 
 
 The Man of Peace must still despair? 
 
 Out of the dim dark years to come 
 
 We look and wait for what's in store; 
 The dark browed Future 's lips are dumb, 
 
 No arc light o 'er the transom door. 
 The tell-tale days will come in time 
 
 And fill our ears with tidings new; 
 Men will dream of an unknown clime, 
 
 And hope to make their dreamings true 
 
 Somewhere out in its somber folds 
 
 An undug grave is waiting me; 
 The hand of fate now trembling holds 
 
 The threads, when broke, will set me free. 
 We know not when the dawning broke; 
 
 We know not when the dusk will fall; 
 We only know that life awoke, 
 
 And man in swaddlings learned to crawl. 
 
 [383] 
 
Then up life 's steep ascent he rose 
 
 Through the labyrinth of time; 
 Treading beneath his feet his foes — 
 
 Leaving his mark on every clime. 
 He chipped his flint and bent his bow, 
 
 And rubb ^d his hatchet to an edge, 
 Then sent them flying at his foe, 
 
 Or brained it with a hatchet sledge. 
 
 His arrow-heads o 'er all the earth 
 
 But show the path where once he sped, 
 But none can find his place of birth 
 
 In all the annals of the dead. 
 Old Empire builders of the earth — 
 
 Through waiting hope and trying fears — 
 Forgot their origin and birth 
 
 As time reeled off the rounded years. 
 
 So night hung out a pall of gloom 
 
 That covered up the birth of race; 
 Though man should search to the end of doom 
 
 He'll never find a starting place. 
 It matters not where man arose; 
 
 It matters not where he goes down — 
 From dust he came — to dust he goes — 
 
 His life work is his noblest crown. 
 
 Through all the cycles of the past 
 
 Old Brigand Greed has robbed the Stat( 
 
 As long as life and time shall last 
 'Twill be the hidden hand of fate: 
 
 [ 384 ] 
 
'Twill snatch the bread it cannot eat 
 And house it up in mural walls, 
 
 While hunger begs from street to street 
 And in the filthy gutter falls. 
 
 " One purpose through the ages runs :" 
 
 When man was seeking just his own, 
 Who loved to spike his neighbor's guns 
 
 And keep himself upon a throne. 
 The King was law — through Priest or Pope 
 
 He led his vassals by the nose — 
 Young freedom dared not even hope 
 
 To rend the shackles of its foes. 
 
 But time has worn some tyrants out. 
 
 And right is calling for its own; 
 The truth 's no longer hedged about 
 
 By falsehood sitting on a throne. 
 The fetters of the mind are broke, 
 
 And thought — electric — kindling flies; 
 Though man so long has worn the yoke 
 
 That dwarfed him in his destinies. 
 
 Will time make right the wrongs of men. 
 
 And change the current of his fife? 
 Make war and peace 'twixt clan and clan 
 
 And quell the bickering of strife? 
 Is man a cipher in his sphere 
 
 With naught to do but dream and wait; 
 Is he not lord and master here — 
 
 The architect of human fate? 
 
 Time is the warp on which he weaves 
 His never ending web of deeds; 
 
 [ 385 ] 
 
Though good or ill he still believes 
 That truth ^s the basis of his creeds. 
 
 His time-worn creeds will wane and die 
 And in oblivion 's ocean sink, 
 
 Ere truth 's revealing secrets fly 
 That teaches every one to think. 
 
 With spectroscope he counts the stars — 
 "Four hundred milhons" circling roll; 
 Beyond the iceberg 's glittering bars 
 
 He 's making search to find the Pole. 
 With gazing eyes and outstretched arms 
 J He 's reaching for the planet Mars, 
 Whose signal from Pike 's Peak alarms 
 No citizens among the stars. 
 
 The untold million worlds that shine; 
 
 The burning lamps of the Universe; 
 No one their secrets may unfold 
 
 Or half their story e 'er rehearse. 
 Fathomless as their ocean blue — 
 
 That holds them in its fond embrace — 
 Time's pensioner — Man — vainly bows. 
 
 Lost in the labyrinth of Space. 
 
 On every sea his armored ships; 
 
 Around the earth his palace cars, 
 Above the earth he's making trips. 
 
 And photographing all the stars. 
 Under the sea and in the air 
 
 His deadly guns will float and fly, 
 As Pirate Greed will not despair 
 
 While there 's a living man to die. 
 
 [386] 
 
Ere long across the ocean wild 
 
 O'er crag or floor of rugged stone, 
 The mermaid's long neglected child 
 
 May learn the message o 'er his phone. 
 The waves of ether 's tripping feet 
 
 Will bear his message 'round the world, 
 And light extracted without heat 
 
 Will greet his banner when unfurled. 
 
 There 's naught too deep for him to dare. 
 
 And naught so wild he cannot tame; 
 Corral the lightnings of the air, 
 
 And light his cities with her flame. 
 Thought is the niessage from his mind 
 
 Out of the mintage of his will. 
 Whose secret force by him designed. 
 
 Its waiting mission must fulfill. 
 
 His thoughts are blossoms of his deeds 
 
 That ripen into good or ill; 
 When reason gives the aid he needs 
 
 His thoughts are subjects of his will. 
 He searches for the truth of cause 
 
 And finds the product of effect. 
 Which gives him knowledge of the laws 
 
 That hope and reason might expect. 
 
 He learns to right his own mistakes. 
 And quits the ruts his fathers trod; 
 
 And from the night of bondage wakes 
 And finds his feet with lightning shod. 
 
 [m] 
 
Still on he moves, with restless speed; 
 
 The lightning flashing from his hand, 
 Till burning hoof of mettled steed 
 
 Paws the dust of every land. 
 
 Democracy 's the voice of God 
 
 To scourge oppression from the earth, 
 Whose bloody hand and iron rod 
 
 Has robbed him of his right of birth. 
 The earth is now its camping ground, 
 
 With Love embossed upon its shield; 
 And death to every tyrant crowned 
 
 Before it quits the battle-field. 
 
 Civilization will fly the track — 
 
 If Glutton Greed keeps on the train — 
 It turns the tide of Progress back, 
 
 Engulfing all in night 's domain. 
 God might as well blot out the race 
 
 And have no longer cringing slaves, 
 Who fear to take their rightful place 
 
 With freedom growing on their graves. 
 
 The Century is moving out — 
 
 The Heir of all the ages fled — ■ 
 And Thinking Man, the daring Scout, 
 
 Will pick his flint and go ahead. 
 Endowed with Courage, Love and Hope, 
 
 He greets the future with a will. 
 When climbing up life 's sunny slope, 
 
 His waiting destiny to fulfill. 
 
 "Let the dead past bury its dead" — 
 The living for the living work; 
 
 [388 ] 
 
The bravest men have always led — 
 The cowards are the ones who shirk. 
 
 The pioneers of human thought 
 
 Are those who study Nature's laws; 
 
 For truth 's own sake the truth have sought, 
 And found a reason for a cause. 
 
 The tell-tale cycles onward roll 
 
 And strike upon the outward beach; 
 Yet none can answer for the soul — 
 
 Its destiny no one can preach. 
 Out of the morning mist it sprung, 
 
 And on the waves of time was cast; 
 Its matin hymn of life it sung — 
 
 Its vesper hymn will be its last. 
 
 Behind the screen, the Unknown Cause — 
 
 The Force that makes the planets roll — 
 The Pendulum enforcing laws. 
 
 Yet silent as the ether's swirl. 
 The Author of the Universe — 
 
 The Spirit of the wondrous whole — 
 Whose Oracle could man rehearse 
 
 Would solve the longing of the soul. 
 
 January 15th, 1901. 
 
 [ 389 ] 
 
THE SHENANDOAH. 
 
 Listen to the Shenandoah — 
 
 Brightest " Daughter of the stars " — 
 As it murmurs down the valley 
 
 To Potomac battle scars; 
 Where the thunder peals of battle, 
 
 Shook the very hills around, 
 When the North man and the South man 
 
 Tested every foot of ground. 
 
 There the wonder-working Jackson, 
 
 Whose army never knew defeat — 
 Victory was on his banner 
 
 In attack or in retreat; 
 There the somber brow of Ashby 
 
 To avenge his brother's blood, 
 Yielded up a gallant spirit — 
 
 In the sanguinary flood. 
 
 There the fearless-peerless Mosby — ■ 
 
 Eagle-eyed and daring man — 
 Did avenge the death of Ashby, 
 
 Thwarting every foeman's plan. 
 Where was he, the knightly Stuart? 
 
 The bravest knight of all his line — 
 Swinging around McClellan 's Army 
 
 With a daring in design. 
 
 [390] 
 
There the nameless soldier — private — 
 
 With no wreath about his name, 
 Though the faithful child of freedom, 
 
 But neglected child of fame; 
 Nearly forty summer's flowers 
 
 Have been lavished on their graves. 
 Who on freedom 's altar perished 
 
 For the land they could not save. 
 
 There are words no lips have spoken; 
 
 Many songs no one has sung, 
 Yet to stir patriot bosoms, 
 
 When the minstrel's harp is strung. 
 In the silence of our sorrow — 
 
 Though the world but little knows 
 Of the calumny and slander 
 
 Heaped upon us by our foes. 
 
 Still we bear it all in patience, 
 
 Trusting to the truth of time, 
 When the truthful pen of Clio 
 
 Will its numbers weave in rhyme. 
 They will need no battle Abbey 
 
 To advertise their humble name. 
 They were freedom 's matchless soldiers— 
 
 Their inheritance is fame. 
 
 Calumny may spit its poison. 
 
 And waste its froth to blacken names, 
 But can never bribe the future, 
 
 And rob the worthy of their fame. 
 
 [391] 
 
Fame's the tribute paid to virtue, 
 That love embalms in daring deeds, 
 
 Through the light of truths endeavor, 
 And not the Ignis Fatuus Greed. 
 
 See the Blue Ridge tinged with azure — 
 
 Mirrored in its limpid waves — 
 Monument of coming ages 
 
 Looking down upon their graves. 
 Whence the tripping feet of angels, 
 
 Till man 's feet with freedom shod 
 Will encamp to swell the anthem. 
 
 Going up from man to God. 
 
 Listen to the Shenandoah 
 
 As it murmurs on its bed, 
 With its never dying story 
 
 Of our dear departed dead. 
 It will hum the sad, sweet story 
 
 When I 'm sleeping with the dead, 
 When some grand and sweeter minstrel 
 
 Strikes his numbers o 'er their head. 
 
 I have often heard it murmur 
 
 When my life was in its spring. 
 But no more will hear its music, 
 
 Soon my Muse will cease to sing. 
 Soon I '11 pass beyond the shadows. 
 
 Where my comrades most have fled. 
 While the vigils of the future 
 
 Will keep watch above the dead. 
 
 February 5th, 1901. 
 [ 392 ] 
 
NOTES OF SPRING. 
 
 Balmy breeze from the bonny south, 
 As fragrant as the rose's mouth, 
 Breathing incense from love's heart 
 That gives the passion's pulse a start; 
 Arousing nature from her sleep 
 Where silence can no longer keep. 
 As life awakes with magic thrill 
 Its endless mission to fulfill. 
 
 I hear the robin's piping note 
 On the morning's breezes float. 
 Mingle with the bluebird's cries, 
 Just returned from southern skies. 
 The pewee comes with ashen wing — 
 It nods its head and tries to sing; 
 There's not much music in its song — 
 To nature's choir it must belong. 
 
 The tiny wren, with wondrous tail — 
 It builds its nest in a hollow rail — 
 Lays half a dozen speckled eggs; 
 And wanton boys it often begs. 
 Or lures them off with fluttering cry 
 Until its nestlings are passed by; 
 
 [393 1 
 
And then we hear its medley lay — 
 Fal-de-ral, de-riddle, de-da. 
 
 The catbird comes the first of May, 
 And in. the lilac loves to stay ; 
 As there it's built its nest for years, 
 As naught disturbs — to cause it fears. 
 While its discordant notes sometimes 
 Are woven into mocking rhymes, 
 Like mewing cats, or mountain thrush. 
 In morning dawn, or evening hush. 
 
 The noiseless butterflies are out — 
 On wabbling wings they flit about — 
 Like summer friends they flit and fly. 
 And when in want they pass us by. 
 When friendly beams no longer shine. 
 They leave us for a fairer clime. 
 
 Spring is the resurrection's morn — 
 Out of the tomb of winter born — 
 The grave's habilaments are lost, 
 And dormant life its line has crossed. 
 While solar heat, the source of life. 
 Awakes and warms a current rife, 
 And joyous thrills through nature steal. 
 That every form of life must feel, 
 Till impassioned nature's wondrous whole 
 Feels the throbbing of a soul. 
 
 [ 394 1 
 
When nature's in her smiUng mood, 
 There's music in the sohtude — 
 A rapture and enchanting thrill 
 That naught but nature's voice can fill. 
 A secret yearning of the soul, 
 Through the mystic realms to stroll, 
 And gambol on some fairy isle 
 Where waiting muses fondly smile. 
 
 May 23rd, 1901. 
 
 [3957 
 
THE LAMBS AT PLAY. 
 
 Follow your leader — one seems to say — 
 And then the lambs begin to play — 
 Off they gallop — forward and back — 
 Each must follow the leader's track; 
 Circle and swing wherever he runs — 
 That is the lambkins' joy and fun. 
 
 Over the log and around the stump; 
 On the log, then off they jump — 
 Circle and swing around the tree, 
 None so happy as lambkins free; 
 Frolic and fun is never done 
 Until the lambkins ' race is run. 
 
 They pause and pant — a moment wait- 
 Then off again at a rapid gait; 
 " Nipity cut " they bound away, 
 Faster and faster all must play ; 
 Circle and swing around the stump, 
 On the log, then off they jump. 
 
 Now in the shade they pant and wait — 
 Dreaming not of their coming fate — 
 Innocence has no doubt or fear; 
 No thought of death is ever near. 
 For life and love are doubly sweet — 
 A loveless life is incomplete. 
 
 [396] 
 
Yet man is savage all his days; 
 He slays and kills because it pays. 
 His greed is hard to satisfy — 
 All nature 's herds give him supply, 
 To keep his stalls well filled with meat- 
 Just because he lives to eat. 
 
 AprH 20th, 1900. 
 
 [397] 
 
ON LIFE'S BRIDGE. 
 
 On the bridge of life I am waiting, 
 
 As its sweeping tide goes by; 
 And the night of time grows darker 
 
 As the moments swiftly fly, 
 Tis the darkest night of being, 
 
 With no hght beyond the gloom 
 Where old Chaos reigns forever 
 
 With its seal upon the tomb. 
 
 Life's old song is growing fainter, 
 
 And its embers cooling slow; 
 And the pulse is not so rapid 
 
 As it was in manhood's glow. 
 Though my joints are not as nimble, 
 
 And my strength is not as great, 
 Still my vision is not clouded 
 
 By the phantom fogs of fate. 
 
 When the song of life has ended, 
 
 And its mu^ic died away, 
 I may not be long remembered 
 
 Much beyond a passing day. 
 It will not disturb my slumbers. 
 
 And my memory will not smart, 
 If the world should be forgetful 
 
 Of its bruised but faithful heart. 
 
 [ 398 ] 
 
I have had my days of sorrow, 
 
 That have robbed me of hfe's hope; 
 And have sealed me in a dungeon 
 
 That timers key no more can ope. 
 There's no tremor in my bosom — 
 
 Not a quaking fear or doubt — 
 No forebodings or a dreading 
 
 When the tide is ebbing out. 
 
 Though its rippHng, gurgUng anthem 
 
 With its music in the soul, 
 Which entranced me with love's fever, 
 
 It ere long must cease to roll. 
 When this old deserted castle — 
 
 Where my life has dwelt so long — 
 Will then crumble back to ashes. 
 
 And no more be thrilled with song. 
 
 AprU 27th, 1901. 
 
 [399] 
 
WHEN LOVE AWAKES. 
 
 When love awakes, just clip his wings, 
 And keep him in thy woman 's heart, 
 
 Lest he to thee some sorrow brings, 
 With sorrow 's never ending smart. 
 
 It is not best to love too soon ; 
 
 It is unwise to love too late; 
 Though none should ever pass life 's noon. 
 
 Ere love should find a loving mate. 
 
 True love 's the angel of the soul — 
 The burning passion of the breast — 
 
 Its flame no fear can e 'er control. 
 Until it burns itself to rest. 
 
 Some hearts are false^some hearts are true — 
 Yet all have felt the pangs of love; . 
 
 Though true or false, no heart can rue 
 The early cooings of its dove. 
 
 While love on wings forever flies — 
 The messenger from heart to heart — 
 
 Its welcome visit — none denies. 
 
 Must feel its balm till life shall part. 
 
 August 15th, 1901. 
 [ 400 1 
 
OUT OF COSMIC DARKNESS. 
 
 When out of cosmic darkness, 
 
 And into conscious dawn. 
 The pulse of hfe beginning 
 
 When the veil of mist was drawn. 
 A thrilling soul and yearning — 
 
 With a destiny sublime — 
 Then starts upon its outing 
 
 To sail the sea of time. 
 
 Yet no one ever knoweth 
 
 When the lamp of life was lit, 
 Nor the dying e 'er remember 
 
 When the throbbing heart has quit; 
 But time with ceaseless ebbing 
 
 Will usher in the day 
 When life will end its dreaming, 
 
 Then back again to clay. 
 
 Though out of unknown darkness 
 
 Into the living Now, 
 Then back to unknown darkness 
 
 We all again must bow. 
 A dream no one remembers; 
 
 A hope no one will find; 
 Lost in Night 's Oblivion — 
 
 As long as ages grind. 
 
 [401i| 
 
Along the dim dark pathway, 
 
 Amid the abysm's gloom, 
 Still onward and forever 
 
 Unconscious of its doom. 
 Our fancy fails to follow 
 
 The hidden path we tread, 
 From childhood's rocking cradle, 
 
 To age ^s hoary head. 
 
 What is the dream we 're dreaming, 
 
 And what 's the aim of hfe. 
 And what 's the price we 're paying 
 
 To conquer in the strife? 
 Is love the blissful Eden, 
 
 And fame the beacon light, , 
 That lures us in life's journey 
 
 To the folding tent of night ? 
 
 Through sunless nights of sorrow, 
 
 And starless nights of pain. 
 When lips could only murmur. 
 
 And eyes were drenched in rain, 
 With achings in the bosom — 
 
 The yearning heart 's appeal — ■ 
 With none among its kindred 
 
 Its dying pang could feel. 
 
 Is hope a wizard leading. 
 
 Whose end we '11 never reach, 
 Just like the fabled Sirens — 
 . A mythic language teach? 
 
 [ 402 ] 
 
That leads us on forever, 
 As the seven colored bow, 
 
 That spans our life 's horizon, 
 Whose end we 11 never know? 
 
 If man could solve the secret, 
 
 He'd not a moment wait. 
 Till truth had conquered error. 
 
 And changed the laws of fate. 
 So right could rule the kingdom, 
 
 With love in every breast; 
 Then earth would be the heaven. 
 
 And none would be oppressed. 
 
 November 11th, 1901. 
 
 [403] 
 
THE TWAIN ARE ONE. 
 
 You may search this earth from zone to zone — 
 
 Nothing is fomid that is hving alone — 
 
 Life is in twain wherever you find 
 
 A pair to produce the seed of its kind. 
 
 Life is a boon each jointly must share, 
 To scatter their issue in water or air; 
 As naught in the home of nature can live, 
 Unless it receives and's willing to give. 
 
 There's nothing that lives but early or late 
 In life's sojourn will welcome its mate; 
 From the kinship of type their line will descend. 
 Till time shall decree their species to end. 
 
 New forms of life forever will rise, 
 
 To fill up the space when the older one dies, 
 
 And, ad infinitum, forever will roll 
 
 The parts not greater — but equal the whole. 
 
 In time's whirligig of strenuous strife, 
 Water and air are the seeds of all life; 
 The eldest of pairs in the wide universe, 
 If time's horologue — the truth could rehearse. 
 
 The twain are but one — in searching you'll find 
 It takes just a pair to father a kind; 
 
 [404] 
 
And not one alone in all the wide earth 
 Can claim the origin of anything 's birth. 
 
 The flora of earth wherever it blows — 
 Ih tropical climes or in arctic snows — 
 Awakes to the light and kisses the air, 
 Argues that life is the fruit of a pair. 
 
 Two feet and two hands, two nostrils, behold ! 
 Two eyes to look on the wonders of old; 
 Two ears to hear those marvelous things 
 That come from two lips with melodies ring. 
 
 A pair of great lungs enclosed in the breast; 
 A heart with two valves that never can rest; 
 With a right and a left lobe of the brain — 
 The home of the mind where reason must reign. 
 
 Yet these are not all the pairs that we find 
 Wrapped in the make up of man and his kind. 
 Who is the masterful wonderful pair, 
 In wisdom and knowledge none can compare? 
 
 December 28th, 1902. 
 
 [405] 
 
ON THE RUINS. 
 
 In life's ever-blooming garden; 
 
 In the fadeless fields of time, 
 Man is building on the ruins 
 
 Of his race in every clime. 
 Debris covers up the ashes 
 
 Of the vanished tribes of man, 
 Who have gambolled o'er the planet 
 
 Since his journey first began. 
 
 Through the musty tome of ages 
 
 You can read between the lines, 
 That the subtle soul enslaver 
 
 Made him bow at priestly shrines. 
 Telling him the God of nature 
 
 Would be angry with his own, 
 Else he paid a tithe to dogma 
 
 Who keeps watch around his throne. 
 
 Tis the wonder of the ages — 
 
 Man the truth will never learn — 
 Gazing on the brazen serpent, 
 
 From the calf will never turn. 
 Ignorance — appalling darkness — 
 
 'Twixt the Light of him and truth, 
 Hung by priestly superstition, 
 
 That to conscience is uncouth. 
 
 [ 406 ] 
 
Why the hps of truth are muzzled; 
 
 Error with its babbhng tongue, 
 Lisping falsehood to the many, 
 
 When the truth is never sung. 
 Though the heathen in his blindness 
 
 Bows to gods of wood and stone; 
 Others bow to musty volumes, 
 
 That no God would ever own. 
 
 June 16th, 190S. 
 
 [4071 
 
THE LEAGUE OF THE FOUR. 
 
 "This way, Freemen!" — a freeman once cried, 
 And those that loved freedom stepped to his side, 
 And bidding defiance they stood in the breach, 
 Determined this tyrant — a lesson to teach. 
 And day after day — as time wore away — 
 The battle was close and hot every fray, 
 Undaimted and true — the league of the four 
 Had plighted their faith as freemen before, 
 And smiling at fate they stood on the field. 
 If need be to die, — but never to yield. 
 
 For honor and shame were poised in the scales, 
 This one or that one was bound to prevail. 
 So evenly balanced none ventured to say, 
 Which one of the two he thought would outweigh. 
 Though strange it might seem for me to relate, 
 That honor had sunk in the market of late; 
 Yes, fallen so low — I scarce can tell why — 
 That which is offered — a breakfast won't buy; 
 Cornered perhaps by the bulls and the bears. 
 As the boss and his tools have none to spare. 
 
 But the wrath of the boss grew hotter indeed; 
 " We '11 grind them to dust " 'twas quickly agreed, 
 "Let sackcloth and ashes" cover them o'er, 
 And hide from my thoughts their names evermore. 
 
 [ 408 il 
 
The mills of the boss were soon under way, 
 Like the mills of the gods they ground every day; 
 And grinding by turn, when grinding they must, 
 They never could grind these freemen to dust; 
 But firm as the hills they stood at their post — 
 Eye meeting eye of the boss and his host — 
 Daring and doing what freemen could do 
 When conscience to self and country is true. 
 
 They came in great swarms from valley and hill, 
 
 The '^ spoils committee'^ had places to fill; 
 
 The Valley and Piedmont, the great Southwest, 
 
 And Tidewater too, along with the rest. 
 
 All anxious to find a cozy warm nest. 
 
 Wherein to take their much needed rest; 
 
 All striving alike — Boss William to see — 
 
 To touch the hem of his garment, and be 
 
 A dog or a slave to whine at his feet, 
 
 And taste of the crumbs all cowards must eat. 
 
 The boss with his schemes was daring and bold — 
 
 Striving for power and grasping at gold — 
 
 Knowing no bounds to insatiate greed, 
 
 His ambitious strides were fearful indeed. 
 
 Power and place were all that he sought, 
 
 His wealth was the means by which they were bought, 
 
 Senates and Courts his weapons of war. 
 
 Virtue and justice to trample and mar. 
 
 With a hireling press all over the State, 
 
 The brave to insult — the truth to misstal 
 
 The boss and his subs who bowed at his 
 Exhausted in fact their wonderful skill — 
 
 [ 409 ] 
 
 tate. 
 is wilp^ 
 
Like courtiers they bowed with blandest of smiles, 
 But freemen were deaf to all of their wiles. 
 They knowing full well that Satan and Sin, 
 Resort to such tricks when striving to win. 
 Retreating though oft — as often renew, 
 To see what the wiles of cunning could do; 
 Baffled so often — confiding in hope — 
 And making good use of the Devil 's soft soap, 
 Till flattery seemed to pall on the taste. 
 And the wrath of the gods going to waste. 
 
 They promised, they begged — but begging in vain — 
 
 Offered them office if they would remain. 
 
 And stick to the party through thick and through thin 
 
 And stand by the Caucus that party might win. 
 
 But honor stood guard by night and by day, 
 
 Never turned pale when it looked on the fray; 
 
 But brighter and brighter true honor grows. 
 
 Throwing its light in the face of its foes. 
 
 A pearl of such price no broker can buy, 
 
 Whose millions, number as stars in the sky; 
 
 A ruby unpriced in virtue's own crown. 
 
 That gamblers and thieves can never pull down. 
 
 Come weal or come woe — all patiently wait — 
 Send in defiance, a challenge to fate; 
 Bosses or foemen, they proudly defy. 
 For freedom and duty they 're ready to die. 
 True to their country, they'll ever remain, 
 No blood of the traitor runs in their veins. 
 
 N member 20th, 1882. 
 [ 410 ] 
 
WHEN SORROW SPREADS HER SABLE WINGS, 
 
 When sorrow spreads her sable wings, 
 And shadows gather round my soul, 
 
 Oh, then my harp with soothing strings, 
 Can make its sweetest numbers roll. 
 
 For sadness seems to tune my heart, 
 And fill it with the breath of song, 
 
 Till waiting harp-strings trembling start, 
 And roll their soothing tide along. 
 
 Then love goes out in every thought, 
 And peace comes in to find repose, 
 
 And glimpses of some w^orld is caught 
 Just rounding in, when life shall close. 
 
 Then memory gathers up her sheaves 
 Along the path of time she's strow^n, 
 
 And in one coronet she weaves 
 
 And stacks them for her muse 's throne. 
 
 March 13th, 1889. 
 
 [411] 
 
FREEDOM'S DYING. 
 
 Freedom's dying, hear it brother — 
 
 To the rescue let us fly; 
 Like a Curtius fill the chasm, 
 
 Showing freemen how to die; 
 Bare your bosom to the arrows, 
 
 Greet them with a courage bold; 
 Show that freedom is no chattel 
 
 To be bought with banker's gold. 
 
 Quick my brother, form in column — 
 
 Hear the rolling of the drum ? 
 'Tis the throbbing heart of freedom 
 
 Crying to her children, come. 
 Rouse your manhood, christian brother- 
 
 'Tis no time to pause and wait — 
 All that man holds dear is balanced 
 
 On the turning point of fate. 
 
 God of justice, make us worthy 
 
 To be worthy sons of thee; 
 To defend what conscience tells us 
 
 In life's struggle to be free. 
 Free to walk where reason leads us 
 
 In the royal way of life. 
 That will lead us through the desert, 
 
 From the Menbas of strife. 
 
 [ 412 ] 
 
Send out light where darkness hovers, 
 
 Quicken every noble thought, 
 Till the battle that's now waging 
 
 For our freedom has been fought. 
 May the ark of Peace go forward 
 
 With fresh hopes for all mankind. 
 Life and love with God-like reason, 
 
 Flashing truth in every mind. 
 
 June 26ih, 1895. 
 
 [413 
 
THE SONG OF MY HEART. 
 
 I could not, I would not, one moment believe, 
 There's a thought in my heart to cause thee to grieve; 
 If such one I find in my bosom to stray. 
 The moment I find it I'll cast it away. 
 
 Your name in my heart is the first that is dear, 
 Its home has been there for many .a year; 
 In fact, it's an idol I dare not forsake — 
 Lest the heart in this bosom quiver and break. 
 
 Then peace to my darling wherever I roam. 
 
 And peace in her heart as well as my own; 
 
 That peace that love knows — though severed apart — 
 
 Is springing like wells in each of our hearts. 
 
 No love but thy love can live in my heart; 
 I could not divide mine or give thee a part; 
 As rivers that flow and are lost in the sea, 
 The fount of my love flows ever to thee. 
 
 Harbor no thought in thy bosom like doubt; 
 If such there should be — then drive it clean out. 
 And trust there is one that nothing can shake 
 Till the heart in this bosom shall quiver and break. 
 
 And when its last beat shall throb in my breast, 
 As the sun of my life shall sink to its rest. 
 Thy love shall brighten and scatter the gloom 
 That lies in the pathway down to the tomb. 
 
 September 30th, 1885. 
 [ 414 ] 
 
DESTINY ENDS IN THE GRAVE. 
 
 Oh, what is the use of man's struggle, 
 
 And why should he worry and slave 
 When his life goes out in the shadows, 
 
 And his destiny ends in the grave? 
 This life is a chain that is broken; 
 
 Its units are links that wear out, 
 And never again are united, 
 
 No reason a moment can doubt. 
 
 We cannot refrain from such logic 
 
 When touching the questions of life; 
 If reason can never give answer. 
 
 We're lost in the maelstrom of strife. 
 It is not the province of knowledge 
 
 To know what no mortal can know; 
 The Infinite husbands the secrets 
 
 That w^isdom's not willing to show. 
 
 This life begets life that is mortal. 
 And that is the height of its reach; 
 
 It never attains the immortal 
 That many theologies teach. 
 
 [415] 
 
'Twas out of the old Mythologies 
 That the new theologies sprung — 
 
 The offspring of pagans and dreamers 
 That pioneer poets have sung. 
 
 All down through the waste of the ages, 
 
 Amid the soft pur lings of time, 
 When thought was a nebulae — waiting — 
 
 To start on its journey sublime. 
 As man moved out on his mission. 
 
 With steps to the music of time. 
 And over the tombs of the ages. 
 
 Now lost in eternity's chime. 
 
 In Manhood he gathers his wisdom — 
 
 Oft finding a sheaf at a time 
 Scattered along in life's harvest, 
 
 O'erlooked in his blooming and prime. 
 His faith has been tied to a gospel; 
 
 His conscience well tethered by ropes, 
 While reason was never his teacher. 
 
 But ruled by infallible Popes. 
 
 The night of his bondage is waning. 
 As truth and its light is unfurled, 
 
 And conscience looks out of its dungeon- 
 Beholding God's beautiful world — 
 
 And learns that the gift of the father. 
 Who made it as free as the air, 
 
 To live and to love and to honor, 
 And never to doubt or despair. 
 
 [ 416 \\ 
 
When night shuts down on his dreaming, 
 
 And the stars are lost to his view, ^ 
 And thought has folded its pinions, 
 
 And memory has nothing to do; 
 The flowers will bloDm in their season, 
 
 And harvests will ripen their grain; 
 The sleeping will never awaken 
 
 As long as eternities reign. 
 
 October 3rd, 1901. 
 
 [417 J 
 
MAGNOLIA'S IN HER GRAVE. 
 
 Magnolia's in her grave, 
 
 And I am on its brink; 
 No other boon from earth I crave, 
 
 While sorrow's cup I drink. 
 I've tasted of its lees, 
 
 Its hyssop and its gall 
 I'll not be sorry when it frees 
 
 Me from life's binding thrall. 
 
 Ah ! hearts that never break. 
 
 Though brimming with their woe. 
 They are the ones that always ache; 
 
 The world may never know. 
 There are pangs without a wail. 
 
 And sighs no ear has heard, 
 That bubble up, but always fail 
 
 To find a fitting word. 
 
 Across a gulf of years 
 
 I find myself to-day. 
 Overwhelmed with sorrow's tears 
 
 As I journey on my way; 
 To the ending of life's dreams, 
 
 Where dreaming all must cease; 
 Where sorrow's wings no more will gleam 
 
 On the horizon of peace. 
 
 [418] 
 
MRS. SAMUEL H. NEWBERRY 
 
Our sighs are voiceless speech, 
 
 And tears, but sorrow's rain; 
 They come and go with throbbing heart, 
 
 But never ease the pain. 
 A thought can stir — it seems — 
 
 A wind can wake the waves, 
 And bring to Ufe a thousand dreams. 
 
 Long sleeping in their graves. 
 
 The wing of memory flies. 
 
 As it never flew before. 
 And hovers o'er some buried dream 
 
 In the cemetery of yore. 
 When life was in its bloom, 
 
 And love was in its flower, 
 And hope — the angel of the soul — 
 
 In search of Eden's bower. 
 
 But hope, alas ! has failed 
 
 To harvest half its dreams. 
 That withered in the fields of time 
 
 Where reaper's sickle gleams. 
 And the culm that sorrow finds, 
 
 Like ashes on the lips. 
 Is but the alkali of death, 
 
 The dying only sip. 
 
 The years ! the bitter years, 
 
 They'll sting me as they fly, 
 And in my heart as sharpened spears 
 
 They'll goad me till I die. 
 
 [ 419 ] 
 
But still I'll dream and wake, 
 Then dream and wake again, 
 
 Until the heart no more can ache — 
 Forgetting all its pain. 
 
 I have this life to live — 
 
 I'll live it best I can — • 
 Although what sorrow fails to give 
 
 I'll never ask of man. 
 I'll not have long to wait 
 
 Till the gates of life shall close — 
 The distaff of a busy fate 
 
 Will bring me soon repose. 
 
 And life must nurse the pain 
 
 That drags the soul along, 
 Where hope can never more again 
 
 Invade the field of song. 
 The wing of muse is weak — 
 
 Its songs are only sighs — 
 And tears the only notes that speak 
 
 The language of the eyes. 
 
 When hope has lost its light. 
 And love has lost its flame, 
 
 Ah! then will come the darkest night- 
 Despair can only claim; 
 
 With night forever dark, 
 And day, a day of gloom — 
 
 Without a glint or even spark 
 To light me to the tomb. 
 
 [ 420 ] 
 
If grief could find a voice 
 
 To intonate its woe, 
 We deem it would again rejoice 
 
 To let its volume flow; 
 To soothe the wounded soul, 
 
 That in its dungeon dreams. 
 Of all the waves that backward roll, 
 
 Befringed with golden gleams. 
 
 Roll on, oh! night of gloom! 
 
 And days of hopeless dreams; 
 You only typify the doom 
 
 That o'er my pathway seems. 
 Ye starless nights of hope, 
 
 Love's phantom shadows gleam, 
 Whose portals ne'er again shall ope. 
 
 But closed its fervid dream. 
 
 Life's Summers all have fled — 
 
 The Autumn's winds are low — 
 And soon the Winter's barren head 
 
 Will lose its crown of snow. 
 Love's Spring no more will wake 
 
 With all its fragrant bloom, 
 To cheer the heart that cannot break 
 
 Though bending o'er the tomb. 
 
 No ear has ever heard 
 
 The wounded spirits' sigh. 
 
 And no sound will e'er be stirred 
 Till breaking it must die. 
 
 [421] 
 
Oh ! grief, your voice is lost, 
 
 There is no sound of speech, 
 To pierce the soul upon its cross, 
 
 That hope no more can reach. 
 
 Life's wailing song is low. 
 
 Just sighing for its close. 
 To find a tomb for all its woes 
 
 Where memory never goes. 
 Oh! sorrow, hush your song, 
 
 And fold your wings, oh, muse! 
 It will not be so very long 
 
 Till harpstrings all are loose. 
 
 Ah, sleep! sweet darling, sleep! 
 
 There is no rest for me, 
 I weep, and weep, and only weep, 
 
 Since severed far from thee. 
 Magnolia, fare you well; 
 
 My love, once more good by — 
 Not here much longer can I dwell 
 
 Till by your side I lie. 
 
 To meet again? No, dear. 
 
 As oft we've met before. 
 When love and hope gave us their cheer. 
 
 They'll give us now no more. 
 The end of life is death, 
 
 And the end of sorrow too — 
 And when we yield this fleeting breath 
 
 'Twill be our last adieu. 
 
 July 25th, 1905. 
 . [422 1 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 
 A Cloud Dream 231 
 
 A Leap Year's Story 335 
 
 A Love Letter 117 
 
 America, all Hail the Name 262 
 
 A Man 's a Man who Acts the Man.. . 178 
 
 A Parody 283 
 
 A Poet's Creed 2l9 
 
 A Sea Dream 184 
 
 Backward and Forward 356 
 
 Bury me on the Field, I.Iy Boys 113 
 
 Capt. James Barron Hope 265 
 
 Capt. Thomas B. Harmon. 154 
 
 Christmas Day 362 
 
 Civilization is Booming 369 
 
 Clara Beaumont 124 
 
 Come, Sweet Messenger 319 
 
 Cumberland Gap 152 
 
 Daisy Darling 10 
 
 Despair 241 
 
 Destiny Ends in the Grave . 415 
 
 Dowel, Dudley, Dove 138 
 
 Dr. Wm. E. Munsey 229 
 
 Eagle Oak 16 
 
 Earth is God 's Temple 225 
 
 Echoes 210 
 
 Elele 289 
 
 Engineering 140 
 
 Father A. J. Ryan 217 
 
 Farewell to the Senate 145 
 
 Fifty Years Ago 272 
 
 First in my Heart 115 
 
 Freedom 's Dying 412 
 
 [423] 
 
Page 
 
 Gabriel Price 268 
 
 Gold 320 
 
 Hear it, Freemen Bold 326 
 
 How Sweet the Haunts of the Wildwood 234 
 
 Hold on, Young Man 321 
 
 Hold on, Dear Children 200 
 
 HuU-Gull 237 
 
 I am Dying, Mother, Dying , 206 
 
 Ideal 312 
 
 I have said it in my Heart 102 
 
 I List and I Sigh. 180 
 
 In my Dream. •. 156 
 
 In this Life 163 
 
 Ireland 167 
 
 I Saw in my Dream 352 
 
 I've Wished and Watched 348 
 
 I would not have it said that 1 221 
 
 Jefferson Davis 308 
 
 John BuU 378 
 
 Lambs at Play 396 
 
 Let me Write my Country 's Songs 227 
 
 Leonanie I6l 
 
 Lines Written in Cousin John A. Bogle's Autograph Albima 176 
 
 Life's Duty 189 
 
 Life 's Dream is Fading 376 
 
 Life 254 
 
 Little Gus Smith 350 
 
 Life's Battle Charge 258 
 
 Lonely 334 
 
 Love's Life's Labor's Lost 360 
 
 Love 's Song 374 
 
 Magnolia 's in Her Grave 418 
 
 Manassas 277 
 
 Memories 131 
 
 Mother 260 
 
 Mother Earth 345 
 
 Mountains 169 
 
 Moving Forward 340 
 
 [424] 
 
Page 
 
 My Bleeding Country 'Tis for Thee I Sigh 212 
 
 My Own 160 
 
 My Soul look up .^ 279 
 
 Notes of Spring .' 393 
 
 Oh, Beautiful Sea 182 
 
 On Fond Memory 's 171 
 
 On Life's Bridge 398 
 
 On Manassas' Bloody Field 246 
 
 On the Ruins 406 
 
 Our I^inen Wedding 381 
 
 Party Cries are not always Principles 286 
 
 Sand in his Craw 202 
 
 Sing my Brother 343 
 
 Sometimes 127 
 
 Song 236 
 
 Song 285 
 
 South Carolina 135 
 
 Southward the Bluebird 133 
 
 Sorrow 's Song 325 
 
 Song of Life 346 - 
 
 Such is Life 165 
 
 Sweet Harp 158 
 
 The Angel of Autumn 239 
 
 To a Violet lOO 
 
 The Bride's Present 306 
 
 The Battle of Ballots ' 358 
 
 The Crown is for all who Fight till they Die 196 
 
 The League of the Four 408 
 
 Tell me, oh,Life! 367 
 
 To Mary in Heaven 7 
 
 The JNIan with a Gim 379 
 
 To the memory of my Brother 109 
 
 The Message 98 
 
 The New Century 383 
 
 Then you will Think of your Darling 305 
 
 The One we Miss 281 
 
 The People's Want 331 
 
 The Poet's Song 198 
 
 [425] 
 
Page 
 
 There 's a Rapture Sweet and Holy 223 
 
 The River of Life I94 
 
 Three Kings 373 
 
 The Song of my Heart 414 
 
 The Sequel 105 
 
 The South 251 
 
 The Shenandoah 390 
 
 The Spirit's Dream 119 
 
 The Tillers of the Soil. 323 
 
 These Human Eyes 248 
 
 The Twain are One 404 
 
 The Unattained 15 
 
 The Warm Com Dodger 215 
 
 The White Man's Burdeh 364 
 
 To the Washington Monument 191 
 
 This Way, Freemen ! 173 
 
 Unshed Tears 233 
 
 Virginia 's Capitol 149 
 
 Voices 204 
 
 Vote as you Pray 329 
 
 When Love Looks out from Laughing Eyes 24a 
 
 When Sorrow Spreads her Sable Wings 411 
 
 When out of Cosmic Darkness 401 
 
 When Love Awakes 400 
 
 Winsome Winnie 275 
 
 Written on the Birthday of Robert Bums — 142 
 
 [426] 
 
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 JAN 89 
 
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 INDIANA 46962