Book_r 
 
 880 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 
 
THE POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 / 
 
 GEORGE ARNOLD, 
 
 COMPLETE EDITION. 
 
 EDITED, WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE POET, 
 
 By WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 '.zum 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY. 
 
 1880. 
 
 Tr 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the years 1866 and 1867, 
 
 BY TICKNOR & FIELDS, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts 
 
 Copyright, 1S80, 
 By James R. Osgood and Co. 
 
 A/l rights reserved. 
 
 IX- %OV€i 
 
 University Press: 
 John Wil'ion and Son, Cambridge. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Sketch of George Arnold (iS66) 9 
 
 Preface to Poems Grave and Gay (1867) . . 25 
 
 DRIFT, AND OTHER POEMS (1866). 
 
 Drift 41 
 
 The Jolly Old Pedagogue 52 
 
 Recrimination 57 
 
 Introspection 65 
 
 Wool-Gathering 73 
 
 The Two Autumns 79 
 
 Alone by the Hearth 83 
 
 The Garden of Memory 86 
 
 An Idyl of October 91 
 
 All for Love 96 
 
 The Ballad of Rosalie 99 
 
 Trailing Arbutus 102 
 
 The Old Place 105 
 
 The Gift of Love 106 
 
 MiGNON 109 
 
 Minnie's Answer iii 
 
iv Contents. 
 
 Au CoMBLE 113 
 
 Sweet Impatience . . . . . . . 115 
 
 An Autumn Joy 119 
 
 In Vain 122 
 
 Gone 124 
 
 De Profundis 125 
 
 A Farewell 126 
 
 Vale! 128 
 
 Expression 131 
 
 The Tryst . 133 
 
 Among the Heather 135 
 
 The Lees of Life 136 
 
 Farceur de Poete ! 137 
 
 Beer 139 
 
 Youth and Age 142 
 
 The Butterfly and the Poet 143 
 
 Cut Bono? 144 
 
 The Golden Fish 146 
 
 Ca m'est Egal ! 147 
 
 Gold and Purple 149 
 
 Parting 150 
 
 Then and Now 151 
 
 Love's Messengers 153 
 
 Laziness 157 
 
 The Simple Rhyme 158 
 
 Meadow-Sweet 160 
 
 Farewell to Summer 161 
 
Contents. V 
 
 September 164 
 
 The Heart's Rest 167 
 
 The Siren of the Rose 169 
 
 On the Sands .171 
 
 Foul Weather 173 
 
 Apart . . . . ' 174 
 
 At Dusk 176 
 
 Serenade 178 
 
 Via Crucis 180 
 
 Christmas Eve 181 
 
 New- Year's Eve 184 
 
 Jubilate 186 
 
 The Matron Year 187 
 
 Requiescam 190 
 
 In the Dark 192 
 
 POEMS GRAVE AND GAY (1867). 
 
 I. GRAVE. 
 
 A Summer Longing 199 
 
 Fire-Flies 201 
 
 A Sunset Fantasie 203 
 
 Art and Nature 206 
 
 Psyche 214 
 
 My Wind-Harp 215 
 
 Sea-shore Fancies 216 
 
vi Contents. 
 
 The Omen 218 
 
 September Days 220 
 
 Golden-Rod 222 
 
 October 224 
 
 Summer and Autumn 227 
 
 The Merry Christmas Time 229 
 
 The Poet's Awakening 232 
 
 Jacob's Ladder 233 
 
 Her Eyes 235 
 
 Enough 236 
 
 Midnight Music 237 
 
 Wine Song 239 
 
 Serenade 241 
 
 The Old Ramble 243 
 
 Alone by the Shore 246 
 
 I want not Love 248 
 
 In the Organ-Loft 249 
 
 The Broken Cavalier's Song 251 
 
 An Autobiography 253 
 
 At the Circus 254 
 
 Drinking Wine 257 
 
 Song of the Sensuous 259 
 
 Quand Meme 261 
 
 At Newport 269 
 
 Gloria . 274 
 
 Camp Cogitations 276 
 
 June 24, 1859 282 
 
 June 24, 1S64 284 
 
Contents. vii 
 
 II. GAY. 
 
 Don Leon's Bride 287 
 
 The Big Oyster 297 
 
 The Drinking of the Apple-Jack .... 303 
 
 Single and Double . - 308 
 
 The Ballad of Fistiana 315 
 
 The Modern MithrIdates 320 
 
 Patti 323 
 
 PiCCOLOMINI 325 
 
 The Dangers of Broadway 327 
 
 The Fourth of July in Town 330 
 
 The Sharpshooter's Love 333 
 
 The Song of the Stone-Hulk 335 
 
 Two Sensible Serenades 337 
 
 No More 340 
 
 The Common Councilman 343 
 
 The Conservative's Lament 346 
 
 Queer Weather 350 
 
 Facilis Decensus Avenue 352 
 
 The Song of the Home Guard .... 356 
 
 A Voice from on Deck 359 
 
 The Plaint of the Postage-Stamp .... 361 
 
 The War-Poet's Lament 363 
 
 Shoddy 366 
 
SKETCH OF 
 GEORGE ARNOLD. 
 
 *~r^HE author of the poems contained in this 
 -*- vokime was very dear to me as a comrade, 
 and so I do not pretend to speak impartially of 
 his character and his writings. During a period 
 of six years it was my fortune to be associated 
 with him under a variety of circumstances, and 
 to participate in many of his pleasures and in 
 some of his sorrows. Not many weeks have 
 passed, since all that was mortal of him was laid 
 in the tomb. It may chance, therefore, that ten- 
 derness for his memory and grief for his loss 
 will somewhat color the language of this me- 
 moir. Affection is not critical. But, whatever 
 be the faults of this attempt to depict the de- 
 parted poet, I confidently believe that every ap- 
 preciative reader of these poems will recognize 
 
JO George Arnold. 
 
 them as the exponents of genius and of a re- 
 markable and winning character. 
 
 George Arnold was born in Bedford Street, 
 New York, on the 24th of June, 1834, and died 
 at Strawberry Farms, Monmouth County, New 
 Jersey, on the 9th of November, 1865. The 
 events of his short life were neither numer- 
 ous nor striking. His parents continued to re- 
 side in New York till he was three years of 
 age, when they removed to Alton, in the State 
 of Illinois. There he passed twelve years of his 
 boyhood, — happy, buoyant years, diversified by 
 exercise and study, and blessed by free commu- 
 nication with nature, amidst some of her most 
 picturesque and inspiring scenery. There, doubt- 
 less, he laid the foundations of that profound 
 love and genuine knowledge of nature which he 
 manifested in after years. He never went to 
 school. His education was conducted by his par- 
 ents, from whom he learned, in a happy home, 
 those lessons of truth and fact, and those sim- 
 ple principles of action, which are the sufficient 
 
George Arnold. 1 1 
 
 basis of an honorable life. Those teachings he 
 never forgot ; and, though his later years were 
 not unblemished with errors, he was, from first 
 to last, in all things and to all persons, straight- 
 forward, sincere, and manly. Nor was this re- 
 sult altogether due to early training. Simplicity 
 and truthfulness of character were born attri- 
 butes of the man. His nature was frank, gen- 
 tle, and sweet, and all his impulses were gen- 
 erous and good. 
 
 In the summer of 1849 his parents removed 
 from Illinois, and settled at Strawberry Farms, 
 in the State of New Jersey. A Fourierite Pha- 
 lansterie had been established there ; but, at this 
 time, it was gradually breaking up. Residing 
 there during the next three years, seeing many 
 social reformers, — some of them peculiarly ra- 
 tional, and some of them peculiarly eccentric, — 
 and hearing continually of social reform, the im- 
 pressible mind of the young poet took a philo- 
 sophical bent, and began very early to speculate 
 upon the difference between things as they are 
 
12 George Ai'iiold. 
 
 and things as they ought to be. This habit of 
 thought continued with him to the end of his 
 life. He was never a reformer, indeed, and for 
 professional reformers he entertained a cordial 
 contempt. His conviction appeared to be, — and 
 it is, perhaps, as sound as any doctrine of con- 
 temporary social philosophy, — that " the world 
 is out of joint," and that no mere human power 
 is available to set it right. With his philosophy, 
 however, — or his lack of it, — the reader is not 
 concerned ; and I refer to his youthful acquaint- 
 ance with reformers and doctrines of reform, only 
 to explain that bias toward speculation which 
 appears in certain of his poems, — notably in 
 " Wool-Gathering," — and that independent men- 
 tal custom of viewing all subjects through the 
 eyes of common sense, to which may be attrib- 
 uted the vigor and freshness of much that he 
 has written. 
 
 In the autumn of 1852, having developed a 
 strong preference and natural aptitude for the 
 art of painting, he was placed in the studio of 
 
George Arnold. 13 
 
 a portrait-painter in New York. This was the 
 beginning of his career as a worker in the 
 fine arts. Experience proved, however, that he 
 had mistaken his avocation. He speedily be- 
 came a good draughtsman, and manifested skill 
 and taste in the department of landscape-paint- 
 ing. This cleverness in sketching landscapes 
 grew with his years, and afforded him great en- 
 joyment. Several of his friends possess little 
 sketches that he made, chiefly in water-colors, 
 which, if much less complete as works of art, 
 are often as characteristic of the author as 
 even his poems themselves. Such a sketch is 
 before me, as I write these words. It represents 
 a square in an old German city. Around the 
 square are quaint houses, with diamond-paned 
 windows and staring gargoyles. In the back- 
 ground a cathedral lifts its spire toward the 
 blue sky of summer, flecked with clouds of 
 fleece. The lame beggar halts along in the 
 shadow. Hooded monks stand apart, conversing. 
 The whole scene is gentle, slumberous, poetic. 
 
14 George Arnold. 
 
 and suggestive. But it was oftener with the 
 sweet or stern aspects of nature that the poet's 
 fancy held genial communion. He loved to think 
 of quiet woodland places ; of moss-grown rocks, 
 and the bright green of creeping vines ; of the 
 musical purl and tinkle of lonely brooks ; of 
 thick-clustering, dewy roses ; of the burnished 
 glories of autumnal woods ; of the wind among 
 the pine-trees, on sombre autumn nights ; of lone- 
 ly beaches, whereon forever echoes the ancient, 
 solemn dirge of the sorrowing, desolate ocean, 
 mindful not alone of its own mysterious grief, 
 but of missing ships, and vanished forms, and 
 "wrecks far out at sea," His poems beautifully 
 manifest these moods of his fancy ; and these 
 moods also tinged his little sketches, and gave 
 them a characteristic quality. But he did not 
 succeed as a painter of faces and figures, and 
 so he very soon abandoned the effort to become 
 an artist with the brush. His early studies 
 of painting, however, were not wasted. Lov- 
 ing the art, and knowing its technicalities, he 
 
George Arjiold. 15 
 
 subsequently became an excellent art-critic. His 
 criticisms of paintings, scattered far and wide in 
 the daily and weekly press of New York city, 
 are numerous, and are animated by genuine sym- 
 pathy with noble -and beautiful ideals, cordial 
 appreciation as well of minor merits as of lofty 
 conceptions, and a frank and hearty contempt 
 for mere prettiness and charlatanism. He was 
 unusually competent for the proper performance 
 of this work, and, as far as is possible in ephem- 
 eral journalism, he faithfully served the art in 
 which he had once hoped to win distinction. 
 
 The transition from the brush to the pen is 
 not uncommon. With him it was natural and 
 inevitable. Though his temperament was dreamy, 
 his will never became the slave of dreams. He 
 laid down the brush with a sigh ; but he laid it 
 down : and, thenceforward, to the end of his life, 
 he worked with the pen, incurring the perils, 
 bearing the sorrows, surmounting the obstacles, 
 and enjoying the pleasures of the noble and fas- 
 cinating profession of letters. His literary careei 
 
1 6 George Arftold. 
 
 extended over a period of about twelve yeara 
 In the course of that time he wrote, with equal 
 fluency and versatility, stories, sketches, essays, 
 poems, comic and satirical verses, criticisms of 
 books and of pictures, editorial articles, jokes 
 and pointed paragraphs, — everything, in short, 
 for which there is a demand in the literary mag- 
 azines of the country, and in New York journal- 
 ism. The quantity of written material which he 
 thus produced is surprisingly large. Much of it, 
 of course, is of an ephemeral character. As is 
 usual with men of letters, who live by the pen, 
 Arnold was obliged to combine the profession 
 of journalism with that of literature ; and in 
 journalism, sufficient unto the day is the article 
 thereof But, while he wrote much for the mo- 
 ment, he wrote much also that will endure. He 
 was not simply a journalist. The original mind, 
 the large, warm heart, and the sleepless fire of 
 genius often gave accidental worth to even his 
 lightest compositions. In this way "he builded 
 / better than he knew." The reader of his " Mc- 
 
George Arnold. 17 
 
 Arone" papers, commenced in "Vanity Fair," 
 November 24, i860, and continued, in that and 
 other journals, with but slight intermissions, 
 until October 14, 1865, will especially appreci- 
 ate the truth of this remark. Those papers, in 
 which the Chevalier Mc Arone records his own 
 exploits and reflections, aim to excite mirth by 
 their perfectly preposterous absurdity. (I ex- 
 cept, of course, those written toward the close 
 of the author's life, which are inexpressibly pa- 
 thetic.) Yet, beneath their sunny vein of non- 
 sense, runs an often perceptible current of strong 
 thought and delicate sentiment, revealing the 
 profound convictions and ardent, persuasive sym- 
 pathy of a great nature. Similar indications ap- 
 pear in his stories. The Poems — of which this 
 volume contains a selection, made and arranged 
 by the present writer — reveal their author yet 
 more distinctly. A subtle knowledge of the 
 human heart, a quick sympathy with ideals of 
 purity, innocence, and beauty, a thorough love 
 for nature, combined with real knowledge of the 
 
1 8 George Arnold. 
 
 subject, — in reference to which many poets man- 
 ifest laborious ignorance, — a fine appreciation 
 of the holiest human emotions, a profound ac- 
 quaintance with grief, an exhaustless impulse of 
 tender humanity underlying the workings of a 
 critical intellect, a sad, playful humor closely 
 blended with pathos, a vein of religious senti- 
 ment, a manly spirit, proud and aspiring, yet 
 capable of calm endurance and gentle resigna- 
 tion, — these qualities of mind and of character 
 are clearly manifested in these poems, which 
 are, moreover, with scarcely an exception, mould- 
 ed and finished in deference to the dictates of 
 thoughtful culture and severe taste. They do 
 not attempt high, imaginative flights. Their con- 
 ception was due to no merely artistic plan. 
 They were born in the writer's heart, and ut- 
 tered naturally, in strains of simple and delicious 
 music. 
 
 It does not seem necessary here to enumerate 
 the various magazines and newspapers in which 
 Arnold's pen found employment. He wrote for 
 
George Arnold. 19 
 
 bread, and he sold his writings to whomsoever 
 would buy them. It was noticeable, too, — espe- 
 cially so in his last years, — that he had no de- 
 sire for literary reputation. He was industrious, 
 in order that he might be independent of the 
 world. He lived simply, because he could not 
 afford to live magnificently. A poet, he was 
 not lacking in luxurious and eccentric tastes. 
 A young bachelor, he was not lacking in the 
 careless liberality of jovial good-fellowship. Yet 
 he accomplished much work, and he always 
 did it promptly, faithfully, and well. In this 
 respect, and, indeed, in all respects, his private 
 life was governed by the strictest principles of 
 personal integrity. He had, despite his youth, 
 a wide knowledge of the world, and he wisely 
 chose to conquer his place in it, by ability, indus- 
 try, honor, and cheerfulness. The principal mo- 
 tive of his conduct (and this, possibly, explains 
 his indifference toward literary reputation, and 
 his habitual neglect of the expedients by which 
 commonly it is attained) was a desire to be, rath- 
 
20 George Arnold. 
 
 er than to seem, — to develop his own character, 
 to act ingenuously, to deserve the love of his 
 friends, to surround himself with an atmosphere 
 of cheerfulness, and thus to make the best of the 
 serio-comic drama of human life. In this he suc- 
 ceeded. Those who knew him well, loved him 
 dearly. They knew that he was genuine, that he 
 scorned every description of imposture, and that 
 his friendship — never idly bestowed — was, when 
 once given, steadfast and true, alike in storm and 
 sunshine. 
 
 :• This genuineness of character, revealed through 
 the medium of a peculiarly cheerful temperament, 
 — all the more winning for its latent sadness, — 
 was the source of his peculiar personal influence, 
 and of his capacity to inspire affection. He 
 attracted the good side of every nature. Those 
 who came in contact with him somehow ex- 
 hibited themselves to the best advantage. He 
 had no conceit of intellectual superiority, 
 neither did he flourish his quill in the face of 
 society. His manners had the repose that dis- 
 
George Arnold. 21 
 
 tinguishes the gentleman, and something of the 
 autumnal ripeness and beauty which he so much 
 loved in nature, and of which he has written so 
 well. Even his little superficial affectations were 
 not unpleasant. He was fond of representing 
 himself as an utterly selfish and heartless man, 
 and of attributing selfish motives to the whole 
 human race. He liked, also, to suggest the ludi- 
 crous side of serious subjects, and to dampen the 
 fire of sentiment with the cold water of cynicism. 
 But he wore the mask of Mephistopheles with an 
 ill grace, and, toward the last, he laid it altogether 
 aside. Gentle, simple, and affectionate, "a soul 
 of God's best earthly mould," — such he appeared 
 to me, in those last days, and such I faithfully be- 
 lieve him to have been. 
 
 It is pleasant to remember that the closing 
 days of his life were passed in the society of dear 
 friends, and that he entered into his rest amidst 
 scenes that were hallowed to him by tender asso- 
 ciations of a happy and hopeful youth. His cus- 
 tom, for years, had been to spend occasional weeks 
 
22 George Arnold. 
 
 of the summer and autumn at Strawberry Farms. 
 Thither, accordingly, he went, in August, 1865, 
 having been ill for some time. His face, 
 though it wore .then a weary look, gave no sign 
 of approaching death. Yet his thoughts had 
 dwelt often upon that solemn theme, and I 
 think he knew that the end was near. In spite, 
 however, of sickness, pain, and despondency, his 
 habitual mood of mind remained calm, and even 
 cheerful. He continued to write for the press 
 up to within four weeks of his death. The last 
 prose article that he wrote was the last of the 
 McArone papers, humorously yet very sadly ex- 
 pressive of a wish to be an Old Lady. The last 
 poem that he prepared for publication was " The 
 Matron Year." His final poem was " In the 
 Dark," which ends this volume. Toward the 
 last, however, he used to amuse himself by writ- 
 ing songs, — careless lyrics, not intended for pub- 
 lication. He had a happy aptitude for com- 
 posing melodies to match his words, and, in 
 private, he used often to sing his own songs. 
 
George Arnold. 23 
 
 They were simple and sweet, and he sang them 
 sweetly. Many an afternoon, in that golden 
 autumn which was his last on earth, he sat 
 alone in the parlor of the old house at Straw- 
 berry Farms, playing the piano and singing softly 
 to himself. I picture him thus, as the end drew 
 near, — his handsome face calm with the repose of 
 resignation, his gentle, blue eyes full of a kind, 
 sad light, his rich voice, soft, tremulous, and low, 
 breathing out his own glad hymn of faith in 
 the protecting love of the Great Master : 
 
 " To-day a song is on my lips : 
 Earth seems a paradise to me : 
 For God is good, and lo ! my ships 
 Are coming home from sea." 
 
 They have come home now — all the high hopes, 
 all the ventures of aspiration, that his soul sent 
 forth, in the holy season of innocent youth. His 
 dreams of happiness are all realized : his life that 
 was broken on earth is fulfilled in heaven. 
 
 w. w. 
 New York, January 21, 1866. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO 
 
 POEMS GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 (1S67.) 
 
 T N the biographical sketch of George Arnold 
 ■*■ that is prefixed to "Drift" I have recorded 
 the principal events of his life, and have de- 
 scribed his character as it was known to me. 
 In that volume, also, I have presented poems 
 which illustrate the nobleness, the gentle sim- 
 plicity, the tender human sentiment, the winning 
 quaintness, and the half-cheerful, half- sad repose, 
 that were blended in his character, and that 
 made him delightful and dear to his numerous 
 friends. While interpreting his nature, those 
 poems likewise prove his genius. That genius, 
 however, was manifested in various aspects, by 
 other works ; and these — ^ in pursuance of the 
 
26 Preface to 
 
 solemn duty that has been intrusted to my hands 
 by the relatives of the departed jDoet — I am to 
 place before the public. The present volume 
 comprises a number of his poems that have been 
 gathered since the compilation of " Drift," to- 
 gether with a portion of his humorous and satiri- 
 cal verse. There remain to be reproduced his 
 humorous prose writings, his tales and sketches, 
 and those pieces of his comic verse for which he 
 made drawings, and which would lose much of 
 their significance if printed apart from the illus- 
 trations. Meanwhile, upon this volume and its 
 predecessor rests George Arnold's title to an 
 honorable fame among the poets of America. 
 
 That such a fame awaits him I cannot doubt. 
 To contemplate these poems with the eyes of 
 affection is, perhaps, to see in them a deeper 
 meaning and a higher value than they possess. 
 Yet affection, though it be not critical, is clear- 
 sighted. In this instance, anticipating the verdict 
 of the impartial future, I believe that Arnold 
 will be recognized as truly a poet, — as one, 
 
Poems Grave and Gay. 27 
 
 that is, who knew, and worshipped, and could 
 interpret the beautiful ; who understood, by po- 
 etic intuition, the heart of man and the sanc- 
 tity of nature ; who felt, therefore, the deep, 
 latent tragedy of human life, and heard the 
 voice of God in rustling leaf, and babbling 
 brook, and murmuring surges of ocean ; who 
 widely sympathized with the aspirations of hu- 
 manity, desiring that happiness might prevail 
 as the fruit of justice ; who uttered, in admira- 
 ble forms of art, the truth which he saw and 
 felt, and the ideal for which he longed : and 
 who preserved, through care, and sin, and sor- 
 row, a simple nature, a true heart, and per- 
 fect faith in goodness and beauty. This is the 
 testimony of his poems. They do not, indeed, 
 strikingly evince that greatest of poetic facul- 
 ties, imagination. They do not evince a fixed 
 and controlling intellectual purpose. But they 
 reveal, with vivid clearness, one of those finely 
 organized natures, — seldom sent on earth, but 
 always sent to bless, — in which the fire that 
 
28 Preface to 
 
 burns with such strange, erratic lustre is the di- 
 vine fire of genius. 
 
 It is generally futile to conjecture what a man 
 would have been, and what he would have done, 
 under other circumstances than those which ac- 
 tually surrounded him. Yet I cannot but think 
 — remembering how much greater Arnold was 
 than the writings which he has left — that, un- 
 der happier conditions, he would have wrought 
 to better purpose and would have enriched the 
 literature of his country with riper and more 
 massive works. The critic will detect in his 
 poetry the elements of fever, recklessness, and 
 melancholy : but it is easy to explain their pres- 
 ence. He lived, ripened, and died within the 
 brief period of thirty-one years. His lot was 
 cast amidst a civilization the enormous physical 
 activity of which precludes repose, and is thus 
 an enemy to genius and to art. Moreover, the 
 best years of his life — which were the last — 
 were those wild years of civil war that forbade 
 poetic meditation. Then, too, his personal ex- 
 
Poems Grave and Gay. 29 
 
 perience had warped him from happiness. He 
 began life with exultant enthusiasm. He believed 
 in everything, — in love, in hope, in ambition, 
 in pleasure, in the rewards of the world and in 
 the promises of fame. Passion came to him, and 
 sorrow in its train ; but, to his deep nature, a 
 common grief broadened into a profound trag- 
 edy. Too brilliant to brood, he plunged into 
 pleasure. Then came a mood of philosophical 
 apathy, in which he tired of love, and sorrow, 
 and the whole strange pageant of human life. 
 Four lines in this book, entitled "An Autobiog- 
 raphy," suggest this mood in a forcible manner. 
 Among the last words that he wrote, also, are 
 these, which I copy from the manuscript of his 
 last McArone letter : " To sit in the chimney- 
 corner and smoke a pipe, looking tranquilly 
 backward upon all the troubles, and trials, and 
 tribulations, the losses, the disappointments, the 
 doubtings and fearings that make up the bitter- 
 ness of life, — to look back upon these as things 
 of the past, matters of history, already uninterest- 
 
30 Preface to 
 
 ing to the present generation, is a boon I do 
 mightily desire." In the sad sincerity of these 
 words his temperament is clearly revealed, — a 
 temperament that could not, and did not, favor 
 elaborate efforts in literary art He wrote con- 
 tinually, however, and without artifice ; and, de- 
 spite this inward apathy, he never lost the poet's 
 devotion to nature, nor the gentleman's humane 
 sensibility, nor the practical thinker's capacity 
 to cope with the affairs of every-day life. His 
 sadness was for himself; his cheerfulness was 
 for others. Those who met George Arnold saw 
 a handsome, merry creature, whose blue eyes 
 sparkled with mirth, whose voice was cheerful, 
 whose manners were buoyant and winning, 
 whose courtesy was free and gay. He had a 
 smile and a kind word for every good fellow. 
 He saw the best side of persons and of things. 
 His large humanity was quick to find excuses 
 for the errors and the faults of others. He 
 could throw himself with hearty zest into 
 the pleasures of the passing hour ; and thus. 
 
Poems Grave and Gay. 31 
 
 wherever he went, he attracted friends. Among 
 men of letters his presence was sunshine. None 
 could take keener delight than he did in 
 
 " Genial table-talk, 
 Or deep dispute and graceful jest." 
 
 He mingled with many classes of persons, and 
 he was a favorite with them all. Upon the minds 
 of conventional people, indeed, I dare say that he 
 often left an erroneous impression ; for he had a 
 lively impatience of the commonplace in life and 
 letters, and he was remarkably proficient in the 
 art of " chaffing." It is not to be denied, either, 
 that the moral discipline of his life was imperfect. 
 Yet his nature was goodness, and the current of 
 his life sparkled with graces as it flowed onward 
 from light to darkness. 
 
 Many pictures of him rise before me, as I think 
 of pleasant hours passed in his society, in years 
 that are forever gone, — of long rambles by day, 
 and sad or merry talk by night, over pipe and bot- 
 tle, in quiet lodgings wherein we dwelt together. 
 
32 Preface to 
 
 His affectionate sympathy, his quaint cynicism, his 
 wit, and his humorous philosophy were, at such 
 times, inexpressibly winning. He had read many 
 books, but he had studied man and nature 
 with deeper relish ; and hence his conversation 
 was vital and various with the fruits of observa- 
 tion rather than reading. But no personal rem- 
 iniscence, no tender, regretful word, can now 
 reanimate his silent face or rekindle his "spell 
 o'er hearts." In the love of his friends he can 
 live but for them alone. For others he must 
 live in his works, if he live at all. 
 
 " Thy leaf has perished in the green : 
 
 And, while we breathe beneath the sun, 
 The world, which credits what is done, 
 Is cold to all that might have been." 
 
 What, then, is done } , . , The question is 
 partly answered in these two volumes of poems. 
 A few words relative to the details of Arnold's 
 literary career may chance to answer it still fur- 
 ther. 
 
Poems Grave and Gay. 33 
 
 He was a writer from the first. While yet a 
 boy he used to amuse himself by making little 
 newspapers, writing the articles and printing them 
 with his pen. Several years later he began to 
 keep a poetical Diary, in that delicious Italian 
 stanza which probably Byron's " Don Juan " had 
 commended to his fancy. This Diary he kept for 
 a long time, so that it filled a large volume ; but, 
 ultimately, and no doubt wisely, he destroyed it. 
 In letters to his friends, also, — which he used 
 to ornament with illustrative drawings, — his liter- 
 ary faculty found practice. How he drifted from 
 painting to literature, in or about the year 1853, 
 has already been noted. There were fewer peri- 
 odicals published in New York then than there are 
 now, and hence fewer opportunities were afforded 
 to writers. Yet he was soon actively employed 
 as the sub-editor of a story-paper ; and he was 
 remarkably efficient and successful in this office. 
 His taste, however, soon impelled him to decline 
 editorial cares ; and from this time forward he sel- 
 dom accepted duties that could restrict his per- 
 
34 Preface to 
 
 sonal freedom. He could work in the most orderly 
 manner, and with unflagging industry ; but he 
 preferred to work whenever and wherever impulse 
 directed him. In pursuing this policy he became 
 a contributor to many publications. His writings, 
 as far as collected, have been drawn from twenty- 
 seven periodicals. He preserved printed copies 
 of a part of them, but in general was careless of 
 their fate. The collection of his stories numbers 
 one hundred and ninety-four, and is still incom- 
 plete. To trace all his essays, sketches, art- 
 critiques, book-reviews, jokes, and paragraphs 
 would be impossible, they are so numerous and 
 so widely scattered. It is enough to say, that 
 many a brilliant article that has anonymously 
 gone the rounds of the press within the last ten 
 years, pleasing hundreds of readers, came from 
 his pen, — carelessly sold, to supply the need of 
 the moment, and then forgotten. In the promi- 
 nent magazines of the country he is represented 
 by only a few poems and stories. He was not 
 fastidious in the sale of his writings. The nearest 
 
Poems Grave a?id Gay. 35 
 
 purchaser satisfied him. He sometimes gave 
 poems to editors who were his personal friends. He 
 was not, however, a voluminous writer of serious 
 verse. His comic verses are very numerous. At an 
 early period of his literary career he began to write 
 for the comic papers ; and he continued to work 
 in that vein till the end. Vanity Fair, which was 
 started in New York in the autumn of 1859, by 
 Mr. W. A. Stephens, gave him constant employ- 
 ment. This paper was discontinued in the sum- 
 mer of 1863, and its record of contributors and 
 contributions has since been partly destroyed ; 
 so that a complete list of the articles that Arnold 
 wrote for it cannot be obtained. But it is certain 
 that he contributed several hundred articles, in 
 prose and verse, many of which he illustrated with 
 pen-and-ink sketches. For 3/;x Grundy — com- 
 menced in New York by Dr. A. L. Carroll, in 
 July, 1865, and discontinued after the publication 
 of twelve numbers — he wrote twenty-nine arti- 
 cles, and supplied many clever drawings. His 
 best known efforts in comic writing are his 
 
36 Preface to 
 
 McArone Letters, commenced in Vanity Fairy 
 November 24, i860, and concluded in the New- 
 York Weekly Review, October 14, 1865. These 
 letters include a comic novel, in ten chapters. 
 He employed, also, among others, the pen-names 
 of " Grahame Allen," " George Garrulous," " Pier- 
 rot," and " The Undersigned." 
 
 Other details might be given, but the record 
 of his literary life is sufficiently complete. It was 
 industrious ; it was successful ; it was brilliant : 
 future criticism must finally determine the value 
 of its achievements. 
 
 The humorous and satirical poems contained in 
 this volume are mainly those which seem to me to 
 possess a general rather than a merely local and 
 ephemeral interest. Arnold wrote many clever 
 verses in satire of passing events ; but, now that 
 the events have passed and been forgotten, the 
 verses would appear to be pointless, if reproduced. 
 
 The present collection of serious poems in- 
 cludes, as already intimated, several which I was 
 not able to obtain, prior to the publication of 
 
Poems Grave and Gay. 37 
 
 " Drift," as also several which, at first, I hesitated 
 to print. It is easy to publish ; it is hard to recall. 
 My design has been to allow a genius prematurely 
 broken to express itself in crude and careless sug- 
 gestion as well as in rounded and adequate utter- 
 ance. The fact that George Arnold died young, 
 and left his work unfinished, seems to justify the 
 preservation of some pieces which might properly 
 have been rejected had his powers and his labors 
 attained full maturity and scope. The fruits of a 
 poetic mind that is early extinguished by death 
 are entitled to consideration as relics not less than 
 as works of art. 
 
 W. W. 
 
 New York, August 25, 1866. 
 
NOTE. 
 
 This edition of George Arnold'' s Poems is printed from 
 
 revised plates. A few slight changes have been made in 
 
 the editor's preliminary remarks j the poem called " The 
 
 Old Ramble " and the verses on Patti and Piccolomini, as 
 
 also a Serenade, have been added; and a few of the lighter 
 
 verses — having a merely local and temporary drift — have 
 
 been discarded. It is thought that these alterations have 
 
 improved the book. 
 
 w. w. 
 
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DRIFT, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 (1866.) 
 
'■'■ Let us go seaward, as the great winds go. 
 Full of blown sand and foam.'''' 
 
 Swinburne. 
 
DRIFT. 
 
 A SEA-SHORE I DYL. 
 
 1. 
 T WEARIED once of inland fields and hills, 
 -*■ Of low-lying meadows and of sluggish streams, 
 Creeping beneath the trees that summer-heats 
 Had parched to dusty dryness ; and a dream 
 Of fresh, cool breezes and of salty waves, 
 Of azure skies o'erarching azure seas. 
 Of tangled seaweed from unfathomed deeps, 
 Came over me ; and so I left the hills. 
 To sojourn, through the riper summer-months, 
 Upon the shore. 
 
 There, in a lonely house, 
 So near the breakers that their misty foam 
 Whitely enwrapped it when the storm raged high. 
 
42 Drift. 
 
 I let my summer-days pass idly on. 
 Yet not all idly : when the morn was fair, 
 And soft winds bore strange odors from the sea 
 Through open casements, oftentimes I wrote — 
 Weaving brief rhymes, disjointed, and, perhaps, 
 Too simple for the lovers of great poems. 
 
 A ship went sailing from the shore, 
 And vanished in the gleaming west, 
 
 Where purple clouds a lining bore 
 Of gold and amethyst. 
 
 Poised in the air, a sea-gull flashed 
 His white wings in the sun's last ray ; 
 
 A moment hung, then downward dashed. 
 To revel in the spray. 
 
 The fishers drew their long nets in 
 With careful eye and steady hand, 
 
 Till olive back and silvery fin 
 Strewed all the tawny sand. 
 
Drift. 43 
 
 Again I trod the shore ; again 
 The sea-gull circled high in air ; 
 
 Again the sturdy fishermen 
 Drew in their nets with care. 
 
 The sunset's gold and amethyst 
 Shone fairly, as I paced the shore, 
 
 But back from out the gleaming west 
 The ship came — nevermore ! 
 
 II. 
 
 After the first days, goodly company 
 Came to the lonely house beside the sea : 
 Bright eyes and tresses, voices of young girls. 
 Made joy within those somewhat mouldy halls ; 
 And a piano, that had long stood mute 
 In the old parlor, on the landward side, 
 Grew musical and merry to the touch 
 Of jewelled fingers. 
 
 What rare days were those, 
 When my chief duty was to write a song, 
 As often as the brown-eyed Marian 
 
44 Dnft. 
 
 Grew weary of my last ! And thus our time 
 Passed, smoothly as a river-current flows. 
 Music and reading, strolling on the beach, 
 Gathering colored pebble-stones and shells, 
 And sea-weed from the rocks beyond the bar, 
 Were all our pastime. 
 
 A flood of sunlight through a rift 
 
 Between two mounds of yellow sand ; 
 
 Three sea-gulls on a bit of drift 
 
 Slow surging inward toward the land : 
 
 An old dumb-beacon, all awry, 
 
 With drabbled sea-weed round its feet ; 
 
 A star-like sail against the sky, 
 
 Where sapphire heaven and ocean meet : 
 
 This, with the waters swirling o'er 
 A shifting stretch of sand and shell, 
 
 Will make, for him who loves the shore, 
 A picture that may please him well. 
 
Drift 45 
 
 III. 
 
 Ere the sun went down 
 We mostly loved to linger by the sea, 
 Where, seated on some wave-worn slab of stone. 
 We watched the furrowed waves that rose and fell, 
 Chasing each other down the beaten strand ; 
 But when the shadows lengthened toward the east, 
 And the red glory of the sunset shone 
 Upon the light-house, and the fading sails, 
 The yellow sand-hills with their sickly grass 
 And inland-leaning cedars, we returned 
 To the old parlor ; and, as dusk came on, 
 Sang to each other till the moon rode high. 
 
 The light-house keeper's daughter, — 
 Her hair is golden as the sand ; 
 
 Her eyes are blue as summer-seas 
 That melt into the land. 
 
 Her brow and neck are whiter 
 Than sea-foam flying on the wind. 
 
 Her mouth is rosy as the shells 
 That strew the coast of Ind. 
 
46 Drift. 
 
 The winds caress her ringlets 
 
 That down her neck in clusters stray, 
 
 And frothy waves flow tenderly 
 About her feet, in play. 
 
 I love this simple maiden, 
 
 She grows upon me more and more, 
 And — ask the moon who 't was that kissed. 
 
 Last night, upon the shore ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 At times, when moonlight danced upon the sea, 
 And all the air was musical with sounds 
 Of waters slowly breaking on the beach. 
 We sought the bar, and climbed its furthest rocks, 
 Against whose weedy feet the waves uprose 
 In phosphorescent foam ; and, seated there, 
 The maidens picturesquely grouped around. 
 We talked philosophy, or told quaint tales 
 Of most romantic sort, — of ghosts and ghouls. 
 Of strange things seen by those whom we had 
 known ; 
 
Drift. 47 
 
 Of strange things we, perchance, ourselves had 
 seen ; 
 
 Of marvels told by ancient mariners. 
 
 The Maelstrom, and the heaven-dropped water- 
 spouts, — 
 
 Or sadder tales, of wrecks far out at sea, 
 
 Of missing vessels, and of sailors drowned. 
 
 The river down to the ocean flows 
 By reedy flats and marshes bare ; 
 
 And the leafless poplars stand in rows 
 Like ghostly sentinels watching there. 
 
 An osprey sails, with wings spread wide, 
 Down-slanting from his even flight. 
 
 To a sedgy spot, where the falling tide 
 Has left some kind of drift in sight. 
 
 A blackened mass, by the tide left bare, 
 In the tangled weeds and the slimy mud. 
 
 The osprey shrieks as he settles there, 
 And a deathly horror chills my blood ! 
 
48 Drift. 
 
 V. 
 
 So passed the summer, and we had our fill 
 
 Of lotos-eating by the ocean side ; 
 
 We came to know and love each pleasant spot 
 
 About the place ; the sheltered nooks where grew 
 
 Dwarfed flowers, whose downy seeds had come, 
 
 mayhap. 
 Upon the wings of autumn's winds upborne, 
 A thousand miles, to drop, and germinate, 
 In the dry sand ; to grow, and blow, and bloom, 
 And then to wither — 't were a happy fate — 
 In brown-eyed Marian's bosom. And we knew 
 Each craggy rock that overhung the sea, 
 Whence we could gaze far out across the waste 
 Of heaving waters, dotted here and there 
 With sails that shone and glimmered in the sun, 
 Like planets in a mellow evening sky. 
 Sometimes we went adventurously forth 
 When northeast tempests raged along the coast, 
 Flinging the white foam upward in great sheets, 
 Like hungry monsters rushing from the deep 
 To swallow up the land. 
 
Drift. 49 
 
 Then, bits of wrecks, 
 Odd timbers spiked with rusty iron bolts, 
 Fragments of masts, and empty water-casks, — 
 Sad debris of the storm, — came up next day, 
 Drifting ashore on smooth, unbroken swells. 
 
 O cool, green waves that ebb and flow, 
 Reflecting calm, blue skies above, 
 
 How gently now ye come and go. 
 Since ye have drowned my love ! 
 
 Ye lap the shore of beaten sand. 
 With cool, salt ripples circling by ; 
 
 But from your depths a ghostly hand 
 Points upward to the sky. 
 
 O waves ! strew corals, white and red, 
 
 With shells and strange weeds from the deep, 
 
 To make a rare and regal bed 
 Whereon my love may sleep : 
 
 May sleep, and, sleeping, dream of me, 
 In dreams that lovers find so sweet ; 
 
50 Drift. 
 
 And I will couch me by the sea, 
 That we in dreams may meet. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But, while the pleasant season lasted still, 
 My friends deserted me for other scenes, 
 Leaving me lonely in the lonely house, 
 With memory's ghosts to bear me company. 
 Alone I sang the plaintive little songs. 
 That brown-eyed Marian had sung with me : 
 Alone I trod the path along the shore. 
 Where we so often had together strolled : 
 Alone I watched the moonrise, from the rocks 
 Where Marian had erstwhile walked with me. 
 To let the salt breeze, freshening with the night, 
 Play in her ringlets, and bring up the bloom 
 Of rose and lily to her cheek. 
 
 Alas! 
 If I should tell the whole of what I felt, 
 In waking these dear memories of the past, 
 This simple idyl would be lengthened out 
 Into a history of two hearts, that met — 
 That met — and parted ! 
 
Drift. 5 1 
 
 Ah ! the theme is old, 
 And worn quite threadbare, — not alone in books. 
 But in the hearts of men and maids as well. 
 But then, all stories that are true are old. 
 
 The breakers come and the breakers go, 
 
 Along the silvery sand. 
 With a changing line of feathery snow, 
 
 Between the water and land. 
 
 Sea-weeds gleam in the sunset light, 
 
 On the ledges of wave-worn stone ; 
 Orange and crimson, purple and white, 
 
 In regular windrows strewn. 
 
 The waves grow calm in the dusk of eve. 
 When the wind goes down with the sun ; 
 
 So fade the smiles of those who deceive, 
 When the coveted heart is won. 
 
 < 
 
 This seaweed wreath that hangs on the wall, 
 
 She twined one day by the sea : 
 Of the weeds, and the waves, and her love, it is all 
 
 That the Past has left to me ! 
 
THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 
 
 I. 
 '^ I "^ WAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, 
 
 -'- Tall and slender, and sallow and dry ; 
 His form was bent, and his gait was slow. 
 His long, thin hair was as white as snow. 
 
 But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye ; 
 And he sang every night as he went to bed, 
 
 " Let us be happy down here below ; 
 The living should live, though the dead be dead," 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 II. 
 
 He taught his scholars the rule of three, 
 
 Writing, and reading, and history, too ; 
 He took the little ones up on his knee, 
 For a kind old heart in his breast had he. 
 And the wants of the littlest child he knew : 
 
The Jolly Old Pedagogue. 53 
 
 " Learn while you 're young," he often said, 
 " There is much to enjoy, down here below ; 
 
 Life for the living, and rest for the dead ! " 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 III. 
 With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool. 
 
 Speaking only in gentlest tones ; 
 The rod was hardly known in his school . . . 
 Whipping, to him, was a barbarous rule, 
 
 And too hard work for his poor old bones ; 
 Beside, it was painful, he sometimes said : 
 
 "We should make life pleasant, down here below, 
 The living need charity more than the dead," 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane. 
 
 With roses and woodbine over the door ; 
 His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain. 
 But a spirit of comfort there held reign, 
 And made him forget he was old and poor ; 
 
54 The yolly Old Pedagogue. 
 
 " I need so little," he often said ; 
 
 " And my friends and relatives here below 
 Won't litigate over me when I am dead," 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 V. 
 
 But the pleasantest times that he had, of all, 
 
 Were the sociable hours he used to pass, 
 With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall, 
 Making an unceremonious call. 
 
 Over a pipe and a friendly glass : 
 This was the finest pleasure, he said. 
 
 Of the many he tasted, here below ; 
 " Who has no cronies, had better be dead ! " 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face 
 
 Melted all over in sunshiny smiles ; 
 He stirred his glass with an old-school grace. 
 Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace, 
 
 Till the house grew merry, from cellar to tiles 
 
TJie yolly Old Pedagogue. 55 
 
 " I 'm a pretty old man," he gently said, 
 " I have lingered a long while, here below ; 
 
 But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled ! " 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He smoked his pipe in the balmy air. 
 
 Every night when the sun went down, 
 While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, 
 Leaving its tenderest kisses there. 
 
 On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown : 
 And, feeling the kisses, he smiled, and said, 
 
 'T was a glorious world, down here below ; 
 " Why wait for happiness till we are dead ? " 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He sat at his door, one midsummer night. 
 
 After the sun had sunk in the west, 
 And the lingering beams of golden light 
 Made his kindly old face look warm and bright, 
 While the odorous night-wind whispered, " Rest ! " 
 
56 The Jolly Old Pedagogue. 
 
 Gently, gently, he bowed his head . . . 
 
 There were angels waiting for him, I know ; 
 He was sure of happiness, living or dead. 
 
 This jolly old pedagogue, long ago ! 
 
RECRIMINATION. 
 
 I. 
 'nr^HE prime of summer is coming, and with it 
 
 -*- there comes, to-day, 
 A thought of another summer, whose garlands 
 
 have faded away. 
 The tall laburnums are covered with tresses of 
 
 yellow flowers. 
 As they were when under their shadow you used 
 
 to loiter for hours ; 
 And the blackberry's starry blossom and the 
 
 buttercup's chalice of gold 
 Bloom bright in the ancient forest where you 
 
 loved to wander of old, — 
 Where you loved to wander at even, but wan- 
 dered never alone ; 
 For a manly form was beside you, and a voice of 
 
 manly tone 
 
58 Recrimination. 
 
 Told ever the olden story ; the tale that you know 
 
 so well, 
 You seem to think it the only one it is worth 
 
 man's while to tell. 
 Come, sit you down here and listen ; I have many 
 
 things to say, 
 And though I am loath to blame you, yet pity I 
 
 surely may. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ay, ay, you wince ! I fancy you would rather have 
 blame instead. 
 
 O girl ! will you never learn wisdom .-' I had 
 hoped your pride was dead ; 
 
 But no, — it will last and flourish so long as vani- 
 ties live, — 
 
 So long as you hunger for worship, so long as 
 your subjects give. 
 
 It was strange that he thought you loved him ; it 
 was strange that he never knew 
 
 Your heart, except by the shadow that others 
 mistook for you : 
 
Recrimination. eg 
 
 But you went well masked, and no one, whether 
 
 you laughed or wept. 
 Knew aught of the secret chamber where your 
 
 broken relics were kept ; 
 You hid them so very securely the wisest had 
 
 hardly guessed. 
 From your light-hearted tone and manner, your 
 
 outer seeming of rest, 
 That your heart was a drear Golgotha, where all 
 
 the ground was white 
 With the wrecks of joys that had perished, — the 
 
 skeletons of delight ! 
 
 III. 
 He loved you ; his soul was in earnest ; at your 
 
 dainty feet he poured 
 The purest and best libation that human hearts 
 
 can afford : 
 He dreamed of you morn and even ; he cherished 
 
 the flowers you gave ; 
 And I tell you, though they are withered now, 
 
 they will go with him to the grave ! 
 
6o Recrimination. 
 
 But you — how was it ? — you met him with 
 marvellous glances and smiles ; 
 
 You wove your glittering meshes ; you compassed 
 him with your wiles ; 
 
 You sang the songs he had written ; you talked 
 in your sweetest voice, 
 
 Till he thought his bondage was freedom, and 
 wore your fetters by choice. 
 
 Then a great joy flooded his spirit, and the yellow 
 laburnum flowers 
 
 Heard wondrous vows and pledges, in the dusk of 
 the evening hours ; 
 
 While there, in your heart, close hidden with jeal- 
 ously watchful care. 
 
 Lay that strange Golgotha of passion, that arid 
 waste of despair ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 It is well that I know your story : I know that 
 
 your first love came. 
 As of old came Jove to Semele, a splendid and 
 
 fatal flame : 
 
Recrimination, 6i 
 
 And it left your heart in ashes, — dead ashes, that 
 cooled and lay 
 
 A wearisome weight in your bosom, a burden to 
 bear for aye. 
 
 Since then you have shown no mercy to any that 
 circle around 
 
 The dangerous blaze of your beauty, for you no 
 mercy had found. 
 
 Tis for this I offer you pity, and blame you not, 
 as I should 
 
 Had you still a heart that was human, with a 
 human knowledge of good ; 
 
 But the glass of your life is darkened, and darkly 
 through it you see 
 
 Distorted and ghastly fragments of duty and des- 
 tiny. 
 
 Yet you still can flirt and trifle, still live in folly 
 and mirth, — 
 
 Ah ! they say that revenge is sweeter than any- 
 thing else on earth. 
 
62 Recrimination. 
 
 V. 
 
 But are there no better moments — better ? or 
 
 are they worse ? — 
 When flattery loses its sweetness, and beauty 
 
 becomes a curse ? 
 When you come from the world of pleasure, the 
 
 whirl, and glitter, and glare. 
 The tattle instead of wisdom, the perfume instead 
 
 of air ; 
 When the hot-house garlands are withered, and 
 
 the gray dawn breaks in the east. 
 And the wine grows stale in the goblets that 
 
 shone so fair at the feast ; , 
 When rouge hides paleness no longer, and folly 
 
 gives way to thought, — 
 Do love, and life, and emotion still count in your 
 
 creed for naught ? 
 Do you never gaze in your mirror, when your 
 
 beauty at daybreak goes, 
 And, pressing your throbbing temples, pray God 
 
 to give you repose ? 
 
Recrimination. 6^ 
 
 Repose ! it is tardy in coming : when the bitter 
 
 chalice is filled, 
 We must wait till the feverish pulses and the 
 
 passionate heart are stilled. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There is one, that we know, thus waiting, — wait- 
 ing and thinking to-day. 
 Perchance, of the happy summer whose blossoms 
 
 have faded away : 
 He walks beneath the laburnums, but not with 
 
 the hopeful pride 
 That made his world such an Eden when you 
 
 walked there by his side. 
 O love ! 't is a wonderful passion ; it makes or it 
 
 mars us all ; 
 By love men may walk with the angels, by love 
 
 the angels may fall ! 
 And you — it has changed your nature, it has 
 
 warped you, heart and soul. 
 Till you flee, with fierce desperation, the genii 
 
 you cannot control. 
 
64 Recrimination. 
 
 What, tears ? they are not becoming ; let others 
 
 such weakness show, — 
 The hall is garnished for dancing, the wine and 
 
 the gaslights glow : 
 Go, stifle your sobs with laughter, let your eyes, 
 
 like your heart, be dry, 
 And pray, when the ball is over, to be forgiven — 
 
 and die ! 
 
INTROSPECTION. 
 
 I. 
 
 T T AVE you sent her back her letters ? have 
 
 -*- -■■ you given her back her ring ? 
 
 Have you tried to forget the haunting songs that 
 
 you loved to hear her sing ? 
 Have you cursed the day you met her first ? 
 
 thanked God that you were free, 
 And said in your inmost heart, as you thought, 
 
 " She never was dear to me " ? 
 You have cast her off ; your pride is touched ; 
 
 you fancy that all is done ; 
 That for you the world is bright again, and 
 
 bravely shines the sun : 
 You have washed your hands of passion ; you 
 
 have whistled her down the wind, — 
 O Tom, old friend, this goes before, the sharpest 
 ■ comes behind ! 
 
66 Introspection. 
 
 Yes, the sharpest is yet to come, for love is a 
 
 plant that never dies ; 
 Its roots are deep as the earth itself, its branches 
 
 wide as the skies ; 
 And wherever once it has taken hold, it flourishes 
 
 evermore, 
 Bearing a fruit that is fair outside, but bitter 
 
 ashes at core. 
 
 II. 
 
 You will learn this, Tom, hereafter, when anger 
 has cooled, and you 
 
 Have time for introspection ; you will find my 
 words are true ; 
 
 You will sit and gaze in your fire alone, and fancy 
 that you can see 
 
 Her face, with its classic oval, her ringlets flutter- 
 ing free, 
 
 Her soft blue eyes, wide opened, her sweet red 
 lips apart. 
 
 As she used to look, in the golden days when you 
 fancied she had a heart : 
 
Introspection. 67 
 
 Whatever you do, wherever you turn, you will see 
 
 that glorious face 
 Coming with shadowy beauty, to haunt all time 
 
 and space : 
 Those songs you wrote for her singing will sing 
 
 themselves into your brain 
 Till your life seems set to their rhythm, and your 
 
 thoughts to their refrain — 
 Their old, old burden of love and grief — the 
 
 passion you have forsworn : 
 I tell you, Tom, it is not thrown off so well as 
 
 you think, this morn ! 
 
 III. 
 
 But the worst, perhaps the worst of all, will be 
 when the day has flown, 
 
 When darkness favors reflection, and your com- 
 rades leave you alone : 
 
 You will try to sleep, but the memories of unfor- 
 gotten years 
 
 Will come with a storm of wild regret — mayhap 
 with a storm of tears ; 
 
68 Introspection. 
 
 Each look, each word, each playful tone, each 
 
 timid little caress, 
 The golden gleam of her ringlets, the rustling of 
 
 her dress, 
 The delicate touch of her ungloved hand, that 
 
 woke such an exquisite thrill. 
 The flowers she gave you, the night of the ball, — 
 
 I think you treasure them still, — 
 All these will come, till you slumber, worn out by 
 
 sheer despair. 
 And then you will hear vague echoes of song on 
 
 the darkened air, — 
 Vague echoes, rising and falling, of the voice you 
 
 know so well. 
 Like the songs that were sung by the Lurlei- 
 
 maids, sweet with a deadly spell ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 In dreams, her heart will ever again be yours, and 
 
 you will see 
 Fair glimpses of what might have been, — what 
 
 now can never be ; 
 
Introspection. 69 
 
 And as she comes to meet you, with a sudden 
 
 wild unrest 
 You stretch your arms forth lovingly, to fold her 
 
 to your breast : 
 But the Lurlei-song will faint and die, and with 
 
 its fading tone 
 You wake to find you clasp the thin and empty 
 
 air alone, 
 While the fire-bell's clanging dissonance, on the 
 
 gusty night-wirid borne 
 Will seem an iron-tongued demon's voice, laugh- 
 ing your grief to scorn. 
 O Tom, you say it is over, — you talk of letters 
 
 and rings, — 
 Do you think that love's mighty spirit, then, is 
 
 held by such trifling things ? 
 No ! if you once have truly loved, you will still 
 
 love on, I know, 
 Till the churchyard myrtles blossom above, and 
 
 you lie mute below ! 
 
70 Introspection. 
 
 V. • 
 
 How is it, I wonder, hereafter ? Faith teaches us 
 
 little, here, 
 Of the ones we have loved and lost on earth, — do 
 
 you think they will still be dear ? 
 Shall we live the lives we might have led ? — will 
 
 those who are severed now 
 Remember the pledge of a lower sphere, and re- 
 new the broken vow ? 
 It almost drives me wild to" think of the gifts we 
 
 throw away 
 Unthinking whether or no we lose life's honey 
 
 and wine for aye ! 
 But then, again, 't is a mighty joy — greater than 
 
 I can tell — 
 To trust that the parted may some time meet, — 
 
 that all may again be well : 
 However it be, I hold that all the evil we know 
 
 on earth 
 Finds in this violence done to love its true and 
 
 legitimate birth, 
 
Introspectio7i. 7 e 
 
 And the agonies we suffer, when the heart is left 
 
 alone, 
 For every sin of humanity should fully and well 
 
 atone ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 I see that you marvel greatly, Tom, to hear such 
 
 words from me, 
 But, if you knew my inmost heart, 't would be no 
 
 mystery. 
 Experience is bitter, but its teachings we retain ; 
 It has taught me this, — who once has loved, loves 
 
 never on earth again ! 
 And I, too, have my closet, with a ghastly form 
 
 inside, — 
 The skeleton of a perished love, killed by a cruel 
 
 pride : 
 I sit by the fire at evening, as you will some time 
 
 sit, 
 And watch, in the roseate half-light, the ghosts of 
 
 happiness flit : 
 
72 Introspection. 
 
 I, too, awaken at midnight, and stretch my arms 
 
 to enfold 
 A vague and shadowy image, with tresses of 
 
 brown and gold : 
 Experience is bitter indeed, — I have learned at a 
 
 heavy cost 
 The secret of love's persistency : I, too, have 
 
 loved and lost ! 
 
WOOL-GATHERING. 
 
 A PLEASANT golden light fills all the cham- 
 
 ■^ -^ ber where I sit, 
 
 The amber curtains close are drawn, and shadows 
 o'er them flit, — 
 
 The swaying, shifting shadows of the honeysuckle 
 vine. 
 
 Whose bare and leafless branches still about the 
 porch entwine : 
 
 In summer, fresh and fair they grow, with blos- 
 soms for the bees, 
 
 But now in wintry nakedness they swing upon the 
 . breeze ; 
 
 Yet here, inside, 't is warm and bright, and I am 
 quite inclined 
 
 To let this golden demi-jour make summer in my 
 mind : 
 
74 Wool-Gathering. 
 
 I sit with Jack — my terrier-dog — upon my lap 
 
 curled up, 
 And, smoking thoughtfully, I seem to sip the 
 
 classic cup 
 The Ancients called Nepenthe, — 't is a draught 
 
 that brings repose 
 When one has lived or loved too much, — a balm 
 
 for mental woes. 
 Yet, in this same Nepenthe cup, I know that some 
 
 will see 
 Another name for laziness, — a common fault with 
 
 me! 
 
 II. 
 Well, why not preach up laziness ? I think it 
 
 would be well 
 If some who cry it down a sin could only feel its 
 
 spell ! 
 The hard, ascetic natures — those who look for 
 
 naught but use 
 In everything one says or does — whose spirits 
 
 are obtuse 
 
Wool-Gathering. 75 
 
 To all the glorious gains of art, to all the joys of 
 
 sense, 
 And who cut their hard paths straightly Ijy Poor 
 
 Richard's eloquence ! 
 Cid bono ? Is there not a Power above the hu- 
 man mind 
 That works out all our problems, be they e'er so 
 
 darkly blind ? 
 And, after all, does Man, the unit, when his life is 
 
 done 
 Ever look back upon its field to see the battle 
 
 won ? 
 No ; I think not : we lay our plans, but when our 
 
 life-star pales 
 We learn that human prescience inevitably 
 
 fails. 
 Napoleon on his island, and Columbus in his 
 
 chains, — 
 Are these the proud successes, then, for which we 
 
 take such pains ? 
 
76 Wool-Gathering. 
 
 III. 
 Ah, many a one has started forth with hope and 
 
 purpose high ; 
 Has fought throughout a weary Hfe, and passed 
 
 all pleasure by ; 
 Has burst all flowery chains by which men aye 
 
 have been enthralled ; 
 Has been stone-deaf to voices sweet, that softly, 
 
 sadly called ; 
 Has scorned the flashing goblet with the bubbles 
 
 on its brim ; 
 Has turned his back on jewelled hands that madly 
 
 beckoned him ; 
 Has, in a word, condemned himself to follow out 
 
 his plan 
 By stern and lonely labor, — and has died, a con- 
 quered man ! 
 Look back, ye men of lofty aims, who in your 
 
 youth aspired 
 To win some prize, — with love of gold or glory 
 
 ye were fired ; 
 
Wool-GatJicring. 77 
 
 But now ? let those who count threescore-and-ten 
 
 full circles past 
 Tell how much they have gained and lost, — how 
 
 much they hold at last ! 
 Napoleon and Columbus, and legions more whose 
 
 names 
 We never even heard of, — these were men of lofty 
 
 aims ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 So, in this softened, yellow light, with Jack upon 
 my knees, 
 
 I find my good in being just as lazy as I 
 please ; 
 
 My pipe-smoke floats aspiringly, and that, I 'm 
 fain to say. 
 
 Is as much of aspiration as I care to see to- 
 day ; 
 
 Though Jack, disturbed by canine dreams, gives 
 forth a sleepy cry. 
 
 And, full of lofty aims, prepares to conquer or to 
 die ; 
 
78 Wool-Gathering. 
 
 No doubt some mighty, spectral rat glares through 
 his visions dim, 
 
 Which Jack is bound to vanquish, or the rat will 
 vanquish him ! 
 
 Well, well, my dog, be wise, and all these high am- 
 bitions keep ; 
 
 Unlike poor man, indulge them only when you are 
 asleep ! — 
 
 What 's this ? I find that while in praise of lazi- 
 ness I sang, 
 
 I 've worked quite hard to write a metaphysical 
 harangue ! 
 
 Well, thus it is ; consistency exists on earth no 
 more, — 
 
 My pipe is out, my dog has waked, my laziness is 
 o'er! 
 
THE TWO AUTUMNS. 
 
 THE tall grass waves o'er lowly graves, 
 The golden sunshine floods the meadows, 
 And in the breeze the willow-trees. 
 That guard the tomb of Eloise, 
 Wave to and fro, with flickering shadows. 
 
 And here I sit, while bright birds flit 
 
 Among the gravestones whitely gleaming. 
 
 And muse away the summer day 
 
 Beneath the vines' and willows' sway, — 
 
 On that fair maiden's memory dreaming. 
 
 O'er fields unmown the poppy shone, 
 The earliest rose had hardly perished, 
 
 When she confessed that in her breast 
 Young love was throned, a royal guest, 
 My image there alone she cherished. 
 
8o The Tzvo Atitumns. 
 
 O happy hour, when from her bower, 
 With clambering grape-vines close entangled, 
 We saw the moon of leafy June 
 Rise calmly o'er the wide lagoon, 
 And climb the sky with bright stars spangled. 
 
 Her deep blue eyes, like tropic skies, — 
 Not less profound, and never colder, — 
 Were fixed on mine with gaze divine, 
 And, golden as the German wine, 
 Her regal ringlets swept her shoulder. 
 
 Her little hand, which scarcely spanned 
 With timid clasp my first three fingers, 
 
 Her lip, her cheek, which bees might seek ; 
 
 Her voice — but, ah ! mere words are weak 
 To paint the joys where memory lingers! 
 
 The summer passed, and autumn's blast 
 Swept bleakly cold across the heather ; 
 
The Tivo Autumns. 8i 
 
 The bright leaves browned, 'neath skies that 
 
 frowned, 
 Then whirled in circles to the ground. 
 And strewed the paths we trod together. 
 
 heavy grief! with autumn's leaf 
 
 They told me that her days were numbered : 
 She passed away, — her mortal clay 
 In death's pale beauty silent lay, 
 
 As calm as if she only slumbered. 
 
 1 sit among the graves o'erhung 
 With many a slender-threaded willow ; 
 
 The churchyard mould seems now less cold 
 Since, deep beneath, those locks of gold 
 Have found a soft and dreamless pillow. 
 
 About the tombs the laurel blooms, 
 I hear the bees above it humming, 
 
 The zephyrs sigh, in floating by ; 
 
 They bring the scent of ripened rye, 
 And tell another autumn coming. 
 
82 The Two Auttumis. 
 
 Far down upon the horizon 
 
 A purple haze is softly falling, 
 
 The fading rose of summer goes, 
 And distant bells, at day's repose, 
 
 Unto my inner ear are calling. 
 
 Ah, dreamily they say to me 
 That those, who here are called to sever, 
 
 Are elsewhere blessed with peace and rest, 
 
 And I, unto this lonely breast 
 Shall clasp my Eloise forever. 
 
ALONE BY THE HEARTH. 
 
 T T ERE, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, 
 -■- ^ Sit I alone ; 
 
 And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember 
 Days long agone. 
 
 Saddening it is, when the night has descended, 
 
 Thus to sit here, 
 Pensively musing on episodes, ended 
 
 Many a year. 
 
 Still in my visions a golden-haired glory 
 
 Floats to and fro ; 
 She whom I loved, — but 't is just the old story. 
 
 Dead, long ago ! 
 
 'T is but the wraith of a love ; yet I linger 
 (Thus passion errs), 
 
84 Alone by the Hearth. 
 
 Foolishly kissing the ring on my finger, — 
 Once it was hers. 
 
 Nothing has changed since her spirit departed, 
 
 Here, in this room. 
 Save I, who, weary and half broken-hearted. 
 
 Sit in the gloom. 
 
 Loud 'gainst the window the winter rain dashes, 
 
 Dreary and cold ; 
 Over the floor the red fire-light flashes 
 
 Just as of old. 
 
 Just as of old, — but the embers are scattered. 
 
 Whose ruddy blaze 
 Flashed o'er the floor where her fairy feet pattered 
 
 In other days ! 
 
 Then, her dear voice, like a silver-chime ringing. 
 
 Melted away ; 
 Often these walls have re-echoed her singing 
 
 Now hushed for aye ! 
 
Alone by the Hearth. 85 
 
 Why should love bring naught but sorrow, I won- 
 der? 
 
 Everything dies ! 
 Time and Death, sooner or later, must sunder 
 
 Holiest ties. 
 
 Years have rolled by ; I am wiser and older, — 
 
 Wiser, but yet, 
 Not till my heart and its feelings grow colder, 
 
 Can I forget. 
 
 So, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, 
 
 Sit I alone ; 
 And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember 
 
 Days long agone ! 
 
THE GARDEN OF MEMORY. 
 
 '' I ""HERE is a garden which my memory knows, 
 -*- A grand old garden of the days gone by, 
 
 Where lofty trees invite the breeze, 
 And underneath them blooms full many a rose, 
 
 Of rarest crimson or deep purple dye ; 
 And there extend as far as eye can see, 
 Dim vistas of cool greenery. 
 
 Quaint marble statues, clothed with vines and 
 mould, 
 Gleam gray and spectral 'mid the foliage there: 
 Grimly they stand on every hand. 
 Along the walk whose sands are smoothly rolled 
 And borders trimmed with constant, watchful 
 care : 
 There Memory sits, and hears soft voices call 
 Above the plashing waterfall. 
 
The Garden of Memory. 87 
 
 Old, faded bowers, with their rustic seats 
 Of knotted branches closely intertwined, 
 May there be seen, the walks between : 
 
 Within their shade the dove at noon retreats, 
 And gives her sad voice to the summer wind ; 
 
 Around them bloom rich flowers, where all day 
 long 
 
 The wild bee drones his dreamy song. 
 
 The garden stretches downward to a lake. 
 Where gentle ripples kiss a pebbly shore : 
 All cool and deep the waters sleep, 
 
 With naught the calm of their repose to break 
 Save now and then the plashing of an oar, 
 
 Or the long train of diamond sparkles bright 
 
 Left by the wayward swallow's flight. 
 
 Within that garden Memory oft recalls 
 
 Gay friends, who lived, and loved, and passed 
 
 away : 
 Who met at morn upon the lawn. 
 
88 The Gardeft of Memory. 
 
 And strolled in couples by the garden-walls, 
 
 Or on the grass beneath the maples lay, 
 And passed the hours as gayly as might be. 
 With olden tales of chivalry. 
 
 The younger maidens, each with silken net, 
 
 Chased butterflies that hung, on painted wings, 
 Above the beds where poppy-heads 
 
 Drooped heavily with morning dew-drops wet : 
 In recollection still their laughter rings. 
 
 And still I seem to see them sport among 
 
 The statues gray, with vines o'erhung 
 
 One sainted maiden I remember well, 
 
 And shall remember, though all else should 
 
 fade : 
 Her dreamy eyes, her gentle sighs. 
 
 Her golden hair in tangled curls that fell. 
 Her queen-like beauty and demeanor staid. 
 
 And O, her smile, that played at hide-and-seek 
 
 With dimples on her chin and cheek ! 
 
The Garden of Memory. go 
 
 O Edith ! often have we sat at rest, 
 And watched the sunset from the Lover's 
 
 Hill, 
 When few, faint stars shone through the bars • 
 Of purple cloud that stretched athwart the west ; 
 
 And nature's pulse seemed silently to thrill, 
 While night came o'er the moorlands wide and 
 
 brown. 
 On dusky pinions sweeping down. 
 
 Long years have faded since those happy days. 
 Yet still in memory are their joys enshrined. 
 Tall grasses wave o'er Edith's grave ; 
 
 Above her breast the birds sing plaintive lays ; 
 Yet still I feel her arms about me twined ; 
 
 Still float her tangled tresses in the breeze ; 
 
 Still sit we 'neath the maple-trees. 
 
 Thus may it be, until I too am gone ! 
 
 Thus let me ever dream of youth and love ! 
 And when the strife of earthly life 
 
90 The Garden of Memory. 
 
 " Is past ; when all my weary tasks are done, 
 I know that in some garden there, above. 
 My angel Edith waits to welcome me 
 . Unto thy halls. Eternity ! . 
 
AN IDYL OF OCTOBER. 
 
 •» 
 
 JULIE, Mary, Willie,' and I, 
 Walked down the cedar-lane one day, 
 When the sun was bright in an autumn sky, 
 
 And the trees with their autumn tints were gay ; 
 Down to the bridge our way we took. 
 
 Past the chestnuts that crown the hill, — 
 Down to the bridge that crosses the brook. 
 On the road to the cider-mill. 
 
 A year before, we had trod the lane. 
 
 And then, half-jesting, ourselves we bound 
 To take the selfsame walk again. 
 
 When another year had rolled around ; — 
 So, when another October glowed 
 
 On shrubby hollow and wooded ridge, 
 It found us threading the cedar-road. 
 
 And loitering on the bridge. 
 
92 An Idyl of October. 
 
 The water swirled 'mong the oaken posts, 
 
 In long, dark currents, eddying by, 
 And floating leaves, like shadowy ghosts, 
 
 Were borne on its bosom silently. 
 The breezes dallied with JuTie's hair. 
 
 Where mingling gold and amber played ; 
 Fair Mary's face seemed still more fair 
 
 In the flickering shine and shade. 
 
 We feasted our eyes on the pleasant scene, 
 
 We gathered leaves of a thousand dyes, — 
 Speckled with crimson, spotted with green, 
 
 And shaded with hues from Paradise ; 
 We sang and shouted, we laughed and talked. 
 
 Till the woods were loud with our echoed glee ; — 
 O, never a merrier party walked 
 
 In a place more fair to see ! 
 
 Last year, when under the autumn sky. 
 
 Through these bright autumn woods we strolled, 
 
 We met a lassie, pretty and shy. 
 
 Mayhap some seventeen summers old : 
 
Aji Idyl of October. 93 
 
 A blue-eyed, bashful country maid, 
 
 Who passed us, timidly glancing down, 
 
 Her blue eyes taking a deeper shade 
 From their lashes long and brown. 
 
 I, who have ever ht&n faireur, — 
 
 Loving a merry word alway, — 
 Feigned to have fallen in love with her, — 
 
 A new-born passion, to last for aye. 
 So, when we spoke of the cedar-lane, 
 
 And plans for this year's ramble laid, 
 We wondered if we should meet again 
 
 With the blue-eyed, bashful maid. 
 
 Then, I said that if we should meet 
 
 With the country lassie, modest and fair, 
 There on the bridge would I kneel at her feet, 
 
 And all my passion for her declare . . . 
 Well, as we came to the foot of the hill. 
 
 Where the maples glow like a colored flame, 
 Down the road to the cider-mill. 
 
 The blue-eyed damsel came ! 
 
94 An Idyl of October. 
 
 But, alas for the ways of destiny ! 
 
 I spied some leaves so gorgeously hued, 
 Decking the boughs of a maple-tree, 
 
 By a fence between the road and the wood, 
 That I vowed to have them whether or no, — 
 
 Coveting beauty as some covet pelf, — 
 And, venturing where the ground was low, 
 
 In a swamp I found myself. 
 
 There I gathered the prettiest leaves, 
 
 Standing, the while, on treacherous ground, — 
 Such fair chaplets as Nature weaves 
 
 When Autumn, King of the Year, is crowned, — 
 And there, alone, long after its time, 
 
 I found a heaven-blue violet. 
 Gleaming up from the ooze and slime 
 
 Like a jewel, foully set. 
 
 Many a leaf of orange and red. 
 
 Gold and purple, scarlet and brown, 
 
 I found on the branches overhead. 
 
 Or where the wind had rustled them down ; 
 
An Idyl of October. 95 
 
 Gathering these, no heed I paid 
 
 To anything save my leafy load, 
 And the blue-eyed, bashful country maid 
 
 Had gone, when I gained the road ! 
 
 But Julie and Mary both were there, — 
 
 Better than bashful maids are they, — 
 The blue-eyed lassie is not more fair. 
 
 And not more modest, as I dare say ; 
 I felt some pride, as surely I might. 
 
 When I showed my leaves and my violet ; — 
 Those autumn colors were wondrous bright, 
 
 But those faces were brighter yet ! 
 
 Whenever I see those leaves again, 
 
 Pressed and varnished by Julie's skill, 
 I shall think of our walk in the cedar-lane. 
 
 And the bridge on the road to the cider-mill ; 
 And if e'er for the bashful lassie I sigh, — 
 
 I, who have ever httn farceur, — 
 I will see that she does not pass me by ; — 
 
 I '11 wait on the brido:e for her ! 
 
"ALL FOR LOVE." 
 
 A BOUT the pool the pansies blow, 
 -^ ■*■ Fair they bloom in the summer sun, 
 With violets on the bank below 
 
 And tangled vines that at random run ; 
 The water is dark, and cool, and green, 
 
 Its surface touched by misty rays 
 That slant the willow boughs between 
 
 On sunny, summer days. 
 
 Across the pool the winged seeds 
 
 Hither and thither lightly flaunt, 
 Blown from the shore of bristling reeds 
 
 That gauzy dragon-flies love to haunt ; 
 The shallows all are thickly set 
 
 With lily-leaves and blossoms white, — 
 Their fragrant petals glistening wet 
 
 With dewdrops, diamond-bright. 
 
All for Love. 97 
 
 A silence reigns upon the air, 
 
 Upon the pansies by the shore, 
 Upon the violets, pale and fair. 
 
 Upon the willow, bending o'er ; 
 The reeds and lilies silent grow. 
 
 The dark green waters silent sleep, 
 Save when the summer breezes blow, 
 
 Or silvery minnows leap, 
 
 Adown the path, that hidden lies 
 
 Under the chestnuts on the hill, 
 Came pretty May with the hazel eyes, 
 
 Whose father kept the neighboring mill. 
 Wild she muttered and long she gazed. 
 
 Loosely floated her fair, brown hair : 
 Like one by a heavy sorrow crazed 
 
 She laughed and whispered there. 
 
 Alas ! her story was just the same 
 
 That poets have told since poets have sung, — 
 Beginning in love, to end in shame. 
 
 When hope grows old while life is young ! 
 
98 All for Love. 
 
 So, sighing wearily, down she strayed, 
 
 While the sunshine slept on the silent pool, 
 
 To the flowery bank, and the willow's shade, 
 And the water, deep and cool. 
 
 About the pool the pansies blow, 
 
 Fair in the summer sun they bloom. 
 But the water is dark that lies below, — 
 
 Dark and silent as is the tomb : 
 And I seem to see, wherever I tread 
 
 The reedy shore where the willow stands. 
 The sorrowing wraith of one long dead, 
 
 Wringing her ghostly hands. 
 
 The mill and miller have long been gone. 
 
 The father sleeps by his daughter's side, 
 And many a summer's sun has shone 
 
 Since hazel-eyed May lived, loved, and died ; 
 Yet still in passing, the neighbors pause, 
 
 And say, as they glance from the hill above, 
 " Let us forgive the child, because 
 
 Her sorrow was born of love ! " 
 
THE BALLAD OF ROSALIE, 
 
 73 OSALIE was strangely fair 
 -*- ^ — Slow and weary the days go by — 
 With her splendid torrent of tawny hair, 
 And her terrible, beautiful eye. 
 
 Love for her had made me blind, 
 
 — Slow and weary the days go by — 
 Her heart was false as the summer wind, 
 
 Her truest truth was a lie. 
 
 O, but she vowed by that and by this ! 
 
 — Slow and weary the days go by — 
 O, but her lips were sweet to kiss, 
 
 And, O, but her heart was dry. 
 
 A chaplet once I saw her weave, 
 
 — Slow and weary the days go by — 
 
lOO The Ballad of Rosalie. 
 
 Her girdle pressed against my sleeve ; 
 My cheek warmed to her sigh. 
 
 That night, wine in the cup was red, 
 
 — Slow and weary the days go by — 
 The chaplet shone on Rosalie's head, 
 
 So Roland's time drew nigh. 
 
 Song and laughter, peal on peal ! 
 
 — Slow and weary the days go by — 
 They could not hear the clash of steel. 
 
 Their merriment rang so high. 
 
 Under the trees I left the knight, 
 
 — Slow and weary the days go by — 
 My blade was crimson ; his face was white ; 
 
 I wear good steel on thigh. 
 
 Morning came and the broad light shone, 
 
 — Slow and weary the days go by — 
 The dancers and revellers all had gone 
 
 When the sun climbed up the sky. 
 
The Ballad of Rosalie. loi 
 
 Rosalie lay by the castle moat, 
 
 — Slow and weary the days go by — 
 A dark, red line across her throat. 
 
 — 'T were pity that she should die ! 
 
 Her bright hair gleamed by the water-side, 
 
 — Slow and weary the days go by — 
 How she was loved and how she died 
 
 Nobody knows but I. 
 
TRAILING ARBUTUS. 
 
 '^T PANDERING over the breezy slopes 
 
 ' ' Where the trailing arbutus grows, 
 (That little flower that timidly opes, 
 While the wind of March still blows, 
 Its delicate buds of the palest rose, 
 And blossoms white as eternal snows), 
 O Love, we walked, and cheerily talked, 
 That breezy, blustering day. 
 Where the March winds blow, and the pink buds 
 
 grow, 
 Wet with the morning's crystalline dew ; 
 And far below us, stretching away 
 'Neath the sky with its spring-time azure hue, 
 The heaving, flashing, glittering bay 
 In solemn breadth and beauty lay ! 
 
Trailing Arbutus. 103 
 
 II. 
 
 Sitting under the cedar-trees, 
 
 Breathing their odor rare, 
 
 With the swaying, swinging, dallying breeze 
 
 Playing among thy hair. 
 
 Ah, still my fancy thy image sees, — 
 
 The checkered shadow and shine on thy face, 
 
 Lighting the place with a holy grace. 
 
 While thy voice was lifted in ballads old 
 
 Of maids who were fair, and men who were bold, — 
 
 Ah, heaven ! thou too wert fair ! 
 
 HI. 
 
 The wind is blowing and blustering still 
 
 On the lofty cedared slopes. 
 
 And still on the southerly face of the hill 
 
 The trailing arbutus opes ; 
 
 But alone I sit 'neath the cedar-trees, — 
 
 Alone with the boisterous, blustering breeze, 
 
 The flowers, and my own sad memories ; 
 
 While the murmur that comes from the flashing seas 
 
 Whispers to me, all solemnly, 
 
I04 Trailing Arbutus. 
 
 That love is only a vanity ! . . . 
 
 Well, it has flown, as the winds have blown 
 
 Last autumn's dead leaves rustling down. 
 
 Each spring, the trailing arbutus grows 
 
 When the March wind blows, but love, when it 
 
 goes, 
 Alas, is forever gone ! 
 
THE OLD PLACE. 
 
 T STAND on the shore of a moonlit sea, 
 •^ Under the stars of a summer sky, 
 And sad are the thoughts that come to me, 
 As the sorrowful night-wind whispers by. 
 
 'T is the same old sea whose voices call. 
 
 The same old stars, with their twinkling eyes, 
 
 The same old moonlight silvers all, 
 
 And the same old solemn thoughts arise. 
 
 Naught in the scene has changed, for years. 
 Waves, nor stars, nor moonlight fair ; 
 
 And here in my eyes are the same old tears. 
 For the same old hopeless love I bear. 
 
THE GIFT OF LOVE. 
 
 «/^ IVE me," I said, " that ring, 
 ^-^ Which on thy taper finger gleams ; 
 Sweet thoughts to me 't will bring, 
 
 When summer sunset's beams 
 Have faded o'er the western sea, 
 And left me dreaming, Love, of thee ! " 
 
 " O no ! " the maiden cried ; 
 " This shining ring is bright, but cold : 
 
 That bond is loosely tied 
 Which must be clasped with gold ! 
 
 The ring would soon forgotten be : 
 
 Some better gift I '11 give to thee ! " 
 
 " Then give me that red rose," 
 Said I, " which on thy bosom heaves 
 In ecstasied repose, 
 
The Gift of Love. 107 
 
 And droops its blushing leaves : 
 
 If thou wouldst have me think of thee, 
 Fair maiden, give the rose to me ! " 
 
 " O no ! " she softly said, 
 " I will not give thee any flower : 
 
 This rose will surely fade ; 
 It passes with the hour : 
 
 A faded rose can never be 
 
 An emblem of my love for thee ! " 
 
 " Then give me but thy word, — 
 A vow of love, — *t were better yet," 
 
 I cried ; " who once has heard 
 Such vows, can ne'er forget ! 
 
 If thou wilt give this pledge to me. 
 
 Nor ring nor rose I '11 ask of thee ! " 
 
 " O no ! " she said again ; 
 " For spoken vows are empty breath, 
 
 Whose memory is vain 
 When passion perisheth : 
 
io8 TJie Gift of Love. 
 
 If e'er I lose my love for thee, 
 My vows must all forgotten be ! " 
 
 " Then what," I asked, " wilt thou, 
 O dearest ! to thy lover give ? 
 
 Nor ring nor rose nor vow 
 May I from thee receive ; 
 
 And yet some symbol should there be 
 
 To typify thy love for me ! " 
 
 Then dropped her silvery voice 
 Unto a whisper, soft and low : 
 
 " Here, take this gift, — my choice, — 
 The sweetest love can know ! " 
 
 She raised her head all lovingly, 
 
 And smiling, gave — a kiss to me ! 
 
MIGNON. 
 
 npHINE is a little hand, — 
 -*■ A tiny, little hand, — 
 Yet if it clasp 
 With timid grasp 
 My own, ah me ! I well can understand 
 The pressure of that little hand ! 
 
 Thine is a little mouth, — 
 A very little mouth, — 
 Yet, ah ! what bliss 
 To steal a kiss. 
 Sweet as the honeyed zephyrs of the south, 
 From that same rosy little mouth ! 
 ' \ 
 
 Thine is a little heart, — 
 A little, fluttering heart, — 
 
no My Love. 
 
 Yet is it warm 
 And pure and calm, 
 And loves me with its whole untutored art, 
 That fond and faithful little heart ! 
 
 Thou art a little girl, — 
 ■ Only a little girl, — 
 
 Yet art thou worth 
 The wealth of earth — 
 Diamond, and ruby, sapphire, gold, and pearl ■ 
 To me, thou blessed little girl ! 
 
MINNIE'S ANSWER. 
 
 'npHERE 'S a certain girlish grace 
 
 -■- Hovers round thy form ; 
 Sits upon thy beaming face, 
 Sweetly blended with a trace 
 
 Of a riper charm. 
 Should I say, " I love but thee," 
 Minnie, were it safe for me ? 
 
 There 's a certain burning look 
 Darting from thine eye, — 
 
 Reads my soul as 't were a book, 
 
 Searches every hidden nook 
 E'en in passing by. 
 
 Shouldst thou fall in love with me, 
 
 Minnie, were it safe for thee ? 
 
 Then this loveliest ot girls 
 Raised her eyes to mine, — 
 
112 Minnie s Ansiver. 
 
 Smiled, and brushed away her curls, 
 Smiled, — with teeth like matchless pearls. 
 
 Lips like matchless wine, — 
 And she softly said to me, 
 
 " I would take my chance with thee." 
 
AU COMBLE. 
 
 T_T EART of hearts and pearl of pearls, 
 -'- -■- Dearest of all darling girls ! 
 
 Can I make mere language say 
 
 How I love thee, night and day ? 
 
 Can I find, in head or heart. 
 
 Words to tell how fair thou art ? 
 
 Suns and moons may never shine 
 
 On a face and form like thine : 
 
 Rolling years may never see 
 
 Love more deep than mine for thee ! 
 
 I have known diviner rest. 
 
 Softly pillowed on thy breast, 
 
 Than could ever haunt at night 
 
 Rosy couch of sybarite ; 
 
 And no music ever fell — 
 
 Song of bird, or silver bell — 
 
 Half so sweetly on my ear 
 
 As thy laughter, rich and clear ! 
 
114 -^^^ Comhle. 
 
 Now, since love is life to us, 
 Let us love forever thus ! 
 Knowing that a brighter day 
 Shall behold us joined for aye ; 
 For, to us, to love 't is given, 
 Here on earth and there in heaven. 
 
SWEET IMPATIENCE. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE sunlight glimmers dull and gray 
 Upon my wall to-day ; 
 This summer is too long : 
 The hot days go 
 Weary and slow 
 As if time's reckoning were perverse and wrong : 
 
 But when the flowers 
 Have faded, and their bloom has passed away, 
 Then shall my song 
 Be all of happier hours, 
 And more than one fond heart shall then be gay. 
 
 II. 
 But song can never tell 
 
 How much I long to hear 
 One voice, that like the echo of a silver bell, 
 
ii6 Sweet Impatience. 
 
 Unconscious, low, and clear. 
 Falls, as aforetime angel-voices fell 
 On Saint Cecelia's ear : 
 And it will come again, 
 And I shall hear it, when 
 The droning summer bee forgets his song 
 And frosty autumn crimsons hill and dell : 
 I shall not murmur, then, 
 " This summer is too long ! " 
 
 III. 
 The trellised grapes shall purple be, 
 
 And all 
 The forest aisles re-echo merrily 
 The brown quail's call. 
 And glossy chestnuts fall 
 In pattering plenty from the leafless tree 
 
 When autumn winds blow strong : 
 Then shall I see 
 
 Her worshipped face once more, and in its sun- 
 shine, I 
 Shall cease to sigh 
 
 " This summer is too long ! " 
 
Sweet Impatience. iiy 
 
 IV. 
 
 Meanwhile, I wander up and down 
 The noisy town, 
 Alone : 
 
 I miss the lithe form from my side, 
 The kind, caressing tone. 
 The gentle eyes 
 
 In whose soft depths so much of loving lies ; 
 And lonely in the throng, — 
 Each jostling, bustling, grasping for his own, — 
 The weary words arise, 
 
 " This summer is too long ! " 
 
 V. 
 
 Haste, happy hours, — 
 Fade, tardy, lingering flowers ! 
 Your fragrance has departed, long ago ; 
 
 I yearn for cold winds, whistling through the 
 ruined bowers, 
 For winter's snow. 
 
 If with them, she 
 May come to teach my heart a cheerier song, 
 
Ii8 Sweet Impatience. 
 
 And lovingly 
 Make me forget all weariness and severance and 
 wrong, 
 Whispering close and low, 
 " Here are we still together, Love, although 
 The summer was so long ! " 
 
AN AUTUMN JOY. 
 
 T T is a fair autumnal day, 
 ^ The ground is strewn with yellow leaves ; 
 The maple stems gleam bare and gray, 
 The grain is piled in golden sheaves ; 
 Afar I hear the speckled quails 
 
 Pipe shrill amid the stubble dry, 
 And muffled beats from busy flails 
 Within the barn near by. 
 
 The latest roses now are dead, 
 
 Their petals scattered far and wide. 
 The sumac-berries, richly red, 
 
 Bedeck the lane on either side ; 
 A dreamy calm is in the air, 
 
 A dreamy echo on the sea : 
 Ah, never was a day more fair 
 
 Than this, which comes to me ! 
 
I20 An Autumn yoy. 
 
 I see the stacks of ripened corn, 
 
 The golden sunshine on the roof, 
 The diamond dew-drops of the morn, 
 
 That string with gems the spider's woof ; 
 An azure haze is hanging low 
 
 About the outline of the hills, 
 And chanting sea-fowl southward go 
 
 From marshes, lakes, and kils. 
 
 For many years, the autumn brought 
 
 A plaintive sadness to my soul. 
 That shaded e'en my brightest thought. 
 
 And on my gayest moments stole ; 
 'T was sad, yet sweet, a strange alloy 
 
 Of hope and sorrow intertwined : 
 This autumn brings me only joy, 
 
 No shadow haunts my mind. 
 
 And why is this ? The dead leaves fall, 
 The blossoms wither, as of old. 
 
 And winter comes, with snowy pall. 
 To wrap the earth so deathly cold ; 
 
All Autumn Joy. ^"2.1 
 
 The sea-fowl, strung athwart the sky, 
 Still chant their plaintive monotone ; 
 
 And why, when leaves and blossoms die. 
 Should I feel joy alone ? 
 
 O, ask me not, — I dare not tell ; 
 
 I must not all my heart disclose. 
 I think a fairy wove a spell 
 
 About me, when decayed the rose ! 
 Two gifts did dying summer bring, — 
 
 Two symbols of undying bliss, — 
 Upon my finger glows a ring, 
 
 Upon my lips, a kiss ! 
 
IN VAIN. 
 
 '\ X 7"HY were you kind, — O, why ? 
 
 ' ^ Why did you smile instead of frowning, 
 When Love in Lethe's wave was drowning ? 
 Why were you kind, — O, why ? 
 
 If you had looked on me 
 With scorn, or wrath, or cold disdaining. 
 My love for you had now been waning ; 
 
 Why did you smile on me ? 
 
 Long had I loved ; but Time, 
 Who softens all things, was beguiling 
 My weary heart, when, with your smiling, 
 
 You came a second time ! 
 
 And now, alas ! again 
 I bear love's chains, and, musing lonely, 
 
In Vain. 123 
 
 Hear your sweet voice and see you only, — 
 Why were you kind again ? 
 
 If all your love were dead, 
 Why did you kiss me,, when we parted ? 
 Do we " forget," when broken-hearted ? 
 
 Ah that I, too, were dead ! 
 
GONE. 
 
 'T^HE summer was long and sweet, 
 
 -^ The roses blossomed for me 
 Over a porch where fairy feet 
 Went pattering merrily. 
 
 All summer the roses smiled, 
 Hiding their thorns from sight ; 
 
 All summer my passionate heart beat wild 
 With a feverish love and delight. 
 
 Now, autumn's rain-drops beat 
 
 On the casement, drearily ; — 
 The summer I found so long and sweet 
 
 Has faded forever from me ! 
 
 Under each thorny bough 
 
 The roses are withering fast, 
 And my passionate heart beats slower, now, 
 
 For the fever of love is past ! 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 THROUGH the vague rifts in pearly clouds 
 that lie 
 Along the horizon, 'twixt sky and sea, 
 A planet's trembling radiance gleams on high, 
 Far, far from me. 
 
 The gentle breeze of evening loiters on, 
 
 Faint with the breath of many a tropic tree, 
 But groves of sandal, spice, and cinnamon 
 Are far from me. 
 
 O Love ! I see thee glittering from afar ; 
 
 Sweet airs and silvery lights encompass thee, 
 But — like the spice groves and the evening star — 
 Far, far from me ! 
 
A FAREWELL. 
 
 'nr^HE west-wind, laden with fragrance, blows, 
 ■^ The dewdrops shine in the crimson rose ; 
 
 — Is there something yet to tell ? 
 Ay, winds must pass and dewdrops fall ; 
 Naught that is gone can we recall : 
 
 So now, dear Love, farewell ! 
 
 Sweet lips prattle, and laugh, and sing, 
 White arms tenderly, closely cling ; 
 
 — Is there something sad to tell ? 
 Ay, the sweet lips shall silent be, 
 And the arms unclasp in their agony : 
 
 So now, dear Love, farewell ! 
 
 Then is there nothing that God has made 
 That will not one day fall or fade ? 
 
 — O Poet, in mercy tell ! 
 
A Farewell. i2y 
 
 Ay, love shall reign in these hearts of ours 
 When eyes, and lips, and wind-waved flowers 
 Have known their last farewell. 
 
 For love is purer than dewdrops are, 
 The winds go never so wide and far. 
 
 And none may truly tell 
 How, when the close caress is gone, 
 And words are silent, true love lives on, 
 
 Never to say farewell ! 
 
VALE ! 
 
 /^~\ GENTLEST season of the changing year, 
 ^-^ Though thy bright days are past, 
 Our hearts will ever hold thy memory dear 
 
 So long as memories last : 
 Gladly each year we see thy pageant glow 
 Through amber days, with air like hydromel, 
 And now we sigh in whispers sad and slow, 
 
 " Farewell, farewell ! " 
 
 Through the dim vista of the forest nook 
 
 Fall bars of shade and shine, 
 And o'er the shimmering ripples of the brook 
 
 Swings the clematis vine : 
 The breeze comes faintly from the far-off sea 
 To linger in the leafy inland dell. 
 And sings October's dreamy monody, 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! 
 
Vale! 129 
 
 The withered meadow-grasses, white and brown, 
 
 Gleam in the autumn air. 
 Where shining stars of silvery cotton-down 
 
 Go sailing here and there : 
 Decadence sits upon the fading earth, 
 Her flowers have felt the touch of Azrael ; 
 To blooming sights and chirping sounds of mirth. 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! 
 
 The day declines, and cloudy phantoms drift 
 
 About the distant west, 
 Wliere many a purple peak and golden rift 
 
 Welcome the sun to rest : 
 As goes this happy day, the season goes. 
 Its dying murmurs chant the autumn's knell, — 
 The solemn requiem of the earth's repose, — 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! 
 
 Fade gently, gently, in the western sky, 
 
 O fair October day ! 
 Let rustling trees give back the parting sigh 
 
 Of winds that die away ! 
 
1 30 Vale ! 
 
 Let the broad sunlight deepen into shade, 
 Let the kine homeward sound the tinkling bell, 
 To all thy glories that in twilight fade, 
 Farewell, farewell ! 
 
 The twittering birds may seek their hidden homes 
 
 In the dark cedar-tree. 
 And hived bees, in honey-laden combs. 
 
 Hum low and lazily : 
 O'er the wide landscape falls the shadowy night. 
 On field, and hill, and blue horizon's swell. 
 The sun gives forth his last expiring light, — 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! 
 
EXPRESSION. 
 
 A HACKNEYED burden, to a hackneyed air, — 
 ■^ ■^ "I love thee only, — thou art wondrous fair ! " 
 Alas ! the poets have worn the theme threadbare ! 
 
 Can I not find some words less tame and old, 
 To paint thy form and face of perfect mould. 
 Thy dewy lips, thy hair of brown and gold ? 
 
 Can I not sing in somewhat fresher strain 
 The love I lavish and receive again, — 
 The thrilling joy, so like to thrilling pain ? 
 
 Can I not, by some metaphor divine. 
 Describe the life I quaff like nectared wine 
 In being thine, and knowing thou art mine ? 
 
132 Expression. 
 
 Ah, no ! this halting verse can naught express ; 
 No English words can half the truth confess, 
 That have not all been rhymed to weariness ! 
 
 So let me cease my scribbling for to-day, 
 And maiden, turn thy lovely face this way, — 
 Words will not do, but haply kisses may ! 
 
THE TRYST. 
 
 /^'\ N speary grass and starry bloom 
 ^-^ The tiny globes of dew are lying ; 
 The broad moon rises through the gloom 
 
 Of twilight haze ; and night-winds sighing 
 In long-drawn whispers say to me, 
 " 'T is eventide . . . she comes to thee ! " 
 
 A heavy fragrance floods the air, 
 
 Where crimson roses climb and cluster ; 
 
 Heaven seems more near, and earth more fair, 
 The broad moon shines with holier lustre ; 
 
 A white robe through the dusk I see . . . 
 
 O Joy ! O Love ! she comes to me ! 
 
 Palinode. 
 Athwart the west, where dies the day, 
 A stormy rack of cloud is drifting, 
 
134 l^he Tryst. 
 
 And round the uplands bleak and gray 
 
 The wind its mournful voice is lifting : 
 With every moan it says to me . . . 
 " 'T is night, but she comes not to thee ! " 
 
 Sharp thorns now grimly deck the bough 
 Where clustered once the crimson roses 
 
 With roses once she wreathed this brow 
 Where now a thorny crown reposes. 
 
 A bitter past alone I see . . . 
 
 Ah Heaven ! she comes no more to me ! 
 
AMONG THE HEATHER. 
 
 \ X riNTRY winds are blowing cold 
 
 ^ ^ On the moors of purple heather 
 Where, in sunnier days of old 
 Hand in hand we idly strolled, 
 
 Thou and I together. 
 But those sunny days are past. 
 
 And no more we walk together 
 Where the snow, on every blast, 
 
 Whirls above the heather. 
 
 On the dreary moorland, now, 
 
 In the storm I wander lonely. 
 Longing — love alone knows how — 
 For thy kiss on lip and brow. 
 
 Longing for thee only : 
 Life can bring me naught but pain, 
 
 Till among the purple heather 
 Hand in hand we walk again, — 
 
 Thou and I tosrether ! 
 
THE LEES OF LIFE. 
 
 T HAVE had my will, 
 
 -^ Tasted every pleasure ; 
 
 I have drunk my fill 
 Of the purple measure ; 
 
 It has lost its zest, 
 
 Sorrow is my guest, 
 O, the lees are bitter, — bitter, — 
 
 Give me rest ! 
 
 Love once filled the bowl 
 Running o'er with blisses, 
 
 Made my very soul 
 Drunk with crimson kisses ; 
 
 But I drank it dry. 
 
 Love has passed me by, 
 O, the lees are bitter, — bitter, — 
 
 Let me die ! 
 
FARCEUR DE POETE! 
 
 O, fare you well, true love, farewell ! 
 
 '^ Did you think you saw an earnest woe 
 In the tear that just now flashed and fell ? 
 
 It was not so . . . 
 
 I am a mere farceur, you know ! 
 
 So, fare you well, true love ! you said, 
 
 One fair June night, when the moon was low 
 
 That you would love me, living or dead . . . 
 I thought 't was so . . . 
 But I am a mere farceur, you know ! 
 
 So, fare you well, true love ! though you 
 Find peace and pleasure, here below, 
 
 1 cannot : perhaps your heart is true . . . 
 
 I hope 't is so . . . 
 
 But I am a mere farceur, you know ! 
 
138 Farceur de Poete ! 
 
 So, fare you well, true love ; we part ! 
 
 The paths diverge whereon we go : 
 'T is said I carry a broken heart . . . 
 
 Can that be so ? . . . 
 
 I am a mere farceur, you know ! 
 
,V\t ?',-^i\i'A 
 
 
BEER. 
 
 TT ERE, 
 
 •^ ^ With my beer 
 I sit, 
 While golden moments flit : 
 
 Alas ! 
 
 They pass 
 Unheeded by : 
 And, as they fly, 
 
 I, 
 
 Being dry, 
 
 Sit, idly sipping here 
 My beer. 
 
 O, finer far 
 
 Than fame, or riches, are 
 
 The graceful smoke-wreaths of this free cigar ! 
 
140 Beer. 
 
 Why 
 
 Should I 
 
 Weep, wail, or sigh ? 
 
 What if luck has passed me by ? 
 What if my hopes are dead, — 
 My pleasures fled ? 
 
 Have I not still 
 
 My fill 
 Of right good cheer, — 
 Cigars and beer ? 
 
 Go, whining youth, 
 
 Forsooth ! 
 Go, weep and wail. 
 Sigh and grow pale. 
 
 Weave melancholy rhymes 
 
 On the old times, 
 Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,' 
 But leave to me my beer ! 
 
 Gold is dross, — 
 
 Love is loss, — 
 So, if I gulp my sorrows down, 
 
Beer, 
 
 Or see them drown 
 In foamy draughts of old nut-brown, 
 Then do I wear the crown, 
 Without the cross 1 
 
 141 
 
YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 '\/'OUTH hath many charms, — 
 
 ■^ Hath many joys, and much delight ; 
 Even its doubts, and vague alarms, 
 
 By contrast make it bright : 
 And yet — and yet — forsooth, 
 I love Aofe as well as Youth ! 
 
 Well, since I love them both. 
 
 The good of both I will combine, — 
 In women, I will look for Youth, 
 
 And look for Age, in wine : 
 And then — and then — I '11 bless 
 This twain that give me happiness ! 
 
THE BUTTERFLY AND THE POET. 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 /^~\N gorgeous wings he floateth along, 
 ^-^ Little for this world careth he, 
 Save for the wild bee's somnolent song 
 
 And the sweets in flowers that be : 
 He sippeth to-da)^from the Lily's bell ; 
 To-morrow, he loveth the Rose as well. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 On gorgeous dreams he floateth along, 
 Nothing for this world careth he. 
 
 Save for the maidens' laughter and song 
 And the sweets on their lips that be : 
 
 To-day, blonde Edith he loveth well ; . . . 
 
 To-morrow, 't is brown-eyed Isabel. 
 
GUI BONO? 
 
 A HARMLESS fellow, wasting useless days, 
 -^^^ Am I : I love my comfort and my leisure : 
 Let those who wish them, toil for gold and praise. 
 
 To me, this summer-day brings more of pleasure. 
 
 So, here upon the grass I lie at ease, 
 
 While solemn voices from the Past are calling, 
 
 Mingled with rustling whispers in the trees, 
 And pleasant sounds of water idly falling. 
 
 There was a time when I had higher aims 
 
 Than thus to lie among the flowers, and listen 
 
 To lisping birds, or watch the sunset's flames 
 On the broad river's surface glow and glisten. 
 
 There was a time, perhaps, when I had thought 
 To make a name, a home, a bright existence : 
 
C2d Bono. 145 
 
 But time has shown me that my dreams were naught 
 Save a mirage that vanished with the distance. 
 
 Well, it is gone : I care no longer now 
 
 For fame, for fortune, or for empty praises ; 
 
 Rather than wear a crown upon my brow, 
 I 'd lie forever here among the daisies. 
 
 So you, who wish for fame, good friend, pass by : 
 With you I surely cannot think to quarrel : 
 
 Give me peace, rest, this bank whereon I lie, 
 And spare me both the labor and the laurel ! 
 
THE GOLDEN FISH. 
 
 T OVE is a little golden fish, 
 -* — ' Wondrous shy ... ah, wondrous shy 
 You may catch him, if you wish, 
 He might make a dainty dish . . . 
 
 But I . . . 
 
 Ah, I 've other fish to fiy ! 
 
 For when I try to snare this prize, 
 
 Earnestly, and patiently. 
 All my skill the rogue defies, 
 Lurking safe in Amy's eyes . . . 
 
 So you see, 
 
 I am caught, and love goes free 1 
 
CA M'EST EGAL! 
 
 /^~\ I WAS made for the present time ! 
 ^-^ ) The present time was made for me ! 
 I sing my song or weave my rhyme, 
 
 From fear of future troubles free, — 
 
 For they are naught to me ! 
 
 'T is well with me at the present day : 
 
 My brown-eyed Alice sits by me : 
 'T is true the moments pass away. 
 And time is fleeting silently, — 
 But that is naught to me ! 
 
 I will not mourn for the silent past, 
 
 Though pleasures fine it brought to me ; 
 The present moments cannot last. 
 But if they leave no vacancy, 
 The past is naught to me ! 
 
148 earnest Egal ! 
 
 I fill a bowl with rose-foamed wine, 
 My Alice quaffs a health to me ; 
 
 The present joyous day is mine, 
 
 The coming woe I cannot see, — 
 So that is naught to me ! 
 
 And thus I find in the present time. 
 That life is fresh and sweet to me ; 
 
 I still will sit and weave my rhyme ; 
 The future soon will present be,— 
 And bring new joys to me ! 
 
GOLD AND PURPLE. 
 
 T N this little, old-fashioned garden of mine 
 -'- Poppies, and pinks, and pansies grow ; 
 Yellow of gold and purple of wine 
 
 Within their clustering blossoms glow ; 
 And a purple ribbon is fluttering there, 
 From tangled ringlets of golden hair. 
 
 I love the pansies, poppies, and pinks, 
 
 Their glistening eyes with the dewdrops wet 
 
 I love them, — but in the garden, methinks. 
 There is something that I love better yet ; 
 
 For a purple ribbon is fluttering there, 
 
 From tangled tresses of golden hair. 
 
PARTING. 
 
 "\ T 7"HITE and small was the hand I pressed 
 ' ' Behind the rose-covered cottage door, 
 While the moon rode low in the azure west, 
 And the tremulous vines, by the wind caressed, 
 
 Cast flickering shadows over the floor, — 
 Swinging, swaying, and sighing lowly, 
 " Perfect love is the one thing holy ! " 
 
 Rosy and ripe were the lips I pressed 
 
 Behind the rose-covered cottage door. 
 While the orioles slept in their downy nest 
 That swung in the vines, by the wind caressed. 
 
 Casting weird shadows over the floor, — 
 But the wind in the tremulous vines sang ever, 
 " Love must perish and hearts must sever ! " 
 
THEN AND NOW. 
 
 "V/'OU loved me once, . . . ah, well I knew it then ! 
 -^ One night you kissed me, underneath the 
 roses. 
 And said that we must never kiss again . . . 
 That was the parting . . . that strange moment, 
 when 
 The heart its weakness and its strength dis- 
 closes . . . 
 I knew you loved me then ! 
 
 You love me yet . . . ah, well I know it now ! 
 
 By these few stolen kisses, sad as tender, 
 That give my spirit strength, I know not how,. 
 Falling like benisons on lip and brow 
 
 To fill my soul with mingled gloom and splen- 
 dor ... 
 I know you love me now ! 
 
152 Then and Now, 
 
 As then, and now, O let it be for aye ! 
 
 Let those dear Hps still tell the sweet old story. 
 Let these kind kisses still drive grief away, 
 Lighten my heavy cross from day to day. 
 
 And make my crown of thorns a crown of glory 
 For ever and for aye ! 
 
LOVE'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 O UMMER winds, whispering over the rye, 
 *^ Kissing the roses and hurrying by, 
 
 Where have ye latest been, O where ? 
 
 Merrily tangling my maiden's hair, — 
 Wafting the tresses over her cheek, — 
 Playing among them at hide and seek. 
 
 Or trying with delicate scents of the south 
 
 To rival the breath from her own sweet mouth ? 
 Tell me, summer winds, fresh and fair, 
 Where have ye latest been, O where ? 
 
 But the balmy breezes floated away. 
 Daintily sighing, — no word said they. 
 
 II. 
 
 Bear ye no word from my maiden to me ? 
 Did she not whisper her love to ye ? 
 
154 Loves Messengers. 
 
 Ah, well do I know that her fondest dream 
 By the sun's warm light or the moon's pale beam 
 Is ever of me, and the love she bears 
 Oft breaks from her sweet lips, unawares. 
 Has she not murmured some tender word 
 That ye, as ye floated by, have heard ? 
 Tell me, summer winds, frolic and free, 
 Bring ye no message from her to me ? 
 
 But the balmy breezes frolicked away, 
 Daintily sighing, — no word said they. 
 
 III. 
 O faithless winds, since thus ye are still, 
 And bring no message my heart to thrill, 
 I will send ye again to my maiden's side 
 To tell her I '11 meet her at eventide ; 
 Then fly, fly fast o'er the waving rye, — 
 The roses are lovely, but pass them by, — 
 Bid them to wait for the kisses they crave. 
 And linger not on the rivulet's wave : 
 Hasten, O summer winds, sighing above. 
 Tell her this night shall she meet her love ! 
 
Loves Messengers. 155 
 
 The balmy breezes floated away, 
 
 And the roses wept that they would not stay. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Around the hill the summer winds sped, 
 Whirling and eddying overhead, 
 
 Waving the moss on the cottage eaves, 
 
 Rustling the feathery locust-leaves. 
 Brushing the dew-drops glimmering yet 
 On the odorous blooms of the mignonette, 
 
 Till they reached a garden kept with care. 
 
 And found a beautiful maiden there. 
 Alone in an arbor, where misty lines 
 Of sunshine fell through the tangled vines. 
 
 Then the balmy breezes sought her ear, 
 
 And the words they whispered were low but clear 
 
 V. 
 
 They lifted the tresses of gold and brown 
 That over her snowy neck swept down. 
 They said, in a musical, breezy voice, 
 " Thy lover is coming, sweet child, rejoice ! 
 
156 Loves Messengers. 
 
 When Hesperus' light in the west grows dim, 
 Thy lover will seek thee ; be ready for him ! " 
 The maiden heard, and a rosy glow 
 Flushed up to her cheek from her heart below, 
 And the summer winds caught, as they circled by, 
 Her perfumed breath in a gentle sigh. 
 
 Then the balmy breezes frolicked away, 
 And soon *mong the rose-leaves nestled they. 
 
LAZINESS. 
 
 1\ /r Y window-curtain sweeps 
 -^^ -^ To and fro, in the lazy breeze, 
 As sea-weeds swing and sway in the deeps 
 Of southern summer seas. 
 
 The lazy sunshine sleeps 
 
 On the rose and snow of the apple-trees, 
 And lazy spring my spirit steeps 
 
 In a lotos-dream of ease. 
 
THE SIMPLE RHYME. 
 
 "O ENEATH the blue of summer skies, 
 -'-^ Among the flowers of summer-time, 
 With loitering steps and half-closed eyes 
 I walk, and weave a simple rhyme. 
 
 The summer breezes go and come. 
 And blowing, musical and free, 
 
 Bring sounds of bees that idly hum 
 About the tangled briony. 
 
 Beneath the blue of summer skies. 
 Among the flowers of summer-time. 
 
 With loitering steps and dreamy eyes. 
 Fair maids shall sing my simple rhyme. 
 
The Simple RJiyme. 159 
 
 And may its echoes go and come 
 
 As fresh, as musical, as free, 
 As honey-bees that idly hum 
 
 About the tangled briony 1 
 
MEADOW-SWEET. 
 
 '' I ^HE creamy banks of meadow-sweet 
 -*- Along the mill-stream's margin grow, 
 Where honey-bees with pollened feet 
 Hum softly to and fro. 
 
 The sound is sweet, the fragrance rare, 
 As summer breezes float along, 
 
 And round me all the summer air 
 Is full of scent and song. 
 
 O, what to me are wealth and rank ? 
 
 O, what are men, and their deceit ? 
 While I lie here, on the mill-stream's bank, 
 
 Among the meadow-sweet ! 
 
FAREWELL TO SUMMER. 
 
 O UMMER is fading ; the broad leaves that grew 
 *^ So freshly green, when June was young, are 
 
 falling ; 
 And, all the whisper-haunted forest through, 
 
 The restless birds in saddened tones are calling. 
 From rustling hazel copse and tangled dell, 
 " Farewell, sweet Summer, 
 Fragrant, fruity Summer, 
 Sweet, farewell ! " 
 
 Upon the windy hills, in many a field. 
 
 The honey-bees hum slow, above the clover. 
 Gleaning the latest sweets its blooms may yield. 
 And, knowing that their harvest-time is over, 
 Sing, half a lullaby and half a knell, 
 " Farewell, sweet Summer, 
 Honey-laden Summer, 
 Sweet, farewell ! " 
 
1 62 Farewell to Summer. 
 
 The little brook that babbles 'mid the ferns, 
 
 O'er twisted roots and sandy shallows playing, 
 Seems fain to linger in its eddied turns, 
 
 And with a plaintive, purling voice, is saying, 
 (Sadder and sweeter than my song can tell,) 
 " Farewell, sweet Summer, 
 Warm and dreamy Summer, 
 Sweet, farewell ! " 
 
 The fitful breeze sweeps down the winding lane 
 With gold and crimson leaves before it flying ; 
 Its gusty laughter has no sound of pain. 
 
 But in the lulls it sinks to gentle sighing, 
 And mourns the Summer's early broken spell, — 
 "Farewell, sweet Summer, 
 Rosy, blooming Summer, 
 Sweet, farewell ! " 
 
 So bird, and bee, and brook, and breeze make 
 moan, 
 With melancholy song their loss complaining. 
 I too must join them, as I walk alone 
 
Farewell to Summer. 163 
 
 Amon'g the sights and sounds of Summer's wan- 
 ing .. . 
 I too have loved the season passing well . . . 
 So, farewell, Summer, 
 Fair but faded Summer, 
 Sweet, farewell ! 
 
SEPTEMBER. 
 
 OWEET is the voice that calls 
 
 *^ From babbling waterfalls 
 In meadows where the downy seeds are flying ; 
 
 And soft the breezes blow, 
 
 And eddying come and go, 
 In faded gardens where the rose is dying. 
 
 Among the stubbled corn 
 
 The blithe quail pipes at morn, 
 The merry partridge drums in hidden places, 
 
 And glittering insects gleam 
 
 Above the reedy stream 
 Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. 
 
 At eve, cool shadows fall 
 Across the garden wall, 
 And on the clustered grapes to purple turning, 
 
September. 165 
 
 And pearly vapors lie 
 Along the eastern sky, 
 Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning. 
 
 Ah, soon on field and hill 
 
 The winds shall whistle chill, 
 And patriarch swallows call their flocks together 
 
 To fly firom frost and snow. 
 
 And seek for lands where blow 
 The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. 
 
 The pollen-dusted bees 
 
 Search for the honey-lees 
 That linger in the last flowers of September, 
 
 While plaintive mourning doves 
 
 Coo sadly to their loves 
 Of the dead summer they so well remember. 
 
 The cricket chirps all day, 
 " O fairest Summer, stay ! " 
 The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning ; 
 
1 66 September. 
 
 The wild-fowl fly afar 
 Above the foamy bar 
 And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning. 
 
 Now comes a fragrant breeze 
 
 Through the dark cedar-trees 
 And round about my temples fondly lingers, 
 
 In gentle playfulness, 
 
 Like to the soft caress 
 Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. 
 
 Yet, though a sense of grief 
 
 Comes with the falling leaf, 
 And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, 
 
 In all my autumn dreams 
 
 A future summer gleams 
 Passing the fairest glories of the present ! 
 
THE HEART'S REST. 
 
 *■ I "'HE wind is idly blowing 
 
 -*- And spilling its perfume rare ; 
 The brook with its ceaseless flowing, 
 Is singing a quaint old air. 
 
 But night o'er nature comes stealing, 
 And the wind will die on the hill : 
 
 Cold winter's ice, congealing, 
 Will hush the song of the rill. 
 
 My heart, like the wind, is moaning, 
 The day seems heavy and long. 
 
 And memory's voice is droning 
 A sad, monotonous song. 
 
i68 The Heart's Rest. 
 
 But, heart, thou shalt rest at even. 
 And memory's voice shall cease, 
 
 For the weary find rest in heaven, 
 And the troubled shall be at peace. 
 
THE SIREN OF THE ROSE. 
 
 /"XNCE in an ancient garden I found a maid, 
 ^-^ Who sat, entranced by perfumes from many 
 
 a blossom ; 
 Between the trees the sunhght, down -gliding, 
 played 
 Upon her shining tresses and snowy bosom : 
 She was so fair, I fancied she could but be 
 
 Some fairy thing, immortal, and more than 
 human ; 
 I gave her purest lilies : she answered me, 
 „ Die 9lofe ift bte fc^onfte tton alien SBlumcn ! " 
 
 I offered her bright pansies, and meadow-sweet, 
 Great daffodils, and tulips in regal splendor, 
 
 I laid green wreaths of laurel before her feet, 
 And while I knelt her glances were dark and 
 tender : 
 
I/O The Siren of the Rose. 
 
 Yet still she shook, though gently, her beauteous 
 head ; 
 
 Who had resisted, surely, were one of few men ! 
 And meekly still, in answer, she smiled and said, 
 
 „ X)ic 9tofe ift bic fc^onjtc »otx aCen 53(umen ! " 
 
 I gazed about me, troubled : lo ! on my breast 
 
 A crimson rose shone fairly, half bud, half 
 blossom ; 
 I laid it, in its beauty, among the rest. . . 
 
 She placed the fragrant secret within her bosom ! 
 " Ah ! with it," cried I, stricken, " thou hast my 
 heart ! 
 
 I love thee, be thou fairy, or mortal woman ! " 
 She whispered : " We are wedded, no more to part . . . 
 
 !Die 3tofe ifl tic fc^onftc toon alien 23Iumen ! " 
 
ON THE SANDS. 
 
 T MET Jessie Leigh 
 -*- On the sands ; 
 Sweetly she smiled on me, 
 While breezes from the sea 
 
 Brought dreamy odors as from distant lands, 
 And the warm sunshine fell 
 O'er weed, and pebble, and shell. 
 Upon the sands. 
 
 I sat with Jessie Leigh 
 
 On the sands ; 
 Very fair was she, 
 And very kind to me ; 
 
 I kissed her forehead, and her dainty hands, 
 While the white moon above 
 Witnessed our vows of love. 
 
 Upon the sands. 
 
172 On the Sands. 
 
 I saw Jessie Leigh 
 
 On the sands ; 
 Cold and white lay she, 
 Drowned in the cruel sea, 
 
 Her fair hair floating in dishevelled strands. 
 Would God I too had died, 
 And slept there by her side. 
 
 Upon the sands ! 
 
FOUL WEATHER. 
 
 '' I "^HE rain, upon the sodden grass, 
 
 -^ Is beating, beating wearily ; 
 Gray clouds of mist, like phantoms, pass, 
 And the salt, wet wind wails drearily, 
 As it brings to me, from the shore afar, 
 The dirge of the surf on the outer bar. 
 
 My heart, within my fevered breast, 
 
 Is beating, beating wearily, 
 And memory, with a sad unrest. 
 
 Wails through its chambers drearily. 
 Till I almost wish that the surf afar 
 Were singing my dirge on the outer bar. 
 
APART. 
 
 A WAVE, mid-ocean, sorrowed for the shore, 
 -^^^ " O, may I never see the smiling land ? 
 Must I, then, break, and be a wave no more, 
 Before I kiss the sand ? " 
 
 A caged bird sang from early dawn till late, 
 " Must I in gilded loneliness still pine, 
 
 Nor know the joy of nesting with my mate, 
 Her rosy beak to mine ? " 
 
 A tropic blossom drooped its bell above 
 
 The northern loam : " O, may I never strew 
 
 My thirsty pollen in the blooms I love, 
 And drink their honeyed dew ? " 
 
 So I, O Love ! am yearning for thy smile ; 
 So, mateless, I a sorrowing song upraise ; 
 
Apart. 175 
 
 So for thy bloom I thirst and sigh, the while 
 I count the weary days ! 
 
 But though the wave may break its foamy crest, 
 The bird be captive till its days are done, 
 
 The lonely blossom wither all unblest, 
 Our lives shall yet be one ! 
 
AT DUSK. 
 
 A SHADOWY dance of ghostly images 
 -^^^ By the red fireHght on the wall is flung. 
 And ivory fingers on the ivory keys 
 
 Wake the old waltz we loved when love was 
 young. 
 
 On music is poetic fancy fed, 
 
 And these accords bring many a thought to 
 me, 
 Sad with the knell of hopes and pleasures dead, 
 
 Sweet with the promise of new joys to be. 
 
 In the warm firelight's glow thy shining hair 
 Seems half transmuted into precious gold, 
 
 And, faintly falling on the dusky air, 
 
 The olden cadence wakes the dream of old. 
 
At Dusk. 177 
 
 O Love ! the cup was bitter, but its lees 
 Are sweet as honeyed dew in Hybla's flowers, 
 
 And all our days are fraught with prophecies 
 Of sweeter draughts to come in future hours. 
 
SERENADE. 
 
 T HEAR the dry-voiced insects call, 
 •*■ And " Come," they say, " the night grows brief! " 
 I hear the dew-drops pattering fall 
 From leaf to leaf, — from leaf to leaf. 
 
 Your night-lamp ghmmers fitfully ; 
 
 I watch below, you sleep above ; 
 Yet on your blind I seem to see 
 
 Your shadow, love, — your shadow, love ! 
 
 The roses in the night-wind sway, 
 Their petals glistening with the dew ; 
 
 As they are longing for the day, 
 I long for you, — I long for you 
 
 But you are in the land of dreams ; 
 
 Your eyes are closed, your gentle breath 
 
Serenade. 1 79 
 
 So faintly comes, your slumber seems 
 Almost like death, — almost like death ! 
 
 Sleep on ; but may my music twine 
 Your sleep with strands of melody, 
 
 And lead you, gentle love of mine. 
 To dream of me, — to dream of me ! 
 
VIA CRUCIS. 
 
 \ T 7HO treads the path of love and loss, 
 
 ^ ' With humble steps and head bowed down, 
 May bear on earth the heaviest cross, 
 But wears in heaven the brightest crown. 
 
 Then let us bless the weary way, 
 
 The cross, the thorn, the cruel rod, 
 That lift us from our gods of clay 
 
 Tc know the true, the living God ! 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 /~\ SUCH a wee, white stocking 
 ^-^ As Clare by the fireside hung, 
 When the Christmas-eve fire was waning 
 
 And the Christmas-eve hymn was sung. 
 O, such a wee, wee stocking, 
 
 So dainty, so snowily white. 
 That she hung on a branch of green holly, 
 
 Ere bidding us all " Good-night ! " 
 
 What shall I put in her stocking ? 
 
 Some pleasant book ? or a rhyme ? 
 Shall I write her a gentle lyric 
 
 Of love and the holiday time ? 
 No : books are better for scholars ; 
 
 At best they are silent friends ; 
 My rhymes, — alas ! they are many, 
 
 But there their virtue ends. 
 
1 82 Christmas Eve. 
 
 Then what shall I put in the stocking 
 That the hazel-eyed maiden hung 
 
 On a twig of red-berried holly 
 
 When the Christmas-eve hymn was sung ? 
 
 Let me put my heart in the stocking 
 
 — A fitting gift it would be ! — 
 
 But my heart is large, — it is boundless, — 
 And the stocking is dainty and wee. 
 
 Well, here is the ring on my finger, 
 
 I 've worn it many a year ; 
 'T was the gift of an ancient comrade 
 
 Whose memory I hold dear. 
 Yet nothing on earth I treasure 
 
 So much that she might not say, — 
 " O, give me this if you love me," — 
 
 And bear it — a trophy — away ! 
 
 So I drop my ring in the stocking 
 
 — She knows it is mine full well. 
 (Good comrade, I prithee, forgive me ! 
 
 None other my love could tell.) 
 
Christmas Eve. 183 
 
 I drop my ring in the stocking 
 So dainty, so snowy, so small, — 
 
 O Clare, as I cherish and love thee, 
 May God love and cherish us all ! 
 
 Ah me ! my heart is boundless, 
 
 The stocking is dainty and wee ; 
 But love has a wonderful magic 
 
 And wonderful power on me : 
 When I dropped my ring in the stocking, 
 
 Breathing that earnest prayer, 
 My heart went in with the jewel, 
 
 A present for maiden Clare. 
 
NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 "\ T /"ITH a bottle and a friend 
 
 ^ ' — Friend is Tom and bottle sherry- 
 I shall now begin and end 
 This brief space where two years blend, 
 Wondrous wise and merry. 
 
 Never yet was there a woe 
 
 That had not a pleasure pressing 
 Close upon its heels ; and so 
 Through the Old and New we go. 
 Each at some time blessing. 
 
 Though the Old Year brought to me 
 Little joy and much of sorrow, 
 
 In the New I hope to be 
 
 Happier: my joys, you see. 
 Always come — to-morrow. 
 
Neiv-Ycars Eve. 185 
 
 So, as New- Year's Eve doth end, 
 
 Tom, and I, and golden sherry 
 — Finest wine and oldest friend — 
 Kill the space where two years blend. 
 
 Making wondrous merry. 
 
JUBILATE. 
 
 GRAY distance hid each shining sail, 
 By ruthless breezes borne from me ; 
 And, lessening, fading, faint and pale, 
 My ships went forth to sea. 
 
 Where misty breakers rose and fell 
 I stood and sorrowed hopelessly ; 
 
 For every wave had tales to tell 
 Of wrecks far out at sea. 
 
 To-day, a song is on my lips : 
 Earth seems a paradise to me : 
 
 For God is good, and, lo, my ships 
 Are coming home from sea ! 
 
 Strawberry Farms, N. J., 
 February, 1S63. 
 
THE MATRON YEAR, 
 
 " I ''HE leaves that made our forest pathways 
 -■- shady 
 
 Begin to rustle down upon the breeze ; 
 The year is fading, like a stately lady 
 
 Who lays aside her youthful vanities : 
 Yet, while the memory of her beauty lingers, 
 
 She cannot wear the livery of the old, 
 So Autumn comes, to paint with frosty fingers 
 
 Some leaves with hues of crimson and of gold. 
 
 II. 
 The Matron's voice filled all the hills and valleys 
 With full-toned music, when the leaves were 
 young ; 
 While now, in forest dells and garden-alleys, 
 A chirping, reedy song at eve is sung ; 
 
1 88 The Matron Year. 
 
 Yet sometimes, too, when sunlight gilds the morn- 
 ing, 
 
 A carol bursts from some half-naked tree, 
 As if, her slow but sure decadence scorning, 
 
 She woke again the olden melody. 
 
 in. 
 With odorous May-buds, sweet as youthful pleasures, 
 
 She made her beauty bright and debonair : 
 But now, the sad earth yields no floral treasures, 
 
 And twines no roses for the Matron's hair : 
 Still can she not all lovely things surrender ; 
 
 Right regal is her drapery even now, — 
 Gold, purple, green, inwrought with every splendor, 
 
 And clustering grapes in garlands on her brow ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 In June, she brought us tufts of fragrant clover 
 Rife with the wild bee's cheery monotone. 
 
 And, when the earliest bloom was past and over. 
 Offered us sweeter scents from fields new-mown : 
 
The Matron Year. 189 
 
 Now, upland orchards yield, with pattering 
 laughter, 
 
 Their red-cheeked bounty to the groaning wain, 
 And heavy-laden racks go creeping after, 
 
 Piled high with sheaves of golden-bearded grain. 
 
 V. 
 
 Erelong, when all to love and life are clinging. 
 
 And festal holly shines on every wall. 
 Her knell shall be the New- Year bells, outringing ; 
 
 The drifted snow, her stainless burial-pall : 
 She fades and fails, but proudly and sedately. 
 
 This Matron Year, who has such largess given. 
 Her brow still tranquil, and her presence stately, 
 
 As one who, losing earth, holds fast to heaven ! 
 
REQUIESCAM. 
 
 /^~^ IVE me, when I die, 
 
 ^-^ A grave among the corn and clover. 
 
 Let me peaceful lie 
 
 In some field, with forests nigh. 
 Where the blossoms bending over 
 
 Mingle sigh for sigh 
 With ever rustling leaves 
 Whispering to the rustling sheaves. 
 
 Let the tall grass wave 
 
 High above my grave, 
 And strew, each fall, their treasures o'er me ; 
 
 Leaves of gold, and brown, 
 
 Softly floating down, 
 Or driven wildly onward, when 't is stormy. 
 
 O give me not a tomb 
 White, and marble-cold, and dreary, 
 
Reqtdescatn. 1 9 1 
 
 In the churchyard's gloom ! 
 Rather, when I 'm weary, 
 Let me lie at rest 
 
 'Neath the clover, growing fair. 
 
 In the warm, sunshiny air, 
 With its thready tendrils twining round my 
 breast. 
 
 So, tranquil be my sleep. 
 When the hazy, slanting beams 
 
 Rest on forest, vale, and steep, 
 Through long, summer afternoons 
 
 Be my slumber still and deep. 
 Let the new and waning moons 
 Come, and go, and bring me dreams. 
 
IN THE DARK. 
 
 [While this book was passing through the press, a fortunate ac- 
 cident placed in my possession the original manuscript of this, the 
 last poem that Arnold wrote. It was written within a few days 
 of his death, when the shadow of the night that knows no earthly 
 dawn was already closing around him. — W. W.] 
 
 A LL moveless stand the ancient cedar-trees 
 -^^*- Along the drifted sand-hills where they 
 
 grow; 
 And from the dark west comes a wandering 
 breeze, 
 And waves them to and fro. 
 
 A murky darkness lies along the sand, 
 
 Where bright the sunbeams of the morning 
 shone ; 
 
 And the eye vainly seeks, by sea and land. 
 Some light to rest upon. 
 
In the Dark. 193 
 
 No large, pale star its glimmering vigil keeps ; 
 
 An inky sea reflects an inky sky ; 
 And the dark river, like a serpent, creeps 
 
 To where its black piers lie. 
 
 Strange, salty odors through the darkness steal, 
 And through the dark the ocean-thunders roll : 
 
 Thick darkness gathers, stifling, till I feel 
 Its weight upon my soul ! 
 
 I stretch my hands out in the empty air ; 
 
 I strain my eyes into the heavy night ; 
 Blackness of darkness ! . . . Father, hear my prayer . .. 
 
 Grant me to see the light ! 
 
POEMS GRAVE AND GAY. 
 
 (1867.) 
 
I. 
 
 GRAVE. 
 
 *"Tis also well this air is stirred 
 
 By nature's voices loud and low, — 
 The thunder and the chirping bird, 
 And grasses whispering as they grow." 
 
 R. M. MiLNEs [Lord Houghton]. 
 
A SUMMER LONGING. 
 
 T MUST away to wooded hills and vales, 
 
 -'" Where broad, slow streams flow cool and 
 
 silently, 
 And idle barges flap their listless sails, . . . 
 For me the summer sunset glows and pales, 
 And green fields wait for me. 
 
 I long for shadowy forests, where the birds 
 
 Twitter and chirp at noon from every tree. 
 I long for blossomed leaves and lowing herds : 
 And nature's voices say, in mystic words, 
 'The green fields wait for thee.' 
 
 I dream of uplands, where the primrose shines. 
 And waves her yellow lamps above the lea ; 
 Of tangled copses, swung with trailing vines ; 
 Of open vistas, skirted with tall pines. 
 Where green fields wait for me. 
 
200 A Summer Longing. 
 
 I think of long, sweet afternoons, when I 
 
 May lie and listen to the distant sea, 
 Or hear the breezes in the reeds that sigh. 
 Or insect-voices chirping shrill and dry, 
 In fields that wait for me. 
 
 These dreams of summer come to bid me find 
 
 The forest's shade, the wild bird's melody, 
 While summer's rosy wreaths for me are twined, 
 While summer's fragrance lingers on the wind, 
 And green fields wait for me. 
 
FIRE-FLIES. 
 
 "T^ IS June, and all the lowland swamps 
 -*- Are rich with tufted reeds and ferns, 
 And filmy with the vaporous damps 
 
 That rise when twilight's crimson burns ; 
 And as the deepening dusk of night 
 Steals purpling up from vale to height, 
 The wanton fire-flies show their fitful light. 
 
 Soft gleams on clover-beams they fling, 
 
 And glimmer in each shadowy dell, 
 Or downward with a sudden swing 
 
 Fall, as of old a Pleiad fell ; 
 And on the fields bright gems they strew 
 And up and down the meadow go, 
 And through the forest wander to and fro. 
 
 They store no hive nor earthy cell, 
 They sip no honey from the rose ; 
 
202 Fire-Flies. 
 
 By day unseen, unknown they dwell, 
 
 Nor aught of their rare gift disclose ; 
 Yet, when the night upon the swamps. 
 Calls out the murk and misty damps. 
 They pierce the shadows with their shining lamps. 
 
 Now ye, who in life's garish light, 
 
 Unseen, unknown, walk to and fro. 
 When death shall bring a dreamless night, 
 
 May ye not find your lamps aglow ? ■ 
 God works, we know not why nor how. 
 And, one day, lights, close hidden now. 
 May blaze like gems upon an angel's brow. 
 
A SUNSET FANTASIE. 
 
 "\'^ /"HEN the sun sets over the bay, 
 
 * ' And sweeping shadows solemnly lie 
 On its mottled surface of azure and gray, 
 
 And the night-winds sigh, — 
 Come, O Leonore, brown-eyed one, 
 To the cloudy realms of the setting sun ! 
 Where crimson crag, and silvery steep, 
 And amaranth rift, and purple deep, 
 Look dimly soft, as the sunset pales. 
 Like the shadowy cities of ancient tales. 
 
 As Egypt's queen went floating along 
 
 To her lover, when all the orient air 
 Was laden with echoes of dreamy song. 
 And the plash of oars, and perfumes rare, 
 So will we float, 
 In a golden boat. 
 
204 A Stmset Fantasie. 
 
 On velvet cushions soft and wide ; 
 
 I and my love, the onyx-eyed, 
 Will watch the twilight radiance fail, — 
 
 Cheek by cheek and side by side, — 
 And our mingled breath, O Leonore, 
 Shall fan the silken sail, 
 
 To the shining line of that fairy strand 
 
 Where sky is water and cloud is land, — 
 The wonderful sunset shore ! 
 
 On those dim headlands, here and there, 
 The lofty glacier-peaks between. 
 
 Through the purple haze of the twilight air, 
 The tremulous glow of a star is seen. 
 
 There let us dwell, O Leonore, 
 
 Free from the griefs that haunt us here. 
 Knowing nor frown, nor sigh, nor tear : 
 
 There let us bide forevermore, 
 
 Happy for aye in the sunset sphere! 
 
 In the mountainous cloudland, far away, 
 Behold, a glittering chasm gleams! 
 
A Sunset Fantasie. 205 
 
 O, let us cross the heaving bay, 
 To that land of love and dreams ! 
 
 There would I lie, in a misty bower. 
 Tasting the nectar of thy lip. 
 Sweet as the honeyed dews that drip 
 
 From the budding lotos-flower ! 
 Dip the oar and spread the sail 
 For shining peak and shadowy vale ! 
 
 Fill, O sail, and plash, O oar, 
 
 For the wonderful sunset shore ! 
 
ART AND NATURE. 
 
 I. 
 
 T N the dusk of summer even, when the roses 
 
 ^ slowly swayed 
 
 To and fro, in gentle breezes that around the 
 trellis played, 
 
 And the rising moon wrought wonders of fan- 
 tastic light and shade, 
 
 I walked up and down with Florence, under- 
 neath the linden-trees, 
 
 Listening to the ocean murmurs, rising, falling, 
 with the breeze . . . 
 
 Murmurs faint but fraught with music, hints of 
 dreams and prophecies. 
 
 II. 
 
 Far below us, where the beetling cliff its dizzy 
 depth sheered down, 
 
Art and Nature. 207 
 
 We could hear the song and laughter of the 
 
 merry-making town, — 
 That the murmurs of the ocean and the wind 
 
 were vain to drown ; 
 And above the rocks there flaunted, now and 
 
 then, a lurid light. 
 As the harshly hissing rocket climbed along its 
 
 fiery height. 
 Piercing, with its savage splendor, the soft 
 
 beauty of the night. 
 
 III. 
 
 Noise of drums and trumpets mingled with the 
 cadence of the seas ; 
 
 Bursts of wine-begotten laughter soiled the fresh- 
 ness of the breeze ; 
 
 And the heavy tramp of soldiers shook the lofty 
 linden-trees. 
 
 There, upon a rustic sofa, where the moonlight 
 whitely slept. 
 
 And a rustic roof gave shelter from the dew 
 that heav^en wept, 
 
2o8 Art and Nature. 
 
 We sat down to break the silence that till then 
 we both had kept. 
 
 IV, 
 
 Florence said : " How grates this feasting, this 
 
 wild noise of blatant mirth, 
 On the holy peace that hovers o'er the ocean 
 
 and the earth ! 
 Why should man's best sense of pleasure to 
 
 such sights and sounds give birth ? 
 Why not seek a calm expression for fulfilment 
 
 of desire ? 
 Must our triumphs and successes all be writ in 
 
 words of fire, — 
 Words that leave but bitter ashes when their 
 
 fitful sparks expire ? 
 
 v. 
 
 " Thus it is with men . . . they trample on the 
 
 dignity of man , . . 
 With our purest joys have mingled, ever since 
 
 the world began, 
 
Art and Nature. 209 
 
 Brazen blasts, and blazing rockets, and the deaf- 
 ening rataplan ! 
 
 Yet the moon in silent grandeur rises from the 
 flashing sea. 
 
 And the stars burn on forever, and the winds 
 blow ever free, 
 
 Calm, yet joyous, with an inner sense of holy 
 ecstasy." 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Yes," I said, " 't is in our nature ; we are 
 
 somehow coarsely made ; 
 And we think that our emotions, to be real, 
 
 must be displayed ; 
 That our feelings must be measured by our 
 
 folly and parade. 
 Yet, perhaps, we err not greatly ; man needs 
 
 symbols, and we find 
 In this fire and smoke and clamor that seethe 
 
 upward on the wind 
 Some external type of triumph gained by sword 
 
 or gained by mind. 
 
2IO Art and Nature. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Thus, the deepest-thinking student, when his 
 daily task is done 
 
 And his cloister is illumined by the last rays 
 of the sun. 
 
 Lays his ponderous ancient volumes in their 
 alcove, one by one. 
 
 And goes forth to seek companions in the cellar 
 or the hall, 
 
 Where the clinking of the goblets, and the dan- 
 cing-leader's call. 
 
 And the hum of pleasant music on his weary 
 ear may fall." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Florence took the word up quickly : "Ay, your 
 parallel is true ; 
 
 And that all you men thus trifle is the greater 
 shame for you ! 
 
 Are no deities more worthy than the mad Bac- 
 chante crew ?• 
 
A rt and Nature. 2 1 1 
 
 O you men ! the wise and simple to the self- 
 same tenets cling ; 
 
 To the search for sensuous pleasures you your 
 highest talents bring, 
 
 And your peals of shallow laughter through the 
 holiest chambers ring ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 You . . . confess it, now ! . . are longing to be 
 yonder, down below, 
 
 Where through thick, black clouds of smoke de- 
 moniac bonfires redly glow. 
 
 Like the old, fiend-lighted beacons on the Brocken 
 long ago ! 
 
 You too love the brazen clamor, rattling drum, 
 and trumpet's strain. 
 
 And the gaudy rocket cutting this fair, moonlit 
 sky in twain, 
 
 More than grand old ocean's music and the 
 calm of Hesper's reign ! " 
 
212 Art and Nature. 
 
 X. 
 
 "No," I said, "you judge us harshly; wine and 
 laughter are not ends, 
 
 They are means to that enjoyment whereto 
 every spirit tends; 
 
 And 't is wise that man his labor with his pleas- 
 ure sometimes blends. 
 
 Would you have us all ascetics, scorning what 
 our natures crave, 
 
 Toiling on, and noting nothing of the outer 
 fabric, save 
 
 It might be a gilded sunset, or the moonlight 
 on the wave ? " 
 
 XL 
 
 As I spoke, a filmy vapor, edged with pearl and 
 
 silver gray. 
 Passed across the moon's broad circle, as it 
 
 floated on its way, 
 And a glittering path of diamonds far athwart 
 
 the ocean lay : 
 
Ai't and Nature. 
 
 213 
 
 All the heavenly vault seemed opened where 
 
 the moon in ether rode, 
 And like Cleopatra's jewels on the dusk the 
 
 planets glowed, 
 While, below, the smoky bonfires made a vulgar 
 
 palinode. 
 
 XII, 
 
 " There ! " said Florence, then outstretching her 
 white hand toward the sea, 
 
 " Dian thus asserts her greatness, — her fair right 
 of royalty ; 
 
 Keep you all your baleful beacons, — leave the 
 moon and stars to me ! " 
 
 Then she drew her robe about her, for the air 
 was growing chill, 
 
 And we homeward " strolled together, by the path 
 around the hill, 
 
 Silently, and gazing seaward, where the moon- 
 path glittered still. 
 
PSYCHE. 
 
 T T ER feet, they are so small, 
 ■'--'- So delicate her tread. 
 The daisies do not bend at all 
 When she walks overhead ; 
 But each looks up, and falls in love 
 With Psyche's tiny feet above. 
 
 She walks with such an art, 
 
 And steps so daintily. 
 If she should tread upon my heart, 
 
 'T would still unbroken be ; 
 Unless 't were by the loveliness 
 Which Psyche's tiny feet possess ! 
 
MY WIND-HARP. 
 
 \ 17 HAT faint, sad sounds are these, the air 
 ' ^ pervading ? 
 
 Rising and falling with the winds that blow ; 
 Now keenly clear, like elfish serenading, 
 
 And now like angel-music, sweet and low. 
 
 Is it the gentle breeze of summer, mourning 
 Over its loved June roses' early death ? 
 
 Or doth Azrael give a solemn warning 
 To those he claims, with such melodious breath ? 
 
 No : 't is my wind-harp, in the window lying . . . 
 
 I love to hear it, while I string sad rhymes ; 
 For its faint tones, like ghosts of dead songs, sigh- 
 
 Bring me quaint fancies of the olden times. 
 
SEA-SHORE FANCIES. 
 
 O PLEASANT waters, rippling on the sand, 
 Green and pellucid as the beryl-stone, 
 With crested breakers heaving toward the land, 
 
 Chanting their ceaseless breezy monotone, 
 What snowy little feet at girlish play 
 Have ye not kissed on Newport's beach to-day ? 
 
 O waves, that foam around yon lonely rock. 
 Boding the distant storm with hoarser roar, 
 
 Has not some ship, beneath the tempest's shock, 
 Gone down, a piteous wreck, to rise no more ? 
 
 Lost in the mighty billows' wash and sway. 
 
 What gallant hearts have ye not stilled to-day ? 
 
 O dancing breakers, fresh from other seas 
 
 Whereon the lingering, loving sunshine smiles. 
 Your spray is fragrance, on the fragrant breeze, 
 
Sea- Shore Fancies. 217 
 
 Borne from the spice-groves of those palmy isles 
 Where dusky maids make merriment alway, — 
 Have ye not laved their perfect forms to-day ? 
 
 O tossing billows, come ye from afar 
 Where over ice-fields the aurora beams, 
 
 Dimming the radiance of the northern star 
 
 That through the lengthened night of winter 
 gleams 
 
 Upon the toppling icebergs, grim and gray, — 
 
 Have ye not lashed their frozen sides to-day ? 
 
 O sea of life, whose waters heave and roll, 
 
 Ye lave sad wrecks and joyous youthful forms : 
 
 Ye bring sweet fragrance to the weary soul. 
 And chill it with the breath of icy storms : 
 
 Here on the shore we smile and weep and pray, — 
 
 O waves, cleanse all our sins from us to-day ! 
 
THE OMEN. 
 
 A STORM is gathering in the seaward sky, 
 ■^^^ The sunlit islands in its shadow die, 
 And startled sea-gulls on the wind flap by. 
 
 Yet, faint and far, a single sunset ray 
 Slants o'er the waters many a mile away, 
 Making yon sail a Pleiad gone astray. 
 
 That ray is like one hope that lingers still 
 Through fears that sicken and through doubts 
 
 that chill — 
 The victory of passion over will ! 
 
 The black clouds thicken : well, so let it be : 
 But while yon sunlit sail I still can see, 
 I will believe that there is hope for me ! 
 
TJie Omen. 219 
 
 The shadows spread along the horizon, 
 
 ... It faints ... it fades ; the sail is almost gone, 
 
 And with it pales the hope just now that shone. 
 
 'T is gone ! The waves upon the rocky shore 
 Break heavily, with hoarse and hungry roar. 
 And hope has vanished, to return no more ! 
 
SEPTEMBER DAYS. 
 
 N flickering light and shade the broad stream 
 
 goes, 
 
 With cool, dark nooks and checkered, rippling 
 shallows ; 
 Through reedy fens its sluggish current flows, 
 Where lilies grow and purple-blossomed mallows. 
 
 The aster-blooms above its eddies shine, 
 
 With pollened bees about them humming slowly, 
 
 And in the meadow-lands the drowsy kine 
 
 Make music with their sweet bells, tinkling 
 lowly. 
 
 The shrill cicala, on the hillside tree. 
 
 Sounds to its mate a note of love or warning ; 
 
 And turtle-doves re-echo, plaintively, 
 
 From upland fields, a soft, melodious mourning. 
 
September Days. 221 
 
 A golden haze conceals the horizon, 
 
 A golden sunshine slants across the meadows ; 
 The pride and prime of summer-time is gone, 
 
 But beauty lingers in these autumn shadows. 
 
 The wild-hawk's shadow fleets across the grass, 
 Its softened gray the softened green outvying ; 
 
 And fair scenes fairer grow while yet they pass, 
 As breezes freshen when the day is dying. 
 
 O sweet September ! thy first breezes bring 
 
 The dry leaf's rustle and the squirrel's laughter. 
 
 The cool, fresh air, whence health and vigor spring, 
 And promise of exceeding joy hereafter. 
 
GOLDEN-ROD. 
 
 T IKE the nodding crest of a golden helm, 
 ■* — ' When the autumn west-wind bloweth, 
 Among the thickets of birch and elm 
 
 On the steep hillside it groweth. 
 There, when summer was young and fair, 
 And wild-wood roses scented the air, 
 
 I sat with hazel-eyed maiden Clare 
 
 Alack ! who knoweth 
 How love goeth ? 
 The hazel-eyed one was fickle as gay ; 
 The wild-wood roses have faded away ; 
 And the golden-rod blooms on their graves to-day ! 
 
 Well, let a golden peace uprise 
 
 On the grave where my passion lieth ! 
 
 Let me forget the hazel eyes ! 
 As the bee, that southward hieth, 
 
Golden-Rod. 223 
 
 Forgetteth the wild-wood roses fair 
 When the golden-rod shineth upon the air, 
 So let me forget the maiden Clare ! 
 
 Alack ! who knoweth 
 
 How love goeth ? 
 Why should I sigh for Clare alway ? 
 Genevieve's eyes have a gentler sway ; 
 And she smiled — ah, sweetly ! — on me to-day ! 
 
OCTOBER. 
 
 /^'ER hill and field October's glories fade; 
 ^-^ O'er hill and field the blackbirds southward 
 
 fly; 
 
 The brown leaves rustle down the forest glade, 
 Where naked branches make a fitful shade, 
 And the last blooms of autumn withered lie. 
 
 The berries on the hedgerow ripen well, 
 
 Holly and cedar, burning bush and brier ; 
 The partridge drums in some half-hidden dell. 
 Where all the ground is gemmed with leaves that 
 fell, 
 Last storm, from the tall maple's crown of fire. 
 
 The chirp of crickets and the hum of bees 
 
 Come faintly up from marsh and meadow land, 
 Where reeds and rushes whisper in the breeze. 
 
October. 
 
 225 
 
 And sunbeams slant between the moss-grown 
 trees, 
 Green on the grass and golden on the sand. 
 
 From many a tree whose tangled boughs are bare 
 Lean the rich clusters of the clambering vine ; 
 October's mellow hazes dim the air 
 Upon the uplands, and the valley where 
 The distant steeples of the village shine. 
 
 Adown the brook the dead leaves whirling go ; 
 
 Above the brook the scarlet sumacs burn ; 
 The lonely heron sounds his note of woe 
 In gloomy forest-swamps where rankly grow 
 
 The crimson cardinal and feathery fern. 
 
 Autumn is sad : a cold, blue horizon 
 
 Darkly encircles checkered fields and farms, 
 Where late the gold of ripening harvests shone : 
 But bearded grain and fragrant hay are gone, 
 And autumn moans the loss of summer's 
 charms. 
 
226 October. 
 
 Yet, though our summers change and pass away, 
 
 Though dies the beauty of the hill and plain, 
 
 Though warmth and color fade with every day, 
 
 Our hearts shall change not, for hope seems to say 
 
 That all our dearest joys shall come again. 
 
 And if the flowers we nurture with such care 
 
 Must wither, though bedewed with many tears. 
 They shall arise in some diviner air, 
 To bloom again, more fragrant and more fair, 
 And gladden us through all the coming years. 
 
 The sun sinks slowly toward the far-off west ; 
 
 The breeze is freshening from the far-off shore ; 
 So come, fair eve, and bring to every breast 
 That sense of tranquil joy, of gentle rest, 
 
 We knew in happy autumns gone before ! 
 
SUMMER AND AUTUMN. 
 
 ("^ ORGEOUS leaves are whirling down, 
 ^-^ Homeward comes the scented hay, 
 O'er the stubble, sear and brown. 
 Flaunt the autumn flowers gay : 
 Ah, alas ! 
 Summers pass, — 
 Like our joys, they pass away ! 
 
 Fanned by many a balmy breeze, 
 
 In the spring I loved to lie 
 'Neath the newly budded trees, 
 Gazing upward to the sky : 
 But, alas ! 
 Time will pass. 
 And the flowers of spring must die ! 
 
228 Slimmer and Autumn. 
 
 Oft my maiden sat with me, 
 
 Listening to the thrush's tone, 
 Warbled forth from every tree 
 Ere the meadow hay was mown 
 But, alas ! 
 Summers pass, — 
 Now, I wander all alone ! 
 
 Love, like summer-time, is fair. 
 
 Decked with buds and blossoms gay ; 
 But upon this autumn air 
 
 Floats a voice, which seems to say 
 " Loves, alas ! 
 Also pass, 
 As the summers pass away ! " 
 
THE MERRY CHRISTMAS TIME. 
 
 GREEN were the meadows with last summer's 
 store ; 
 The maples rustled with a wealth of leaves ; 
 The brook went babbling to the pebbly shore, 
 Down by the old mill, with its cobwebbed door, 
 
 And swallow-haunted eaves ; 
 And all the air was warm, and calm, and clear. 
 As if cold winter never could come near. 
 
 Now, the wide meadow-lands where then we 
 strolled 
 Are misty with a waste of whirling snow : 
 The ruined maples, stripped of autumn's gold. 
 Sigh mournfully and shiver in the cold. 
 As the hoarse north-winds blow. 
 Yet something makes this frosty season dear, . . . 
 The Merry, Merry Christmas time is here. 
 
230 The Merry Christmas Time. 
 
 The Merry Christmas, with its generous boards, 
 Its fire-lit hearths, and gifts, and blazing trees, 
 Its pleasant voices uttering gentle words, 
 Its genial mirth, attuned to sweet accords, 
 
 Its holy memories ! 
 The fairest season of the passing year, . . . 
 The Merry, Merry Christmas time is here. 
 
 The sumacs by the brook have lost their red ; 
 
 The mill-wheel in the ice stands dumb and still ; 
 The leaves have fallen and the birds have fled ; 
 The flowers we loved in summer all are dead. 
 
 And wintry winds blow chill. 
 Yet something makes this dreariness less drear, . . . 
 The Merry, Merry Christmas time is here. 
 
 Since last the panes were hoar with Christmas 
 frost 
 Unto our lives some changes have been given ; — 
 Some of our barks have labored, tempest-tossed. 
 Some of us, too, have loved, and some have lost, 
 Some found their rest in heaven. 
 
TJie Merry Christmas Time. 231 
 
 So, humanly, we mingle smile and tear, 
 When Merry Christmas time is drawing near. 
 
 Then pile the fagots higher on the hearth, 
 
 And fill the cup of joy, though eyes be dim. 
 We hail the day that gave our Saviour birth, 
 And pray His spirit may descend on earth, 
 
 That we may follow Him. 
 'T is this that makes the Christmas time so dear : 
 Christ, in His love for us, seems drawing near. 
 
THE POET'S AWAKENING. 
 
 T ONG had he been a thing of common clay, 
 -* — ' A being of earthly mould ; 
 But, lo ! an angel crossed his path, one day, 
 And turned the clay to gold. 
 
 Silent was he : the angel came again, 
 
 And, as she passed along, 
 She kissed his lips all lovingly, and then 
 
 He opened them in song. 
 
JACOB'S LADDER. 
 
 IT was a prophet slept ; 
 And in his dream vast mysteries were 
 
 seen, — 
 A vapory cloud, that seemed to lower and lift, 
 Pierced in its centre by a glittering rift. 
 With splendid glimpses of the heaven between ; — 
 And still the prophet slept. 
 
 A ladder from the earth 
 Far-slanting touched the opening of the cloud. 
 Thereon the prophet saw fair figures go, 
 With stately steps, serenely to and fro, — 
 Fair angels, filmy-winged and tranquil-browed, 
 Between the heaven and earth. 
 
 O prophet's dream of heaven ! 
 Do I unfold your mystery aright .-' 
 
234 Jacob's Ladder. 
 
 Was not that ladder typical of love, 
 That leads us to our glorious home above, 
 And, thronged with angels, tranquil-browed and 
 bright, 
 Makes earth seem near to heaven ? 
 
HER EYES. 
 
 'T^HOSE eyes ! . . . those eyes ! . . . 
 
 -*- O maiden, turn those eyes away! 
 My best ambition faints and dies 
 
 Beneath their gentle sway. 
 I Hst not fame's loud trumpet-call, 
 
 But idly sit and linger still, 
 A slave within the pleasant thrall 
 
 Of those deep eyes and thy sweet will. 
 
 Those eyes ! . . . those eyes ! . . . 
 
 While haunted by their lustrous gleam, 
 I care not to be great or wise, 
 
 And life seems like a dream. 
 The golden hours unnoted fly, 
 
 From idle night to idle day : 
 My books and pen neglected lie — 
 
 O maiden, turn those eyes away ! 
 
ENOUGH. 
 
 NOTHING for sordid, golden dross I care, 
 Little of worldly wealth care I to hold ! 
 Seek her I love: look on her shining hair, — 
 Is it not wealth of gold ? 
 
 I am not envious of the diamond's flash ; 
 
 Its wondrous brilliance dazzleth not my sight ; 
 For her sweet eyes, beneath their fringed lash, 
 Make dim the diamond's light. 
 
 I care no more for music's dreamy swell ; 
 Nor flute nor viol greatly pleaseth me ; 
 Her speech is softer than a silver bell. 
 Her laugh is melody. 
 
 I leave the wine which once I loved to sip : 
 
 Why should I drain the crimson beaker dry. 
 When there is subtle nectar on her lip 
 That I may drink — and die .-* 
 
MIDNIGHT MUSIC, 
 
 \'^ /"HEN the sun has passed away, 
 * ^ When the night has crowned the day, 
 And the planet's trembUng radiance 
 Rules above with gentle sway ; 
 
 Through the sighing poplar-trees 
 Floats a cadence on the breeze, — 
 Up into the moonlit heaven, 
 Out across the moonlit seas. 
 
 In the grand old garden, near, 
 Manly voices, singing clear. 
 Mingled with the quivering viol. 
 Pierce the midnight atmosphere. 
 
 O, 't is sweet, when day has flown, 
 By the casement, all alone, 
 
238 Midnight Music. 
 
 Thus to sit, and drink, like nectar, 
 Midnight music's regal tone ! 
 
 Lady, whosoe'er thou art, 
 Seest thou him who stands apart ? 
 None could sing thus save a lover, 
 And his song should win thy heart ! 
 
A 
 
 WINE SONG. 
 
 S I pour the wine, 
 I behold its sparkles bright 
 'Tis the light 
 Beaming, lady mine, 
 In those eyes of thine, — 
 Beaming deeply bright. 
 
 As I pour the wine, 
 I behold its rosy flush : — 
 
 'Tis the blush 
 Mantling, lady mine, 
 That fair face of thine, — 
 
 Rosy-tinted blush. 
 
 As I pour the wine. 
 Its fragrance I descry : — 
 'T is the sigh 
 
240 Wine Song. 
 
 Coming, lady mine, 
 From that mouth of thine, — 
 Love's half-stifled sigh. 
 
 As I drink the wine, 
 Thrills my heart with sudden bliss 
 
 Like the kiss 
 
 That proclaims thee mine 
 
 Is there aught divine 
 
 Save a lover's kiss ? 
 
SERENADE. 
 
 I. 
 T N deepest sleep my lady lies ; 
 ■^ Fairer than ever now she seems ; 
 Her drooping lashes veil her eyes, 
 
 That see, mayhap, her love in dreams ; 
 And her soft breath, that comes and goes, 
 
 Is balmy with a scent more rare 
 And fragrant than the loveliest rose 
 
 Whose odor lingers on the air ! 
 
 II. 
 
 In deepest sleep my lady lies, 
 
 Nor hears her lover singing here ; 
 
 The night-wind murmurs lullabies, 
 
 That soothe and charm her slumbering ear ; 
 
 Athwart the trees the moonbeams fall ; 
 Along the sky a meteor gleams ; 
 
242 Serenade. 
 
 The whip-poor-wills unceasing call, — 
 
 Yet still she sleeps, and, sleeping, dreams ! 
 
 III. 
 
 In deepest sleep my lady lies ; 
 
 The moonlit moments are not long. 
 While here, beneath the summer skies, 
 
 I open all my heart in song. 
 Upon her couch the moonlight sleeps, 
 
 The envious roses drop a tear, — 
 The proudest of them, even, weeps 
 
 To think she may not nestle near. 
 
THE OLD RAMBLE. 
 
 " I ^HE cedar hedge is darkly green, 
 
 Its shade Hes cool upon the clover, 
 And branches make a goodly screen 
 With glimpses dimly caught between 
 Of blue skies arching over. 
 
 About the cedars thickly twine 
 
 The tendrilled woodbine's mazy tangles, 
 And the wild blackberry's graceful vine 
 With white, bee- haunted blooms that shine 
 
 Like sunlit silver spangles. 
 
 There, when the summer south wind sighs, 
 I sit with swaying boughs above me. 
 
 And gaze into the cloudless skies, 
 
 As deeply azure as the eyes 
 Of her who used to love me. 
 
244 ^-^^^ Old Ramble. 
 
 The suns and moons of many a year 
 
 Have waxed and waned and faded slowly 
 
 Since we together rambled here ; 
 
 Yet every path we trod is dear, 
 Each spot she loved is holy ! 
 
 This gray old stone, on which we sat 
 
 So oft to rest us in our rambles, 
 Seems still an ancient friend, but that 
 Its lichened surface broad and flat 
 
 Is overgrown with bram.bles. 
 
 I sit me down beneath the trees, 
 
 Where, green and gold, the sunshine dances, 
 And dreamy sounds of droning bees, 
 And distant bells, upon the breeze. 
 
 Awaken olden fancies. 
 
 O, bees that in the sunshine sing, 
 
 And round the starry blossoms hover. 
 What sweet, sad thoughts your dronings bring 
 Of days when life was in its spring. 
 And I a happy lover ! 
 
The Old Ramble. 245 
 
 O, distant bells, that swinging slow, 
 Recall the pleasant days departed, 
 
 Your silvery voices, soft and low, 
 
 Rang in her wedding, long ago. 
 And left me broken-hearted ! 
 
ALONE BY THE SHORE. 
 
 I WALK by the shore, by the shore, — 
 I walk by the shore of the sounding sea, 
 And hear in its endless, thunderous roar 
 A summoning voice to me. 
 
 I sit on the sand, on the sand. 
 
 The foam and the froth go swirling by ; 
 
 The wind whispers gently over the land, 
 And seems like a human sigh ; — 
 
 A sigh for a friend, for a friend, — 
 A calm and a true and a noble soul. 
 
 Whose friendship and faith might nevermore end, 
 As long as these breakers roll. 
 
 Far out in the west, in the west, 
 
 The sun through his robe of vapor gleams ; 
 
Alone by the Shore. 247 
 
 And so, like a king, right royally dressed, 
 Goes down to the land of dreams. 
 
 I look on my life, on my life, 
 
 A selfish battle it seems to me ; 
 I long for rest from its terrible strife, 
 
 Far down in the deep, deep sea. 
 
 I walk by the shore, by the shore, 
 
 And still as I gaze on the fading west, 
 
 I list to the voice with its thunderous roar, — 
 " O come, for the dead find rest ! " 
 
I WANT NOT LOVE. 
 
 T WANT not love, but who will be my friend ? 
 
 -^ I feel the need of some kind soul, to strew 
 My way with blossoms, as I wander slow 
 
 Down toward the valley where all paths must end 
 
 Can I not find a friend ? 
 
 I want not love, — I only want a friend. 
 
 Love's joys are rapture, but its pains are death ; 
 
 And joys and pains to love are food and 
 breath ; 
 So, when these weary arms I would extend. 
 Let them enfold a friend ! 
 
 I want not love, — ah no ! I want a friend ! 
 Why should a broken heart be tortured still .-' 
 Have I not had of misery my fill ? . . . 
 
 But thou who readest what I here have penned, — 
 
 Wilt thou not be my friend ? 
 
IN THE ORGAN-LOFT. 
 
 '' \ ^HE dead in their ancient graves are still ; 
 
 •^ There they've slept for many a year ; 
 The last faint sunbeams glance o'er the hill, 
 
 Gilding the dry grass, tall and sear. 
 And the foam of the babbling rill. 
 
 Into the church the ruddy light falls, 
 
 Through rich stained windows, narrow and high ; 
 
 Pictures it paints on the old, gray walls. 
 
 Scenes from the days that have long gone by, — 
 
 And hark ! — 't is my Rosalie calls ! 
 
 She calls my name, — I have heard it oft 
 
 Just at the golden sun's decline : 
 I answer the call, so sweet and soft; 
 
 And, turning, see where her bright eyes shine. 
 High up in the organ-loft. 
 
2SO In the Organ-LofU 
 
 I pass the winding and narrow stair ; 
 
 The gallery door stands open wide ; 
 I know no shadow of pain nor care, 
 
 While darling Rosalie stands by my side, 
 In the sunset light so fair. 
 
 What grand old hymns and chants we sang, — 
 Grand old chants that I loved so well ; 
 
 And the organ's tones, — how they pealed and rang, 
 Piercing the heart, no tongue can tell. 
 
 With what a delicious pang ! 
 
 O those hours ! what holy light 
 
 Hovers around when their memories rise ! 
 Music, love, and the sunset bright, 
 
 Tenderest glances from Rosalie's eyes, 
 And a long, sweet kiss, for good-night ! 
 
THE BROKEN CAVALIER'S SONG. 
 
 [" 'Well,' said Don Sebastian, 'our Spanish wine is sweet, if life is bitter 1 
 And, taking up the mandoline, with a kind of sad gayety, he began to sing." — 
 Don Sebastian de Cervenas.] 
 
 '' I ^HE jolly old world goes rolling round, — 
 
 -*- Drink wine, brothers mine ! 
 The dead lie sleeping under ground, — 
 
 Drink wine ! 't is this we 're drinking 
 Kills all care and stops all thinking. 
 
 Drink wine, beverage fine ! 
 See through the goblets the rosy light shine 
 Happiness lies in a flagon of wine ! 
 
 The maiden I loved was fair to see, — 
 
 Drink wine, brothers mine ! 
 But long ago she jilted me, — 
 
 Drink wine ! let glasses clinking 
 Kill our cares and drown our thinking ! 
 
 Drink wine, beverage fine, 
 
252 Tlie Broken Cavaliers Song. 
 
 No maiden's eyes can rival its shine ! 
 Happiness lies in a flagon of wine ! 
 
 I trusted a friend whom I thought true, — 
 
 Drink wine, brothers mine ! 
 He played me false and robbed me too, — 
 
 Drink wine ! 't is this we 're drinking 
 Keeps our spirits up from sinking ! 
 
 Drink wine, beverage fine ! 
 Friendship nor love were e'er half so divine ; 
 Happiness lies in a flagon of wine ! 
 
 My houses and lands, both park and moor, — 
 
 Drink wine, brothers mine ! 
 Have passed away and left me poor, — 
 
 Drink wine ! 't is this we 're drinking 
 Kills all care and stops all thinking ! 
 
 Drink wine, beverage fine ! 
 Brighter than gold is its glimmering shine : 
 Happiness lies in a flagon of wine ! 
 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 T WAS born some time ago, but I know not 
 -^ why : 
 
 I have Hved, — I hardly know either how or 
 
 where : 
 Some time or another, I suppose, I shall die ; 
 But where, how, or when, I neither know nor 
 
 care ! 
 
AT THE CIRCUS. 
 
 A CROSS the stage, with its blaze of lights, 
 ■^ ^ From fly to fly in the heated air 
 A slack rope hung, and in spangled tights 
 Sat " Signor " somebody swinging there. 
 
 Now he swung by a single arm ; 
 
 Now by a single leg swung he ; 
 A fall had done him a grievous harm, 
 
 He balanced and turned so recklessly. 
 
 I watched awhile. " It is well," I said, 
 " If people want reckless feats, it is well. 
 
 The tickets are bought, the money is paid. 
 And 'twere more of a show if he but fell." 
 
 I turned away : he was swinging yet : 
 
 And I glanced on the crowded house around, — 
 
At the Circus. 255 
 
 Boxes, circle, and wide parquette 
 
 Breathlessly watching, without a sound. 
 
 In a graceful pose, on a cushioned seat, 
 I saw Her sitting, to gaze at the man. 
 
 You could almost have heard my poor heart beat. 
 With the riotous blood that through it ran. 
 
 There she sat, with her splendid eyes 
 
 Fixed on the fellow so earnestly. 
 With more of the interest I should prize 
 
 Than ever she gave in a glance to me. 
 
 Every time that he balanced and turned, — 
 O, but her eyes grew large and shone, 
 
 Her bosom heaved and her fair cheek burned: 
 To me she had been like a block of stone. 
 
 This poor, pitiful circus man, 
 
 Swinging each night for his daily bread, 
 Had moved her more, since his act began, 
 
 Than I could, stretched on my dying-bed. 
 
256 At the Circus. 
 
 Hollow, hollow, and false as hell ! 
 
 Love is a cheat, and life is a wreck ! 
 What cared I if he swung or fell ? 
 
 What cared I if he broke his neck ? 
 
p 
 
 DRINKING WINE. 
 
 " Plus sitiunt plus bibunt." 
 
 OUR the mingled cream and amber ! 
 Let me drain the bowl again ! 
 
 Such hilarious visions clamber 
 
 Through the chambers of my brain. 
 
 Quaintest jests and queerest fancies 
 Spring to life and fade away : 
 
 What care I how time advances ? 
 I am drinking wine to-day. 
 
 Here's a motto terse and sentient, 
 
 By it I will live and die ! 
 Words of some rare tippling ancient, 
 
 " Ever drunken, ever dry." 
 Fill again ! let bubbles blind me ! 
 
 Sorrow, hide thy face away ! 
 
258 Drinking Wine. 
 
 Satan, get thee hence behind me, — 
 I am drinking wine to-day. 
 
 Cease thy prate of worldly glory. 
 
 Cease thy prate of worldly gold ! 
 I have heard that pleasant story 
 
 Till it sounds a little old. 
 Let me drop such low ambitions ; 
 
 Glory gnaws the heart away ; 
 Gold demands too stern conditions, - 
 
 I am drinking wine to-day. 
 
 One more bowl — a goodly measure 
 
 Ere my merry mood be gone ! 
 Wine 's a feast of perfect pleasure, — 
 
 Feast without a skeleton. 
 Love is false, and hope is waning ; 
 
 Life a failure is alway ! 
 Wine 's the only good remaining, — 
 
 Let me drain its lees to-day. 
 
SONG OF THE SENSUOUS. 
 
 BRING me grapes, whose regal juice 
 All my pent-up soul shall loose ! 
 Bring me snow-crowned amber goblets, 
 Overflown with liquid mirth ! 
 Let the night consume the day ; 
 Suns and moons pass swift away ; 
 Let my life fade into pleasure ; 
 I am earthy, — of the earth ! 
 
 Let me choose myself a bride, 
 
 Snowy-bosomed, dreamy-eyed ; 
 Let our love to new expressions 
 
 Every fleeting hour give birth ! 
 
 Locked in passion's close caress, 
 
 Let us find forgetfulness ! 
 What care I for aspirations ? 
 
 I am earthy, — of the earth ! 
 
26o So7ig of the Sensuous. 
 
 Ye who list fame's trumpet-call, 
 
 Waste your lives and pleasures all ; 
 When your eyes in death are glazing, 
 
 What are future glories worth ? 
 
 Give me woman, wine, and sleep ! 
 
 They who are in earnest weep : 
 Let me love and drink forever ! 
 
 I am earthy, — of the earth ! 
 
QUAND ME ME. 
 
 '' I ''WILIGHT is red in the west, and just where 
 -*- the sun went down 
 
 Gleams a splendid halo, like that of a pictured 
 saint ; 
 The shadows of night fall fast, and purple the 
 moorlands brown, 
 While every passing moment the light in the 
 sky grows faint. 
 There are long dark lines of cloud that stretch 
 themselves in the west, 
 And tell of a bitter cold to come with the com- 
 ing day. 
 And ever upon the wind there wails a voice of 
 unrest, 
 Wailing and soughing, sad and low, for the sum- 
 mer-time passed away. 
 
262 Quaiid Mime. 
 
 II. 
 
 Glorious Summer ! the pride, the queen of the 
 hvelong year ; 
 When insects chirp in the grass, and birds are 
 carolling sweet ; 
 When the moors are gay with flowers, and the 
 skies are diamond-clear. 
 And the honeyed clover-blossoms breathe fra- 
 grance under our feet ! 
 Here, on this selfsame moor, in a spirit of glad 
 content. 
 Humming, perchance, to myself, some fragment 
 of musical rhyme. 
 Loitering, wandering idly, all careless whither I 
 went, — 
 Ah ! how oft have I walked, when the summer 
 was in her prime ! 
 
 III. 
 Well, I am walking now on the moorland, just 
 as then, 
 
Quand Mane. 263 
 
 But something has changed. Is it I ? or is it the 
 whole wide world ? 
 Does anything ever change, outside of the hearts 
 of men, 
 Drifted about by their passions, and hither and 
 thither whirled ? 
 I hum no snatches of rhyme, and a leaden weight 
 of pain 
 Burdens my gloomy spirit, and fevers my rest- 
 less mind, 
 And I wartder listless and slow, wantonly swinging 
 my cane. 
 Beating off the golden-rod tufts that rustle dry 
 in the wind. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And still there rises before me, wherever I turn 
 my gaze, 
 The figure of her that I loved, when the summer 
 was blossoming fair ; 
 
 A beautiful, haunting ghost, the love of my sun- 
 nier days. 
 
264 Qitand Mane. 
 
 With her splendid, shadowy eyes, and her tor- 
 rent of gleaming hair. 
 Lovely, loving, and loved ! I remember every 
 caress, 
 Every word of endearment, and every gesture 
 and tone ; 
 Even her light, quick footstep, the rustling of her 
 dress, 
 Come to waken the olden thought as I walk on 
 the moor alone ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Well, thank God ! it is over, and naught but the 
 
 ghost abides ; 
 I have cast her forth forever, and sealed the 
 
 gates of my heart ! 
 My pulse beats calmly now, as the flowing of 
 
 ocean tides ; 
 And I know that love is but madness, and 
 
 wisdom the better part : 
 For just as a woman is fair, so is she false 
 
 alway ; 
 
Quaiid Mime. 265 
 
 She is vain, and the flatterer wins where the 
 earnest man is scoffed ; 
 Give her but praise and folly, be idle, flippant, and 
 
 gay, 
 
 And just in a due proportion, as your will — so 
 her heart — is soft ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 O, how 1 scorn myself, that I should be juggled 
 and fooled, 
 Vowing and promising love to an idle-minded 
 girl; 
 Degrading my very manhood, to find, when my 
 blood had cooled, 
 That she had lent me a tawdry cheat, where I 
 had given a pearl ! 
 She, — how well she could smile, while her heart 
 was a lump of ice ; 
 Kiss me, and sharpen a dagger to deal me a 
 deadly blow ; 
 Weave garlands of fairest blossoms, to deck me, a 
 sacrifice ; 
 
266 Quand Mime. 
 
 And call me her dearest friend, while she was 
 my dearest foe ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 High in the heavens above stretch threatening 
 hands of cloud, 
 And a muttered malediction is whispered now 
 on the breeze ; * 
 
 Thus do I stretch my hands, and curse the fickle 
 and proud ; 
 Thus do I curse from my inmost heart all lovely 
 liars like these ! 
 'T is the brand of the eldest mother ; the cause of 
 the fall of man ; 
 We are weak and foolish, and eat of any fruit 
 she may give ; 
 And so I curse them all, who still, since the world 
 began, 
 Have smilingly poisoned our hearts until we are 
 loath to live ! 
 
Quand Meme. 267 
 
 VIII. 
 
 O, may the wrath of Heaven — But hold, — I 
 am rash, just now : 
 Would I really wring her soul, and bring her to 
 sharp despair ? 
 Wrinkle with heavy sorrow that beautiful, tranquil 
 brow, 
 And mingle silvery threads in the shining gold 
 of her hair ? 
 No : I would rather choose that she might repent 
 her wrong, 
 With a softened sadness, born of this she has 
 brought to me ; 
 The woman, after all, is not so sturdy and strong 
 As we, and we should forgive, if we would for- 
 given be. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Then, perchance, in the light that repentance 
 sometimes shows. 
 She could see this cross I bear, and pity my 
 weary lot. 
 
268 Quand Meme. 
 
 Till, in a gentler moment, touched deep by these 
 cruel woes, 
 Her heart — it was always kind — might yield 
 once more ; why not ? 
 Ah, could it only be ! What joy would I not give 
 up. 
 To know that my form again in its olden shrine 
 were set ! 
 That again the wine of life could flash in the 
 jewelled cup — 
 O heart of mine! what is this? More than 
 ever I love her yet ! 
 
AT NEWPORT. 
 [a fragment.] 
 
 T WALKED on Newport's frowning rocks one 
 
 ■^ day, 
 
 Watching the breakers' feathery lines of spray 
 Dash sternly up against the boulders there, 
 To fall away in nothingness and air, — 
 Just as we mortals, hopeful and elate. 
 Dash ourselves into nothing, against fate : 
 And — as we mourn to find our efforts lost — 
 The fretted surf, in frothy turmoil tossed, 
 Made melancholy moan, and seemed to tell 
 How brightly hope arose, how soon it fell. 
 
 Thus musing, I, in philosophic mood, 
 Was led upon man's littleness to brood. 
 And marvelled if he ever gains the prize 
 Which seems most worthy to his longing eyes. . . . 
 
270 Ai Newport. 
 
 We toil for wealth, till, prematurely old. 
 We lose all taste for joys that come of gold. 
 We labor hard for fame, and find at last 
 That glory comes not till the grave is past ; 
 We sigh for leisure, but to learn, too late. 
 That heavy ennui is its wedded mate. 
 
 * It is the world,' I said, ' has gone astray ; 
 My star has risen on a thankless day. 
 
 Not now, as once, where swords are girded on, 
 Can victors triumph when the field is won. 
 The shout of conquering armies must arise 
 Only when death has glazed the hero's eyes. 
 And the good news of victory smite his ear 
 Only, alas ! when he has ceased to hear. 
 Bravest of all, he dies and never knows 
 Whether his friends have triumphed, or his foes. 
 
 * I will have none of this. I will forswear 
 The world, its feverish hope, its feverish care. 
 The student's toil is vacant of reward 
 
 As his who carves a future with his sword. 
 
At Newport. 271 
 
 Let those who may find joy in dusty books, 
 Stagnate in alcoves, dessicate in nooks 
 Where dust and bigotry hold rival reigns, 
 And scholars fill their heads with dead men's 
 
 brains ! 
 I will not waste my life from youth to age 
 To leave my name upon a title-page. 
 
 ' And so in all things Fate is most unjust. 
 Beauty itself is made of common dust. 
 The cynic's sneer was hardly less than true, — 
 Love is, indeed, but ' selfishness for two.' 
 Where Venus once with Hymen held her court, 
 Young men are bartered and young maids are 
 
 bought, 
 Unholy lips breathe forth unholy vows ; 
 And fading blossoms droop on faded brows. 
 So, till some purer life than this I see. 
 No nuptial garland shall be twined for me. 
 
 * I will not mingle with my fellow-men, 
 To be deceived and to deceive again. 
 
2/2 At Newport. 
 
 Call me ascetic, cynic, what you will, 
 I shall be calm and philosophic still, 
 And, all unheeding what the world may say. 
 Will not bow down to idols made of clay. 
 I care not for the verdict of the crowd. 
 Shame cannot crush, nor honor make me proud. 
 The while in perfect peace I dwell apart. 
 True to myself and tranquil in my heart. 
 
 * What matters honor and what matters shame } 
 A hundred years — and all will be the same. 
 Hence with the earthy idol and its throne, — 
 And let me walk forgotten and alone, 
 Where dancing mist and flying foam arise, 
 And distant seas commune with distant skies ; 
 Where slanting drives the white-winged ocean bird, 
 And naught save thunderous breakers can be heard, 
 Or solemn sounds of gusty winds that roar 
 Down the gray stretches of a ghostly shore.' . . . 
 
 Thus, with the billows' murmur in my ear, 
 I was not conscious of a footstep near. 
 
At Newport. 273 
 
 And, self-communing in my solitude, 
 
 Saw not a figure that before me stood — 
 
 Until a girl-voice, sweet as silver bells, 
 
 Rang out, " O come, and help me gather shells ! " . . . 
 
 In dire retreat my gloomy fancies fled ; 
 
 The train of thought was lost : I raised my 
 
 head, — 
 And met a Fate against whose rosy chain 
 Philosophers philosophize in vain. 
 
 There, sharply drawn against a pearly sky, 
 I saw a face half merry and half shy. 
 With shadowy eyes and mouth of perfect mould. 
 And hair of softest brown inmixed with gold. 
 A slender figure, full of gentle grace. 
 Matched the rare beauty of the girlish face : 
 And to my eye the apparition seemed 
 Something an artist lover might have dreamed, 
 After a day of earnest strife with art. 
 To reproduce the darling of his heart. 
 
GLORIA. 
 
 [in time of war.] 
 
 ' I ^HE laurels shine in the morning sun, 
 
 -^ The tall grass shakes its glittering spears, 
 And the webs the spiders last night spun 
 Are threaded with pearly tears. 
 
 At peace with the world and all therein, 
 I walk in the fields this summer morn : 
 
 What should I know of sorrow or sin, 
 Among the laurels and corn ? 
 
 But, hark ! through the corn a murmur comes — 
 'T is growing — 'tis swelling — it rises high — 
 
 The thunder of guns and the roll of drums. 
 And an army marching by. 
 
 Away with the sloth of peace and ease ! 
 'T is a nation's voice that seems to call. 
 
Gloria. 275 
 
 Who cares for aught, in times like these, 
 Save to win — or else to fall ! 
 
 Farewell, O shining laurels, now ! 
 
 I go with the army marching by : 
 Your leaves, should I win, may deck my brow, 
 
 Or my bier, if I should die. 
 
CAMP COGITATIONS. 
 
 [in time of war.] 
 
 I. 
 
 'THHE moon is riding, full, behind the black 
 -*- and naked trees. 
 
 Like a redly blazing beacon on the horizon it 
 gleams ; 
 
 And the swaying cedar branches sigh more 
 sadly in the breeze ; 
 
 And a hoarser voice is calling from the angry 
 mountain streams ; 
 
 In the dusk the snowy tents of my companions 
 fade away : 
 
 Rocky crags loom high above me, purple shad- 
 ows round me fall, 
 
 And I hear the clang of weapons, and the hun- 
 gry chargers' neigh, 
 
 And the measured tramp of columns, and the 
 evening bugle-call. 
 
Camp Cogitations. 2'j'j 
 
 II, 
 
 Eighteen centuries have fleeted since upon the 
 earth there came 
 
 One who taught the creed of kindness, of for- 
 giveness, and of peace, 
 
 One who bade us love our neighbor in the 
 Heavenly Father's name : 
 
 Yet the god of battle riots, and his temples still 
 increase. 
 
 For the ancient evil lingers ; man has war 
 within his soul. 
 
 So he loves the clash and carnage, and the wild, 
 triumphal shout : 
 
 Right and wrong against each other strive with- 
 in him for control ; — 
 
 Ah, the ancient evil lingers, and he fain must 
 fiffht it out. 
 
 III. 
 I, who dwell in scenes of warfare, may I not 
 be something: dulled 
 
2/8 Camp Cogitations. 
 
 To the finer shades of justice, to the nicer sense 
 
 of right ? 
 I, who only do my thinking when the battle's 
 
 storm has lulled, 
 And there comes a time of quiet, as upon this 
 
 wintry night. 
 Can we, do we, settle questions, who is right 
 
 and who is wrong. 
 By the shock of rushing squadrons and the leaden 
 
 hail and rain ? 
 Is there really then a judgment in the wild, 
 
 unearthly song 
 Of the rifled-cannon bullet as it hurtles o'er 
 
 the slain ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah, the finest-drawn philosophy must fall before 
 
 the truth ; 
 And the truth is plain and simple, as we own 
 
 with one accord ; 
 When the foe is at our thresholds hoary age 
 
 and callow youth, 
 
Camp Cogitations. 279 
 
 Leaving argument and reason, trust sublimely 
 to the sword ; 
 
 And the student and the thinker, when the bat- 
 tle is at hand, 
 
 When the monster glares before them, seek to 
 bandy words no more ; 
 
 But a splendid fury rises, overwhelming all the 
 land. 
 
 And a nation's voice is hfted in the symphony 
 of war ! 
 
 V, 
 
 So the thinkers who determine all the ways of 
 Deity, — 
 
 All His wondrous means of working out the 
 wisely hidden end, — 
 
 The philosophers who think to make us think 
 that they can see 
 
 How the plans of God are laid, and whither- 
 ward His labors tend, — 
 
 These may sigh, and say the present is no bet- 
 ter than the past. 
 
28o Camp Cogitations. 
 
 These may call us savage creatures, who appeal 
 
 to shot and shell ; 
 But the truth remains triumphant, and our armies 
 
 gather fast. 
 And who meets his death in battle be assured 
 
 he meets it well. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Man must be the thing he is ; he must express 
 
 himself in deeds ; 
 So this outward war expresses only that which 
 
 wars within. 
 Do you, planting crimson roses, look for lilies 
 
 from their seeds .-' 
 No ! a nation without war must be a nation 
 
 without sin. 
 If the hilt is in the hand, 't is surely there the 
 
 hilt belongs ; 
 Man and man are aye in conflict ; call it war 
 
 or what you will : 
 All the world is full of lies, — of old and thickly 
 
 crusted wrongs, — 
 
Camp Cogitations. 281 
 
 And when blood is boiling hotly, there is always 
 blood to spill. 
 
 VII. 
 
 See, the moon has risen high above the black 
 and naked trees, 
 
 Like a shield of burnished silver on the sky of 
 night it gleams ; 
 
 Comes the sighing of the cedars ever sadly on 
 the breeze ; 
 
 Comes the sound of falling waters from the 
 troubled mountain streams. 
 
 Sternly frown the crags above me ; darker shad- 
 ows round me fall, 
 
 And the fires of the encampment flash and 
 smoulder fitfully. . . . 
 
 If the foeman break our slumber, ere the morn- 
 ing bugle-call, 
 
 Is the victor's goodly laurel, or the cypress 
 wreath for me .'' 
 
JUNE 24, 1859. 
 
 T SEE the surf on Sandy Hook ; 
 -'- I see the bay below me spread ; 
 And here I lie, with pipe and book, 
 And the blue sky overhead. 
 
 A quarter of a century 
 
 Has passed, and still I live to say 
 (Ah, little joy it gives to me !) 
 
 " I 'm twenty-five to-day." 
 
 It is not very long to live ; 
 
 At twenty-five we 're scarcely men ; 
 And yet, a trifle I would give 
 
 If 't were threescore and ten. 
 
 A dozen threads among my hair 
 
 Have changed from chestnut-brown to snow ; 
 
j2Lne 24, 1859. 283 
 
 But if they paled from weight of care 
 It had been long ago. 
 
 About my eyes and on my brow 
 A few faint wrinkles I can trace ; 
 
 Time sets his signet even now 
 Upon my form and face. 
 
 And yet I look both young and fresh ; 
 
 I am not worn, nor pale, nor thin ; 
 Care's scars are slight upon the flesh, 
 
 But deep on that within. 
 
 Ah yes ! as seasons onward roll 
 
 My outward form seems still to thrive ; 
 
 But, looking back, I fear my soul 
 Is more than twenty-five. 
 
JUNE 24, 1864. 
 
 T 'M thirty : 't is not very old : 
 ^ Yet never younger shall I be ; 
 Nor do I care my youth to hold : 
 'Tis not so very dear to me. 
 
 True, I have lived my share of life, 
 And found me many goodly friends ; 
 
 But, with all this, enough of strife, 
 And toil, and loss, to make amends. 
 
 And all my joys have wedded been 
 With bitter griefs : alas ! the bell 
 
 That rings to-day the marriage in. 
 To-morrow tolls the funeral knell. 
 
 Yet, though my brightest hopes have paled, 
 My faith in future good holds fast ; 
 
 My strength and courage have not failed, 
 And all shall finish well at last! 
 
II. 
 GAY. 
 
 I do enjoy this bounteous, beauteous earth. 
 And dote upon a jest." 
 
 Hood. 
 
 " He was full of joke and jest, 
 But all his merry quips are o'er." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
DON LEON'S BRIDE. 
 
 A TALE OF THE CARNIVAL. 
 
 "T^ WAS — let 's see — ever so long ago, 
 
 -^ There lived in Madrid, as you must know, 
 
 A gay cavalier 
 
 Who ne'er 
 
 Knew a fear 
 Of the doughtiest kind of a masculine foe ; 
 
 And who loved the ladies 
 
 Of Seville and Cadiz 
 As well as he did 
 Those of Madrid, — 
 Indeed, I won't swear that he did n't hanker, 
 At times, for the girls of Salamanca. 
 
 Yet still, in spite of his love and care 
 
 For the sparkling eyes and the raven hair. 
 
288 Do7i Leons Bride. 
 
 He had n't the luck 
 (Or, it may be, the pluck. 
 Though 't was hardly worth daring what he 
 did n't dare), — 
 In short, his affections he never had carried — 
 
 In having what young women call "an affair" — 
 So far as to think much about getting married. 
 He drank and he fought 
 Far more than he ought ; 
 And the records say 
 That, by night or day, 
 He cut up such shines, and in such a way. 
 That the daily papers. 
 Describing his capers, 
 Declared him the gayest of all the gay. 
 So much for my hero ; I 'm thinking, though. 
 That you might like to know 
 His name ; 
 And that same 
 I '11 tell you at once ; 
 'T was Sefior Don Leon de Bayaldefonse. 
 
Don Leo lis Bride. 280 
 
 'T is carnival-time, 
 And many a chime 
 From silvery, clear-toned chapel-bells, 
 Is falling in sweet, melodious swells 
 
 On the air of the soft Castilian clime. 
 The stars are bright 
 In the sky of night, 
 
 And the moon is pouring her holy light 
 On grove, and garden, and plain, and steep. 
 The wind, as it blows, 
 Sings love to the rose, 
 And kisses the orange-blooms to sleep. 
 There 's life in the town. 
 For, up and down, 
 A hurrying, countless, jovial throng 
 Is surging along. 
 
 And the gentle pulses of music beat 
 In time to the tread of the dancers' feet ; 
 The colored lamps swing to and fro. 
 Casting a myriad-tinted glow 
 On the masked and motley crowd below. 
 
290 Don Leon's Bride. 
 
 Like the varied hues of the bow of hope, 
 Or those of a mammoth kaleidoscope. 
 
 III. 
 Don Leon is there, 
 With vivacious air. 
 
 Costumed and masked with scrupulous care, — 
 Dancing and singing. 
 Love-glances flinging, 
 Stealing sly kisses 
 From indiscreet misses, 
 Whispering to them in a corner alone. 
 Guessing their names without telling his own, 
 Showering praises 
 On them and their graces, 
 Lifting their masks from their beautiful faces. 
 And playing such pranks, 
 With all classes and ranks, 
 That every one sees, as plain as can be. 
 Who knows Sefior Leon, that this must be he ! . . 
 At length my gay hero a lady espies, 
 So carefully veiled as to hide e'en her eyes ; 
 
Don Leons Bride. 291 
 
 But her voice is so sweet, — 
 
 Sucli music complete, — 
 
 Her dress is so rich, yet so tasteful and neat, — 
 So bewitching he finds her, in air and demeanor, 
 He 's almost in love, ere he hardly has seen her ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 He speaks to this lady, and leads her aside, — 
 He earnestly begs her not to hide 
 Her beauties rare. 
 With such jealous care : 
 
 " For," says he, " I know that you must be fair!" 
 " Good sir," she answers, " my fate has said 
 That I must never, till I am wed. 
 Remove this mask ; 
 So do not ask, 
 But let us dance as we are, instead." 
 Her voice was low 
 As the winds that blow 
 O'er the hills where Aragon's roses grow. 
 And the songs that heavenly angels sing 
 No sweeter, purer, or clearer ring. 
 
292 Don Lcotis Bride. 
 
 Don Leon turned him half away, — 
 
 He heard that voice, and naught could he say, 
 Although he 'd have given 
 His hopes of heaven 
 To have seen her face for a moment, even ; 
 
 But to save all Spain 
 
 From sorrow and pain, 
 
 He could n't have asked her once again. 
 As the music arose 
 He drew her close. 
 
 And off they danced, on the tips of their toes, 
 With many a fling. 
 And many a swing, 
 
 Whirling, twirling, shifting, swaying, 
 
 Numberless pretty things softly saying, 
 Darting along 
 Through the mazy throng. 
 
 Till poor Don Leon felt that he 
 
 Was falling a victim to mystery. 
 And that it was true as heaven above 
 That he was heels-over-head in love ! 
 
Don Leons Bride. 293 
 
 The waltz was done, 
 
 With its froHc and fun, 
 
 And the Don to plead his suit begun. 
 Again he led the lady aside. 
 To a lonely part of the courtyard wide, 
 
 And begged she would 
 
 Be kind and good 
 
 Enough, to take the veil from her hood ; 
 But no, — she would n't, — 
 She said she could n't ; 
 " Why not ! " asked he ; 
 " Because," said she, 
 " You 'd certainly be 
 Scared half to death with what you would see." 
 
 " I 'm not afraid," 
 
 Don Leon said, 
 
 And his hand on the veil he gently laid : 
 " Back ! back ! " she cried, 
 Quite terrified, 
 " My face I must forever hide, 
 
294 -^^^ Leoiis Bride. 
 
 Until I am wedded, — a lawful bride ! " 
 Alas for the Don, — 
 His heart was gone ! 
 'Twas a solemn step to decide upon, — 
 
 A serious joke. 
 
 If the truth were spoke. 
 
 And very like " buying a pig in a poke " ! 
 
 But he 'd vowed to know, by hook or by crook, 
 How the face of the charming one might look, 
 So her hand he took, 
 And swore by the book 
 
 That, if she was willing his heart to delight, 
 
 They would go and be married, that bless6d 
 night! 
 " Ah me ! " cried the lady, " at last I have found 
 A man with true-hearted courage crowned ! " 
 And she fell in his arms with a joyful bound. 
 
 Then off they went. 
 
 On a wedding bent. 
 
 As swift as a bolt from a cross-bow sent. 
 Or (to be more modern), as swift as the bolt 
 That 's sent from the pistols of Colonel Colt, — 
 
Don Leo lis Bride. 295 
 
 And Father Ignacio lago Malony 
 
 Soon showed 
 
 Them the road 
 To matrimony. 
 
 vr. 
 Now for the awful mystery ! 
 The Don was almost dying to see 
 The face of his wife, 
 Yet a dreadful strife 
 Arose in his breast. 
 And it must be confessed 
 That he felt — well, terribly nervous, at best ! 
 In a room, in the old baronial hall 
 That the Bayaldefonses, one and all, 
 Had owned since the time of Adam's fall, 
 Stood the Don and his bride. 
 Side by side. 
 
 Their hearts overflowing with love and pride. 
 " Come, bare thy head," 
 The bridegroom said ; 
 " Fair lady mine. 
 
296 Don Leoiis Bride. 
 
 Let the light divine 
 
 Beam forth from those beautiful eyes of thine ! 
 O, let me sip 
 The dew of thy lip, 
 Or kiss the blush from thy peachy cheek ! 
 O, haste, sweet wife, nor longer seek 
 
 To keep thy glorious charms concealed, — 
 Take off thy veil, — let them be revealed ! " 
 She dropped the veil, — 
 The Don turned pale, — 
 His j oy — his pleasure — his hope — was gone, — 
 He had lost, before he had fairly won : 
 O gentle reader, pity the Don, — 
 What do you suppose he looked upon ? . . . 
 Only a Skeleton ! 
 
THE BIG OYSTER. 
 
 A LEGEND OF RARITAN BAY. 
 
 '^ I ^ WAS a hazy, mazy, lazy day, 
 
 -■- And the good smack Emily idly lay 
 Off Staten Island, in Raritan Bay, 
 
 With her canvas loosely flapping. 
 The sunshine slept on the briny deep. 
 Nor wave nor zephyr could vigils keep. 
 The oystermen lay on the deck asleep, 
 
 And even the cap'n was napping. 
 
 The smack went drifting down the tide — 
 The waters gurgling along her side — 
 Down where the bay grows vast and wide 
 
 A beautiful sheet of water ; 
 With scarce a ripple about her prow, 
 The oyster-smack floated, silent and slow. 
 
298 The Big Oyster. 
 
 With Keyport far on her starboard bow, 
 And South Amboy on her quarter. 
 
 But, all at once, a grating sound 
 
 Made the cap'n awake and glance around ; 
 
 " Hold hard ! " cried he, " we 've run aground, 
 
 As sure as all tarnation ! " 
 The men jumped up, and grumbled, and swore ; 
 They also looked, and plainly saw 
 That the Emily lay two miles from shore, 
 
 At the smallest calculation. 
 
 Then, gazing over the side, to see 
 
 What kind of bottom this shoal might be. 
 
 They saw, in the shadow that lay to the lee, 
 
 A sight that filled them with horror ! 
 The water was clear, and beneath it, there, 
 An oyster lay in its slimy lair. 
 So big, that to tell its dimensions fair 
 
 Would take from now till to-morrow. 
 
 And this it was made the grating sound ; 
 On this the Emily ran aground ; 
 
The Big Oyster. 299 
 
 And this was the shoal the cap'n found — 
 
 Alack ! the more is the pity. 
 For straight an idea entered his head : 
 He 'd drag it out of its watery bed, 
 And give it a resting-place, instead, 
 
 In some saloon in the city. 
 
 So, with crow, and lever, and gaff, and sling. 
 And tongs, and tackle, and roller, and ring. 
 They made a mighty effort to bring 
 
 This hermit out of his cloister. 
 They labored earnestly, day and night, 
 Working by torch and lantern light, 
 Till they had to acknowledge that, do what they 
 might 
 
 They never could budge the oyster ! 
 
 The cap'n fretted, and fumed, and fussed — 
 He swore he 'd " have that 'yster, or bust ! " 
 But, for all his oaths, he was quite nonplussed ; 
 
 So, by way of variation. 
 He sat him quietly down, for a while. 
 
3CX) TJie Big Oyster. 
 
 To cool his anger and settle his bile, 
 And to give himself up, in his usual style, 
 To a season of meditation. 
 
 Now, the cap'n was quite a wonderful man ; 
 He could do almost anything any man can, 
 And a good deal more, when he once began 
 
 To act from a clear deduction. 
 But his wonderful power — his greatest pride — 
 The feat that shadowed all else beside — 
 The talent on which he most relied — 
 
 Was his awful power of suction ! 
 
 At suction he never had known defeat ! 
 The stoutest suckers had given in, beat, 
 When he sucked up a quart of apple-jack, neat, 
 
 By touching his lips to the measure ! 
 He'd suck an oyster out of its shell, 
 Suck shrimps or lobsters equally well ; 
 Suck cider, till inward the barrel-heads fell — 
 
 And seemed to find it a pleasure ! 
 
The Big Oyster. 301 
 
 Well, after thinking a day or two, 
 This doughty sucker imagined he knew 
 About the best thing he could possibly do, 
 
 To secure the bivalvular hermit. 
 " I '11 bore through his shell, as they bore for coal, 
 With an auger fixed on the end of a pole, 
 And then, through a tube, I '11 suck him out, 
 whole — 
 
 A neat little swallow, I term it ! " 
 
 The very next day, he returned to the place 
 Where his failure had thrown him into disgrace ; 
 And there, with a ghastly grin on his face, 
 
 Began his submarine boring. 
 He worked a week, for the shell was tough, 
 But reached the interior soon enough 
 For the oyster, who found such surgery rough — 
 
 Such grating, and scraping, and scoring ! 
 
 The shell-fish started, the water flew. 
 
 The cap'n turned decidedly blue. 
 
 But thrust his auger still further through. 
 
302 ■ The Big Oyster. 
 
 To quiet the wounded creature. 
 Alas ! I fear that my tale grows sad, 
 The oyster naturally felt quite bad, 
 And ended by getting excessively mad, 
 
 In spite of its peaceful nature. 
 
 It arose, and, turning itself on za^o., 
 
 Exposed a ponderous shelly wedge. 
 
 All covered with slime, and seaweed, and sedge — 
 
 A conchological wonder ! 
 This wedge flew open, as quick as a flash, 
 Into two great jaws, with a mighty splash ; 
 One scraunching, crunching, crackling crash — 
 
 And the smack was gone to thunder ! 
 
THE DRINKING OF THE APPLE-JACK. 
 
 [not by BRYANT.] 
 
 COME, let us drink the apple-jack ! 
 Cut the tough lemon with the blade ; 
 Hot let the water then be made ; 
 There gently pour the liquor ; there 
 Sift the white sugar in with care, 
 
 And mix them all as gingerly 
 As poets mingle rhythmic feet 
 To print in some aesthetic sheet : 
 So mix we the apple-jack. 
 
 What drink we in the apple-jack .-• 
 Buds, which the sprees of nights and days 
 Shall swell to blossoms all ablaze ; 
 Spots, where the rash, a crimson guest, 
 Shall put our good looks to the test. 
 
304 The Drinking of the Apple-jack. 
 
 We drink, from the distillery, 
 A balm for each ill-omened hour, 
 A pleasant alcoholic shower, 
 
 When we drink the apple-jack. 
 
 What drink we in the apple-jack ? 
 Sweets, from that Jersey farm, of Spring's, 
 That load the wagons, carts, and things, 
 When from the orchard-row he pours 
 His fruit to the distillery doors ; 
 
 And toddy-blossoms, red that be. 
 Drinks for the sick man's silent room. 
 For the bon vivant rosy bloom, 
 
 We brew, with the apple-jack. 
 
 What drink we in the apple-jack ? 
 Heads that shall swell in sunny June, 
 To ache like fun in the August noon, 
 And droop as sober folks come by 
 Under the blue September sky ; 
 And fellows, wild with noisy glee. 
 
The Drinking of the Apple-yack. 305 
 
 Shall breathe strong fragrance as they pass, 
 And tumble on the tufted grass — 
 The effect of the apple-jack. 
 
 And when above this apiDle-jack 
 The silver spoons are quivering bright, 
 And songs go howling through the night. 
 We, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, 
 Shall quaff our punch by cottage-hearth, 
 
 And guests in prouder homes shall see. 
 Beside the red blood of the grape, 
 A bottle of a different shape — 
 
 The bottle of the apple-jack. 
 
 The glory of this apple-jack 
 Winds and our flag of stripe and star 
 Shall bear to coasts that lie afar. 
 Where men shall drink till all is blue 
 The apple-jack of Sandy new ; 
 
 And they who roam upon the sea 
 Shall mourn the past but happy day 
 
3o6 The Drinking of the Apple-yack. 
 
 When grog made labor seem like play, 
 The day of the apple-jack. 
 
 Each year shall give this apple-jack 
 A mellower taste, a warmer bloom, 
 A potency 'gainst mopes and gloom, 
 And make it, when the frost-clouds lower, 
 A thing for punch of wondrous power. 
 
 The years shall come and pass, but we 
 Shall grow no better where we lie, 
 While summer's songs and autumn's sigh 
 
 Shall ripen the apple-jack. 
 
 And time shall waste this apple-jack ! 
 O, when its aged barrels grow 
 Light, as the rare old juice runs low, 
 Shall fraud and force and iron will 
 Oppress us with a Maine-law bill ? 
 
 What shall the tasks of mercy be, 
 Amid the todless toper's tears, 
 If this should come, when length of years 
 
 Is wasting this apple-jack .'' 
 
TJie Drinking of the Apple-yack. 307 
 
 " Who barreled this old apple-jack ? " 
 
 The bibbers of that distant day 
 
 Thus to some aged Sport shall say ; 
 
 And, fingering his goblet's stem, 
 
 The gray-haired sage shall answer them : 
 
 "A poet of Jersey fame was he, 
 Born in the heavy drinking times ; 
 'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes 
 
 On drinking the apple-jack ! " 
 
SINGLE AND DOUBLE. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS JINGLE. 
 
 T AST Christmas, I remember, 
 •* — ' I sat beside the hearth, 
 And watched each glowing ember 
 
 To tiny flames give birth, 
 While the snow-flakes of December 
 
 Were whitening the earth. 
 
 Rapt close in meditation, 
 And all that sort of thing, 
 
 The idle brain's creation 
 And vague imagining, 
 
 I had a visitation 
 
 Perhaps worth mentioning. 
 
Single and Double. 309 
 
 My pipe its clouds emitted 
 
 In wreaths of azure hue, 
 Through which strange visions flitted, 
 
 As tliey are wont to do 
 When one is sombre-witted 
 
 And feels a little blue. 
 
 Strange vision ! girls with faces 
 
 Of loveliest blush and smile. 
 Whose forms wore all the graces 
 
 That strengthen woman's wile, 
 When clothed in silks and laces 
 
 Cut in the latest style. x 
 
 Then rare, melodious noises, — 
 
 Some seraphic trombone, — 
 Came mingling with sweet voices 
 
 Blent in a tender tone. 
 Saying, — "When all the Earth rejoices. 
 
 Why shouldst thou be here alone .^" 
 
 I felt that I was weary 
 Upon that Christmas day ; 
 
310 Single and Double. 
 
 That I alone was dreary- 
 While others all were gay 
 
 With Christmas feasting cheery,— 
 So I had n't much to say. 
 
 And again they put the query, 
 Why I should lonely be 
 
 While other folks were merry. 
 And said they could n't see 
 
 Why I should be so very 
 Fond of my misanthropy. 
 
 While thus these figures fluttered 
 My lonely hearthstone o'er, 
 
 And still these voices uttered 
 Their question as before, 
 
 I, half unconscious, muttered 
 " I '11 be alone no more ! " 
 
 " Away with melancholy ! 
 
 I '11 seek me out a bride. 
 And when the berried holly 
 
 Glows red at Christmas-tide, 
 
Single and Double. 3 1 1 
 
 I '11 know of no such folly 
 As a lonely fireside ! " 
 
 Then fled the fairy vision! 
 
 Their object was attained ; 
 They had fulfilled their mission, 
 
 Their ultimatum gained : 
 They fled, but my decision 
 
 Quite palpably remained. 
 
 II. 
 
 Again the Christmas season 
 Rolls round as seasons roll ; 
 
 The feast is more than reason, 
 The flow is more than soul, 
 
 And tyrant Care, by treason. 
 Is drowned in many a bowl. 
 
 Within my pleasant chamber 
 I sit and muse once more, 
 
312 Single and Double. 
 
 While from the hearth each ember 
 Gleams red across the floor 
 
 And snow-flakes of December 
 Lie white on hill and shore. 
 
 Again I sit, but never 
 As once I used to sit, 
 
 By phantoms haunted ever — 
 Vague forms that fade and flit, 
 
 Enough to make a clever 
 Fellow have a stupid fit. 
 
 Ah no ! my resolution 
 
 Has straightly been put through. 
 And another institution 
 
 Has crept my life into. 
 I have declared for " Fusion," 
 
 And my ally has proved true ! 
 
 My Ally, — that 's my Alice ... 
 
 A vision far more dear 
 Than those that rose in malice, 
 
 From the pungent Latakia 
 
Single and Double. 3^3 
 
 That burned within the chaHce 
 
 Of my meerschaum pipe, last year. 
 
 No more in lonely musing 
 I hear the slow hours chime ; 
 
 No more my lot abusing 
 In sentimental rhyme ; 
 
 No more I 'm caught refusing 
 To have a jolly time ! 
 
 But, free from blues and bother, 
 
 Quite cosily at ease, 
 I sit by Baby's mother 
 
 With Baby on my knees, 
 And look from one to t' other 
 
 As proudly as you please ! 
 
 So you, who do as I did 
 On Christmas-days gone by, 
 
 Ere She and I decided 
 Our forces to ally, 
 
 If lonely you Ve abided, 
 This other method try ! 
 
314 Single and Double. 
 
 Old bachelors grow spiteful, 
 As I erst-while have known. 
 
 Heart-loneliness is frightful, 
 And in the Book 't is shown 
 
 That it is n't good or rightful 
 For man to be alone. 
 
 I hear my Alice singing 
 
 As the Christmas snow-flakes fall, 
 And the Christmas-bells are ringing 
 
 From every belfry tall, 
 This Christmas burthen bringing, 
 
 " God bless us, one and all ! " 
 
THE BALLAD OF FISTIANA. 
 
 (after TENNYSON.) 
 
 M 
 
 Y form is wasted with my woe, 
 
 Fistiana. 
 There is no fame for me below, 
 
 Fistiana. 
 My fame has gone, like melted snow, 
 Though I can hit a heavy blow, 
 
 Fistiana. 
 Alone I wander to and fro, 
 
 Fistiana. 
 
 Once, my fame was widely growing, 
 
 Fistiana ; 
 Day and night my friends were crowing, 
 
 Fistiana ; 
 I was blowing, wine was flowing. 
 
3i6 The Ballad of Fistiana. 
 
 When I was to battle going, 
 
 Fistiana. 
 But, alas ! 't was naught but blowing, 
 
 Fistiana. 
 
 In the ring, till almost night, 
 
 Fistiana, 
 I stood proudly up in fight, 
 
 Fistiana. 
 Although the blood bedimmed my sight. 
 With stars that glimmered swift and bright, 
 
 Fistiana, 
 And left my eyes in shocking plight, 
 
 Fistiana. 
 
 The umpire stood against the wall, 
 
 Fistiana ; 
 He watched my fist among them all, 
 
 Fistiana ; 
 He saw me fight ; I heard him call : 
 My foeman was both strong and tall, 
 
 Fistiana : 
 
The Ballad of Fistiana. 3^7 
 
 He pressed me close against the wall, 
 Fistiana. 
 
 My heavy counter went aside, 
 
 Fistiana, — 
 The false, false counter went aside, 
 
 Fistiana, — 
 The cursed counter glanced aside ; 
 I missed his nob : my blow was wide, 
 
 Fistiana, — 
 My blow was very wild and wide, 
 
 Fistiana ! 
 
 O, narrow, narrow was the space, 
 
 Fistiana ! 
 Loud rang my backers' heavy bass, 
 
 Fistiana. 
 O, deathful blows were dealt apace, 
 The battle deepened in its place, 
 
 Fistiana ; 
 But I went down upon my face, 
 
 Fistiana. 
 
3i8 The Ballad of Fistiana. 
 
 They should have sponged me where I lay, 
 
 Fistiana ; 
 How could I rise and come away, 
 
 Fistiana ? 
 How should I look, the second day ? 
 They might have left me where I lay, 
 
 Fistiana : 
 Bruised, mauled, and pounded into clay, 
 
 Fistiana. 
 
 O feeble nose ! why didst thou break, 
 Fistiana ? 
 
 me ! so pale and limp and weak, 
 
 Fistiana : 
 
 1 took my drink, but could not speak. 
 With such a jaw and lip and cheek, 
 
 Fistiana, 
 Where fists had played at hide-and-seek, 
 Fistiana. 
 
 They cried aloud ; I heard their cries, 
 Fistiana : 
 
The Ballad of Fistiana. 319 
 
 Their plaudits rent the very skies, 
 
 Fistiana ; 
 I felt the tears and blood arise 
 Up from my heart into my eyes, 
 
 Fistiana. 
 Who says there 's fun in fighting, lies, 
 
 Fistiana. 
 
 cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! 
 
 Fistiana ! 
 Unhappy me, by it laid low, 
 
 Fistiana ! 
 All night my " claret " seemed to flow ; 
 
 1 sat alone, in utter woe, 
 
 Fistiana : 
 To fight again I '11 never go, 
 Fistiana. 
 
THE MODERN MITHRIDATES. 
 
 T T O ! bring my breakfast ! give to me 
 •^ -^ Bread that is snowy and light of weight,- 
 Of alum and bone-dust let it be, 
 
 Chalk, and ammonia's carbonate : 
 Sulphates of zinc and copper too, 
 
 Plaster of Paris, finely ground, 
 Will make it evenly white, clear through, 
 
 With the outside nicely browned. 
 
 Give me butter to eat with the bread, — 
 
 Colored with saffron and turmeric. 
 Or orpiment, richer in tint 't is said ; 
 
 Let lard and sheep's brains make it thick. 
 Give me tea of a clear green hue, 
 
 Made of soapstone, and willow-leaves, 
 Arsenite of copper and Prussian blue, — 
 
 Their flavor the palate deceives. 
 
The Modern Mithridates. 321 
 
 Bring sugar, and sweeten the potion well, — 
 
 Sugar of lead, and iron, and sand, 
 Sweet as honey of Hydromel, 
 
 Or the pressure of Mithridates' hand ! 
 Though maybe coffee would clear my head 
 
 Better than such a cup of tea, — 
 Coffee of ochre, Venetian red, 
 
 And the potent chicory. 
 
 Then, with my chop, let pickles green 
 
 Cool my tongue with flavorous bliss ; 
 Steeped and soaked, they must have been, 
 
 In salts of copper and verdigris : 
 Most inviting to me they are 
 
 When full of the pungent taste I find 
 In sulphuric acid vinegar, — 
 
 A condiment just to my mind. 
 
 Ha ! you start ! you think that I, 
 
 Being a man of mortal clay, 
 After my meal will surely die. 
 
 For these are deadly poisons, you say : 
 
322 The Modern Mithridates. 
 
 Poisons ? yes ! yet one and all 
 
 Are found on every grocer's shelves ; 
 
 Our bills of mortality are not small, 
 But how can we help ourselves ? 
 
PATTI. 
 
 PATTI is going away ! The columned hall 
 Of the Academy shall miss her voice. 
 No more may painted dome and panelled wall 
 Ring to the silvery sweetness we heard fall 
 From her fair lips, to make our hearts rejoice ! 
 
 A glittering triumph may await her where 
 The sea rolls up its foam on Albion's shore, 
 
 And noble heads may bow before her there ; 
 
 But those pure notes that floated down the air 
 Of Irving- Place shall greet our ears no more ! 
 
 No doubt, she goes to study and to sing ; 
 
 No doubt, she goes to win a lasting name ; 
 No doubt her praises through the world will ring, 
 And she will wed a Count, or some such thing. 
 
 With lots of money, and a dreadful name ! 
 
324 Patti. 
 
 But who, ah, who will take the vacant place 
 
 She leaves within our hearts, when she is gone? 
 That childlike purity, that girlish grace. 
 That fresh, fair voice, and ever gentle face. 
 Our tenderest love and sympathy have won ! 
 
 Well, since it must be so, O, let us lift 
 
 A prayer that she may prosper and rejoice ; 
 
 That, in the voyage of life, her bark may drift . 
 
 Safe through the storms that beat and winds that 
 shift, 
 Steered by the goodly compass of her voice ! 
 
 i860. 
 
PICCOLOMINI. 
 
 " We understand M'dlle Piccolomini's engagements terminate in March, 
 and that she will then leave the stage, in accordance with the wish of her 
 family." — London Paper. 
 
 1 7'AREWELL, thou bon-bon of the lyric stage: 
 -*- Thou wert divine, the rest are only clever ; 
 None else my thirst for music can assuage. 
 Farewell, sweet singing little one, forever ! 
 
 Thou goest from triumphs, from a world of friends ; 
 Thou goest from present sweets, from future 
 laurels, 
 Thou goest from all that heaven to genius 
 sends, — 
 Fetes, gifts, loves, gloves, posters, footlights, and 
 quarrels. 
 
 Thou hadst the grace, the winning way, the style, 
 Thy face was full of fun, thy form was natty ; 
 
326 Piccolomini. 
 
 O, ne'er on earth shall I forget the smile 
 
 That arched thy brow while singing " Batti, 
 batti ! " 
 
 Henceforth, when sorrowing and sad I sit 
 Amid the buzz and glare and viol's ringing, 
 
 I '11 make me an ideal, and worship it, — 
 I '11 fancy that I hear thee always singing. 
 
 So farewell, bon-bon of the lyric stage. 
 Since family desires have power to sever 
 
 The world and thee. I drop upon this page 
 One tear, in bidding thee farewell forever. 
 
 i860. 
 
THE DANGERS OF BROADWAY. 
 
 BY A PROMENADER. 
 
 "\ X 7"ITH a slam, and a smash, and a rattling 
 * ^ crash, 
 
 Come the sticks, 
 And the bricks, 
 Bits of glass, blind, and sash, 
 That the laborers rash 
 Tumble down, all the day, 
 From the houses now being torn down in Broadway. 
 Strange odors and musty. 
 The air sharp and dusty 
 With lime and with sand, 
 That no one can stand, 
 Make the street quite impassable, 
 The people irascible, 
 
328 The Dangers of Broadway. 
 
 Till every one cries, 
 
 As he trembling goes, 
 With the sight of his eyes 
 And the scent of his nose 
 Quite stopped — or at least, much diminished, 
 " Gracious ! when will this city be finished ! " 
 
 m- 
 II. 
 
 Mr, Smith builds a store — may be more — 
 In the year '53. 
 But, in '58, he 
 Finds that, which he calls " the old ( ! ) building," 
 a bore, 
 A disgrace to the town — 
 So of course it comes down. 
 And another, much stronger. 
 Goes up in its place, 
 With a handsomer face, 
 To last five years more, or perhaps a year longer. 
 Meanwhile Mr. Brown 
 
 Pulls down 
 His building, near by, 
 
The Dangers of Broadway. 329 
 
 And the dust that he makes 
 Causes all sorts of aches ; 
 For, like his " improvements," 't is all in one's eye ! 
 
 III. 
 Rut the dust's not the worst of this ruin accurst ; 
 'Tis the danger, 
 Each stranger 
 (And citizen too) is always put through, 
 In walking amid such a hullabaloo. 
 
 E'en a temperance man — 
 
 Let him do all he can — 
 Is likely to get (and be well off at that) 
 An exceedingly heavy great brick in his hat. 
 
 Powdered with mortar, 
 
 Sprinkled with water, 
 
 Smoked, soaked, 
 
 Poked, choked. 
 
 Turned into the street, 
 
 By walks incomplete, 
 Till the pleasures of Broadway are sadly diminished, 
 And all say, "O gracious ! when will it be finished ?" 
 
THE FOURTH OF JULY IN TOWN. 
 
 [Being the Lament of a Poet who couldn't get away. The 
 reader will observe that each verse is concluded by an explosive 
 refrain, from the firearms without.] 
 
 REALLY don't know what to do 
 ('T was thus a Poet sang) 
 Amid this dreadful hubaboo 
 That drives me crazy — 
 
 {Bang !) 
 
 I did not wish in town to stay ; 
 
 It cost me quite a pang 
 To find I couldn't get away, 
 
 But fate is cruel — 
 
 {Bang !) 
 
 The streets are filled with smoke and noise, 
 And everywhere a gang 
 
The Fourth of July in Town. 331 
 
 Of ruffian men and rowdy boys 
 Are firing pistols — 
 
 {Bang!) 
 
 Ah! out of town the air is sweet, 
 
 Where nodding roses hang 
 Above the brook that laves their feet, 
 
 But here 't is horrid — 
 
 {Bang!) 
 
 In every public place and hall 
 
 The orators harangue. 
 Amid a dun and dusky pall 
 
 Of smoke and sulphur — 
 
 {Bang!) 
 
 Whatever patriots may say, 
 With all their buncombe slang, 
 
 In town, this Independence Day 
 Is but a nuisance — 
 
 {Bang!) 
 
332 TJie FoiirtJi of yiily in Town. 
 
 'T was well enough, when into birth 
 
 Our Independence sprang; 
 But this ! 't is Tophet here on earth — 
 
 {Crack ! crash ! ! wliang ! ! ! 
 clang I ! ! ! slam-bang! ! ! 1 1) 
 
THE SHARPSHOOTER'S LOVE. 
 
 [in time of war.] 
 
 THE finest friend I ever knew, 
 And one with whom I dare not trifle ; 
 Who in all danger sees me through, 
 Whose aim is ever good and true, 
 Is my sweet Minie Rifle. 
 
 She gently rests upon my arm, 
 
 Is always ready, always willing; 
 And though, in general, somewhat calm, 
 Wakes up, upon the first alarm, 
 To show she can be killing. 
 
 And she is very fair to see, 
 
 The most fastidious fancy suiting ; 
 Her Locks are bright as they can be, 
 And that her Sight is good, to me 
 Is just as sure as shooting. 
 
334 1^^^^ Sharpshooters Love. 
 
 Though used to many a fiery spark, 
 
 She 's never careless in her pleasure ; 
 She always aims to hit the mark, 
 And when her voice the Southrons hark, 
 They find she 's no Secesher. 
 
 The heaviest Load seems not to weigh 
 Upon her more than 't were a trifle ; 
 She 's highly polished : and I 'd pray. 
 Were I bereft of friends this day, 
 O, leave me Minie Rifle ! 
 
THE SONG OF THE STONE-HULK. 
 
 [in time of war.] 
 
 'nr^IME was I roved the Northern seas, 
 
 -^ To chase the blubbering whale, 
 But now I lie in dreamy ease 
 To rest my poor old ribs and knees. 
 A Cell, but not a Sail. 
 
 A number of us calmly lie, — 
 
 J. D. is not alone, — 
 And barristers who southward hie 
 Can comment, passing Charleston by. 
 
 Upon the works of Stone. 
 
 Though old, I still am stanch and stout ; 
 
 A store of Rocks have I ; 
 My comrades and myself, no doubt, 
 With such a lot of bars about, 
 
 Will ne'er get high and dry. 
 
336 The Song of the Stone-Hulk. 
 
 The sharks, the porgies, and the whales 
 
 Swim by with look intent, 
 And ask if, when I bent my sails 
 To lead the life this job entails, 
 
 I followed out that bent. 
 
 Though Davis, spite of shame and sin, 
 Controls the South, 't is true, 
 
 To Lincoln I my faith give in . . . 
 
 As I a three-master have been 
 Two masters will not do. 
 
 When cannon against Sumter's wall 
 
 Shall roar in warlike sort, 
 I '11 think, as howl the shot and ball 
 From frigates trim and taut and tall, 
 
 'T is their, but not my, forte. 
 
 So here in Charleston Bay I lie, 
 
 A part of war's great game ; 
 To pass me let no skipper try, 
 For though he reck but little, I 
 Shall wreck him all the same ! 
 
TWO SENSIBLE SERENADES 
 
 T SING beneath your lattice, Love, 
 -*- A song of great regard for you : 
 The moon is getting rather high ; 
 My voice is, too. 
 
 The lakelet in deep shadow lies, 
 Where frogs make much hullabaloo ; 
 I think they sing a trifle hoarse, 
 And, Love, me too. 
 
 The blossoms on the pumpkin-vine 
 Are weeping diamond tears of dew ; 
 'T is warm : the flowers are wilting fast ; 
 My linen too. 
 
338 Two Sensible Serenades. 
 
 All motionless the cedars stand, 
 With silent moonbeams slanting through ; 
 The very air is drowsy, Love, 
 And I am too. 
 
 O, could I soar on loving wings, 
 And at your window gently woo ! 
 But then your lattice you would bolt — 
 So I '11 bolt too. 
 
 And now I 've done my serenade, 
 Farewell ! my best regards to you ; 
 I '11 close with one (Frenc"h) word for^ll, 
 And that is tout. 
 
 II. 
 
 The surf upon the distant shore is breaking ; 
 
 Bright tears of dew the roses seem to weep ; 
 But you are prejudiced against awaking, 
 
 So I '11 sing small, and let you have your sleep ! 
 Sleep, lady, sleep ! 
 
Tivo Sensible Serenades. 339 
 
 You shall not chide me for this song, love, shall 
 you ? 
 I take great pains my voice subdued to keep, 
 For well I understand the lofty value 
 
 All sane folks set upon a wholesome sleep. 
 Sleep, lady, sjeep ! 
 
 Some fellows — at their nonsense oft I wonder — 
 Sing out with voices strong, and loud, and deep. 
 
 Until their loved ones wish they 'd go to thunder, 
 Or, like myself, sing small, and let them sleep. 
 Sleep, lady, sleep ! 
 
 The grass is wet ; I find that I am sneezing ; 
 
 This kind of thing is getting rather " steep " ; 
 The thought of rheumatism is n't pleasing. 
 
 So, with your leave, I '11 home to bed and sleep. 
 Sleep, lady, sleep ! 
 
T 
 
 NO MORE. 
 
 HE Summer Season's over; 
 No more I haunt the Springs or Shores ; 
 No more I He in clover, 
 
 And sufifer myriad rural bores, 
 
 I feel no headache warning 
 
 Of sunstroke, 'neath the skies of fire ; 
 I dance no more, till morning. 
 
 With mortal maids who must perspire. 
 
 No more I haunt the stables. 
 To learn how racing matters go ; 
 
 No more I sleep on tables, 
 
 Because " the house is crowded so." 
 
 No more the milk and honey 
 
 Of watering-place cuisines are mine ; 
 
"No More': 341 
 
 But I, for much less money, 
 
 Can much more comfortably dine. 
 
 No more the famous waters 
 
 Disgust my taste and make me ill ; 
 
 No marriageable daughters 
 
 Are now thrust at me, will or nill. 
 
 Sweet blondes, and brunettes haughty, 
 No more with spangled tradesmen flirt ; 
 
 No more their nags (2.40) 
 
 Dash by, and cover me with dirt. 
 
 The dread mosquito, singing, 
 
 No more torments me with his ways ; 
 Nor, sharper tortures bringing. 
 
 The still more terrible punaise. 
 
 The sea its rocks is scathing, 
 
 As heretofore ; but beauty bright 
 
 No more goes in a-bathing, 
 
 In to£:s that render her a fright ! 
 
342 ''No' More': 
 
 I see no white sails dotting 
 
 Old ocean's bosom, blue and broad : 
 
 I go no more a-yachting, 
 
 And lose my dinner — overboard-; 
 
 Bluffed, badgered, bored, and bandied. 
 No more am I : I 'm home at last ; 
 
 And own up — to be candid — 
 I 'm very glad the season 's past. 
 
THE COMMON COUNCILMAN. 
 
 "" I ^ WAS an illegant Common Councilman, 
 
 -*- His nose it was red an' his eyes was 
 sunken. 
 As grocery-clerk his life began, 
 
 Till he had to " resign " for bein' dhrunken ; 
 'T was then he was thick widh the market 
 boys, 
 
 An' many an evenin' he got a singein'. 
 Or helped to make confusion an' noise, 
 
 At work on a blazin' roof, or an ingin'. 
 
 He managed the votes of his pet masheen, 
 An' swep' his ward like a rcg'lar hurricane ; 
 
 An' whin he was spacheless widh bog-poteen, 
 He thanked the Lord he was no American ! 
 
 So they 'lected him, aisy enough ; 
 
 He could n't be Prisident — more 's the pity — 
 
344- TJie Common Councilman. 
 
 On account of the "Native American" stuff; 
 But they giv' him a fat berth undher the city. 
 
 His hair was red and his brogue was nate, 
 
 An' whin he 'rranged the affairs o' the na- 
 tion, 
 His vote was always appropriate, 
 
 For he voted for ivery appropriation : 
 Of blarney he had enough an' to shpare ; 
 
 His spache was wondherful fine an' flowery ; 
 He was mighty fluent upon the swear, 
 
 An' he kep' a " sample-room " in the Bowery. 
 
 Soon he came to belong to "the Ring," 
 
 An' got mighty rich widh his jobs an' leases, 
 
 Had horses an' wagins an' iverything, 
 
 An' chucked his money around like Croesis. 
 
 Ivery mornin' he rode in his shay, 
 
 And went to Delmonico's for a luncheon ; 
 
 An' he drownded the shamrock St. Patrick's 
 day 
 
 In a punch that fairly filled a puncheon. 
 
The Conaiion Councilinau. 345 
 
 All the relations he iver knew, 
 
 To his wife's fourth cousin and great-aunt's 
 brother, 
 Got a place undher the City too — 
 
 Ivery wan had some pickins or other ; 
 An' so he lived, respicted by all. 
 
 Who, through him, could touch the City's 
 rhino ; 
 Whin he died, 'twas an illegant funeral, 
 
 An' he went — O, bother! it's more than I 
 know. 
 
THE CONSERVATIVE'S LAMENT. 
 
 (after TENNYSON.) 
 
 T HATE the dreadful nigger, within the pile 
 
 ■*■ of wood ; 
 
 His name is the demagogue's weapon, dabbled 
 with blood in its sheath ; 
 
 At Harper's Ferry still lingers a silent horror 
 of blood, 
 And Echo there, whatever is asked her, an- 
 swers "death." 
 
 For there is a ghastly grin on political faces 
 found ; 
 The nigger is all their life — they know how to 
 
 manage him well — 
 Dandled and flattered first, then crushed on po- 
 litical ground — 
 This is the rock on which the Whig Party 
 split and fell. 
 
TJic Consai'ativcs Lament. 347 
 
 Have we flung ourselves clown ? If so, the 
 greatest of nations has failed ; 
 Our honest men mutter and madden, our states- 
 men are wan with despair ; 
 When the nigger has walked through the land, 
 the working classes have wailed, 
 And the flying gold of the ruined merchants 
 gleamed on the air. 
 
 I remember the time when my bitterest bile 
 was stirred 
 By the Herald's gas, and the dead-weight Times, 
 
 and the Tnbimes fright, 
 When its white-coat editor said, in every col- 
 umn, he heard 
 The shrill-edged shriek of Kansas divide the 
 shuddering night. 
 
 Villany somewhere .-• whose ? I think they are 
 villains all ; 
 Not one politician his honest fame has main- 
 tained ; 
 
34^ The Conservative s Lament. 
 
 And that old man, now lord of the White House 
 reception-hall, 
 Will soon drop off from his terra, and leave 
 us flaccid and drained. 
 
 Why do we prate of our government's power ? 
 we have made it a curse — 
 Pickpockets, each hand lusting for gold that 
 is not its own ; 
 And the lust of gain, or the senator's cane, are 
 they better or worse 
 Than the scalping done by the savage, in war, 
 with a sharpened stone ? 
 
 But these are the days of advance, the works 
 of the men of mind, 
 When who but a fool would have faith in a 
 politician's word ? 
 Is it peace or war ? . , . civil war, as I think ; 
 and that of a kind 
 The viler as being political — abuse instead 
 of the sword. 
 
TJic Conservatives Lament. 349 
 
 Sooner or later I too may passively take the hint 
 Of the golden bribe — why not ? I have nei- 
 ther hope nor trust ; 
 May make myself eligible, set my face as a flint, 
 Cheat, be elected, and steal : who knows ? we 
 are ashes and dust. 
 
 March, i860. 
 
QUEER WEATHER. 
 
 '"T^HE summer is hot and the summer is dry, 
 
 -"- The water is low in the stagnant pool ; 
 There's a parching earth and a cloudless sky, 
 
 And even the cucumbers can't keep cool : 
 Still worse — while the summer astonishes all, 
 I fear there '11 be very queer weather this fall. 
 
 In Dixie the thunder is fearfully loud, 
 
 The lightning is common, too, yonder, they say. 
 
 And e'en in the North is a gathering cloud 
 That may do us harm before clearing away : 
 
 It won't come amiss, then, to look for a squall, 
 
 And prepare for some very queer weather this fall. 
 
 'Tis odd that while drouth scorches forest and plain. 
 
 And the land is as dry as an empty cup. 
 Poor Washington's troubled with too much reign, 
 
Queer Weather. 35 ^ 
 
 And the people are praying the Pumps may 
 
 dry up : 
 For change in the programme they earnestly call, 
 And I think they '11 have very queer weather 
 
 this fall. 
 
 There 's a sprout in that city — a flourishing 
 weed — 
 
 That grows upon ruins and blooms on despair ; 
 It sucks up the richness that other plants need, 
 
 And takes to itself all the sunshine and air ; 
 At present 'tis lusty and thrifty and tall, 
 But I think 't will have very queer weather this fall. 
 
 Well, let us hope on, though the heavens may 
 frown ; 
 
 Such weather can hardly last always, you know ; 
 The day must come, even to Washington town. 
 
 When the ruin-born blossoms no longer can blow ; 
 And sunshine shall follow, in cottage and hall. 
 The very queer weather that 's coming this fall ! 
 
FACILIS DECENSUS AVENUE. 
 
 [" We see that one of our fashionable tailors has broken ground in Fifth 
 Avenue, and converted one of the fine mansions therein into a magazine of gar- 
 ments. In a short time we may expect to see most of the magnificent private 
 residences in this avenue converted into retail stores and shops." — Daily 
 Neivspaper.^ 
 
 I. 
 
 ACCORDING to popular talk, 
 The palatial street of New York 
 Is falling from grace 
 At a terrible pace. 
 I hear, when I promenade there, 
 Strange voices of grief in the air ; 
 And I fancy I see 
 The sad sisters three, 
 With their black trailing dresses 
 And dishevelled tresses, 
 
 Go, solemn and slow, 
 To and fro, 
 In their woe. 
 
Facilis Dcccnsus Avenue. 353 
 
 Sighing, 
 
 And crying 
 "Eheu! Eheu! Eheu ! 
 There's a Tailor in Fifth Avenue!" 
 
 II. 
 O, sorry and sad was the day 
 When this Tailor came up from Broadway, 
 With his stitches, 
 And breeches, 
 His shears and his goose. 
 And his fashions profuse. 
 To the house that has been, 
 In years I have seen. 
 Most aristocratic 
 From basement to attic ! 
 But gone are the flush and the fair, 
 And those voices still float in the air, 
 Sighing, 
 And crying 
 "Eheu! Eheu! Eheu! 
 There 's a Tailor in Fifth Avenue." 
 
354 Facilis Decensus Avenue. 
 
 III. 
 Where sweet Crinolina once slept, 
 The sempstresses, may be, are kept ; 
 And, perhaps, in her dressing-room, where 
 Her maid combed that gHstening hair, 
 Some cross-legged fellow, 
 Round-shouldered and yellow. 
 May sit, with his needle and thread ; 
 For the glory that reigned there has fled ! 
 How oft to that door she ascended 
 When the ball or the party was ended, 
 Flushed, beautiful, bright, 
 A queen of delight. 
 An angel quite worthy of heaven ! 
 To that door now a tailor's cart 's driven. 
 No wonder that voice cries — " Eheu ! 
 There 's a Tailor in Fifth Avenue ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then where shall the flush and the fair 
 Find refuge ? Ah, Echo says " Where .■' " 
 There are dentists in Madison Square ; 
 
Facilis Dccciisns Avemic. 335 
 
 The boarding-house, too, appears there ; 
 And I 've heard, 
 In a word, 
 That some kind of factory, or mill, 
 Is soon to disturb Murray Hill ! 
 Now, if fashion must be 
 (And it seems so to me) 
 Crowded upward, each year, 
 I very much fear 
 They '11 be shoved — and the thought makes 
 
 me shiver — 
 Off the island and into the river ; 
 Sighing, 
 And crying 
 "Eheu! Eheu! Eheu ! 
 There's a Tailor in Fifth Avenue." 
 
THE SONG OF THE HOME GUARD. 
 
 " I only ask for Peace ; my god is Ease." — Aldrich. 
 
 " T ET dogs delight to bark and bite," 
 
 -■-^ I have no taste for war ; 
 My joy is not in fire and fight, 
 In cannon's roar and bullet's flight, 
 And nasty pools of .gore. 
 
 no, I hold 't is very wrong 
 My fellow-man to slay ; 
 
 But when I see the martial throng 
 Go clattering by, ten thousand strong, 
 I 'm carried quite away. 
 
 1 love the drums' and trumpets' crash, 
 The uniforms and things : 
 
 The sunlit sabre's glittering flash 
 
The So)ig of the Home Guard. 357 
 
 (When all unused to human hash !) 
 To me a pleasure brings. 
 
 So much I love the pomp and show 
 
 That warlike men display, 
 I once had half a mind to go 
 Where swords must strike and blood must flow, 
 
 And some must run away. 
 
 But well I knew their lot is hard 
 
 Who through the South do roam ; 
 And rather than be maimed or scarred 
 I 've joined the glorious, gallant Guard, 
 Who vow to stay at Home, 
 
 So down Broadway I proudly ride, 
 Through heat and dust and noise ; 
 
 My dress-sword jingles at my side, 
 
 And I am puffed by martial pride, 
 And chaffed by vulgar boys. 
 
 Let others fight, let others fall. 
 Let others wear the bays ; 
 
358 The Song of the Home Guard. 
 
 But at the military ball 
 Let me adorn the festive hall, 
 Where gimp and buttons blaze. 
 
 Then fill your glasses full and free, 
 
 And drink the health that's right, — 
 To him that joins my company 
 And only wants, like me, to be 
 A Broadway carpet-knight. 
 
 'Tis ours to keep well-fed and warm; 
 
 We scorn all poor supplies ; 
 We fear no bloody battle's storm, 
 We wear a nice new uniform 
 
 And tend our shops likewise. 
 
 So now, brave boys, I move that when 
 
 The war has drained our land 
 Of good and valiant fighting men. 
 Should we be called, I move that then 
 We instantly disband. 
 
A VOICE FROM ON DECK. 
 
 [jack tar speaks.] 
 
 ^~^ OOD Mister Welles, my mind is set, 
 ^-^ And I must say my say or die : 
 I never minded getting wet ; 
 Why should you keep me dry } 
 
 On sprees I never used to go ; 
 
 I took my ration — quantum suff — 
 But then I am a Salt, you know, 
 
 And salt is thirsty stuff. 
 
 When nausea would not let me sup, — 
 When winds did blow and skies did frown, 
 
 Grog often kept my spirits up, 
 And kept my victuals down. 
 
 Each Salt that roves the briny wave 
 Will tell you I have truly sung ; 
 
360 A Voice from on Deck. 
 
 And what you at the spigot save 
 Will leak out at the bung. 
 
 Since you 've pronounced the fatal word, 
 Our fun goes never quite so far : 
 
 And pray, what could be more absurd — 
 A sober jolly Tar ? 
 
 I used to sing a merry stave, 
 
 However loud the tempest roared ; 
 
 But now my energies I save, — 
 There 's not a stave on board. 
 
 Without my grog I feel afraid 
 
 To venture where I 've little room ; 
 
 Yet 'tis a portion of my trade 
 To go upon a boom. 
 
 Now, Mister Welles, I '11 say good by, 
 With hopes that, in a little while, 
 
 We water-dogs may not be dry, — 
 We jolly Tars may smile ! 
 
THE PLAINT OF THE POSTAGE-STAMP. 
 
 T 'M a very dirty little Stamp ; 
 
 ■■■ My back is gummed, my face is dimly blurred ; 
 And yet I am, in commerce, cot, and camp, 
 
 Familiar as the well-known household word. 
 Yet O, to think that I should ever be 
 Converted into legal currency! 
 
 Now on an envelope I 'm not so bad, 
 
 And I take letters through both cheap and 
 neat ; 
 
 Sticking to one thing was a way I had, 
 But now I stick to everything I meet: 
 
 And O, to think that I could ever be 
 
 Passed in the place of metal currency ! 
 
 To do my duty I did ne'er refuse ; 
 But woe is me ! for I have fallen low ; 
 
362 The Plaint of the Postage-Stamp. 
 
 I'm passed for vulgar drinks and oyster-stews, 
 
 And dirty shaves, — 't is that that sticks me so ! 
 Alas ! alas ! that I should ever be 
 A victim to the dearth of currency ! 
 
 Thumbing and gumming have quite worn me out ; 
 
 I 'm drab and dingy now, instead of red ; 
 My back is weak, and soon, without a doubt. 
 
 If I am passed much more I '11 lose my head. 
 O sorry day ! when I did chance to be 
 Put to the use of baser currency! 
 1862. 
 
THE WAR-POET'S LAMENT. 
 
 w 
 
 HEN lovers and sweethearts and house- 
 holds were sundered, 
 And lurid clouds darkened the bright south- 
 ern sky, 
 When cannon and mortar and musketry thun- 
 dered. 
 And tyrants in foreign lands trembled and won- 
 dered, 
 How happy and busy a poet was I ! 
 
 I sought no laborious plots and devices ; 
 
 Battle-rhymes almost unconsciously come ; 
 You can chop 'em off neatly, to order, in 
 
 slices, 
 Charging — and getting — most fabulous prices. 
 
 If lavish of "death-dealing cannon" and "drum." 
 
3^4 The War-Poet's Lament. 
 
 O, how I revelled in visions of battle : — 
 
 " Blood," and " destruction," and " victory's 
 shout," 
 " Piled heaps of slain," and the " horrid death- 
 rattle " ! . . . 
 Now I must poetize small-talk and tattle ; 
 Peace has come in, and my trade has gone 
 out! 
 
 What shall I sing, whose sole stock has been 
 Glory ? 
 
 How shall I turn from the worship of Mars? 
 How leave a field so productive and gory ? 
 Changing to tranquil and pastoral story ? 
 
 How shall I pay for my wine and cigars ? 
 
 Such a denouement I hardly expected. 
 
 Till the sad morn when I rose from my bed, 
 Saw the white temple that Peace had erected. 
 Found my last war-song politely rejected, 
 Myself in despair, and with never a red ! 
 
The War-Pocfs Lament. 365 
 
 Ah, it is mournful ! our soldiers and sailors 
 Furnish no longer a theme for my pen : 
 What foes we have left we confide to our jailers, 
 And — gad ! I '11 write rhymes for the popular 
 tailors, 
 And sing of brave garments instead of brave 
 men ! 
 
SHODDY. 
 
 'T^ERRIBLE times of sorrow and need ; 
 
 ■^ Times to make hearts of adamant bleed ; 
 Times that seem to have been decreed 
 
 To chasten our wayward nation : 
 Fathers and brothers thinning away, 
 Bread growing scarcer every day, 
 Famine to pinch and sword to slay — 
 'T is a woful situation ! 
 
 But, even as Nero, in days of old, 
 Unmoved, heard Roman fire-bells tolled. 
 And saw the machines that rattled and rolled 
 
 To the scene of the great disaster, 
 The while he rosined his fiddle-bow, 
 And played some classic "Rob Ridley, O!" 
 So we make merry, while all things go 
 
 To the dickens, faster, and faster ! 
 
Shoddy. 367 
 
 Parties, sociables, visits and calls, 
 
 Operas, hops, and Russian balls, 
 
 'Mid broken pillars and tottering walls, 
 
 Enough to bewilder a body ; 
 Silver and gold, and gems of the mine, 
 Satin to rustle and silk to shine, 
 Feathers and fuss and frippery fine — 
 
 The paraphernalia of Shoddy. 
 
 Carriages flash through the crowded street. 
 Flunkeys in livery stiff on each seat, 
 Buttoned and caped from head to feet — 
 
 Most solemn, majestical flunkeys ; 
 And " tigers," to let down the steps with a bow — 
 Learned, only tigers and Heaven know how ! 
 Dressed up in a fashion I must allow 
 
 Like that of the organ monkeys. 
 
 The ladies, who walk when the weather is fair, 
 Show marvellous tastes, with a marv^ellous air. 
 Nothing can be too splendid to wear ; 
 Too gaudy, too fine, or too funny ; 
 
36.S Shoddy. 
 
 For credit is good, if prices are high, 
 And a government nod, or wink of the eye, 
 Can pile up " greenbacks " clear to the sky, — 
 " Greenbacks " being Shoddy for money. 
 
 So yellows, and blues, and scarlets, gay 
 Go sweeping the pavements every day, 
 Making a rainbow of poor Broadway, 
 
 With a glare that is really stunning ; 
 And even the churches where fashion goes 
 Are a mass of follies and furbelows. 
 Flirtation and foolery under the rose, 
 
 Past even the serpent's cunning. 
 
 While Shoddy over its turtle gloats. 
 
 Our soldiers shiver in rotten coats, 
 
 And our tars go down in their leaky boats, 
 
 The victims of contract building ; 
 And poverty starves in its wretched slums. 
 Or freezes to death when the north wind comes, 
 While Shoddy is picking the sweetest plums 
 
 From its bed of gingerbread gilding. 
 
Shoddy. 369 
 
 But what cares Shoddy for all these things ? 
 Shoddy, the richest of paper kings : 
 Shoddy, who dances, fiddles, and sings 
 
 On the crater of wild inflation ? 
 What does he care ? Not a sou-markee ! 
 He fattens and battens in luxury, 
 As if his reign were a thing to be 
 
 Of eternal perpetuation. 
 
 But Damocles' sword hangs overhead : 
 
 Justice may sleep, but she is not dead ; 
 
 " Vengeance is mine ! " the Lord hath said ; 
 
 And soon, at the end of the story. 
 Fruitiest wine shall be bitterest gall ; 
 Silk and satin make shroud and pall ; 
 Truth shall rise and Shoddy shall fall, — 
 
 To the nation's lasting glory ! 
 
 1864. 
 

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