The artist looks down on his canvass,And smothers a heart-weary sigh,And he sees not the beautiful pictureThat glows with the hues of the sky.For a picture that cannot be paintedBurns into the artist's brain,And he weeps as he sits at his easel,And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain."
The poet reads over his poem,The thoughts of a Heaven-lent soul--And sweet as the ripple of watersThe beautiful sentences roll.But a poem that cannot be written,Burns into the poet's brain,And he weeps in a passion of anguish,And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain."
The musician sits at his organ,And the air echoes sweet melodies.But his heart cries for sounds that are betterThan the sounds that he draws from the keys.For a chord that has never been sounded--A passionate,--ecstatic strain.And he weeps as he sits at the organ,And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain."
Oh, Artist, Musician and Poet!Three souls that were lent to the earthTo brighten with fingers of beautyThis bare, barren planet of dearth!You dream of the glories of Heaven,And vainly are striving to showTo the gaze of the clay-fettered mortals,The things that no mortal shall know.
1871
[Lines to the sweetest little girl in the world.]
Sitting and watching the fire-light fallIn fitful gleams, on floor, and wall,I think of the fairest of baby-girls,With bright blue eyes, and sunny curls,With two round cheeks, and a dimpled hand--The sweetest baby in all the land.
I think of her thousand coaxing arts,That won her place in my heart of hearts;And how at twilight, the baby's hour--A winsome queen, she ruled in power;And laid on my shoulder her head of goldAnd named the stories she wanted told.
"Goosey Loosey," "Cat and Mouse,""London Bridge," and "Jack and his House,""Peter's Pig," and "the Foolish Frog,""The Mooley Cow," and "the Poly-wog."And when these were told, as many more,Till I needs must add, to my ample store.
I can think how the bright little eyes would glowAt the tale of the kid that was made to go.How they filled with tears, when Old Mother HubbardOpened the door on an empty cupboard.How they sparkled with glee, and glowed with funWhen she heard how the wasp made the hornet run.
Over and over the winsome elfWould plead for the stories she knew herself;She would sigh o'er the fate of poor Hen-PenWho foolishly hid in the Fox's den,And grieve o'er the poor little mouse that was drownedBefore his "great long tail" was found.
And sitting alone in the fire-light's glow,And thinking about it, all I knowThat not on the earth, in any place,Is there such another winsome face--Is there another, so sweet and wise,As baby Eva--beneath the skies.
1873
I shall not forget you. The years may be tender,But vain are their efforts to soften my smart;And the strong hands of Time are too feeble and slenderTo garland the grave that is made in my heart.Your image is ever about me--before me,Your voice floats abroad on the voice of the wind;And the spell of your presence, in absence, is o'er me,And the dead of the past, in the present I find.
I cannot forget you. The one boon ungiven,The boon of your love, is the cross that I bear.In the midnight of sorrow, I vainly have strivenTo crush in my heart the sweet image hid there;To banish the beautiful dreams that are throngingThe halls of my memory--dreams worse than vain;For the one drop withheld, I am thirsting and longing,For the one joy denied, I am weeping in pain.
I would not forget you. I live to rememberThe beautiful hopes that bloomed but to decay,And brighter than June glows the bleakest December,When peopled with ghosts of the dreams passed away.Once loving you truly, I love you forever;I mourn not in weak, idle grief for the past;But the love in my bosom can never, oh neverPass out, or another pass in, first or last.
As a mother who dies in travail--Who closes her eyes in death,And sinks in the sleep that is long and deep,With her babe's first wailing breath,In the hush of the midnight watches,So, the old year passed away,And the new was born, and was hailed this morn,As the "Happy New Year Day."
The day when our eyes look backward,To see what our hands have done,Through the hours of gold that the dead year told,Like the beads of a pious Nun--When we shut up the blotted ledger,With its record of joy and grief,Of losses and gains, and pleasures and pains,And turn to the new white leaf
We hoped, we planned, and we promised,When the year that is dead was young:But our hopes are like leaves that are withered,And the year like a song that is sung.We planned out some wonderful project,That should bring to us riches and fame:Hour by hour, day by day, our plans fell away,And our project was only a name.
We promised that life should be better,As the sphere of our labors grew broad,That "those things behind" should pass from the mind,As we reached for the prize of our God.But alas, for the promises given!Lo, what were our good resolves worth?They were lost to our sight, and we strayed from the light,And worshiped the poor things of earth.
And so, while we builded our castles,With turrets of sapphire and gold,Till they glowed in the sun, the months one by one,Slipped away, and the year grew old--Grew feeble and old and departedIn the shadows and gloom of the night;And some said 'twas a year full of sorrow,And some, 'twas a year of delight.
Some, sitting in darkness and weeping,Sob, "Oh. but the year was so long!"And some, full of cheer, say the beautiful yearWas only one verse of a song.To some it brought gladness and pleasure,To others but sorrow and gloom.It gave one the sweet orange blossoms,Another, the dust of the tomb.
There are mothers to-day who are sitting,With arms that are aching to holdThe small form of grace, and the dear little face,And the head with its crown of spun gold;And they think of the last happy New Year,And the voice that made music all day,And, sitting alone in the silence, they moan,For the babe that is hidden away.
There are maidens, in love-letters, readingThe story so old and so new;And their happy hearts beat, in a rhythm so sweet,As they read of the love strong and true;And they think that of all the glad New Years,There was never another so glad;And they heed not the wail of the mother, so pale,Who thinks the day dreary and sad.
There are some leaning over the coffinOf a hope that went out with the year;And their sad eyes are dry, and the lips white that cry,"The hope of a life-time lies here."God pity and comfort such mourners,For God alone knoweth the painOf these suffering hearts, when a dear hope departs,And is buried to rise not again.
It is sad to lean over a loved one,And cover the face with a pall,But who mourns, with bowed head, o'er a hope that is dead,Has the bitterest sorrow of all.God grant that this New Year may bring them,Some other hope, fully as sweet;May it cull the bright flowers from happiness' bowers,And cast them in wreaths at their feet.
Despair and delight walk together;The sunshine falls over the tomb;And close by the weary, whose lives are all dreary,Walk those who are crowned with earth's bloom.Some wearing the laurels of glory,And flushed with the glow of success,May their wreaths never pale, or their honors grow stale.Or their hopes or their happiness less.
Oh, wonderful year that has left us!Full of tragedy, sorrow and change,Was there ever another so fateful,Was there ever another so strange?Great hearts that were throbbing last New YearAre food for the grave-worms to-day,And lips whose least word a whole nation heard,Are nothing but cold, silent clay.
There was one who was crowned with the Fern Leaves,Whose ringing tones, full of good cheer,Lightened hearts that were sad, and made weary ones glad,On many a weary New Year.There was one double-dowered by heaven,Twice gifted and favored by God,REID, whose brush, and whose pen, made him king among men,--He, too, lieth under the sod.
And another, the hero of battles.Before whom the enemy fledIn alarm and dismay, while he won the day,MEAD,--warrior and hero, is dead.There was one who climbed up the steep ladder,Step by step, on rounds that he made;And carved out his name, on the summit of Fame,In letters that never will fade.
He struggled for knowledge and riches,Position and glory, andwon.But, reaching too far, like a child for a star,He fell, with the words, "It is done!"It is done, all the climbing and toiling;It is done, all the worry and strife,All the bitter and sweet, th' success and defeat,--It is done, the great drama of life.
It is done, all the year could do for us,Its mixture of shadow and sun,Its smiles and its tears, its hopes and its fears,Its labors and duties, all done.We stand face to face with the New Year,Nor know what it hides from our sight;God grant that it be kind to you, and to me,That it lead us in ways that are light.
The bells in the steeples are joyful,The children are shouting in glee,There is mirth and good cheer in the happy New Year--All hail to young '73!Come out of the shadows, ye mourners!And drop, for this one day at least,Your mantles of woe, and let us all goAnd take part in the revel and feast.
Let us laugh like gay children together,Forgetting we ever shed tears--Forgetting the losses, the sorrows and crossesThat came to our lives with the years--Remembering only the perfume,The beauty, the bloom, and the sun,Let us talk of the New Years departed,And call this the happiest one.
January 1st, 1873
A year that was solemn, and sad and strange,Has passed away to its tomb,Since we made the graves of our dear, dead bravesLike a garden, all abloom,--A year that brought sorrow, and want, and change--A year with a fateful breath:And the dreaded beat of its flame-shod feetWrought ruin, and woe, and death.
High and higher the tongues of fireLeaped up in a single night,Till the walls of a town went crumbling down,And a city fell in her might.And with flame and disease, and woes like these,Death laughed in his mad, wild glee;And Pestilence loosened his imps in the land,And ships went down at sea.
But with all of the passion, and pain, and fear,--With all of the long, sad hours,--We have not forgotten to offer hereOur yearly tribute of flowers.I think the heart in a loyal breastKnows no such word asforget;And I think--nay, know--that in weal or in woe,Weshall remember our debt.
The debt of a nation redeemed from shame,And a million of slaves set free,Of a spotless fame, and cherished name,Honored on land and sea.Of the dear old flag kept out of the dust,The flag of the brave and true,And this is the debt we are owing yetTo the boys who wore the blue.
Thousands are sleeping in Southern graves,With no slab to tell us where;But the land where the sweet magnolia waves,God's hands keep fresh and fair.And the angels above; in pity and love,Watch over the unknown mound,Where some heart's joy, some mother's boy,A nameless grave has found.
To a clear sweet song that is free and strong,Yet sad with a minor strain,I liken the lives of the boys in blue,Who died ere they knew our gain;To a glad, glad song, that rings loud and bold,In a stirring major key,I liken in thought, the boys who fought,And were crowned with victory.
To the hero who comes with the beating of drums,We can give the laurels of fame;And with mirth, and music, and song and feast,We can honor and praise his name;But we bring to the bed of the sainted dead,Only these wreaths to-day;Yet they speak with their bloom and sweet perfume,More than our lips can say.
They speak of a love that can never die,But strengthen and grow with time;Of lives that blossom again on high,--Of a faith and hope sublime.They tell how a grateful nation's heartRemembers her tried and true,And how tears are shed for the honored dead,For the boys who wore the blue.
They speak of the higher and purer lifeThat the Lord's dear angels know;Where nought can enter of pain or strife,And tears can never flow.Sleep on brave boys your graves are as greenAs the thoughts we give to ye,And these blooms will say ye are shrined alwayIn the halls of memory.
Forest Hill Cemetery, May 30th, 1872
If we sit down at set of sun,And count the things that we have done,And counting, findOne self-denying act, one wordThat eased the heart of him who heard,One glance, most kind,That fell like sunshine where it went--Then we may count that day well spent.
Or, on the other hand, if we,In looking through the day, can seeA place or spotWhere we an unkind act put down,Or where we smiled when wont to frown,Or crushed some thoughtThat cumbered the heart--ground where it stood--Then we may count that day as good.
But if, through all the life-long day,We've eased no heart by yea or nay;If through it allWe've done no thing that we can trace,That brought the sunshine to a face--No act most smallThat helped some soul, and nothing cost--Then count that day as worse than lost.
1869
When the glad spring time walked over the border,And the brown honey bee crept from his cell;When the sun and the west wind put nature in order,And decked her in robes that became her so well,Then did my torpid heart waken from slumber,Then did I first spring to life and to light.For what were the years passed without thee; they numberOnly as one long, dark, flavorless night.
In the flush of the spring time, I saw thee, and seeing,Loved with the love that had waited for thee.A life that I never had known, sprang to being--A life and a love that were heaven to me.There never before was such warmth in the summer,There never before were such hues in the fall,Never such balm in the breath of that comerWho shrouds the dead seasons, and rules over all.
Love, I have drunk in the charm of thy presence,The elixir that grants me perpetual life.My blood leaps, and bounds! I am thrilled with the essence,And soar over trials, and troubles, and strife.We live, and we love! and what grief can alarm us;Darling, my darling, the world is our own!Life never can rob us--death cannot disarm usOf this, our vast riches, our wealth, love, alone.
The summer is dead! Did'st know it, my darling?Did'st know that the winter walked over the earth?The gold-breasted thrush, and the quaker-crowned starlingMake glad other lands, with their innocent mirth.Ah no! for the summer of love in thy bosom,Make summer and sunlight, for thee, everywhere.Ishould not have known: but I missed the bright blossomThat all through the summer, I saw in thy hair.
1870
Oh, households wherein skeletons abide!Keep the dark closet closed, nor think it wiseTo throw the door open for stranger eyes,To see the grinning, fleshless thing inside.
I hate that senseless, imbecile displayOf loathsome things, that calls the gaping crowdTo gaze and comment. Let the screening shroudCover the faces of the dead, I say.
And if a household counts a skeleton,Then keep the ghastly phantom closeted;Nor flaunt the bones of the unquiet deadFor all the vulgar throng to gaze upon.
Oh, you whose souls are burdened cruelly,Who shrink in anguish at the bitter smartThat gnaweth, burneth, at your very heart--Cover the wounds, that strangers shall not see!
Think you a bleeding heart will sooner heal,To hang where all the cutting winds that blow,And all the birds of prey can mock its woe?I hate that vain parade, of all we feel.
Whoever knew the world to give reliefTo any private sorrow of a heart!Its sneering pity is a poisoned dart!Then closet well your phantoms, and your grief.
1869
Every morning, as I walk downFrom my dreary lodgings, toward the town,I see at the window near the street,The face of a woman, fair, and sweet,With soft brown eyes, and chestnut hair,And red lips, warm with the kiss left there.And she lingers as long as she can seeThe man who walks, just ahead of me.
At night, when I come from my office, down town,There stands the woman, with eyes of brown,Smiling out through the window-blind,At the man who comes strolling on behind.This fellow and I resemble each other;At least, so I'm told, by one and another.(But I think I'm the handsomer, far, of the two.)I don't know him at all, save to "how d'ye do,"Or nod when I meet him. I think he's at workIn a dry goods store, as a salaried clerk.
And I am a lawyer, of high renown;Have a snug bank account, and an office down town.Yet I feel for that fellow an envious spite:(It has no better name, so I speak it outright.)There were symptoms before: but it's grown, I believe,Alarmingly fast, since one cloudy eve,When passing the little house, close by the street,I heard the patter of two tiny feet,And a figure in pink, fluttered down to the gate,And a sweet voice exclaimed, "Oh, Will, you are lateAnd, darling, I've watched at the window until--Sir, I beg pardon! I thought it was Will."
I passed on my way, with an odd little smartBeneath my vest pocket, in what's called the heart.For, as it happens, my name, too, is Will;And that voice crying "darling" sent such a strange thrillThroughout my whole being. "How nice it would be,"Thought I, "if it were in reality meThat she's watched and longed for, instead of that lout."(It was envy made me use that word, no doubt,For he's a fine fellow, and handsome, ahem!)But then it's absurd that this rare little gemOf a woman, should be on the look-out for him,Till she brings on a headache, and makes her eyes dim,While I go to lodgings, dull, dreary, and bare,With no one to welcome me, no one to careIf I'm early, or late--no soft eyes of brownTo watch when I go to, or come from, the town.
This bleak, wretched bachelor life, is about,If I may be allowed the expression--played out.Somewhere there must be, in this wide world, I think,Another fair woman, who dresses in pink.And I know of a cottage for sale just below,And it has a French window, in front, and--heighoI wonder how long, at the longest, 'twill be,Before coming home from the office I'll seeA nice little woman there, watching for me.
1870
How can I let my youth go by?How can I let Time mark my brow,And steal the light of a laughing eye,And whiten the locks that are nut brown now.And the tide that goes,And ripples, and flows,Like a beautiful river, on forever,Over my head, through every vein,And fills me, and thrills me, with joy like pain,Old cruel Time,With a touch of rime,Will drug, and chill, and freeze, untilIt likes a stream,In its winter dream.
Ho! ho! old Time! you may chuckle and smile,But Death may cheat you, and beat you yet;What shall you say, if, after a while,Ere the sun of my youth has set,I go with him, to a closet dim,And closing my eyes, in a long, long rest,Lie white and cold,And never grow old,With my two hands clasped over my breast.Always young,With my song half sung--Lying under the graves' green mould;And the world, for a dayWould miss me, and say,"When will the rest of the tale be told?"And then go on,Gaily on,Till its hopes were fears, and its young were old.And, lying there,What should I care,Though Time, in a phrenzy of baffled rage,Should beat on my grave,And howl and rave,That I would not barter my youth, for age;But lie and sleep,; Down low and deep,Though suns of a thousand seasons set.Always young,Never old,With my song half sung,And my tale half told--Ho, ho, old Time, I may cheat you yet!
December, 1869
Sometime fame shall come to me;Sometime in the "yet to be."Not to-day, and not to-morrow;After years of toil and sorrow,After losing youth and grace,In the weary, foolish chase.
After weeks of bitter tears,After months, and after years,After waiting day on day,Throwing love, and peace away,I shall find the phantom nearing--I shall find the shadows clearing.
I shall reach the thing I sought,I shall reach, and find it--what?Will it recompense, and payFor the joys I cast away?In the weary, weary race,When I lost my youth, and grace?
Is it worth the wear, and strife--Worth the best part of a life?Thus have men and women queried,Standing on the summit, weariedWith the long and steep ascent,When their youth and grace were spent.
Time sweeps onward with his cycle:Life is brief, and love is fickle.I will pause not at his calling,I will heed not tear-drops falling:Fame, but Fame, will satisfy,I shall find it by and by.
1870
The harsh king, Winter, sat upon the hills,And reigned, and ruled the earth right royally.He locked the rivers, lakes, and all the rills."I am no puny, maudlin king," quoth he,"But a stern monarch, born to rule and reign,And I will show my power to the end;The summer's flowery retinue I've slain,And taken the bold, free North-Wind for my friend.
"Spring, Summer, Autumn--feeble queens they were,With their vast troops of flowers, birds, and bees,And winds, that made the long, green grasses stir--They lost their own identity in these.I scorn them all! nay, I defy them all!And none can wrest the sceptre from my hand.The trusty North-Wind answers to my call,And breathes his icy breath upon the land."
The Siren, South-Wind, listening the while,Now floated airily across the lea."Oh, King!" she said, with tender tone and smile,"I come to do all homage unto thee.In all the sunny region whence I came,I find none like thee, King, so brave and grand.Thine is a well-deserved, unrivalled fame;I kiss in awe, dear King, thy cold white hand."
Her words were pleasing, and most fair her face.He listened rapt, to her soft-whispered praise.She nestled nearer, in her Siren grace;"Dear King," she said, "henceforth my voice shall raiseBut songs of thy unrivalled splendor! Lo!How white thy brow is! How thy garments shine--I tremble 'neath thy beaming glance, for oh,Thy wondrous beauty mak'st thee seem divine."
The vain king listened, in a trance of bliss,To this most sweet sweet voiced Siren from the south.She nestled close, and pressed a lingering kissUpon the stern white pallor of his mouth.She hung upon his breast--she pressed his cheek--And he was nothing loth to hold her there.While she such tender, loving words did speakAnd combed his white locks, with her fingers fair.
And so she bound him, in her Siren wiles,And stole his strength with every glance she gave,And stabbed him through and through with tender smiles,And with her loving words she dug his grave.And then she left him: old, and weak, and blind--And unlocked all the rivers, lakes and rills,While the Queen Spring, with her whole troop behind,Of flowers, and birds, and bees, came over the hills.
1871
After the summer glory has departed,After the sun slides low adown the skies,After each snowy rose, and the red-hearted,Droops in the chilling blast, and faints, and dies,When the brown bee no longer seeks the clover,But flies away, and hides in his honeyed den.And from the bleak hills cutting winds blow over,Full of keen darts--ah, will you love me then?
Or is it but the passion heat of Summer,That you mistake for love within your heart?And will not Winter, that unwelcome comer,With his cold, scornful sneers, make it depart?Have not the subtle odors of the flowersDrugged you, and made you drunk with rare perfumes?And when the winter crashes through the bowers,Will not your love fade, with the fading blooms?
If so, I will not listen to your wooing;And I will turn from words and glances sweet.Because I will not hear a drunkard's suing--Drunken with rose-scents, and the summer heat.But if you woo me, in sound mind, and reason,And can convince me fully it is so,And that your love will last through any season,Why then, my answer will notquitebe--No.
1870
Love, in the glow of the sunset,I have been thinking of you.Thinking what you might have made me,If you had been constant and true.You know I built wonderful castles,And you had a part in them all;But you cheated me, Love, you remember.And down fell each beautiful wall.
Well, you see I lost faith in all women--The very worst thing I could do.Thought they were all of one pattern,And that was inconstant, untrue.I know it was but a mad fancy:Know women are truer than men.But I wish I had found it out sooner,Or could live my life over again.
For you see I have wasted my manhood;I don't really care to tell how.And if I could live it all over,I think I could better it now.I would marry some nice little woman--Some other, if I couldn't get you.And I would be tender and faithful,And she would be constant and true.
1870
Once there was a boat, locked fast to a shore,But rust ate the chain, day by day,And the boat was loosened more and more,As the fastenings slipped away.Yet, any day, an outstretched hand,Could have caught, and locked it again to land.
But never a hand was stretched to save,And the boat at last was free;And shot like an arrow over the wave,And drifted out mid-sea.And never, oh never, across the main,Will the boat to the shore be brought again.
So was my heart, love--linked to thine;But neglect ate the chains away:Yet a tender word love, I opine,Would have saved it, any day.Ay! a tender word, said first or last,Would have mended the chain, and held it fast.
But the word was lacking: and so my heart,Slipped from its chains, like the boat.And then as the last link fell apart,It sped o'er the waves--afloat.Nor pleading hands, nor words, you see,Brings the boat to shore, or my heart to thee.
Roses and Lilies, both are sweet;Lily and Rose, both are fair;But which to gather for mine alway,Which to gather, and keep, and wear,That is the question that bothers me,For I cannot wear them both, you see.
Rose is the brightest and blithest of girls:I could lay my heart at her tiny feet,And gaze forever in those dark eyes,And kiss forever those lips so sweet.And holding her soft, white, clinging hand,Dreamily float into Eden land.
And Lily--Lily, my ocean pearl,So sweetly tender, so moonlight fair,I could float to heaven upon her smile,And kiss forever her silken hair,That droppeth down, like a golden veilOver her cheek, and brow--snow pale.
Lilies and Roses--both are fair:Rose, or Lily, which shall it be?I love them both with my heart of hearts,But I cannot wed them both, you see.Dark-eyed Rose, my winsome girl--Moon-faced Lily, my ocean pearl.
1870
'Tis said, when we shall go across the river,Whose bridge is death, and gain the other side,There in that land, with God, the mighty Giver,The heart shall evermore be satisfied.
And yet, sometimes I cannot help but wonder,How I can live in heaven without your love;How live, rejoicing, through all time, I ponder,And not have you, even with God above.
We bear such things on earth, for we rememberThat life is but a little span, at best.Its passion summer, but precedes December,And in the grave, we say, there will be rest.
But after death, time stretches with no limit:Your love, no time can ever bring to me.Is heaven so bright this shadow can not dim it?It seems so long--that strange Eternity.
How could my heart, and soul, change so completelyThat I should never think of this up there?But in the angel choruses join sweetly,Nor ever feel this gnawing grief, and care.
How vast God's lore! how vain the skill of mortal!He did not mean that we should understand,Until our feet had crossed the shining portal,The things so deep, and fathomless, and grand.
And He has made a heaven--a place most holy,For His redeemed to sometime enter in.And there is room for all the meek and lowly,Whose faith, through sorrow hath washed out all sin.
And I believe, when we shall cross the river,Whose bridge is death, and reach the other side,There in that land, with God the gracious Giver,Our hearts shall evermore be satisfied.
1869
Thou dost not know it! but to hearOne word of praise from thee,There is no pain I would not bear--No task too great for me.My hands could tireless toil all day,My feet could tireless run,If at the close thy lips would say,"Brave, noble heart, well done."
Thou dost not know it! but to winApproval from thine eyes,My soul has conquered many a sin,And conquering, neared tee skies.And though the reward may not be given,In all my earthly days,I feel that after death--in heaven,Thy lips will give me praise.
Thou dost not know--may never know,That all I strive to be,All things praiseworthy that I do,I strive, and do, for thee.And though I seldom see thy face,Or touch thy hand, my friend,Those meetings are the means of grace,That help me to the end.
Thou dost not know that thy grand lifeHas been my beacon light.I aim to conquer in the strife,That I may reach thy height.I strive to live, so that my feetMay walk the fields most fair,For the afterlife, seems, oh! so sweet,Becausethouwilt be there.
Thou dost not know how brave and strongA woman's heart can be.But few could hide so well and longWhat mine has hid from thee.So well, that should this idyl chanceTo meet thine eye, my friend,Thou'd scan it with a careless glance.Nor dream to whom 'twas penned.
1872
Linger, linger, oh royal year!For I grieve to see you dying.Rest on the hilltops--loiter near;Wait, O Time, in your flying.For never, in all the twice ten years,You have brought to build my twenty.Never was one so free from tears--So overflowing with plenty.
Filled to the brim with the purest draughts,That I sip in fearless pleasure;While an unseen spirit watches and laughs,And again refills the measure.My brightest dreams, and my fondest hopes,The year has gathered together,And right bountifully they have come to me.From the Spring to the Autumn weather.
The rarest of flowers, subtle and sweet,That grew in the world Ideal,Have dropped their seeds in the soil at my feet,And blossomed among the Real.And Love, like a rose, still blossoms and blows,Passion-hearted, yet tender.And my path is strewn with the glories of June,And I'm hedged about with its splendor.
Care flew over the hills, one day,And I sang, as he swift retreated;And Hope took his crown, and Joy settled down,On the throne where Care had been seated.Contentment hedged me all round about,And Love built his blazing fire;And Happiness poured his treasures out,And left me with no desire.
I have walked breast high in a sea of bliss:I have loved my God, and my brother.There never before was a year like this--There never can be another.Linger, loiter, a little while,For I grieve to see you dying!But even in grief, I can only smile,For my heart is too light for sighing.
December, 1870
My life has been a summer day complete,Teeming with pleasures, tender, pure, and sweet.But tiny clouds have ever dimmed the sky,And they have quickly passed, and floated by.
Oh, seldom in this thorny world of ours,Is mortal's pathway so bestrewn with flowers.Fragrant and fair, they ever blow and bloom,Untouched by chilling frosts, and wintry gloom.And I thank God, for all his tenderness,And from my very soul adore, and blessHim who has cast my lines in pleasant ways,And crowned with joy and happiness my days.
But sometimes, though the sun shines clear and bright,And all the world seems full of joy and light,A nameless shadow, none but I can see,Falls on my heart, hushing its melody.A nameless, voiceless shadow; but I knowIt tells of future agony and woe.Some mighty sorrow, vague and undefined,But dark, and awful, waits for me, behindThat shadowy cloud. Something of woe and tears--Of grief, and anguish, is the future years.
It floats away, and I rejoice again,With all my warm young heart untouched by pain.But ever and anon I see it loom,Over my life, and feel its awful gloom.
Oh God! I know not what is hidden there.But give me strength to suffer and to bear.Oh, guide my soul! and teach me how to pray,And make my spirit stronger every day.Upon Thy mighty arm, oh! let me rest,And lean. And when Thou deemest best,Reveal, my Father, what is hid behindThe nameless shadow, vague, and undefined.
1869
My Love was a poor man's daughter,And I was a poor man's son.And oft we walked on the sea shore,When the work of the day was done.Hand in hand, on the gleaming strand,And our two hearts beat as one.
My Love was meek, and gentle,And she was wondrous fair;With hazel dyes in her slumbrous eyes,And chestnut shades in her hair.And we raked hay on the meadow,And I gave my heart in her care.
But the great, notched wheel of Fortune,Kept turning on and on.And she was a rich man's daughter,And I was a poor man's son.And she had a score of lovers, or more.But I was the favored one.
And I passed hard by her window,Nor turned my face to seeThe lady fair, with gems in her hair,As fine as fine could be.Though I knew her heart was dyingFor just one word from me.
My Love grew pale as the lily,And faded day by day,And I passed by, and heard her sigh,And turned my face away.For I was proud as the proudest--And her gold between us lay.
And the great, notched wheel of FortuneKept rolling on and on.And she was a poor man's daughter,And I was a rich man's son.And maids of grace smiled in my face,But I saw only one.
I found my love in the cottage,Where first I sought her side.And I shall not tellhowI wooed--but well,For she had not my pride.And I gave my heart in her keeping,And won her for my bride.
1870
These quiet autumn days,My soul, like Noah's dove, on airy wingsGoes out, and searches for the hidden things,Beyond the hills of haze.
With mournful, pleading criesAbove the waters of the voiceless seaThat laps the shores of broad Eternity,Day after day it flies.
Searching, but all in vain,For some stray leaf that it may light upon,And read the future as the days agone--Its pleasure and its pain.
Listening, patiently,For some voice speaking from the mighty deep,Revealing all the secrets it doth keep,In silence, there for me.
Come back and wait! my soul,Day after day thy search has been in vain,Voiceless and silent o'er the future's plainIts mystic waters roll.
God seeing, knoweth best,And in his time the waters shall subside,And thou shalt know what lies beneath the tide.Then wait, my soul, and rest.
1869
In the warm yellow smile of the morning,She stands at the lattice pane.And watches the strong young bindersStride down to the fields of grain;And she counts the over and overAs they pass the cottage door:Are they six? she counts them seven--Are they seven? she counts one more.
When the sun swings high in the heavens,And the reapers go shouting home,She calls to the household, saying"Make haste! for the binders have come!And Johnnie will want his dinner--He was always a hungry child;"And they answer, "Yes, it is waiting;"Then tell you, "Her brain is wild."
Again, in the hush of the evening,When the work of the day is done,And the binders go singing homewardIn the last red rays of the sun,She will sit at the threshold waiting,And her withered face lights with joy:"Come, Johnnie," she says, as they pass her,"Come in to the house, my boy."
Five summers ago, her JohnnieWent out in the smile o' the morn,Singing across the meadow,Striding down through the corn:He towered above the bindersWalking on either side,And the mother's heart within herSwelled with exultant pride.
For he was the light of the household;His brown eyes were wells of truth,And his face was the face of the morning,Lit with its pure, fresh youth;And his song rang out from the hill-tops,Like the mellow blast of a horn,As he strode o'er the fresh shorn meadows,And down through the rows of corn.
But hushed were the voices of singing,Hushed by the presence of death,As back to the cottage they bore him--In the noontide's scorching breath.For the heat of the sun had slain him,Had smitten the heart in his breast,And he who had towered above themLay lower than all the rest.The grain grows ripe in the sunshine,And the summers ebb and flow,And the binders stride to their labor,And sing as they come and go;But never again from the hill-topsEchoes the voice like a horn;Never up from the meadows,Never back from the corn.
Yet the poor, crazed brain of the motherFancies him always near;She is blest in her strange delusion,For she knoweth no pain, no fear:And always she counts the bindersAs they pass her cottage door;Are they six, she counts them seven:Are they seven, she counts one more.
1870
Once Pain beat on my heart,And well-nigh killed it.I shuddered at the smart,But said, "God willed it."And down and down again,With awful power,Fell the great hand of Pain,Hour after hour.
While, like a mighty flail,The fierce blows hurt me,I cried, "God doth prevail:He'll not desert me."Blow upon cruel blow,The great hand gave me,Yet I cried, "He doth know,And he will save me."
I did not loudly cry,And ask God's reason;I knew He'd tell me why,In his own season."In His good time," I said,In trusting blindness,And I was not afraidTo wait his kindness.
I did not trust in vain.God drew me nearer,And whispered, "Smile again!The way is clearer."And lo! my mortal sightCould reach to heaven,My faith dispelled the night,And light was given.
When on the crowded thoroughfare,Amidst the motley throng I stray.In all the stranger faces there,I meet and pass from day to day.Whether the face be young, or old,Or wreathed in smiles, or calm, or cold.On every brow I trace some lineThat links the strangers' heart to mine.
Though a proud beauty rustles by,With haughty mien, I smile and say,"You have a heart-ache--so have I:We both are hiding it to-day.Though you are rich, I am poor,We both have entered sorrow's door;Grief comes alike to you and me,So we are of one family."
The richest nabob that I meet,The poorest delver that I see,Youth and old age upon the street,Are one and all the same to me.No heart that beats, but has its grief;Nor wealth, nor youth, gives full relief;And through the tears that sometimes fallI claim relationship to all.
So poor, and rich, and high, and low,I meet upon this common plain.Though far and wide our paths may lie,We entertain the same guest--Pain.The subtle threads of this strange cord,Draw me to mankind, and the Lord,And through the sorrows heaven sends,I hold all men to be my friends.
1869
Cold is the wind, that blows up from the river.Cold is the blast that sweeps over the plain.In the bleak breath of the morning, I shiver--Shiver and weep, in my desolate pain.She was so fair--like the beautiful lily--Fair, oh too fair to be hidden away.And the grave is so dark, and so damp, and so chilly,And she--oh my love!--will be buried to-day.
White is the snow that is heaped on the meadow,Whiter the face, in this desolate room.Low in the valley lurk darkness and shadow--Low lies my heart, in its sorrow and gloom.How the spades scrape, on the sods they are breaking,Breaking, and cutting the snowdrifts away.How the men bend to the grave they are making.Where she--oh my love!--will be buried to-day.
Thick are the walls! but the bleak wind will enter,And chill her through all her long slumber, I know.Rich are her robes! but the merciless WinterWill beat on her breast, with its tempests of snow.Oh, she was guarded, and shielded from sorrow--Kept from the shadows, and darkness, alway.But she will lie, as the beggar to-morrow--My love--oh my love!--that is buried to-day.
1870
Often, when I am alone,Thinking of the "things unseen;"Things to our eyes never shown,Hidden by the veil betweenThis world and eternity--To be lifted by and by.Oft the thought has come to me,"Who will robe me, when I die."
When the night-time swiftly nears,And my last sleep comes apace,And the mourners' bitter tearsFall above my dying face;When I pass out, white and still,Where no mortal hand can save,Out beyond the reach of skill--Who will robe me, for the grave?
When my work is all complete,And I have no more to do,And I pass with willing feet,From the old life, to the new;While my dear ones numb with woe,Weep above my pulseless heart,Who, of all the friends I know,Who will robe me to depart?
Who will fold my pallid hands,On my quiet bosom; closeEyes that gaze on other lands,Clothe me for my last repose?When soft fingers toy and playWith my tresses tenderly,Oft the thought has come to me,"Willtheserobe me, when I die?"
"Cinnamon Roses!" she said, "how fair,"Holding them out in her finger-tips."Yes," I whispered, "the hue they wearWas borrowed out of thy cheeks, and lips.Beautiful roses! and each supposesItself replete, with thy graces, Sweet.Fair they may be, yet not like thee--See! they fade at thy smile, dear maid!"
"Give me a Rose!" and nothing loth,She tossed a beautiful bud to me.But I gathered the maid and the flowers both--Close to my breast. "Not that, butthee!I most am wanting. The dear face hauntingMy heart each hour, is the sweetest flower."And I gathered close the face like a rose,And kissed her lips and her finger-tips.
The leaves, from the roses in her hand,Dropped one by one: but thethornwas left.(Fool, that I did not understand.)Cheated, and jilted, and all bereft,Of the fair, false blossom I held on my bosomI stand to-day. But thethornalwayPierces my heart like a cruel dart.The rose is dead: and her love--has fled.
1870
The New Year wedded the winter--Winter, the harsh old king!Whose head was a snow-capped mountain--Whose breath was the North-Wind's sting.But he wooed and wedded the maiden,And gave her a robe of snow;And hung on her breast bright jewels,With a lace-work of frost below.
And the days flowed on like a river;And the mother looked up and smiled,When she laid in the arms of Winter,Their beautiful first-born child."And what shall we name our infant?"She said to the harsh old king.And the old man kissed her softly,And said, "we will call her Spring."
"And how shall we robe our darling?I have always dressed in white!But she must be clothed in colors--With something soft, and bright."And the old man smiled and answered,"We will give her a robe of green;Trimmed with the fairest flowers,And buds, that were ever seen!"
And he kissed the beautiful infant,Softly on cheek, and brow,And he clasped the hand of the mother,And said "I am going now!The days of my life were numbered,And the last is slipping away.But I leave you to guard our darling,Wherever her steps shall stray."
1870
Under the moon two lovers walked--The silver moon--the round, full moon;Under its beams they softly talked.Of youth, and love, and June.And they plighted their vows in the silvery light,For their hearts, like the moon, were full, that night.
Under the moon they walked again--The setting the moon--the waning moon.And scarcely a word was said by the twain.(Ah moon, you set too soon.)For love, in one o' the hearts, like the rimOf the waning moon, grew faint, and dim.
Under the skies a maiden stood--The cold night skies--the moonless skies:She heard the owl in the lonely wood,And she heard her own deep sighs."Heart and skies devoid of light;Oh God!" she cried, "what a dreary night!"
Under the skies is a narrow mound--The watchful skies--the starry skies.And the rays of the moon, so full and round,Shine down, where the maiden lies.And they shine on the fickle lover, whoWalks with another, and woos anew.
The sweetest songs that were ever sung,And those that please the best,Through sorrow, and grief, and tears were wrungFrom some o'er-burdened breast.Though the words breathe only of mirth, and bloom,And the strains are the gladdest and lightest,Remember that after a night of gloom,The rays of the sun are brightest.
The rain must fall, ere the spring-time grassGrows tender, and green, and sweet.Through the pangs of travail, a soul must pass,Ere a song is born complete.After a winter of storm, and snow,Blossom the buds in our bowers:After a season of tears and woe,Blossom the poet's flowers.
There are few who give the poet a thought,When they read the pleasing strain.There are few who know that a poem is wroughtThrough sorrow, and tears, and pain.The merriest song, and the blithest lay,And those that are sweetest and gladdest,Are woven in gloomy and cheerless days,When the poet's heart is the saddest.
I am walking in the darkness:All around me is the night.I am groping in the shadows,And I cannot see the light.Every sunbeam has departed;There is gloom throughout the land.I am fainting by the wayside--Heavenly Father, take my hand.
Oh, the paths are rough and thorny,That my weary feet have trod.I am bleeding--I am dying,Take me by the hand, O God!Let my gloomy way be lighted,By the glory of Thy face!And thy broad and mighty bosom,Let it be my resting place.
Through this awful night of sorrow,Father, let me hear thy voice.Teach me how to sing in anguish--How to suffer, and rejoice.Take me by the hand, and guide me,Lead me in the better way.Through this vale of storm, and tempest,To the land of perfect day.
Strengthen me for every contest:Let my prayer be not in vain.I would bless thee in my sorrow--I would glory in my pain.Make my spirit white, for heaven!Let my soul be purifiedIn the blood that flowed so freely,From the wound in Jesus' side.
Gird my soul, oh God, for battle!I am weak, O make me strong.Do not let my courage falter,Though the strife be fierce, and long.And upon Thy hand, my Father,Let me keep a clinging hold,Till I cross the pearly portal,To the city built of gold.
1869
[Written after the attempt of Sensation Lovers to prove thatShakespeare's plays were written by Lord Bacon.]
Lo! here's another corpse exhumed!Another Poet disinterred!Sensation cried, "Dig up the grave,And let the dust be hoed and stirred;And bring the bones of Shakespeare out!'Twill edify the throng, no doubt.
"The Byron scandal has grown old!That rare tit-bit is flat, and stale.The throng is gaping for more food!We need a new sensation tale.Old Shakespeare sleeps too well, and sound.Tear off the shroud--dig up the ground!
"We have exhumed poor 'Raven Poe'And proved beyond the shade of doubt,Hesaw no raven, after all.Now trot the bones of Shakespeare out!Byron, and Poe, and Shakespeare--good!Who shall we serve up next for food?"
And who, say I, oh seers of earth!What corpse comes next? I daily lookTo see if some sage hasn't provedThat Jones, or Smith, wrote Lalla Rook!Or Blifkins lent his brains to Moore--Who was a plagiarist, and boor.
Sensation, keep your servants out;Let them be watchful, and alert!We'll need a new discovery soon:Tell them to dig about the dirt,And tear off Keats', or Shelly's shroud,To please and edify the crowd.
1870
Into the mellow light of the cloudless autumn day,Somehow, the vision slips, of a landscape, far away,Wherever I turn my eyes, it hovers before them still,The little, vine-wreathed cot, on the southerly slope of the hill,
The pasture at the left, the ducks a-swim in the pond,And the straight, green rows of corn, with the wheat fields just beyond,The sloping lawn on the right, that is always seeming to sayTo the lake that lies below, "I will meet you just half way."
And over and over the cot, from th' ground to th' mossy eaves,Cling, and twine, and clamber the vines, with their dark, green leaves;The little mimic garden, with its simple flowers a-blow,Larkspur, bleeding hearts, and the clumps of phlox, like snow;
Petunias, red and white, like drooping and fragile maids,Rose trees hanging down, with roses of many shades,Marigolds, bachelor-buttons, with clusters of evergreen,On the two trim rows of beds, with the narrow path between,
And the setting rays of the sun, lending it all a flush,That is given to sunset scenes, by the heavenly Artist's brush.It is thus it rises to-day, and hovers before my eyes;I have seen it softly lit, with the mornings' sweet surprise--
I have seen it when the dew glistened upon the grass--In the hush of the summer noon, when the calm lake lay like glass--In the ghostly rays o' the moon--in the quiet of the night--But never half so fair as under that sunset light.
Ah! foolish, and weak old heart, must you live it over again?Why reopen the book, whose final page was Pain!But the picture rises before me, rises, and hovers there,And the glory of the sunset falls on the maiden's hair;
The maid, who stood in that garden ten long summers ago,Stood by the "bleeding hearts," and the clusters of phlox, like snow.Ah! musty and dusty old heart, you were younger and lighter then!Yet not young, for now you have beat, two score years and ten;But that one summer holds the essence of all my life,The forty years before were records of toil and strife,And I opened the book again, when my holiday was o'er,And began at the page I left, and plodded on as before.
Weary of law, of work, of the dust, and heat of th' town,Ill, in body and mind, my heart went longing downTo the cool, green country meadows; and I followed it one day,And there in the vine-wreathed cot, let the summer slip away;
Ay! and I let the heart I had guarded forty years--The heart that had never been stirred by love's wild hopes and fears--I let it slip away to the maid with amber eyes,With tresses dusky brown, and cheeks like th' sunset skies.
Ah! secret I tried to keep, ah! love I strove to hide!But in the July twilight, I lingered at her side,And, leaning by the rose tree, her tresses swept my cheek!"Ah! sweet," I cried in a tremor, "I love you--let me speak!"
And then, somehow the love I had thought to guard untoldBroke loose from the fetters of silence, and gathered strength, and rolledForth in a torrent of words; and I knelt at the maiden's feet,Crying, "Grant me a token, as yea or nay, my sweet."
And then, with a shy, sweet smile, she gave me her finger-tips,And, bolder grown, I said, as I raised them to my lips,"'Twere a lesser love than mine, that were wholly satisfied,With a touch of your fingertips, and farther than that denied."
The curtains of her eyes dropped low, and I drew her close,And over and over again kissed the sweet face like a rose.I said, "I have pleaded a case, and won it; do you see?And now I take my pay! for a lawyer must have his fee."
Ah! summer over and gone, into the echoless past!Oh! August afternoons, that drifted by too fast!Oh! rows on the quiet lake, in the blissful moonlit eves,When the harvesters sang their song, carrying home the sheaves.
I can hear it even now, the voices, strong and sweet,Over the noise, and rattle, and roar of the busy street,I can see the face of Mable, full lipped, ripe, and fair,With the amber tints in her eyes, and the dusky shades on her hair.
Into my life's September, came the beauty I missed in June,The glory lost in the morning, came in the afternoon.The dream that belongs to youth, golden--complete--sublime,I dreamed not, in the spring, but in the autumn time.
Ah! and the young heart wakes from the dream of love, and then,Suffers a little while, and dreams it over again.But never a second draught of the wine of love for me,I drank it all at the first, and shattered the cup, you see.
I woke from the golden dream when I sawheron the breastOf a fair-faced, beardless youth--when I saw his red lips pressedOver and over again to the mouth, like a rose half blown,And I heard her whispered words--"My only love, my own."
Hush! censure them not! His heart she toyed with even as mine.He suffered keenly, I think, then knelt at another's shrine.And she--speak softly of her--she died: she is only dust;Died repentant--forgiven--and entered Heaven--I trust.
And I--well my years drift on, as my two-score drifted away,Only at times, this memory comes, as it came to-day,Thrilling me through and through--and I live it all once more,Though I shut the past away, and have striven to lock the door.
Have I lost all faith in woman? Nay, surely not: should weSay that every heart is false becauseoneproves to be!Because I find a worm in the petals of a rose,Shall I say that worms are coiled in every flower that blows?
Nay, there are constant woman, and women as sweet and fairAs she with the amber eyes, and the shadows on her hair.But I found the wine of love so late, that when I quaffedI held none in reserve, but drank it all at a draught.
The future? I do not dread: it is neither dark nor bright.I have had my day of joy--I have had my sorrow's night.God helped me through the last--I do not know just how,But He answered when I called Him, and why should I doubt him now?
Nor mortal eye can see, nor mortal heart conceive,What He holdeth in His kingdom for the faithful that believe.But I sometimes think the dream that was broken here for me,I shall finish and complete by the shining Jasper sea.
1870