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The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
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Table of Contents | |
Section | Page |
Start of eBook | 1 |
OKLAHOMA. | 1 |
AT PERRY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1893. | 4 |
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. | 6 |
IF WE DON’T OR IF WE DO. | 7 |
JULY FOURTH. | 9 |
LOVE. | 10 |
EX ANIMA. | 12 |
THE FARMER. | 13 |
THE WORKINGMAN. | 14 |
CHRISTMAS TIME. | 16 |
IF WE BUT KNEW. | 17 |
DESPONDENCY. | 18 |
TWO LIVES. | 20 |
SPINSTERHOOD. | 21 |
STANZAS. | 22 |
GOOD-NIGHT. | 24 |
DISCONTENT. | 25 |
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. | 25 |
IN THE VALES. | 26 |
AT THE MILL. | 27 |
THE GROWTH OF SONG. | 28 |
COMPENSATION. | 28 |
SING NOT OF BEAUTY. | 29 |
WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES. | 29 |
HE SLEEPS AT LAST. | 30 |
WHEN WE SHALL MEET. | 30 |
HAD WE NOT MET. | 31 |
OKLAHOMA,—A SONNET. | 31 |
RECONCILED. | 32 |
SONNET. | 32 |
POEMS. | 33 |
TO ONE WHO PLEDGED HER FRIENDSHIP. | 33 |
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
Land, O, land of the Fair God,
Land where ancient, savage
races
Through barbarian ages trod!
Through thy story fancy traces
Facts above what fictions say,
Where the world with haste
advances,—
Born are nations in a day!
Where the wigwam stood so
lonely,
Lordly cities rise in might;
Where spread desert wildness
only,
Fertile farms and homes delight.
Thou hast summoned to thy
bosom
From the ends of all the earth,
All the youngest, strongest,
bravest,
Full of will and wondrous worth.
O’er thy valleys grow
the blossoms
Culled from earth’s remotest sod;
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
Land, O, Land of the Fair God!
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
There is music in thy name.
There is gladness in thy glory,
There is fondness in thy fame!
In the wonders of thy story
Shines the sheen of noble deed,
Brighter than the glare of
battle
Where the warriors toil and bleed;
Ruling with immortal forces,
There is found the king of might,
Over all thy great resources
By the strength of truth and right.
With thy happy sons and daughters,
Live the virtues fair and pure,
And the better angels guiding
Keep their hearts and souls secure.
There are treasures in thy
valleys,
There are treasures in thy hills;
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
How thy name my bosom thrills!
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
Child of law and liberty,
Thou art always true and tender,
Thou art ever dear to me!
I will always praises render
To the grandeur of thy worth,
For the fortunes all presided
At the moment of thy birth.
Pleasures in their pure completeness
O’er thy pleasant prairies shine,
And the raptures run with
fleetness
Through the happy vales of thine.
Thou art empress of the angels,
Thou art queen of all the gods,
And the happiness of heaven
O’er thy laughing valleys nods.
I will always crown with praises
All thy glories, O, my state;
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
Thou art greatest of the great!
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
Bravest are thy noble sons,
In the thunders of the battle,
And the roaring of the guns!
Flash of sword and musket’s
rattle
Never fearful terror gave
To the staunch and valiant
bosoms
Of thy happy hosts and brave.
When the roars of hell grow
louder,
And the mountains shake in fright,
In the lurid clouds of powder,
They are foremost in the fight;
And when bayonet and musket,
Sword and saber, slaughter cease,
They are tenderest and truest
In the silent ways of peace.
O, my state! A stream
of greatness
From thy mighty people runs;
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
Bravest are thy noble sons!
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
Fairest are thy daughters fair,
In the thousand deeds of duty
Thou hast given them to bear;
Peerless is their wondrous
beauty,
Bright with blushes as the rose,
Pure as petals of the lily,
White as newly-fallen snows;
And their voices bright with
blessing
Banish misery and woe,
While their fingers’
soft caressing
Soothes the fevers from the brow.
Souls are always blessed with
brightness
Bosoms filled with goodly pearls,
Hearts forever harvest gladness,
In the glances of thy girls.
They are robed in golden garments,
Nature’s vestments, rich and rare;
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
Fairest are thy daughters fair!
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
Sweetest are thy happy homes,
Smiling in the holy gladness
Which above thee always roams;
They are never linked with
sadness,
They are never bound with pains,
For the sunshine of enjoyment
Rules the people of thy plains.
Songs are singing with thy
maidens,
Music echoes with thy wives,
Rapture slays the grief that
ladens
All the gladness of their lives.
Happiness is with thy husbands,
And thy swains are blest with joy,
While the fondest rapture
rises
In the hearts of girl and boy.
Pleasures linger in thy woodlands,
Gladness on thy prairies roams;
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
Sweetest are thy happy homes!
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
Thou shall ever live in song;
Freedom, near to nature, raises
Temples that to thee belong;
Minstrels shall in merry praises
Wind their music o’er thy name
Till the voices of the ages
Shout for thee in wild acclaim;
They shall sing with tender
pleasure
Beauty of thy daughters true;
Sing, in high, exultant measure,
Deeds thy sons in battle do.
Sages shall in wisdom offer
Full rewards of love to thee,
And shall crown thy land and
people
Favorites of liberty.
All thy glory shall be shining
Through the cycles clear and strong;
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
Though shall ever live in song!
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
Romance of the ages, thou!
Now, unknown; a moment later.
Kingly crowns upon thy brow!
Child of all the nations,
greater
Shall thy splendors year by year
Grow unfading, bringing bounties
Full of happiness and cheer!
Morning saw a desert sleeping,
Worn and wasted with distress;
Night beheld an empire keeping
Watch above the wilderness.
Progress with her wand of
magic
Touched the sleeping valleys bright,
And they leaped with instant
vigor,
Shaking out their locks of might;
Earth shall send her fairest
blossoms
As a garland for thy brow;
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!
Romance of the ages thou!
THE RACE FOR HOMES.
APRIL 22, 1889.
Behold! As from the shades of night,
An army gathers full of might,
And strong with constant courage stands
’Tween civilized and savage lands,
Where, vast in power, the legion waits
The turning of the desert gates,
That men of might may enter in
And progress all her glories win!
Lo, where these thousands make assail,
The barren ages all shall fail,
And swift advancement far be hurled,
O’er sleeping empires and the world!
The morning hours haste hurried by;
Behold! The noon is drawing nigh!
The anxious host with careful eyes
Marks well each rapid hour that flies,
While hope, exulting, wildly rolls
The highest, such as filled the souls
Of Jason and his comrades bold,
Who sought the famous fleece of gold.
Upon the trampled grasses beat
Impatient steeds with restless feet;
The dins of harsh, discordant cries
Above the thrilling thousands rise;
Shrilly the scattered children call,
And soft the words of women fall,
While men with voices hushed and weak
Their low commands expectant speak;
Till suddenly a mighty cry,
A shout of warning, smites the sky:
“Attention!
Ho,
Attention
here!
Attention!
Lo,
The
noon is near!”
O’er
hill and brake
Resounds the warning
cry;
The moment great
is nigh;
The
hosts awake;
Awake, to strive with mad delight,
Awake to win the friendly fight;
And from the camps anear and far,
Where nervous haste and hurry are,
Vast legions gather on the plain,
While chaos and confusion reign;
The neighing steed with quickened pace
Impatient seeks the vantage place;
The slower ox with lightened load
Stands waiting in the crowded road.
And wagon, buggy, carriage, cart,
Vehicles formed with rudest art,
All forward, forward, forward dart,
Swift-forming on the level ground
Where most advantage may be found.
“Line
up! Ho, there,
Line
up, line up!”
The hurried order smites the air;
Above the silent prairies fair
Unseen progression holds her
cup,
Filled to the brim with magic seeds
That harvests hold for human needs.
Excitement grows on beasts and men;
The saddle girths are tightened
o’er,
The stirrups lengthened out
once more,
And silence softly falls again;
Each bit and buckle, strap and band,
Is tested o’er with careful hand,
And man and beast in chosen place
Stand ready for the coming race;
The
circling sun
His morning race has fully run;
A
waving hand
Signals above the brief command
That sight and sense will understand,—
And open swings the desert land!
A shot! A hundred, thousand more
The grassy meadows echo o’er;
A shout! From countless throats a
shout,
On rolling wings leaps madly out;
A yell, a raging roar, that flies
On bounding winds o’er hill and
glen,
And ’round the land electrifies
A thousand living miles of men!
A
mammoth stir,
A
sudden dash,
Swift
whip and spur
Together
clash,
And wheels on wheels that totter crash!
They’re
off! They’re off!
Away,
away,
In
mad array!
No
stop nor stay!
The hurried charge they ride to-day
Would
shame and scoff
The Tartar, Turk and Romanoff!
The
race is on;
The
host is gone;
The thronging legions madly ride
O’er
hill and dale,
With hurried pace unsatisfied.
In
fierce assail
Where
none may fail;
And only phantoms dimly blent
Tell where the mounted armies went,
Like shifting shadows, faint and dim,
Or ghostly spectors, gaunt and grim,
Beyond the far horizon’s rim!
Behold! Adown the valleys bright,
The last, lone straggler fades from sight,
And only hasty hoof-beats say
What thousands rode the race to-day;
What hosts, with hearts that build and
bless,
Found homes amid the wilderness!
Crowds! Crowds! Crowds!
Suddenly here as if come from
the clouds
That faded away as they came;
Mad acres of people aflame
With thirst for a morsel of land;
Wild hunters of fortune, whose
game
Is ever escaping the hand;
Vast, countless, uncountable
throngs
With restless, unrestable feet,
That hurry the ways, full
of agonized wrongs,
For the conquest of happiness sweet;
Wild seas of ambition whose
waves of desire
On their obstacles mighty continually
beat,
Where neither the shore nor
the ocean is fixed;
Like thunderous songs of a
choir,
Whose murmurs in music repeat;
And confusion and chaos are
terribly mingled and mixed.
Dust! Dust! Dust!
Borne in the arms of the gathering
gust,
And whirled on the wings of
the wind,
The eyes feel the blight of
the blind,
And horror comes into the heart;
For nature is far more unkind
Than the thousands that struggle apart.
Dark, wild, inescapable dust,
In fiercest, untamable clouds,
That men into misery helplessly
thrust,
And bury in agony-shrouds;
A simoom of sorrow whose pestilent
breath
To the strong and the weak, to the young
and the old,
Brings despair that is reckless
of possible gain,
And the awfullest anguish of death;
Till the soul in its rage
uncontrolled,
Droops low in the horrible sickness and
sorrow of pain.
But out from the clouds,
Out from the agonized dust
that enshrouds;
True kings shall arise who
shall reign
In homes on the populous plain!
Great cities shall gather and grow
In glories that never shall
wane,
Far over the valleys below.
With merry yet measureless
might
They conquer the waste with the gladness
that brings
To the desert the newest delight.
The barren shall bloom as the rose, and
the land
That is sleeping, a wilderness
wasted and wild,
And dreaming to welcome its master’s
command,
Shall leap at the touch of his hand,
His voice shall obey as a
child!
“SING ME A SONG, O, WIND.”
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
Of musical cadence sweet,
Which in the wood around
Shall often and oft repeat;
Soft as an angel’s song
That never can give annoy,
Which in the balmy notes
Shall tell me its tales of
joy.
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
Of countries beyond the sea,
Which in thy wand’rings oft
Thou pass with a footstep
free;
Lands that are ever green
’Neath blaze of the
tropic spells,
Bright with their blessed suns,
Where summer forever dwells.
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
Of groves with a verdure fair,
Waving their boughs of green
O’er solitudes grand
and rare;
Groves with a stillness sweet,
With cheering and cooling
shades,
Where from its cares the race
May rest in the leafy glades.
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
Of birds with a plumage gay,
That with their carols sweet
Give praise to the God of
day;
Music of sad refrain,
Though fond in its tender
chime,
Thou in thy travels wide
Hast heard in a fairy clime.
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
Of crystalline brooks at play,
Which with the murmurs low
Make sweetest of sounds all
day;
Winding through meadows wide,
And blossoming fields between,
Fringed with the willows tall
On emerald banks of green.
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
Of flowers that are fond and
fair,
Filling the fields of earth
With beauty and fragrance
rare;
Wafting an incense pure
On every breeze that blows,
Drawn from the lily’s heart
And soul of the royal rose.
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
Of man in his brightest homes;
Tell if he there meet joy,
Wherever his longing roams;
Tell if there’s e’er a place
Where, all his ambition spent,
He toils throughout all his days
And knoweth no discontent.
Sing me a song, O, Wind,
For I am a-weary now;
Life, with its woes and cares,
Hangs heavily on my brow;
Sing me a song of cheer,
My heart that is sad to ease;
Sing in thy brightness and joy
With heavenly harmonies!
The brazen bells
of laughing lands
In
swelling echoes wildly ring,
And over seas
and hoary strands
This
Christmas carol sing.
“Awaken, O, heart of the race,
To bountiful riches from Eden
above,
Till roses of beauty and lilies of grace
Shall sweeten the languishing
bosom with love;
Till virulent sorrow and venomous hate
Their poisonous curses of
misery cease,
And rapturous fortune, felicitous fate,
Have rule in the musical meadows
of peace.
“The voices of morning to men,
In passionate whispers of
bounteous glee,
Are pulsing the gladness of Christmas
again
O’er plains of the prairie
and sounds of the sea;
Rejoice and be happy, O, languishing soul,
In limitless treasures of
marvelous cheer,
Till ravishing murmurs of lullabies roll
Through all of the sorrows
that sadden the year!
“Though summer has gone from the
earth,
And silken embraces of velvety
snow
Are folding the blossoms of beauty and
worth
In wretched surroundings of
wearisome woe;
Let innocent joys in their sweetness abound
And silvery cadence in melody
start,
Till rapturous fortunes with pleasure
surround
The aims of the soul and the
hopes of the heart.
“Let youth with its yearning engage
All vigorous passion that
lives in the breast,
While tearful remembrance of tottering
age
Finds halcyon harbors of comforting
rest;
Let silver of years with the ardor of
youth
Be going again through the
temple of joy,
While palms of amusement and laurels of
truth
Encircle the hearts of the
maiden and boy.
“Let happiness reign with the race;
There’s never a reason
for sorrowful tears,
Kriss Kringle has come with his fatherly
face
To comfort complaining humanity’s
fears;
Let music go ’round and the beautiful
smile
Bring gladsome delight to
the bosom of bliss,
Till gentle enjoyments unbroken beguile
The souls of the sad with
their coveted kiss.
“Though crystalline frost on the
trees,
Though ice on the river and
snow on the plain
Are freezing the breath of the shivering
breeze.
The heart has Nepenthe for
all of its pain;
For Christmas is king, and his bountiful
hand
Is giving its treasures to
mountain and lea,
And gentleness rules on the billowy strand,
And reigns in the far-away
isles of the sea.”
This is the carol
that swells
Over
the meadows and brakes,
From brazen throats
of the pealing bells
When
Christmas morning wakes.
YEARS THAT ARE TO BE.
Wild years that
are to be
The sad completion of my weary life,
In ghostly mantles of despairing strife
Your phanton dimness darkly shadows me!
Gaunt demons dancing from your horrid
halls
Entwine my soul in gloomy arms of woe,
While mystic fancies to my madness show
The monsters on
your walls.
Your forms are
skeletons,
Whose bony hands with mortal fingers play,
Where grinning skulls are heaping on the
way,
And airy specters meet the timid ones;
Death drops his arrows from your sullen
skies,
Destruction dances in your noisome shades,
And in the dreadful darkness of your glades
The horrid shriekings
rise.
There in your
cycles are
Dark valleys where my weary feet must
go,
Though devils of disaster hurl and throw
Their awful sorrows from the fortunes
far;
No hands of pleasure can presume to part
The clouded curtains of impending care,
And hissing serpents of insane despair
Pour poison in
my heart.
O, years that
are to be,
Among your solitudes I, dreaming, grope;
My life’s the shade of unaccomplished
hope,
My heart’s a ghoul that feeds on
agony!
No strains of music call my tears away,
No smiling star illumes the awful night;
Ambition weeps; my soul draws without
light
My shameless feet
astray!
No soothing welcome
floats
Between your marble lips, nor sweetly
rise
The tender songs of gentle melodies
From croaking caverns of your iron throats;
But from your dirges of destructive pain,
Wild clash of wretched sound is borne
to me,
Where death and failure, tears and misery,
In robes or anguish
reign.
But my heart hopes
to find
Some infant joy for woes that sorrow did,
Some faded garland on some coffin lid,
To cheer the wildness of my broken mind;
Some angel pleasures in your realms must
roll,
Some laughing life, some music, in your
glooms,
Shall gladness give, amid your ghostly
tombs,
Mad Future, to
my soul!
If we don’t or if we do.
What’s the odds to me and you?
Fame is e’er a heartless jade,
And her slaves are poorly paid;
Weary hearts and soul’s distress
Are the prices of success;
All our stations sadness view,—
If we don’t or if we do.
If we don’t or if we do,
Our deservings will accrue;
We must pay the fullest price,
For each virtue and each vice,
And each life for every thing
Must an equal portion bring;
Justice shall our deeds review,
If we don’t or if we do.
If we don’t or if we do,
Fortune to our worth is true;
Trophies that enshroud our clay,
Scarce are worth the price we pay;
Shame doth small endeavors share,
Fame and glory, toil and care;
Earth floats but an equal crew,
If we don’t or if we do.
If we don’t or if we do,
What’s the diff’rence ’tween
the two,
When our souls have gone to God
And we sleep beneath the sod?
Kindred grasses wave and creep
Where the prince and pauper sleep;
We shall have our six-feet-two,
If we don’t or if we do.
If we don’t or if we do,
We but dust and ashes brew;
Labor, trouble, toil and strife
Weave within each human life;
Sorrows cloud the younger years;
Age is bowed with cares and tears;
Accidents in fame are few,—
If we don’t or if we do.
If we don’t or if we do.
Fate to our deserts is true;
If we fail, or falter not,
Every life deserves his lot;
Every human, small or great,
Buys with current coin his fate;
What’s the odds to me and you,
If we don’t or if we do?
DEAR SONGS OF MY COUNTRY!
Dear songs of my country! How sweetly
thy measures
Come stealthily stealing o’er
mountain and wave,
To sweeten the riches of liberty’s
treasures
And thrill with their numbers
the hearts of the brave!
To move in wild glory the souls of a nation,
Till men are together so happily
hurled,
That millions are bound in fraternal relation
And brotherhoods rule in the
ranks of the world.
Such praises ye offer our heroes and sages,
So grand is the greatness
that lives in thy strains,
That small is the fame of the far away
ages,
So sunken in tyranny, fettered
in chains.
For freedom ye strive and ye struggle
for glory,
And Liberty—Liberty
still is your theme—
And glad are your lips with the national
story,
Which warriors have written
on forest and stream.
Dear songs of my country! The soul
patriotic
Ye fill with the wishes of
mighty emprise,
Till conquers he tyranny harsh and despotic,
Or first in the front of the
battle he dies.
Ye offer him laurels, ye crown him with
praises,
Who falls in the fight with
his face to the foe,
And gratitude over his sepulcher raises
The marbles eternal of national
woe.
Your strains are as high as the cloud-covered
mountains,
As deep as the ocean, as wide
as the land,
As pure as the murmurs of silvery fountains,
But loud as the roar on the
billowy strand.
Our deep-furrowed prairies, our ship-laden
rivers,
Our ax-ringing forests, our
steam-shrieking bays,
Swell high in your music, for all are
free givers
To freedom’s true grandeur
and liberty’s praise.
How fondly, dear songs of my country,
ye cherish
The struggle heroic, the God-shapen
deed,
That nothing of worthiness ever may perish
But live to the time of humanity’s
need!
Afar from the realms of the centuries
olden,
Ye summon with gladness the
glories of years,
To greet every hero with cadences golden,
And sing every sage that in
greatness appears.
The ages may falter thee, Land of my Birth,
The years may thy grandeur
and glory betray;
But long as thy songs murmur over the
earth,
No forces can carry thy splendors
away!
Then live, ye dear songs of my country,
forever,
With voices eternal to utter
her name,
That cycles may never her liberty sever,
Nor trample her greatness
nor crumble her fame!
Hail, glorious morning of Columbia’s
birth,
Celestial dawn of freedom!
There shall be
In recognition of thy wondrous worth
By mighty millions this side
of the sea,
Triumphant crowns of laurel
wreathed for thee!
Welcome thy mammoth pageants, welcome
all
The choral songs and melodies
of glee,
The swelling shouts of praise that gladly
fall
From mighty multitudes in anthems national!
High hangs the sacred banner, and the
stars
Dance in the sunshine, while
the breezes play
Around the glory of the hallowed bars
Gleaming in white and crimson;
music gay
Floats from the patriot host
and cheers array
Great shouts around its foldings.
Long in state,
Flag of the brave and free,
wave o’er this day
To bring the world rejoicings which await
The natal hours of might, the day we celebrate!
How fears the tyrant in his capital,
As myriad wires throb with
the nation’s tale!
How despot trembles in his castled hall,
When liberty’s wild
shouts of power prevail,
And give their gladness unto
every gale!
Fetters and chains dissolve in holy trust,
Scepters and swords in puny
weakness fail,
While crowns and thrones make monumental
dust,
And kingly Might is dead, Oppression downward
thrust.
Wide float thy wondrous paeans; loudly
range
Thy songs of holy rapture;
and the roars
Of deep-mouthed cannons echo wild and
strange
Through shouting cities; Patriotism
pours
Her full libations on the
trembling shores,
Till earth reels with her triumph; and
the voice
Of millions mad with merriment
far soars
From sea to ocean with entrancing noise,
Till nations hear the cry and continents
rejoice.
Wave on, thou flag of freedom, and this
day
Still live in hearts of nations!
O, thou Land,
Where Man was first the monarch, where
the sway
Of birth exalted first was
broken, stand
To guard the helpless with
a mighty hand,
And give the weak protection; scout the
ban
Which tyrants utter, and with
growing band
Of noble freemen serve thy primal plan,
And bind all nations in the Brotherhood
of Man!
“O, GENTLE SHADE OF QUIET WOODS.”
O, gentle shade of quiet woods,
Where nature dwells in leafy
halls,
I love the sacred voice that
falls
In music o’er thy solitudes!
Within thine arms the weary heart
Is hidden from the toils of
men,
And pleasure makes ambition start
Into a nobler life again.
Among the fragrant shadows throng
With all the riches of their
truth,
Glad echoes from the days
of youth
And mingle into laughing song;
While angel fingers touch the keys
That slumber in the silent
breast,
Till mem’ry wakes her lullabies
And childhood fancies rock
to rest.
Again the hours of early joy
Upon the aged years intrude,
And dance amid the summer
wood
The golden dreamings of the boy;
Again the songs of wonder thrill
The days of life with gladness
wild,
And lofty visions fondly fill
The longing fancies of the
child.
Enchanted choirs of baby years,
Sweet dirges from the cradle’s
keys,
The glories of your harmonies
Impel my secret soul to tears!
The roses of my fancies fade
Into the dust of wicked strife,
And all the promise boyhood made
Has proved the desert of my
life.
O, fragrant woods of happy times,
Fair children of the glowing
days,
How sweet the music of your
lays
Is mingled into fairy chimes!
Ye lisp again the songs of yore,
The stories of my infant years,
And throw a sweeter cadence o’er
My hoary sorrows and my tears!
Angelic theme of ancient lays!
By Doric hills, Athenian vales,
The nations bound thy brows with bays
And fanned thy cheeks with
scented gales;
While golden lamps illumed thy shrines
Beside the Tiber and the Po,
Till anthems thine were taught
to flow
Along the Alps and Appenines.
The souls of sages and of slaves
Were faithful servants unto
thee,
Whose rapture soothed the Grecian waves,
And kissed the islands of
the sea;
And bounding on from strand to strand
It crossed the coasts and
climbed the slopes,
To place a crown of tender
hopes
Upon the vine-clad Roman land.
Great empress of that early time,
Glad ruler of the gentle souls,
Each year is changed to raptured rhyme
That o’er thy laughing
bosom rolls;
For cycles as they sink to rest
So closely guard thy joy and
truth,
That fondness and immortal
youth
Give sweet embraces to thy breast.
Thou goddess of the Paphian shrine,
Cytheran queen of Ion’s
isle,
Fair Venus from the land of wine,
The races love thy dewy smile;
While silent hills and dewy glades
Bear praises on each breeze
that blows,
Sweet as the breath of morning
rose
That blossoms in the woodland shades!
Then crown, O, Love, these later days
With mystic charms of wondrous
bliss,
That lived when thou wert wreathed with
bays,
And nations hungered for thy
kiss!
No more thy temples tower above,
But lives and bosoms hold
thee dear;
Then come with all thy worth
of cheer
And gentleness, O, mighty
Love!
WINTERS ON THE FARM.
Glad winters on the olden farm!
How raptures from those early
times
Commingle into fairy chimes
Which gently banish cries of harm!
My fainting soul finds rest
the whiles
Within the arms of memory,
And tender scenes of boyish glee
Transform my sorrows into
smiles.
How brightly beamed the pleasures then,
When frigid fingers came to
throw
A wintry winding sheet of
snow
Around the silent homes of men!
But happiness found no alarm,
For safe with cheer, secure
with love,
She gladly grew and sweetly
throve
Through winters on the olden farm.
With merry bells and busy sleighs,
That sung and flew o’er
icy vales
And climbed the hills as fleet
as gales,
Like singing phantoms died the days;
Or then with coat and muffler warm
Sweet children glided on the
lake,
Or chased the rabbit through
the brake,
In winters on the olden farm.
How glad the joys at eventide
When ’round the hearth-stone’s
pleasant heat
The simple song in music sweet
From loving voices floated wide!
The mellowed apples gave a charm,
While pop-corn white and cider
bright
With worlds of laughter lent
delight
To winters on the olden farm.
Thrice happy nights and happy days,
Sweet isles of pleasure in
the past,
May long your hallowed moments
cast
A sacred sunshine o’er my ways!
And where life leads me, gladly arm
My soul with angel songs of
bliss,
With true embrace and holy
kiss,
O, winters on the olden farm!
“O, WEAK AND WEARY WORLD!”
O weak and weary world
Forever struggling
on,
When will thy toils in comfort be impearled,
When will thy sorrows and
thy cares be gone?
When shall the races, all ambition dead,
Forsake the stony slope and
rocky steep,
And in contentment sweetly wed
The joys that never sleep?
O, weak and weary world,
Long hast thou
toiled in vain;
The smoky fumes of woe are darkly curled
With endless troubles and
enduring pain;
When will thy bosom, faint and helpless
grown,
Rest sweetly in the balmy
bowers of ease?
Avoid the woes that constant groan
And follow shapes that please?
O, weak and weary world,
Why search the
hills and seas?
All Nature is in secrecy enfurled
And thou canst never solve
her mysteries;
Thou canst not understand nor comprehend
Her varied movements nor the
intricate,
The systems that so far extend,
Creation wide and great.
O, weak and weary world,
Why more attempt
advance?
Long have thy forces in confusion whirled
In circles through the misty
maze of chance;
The nations rise and sink in sepulchres,
Thy peoples perish in a common
grave;
Progression dies, perfection errs,
Wrong rules the wood and wave.
O, weak and weary world,
Let thy ambition
rest!
Long have defeat and gloomy ruin twirled
In dark embrace the purest
and the best;
Destruction is thy portion, death thy
part,
Ashes thy glory, and thy splendor
dust;
Then ease the longings of thy breast;
Serve pleasures well; and
trust!
The gloomy hours of silence wake
Remembrance and her train,
And phantoms through the fancies chase
The mem’ries that remain;
And hidden in the dark embrace
Of days that now are gone,
I see a form, a fairy form,
And fancy hurries on!
I see the old familiar smile,
I hear the tender tone,
I greet the softness of the glance
That cheered me when alone;
The ruby chains of rich romance
That bound our bosoms o’er,
I still can know, I still can feel,
As they were felt before.
I name the vows, the fresh young vows,
That we together said;
What matters it? She can not know;
She slumbers with the dead!
Again the fields of fate I sow,
As she and I have sown;
I dream again the same old dreams,
But I am left alone!
The twining grasses verdant wreathe
Above her silent grave;
The rose and violet over all
Their purest blossoms wave;
Unbidden from their fountains fall
The tender tides of tears;
A sorrow winds among the days,
And chains the passing years.
My life commingles shine with shade,
The lily with the rose,
And in my heart a loathsome weed
Beside each lily grows;
Through every thought, through every deed,
The somber shadows play;
And I am sad, alone and sad,
And life is never gay.
“LO, ALL THE AGE IS RANK WITH WRONG.”
Lo, all the age is rank with wrong!
The nations kneel to monstrous
might,
And horrid cries that haunt
the night,
Have hushed the notes of happy song;
Mankind the deepest truth has missed,
The best emotions have grown
dim;
We praise the God that dwelt in Christ,
But crucify the man in him.
Laws, noble, good, and great at first,
With plan perverted, bind
again
The regal rights of mind and
men
And prove of tyrants far the worst;
With blinded eyes is Nature made,
And knows her constant purpose
crossed,
While crafty Jacob plies his trade
And Esau finds his blessing
lost.
Earth yields her fruits in ample store;
Her children all are heirs
that trace
Their lineage through the
royal race,
And all her wealth is theirs—and
more;
But one with cunning hand controls
The portions that his brothers
fed,
While thousands—just and worthy
souls—
In aimless anguish cry for
bread!
No royal blood by caste or creed,
No pride of place, no gild
of gold
Can warm the weak, accursed
with cold,
Or light the awful nights of need;
Labor alone can blessings bring
To crown the brows of freedom’s
brave;
The toiler is the truest king,
The idler is the only slave!
But laugh, O, Labor, dry thy tears!
A better day is drawing nigh;
Hope brightens all the somber
sky;
The golden age of Love is near!
Behold! But yonder stands a Star!
The ancient lies are downward
hurled;
A man—a child—is
greater far
Than all the wealth of all
the world!
“LOVE, THOU GAYEST FANCY-WEAVER.”
Love, thou gayest fancy-weaver,
Heart-betrayer, soul-deceiver,
Come with all thy clinging kisses;
Bringing all thy beaming blisses;
It may serve the cynic’s parts,
If he curse and if he scout
thee,
But, O, where were gentle hearts,
If they had to live without
thee!
Weave the spells of thy beguiling
’Round and ’round me with
thy smiling,
Till the ashen cheek is beaming,
And the faded eye is gleaming;
Millions may endure the fight
In the battle vain to end
thee,
But when taste they thy delight
They will serve thee and defend
thee.
Bring thy little winsome graces
And the sweets of glad embraces,
Till the pleasures all are dancing
Into mazy whirls entrancing;
It may please the icy breast
To despise thee and distress
thee,
But the burning hearts find rest
When they bless thee and caress
thee.
Send thy gladness, laughing rover,
All my sorrows o’er and over,
Till the strains of happy pleasure
Mingle in melodious measure;
It may give a transient glee
To condemn thy ways and sever,
But the sweets of melody
Thou wilt murmur on forever.
Bind my heart in silken chaining,
Till from thee is none remaining;
Clothe my soul in glad completeness
Of thy happiness and sweetness;
When the times are true, the soul
May not hunger for thy gladness,
But when surging sorrows roll
Thou alone shall banish sadness.
Let nations encircle the brows of the
brave
With glory the greatest that
glitters below,
Who make in the blood of the battle a
grave
For all that are found in
the ranks of the foe;
But I from the greatness, the grandeur,
and gleam,
Would turn to the light of
clear-glowing hearth,
And choose from his joy for the soul of
my theme
The farmer, the lord and the
king of the earth.
Let millions give worship to riches and
wealth,
That gay in their brilliancy
sparkle and gleam,
And serve with the hands of their happiest
health
The haughty who idle and revel
and dream;
In hall or in hamlet, in cottage or cave,
Or sickened with sorrow or
maddened with mirth,
There’s none I shall serve with
the will of a slave
But the farmer, the lord and
the king of the earth.
Let poets in praises heart-swelling and
sweet
With rapture that rises in
beautiful song,
Make sages immortal and ages replete
With hundreds of heroes who
wrestled the wrong;
All honest men well from the Muses may
claim
The numbers that murmur to
merit and worth,
And so I would fold in the mantles of
fame
The farmer, the lord and the
king of the earth.
Let orators over the deeds of the great
Re-echo the tributes of tenderest
praise,
And over the ashes that slumber in state
Let peoples their marbles
and monuments raise;
But I, from the frenzied applauses uncouth,
To those who are chained in
the bondage of birth,
Would flee to surround with the lilies
of truth
The farmer, the lord and the
king of the earth.
Let hearts that are grateful in gratitude
crown
The friend of the many and
foe of the few;
Let souls in their secret admiring enthrone
Whatever a martyr or minion
may do;
But down in my bosom while reasonings
reign,
Of friendship and love there
is never a dearth
For him who is toiling in pleasure or
pain,
The farmer, the lord and the
king of the earth.
“NATURE HAS A THOUSAND CHOIRS.”
Nature has a thousand choirs
Singing in the sylvan shadows,
And the music of her lyres
Echoes in the merry meadows;
Always glad with golden glee
Sounds her happy melody,
Swelling wild in fairy measure
With the songs of purest pleasure.
Where the dancing fountains play
Winding warbles shake and
shiver,
And soft carols rise alway
From the ripples of the river;
Sweetest voices fondly call
From the fleecy waterfall,
And the joyful chimes are creeping
Where the lovely lake is sleeping.
Raptures echo in the wood,
Where the pimpernel reposes;
Gladness fills the solitude
Where the blushes kiss the
roses;
Sunny beam and somber gloom
Utter hymns from bowers of bloom,
Where the vernal winds are crying
And the vocal birds are flying.
O’er the smiling scenes of earth
Nature throws no sullen weather;
All her soul is full of mirth,
Song and springtime walk together;
For the harps of happy days
Wake the woodlands with their lays,
And where lilies white are springing
Gentle melodies are ringing.
O, wild Nature, from thy soul
Fill the human hearts with
gladness,
Till their lives shall gladly troll
Songs that banish all their
sadness!
Bathe their breasts with songs of love
From the Edens found above,
Till their lips shall sing the story
Of their happiness and glory!
God bless the brawny arms of toil,
The noble hearts and royal
hands,
That plow the plain and seed the soil,
And grow the grains of laughing
lands!
King in the blessed vales of life
Where perfect pleasures first
began,
May blessings come with raptures rife
To crown the humble workingman!
His kingdoms wave with bannered corn
And meadows bright with fairy
bloom,
While duties of his heart are born
Where sylvan shadows hide
the gloom;
Sweet Nature fills his heart with health,
While rustic warbles lead
his soul
Where rill and fountain sing by stealth
And breezes soft with music
roll.
He lives where simple wishes throng,
And give contentment to his
breast,
While tender lullabies of song
Bring angel gladness to his
rest;
No praises linger o’er his name
Where he in silence works
apart,
And honor never links with fame
The modest glories of his
heart.
He needs no kiss of royal crown
To wield the axe or guide
the plow,
Or woo the smiles of heaven down
To cling in clusters on his
brow;
But in the sacred shine of love,
With humble deeds he lives
his days,
And, drinking from the founts above,
He scatters gladness o’er
his ways.
Proud monarch of the tattered vest,
Thy toil is fraught with greater
gains
Than his that bleeds where warrior crest
Slays thousands on the battled
plains!
Thy duty prompts to build, to grow,
The forest fell, the city
plan
And scatter seeds of love below,
Where’er thou art, O,
workingman!
GIVING AND FORGIVING.
’Tis not by selfish miser’s
greed
The great rewards of love
are given;
’Tis not the cynic’s haughty
creed
Which gladly makes this world
a heaven;
But tender word and loving deed
Increase the angel joys of
living,
And mortals gain life’s grandest
meed
By acts of giving and forgiving.
Let warriors bold with armies fight
Their awful battles brave
and gory,
To reap the harvest of their might
And fill a gaping world with
glory!
The humble heroes, out of sight,
Where hidden tears and woes
are striving,
Win victories for truth and right
By deeds of giving and forgiving.
Let mighty kings of loyal lands
Despise the faithful sons
of duty,
And with the swords of vandal hands
Destroy the homes of joy and
beauty;
The honest lords of low commands
Will find a nobler way of
thriving,
In lonely vales where sorrow stands,
By sweets of giving and forgiving.
Let rich men with their heaps of gold
Be servants of the shining
splendor,
And crush the bosom, poor and old,
That lives by mercies pure
and tender;
But still the soul with saints enrolled
Will keep its charity surviving,
And have its humble glory told
In tales of giving and forgiving.
O, helping hands and Christian hearts,
Twin parents of the race’s
gladness,
God speed the time when your sweet arts
Shall banish every sign of
sadness!
When mournful cries, when pain’s
wild darts,
Shall cease to curse the days
of living,
And Heaven’s love to man imparts
The joys of giving and forgiving.
“O, SACRED SOULS THAT GRANDLY SING.”
O sacred souls that grandly sing
The secret songs of human
hearts,
Where your wild music madly
starts,
The sorrows into raptures spring!
Within the warbles of your chimes
Man reads the longings of
his days,
And finds, amid your lofty
lays,
Glad music for his gloomy times.
How sweet the mute, melodious cries
Which only lives like yours
may hear,
Where pleasures thrill the
singer’s ear
With laughing strains of lullabies!
You know soft voices, rich with love,
That mingle in the fields
and woods,
To bless the silent solitudes
With carols coming from above.
Your golden harps resound alway,
Where valley bound with blossom
lies,
And rugged mountains highest
rise,
And silver fountains softly play;
While in the gladness of your songs
The fainting bosoms hope again,
And toil among their fellow
men,
Forgetful of their ancient wrongs.
You sport with singing meadows bright,
With fragrant winds and scented
gales,
Where shine and shadow kiss
the vales
In fairy fondness of delight;
For where the meads and forests blend,
The sweetest songs of life
are found,
And where the lonely hills
abound
The soul of music meets a friend.
Glad hearts that warble songs divine,
Sweet singers of a mourning
race,
The ages long your brows shall
grace
With crowns where bays and laurels twine!
For man the grandest garland brings,
To bless the tender lives
that tell,
And with their mystic music
swell,
The lays that Nature fondly sings!
How sweet the brazen belfries chime
Across the hills and through
the dales,
And o’er the breasts
of meadowed vales,
Beneath the smiles of Christmas time!
Rough sorrow’s thorny fingers grow
As soft and waxen as a child’s,
And balmy pleasures o’er
the wilds
Chant music to the drifting snow.
Ah, scattered locks that fringe my face,
With wintry wisps of white
and gray!
Ah, sad, dimmed eyes that
look away
To artless childhood’s tender grace!
To-night those years with joys sublime
Steal over me and fill my
soul
With lullabies of bliss that
roll
The golden glees of Christmas time.
Again I live in wondrous days,
When baby hands with chubby
glee
Plucked gladness from the
loaded tree
Where loving burdens bent the sprays;
The sunny songs of that sweet clime
Sing softly in my soul again,
Till I forget the ways of
men
And laugh and shout at Christmas time.
Angelic joys that died in pain,
Sweet raptures from the days
of bliss,
Your loving lips with clinging
kiss
Thrill all my heart and soul and brain;
And turning from my weary rhyme
To count my sorrows o’er
and o’er,
I’d give my life to
know once more
Those wondrous days of Christmas time.
Ring, laughing bells, ring out to-night!
From happy years that now
are fled,
You bring the faces of the
dead,
And bless me with a deep delight!
Away, away, these thoughts of men,
These toils of mine, that
sadness give;
My heart grows young and I
would live
My Christmas pleasures o’er again!
TRUEST HEROES ARE UNKNOWN.
All worthies are not sung in song.
That live their lives and
do their deeds
Where wounded nature writhes
and bleeds
Beneath the savage blows of wrong;
From humble duties tender grown,
The truest heroes are unknown.
The heart that toils where none may know
And uncomplaining conquers
care,
To save his loved ones or
to spare
His fellows from the pangs of woe,
Is more the hero than who shields
His country on the bleeding fields.
He claims no praises for his love,
He seeks no tribute for his
worth,
But sows the desert hearts
of earth
With blossoms from the vales above;
And in their sunshine warm and bright
He holds these duties as his right.
Where lives are dark with dismal groans
Great men are often chained
by fate,
And oft are slaves more truly
great
Than princes on their purple thrones;
But servant brows are bound with shame,
While monarchs flutter into fame.
Deeds pure and noble, gladly done,
Unselfish work for sickly
souls
When sorrow in black surges
rolls
And gloomy darkness hides the sun,—
These in their truth make more the man
Than royal aim or princely plan.
But sometime man shall rule by thought,
And worth shall gain her just
return,
Till all shall every singer
spurn
Who in the ancient cycles taught
That heroes rest in royal graves,
But never in the tombs of slaves.
If we but knew the weary way,
The poisoned paths of hostile
hate,
The roughened roads of fiercest
fate,
Through which our brother’s journey
lay,
Would we condemn, as now we do,
His faults and failures,—if
we knew?
Would we forget the shadows grim,
The lonely hours of grief
and pain,
The follies dead, the pleasures
slain,
The tears and toils that hindered him,
And only prize the deeds that grew
To mighty conquest, if we knew?
Would careless hand sow tares of strife,
Amid the blooms of happy care,
And plant, in spite of sigh
and prayer,
Wild thorns amid the blameless life,
Till sorrows rule the nations through,
With scarce a rival, if we knew?
Would we be quicker with our praise,
And gladly give the greatest
meeds
As recompense for noble deeds,
And heroes crown with brightest bays,
And slay all foes that hearts imbue
With doubt and weakness, if we knew?
From lofty kings would constant worth
On peasant brows their crowns
bestow,
And rising from her overthrow
Eternal justice rule the earth,
While right would strip the favored few
To bless the many, if we knew?
If we but knew! Ah, well-a-day!
From lives that murmur, full
of ills,
Behind the shadows of the
hills,
God hides our brother’s heart away;
And we shall know in vales of rest
That His eternal ways are best!
HOPE.
When man from pure perfection fell,
And bathed his life in grief
and woe,
His angel heart had overthrow
From all the joys he loved so well,
And only Hope of all the host
Remained to comfort him when lost.
And when the other passions throw
Their phantoms in the arms
of death,
And pour their last remaining
breath
Within the dismal haunts of woe,
Then Hope alone of all remains
To soothe our sorrows and our pains.
Hope makes the fearful millions brave,
The helpless and the weary
strong,
Gives courage to the fainting
throng
And whispers freedom to the slave,
And unto each, where’er he lives,
Unceasing cause to struggle gives.
In heavy hours of ghostly gloom
When raging billows dash and
beat
Around the weak and weary
feet
Which tremble on the yawning tomb,
The harp of Hope divinely sings
Exalted songs of better things.
It lifts the gaze of mortal eyes
Above the desert and the dearth,
Above the barren fields of
earth,
Unto the promise of the skies,
And to the last expiring breath
Gives comfort in the hour of death.
O, sacred light of human life,
Eternal star of Heaven’s
love,
Thy brightness ever shines
above
The darkest hours of woe and strife,
To raise our souls above the sod
Into the holy home of God!
O, gloomy world that rolls in weary space,
And moans wild music to the
broken spheres,
Whose rivers wander into seas
of tears,
Despair has bound thee in a close embrace;
A birth, a life,
a death; man is no more!
Death grows beside existence, and with
time
Is comrade of its changes;
cycles roll
Their heavy circles through
the human soul,
And pour their dirges into mournful rhyme;
A birth, a life,
a death; man is no more!
He gropes in shadows for a happy beam
That shall delight his bosom;
into mist
Dissolves the substance that
ambition kissed,
While greatness grows the garland of a
dream;
A birth, a life,
a death; man is no more!
Endeavor struggles to an open grave;
The past is lost in monumental
dust,
Where age on age in angry
ire has thrust
The wise, the strong, the mighty, and
the brave;
A birth, a life,
a death; man is no more!
The years are shades that totter from
their tombs,
The ages, ghosts that live
in catacombs
And lure the Present to their
awful homes,
Where ancient races wander in the glooms;
A birth, a life, a death;
man is no more!
Oblivion welcomes men with gentle arms,
And presses them like infants
to her breast,
Repeats to them her lullabies
of rest,
And guards them from all sorrows and alarms;
A birth, a life, a death;
man is no more!
Then hasten, world, and let my battle
cease;
I care not where I stay nor
when I go;
For action gives unhappiness
and woe,
But Lethe brings forgetfulness and peace;
A birth, a life, a death;
man is no more!
IF LOVE WERE KING.
If Love were king,
That sacred Love which knows not selfish pleasure,
But for its children spends its fondest treasure,
Sad hearts would sing,
And all the hosts of misery and wrong
Forget their anguish in the happy song
That joy would bring.
If Love were king,
Gaunt wickedness would hide his loathsome features,
And virtue would to all the world’s sad creatures
Her treasures fling;
Till drooping souls would rise above their fate,
And find sweet flowers for all the desolate
And sorrowing.
If Love were king,
Before the scepter of his might should vanish
Toil’s curse and care, and happiness should
banish
Want’s awful sting;
While laughing plenty from sweet hands would throw
Delightful raptures over all below,
And gladness bring.
If Love were king,
The nations would eternal sunshine borrow,
And conquer all the heavy clouds of sorrow
And every thing
That binds the race in groans and agony;
Life’s changing seasons would forever be
Unvaried spring.
If Love were king!
O, broken feet that wander worn and weary
Beneath the crags and awful mountains dreary,
With rapture cling
Your anguished arms about him; drink delight
Upon his perfect bosom soft and white
And comforting!
“SING ME THE OLD SONGS, MOTHER.”
Our souls are the deserts of sorrow,
Our hearts are the ashes of hope,
And madly from gladness we borrow
The brightness where sadness may grope;
My raptures in wretchedness vanish,
My bosom is weeping with wrongs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old songs.
My joys are in memory lying,
Still ardently happy with
youth,
When smiles in ambition were dying,
And life was the vision of
youth;
My brow for your gentle caresses
And kisses of tenderness longs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old
songs.
Sweet murmurs in mystical measures
Come soothingly over my soul,
Where voices of babyish pleasures
And echoes of lullabies roll;
The struggles of all my endeavor
Are bound in the darkest of
thongs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old
songs.
I fain would return in my dreaming
To years that proclaimed me
a boy,
When gladness was happily beaming
And life was a musical toy;
My sorrow has never Nepenthe,
My woe in its bitterness throngs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old
songs.
Two infants in their cradles lie,
Where lullabies of peace
In gentle strains of tender music die.
And carols never cease.
Two urchins o’er the meadow lands
Are bounding in their plays,
Where sweet enjoyment with angelic hands
Winds gladness o’er
the days.
Two boys, where golden fancies bless,
Repose in sunny beams,
And muse away the hours of happiness
On couches made of dreams.
Two men upon a summer sea
Are toiling, brave and strong,
Where pleasures roll their elfin harmony
And labor ends in song.
Two gray-haired sages, silvered o’er,
In life meet once again,
To name the wondrous happiness they bore
Among their fellow-men.
Two graves forever hide the twain
Who found, in all their years,
No secret shadows, where unbroken pain
Held fountains full of tears.
Two lives have passed from human reach,
And few have heard of them,
But joy had not been better served if
each
Had worn a diadem.
Ah, bosoms here are strangely blest
With perfect bliss that glows,
And he above all others lives the best,
Who has the fewest woes!
“AWAY, AWAY, FROM THE SULTRY WAYS.”
Away, away, from the sultry ways
Where the pleasures fall and
fade,
To the bannered corn and the meadowed
bloom
And the forest’s cooling
shade!
Afar, afar, from the rooms of care
With the toils of life distressed,
To the grassy hills and the fragrant slopes
And the quiet vales of rest!
Away from the weary, dusty town,
Where the sorrows dim the
days,
To the sleeping lake and the silent stream
And the wildwood’s tangled
ways!
To margins wide of the woodland pools,
Where the wild birds troll
their songs,
Where the lilies laugh and the willows
wave,
And the pleasures dance in
throngs!
The dark-eyed nymphs and the fairy elves
In their robes of laughing
smiles,
In the forests romp ’neath the leafy
trees,
Through the narrow long-drawn
aisles.
The bannered corn and the golden wheat
In the ties of bliss are bound;
The sweetest joys and highest hopes
On the shady farms are found.
The raptures reign in the holy scenes,
And the old grow young once
more,
To roam the meadows and live again
In the happy years of yore.
Then haste, O, haste, to the country downs,
Where the valleys are sweet
with joys,
And the soul grows young, and the heart
is light,
And the bosom is like a boy’s!
Alone, alone, in the twilight gray,
In the shadows so dark and
dim,
I watch through all of the weary hours,
And I wait with my heart for
him;
For him who’ll come, when he comes
at all,
As my king and warrior bold;
Whose form so tall is my fortress wall
And whose heart is a chunk
of gold.
Again, again, do I dream the dreams,
All the dreams that my young
heart knew,
And through my soul do the yearnings thrill
As of old they were wont to
do;
I know in truth when his face I see,
I shall fall at his shining
feet,
Where’er it be and whoever is he,
In the light of his glances
sweet.
I wait in vain for the sounds that rise
From the tread of his horse’s
hoof,
And still the mists hide his form away
And forever he stays aloof;
His shining face and his eyes so bright
In the shades of the distance
hide,
And out of the night with the stars bedight
He hath never approached my
side!
O, years, O, wonderful tide of years,
From the shadows of time set
free
My king, my lover, my life, and bring
To my heart what is most of
me!
Somewhere in pain do his yearnings grope
For the joys that my love
would bring;
O, up the slope of his life-long hope,
Guide the feet of my royal
king!
“SWEET FAIRIES FROM THE ISLES OF SONG.”
Sweet fairies from the isles of song,
Bewitching choirs from music
land,
The pleasures of your wondrous
band
Once wooed me from the ways of wrong;
Once won my heart with fond caress
To sacred vales of summer
glees,
Till carols fraught with lullabies
Filled all my soul with blessedness!
My yearnings miss those gentle sprites,
Whose laughing lips and angel
eyes
And voices ever winsome-wise,
Bedewed my dreams with new delights;
For in the sad hours of my pain
I hold them as I hold the
dead,
And trust that in the vales
they tread,
My hands shall clasp their hands again.
From those glad meadows where they play
’Neath lovely sun and
gentle star,
My longing soul has wandered
far
On rocky path and thorny way;
I croon again the notes of song
In strains they taught me
years ago,
And weep because my sorrows
know
They have been absent for so long.
Return, O, laughing sprites of rest,
From gentle isles and peaceful
seas,
And pour the balsamed wine
of ease
Upon the anguish of my breast!
Till gladness in her raptures roll
Sweet strains of music, and
I gain
Eternal joy for all the pain
That darkens o’er my weary soul!
God bless the man who gave us rest
And him who taught us play,
For kindness reigned within his breast
To all our sorrow slay;
The weary heart, the fainting limb,
The soul that droops in woe,
Should most unceasing praise on him
In gratitude bestow.
He is the hero of the race,
The toiling nation’s
friend,
For pity smiles upon his face
With joys that never end;
He tears away the iron gyves
That chain our best repose,
And makes the deserts of our lives
To blossom as the rose.
He pours his balms into the wound
Of bosom weak and sad,
Till holy pleasures flit around
And all the heart is glad;
Till all is sweet that here before
Was wrapped in bitter woe,
And only gladness hurries o’er
The millions here below.
Great man he is, and him I give
That gratitude of mine,
Which must in brilliance while I live
With brightest glory shine,
To wreathe a radiance always gay
Around the worthy breast
Of him who first discovered play
And gave the nations rest.
MAKE THE MOST OF THIS LIFE.
Make the most of this life; where the
shadow reposes
The beams of the summer shall
gather in glee,
And the snow on the graves of the lilies
and roses
But cradles the blooms that
shall whiten the lea;
Though the hopes of the heart be encircled
with sorrow
And billows of wretchedness
mutter and roll,
There shall come with the morn of the
bountiful morrow
The pleasures that gladden
the desolate soul.
Make the most of this life; where the
carols are sleeping
That rose in their rapture
from lips of the spring,
That awakened the world from its winter
of weeping,
Sweet songs shall be sung
by the birds on the wing.
Though the bosom be dark with the dirges
of sadness
And solitudes gather so heavy
and lone,
There shall float from the musical meadows
of gladness
The ravishing measures that
banish each groan.
Make the most of this life; ’tis
a garden of beauty,
Where, blushing, the blossoms
grow tenderly-sweet,
While they brighten the years of man’s
labor and duty
And scatter the kisses of
love at his feet;
’Tis a world that is wild with the
laughter of living
When hands do the brotherly
kindness they can,
And its hearts are the treasures of tenderness
giving
To soften and sweeten the
nature of man.
Make the most of this life; there is happiness
in it,
When souls find a theme for
their jubilant song;
There is music, when angels are taught
to begin it,
Which never was marred with
a murmur of wrong;
There are voices that sing in their sweetness
forever,
And mutter no strains of contention
or strife,
Neither burden the hours with the pangs
of endeavor,
When we, with our deeds, make
the most of this life.
“THE SONGS THAT MOTHER USED TO SING.”
The songs that mother used to sing!
How tenderly those ditties
roll,
And to the dirges in my soul
The happy notes of gladness bring!
Where’er my vagrant feet may roam
From pleasures of my childhood’s
home,
This life of mine with rapture throngs,
When thinking of my mother’s songs.
They were not made of magic lays;
No perfect melodies were found,
That with the strains of fairy
sound
Would charm the stranger’s ear to
praise;
But I can never hope to meet
Another music half so sweet,
And all my longing love will cling
To songs that mother used to sing.
With gentleness of crooning cries,
She freed the aching limbs
from pain,
And lulled the eyes to sleep
again
With sweetness of her lullabies.
Love mingled with her tender voice
In tones that made the heart rejoice,
And Heaven’s music seemed to ring
In songs that mother used to sing.
Though years have passed, they still impart
Glad warbles to the hours
of woe,
And their mute carols fondly
throw
The sacred raptures o’er my heart;
Until my locks are thin and gray
Deep in my soul will sound alway,
And full of joy will ever spring
The songs that mother used to sing.
“QUAFF THE GLASS, THE WINE IS RED.”
Quaff the glass, the wine is red,
And the rose of youth is glowing,
While the toils of life are fled
And the snows of age are going;
Quaff it with a hearty will,
Quaff it deep and quaff forever;
Wine will every sorrow kill,
And destroy the pleasures
never.
When the heart beats sad and low,
Drink its gladness like a
river;
When the soul is weak with woe,
Quaff and be a cheerful liver;
Never, never, life, despair,
While a cup of hope is nigh
thee;
Bend not under loads of care
While the fount of joy is
by thee!
If the fickle friendships end
And thy fortune be a sad one,
Claim, O, claim, as truest friend,
Ruby wine, the sweet and glad
one!
If thy love hath proven cold,
Leave her, leave her, for
the new one;
Wine is never false for gold;
Friend to friend, a tried
and true one!
Let the cynics curse and rave;
This must be a life of pleasure;
Fill a bumper! He’s the knave
Who would scorn joy’s
fullest measure;
Quaff the glass, the wine is red;
Hour by hour the days are
going;
Wine is yet the fountain head
From which pleasure’s
tide is flowing
Good night, my little love, good-night!
May
angels keep
With fondest watch thy slumbers, till
the light
Shall
break thy sleep,
And morning with its wonders bright
Shall banish all thy cares with might.
Within this quickened life of mine,
I
bear away
The loving looks and tender words of thine,
Which
from this day
Within my soul shall ever shine
And make me better, more divine.
With love and trust and truth, my heart
Beats
all for thee;
And though our lives may wander far apart,
Till
death’s decree
Shall pierce my hopes with deadly dart,
Thou still my star of guidance art.
Good-night, dear one! As gladdest
songs,
The
sweetest dreams
Fill all my happy soul in joyous throngs,
And
tender themes
Bring bliss for which my nature longs,
And slay the curse of ancient wrongs.
Good-night, my little love! In care
Of
Heaven rest,
And may thy life no deeper sorrow share
Than
love’s behest,
Beneath the smiles of raptures rare!
Good-night! God keep thee everywhere!
LIVE LIFE WITH LOVE.
There is no soul of anguish or repining,
That doubts and trembles in the shades of gloom,
But love can lead where softest suns are shining
And fill his days with beauty and its bloom.
Live life with love!
There is no bosom dark with lonely
caring,
That sadly sorrows in the nights of woe,
But love can soothe his torture and despairing,
And scatter gladness where his feet may go.
Live life with love!
There is no scene of misery or sorrow
That droops and withers in the dark of night,
But love can bring fond yearnings for the morrow
And heap the heart with hope’s unfading
light.
Live life with love!
There is in all the world no sinful
creature
That gropes and falters on his troubled way,
But love can overcome his erring nature,
And change his darkness to eternal day.
Live life with love!
Sweet love, with bounties that her
hands are giving,
Can blossom roses on the desert heath,
Can brighten all the longings of the living
And with found kisses warm the lips of death.
Live life with love!
As love is thine, so shall thy days
be sweeter
With all the deeds that shall thy fellows bless;
Thy small achievements nobler and completer
With truth and hope and highest happiness!
Live life with love!
The sun comes up in the east
And the sun goes down in the west,
And man to me is a heartless beast
And the world has only a savage breast.
How thoughts rush over my soul
As the waves walk over the
sea!
Their forms flee soon and the sorrows
roll
In the deep distress that
is over me.
How hopes arise in my heart,
As the roses bloom over the
plain!
But time is tearing their sweets apart
And they die in darkness and
awful pain.
Ambitions burn in my breast,
As the fires in a city rage;
But damp creeps over their fervid zest
And they sink away into ashen
age.
If there was pleasure for pain
I could well be happy awhile,
And, O, my bosom would ne’er complain,
If my fortune gave me a single
smile.
But here I am, and the curse is on,
And my life is a waste of
woe,
And ere one river of tears is gone,
O, another torrent begins
to flow.
Ah, the sun comes up in the east
And the sun goes down in the
west.
And man to me is a heartless beast
And the world has only a savage
breast!
STANZAS.
Put not trust nor tenderness to sleep,
In
sorrow sad;
The heart, in which a little love may
creep,
Is
not all bad.
The darkest hours that wear a wondrous
gloom,
Are
somewhat light,
If but one ray of brilliancy illume
The
brooding night.
The field in which the weed and bramble
thrive
Has
some of good,
If but a single blossom struggling live
Amid
the rude.
The ocean vast is not all desolate,
The
worlds between,
If on its waters bearing human freight
One
sail is seen.
All is not harsh and cold amid the wood,
If
warbled song
Resound, how feebly, through the solitude
Of
tangled wrong.
The desert, barren, bleak, a waste of
sand
Does
never spread,
If spear of grass in verdure green expand
Above
the dead.
Then put not trust nor tenderness to sleep
In
sorrow sad;
The heart in which a little love may creep
Is
not all bad.
Since Adam’s first sin in the garden
of song,
Where the hopes of the race
were empearled,
Whenever a mortal does anything wrong,
It is only the way of the
world!
If statesmen forget all the pledges they
made,
And the people to evils are
hurled,—
Excuse their misdeeds! ’Tis
a trick of the trade,
And is only the way of the
world!
If bankers, confusing distinctions of
wealth,
Have your gold to their own
pockets whirled,
And then gone to Europe for pleasure and
health—
It is only the way of the
world.
If preachers, forgetting the Master of
old
And the banner of light He
unfurled,
Elope with the fairest ewe-lambs of the
fold,—
It is only the way of the
world.
If merchants, unscrupulous, cheat with
a will
While their lips are at honesty
curled,—
Harsh blame, hie away! And your censure,
be still!
It is only the way of the
world!
The way of the world! What a happy
excuse
For the faults and the follies
unfurled!
Bind virtue securely! The vices turn
loose!
’Tis the way—’tis
the way—of the world!
MY SHADOW AND I.
A something, not of earth or sky,
Beside me walks the ways I
go,
And I—I never truly
know,
If I am it or it is I.
It soothes me with its tender speech,
It guides me with its gentle
hand,
But I—I can not
understand
The links that bind us each to each.
I hear the songs of golden days
Fall softly on the saddened
years,
But know not whose the hungry
ears
First feasted on the roundelays.
I feel the hopes, the yearnings brave,
Within my bosom surge and
roll,
But know not whose the Master
Soul
That called their glories from the grave.
I see the great world’s greater
curse,
Dark struggles on through
darker days,
But know not whose the eyes
that gaze
Through all the sobbing universe.
O, Shadow mine! Beneath my brow
I feel thy thoughts, and in
my heart
Thy fondest longings madly
start!
Thou art myself and I am thou!
When from these vales I go,
That slumber on in dreams,
O, will the summer winds dance to and
fro,
And kiss the streams
That play where roses scatter fond perfume
And lilies burst with bloom?
Glad children of the spring,
They moan their music sweet
Where tangled grasses wave, and softly
sing
Where meadows meet,
And wildwood shadows drooping bless
The groves with happiness.
Their soothing songs I hear
Among the granite hills,
Above the elfin warbles rich and clear
From rippling rills,
As if they called my soul in future days
To wander all their ways.
Ah, moaning winds, you seem
To fill my musing breast
With lullabies that linger as I dream
And bring me rest;
For melodies from your low voices creep
That soothe my heart with sleep!
THE WILLOW.
A song for the willow, the wild weeping
willow,
That murmurs a dirge to the
rapturous days,
And moans when the kiss of the breeze
laden billow
Entangles and dangles among
the sad sprays!
A musical ditty to scatter the sadness,
A warble of wildness to banish
its tears,
Till tremulous measures of bountiful gladness
Be sounding and bounding through
all of the years.
The beautiful brooks, as they waken from
slumbers,
Pause under the shadows that
fall from the boughs,
And weave their caresses in passionate
numbers,
While soothing and smoothing
the frowns from its brows;
But chained in the desolate sorrows of
weeping
Its heart never warms to the
raptures of mirth,
And over its bosom no pleasures are creeping
While wending and blending
their joys with the earth.
Then sing for the willow, the wild weeping
willow,
That droops in the smiles
of the summer-born times,
And mourns in the kiss of the sweet-scented
billow,
When beaming and gleaming
are dripping with chimes!
While melodies move where their happiness
lingers,
They surely will gladden the
tear-laden sprays,
And music that flutters from fairy-like
fingers
Will lighten and brighten
the burdensome days.
The water-wheel goes ’round and
’round
With heavy sighs of mournful sound,
While dismal cries and weary moans
Unite with sad and tearful groans,
And weeping waves of water throw
Afar the echoes of their sadness,
And cadences of plaintive woe
Dispel each little note of
gladness.
My daily life goes ’round and ’round,
And rest for me is never found;
The sobbing dirges of distress
Are more than songs of happiness;
The shadows of despairing doom
Condemn to-day and curse to-morrow,
And muffled terrors fill the gloom
Which offers anguish to my
sorrow.
But hope, O, heart, for future weal!
The waters rest beyond the wheel;
So life may sing when toil is done
And all its battles lost or won.
There lives a sweeter music there,
Of gentle and melodious measure,
Where weeping never comes and where
The ages perish into pleasure.
SHADOW AND SHINE.
They will find in this life who are grieved
with its gladness
No songs for the heart and
no hopes for the soul,
But will faint in the glooms where the
dirges of sadness
In tremulous murmurs of wretchedness
roll;
For the sweets of this earth never lavish
their kisses
Where lives in the valleys
of rapture repine;
In the tortures they mourn who denounce
all the blisses,—
They weep in the shadow that
rail at the shine.
In the fields that are fair with the blooms
of the clover,
No garlands are grown for
the arbors of shade
Where the woes of the wood in their darkness
hang over
The grasses that wave with
the winds of the glade;
From the chimes of the breezes there echo
no measures
That gladden the gale with
a music divine;
In the troubles they languish who shrink
from the pleasures,
They weep in the shadow that
rail at the shine.
Ah, the world is abounding with wonderful
glories
And wild are the warbles that
sweeten its ways
While the songs of the land sing their
beautiful stories,
And scatter their melodies
over the days!
There are smiles, there are joys, never
mingled with sorrow,
O, man, in return for the
tears that are thine,
And the soul never sobs that has hopes
for the morrow,
Nor weeps in the shadow nor
rails at the shine!
A tender song in shadows grew,
And humble hearts were homes it knew.
But through its wondrous music stole
The longings of the human soul;
The hopes of hosts unsatisfied
Within its numbers wandered wide;
And strangely wet with toilsome tears
It held the yearnings of the years;
Till millions with their woes oppressed,
Proclaimed the song of peace and rest;
Till nations in their troubled ways
Found comfort in the joyous lays,
And all the halting race of wrong
Exalts the loving might of song!
Ah, song that soothes our many cries
With fondness of thy lullabies,
We love, we bless, we scepter thee
Proud empress of the hearts that be!
SPRING AND MUSIC.
Spring, among her sylvan shades,
And the gladness of her glades,
Once in dreamy hours was straying,
Where sweet Music with her throngs
Of glad melodies and songs
In the happy vales was playing.
Pan beheld the fairy maids
As they gamboled in the shades,
And he swore they should not
sever.
But that o’er the blooming land,
Heart to heart and hand in hand,
They should wander on forever.
Thus when come the gentle days
O’er the wildwood’s tangled
ways,
There is found no gloomy weather;
For among the leafy bowers
And the valleys bright with flowers
Spring and Music walk together!
The softest beams of the stars are born
in the farthest skies,
And fairest rays of the sun where evening
shadows rise;
The sweetest songs of the bird are sung
in the darkest days,
And rarest blooms of the spring are found
in the wildest ways.
The brightest blush of the rose is blown
as the petals fade.
The greenest grass of the earth is grown
in the hidden glade;
The fondest rhyme of the rill is heard
in the secret vale,
And lightest lays of the breeze are borne
from the dying gale.
The highest hopes of the heart in saddest
of sorrows grow,
The purest pleasures of joy arise in the
wane of woe;
The gladdest smiles of the lips are seen
in the hours of pain,
And proudest days of the free are spent
by the broken chain.
The grandest deeds of the race are writ
on the faded scroll,
The truest rivers of good from villainous
fountains roll;
The perfect raptures of life are reared
in the arms of care,
And Hope with her joys dispels the darkness
of our despair.
MY MOLLIE, O!
’Twas in the summer’s sweet
perfume,
When roses bloomed and holly,
O,
That in the brightness of her bloom,
I first did meet my Mollie,
O.
Although she said for lives to love
Was nothing but pure folly,
O,
My heart was lit with light above,
And I true loved my Mollie,
O.
O, swift and fast the days did flee
And seemed most bright and
jolly, O,
For evermore was near to me
My fair and lovely Mollie,
O.
Now I doth sit through all the day
And nurse my melancholy, O,
For from me she has turned away,
O, false and fickle Mollie,
O!
Sing not of beauty’s grace to me;
Its very name a story tells
Of doubly dark inconstancy,
Love falser than a hundred
hells.
Its face is often but a screen
To hide a devil’s heart
of guile,
Of thoughts and deeds of shameful mien,
By winning looks of heartless
wile.
Its laughing smile is but the gleam
That springs from dross of
foulest make;
It stirs a sweet but idle dream,
Then leaves the trusting heart
to break.
Sing not of beauty’s grace to me;
I can not bear to hear the
name;
For, oh! Too oft in it I see
A soul of falsehood and of
shame!
AT EVENTIDE.
At eventide, when glories lie
In crimson curtains hung on high,
And all the breast of heaven
glows
With mingled wreaths of flowers
and snows,
The dearest dreams of life draw nigh.
The pleasures in their soft robes fly
With angel wings adown the sky,
And rapture lulls to sweet
repose,
At eventide.
Ah, well-a-day! Life’s weary
cry,
And all its curse and care shall die,
When Age on downy couches
throws
His weary limbs and only knows
The tender dreams of bye-and-bye,
At eventide!
When Christmas comes, what pleasures spring
From drooping hearts on happy wing,
Like joyous birds that soaring
rise
From hidden coverts to the
skies.
And echo in the chimes that ring!
Glad millions in wild rapture sing
Hosannaed hopes of welcoming,
While praises blend in harmonies,
When Christmas
comes.
Ah, happy hours! Around them cling
The dearest joys that life may bring,
And all the world’s
despairing cries
Are soothed to sleep with
lullabies
That banish every bitter thing,
When Christmas
comes!
WHEN THOU ART NEAR.
When thou art near, with gladdest grace
My heart is held in fond embrace,
For laughing lips with raptures
bless
The toils and tears of my
distress,
And woes within me have no place.
The halting hours with hurried pace
Whirl wildly on through happy space,
And life is light with happiness,
When thou art
near.
Like mortals whom an angel race
Renews with gladness face to face,
I thrill with Love’s
unseen caress
That holy hands upon me press,
And Heaven’s pleasures all I trace,
When thou art
near.
He sleeps at last! The vales of rest
Are waiting for the war-worn breast,
And glorious angels fondly
spread
The sweetest roses for his
bed.
While countless millions call him blest.
Fame welcomes him with glad behest,
While garlands on his brow are pressed,
And laurels cluster o’er
his head;
He sleeps at last.
O, deep the sorrows here confessed,
Where Freedom makes eternal quest!
The wondrous chief that proudly
led
The long, blue lines that
fought and bled,
In peace is now no more distressed;
He sleeps at last!
WHEN FORTUNES FROWN.
When fortunes frown, the woes, bedight
With brooding shadows, bring the night,
While dismal sorrows darkness
dole,
And disappointments rise and
roll
Above the longings for the light.
Despair, with hands that curse and blight,
Sows weakness in the hearts of might
Until they falter near the
goal,
When fortunes
frown.
But onward still! The valleys white
With Heaven’s blossoms are in sight;
The Holy Mountains, knoll
on knoll,
Are waiting for the Master
Soul,
And he shall conquer for the right,
When fortunes
frown!
When we shall meet, I strangely know
The mad emotions that shall flow
Across my heart all quivering,
Beneath the raptures he shall
bring
From angel years that gladdened so.
And I all shy and silent grow
Beneath his glance of gladness, though
Wild yearnings through my
bosom spring,
When we shall
meet.
Till joyful tears of passion show,
And to his kind embrace I throw
My heart unworthy, and I cling
With deathless fondness to
the king
I worshipped in the Long Ago,
When we shall
meet!
SWEET EYES OF BLUE.
Sweet eyes of blue! The stars by
night,
That swoon the world with laughing light,
And touch the hills with tender
glow
While all the vales are kissed
below,
Beside you would no more be bright.
My worlds ye are, and while I throw
My heart to catch the beams that flow
From your fair shrine, my
woes take flight,
Sweet eyes of
blue!
Glad orbs of beauty! In your sight
My soul mounts up with secret might,
Till Eden’s lovely bowers
I know;
And as through Heaven’s
gates I go,
The pleasures all my sorrow smite,
Sweet eyes of
blue!
Had we not met, the brooding woe
And all the griefs that greater grow,
Might not have been, and happy-wise
Our lives have laughed with
lullabies
And quaffed such joys as few may know.
Our days beneath embittered skies
Where anguish moans and sorrow cries,
Might not have wept and wandered
so,
Had we not met!
But ah, my darling! All we prize,—
Love and sweet trust that never dies,
Wild yearnings that with constant
flow
From kindred heart to bosom
go,—
Would never in our souls had rise,
Had we not met!
A SONNET.
We gentler grow by sorrow; not the breast
That never crouches in the
nights of tears,
That never bends beneath the
loads of years,
Has sympathies that are the kindliest.
There is a strength in agony that best
Can link the careless heart
with human fears,
And teach it that fond kindness
which endears
The millions that with sadness are oppressed.
Grief softens while it saddens; pleasure
smites
The timid soul with harshness,
till it knows
Small earnest of the great
world’s grievous woes
And little of its struggles; sorrow plights
Her troth with sorrow, and in tears unites
Man unto man and hatred overthrows.
Here, through the ages old, the desert
slept
In solitudes unbroken, save
when passed
The bison herds, and savage hunters swept
In thund’ring chaos
down the valleys vast;
But, lo! Across the barren margins
stepped
Advancement with her legions,
and one blast
From her imperial trumpet
filled the last
Lone covert where affrighted wildness
crept.
Full armed, full armored, at her wondrous
birth,
Her shining temples wreathed
with gorgeous dower,
She sits among the empires of the earth;
Her proud achievements o’er
the nations tower,
Won by her people with their royal worth,
With lofty culture, wisdom,
wealth and power.
ESTRANGED.
Though far apart, my darling, side by
side
We wander still and our fond
yearnings meet,
As when our hearts with highest
raptures beat
Before our footsteps trod the paths of
pride;
Our close companionship hath never died;
True love and trust are always
fair and sweet,
And time from life’s best hopes
can never hide
A kindred soul that made its
own complete!
So thou, dear one, shall come once more
to me,
The sweeter grown for all
thy years of pain;
My longing arms shall open wide for thee,
And thou shalt nestle on my
breast again;
Then perfect love shall richly crown the
years,
And both be better for our griefs and
tears.
We meet again beyond the barren past,
Beyond the pride, the sorrows
and the tears;
And yearnings leave the strife
and hate of years
To flood our souls with perfect peace
at last!
Our hearts forget the wrong so deep and
vast,
The wounding words and all
the cruel woe,
Till joy is all our bounding
bosoms know,
And life is glad with happiness at last.
Love, deathless and forgiving, crowns
with bays
The future and our hopes,
as full of grace,
As youth had fondly dreamed in other days,
When first we knew how sweet
was her embrace.
God’s endless purpose guides the
feet of men;
Beyond our pride we meet in love again!
THE DYING HERO.
His greatness hath not left him; till
the years
Have won the nation from her
children dead,
And robbed her of remembrance where she
rears
Her monuments above the blood
they shed,
Will his name want for homage; with sad
fears
The Union winds her garlands
o’er his head,
And fondly wreathes her love, bedewed
with tears,
To bless the hero on his dying
bed.
His luster lives untarnished; as he lies
Where Malady has bound him
in wild pain,
And only Death can loose the heavy chain
That galls her captive while
his nature dies,
He seems far greater in his country’s
eyes,
Than if an Appomattox spake
again.
Somehow, someway, I can not see the light;
The giant hills of doubting
reach the skies,
Abiding shadows bring eternal night,
And on my ways no suns of
morning rise;
Dark mysteries across the years of might
Crush down my hopes, until
each yearning dies,
Until my soul is weary, dim my sight,
And ghostly echoes mock my
fainting cries.
Ah, I shall know beyond these narrow years,
The glorious mornings of eternal
day,
Where perfect love and tender
trust shall play,
And smiles and laughter banish all the
tears,
And all the heavy mists of doubts and
fears
Shall leave my longing soul
somehow, someway!
GREATNESS LIVES APART.
Great natures live apart; the mountain
gray
May call no comrade to his
lonely side;
The giant ocean, wrapped in storm and
spray,
Has no companion for her endless
tide;
The forest monarch, where
his parents died,
Can find no brother in his lofty sway,
And mighty rivers chafe their
margins wide
Where infant rills and childish fountains
play.
So heroes live; no raptured blossoms start
Where rugged heights of human
glory end;
No tender songs of loving
beauty blend
Their chorus in the great man’s
peerless heart;
Fate fills their souls with magnitude,
and art
Supplies their lives with
no congenial friend.
Poems are holy things. Eternal Truth,
Borrowing the robes of song and lovely
grown,
In them her glory unto man proclaims
And fills his longing soul. They
softly speak
Of Nature’s beauty and the secrets
old
Concealed behind the shadows of the hills,
And love on angel fingers borne to men,
Naming them over in so sweet a voice
That music leads their footsteps in the
ways
Where God has walked; and with a lofty
Harp,
As wondrous as the gentle harps of heaven,
Uplifts, ennobles, soothes and leads the
race
Unto its last great ultimate of power,
To words of tenderness and goodly deeds.
SINGER AND SONG.
A singer sang in sorrow long
And breathed his life into his song.
Unknown, unheard, the song went wide,
Until the singer, starving, died.
Now in their hearts the nations write
And wear the singer’s song of might.
Ah, singers fail and fall from view,
But songs are always, always new!
If garlands none to singers cling,
Bays wreathe above the songs they sing.
Within this false world we may count ourselves
blest,
If we have but one friend
who is faithful and true;
And so in your friendship contented I’ll
rest,
And believe I have found that
one blessing in you.
THE BANKS O’ TURKEY RUN.
Like a thousan’ birds o’ brightness
from the isles o’ summer seas,
Rickollections, full o’ gladness,
come with songs and lullabies,
An’ I listen to the carols that
with gentle voices roll,
Full o’ tenderness an’ beauty,
down upon my weary soul,
Fer thar’s one thet keeps a-singin’
with a song thet’s never done,
An’ I see the bendin’ willers
on the banks o’ Turkey Run.
An’ agin’ I be a youngster
with a youngster’s foolin’ dreams,
With his high-falutin’ notions an’
his fiddle-faddle schemes;
With the laughin’ an’ the
cryin’, with the sorrow an’ the joy,
Thet is jumbled up together in the bosom
o’ the boy;
An’ agin my arly fancies in a fairy
loom are spun
Underneath the dancin’ shadders
on the banks o’ Turkey Run.
An’ agin I be a school-boy with
the other merry lads,
When Joe an’ Jerry, Bill an’
I, wus only little tads,
When a half a dozen marvels an’
a kivered ball was worth—
With a knife o’ Barlow pattern—all
the treasures o’ the earth;
An’ the soundin’ sort o’
thunder from a poppin’ kind o’ gun
Set our faces all a-giggle on the banks
o’ Turkey Run.
It ’ud tickle any feller but ter
see the solemn look,
When the master was a-watchin’,
thet we fastened on the book,
But the mischief stickin’ in us,
like pertaters in a sack,
It wus never hard ter empty when the teacher
turned his back;
O, the paper wads we tumbled thet ’ud
weigh about a ton,
In thet crazy-cornered school-house on
the banks o’ Turkey Run!
How we used ter chase the robins an’
the rabbits in the wood,
How we gethered bloomin’ posies
in the sighin’ solitude!
How we wundered all the medders in our
roamin’s o’er an’ o’er,
How we teetered in the branches o’
the beech an’ sycamore!
Or we watched the rompin’ minners
as they rasseled in their fun,
While we nearly bust a-laughin’,
on the banks o’ Turkey Run!
How we used ter go a-fishin’ when
the day wus gittin’ late,
With a little line o’ cotton an’
a fish-worm fer a bait!
With a bent pin for a fish-hook an’
a hazel fer a pole,
How we sought the softest places by the
widest, deepest hole!
How we teehee-eed at the nibbles, caught
the fishes one by one,
With the biggest kind o’ prowess,
on the banks o’ Turkey Run!
When the sun was burnin’ shavin’s
in the heatin’ stove o’ June,
An’ the clock upon the mantle wus
a-knockin’ off the noon
When the beams in bunches blistered as
they never did afore,
An’ the sweat was drippin’,
droppin’, from the mouth o’ every pore,
How we skipped across the medder, how
our swimmin’ wus begun,
In the cool an’ crystal waters ‘tween
the banks o’ Turkey Run!
O, the smilin’ days o’ childhood!
O, the loudly laughin’ years!
When contentment brings the moments neither
heaviness ner tears!
When the pleasures jine the longin’s
an’ the fairy fingers roll
All the heaps o’ angel music in
upon the blazin’ soul!
O, my Joe an’ Bill an’ Jerry!
Trustin’ comrades, you wus won
Whar my bare feet brushed the grasses
on the banks o’ Turkey Run!
But, alas! Thar wus another; she
was fairer than the rest,
An’ she allus had a hearin’
fer the wishes o’ my breast;
Allus wus a chunk o’ sunshine an’
a piece o’ quiet glee,
Allus had a smile o’ welcome an’
a tender word fer me;
An’ without her wus no shinin’
an’ o’ happiness wus none
Ter bring gladness ter my bosom on the
banks o’ Turkey Run.
O, her home wus in a cottage whar the
mornin’-glories hung,
An’ the arly birds o’ April
with their sweetest music sung;
Thar wus roses ’round her winder,
thar wus roses ’round her door,
Thet wus stickin’ full o’
blushes, but they allus blushed the more,
When her eyes wus seen a-peepin’
an’ her cheeks beamed like the sun,
From thet cosy little cottage on the banks
o’ Turkey Run!
Many an’ many a time we wandered
in the grassy medder-land
With our wishes right together an’
our longin’s hand in hand;
How we dreamed about the future when the
world should give me fame,
An’ when she would be thrice noble
to be worthy o’ my name!
Thus we talked an’ thus we fancied;
others might my boyhood shun,
But I found her kind, my sweetheart, on
the banks o’ Turkey Run.
But the times have been a-changin’
sence them arly years o’ joy,
When she wus but a little girl an’
I a little boy;
When Joe an’ Jerry, Bill an’
I, together wus at play,
With our hearts as light as feathers,
every minute of the day,
An’ at twilight sunk ter slumber
tell the mornin’ wus begun,
In the gloomy silent forests on the banks
o’ Turkey Run.
Bill an’ Joe have gone a-rovin’
on a fortune-huntin’ quest
Through the silver mines an’ Injuns
in the mountains o’ the west;
But the janders came ter Jerry with a
solemn sort o’ call
Tell they painted him as yaller as a punkin
in the fall;
An’ to-day I saw his tombstone as
it glittered in the sun,
Over in the little churchyard, on the
banks o’ Turkey Run!
An’ alas, my precious sweetheart!
Like a lily virgin white,
Did she slowly fade an’ wither tell
her spirit took its flight!
Like an angel into heaven did she sweetly,
calmly creep,
An’ her lovely life wus over an’
her bosom went ter sleep;
An’ the tollin’, tollin’
church-bells dropt the dirges one by one,
As we laid her ‘neath the wilier
on the banks o’ Turkey Run.
Thar a little cross o’ marble marks
the sacred, silent shade,
Whar the fair an’ laughin’
beauty o’ my ole sweetheart wus laid;
An’ the summer has a sadness thet
is cryin’ through the years,
An’ my heart is full o’ sorrow,
an’ mine eyes is full o’ tears,
Fer I’ve allus had a failin’,
sence her friendship first I won,
Fer thet little lovin’ maiden on
the banks o’ Turkey Run!
But them days have past forever in the
years o’ long ago,
An’ a wishin’ ter be wealthy
has enraptured Bill an’ Joe;
Death has taken Jerry; only I, o’
all the boys,
Am’ remainin’ ter remember
all them arly angel joys;
But to-night I see their faces as they
peep in full o’ fun,
An’ agin we’re boys together,
on the banks o’ Turkey Run!
ENVOY.
Oh, to be able to capture and bring
And bind in the bonds of
control,
Some of the carols that warble and
sing
Down in the depths of my
soul.