While Phœbus lent his hottest raysTo signalize midsummer days,I stood in that far-famed enclosureBy thousands visited,Where, in the stillness of reposure,Are grouped battalions dead.Where, round each simple burial stone,The grass for decades twain has grown,Protecting them in dreamless slumberWho perished long ago,The multitudes defying number,A part of war's tableau.Along the winding avenueA vast procession came in view;The mourners' slow, advancing columnWith reverent step drew near,The "Dead March" playing, sad and solemn,Above a soldier's bier.There were the colonels, brigadiers,Comrades in arms of other years,Civilians, true and loyal-heartedTo him their bravest man,Who seemed to say to those departed,"Make room for Sheridan!"Anon, beside the new-made mound,The warworn veterans gathered round,And spake of Lyon and of Lander,And others ranked as high,Recalling each his old commander,One not afraid to die.Thus, silent tenants one by oneAre crowding in at Arlington;Thus Sheridan, the horseman daring,Has joined the honored corpsOf those, their true insignia wearing,Who battle nevermore.Potomac's wave shall placid flow,And sing his requiem soft and low,His terrace grave be sweet with clover,And daisies star his bed,For Sheridan's last ride is over—The General is dead!
While Phœbus lent his hottest raysTo signalize midsummer days,I stood in that far-famed enclosureBy thousands visited,Where, in the stillness of reposure,Are grouped battalions dead.
Where, round each simple burial stone,The grass for decades twain has grown,Protecting them in dreamless slumberWho perished long ago,The multitudes defying number,A part of war's tableau.
Along the winding avenueA vast procession came in view;The mourners' slow, advancing columnWith reverent step drew near,The "Dead March" playing, sad and solemn,Above a soldier's bier.
There were the colonels, brigadiers,Comrades in arms of other years,Civilians, true and loyal-heartedTo him their bravest man,Who seemed to say to those departed,"Make room for Sheridan!"
Anon, beside the new-made mound,The warworn veterans gathered round,And spake of Lyon and of Lander,And others ranked as high,Recalling each his old commander,One not afraid to die.
Thus, silent tenants one by oneAre crowding in at Arlington;Thus Sheridan, the horseman daring,Has joined the honored corpsOf those, their true insignia wearing,Who battle nevermore.
Potomac's wave shall placid flow,And sing his requiem soft and low,His terrace grave be sweet with clover,And daisies star his bed,For Sheridan's last ride is over—The General is dead!
As I near my lonely cottage,At the close of weary day,There's a little bit of gladnessComes to meet me on the way:Dimpled, tanned, and petticoated,Innocent as angels are,Like a smiling, straying sunbeamIs my Stella—like a star.Soon a hand of tissue-softnessSlips confidingly in mine,And with tender look appealingEyes of beauty sweetly shine;Like a gentle shepherd guidingSome lost lamb unto the fold,So she leads me homeward, prattlingTill her stories are all told."Papa, I'm so glad to see you—Cousin Mabel came today—And the gas-man brought a letterThat he said you'd better pay—Yes, andawfulthings is happened:My poor kitty's drowned to death—Mamma's got the 'Pigs in Clover'—"Here she stops for want of breath.
As I near my lonely cottage,At the close of weary day,There's a little bit of gladnessComes to meet me on the way:Dimpled, tanned, and petticoated,Innocent as angels are,Like a smiling, straying sunbeamIs my Stella—like a star.
Soon a hand of tissue-softnessSlips confidingly in mine,And with tender look appealingEyes of beauty sweetly shine;Like a gentle shepherd guidingSome lost lamb unto the fold,So she leads me homeward, prattlingTill her stories are all told.
"Papa, I'm so glad to see you—Cousin Mabel came today—And the gas-man brought a letterThat he said you'd better pay—Yes, andawfulthings is happened:My poor kitty's drowned to death—Mamma's got the 'Pigs in Clover'—"Here she stops for want of breath.
I am like the bold knight-errant,From his castle who would roam,Trusting her, my faithful steward,For a strict account of home;And each day I toil, and hazardAll that any man may dare,For a resting-place at even,And the love that waits me there.And sometimes I look with pityOn my neighbor's mansion tall:There are chambers full of pictures,There are marbles in the hall,Yet with all the signs of splendorThat may gild a pile of stone,Not a living thing about itBut the owner, grim and lone.I believe that all his millionsHe would give without repineFor a little bit of gladnessIn his life, like that in mine;This it is that makes my pathwayBeautiful, wherever trod,Keeps my soul from wreck and ruin,Keeps me nearer to my God.
I am like the bold knight-errant,From his castle who would roam,Trusting her, my faithful steward,For a strict account of home;And each day I toil, and hazardAll that any man may dare,For a resting-place at even,And the love that waits me there.
And sometimes I look with pityOn my neighbor's mansion tall:There are chambers full of pictures,There are marbles in the hall,Yet with all the signs of splendorThat may gild a pile of stone,Not a living thing about itBut the owner, grim and lone.
I believe that all his millionsHe would give without repineFor a little bit of gladnessIn his life, like that in mine;This it is that makes my pathwayBeautiful, wherever trod,Keeps my soul from wreck and ruin,Keeps me nearer to my God.
There was many a token of festal display,And reveling crowds who were never so gay,And, as it were Æolus charming the hours,An orchestra hidden by foliage and flowers;There were tapestries fit for the home of a queen,And mirrors that glistened in wonderful sheen;There was feasting and mirth in the banqueting-hall,For this was the annual Charity Ball.There were pompous civilians, in wealth who abide,Displaying their purses, the source of their pride;And plethoric dealers in margins and stocks,And owners of acres of elegant blocks,And tenement-landlords who cling to a centWhen from the poor widow exacting her rent—Immovable, stern, as an adamant wall—And yet, who "came down" to this Charity Ball.There was Beauty whose toilet, superb and unique,Cost underpaid industry many a weekOf arduous labor of eye, and heartache,Its starving inadequate pittance to make;There were mischievous maidens and cavaliers bold,Whose blushes and glances and coquetry toldA tale of the monarch who held them in thrall—Who met, as by chance, at the Charity Ball.There were delicate viands the poor never taste,And dollars were lavished in prodigal wasteTo pamper the palate of epicures rich;Who drew from the wine cellar's cavernous niche"Excelsior" brands of the rarest champagnesTo loosen their tongues—though it pilfered their brains—Oh, sad if a step in some woeful downfallShould ever be traced to a Charity Ball!Outside of the window, pressed close to the pane,And furrowed by tears that had fallen like rain,Was the face of a woman, so spectral in hue,With great liquid eyes, like twin oceans of blue,And cheeks in whose hollows were written the linesThat pitiless hunger so often defines,Who muttered, as closer she gathered the shawl,"Oh, never for me is this Charity Ball!"From liveried hirelings who bade her begone,By uniformed minions compelled to move on,Out into the street again driven to roam—For friends she had none, neither fortune nor home;While carnival-goers in morning's dull grayAs homeward returning, fatigued andblasé,A vision encountered their hearts to appall,And banish all thought of the Charity Ball.As if seeking warmth from the icy curb-stone,A form half-reclining, half-clad, and unknown.Dead eyes looking up with a meaningless stare,Lay close to the crowded and broad thoroughfare;A form so emaciate the spirit had fled—But the pulpit and press and the public all said,As society's doings they sought to recall,That a "brilliant success" was the Charity Ball.
There was many a token of festal display,And reveling crowds who were never so gay,And, as it were Æolus charming the hours,An orchestra hidden by foliage and flowers;There were tapestries fit for the home of a queen,And mirrors that glistened in wonderful sheen;There was feasting and mirth in the banqueting-hall,For this was the annual Charity Ball.
There were pompous civilians, in wealth who abide,Displaying their purses, the source of their pride;And plethoric dealers in margins and stocks,And owners of acres of elegant blocks,And tenement-landlords who cling to a centWhen from the poor widow exacting her rent—Immovable, stern, as an adamant wall—And yet, who "came down" to this Charity Ball.
There was Beauty whose toilet, superb and unique,Cost underpaid industry many a weekOf arduous labor of eye, and heartache,Its starving inadequate pittance to make;There were mischievous maidens and cavaliers bold,Whose blushes and glances and coquetry toldA tale of the monarch who held them in thrall—Who met, as by chance, at the Charity Ball.
There were delicate viands the poor never taste,And dollars were lavished in prodigal wasteTo pamper the palate of epicures rich;Who drew from the wine cellar's cavernous niche"Excelsior" brands of the rarest champagnesTo loosen their tongues—though it pilfered their brains—Oh, sad if a step in some woeful downfallShould ever be traced to a Charity Ball!
Outside of the window, pressed close to the pane,And furrowed by tears that had fallen like rain,Was the face of a woman, so spectral in hue,With great liquid eyes, like twin oceans of blue,And cheeks in whose hollows were written the linesThat pitiless hunger so often defines,Who muttered, as closer she gathered the shawl,"Oh, never for me is this Charity Ball!"
From liveried hirelings who bade her begone,By uniformed minions compelled to move on,Out into the street again driven to roam—For friends she had none, neither fortune nor home;While carnival-goers in morning's dull grayAs homeward returning, fatigued andblasé,A vision encountered their hearts to appall,And banish all thought of the Charity Ball.
As if seeking warmth from the icy curb-stone,A form half-reclining, half-clad, and unknown.Dead eyes looking up with a meaningless stare,Lay close to the crowded and broad thoroughfare;A form so emaciate the spirit had fled—But the pulpit and press and the public all said,As society's doings they sought to recall,That a "brilliant success" was the Charity Ball.
[One of the notable features of Baltimore is the big bell that hangs in the city hall tower, to strike the hour and sound the fire alarm. It is called "Big Sam," and weighs 5,000 pounds]
A million feet above the ground(For so it seemed in winding round),A million, and two more,The latter stiff and sore,While perspiration formed a partOf every reeking pore,I viewed the city like a chartSpread out upon the floor.
A million feet above the ground(For so it seemed in winding round),A million, and two more,The latter stiff and sore,While perspiration formed a partOf every reeking pore,I viewed the city like a chartSpread out upon the floor.
And said: "Great guide Jehoiakin,To me is meagre pleasure inThe height of spires and domes,Of walls like ancient Rome's;Nor care I for the marts of trade,Or shelves of musty tomes,Nor yet for yonder colonnadeBefore your palace homes;"But curiosity is keenTo know the city's reigning queen,Who suiteth well the scoreOf suitors at her door;Oh, which of your divinitiesIs she whom all adore?Embodiment of truth,who isThe belle of Baltimore?"Veracity's revolving eyesLooked up as if to read the skies:"Why, Lor'-a-miss, see dar—De bell is in de air!Lan' sakes! of all de missteriesYo' nebber learn before!Why, don' yo' know 'Big Sam'?HeisDe bell of Baltimore!"
And said: "Great guide Jehoiakin,To me is meagre pleasure inThe height of spires and domes,Of walls like ancient Rome's;Nor care I for the marts of trade,Or shelves of musty tomes,Nor yet for yonder colonnadeBefore your palace homes;
"But curiosity is keenTo know the city's reigning queen,Who suiteth well the scoreOf suitors at her door;Oh, which of your divinitiesIs she whom all adore?Embodiment of truth,who isThe belle of Baltimore?"
Veracity's revolving eyesLooked up as if to read the skies:"Why, Lor'-a-miss, see dar—De bell is in de air!Lan' sakes! of all de missteriesYo' nebber learn before!Why, don' yo' know 'Big Sam'?HeisDe bell of Baltimore!"
'Twas drawing near the holiday,When piety and pity metIn whisp'ring council, and agreedThat Christmas time, in homes of need,Should be remembered in a wayThey never could forget.Then noble generosityTook youth and goodness by the hand,And planned a thousand charming waysTo celebrate this best of days,While hearts were held in sympathyBy love's encircling band.So multitudes together came,Like wandering magi from the EastWith precious gifts unto the King,With every good and perfect thingTo satisfy a shivering frameOr amplify a feast.The angels had looked long and farThe happy scene to parallel,When through the sanctuary doorWere carried gifts from shop and store,The treasures of the rich bazaar,To give—but not to sell.As once the apostolic twelveOf goods allotment made,So equity dealt out with careThe widow's and the orphan's share,And of the aged forced to delveAt drudging task or trade.Oh, could the joy which tears expressThat out of gladness comeBe mirrored in its tender glow,Before the beautiful tableauIngratitude and selfishnessWould shrink abashed and dumb!If every year and everywhereCould kindness thus expandIn bounteous gratuity,To all her children earth would beA flowery vale like Eden fair,A milk-and-honey land.
'Twas drawing near the holiday,When piety and pity metIn whisp'ring council, and agreedThat Christmas time, in homes of need,Should be remembered in a wayThey never could forget.
Then noble generosityTook youth and goodness by the hand,And planned a thousand charming waysTo celebrate this best of days,While hearts were held in sympathyBy love's encircling band.
So multitudes together came,Like wandering magi from the EastWith precious gifts unto the King,With every good and perfect thingTo satisfy a shivering frameOr amplify a feast.
The angels had looked long and farThe happy scene to parallel,When through the sanctuary doorWere carried gifts from shop and store,The treasures of the rich bazaar,To give—but not to sell.
As once the apostolic twelveOf goods allotment made,So equity dealt out with careThe widow's and the orphan's share,And of the aged forced to delveAt drudging task or trade.
Oh, could the joy which tears expressThat out of gladness comeBe mirrored in its tender glow,Before the beautiful tableauIngratitude and selfishnessWould shrink abashed and dumb!
If every year and everywhereCould kindness thus expandIn bounteous gratuity,To all her children earth would beA flowery vale like Eden fair,A milk-and-honey land.
The morning sun rose bright and fairUpon a lovely village whereProsperity abounded,And ceaseless hum of industryIn lines of friendly rivalryFrom day to day resounded.Its shaded avenues were wide,And closely bordered either sideWith cottages or mansions,Or marked by blocks of masonryThat might defy a centuryTo loosen from their stanchions.Its peaceful dwellers daily viedTo make this spot, with anxious pride,A Paradise of beauty,Recounted its attractions o'er,And its adornment held no moreA pleasure than a duty.But, ere the daylight passed away,That hamlet fair in ruins lay,Its hapless people scatteredLike playthings, at the cyclone's will,And scarce remained one domicileIts fury had not shattered.
The morning sun rose bright and fairUpon a lovely village whereProsperity abounded,And ceaseless hum of industryIn lines of friendly rivalryFrom day to day resounded.
Its shaded avenues were wide,And closely bordered either sideWith cottages or mansions,Or marked by blocks of masonryThat might defy a centuryTo loosen from their stanchions.
Its peaceful dwellers daily viedTo make this spot, with anxious pride,A Paradise of beauty,Recounted its attractions o'er,And its adornment held no moreA pleasure than a duty.
But, ere the daylight passed away,That hamlet fair in ruins lay,Its hapless people scatteredLike playthings, at the cyclone's will,And scarce remained one domicileIts fury had not shattered.
Few moments of the tempest's wrathSufficed to mark one dreadful pathWith scenes of devastation;While over piles of wild débrisRose shrieks of dying agonyAbove the desolation.Oh, mystery! who can understandWhy, sudden, from God's mighty handDestructive bolts of powerWithout discrimination strikeThe evil and the good alike—As in that dreadful hour!Alas for aching hearts that waitToday in homes made desolateBy one sharp blow appalling—For all who kneel by altars lone,And strive to say "Thy will be done,"That awful day recalling!We dare not question his decreesWho seeth not as mortal sees,Nor doubt his goodness even;Nor let our hearts be dispossessedOf faith that he disposeth bestAll things in earth and Heaven.
Few moments of the tempest's wrathSufficed to mark one dreadful pathWith scenes of devastation;While over piles of wild débrisRose shrieks of dying agonyAbove the desolation.
Oh, mystery! who can understandWhy, sudden, from God's mighty handDestructive bolts of powerWithout discrimination strikeThe evil and the good alike—As in that dreadful hour!
Alas for aching hearts that waitToday in homes made desolateBy one sharp blow appalling—For all who kneel by altars lone,And strive to say "Thy will be done,"That awful day recalling!
We dare not question his decreesWho seeth not as mortal sees,Nor doubt his goodness even;Nor let our hearts be dispossessedOf faith that he disposeth bestAll things in earth and Heaven.
"Be careful for nothing," Phil. iv. 6. Revised version, "Be not anxious."
Of all the precepts in the BookBy word of inspiration given,That bear the import, tone, and lookOf messages direct from heaven,From Revelation back to GenesisIs nothing needed half so much as this.Ah, well the great apostle spakeIn admonition wise and kind,Who bade humanity forsakeThe petty weaknesses that bindThe spirit like a bird with pinioned wings,That to a broken bough despairing clings.Were all undue anxietyEliminated from desire,Could feverish fears and fancies beConsumèd on some funeral pyre,Like holy hecatomb or sacrifice,'Twould be accepted up in Paradise.Could this machinery go onWithout the friction caused by fret,What greater loads were lightly drawn,More easily were trials met;Then might existence be with blessings rife,And lengthened out like Hezekiah's life.Oh, be not anxious; trouble growsWhen cherished like a secret grief;It is the worm within the roseThat eats the heart out leaf by leaf;And though the outer covering be fair,The weevil of decay is busy there.In deep despondency to pine,Or vain solicitude,Is to deny this truth divineThat God is great and good;That he is Ruler over earth and Heaven,And so disposes and makes all things even.
Of all the precepts in the BookBy word of inspiration given,That bear the import, tone, and lookOf messages direct from heaven,From Revelation back to GenesisIs nothing needed half so much as this.
Ah, well the great apostle spakeIn admonition wise and kind,Who bade humanity forsakeThe petty weaknesses that bindThe spirit like a bird with pinioned wings,That to a broken bough despairing clings.
Were all undue anxietyEliminated from desire,Could feverish fears and fancies beConsumèd on some funeral pyre,Like holy hecatomb or sacrifice,'Twould be accepted up in Paradise.
Could this machinery go onWithout the friction caused by fret,What greater loads were lightly drawn,More easily were trials met;Then might existence be with blessings rife,And lengthened out like Hezekiah's life.
Oh, be not anxious; trouble growsWhen cherished like a secret grief;It is the worm within the roseThat eats the heart out leaf by leaf;And though the outer covering be fair,The weevil of decay is busy there.
In deep despondency to pine,Or vain solicitude,Is to deny this truth divineThat God is great and good;That he is Ruler over earth and Heaven,And so disposes and makes all things even.
Subdued and sad, I trod the placeWhere he, the hero, lived and died;Where, long-entombed beneath the shadeBy willow bough and cypress made,The peaceful scene with verdure rife,He and the partner of his life,Beloved of every land and race,Are sleeping side by side.The summer solstice at its heightReflected from Potomac's tideA glare of light, and through the treesIntensified the Southern breeze,That dallied, in the deep ravines,With graceful ferns and evergreens,While Northern cheeks so strangely whiteGrew dark as Nubia's pride.What must this homestead once have beenIn boundless hospitality,When Greene or Putnam may have metThe host who welcomed Lafayette,Or when Pulaski, honored guest,Accepted shelter, food and rest,While rank and talent gathered inIts banquet hall of luxury!What comfort, cheer, and kind intentThe weary stranger oft hath knownWhen she, its mistress, fair and good,Reigned here in peerless womanhood,When soft, shy maiden fancy gaveEncouragement to soldiers brave,And Washington his presence lentTo grace its bright hearthstone!O beautiful Mount Vernon home,The Mecca of our long desire;Of more than passing interestTo North and South, to East and West,To all Columbia's children freeA precious, priceless legacy,Thine altar-shrine, as pilgrims come,Rekindles patriot fire!
Subdued and sad, I trod the placeWhere he, the hero, lived and died;Where, long-entombed beneath the shadeBy willow bough and cypress made,The peaceful scene with verdure rife,He and the partner of his life,Beloved of every land and race,Are sleeping side by side.
The summer solstice at its heightReflected from Potomac's tideA glare of light, and through the treesIntensified the Southern breeze,That dallied, in the deep ravines,With graceful ferns and evergreens,While Northern cheeks so strangely whiteGrew dark as Nubia's pride.
What must this homestead once have beenIn boundless hospitality,When Greene or Putnam may have metThe host who welcomed Lafayette,Or when Pulaski, honored guest,Accepted shelter, food and rest,While rank and talent gathered inIts banquet hall of luxury!
What comfort, cheer, and kind intentThe weary stranger oft hath knownWhen she, its mistress, fair and good,Reigned here in peerless womanhood,When soft, shy maiden fancy gaveEncouragement to soldiers brave,And Washington his presence lentTo grace its bright hearthstone!
O beautiful Mount Vernon home,The Mecca of our long desire;Of more than passing interestTo North and South, to East and West,To all Columbia's children freeA precious, priceless legacy,Thine altar-shrine, as pilgrims come,Rekindles patriot fire!
Where I can see him all day longAnd hear his wild, spontaneous song,Before my window in his cage,A blithe canary sits and swings,And circles round on golden wings;And startles all the vicinageWhen from his china tankardHe takes a dainty drinkTo clear his throatFor as sweet a noteAs ever yet was caroledBy lark or bobolink.Sometimes he drops his pretty headAnd seems to be dispirited,And then his little mistress says:"Poor Dickie misses his chickweed,Or else I've fed him musty seedAs stale as last year's oranges!"But all the time I wonderIf we half comprehendIn sweet song-wordsThe thought of birds,Or why so oft their rapturesIn sudden silence end.
Where I can see him all day longAnd hear his wild, spontaneous song,Before my window in his cage,A blithe canary sits and swings,And circles round on golden wings;And startles all the vicinageWhen from his china tankardHe takes a dainty drinkTo clear his throatFor as sweet a noteAs ever yet was caroledBy lark or bobolink.
Sometimes he drops his pretty headAnd seems to be dispirited,And then his little mistress says:"Poor Dickie misses his chickweed,Or else I've fed him musty seedAs stale as last year's oranges!"But all the time I wonderIf we half comprehendIn sweet song-wordsThe thought of birds,Or why so oft their rapturesIn sudden silence end.
They do not pine for forest wildsWithin the "blue Canary isles,"As exiles from their native home,For in a foreign domicileThey first essayed their gamut-trillBeneath a cage's gilded dome;But maybe some sad throbbingBetimes their spirits stirs,Who love as weDear liberty,That they, admired and petted,Are only—prisoners.
They do not pine for forest wildsWithin the "blue Canary isles,"As exiles from their native home,For in a foreign domicileThey first essayed their gamut-trillBeneath a cage's gilded dome;But maybe some sad throbbingBetimes their spirits stirs,Who love as weDear liberty,That they, admired and petted,Are only—prisoners.
As one long struggling to be free,O suffering isle! we look to theeIn sympathy and deep desireThat thy fair borders yet shall holdA people happy, self-controlled,Saved and exalted—as by fire.Burning like thine own tropic heatThousands of lips afar repeatThe story of thy wrongs and woes;While argosies to thee shall bear,Of men and money everywhere,Strength to withstand thy stubborn foes.Hispaniola waves her plumeDefiant over many a tombWhere sleep thy sons, the true and brave;But, lo! an army coming onThe places fill of heroes gone,For liberty their lives who gave.The nations wait to hear thy shoutOf "Independence!" ringing out,Chief of the Antilles, what wilt thou?Buffets and gyves from your effeteOld monarchy dilapidate,Or freedom's laurels for thy brow?In man's extremity it isThat Heaven's opportunitiesShine forth like jewels from the mine;Then, Cuba, in thy hour of need,With vision clear the tokens readAnd trust for aid that power divine.
As one long struggling to be free,O suffering isle! we look to theeIn sympathy and deep desireThat thy fair borders yet shall holdA people happy, self-controlled,Saved and exalted—as by fire.
Burning like thine own tropic heatThousands of lips afar repeatThe story of thy wrongs and woes;While argosies to thee shall bear,Of men and money everywhere,Strength to withstand thy stubborn foes.
Hispaniola waves her plumeDefiant over many a tombWhere sleep thy sons, the true and brave;But, lo! an army coming onThe places fill of heroes gone,For liberty their lives who gave.
The nations wait to hear thy shoutOf "Independence!" ringing out,Chief of the Antilles, what wilt thou?Buffets and gyves from your effeteOld monarchy dilapidate,Or freedom's laurels for thy brow?
In man's extremity it isThat Heaven's opportunitiesShine forth like jewels from the mine;Then, Cuba, in thy hour of need,With vision clear the tokens readAnd trust for aid that power divine.
O sunny Sangamon! thy name to me,Soft-syllabled like some sweet melody,Familiar is since adolescent yearsAs household phrases ringing in my ears;Its measured cadence sounding to and froFrom the dim corridors of long ago.There was a time in happy days gone by,That rosy interval of youth, when IThe scholar ardent early learned to traceGreat tributaries to their starting place;And thine some prairie hollow obsoleteWhose name how few remember or repeat.Like thee, meandering, yet wafted backFrom distant hearth and lonely bivouac,From strange vicissitudes in other lands,From half-wrought labors and unfinished plansI come, in thy cool depths my brow to lave,And rest a moment by thy silver wave.But, ah! what means thy muddy, muggy hue?I thought thee limpid as yon ether blue;I thought an angel's wing might dip belowThy sparkling surface and be white as snow;And of thy current I had dared to drinkIf not as one imbibing draughts of ink.
O sunny Sangamon! thy name to me,Soft-syllabled like some sweet melody,Familiar is since adolescent yearsAs household phrases ringing in my ears;Its measured cadence sounding to and froFrom the dim corridors of long ago.
There was a time in happy days gone by,That rosy interval of youth, when IThe scholar ardent early learned to traceGreat tributaries to their starting place;And thine some prairie hollow obsoleteWhose name how few remember or repeat.
Like thee, meandering, yet wafted backFrom distant hearth and lonely bivouac,From strange vicissitudes in other lands,From half-wrought labors and unfinished plansI come, in thy cool depths my brow to lave,And rest a moment by thy silver wave.
But, ah! what means thy muddy, muggy hue?I thought thee limpid as yon ether blue;I thought an angel's wing might dip belowThy sparkling surface and be white as snow;And of thy current I had dared to drinkIf not as one imbibing draughts of ink.
Has some rough element of horrid clayThat spoils the earth like lava beds, they say,Come sliding down, as avalanches do,And thy fair bosom percolated through?Or some apothecary's compound vilePolluted thee so many a murky mile?Why not, proud State, beneficence insure,Selling thy soil or giving to the poor?For sad it is that dust of Illinois,With coal and compost its conjoint alloy,A morceau washed from Mississippi's mouth,Should build up acres for our neighbors south.River! I grieve, but not for loss of dirt—Once stainless, just because of what thou wert.Thus on thy banks I linger and reflectThat, surely as all waterways connect,Forever flowing onward to the sea,Shall the great billow thy redemption be.And now, dear Sangamon, farewell! I waitOn that Elysian scene to meditateWhen, separated from the dregs of earth,Life's stream shall sweeter be, of better worth;And, like the ocean with its restless tide,By its own action cleansed and purified.
Has some rough element of horrid clayThat spoils the earth like lava beds, they say,Come sliding down, as avalanches do,And thy fair bosom percolated through?Or some apothecary's compound vilePolluted thee so many a murky mile?
Why not, proud State, beneficence insure,Selling thy soil or giving to the poor?For sad it is that dust of Illinois,With coal and compost its conjoint alloy,A morceau washed from Mississippi's mouth,Should build up acres for our neighbors south.
River! I grieve, but not for loss of dirt—Once stainless, just because of what thou wert.Thus on thy banks I linger and reflectThat, surely as all waterways connect,Forever flowing onward to the sea,Shall the great billow thy redemption be.
And now, dear Sangamon, farewell! I waitOn that Elysian scene to meditateWhen, separated from the dregs of earth,Life's stream shall sweeter be, of better worth;And, like the ocean with its restless tide,By its own action cleansed and purified.
The smallest flower beside my path,In loveliness of bloom,Some element of comfort hathTo rid my heart of gloom;But these, of spotless purity,And fragrant as the rose,As sad a sight recall to meAs time shall e'er disclose.Oh, there are pictures on the brainSometimes by shadows made,Till dust is blent with dust again,That never, never fade;And things supremely bright and fairAs ever known in lifeSuggest the darkness of despair,And sanguinary strife.I shut my eyes; 'tis all in vain—The battle-field appears,And one among the thousands slainIn manhood's brilliant years;An elbow pillowing his head,And on the crimson sandSyringa-blooms, distained and dead,Within his rigid hand.Could she foresee, who from the stemHad plucked that little sprayOf flowers, that he would cherish themUnto his dying day?"Give these to M——;—'tis almost night—And tell her—that—I love—"Alas! the letter he would writeWas finished up above.And so, with each recurring spring,On Decoration day,When to our heroes' graves we bringThe blossom-wealth of May,While martial strains are soft and low,And music seems a prayer,Unto a hallowed spot I go,And leave syringas there.
The smallest flower beside my path,In loveliness of bloom,Some element of comfort hathTo rid my heart of gloom;But these, of spotless purity,And fragrant as the rose,As sad a sight recall to meAs time shall e'er disclose.
Oh, there are pictures on the brainSometimes by shadows made,Till dust is blent with dust again,That never, never fade;And things supremely bright and fairAs ever known in lifeSuggest the darkness of despair,And sanguinary strife.
I shut my eyes; 'tis all in vain—The battle-field appears,And one among the thousands slainIn manhood's brilliant years;An elbow pillowing his head,And on the crimson sandSyringa-blooms, distained and dead,Within his rigid hand.
Could she foresee, who from the stemHad plucked that little sprayOf flowers, that he would cherish themUnto his dying day?"Give these to M——;—'tis almost night—And tell her—that—I love—"Alas! the letter he would writeWas finished up above.
And so, with each recurring spring,On Decoration day,When to our heroes' graves we bringThe blossom-wealth of May,While martial strains are soft and low,And music seems a prayer,Unto a hallowed spot I go,And leave syringas there.
My careful plans all storm-subdued,In disappointing solitudeThe weary hours began;And scarce I deemed when time had sped,Marked only by the passing treadOf some pedestrian.But with the morrow's tranquil dawn,A fairy scene I looked uponThat filled me with delight;Far-reaching from my own abode,The world in matchless splendor glowed,Arrayed in spotless white.The surface of the hillside slopeGleamed in my farthest vision's scopeLike opalescent stone;Rich jewels hung on every tree,Whose crystalline transparencyGolconda's gems outshone.Beyond the line where wayside postsStood up, like fear-inspiring ghostsOf awful form and mien,A mansion tall, my neighbor's pride,A seeming castle fortified,Uprose in wondrous sheen.The evergreens loomed up beforeMy staunch and storm-defying door,Like snowy palacesThat one dare only penetrateWith reverence—as at Heaven's gate,Awed by its mysteries.The apple trees' extended armsUpheld a thousand varied charms;The curious traceryOf trellised grapevine seemed to meA rare network of filigreeIn silver drapery.And I no longer thought it hardFrom favorite pursuits debarred,Nor gazed with rueful face;For every object seemed to beInvested with the witcheryOf magic art and grace.And, though a multitude of cares,Perplexing, profitless affairs,Absorbed the hours, it seemsThat on the golden steps of thoughtI mounted heavenward, and wroughtOut many hopeful schemes.Thus every day, though it may spanThe gulf wherein some cherished planLies disarranged and crossed,If, ere its close, we shall have trodThe path that leads us nearer God,Cannot be counted lost.
My careful plans all storm-subdued,In disappointing solitudeThe weary hours began;And scarce I deemed when time had sped,Marked only by the passing treadOf some pedestrian.
But with the morrow's tranquil dawn,A fairy scene I looked uponThat filled me with delight;Far-reaching from my own abode,The world in matchless splendor glowed,Arrayed in spotless white.
The surface of the hillside slopeGleamed in my farthest vision's scopeLike opalescent stone;Rich jewels hung on every tree,Whose crystalline transparencyGolconda's gems outshone.
Beyond the line where wayside postsStood up, like fear-inspiring ghostsOf awful form and mien,A mansion tall, my neighbor's pride,A seeming castle fortified,Uprose in wondrous sheen.
The evergreens loomed up beforeMy staunch and storm-defying door,Like snowy palacesThat one dare only penetrateWith reverence—as at Heaven's gate,Awed by its mysteries.
The apple trees' extended armsUpheld a thousand varied charms;The curious traceryOf trellised grapevine seemed to meA rare network of filigreeIn silver drapery.
And I no longer thought it hardFrom favorite pursuits debarred,Nor gazed with rueful face;For every object seemed to beInvested with the witcheryOf magic art and grace.
And, though a multitude of cares,Perplexing, profitless affairs,Absorbed the hours, it seemsThat on the golden steps of thoughtI mounted heavenward, and wroughtOut many hopeful schemes.
Thus every day, though it may spanThe gulf wherein some cherished planLies disarranged and crossed,If, ere its close, we shall have trodThe path that leads us nearer God,Cannot be counted lost.
The type of enterprise is he,Of sense and thrift and toil;Who reckons less on pedigreeThan rich, productive soil;And no "blue blood"—if such there be—His veins can ever spoil.And yet on blood his heart is set;He has his sacred cow,Some Alderney or Jersey pet,The mistress of the mow;His favorite pig is (by brevet)"Lord Suffolk"—of the slough.
The type of enterprise is he,Of sense and thrift and toil;Who reckons less on pedigreeThan rich, productive soil;And no "blue blood"—if such there be—His veins can ever spoil.
And yet on blood his heart is set;He has his sacred cow,Some Alderney or Jersey pet,The mistress of the mow;His favorite pig is (by brevet)"Lord Suffolk"—of the slough.
To points of stock is he aliveAs keenest cattle king;A thoroughbred he deigns to drive,But not a mongrel thing;The very bees within his hiveAre crossed—without a sting.If apple-boughs drop pumpkins andTomatoes grow on trees,It is because his grafting handHas so diverted theseThat alien shoots with native standLike twin-born Siamese.No neater farm a nabob owns,Its care his chief employ,To find fertility in bonesAnd briers to destroy,Where once he lightly skipped the stonesA whistling, happy boy.The ancient plough and awkward flailHe banished long ago;The zigzag fence with ponderous railHe dares to overthrow;And wields, with sinews strong and hale,The latest style of hoe.
To points of stock is he aliveAs keenest cattle king;A thoroughbred he deigns to drive,But not a mongrel thing;The very bees within his hiveAre crossed—without a sting.
If apple-boughs drop pumpkins andTomatoes grow on trees,It is because his grafting handHas so diverted theseThat alien shoots with native standLike twin-born Siamese.
No neater farm a nabob owns,Its care his chief employ,To find fertility in bonesAnd briers to destroy,Where once he lightly skipped the stonesA whistling, happy boy.
The ancient plough and awkward flailHe banished long ago;The zigzag fence with ponderous railHe dares to overthrow;And wields, with sinews strong and hale,The latest style of hoe.
The household, founded as it wereUpon the Decalogue,He classes with the minister,The rural pedagogue,And as a sort of angel-curRegards his spotted dog.His wife reviews the magazines,His children lead the school,He tries a thousand new machines(And keeps his temper cool),But bristles at Kentucky jeans,And her impressive mule.With Science letting down the bars,Enlightening ignorance,Enigmas deeper than the starsHe solves as by a glance,And raises cinnamon cigarsFrom poor tobacco plants!By no decree of fashion dressed,And busier than Fate,The student-farmer keeps abreastWith mighty men of state,And treasures, like his Sunday vest,The motto "Educate!"
The household, founded as it wereUpon the Decalogue,He classes with the minister,The rural pedagogue,And as a sort of angel-curRegards his spotted dog.
His wife reviews the magazines,His children lead the school,He tries a thousand new machines(And keeps his temper cool),But bristles at Kentucky jeans,And her impressive mule.
With Science letting down the bars,Enlightening ignorance,Enigmas deeper than the starsHe solves as by a glance,And raises cinnamon cigarsFrom poor tobacco plants!
By no decree of fashion dressed,And busier than Fate,The student-farmer keeps abreastWith mighty men of state,And treasures, like his Sunday vest,The motto "Educate!"
Beyond encircling hills of blue,Where I may never range,This monarch in his realm I view,Of title new and strange,And make profound obeisance to"The Master of the Grange."
Beyond encircling hills of blue,Where I may never range,This monarch in his realm I view,Of title new and strange,And make profound obeisance to"The Master of the Grange."
If every friend who meditatesIn soft, unspoken thoughtWith winning courtesy and tactThe doing of a kindly actTo cheer some lonely lot,Were like the friend of whom I dream,Then hardship but a myth would seem.If sympathy were always thusOblivious of space,And, like the tendrils of the vine,Could just as lovingly inclineTo one in distant place,'Twould draw the world together soMight none the name of stranger know.
If every friend who meditatesIn soft, unspoken thoughtWith winning courtesy and tactThe doing of a kindly actTo cheer some lonely lot,Were like the friend of whom I dream,Then hardship but a myth would seem.
If sympathy were always thusOblivious of space,And, like the tendrils of the vine,Could just as lovingly inclineTo one in distant place,'Twould draw the world together soMight none the name of stranger know.
If every throb responsive thatMy ardent spirit thrillsCould, like the skylark's ecstasy,Be vocal in sweet melody,Beyond dividing hillsIn octaves of the atmosphereWere music wafted to his ear.If every friendship were like one,So helpful and so true,To other hearts as sad as mine'Twould bring the joy so near divine,And hope revive anew;So life's dull path would it illume,And radiate beyond the tomb.
If every throb responsive thatMy ardent spirit thrillsCould, like the skylark's ecstasy,Be vocal in sweet melody,Beyond dividing hillsIn octaves of the atmosphereWere music wafted to his ear.
If every friendship were like one,So helpful and so true,To other hearts as sad as mine'Twould bring the joy so near divine,And hope revive anew;So life's dull path would it illume,And radiate beyond the tomb.
'Twas not rare versatility,Nor gift of poesy or art,Nor piquant, sparklingjeux d'espritWhich at the call of fancy come,That touched the universal heart,And won the world's encomium.
'Twas not rare versatility,Nor gift of poesy or art,Nor piquant, sparklingjeux d'espritWhich at the call of fancy come,That touched the universal heart,And won the world's encomium.