When I am dead, if some chastened one,Seeing the "item," or hearing it saidThat my play is over, and my part done,And I lie asleep in my narrow bed--If I could know that some soul would say,Speaking aloud or silently,"In the heat, and burden of the day,She gave a refreshing draught to me;"
Or, "when I was lying nigh unto death,She nursed me to life, and to strength again,And when I labored and struggled for breath,She soothed and quieted down my pain;"Or, "when I was groping in grief and doubt,Lost, and turned from the light o' the day,Her hand reached me and helped me out,And led me up to the better way."
Or, "when I was hated and shunned by all,Bowing under my sin and my shame,She, once, in passing me by, let fallWords of pity and hope that cameInto my heart, like a blessed calmOver the waves of the stormy sea,Words of comfort like oil and balm.She spake, and the desert blossomed for me."
Better by far, than a marble tomb--Than a monument towering over my head;(What shall I care, in my quiet room,For head board or foot board, when I am dead)Better than glory, or honors, or fame,(Though I am striving for those to-day)To know that some heart will cherish my name,And think of me kindly, with blessings, alway.
1870
It is well to be free in conversing,It is well to be able to chatWith a friend on a subject of interest--With a stranger on this thing or that.Don't aim to be cold or reticent,But listen to reason I pray,And remember this wisest of mottos,"Don't talk when you've nothing to say."
A gay, lively friend, or companion,With wits that are ready and quick,Is better by far, than a stupid,And unconversational stick.Yet speech at the best is but silver,While silence is golden alway.And remember at all times and places,Don't talk when you've nothing to say.
I like to see well informed peopleWho knowwhatto say,howandwhen.And a little good nonsense and jestingIs not out of place, now and then.But I dread the approach of a Magpie,Who chatters from grave themes to gay,Who talks from the morn to the midnight,And always with nothing to say.
1871
All day the trees were moaningFor the leaves that they had lost,All day they creaked and trembled,And the naked branches tossedAnd shivered in the north windAs he hurried up and down.Over hill-tops bleak and cheerless,Over meadows bare and brown.
"Oh, my green and tender leaflets.Oh, my fair buds, lost and gone!"So, they moaned through all the daytime,So, they groaned till night came on.And the hoar-frost lurked and listenedTo the wailing, sad refrain,And he whispered, "wait--be patient--I will cover you again;
"I will deck you in new garments--I will clothe you ere the light,In a sheen of spotless glory--In a robe of purest white.You shall wear the matchless mantle,That the good Frost Fairy weaves."And the bare trees listened, wondered,And forgot their fallen leaves.
And the quaint and silent fairy,Backward, forward, through the gloom,Wove the matchless, glittering mantle,Spun the frost-thread on her loom.And the bare trees talked together,Talked in whispers soft and low,As the good and silent fairyMoved her shuttle to and fro.
And lo! when the golden gloryOf the morning crept abroad,All the trees were clothed in grandeur,All the twiglets robed, and shodWith matchless, spotless garments,That the sunshine decked with gems,And the trees forgot their sorrow,'Neath their robes and diadems.
1871
Did you see Florabelle? Has she passed you this morning?A tall, slender Maiden, with hair like spun gold.She has? then I pray you, dear sir, heed my warning,It is just the old, oft rehearsed story re-told:
Florabelle is a jilt--a coquette--a deceiver.She angles for hearts, with soft words and sweet smiles.Forewarned is forearmed, don't you trust or believe her,Be deaf to her cooing, be blind to her wiles.
She has eyes, like the heart of a blue morning glory,She has lips like a rose-bud just sprinkled with dew,'Tis the old hackneyed tale, 'tis the same wretched story,A woman all fair, yet all false, and untrue.
With her soft silken hair, in its meshes and tangles,With her pink and white cheek, and her full ruby lips,With her eyes shining clear, like the heaven's bright sparkles,She has wrecked as strongheartsas the ocean has ships.
Those blue eyes are ever on watch for a stranger;She thirsts for fresh conquests, and she has marked you,I warn you, my friend, that your peace is in danger,Take heed, lest the day that you met her, you rue.
Don't bask in her smiles, for one moment, but leave her,Before you're entangled, and find it too late.Florabelle is a jilt--a coquet--a deceiver,I have given you warning! now choose your own fate!
1871
(After the Burning of Chicago.)
I heard a low sound, like a troubled soul praying:And the winds of the winter night brought it to me.'Twas the doomed city's voice: "Oh, kind snow," it was saying,"Come, cover my ruins, so ghastly to see,I am robbed of my beauty, and shorn of my glory;And the strength that I boasted--where is it to-day?I am down in the dust; and my pitiful storyMake tearless eyes weep, and unpious lips pray.
"I--I, who have reveled in pomp and in power,Am down on my knees, with my face in the dust.But yesterday queen, with a queen's royal dower,To-day I am glad of a crumb or a crust.But yesterday reigning, a grand mighty city,The pride of the nation, the queen of the West;To-day I am gazed at, an object of pity,A charity child, asking alms, at the best.
"My strength, and my pride, and my glory departed,My fair features scorched by the fire fiend's breath,Is it strange that I'm soul-sick and sorrowful hearted?Is it strange that my thoughts run on ruin and death?Oh, white, fleecy clouds that are drooping above me,Hark, hark to my pleadings, and answer my sighs,And let down the beautiful snow, if you love me,To cover my wounds from all pitying eyes,
"I am hurled from my throne, but not hurled down forever,I shall rise from the dust; I shall live down my woes--But my heart lies to-day, like a dumb, frozen river;When to thaw out and flow again, God only knows.Oh, sprites of the air! I beseech you to weave meA mantle of white snow, and beautiful rimeTo cover my unsightly ruins; then leave meIn the hands of the healer of all wounds--'Old Time.'"
November, 1871
Now God be with the men who standIn Legislative halls, to-day.Those chosen princes of our land--May God be with them all, I say,And may His wisdom, guide, and shield them,For mighty is the trust we yield them.
Oh, men! who hold a people's fate,There in the hollow of your hand.Each word you utter, soon, or late,Shall leave its impress on our land,--Forth from the halls of legislation,Shall speed its way, through all the Nation.
Then may The Source of Truth, and Light,Be ever o'er you, ever near.And may He guide each word aright;May no false precept, greet the ear,No selfish love, for purse, or faction,Stay Justice's hand, or guide one action.
And may no one, among these menLift to his lips, the damning glass,Let no man say, with truth, again,Whathas beensaid, in truth, alas,"Men drink, in halls of legislation--Why shouldn't we, of lower station!"
Oh, men! you see, you hear this beast,This fiend that pillages the earth.Whose work is death--whose hourly feast,Is noble souls, and minds of worth--You see--and if you will not chain him,Nor reach one hand forth, to detain him.
For God's sake, do not give him aid,Nor urge him onward. Oh, to me,It seems so strange that laws are madeTo crush all other crimes, while heWho bears down through Hell's gaping portalsThe countless souls, of rum wrecked mortals,
Is left to wander, to, and fro,In perfect freedom through the land.And those who ought to see, and know,Will lift no warning voice, or hand.Oh, men in halls of legislation.Rise to the combat, save the Nation!
January, 1871
Gather them out of the valley--Bring them from moorland and hill,And cast them in wreaths and in garlands.On the city so silent and still--So voiceless, so silent, and still;Where neighbor speaks never to neighbor,Where the song of the bird, and the brown bee is heard,But never the harsh sounds of labor.
Bring them from woodland and meadow--As fresh, and as fair, as can be.Bring them, all kinds, and all colors.That grow upon upland and lea--That spring in wild grace on the lea.And rifle the green earth's warm bosomOf each flower, and blow, till "God's acre" shall glowAnd bloom, like a garden in blossom.
Bring them from vase, and from hot-house,And strew them with bountiful hand.There is nothing too rare for the soldier,Who laid down his life for his land--Who laid downall thingsfor his land;And turned to the duty before him,And how now can we prove, our thanks and our loveBut by casting these May blossoms o'er him.
We know they will soon fade, and wither--We know they will soon droop, and die;But one time, I read, how an angelCame down from the mansions on high--In the night, from God's kingdom on high--Came down where a poor faded flowerLay crushed by rude feet, in the dust of the street,And he carried it up to God's bower;
And laid it before the Good Master,Who kissed it, and passed it to Christ,On the throne at His side; andHekissed it,And the touch of those kisses sufficed--The caress of the God-head sufficed--And it bloomed out in wonderful splendor,A thing of delight, and most fair in God's sight--'Tis a fable, I know; but so tender;
So sweet that I like to believe it--And I have been thinking, to-day,That mayhap these soldiers, now angels,Will come, when these wreathes fade away--When they wither, and shrivel away--And will bear the crushed things up to heaven,And God, and His Son will kiss them, each one,And new beauty, and bloom will be given.
And odd fancy, perhaps, yet dispute it.And prove it untrue if you can.There are strange, subtle ways, in God's workingsNow veiled from the knowledge of man,Shut out from the vision of man.--By a dark veil of deep, mortal blindness;But when God deems it right, He will give us our sight,And remove the thick veil, in His kindness;
And when we have entered His kingdom,And all his strange ways understand,Who knows but these very same flowers,We shall find there abloom, in His land,All fresh, and all fair, in His land;And these soldiers, who went on before us,As we wander and stray, through God's gardens, shall say:"These are the wreathes you cast o'er us."
Then, strew ye the best, and the brightestOf buds, and of blossoms full blown,Over the graves, of the loved ones--Over those labelled "Unknown!"Oh! the pathos of that word, "Unknown!"Bring hither the brightest, and rarest!We reck not, if the clay, wore the blue garb, or gray!We will give them the best, and the fairest.
For somebody mourned for the "missing,"And wept for them hot, scalding tears,And hoped against hope, for their coming;And watched, and waited, months and years,Such long, and such desolate years!But the hearts aresopatient, that love them,And some now watch and weep, for the soldiers who sleepWith the slab labeled "Unknown" above them.
Then gather from meadow, and woodland,From garden, and hot-house, and vase,The brightest and choicest of blossoms,And scatter them here in this place;This holy and hallowed place--This city of rest, not of labor,Where only the bird, and th' brown bee is heard,And neighbor, speaks never to neighbor.
Forest Hill Cemetery, May 30, 1871.
I knew that a baby was hid in that house,Though I saw no cradle, and heard no cry,But the husband went tiptoeing 'round like a mouse,And the good wife was humming a soft lullaby;And there was a look on the face of that motherThat I knew could mean onlyonething, and no other.
"Themother," I said to myself; for I knewThat the woman before me was certainly that,For there lay in the corner a tiny cloth shoe,And I saw on a stand such a wee little hat;And the beard of the husband said plain as could be,"Two fat, chubby hands have been tugging at me."
And he took from his pocket a gay picture book,And a dog that would bark if you pulled on a string;And the wife laid them up with such a pleased look;And I said to myself, "There is no other thingBut a babe that could bring about all this, and soThat one is in hiding here somewhere, I know."
I stayed but a moment, and saw nothing more,And heard not a sound, yet I knew I was right;What else could the shoe mean that lay on the floor--The book and the toy, and the faces so bright?And what made the husband as still as a mouse?I am sure,verysure, there's a babe in that house.
1872
[Read at the Reunion of the Society of the "Grand Army of the Tennessee," at Madison, Wisconsin, July 4th, 1872.]
After the battles are over,And the war drums cease to beat,And no more is heard on the hillsideThe sound of hurrying feet,Full many a noble action,That was done in the days of strife,By the soldier is half forgotten,In the peaceful walks of life.
Just as the tangled grasses,In summer's warmth and light,Grow over the graves of the fallenAnd hide them away from sight,So many an act of valor,And many a deed sublime,Fades from the mind of the soldier,O'ergrown by the grass of time.
Not so should they be rewarded,Those noble deeds of old;They should live forever and ever,When the heroes' hearts are cold.Then rally, ye brave old comrades,Old veterans, re-unite!Up root time's tangled grasses--Live over the march, and the fight.
Let Grant come up from the White House,And clasp each brother's hand,First chieftain of the army,Last chieftain of the land.Let him rest from a nation's burdens,And go, in thought, with his men,Through the fire and smoke of Shiloh,And save the day again.
This silent hero of battles,Knew no such word asdefeat.It was left for the rebels learning.Along with the word retreat.He was not given totalking,But he found that guns would preachIn a way that was more convincingThan fine and flowery speech.
Three cheers for the grave commanderOf the grand old Tennessee!Who won the first great battle--Gained the first great victory.His motto was always "Conquer,""Success" was his countersign,And "though it took all summer,"He kept fighting upon "that line."
Let Sherman, the stern old General,Respond to the reveille,Let him march with his boys through Georgia,From "Atlanta down to the sea."Oh, that grand old tramp to Savannah!Three hundred miles to the coast!It will live in the heart of the Nation,Forever its pride and boast.
As Sheridan went to the battle.When a score of miles away,* He has come to the feast and banquet.By the iron horse to-day.Its space is not much swifterThan the pace of that famous steedThat bore him down to the contestAnd saved the day by his speed.
Then go over the ground to-day, boys,Tread each remembered spot.It will be a gleesome journey,On the swift-shod feet of thought;You can fight a bloodless battle,You can skirmish along the route,But it's not worthwhile to forage,There are rations enough without.
Don't start if you hear the cannon;It is not the sound of doom,It does not call to the contest--To the battle's smoke and gloom."Let us have Peace," was spoken.And lo! peace ruled again;And now the nation is shouting,Through the cannon's voice, "Amen."
Oh, boys, who besieged old Vicksburg,Can time e'er wash awayThe triumph of her surrender,Nine years ago to-day?Can you ever forget the moment,When you saw that flag of white,That told how the grim old cityHad fallen in her might?
Ah, 'twas a bold, brave army,When the boys with a right good will,Went gayly marching and singingTo the fight at Champion Hill.They met with a warm reception,But the soul of "Old John Brown"Was abroad on that field of battle,And our flag did NOT go down.
Come, heroes of Look Out Mountain,Of Corinth and Donelson,Of Kenesaw and Atlanta,And tell how the day was won!Hush! bow the head for a moment--There are those who cannot come.No bugle call can arouse them--No sound of fife, or drum.
McPherson fell in the battle,When its waves were surging high.Brave Ransom sank by the wayside;'Twas a lonely death to die.They walk God's fair, green meadows,They dwell in a land of bliss,Yet I think their spirits are with usIn such an hour as this.
Oh, boys who died for the country,Oh, dear and sainted dead!What can we say about youThat has not once been said?Whether you fell in the contest,Struck down by shot and shell,Or pined 'neath the hand of sickness,Or starved in the prison cell--
We know that you died for Freedom,To save our land from shame,To rescue a periled Nation,And we give you deathless fame.'Twas the cause of Truth and JusticeThat you fought and perished for,And we say it, oh, so gently,"Our boys who died in the war."
Saviours of our Republic,Heroes who wore the blue,We owe the peace that surrounds us--And our Nation's strength, to you.We owe it to you that our banner,The fairest flag in the worldIs to-day unstained, unsullied,On the summer air unfurled.
We look on its stripes and spangles,And our hearts are filled the whileWith love for the brave commanders,And the boys of the rank and file.The grandest deeds of valor,Were never written out,The noblest acts of virtue,The world knows nothing about.
And many a private soldier,Who walks his humble way,With no sounding name or title,Unknown to the world to-day,In the eyes of God is a hero;All such he will reward,No deed however secret,Is hidden from the Lord.
Brave men of a mighty army,We extend you friendships hand!I speak for the "Loyal Women,"Those pillars of our land.We wish you a hearty welcome,We are proud that you gather hereTo talk of old times togetherOn this brightest day in the year.
And if peace, whose snow-white pinions,Brood over our land to-day,Should ever again go from us,(God grant she may ever stay).Should our Nation call in her perilFor "Six hundred thousand more,"The loyal women would hear her,And send you out as before.
We would bring out the treasured knapsack.We would take the sword from the wall,And hushing our own heart's pleadings,Hear only the country's call.For next to our God, is our Nation:And we cherish the honored name,Of the bravest of all brave armiesWho fought for that Nation's fame.
* This stanza was written after arriving at the hall, and finding Sheridan among the Generals present, which may serve as an explanation for the change of tense in that verse. Not knowing that General Sheridan was a member of the Society, no mention had been made of him when the poem was written.
[A tribute to Ex-Governor Fairchild.]
God bless the hero of my song!Six years the chieftain of our State!We've held him, in our hearts, so long,And proved him good, and true, and great.That now, we could not let him go,Even if he would have it so.
I hear the praises of his nameFrom east and west, and north and south,His foes are silenced from sheer shame:His deeds have silenced Slander's mouth,And all the little imps of spiteHe's crushed beneath the heel of Right.
He dropped an arm one bloody day,In beating down the walls of wrong,But no strength went with it away;His other grew full thrice as strong.Few men, with their two hands, have doneAs noble deeds as he with one.
His soul speaks through his eye of blue,And all men know him one to trust,Because his heart is kind and true,And all his actions prove him just.I speak for thousands when I cry,"The people's favorite for aye!"
May God be with him all his days--With him and all he holds most dear;And if my little song of praiseShould chance to fall upon his ear,May he accept the offering,And know that from my heart I sing.
1872
Throughout these mellow autumn days,All sweet and dim, and soft with haze,I argue with my unwise heart,That fain would choose the idler's part.
My heart says, "Let us lie and dreamUnder the sunshine's softened beam.This is the dream-time of the year,When Heaven itself seems bending near.
"See how the calm still waters lieAnd dream beneath the arching sky.The sun draws on a veil of haze,And dreams away these golden days.
"Put by the pen--lay thought aside,And cease to battle with the tide,Let us, like Nature, rest and dreamAnd float with th' current of the stream."
So pleads my heart. I answer "Nay,Work waits for you and me to-day.Behind these autumn hours of gold,The winter lingers, bleak and cold.
"And those who dream too long or much,Must waken, shivering, at his touch,With naught to show for vanished hours,But dust of dreams and withered flowers.
"So now, while days are soft and warm,We must make ready for the storm."Thus, through the golden, hazy weather,My heart and I converse together.
And yet, I dare not turn my eyesTo pebbly shores or tender skies,Because I am so fain to doE'en as my heart pleads with me to.
October, 1872
Something is missing from the balmy spring.There is no perfume in its gentle breath;And there are sobs in songs the wild birds sing.And all the bees chant of the grave and death,Something is missing from the earth. One mornThe angels called a new name on the roll;A spirit soldier to their ranks was borne,And all Christ's army welcomed the pure young soul.
He died. Two little words, but only GodCan understand the awful depths of woeThey hold for those who pass beneath the rod,Praying for strength, from Him who aimed the blow.He died. The soldier who fought long and well,Who walked with Death upon the battle-field,Among the bellowing guns--the shrieking shell--In poison prison dens--and would not yield.
A six month three times told, he languished there,And yet he lived; oh, young heart, strong and brave!Thank God, who heard the oft repeated prayer;Thank God, he does not fill a Southern grave;That when he died, the loved ones gathered round,And eased the anguish of those last, sad hours.That gentle hands can keep the precious moundAll green with mosses, and abloom with flowers.
He was so young and fair; and life was sweet.Christ give the mourners strength to drain the cup!He went to make the Heavenly ranks complete,God sent the angel Death, to bear him up.So young, and fair and brave; beloved by all;The lisping child--life's veteran, bent and gray--And eyes grow dim, and bitter tear-drops fallUpon the mound where lies the soldier's clay.
Oh! it is sweet to feel that God knows best,Who called in youth this brother, friend and son,And sweet to lean upon the Saviour's breast,And looking upward, say, "Thy will be done."But something is missing from the balmy spring;There is no perfume in its gentle breath,And there are sobs in songs the wild birds sing,And all the bees chant of the grave, and death.
Under the willow, you and IWalked in the gloaming, when love ran high;That wild first love, that was almost pain,That we never on earth can know again.
The winds were soft, and the night was calm;You held my hand in your throbbing palm.With the fire of passion your dark eyes glowed,And the tide of my pulses madly flowed.
You drew me closely against your side--You asked me softly to be your bride.I trembled, and flushed, and could not speak,But you knew my answer, and kissed my cheek.
"When earth has perished, and time is dead.Our love will still live on," we said."It shall have a steady and quenchless ray,Though youth and strength, and life decay."
The night-bird warbled a song just then;It sounded to us like a glad amen,As we built our castles, and made our vows,Under the willow's drooping boughs.
* * * * *
Under the willows, to and froWe walked in the gloaming, when love ran low.The tide had ebbed, the current dried,And our wild, mad passion had slowly died.
I know not wherefore, but widely apartWe had steadily drifted, heart from heart.Something invisible came between--I know not what--it was fate, I ween.
The scales had dropped from our youthful eyes,And we viewed each other in strange surprise;And she you deemed an angel before,You found was a woman--and nothing more.
And the idol I worshiped for gold, alway,I found was the poorest kind of clay.And so it perished, at one cold breath,The passion we said would live through death.
And under the willow again we strayed,And sundered the vows that once were made.We felt no sorrow--we knew no woe--Sincelovehad perished, 'twere better so.
We have dreamt our dream; we have reached the end.You said so calmly, "farewell, my friend."The night-bird uttered a wailing cry;It sounded to me like a last good-bye.
I am glad that we sundered our vows, that night.My pathway is pleasant, my heart is light.But I feel, my friend, as the days flow on,That something of youth from my life is gone.
And never, on earth, can we know again,That first, mad passion, so near to pain,When under the willow, you and IWalked in the gloaming, and love ran high.
Sometimes we mortals, writhing in bitter anguish,Crushed by great griefs, that seem too hard to bear,And led to doubt God's goodness and his wisdom,And will not lift our burdened hearts in prayer.I think these moments are the very darkest,The blackest and the coldest that we know,And I think God, and Christ, and all the angels,Pity us most, in this phase of our woe.
I had a little child I fondly cherished;A winsome, playful, tender-hearted boy,Strong willed, yet gentle, gay, yet mild and loving.He was our household idol and our joy.We lavished on him stores of pure affection;We gave him the best love our hearts possessed,We dressed him in rich robes of finest texture,And gazing on him, felt this earth life-blest.
We taught him all things good, and true, and noble;We told him of the dear Lord crucified;We planned for him a bright and happy future;We guarded him from danger--yet he died.Not all the gold and riches we might lavish,Not all our gold could save him from the tomb.He died! and when the sweet eyes closed forever,They shut the sunshine in, and left but gloom.
To-day I saw a drunkard's child--a vagrant;Ill-clad, ill-fed, uncombed, unwashed, and wild;His home the street--his lessons vice and sorrow--His garments rags--his youthful lips defiledWith rum, tobacco, lies and loud blaspheming;What can his future be, but one of crime?And thinking of this, and of my boy who slumbered,My heart felt hard, just for a little time.
It seemed so strange, that he, a homeless vagrant,Unloved, unloving, treading the road to sin,That he was spared; and mine so fondly cherished--Mine so beloved, whose life seemed so twined inAnd round our heart strings, that when he was taken,It left them torn and bleeding--he should die;Ah me, it seemeth strange; and yet God's wisdomI can not doubt, nor must I question why.
He, being all-wise, Father, King, Creator,It would be strange, if you, or I should knowAll that He knows, or understand His wisdom,All things He does, or why He does them so.Were all this plain, unto our mortal vision,There would be nothing new to learn above;So, though the cross be great, and the prize hidden,I need not doubt His wisdom or His love.
1871
I sit at my cottage window,In the light of the sun's last rays,And the hill-tops glow with splendor,And the west is all ablaze.My room is flooded with glory,My soul, with a wild delight,And my heart is filled with poems,That I can not speak, or write.
O, darker, and deeper, and grander,The glory flames on high.And I trace the walls of a city,In that beautiful western sky:A city all gold and crimson--All purple and amber red;And the streets are paved with crystal,Where the feet of angels tread.
O, soulless pen and pencil.Thy efforts are weak and vain;The pen of the poet falters.And his heart is full of pain:And the artist drops his pencil,And weeps in mute despair,For he cannot paint the gloryThat lies in the sunset there.
But the city fadeth--fadeth;The glory turns to grey;The golden lights are dying,And the splendor melts away.And I know it was only the shadowOf the city built on high--Only the poor, pale shadow,That I saw in the sunset sky.
And I long for that other city--The city that God hath made,Where the glory never paleth.And the splendors never fade.O, there at the feet of Jesus,In anthems of praise, I knowMy soul shall utter the poemsThat fill it to overflow.
1869
The sweet maid, Day, has pillowed her headOn the breast of her dusky lover Night;The sun has made her a couch of red,And woven a cover of dim twilight;And the lover kisses the maiden's brow,As low on her couch she sleepeth now.
Here at my window, above the street,I sit, as the day lies in repose;And I list to the ceaseless tramp of feet.And I watch this human tide that flows,Upward and downward, to and fro.As the waves of an ocean, ebb and flow.
Over and over the busy town,Hither and thither, through all the day;One goes up, and another down--Each in his own allotted way.Strangers and kinsmen pass and meet,And jar, and jostle upon the street.
People that never met before--People that never will meet again:A careless glance of the eye--no more,And both are lost in the sea of men.Strangers, divided bymilesin heart,Under my window meet and part.
But whether their feet pass up, or down,Over the river, east or west,Whether it's in or out of the town,To a haunt of sin, or a home of rest,We are journeying to a common goal--There is one last point for every soul.
Strangers and kinsmen, friend and foe,Whether their aims are great or small,Whether their paths lie high, or low--There is one last resting place for all.Then upward, and downward, go surging by--Under my window--youallmust die.
1870
Not always those who walk on steadily,In the straight path, where martyr's feet have trod,Whose raiments seem of spotless purity,Not always are they most beloved of God.Although he sees, and knows their righteousness,And from his throne, with loving eyes, looks down,And hovers near, to comfort and to bless,And holds for each fair brow a starry crown--
Yet there are those, who sometimes wander outInto forbidden paths of sin, and grief,Who sometimes hover on the brink of doubt,Crying, "Oh, God, help thou mine unbelief!"Whose lives are one long battle with their sins,Who long for righteousness, yet cling to earth;And he who battles thus, and battling wins,God holds, and prizes, as of truer worth.
For greater is he, fighting this good fight,Falling repeatedly, and prone to wrong,Than he who walketh calmly in the light,And never falls, because he is so strong.Who never sins, because sin tempts him not.To him who fights temptation one by one,How sweet God's words when the last fight is fought,"Beloved servant, well, and nobly done."
1870
Some have robes, of silk and velvet,Cast like manna, down;Others toil through wind and weather,For a homespun gown.Some are born to ride in coaches,Sitting at their ease;Others plod foot-sore and weary.(I am one of these.)
Some have sounding name and title,Here upon the earth;Others dwell apart from glory--No one knows their worth.Some have wealth, and fame, and beauty,All the things that please;Some are poor, and plain and lonely.(I am one of these.)
Some complain, in midst of pleasures,Of a hard, sad lot,Doubting God, denying heaven,Loving, trusting not.Others, hedged about with sorrows,Do, on bended knees,Praise and bless the Lord forever.(I am one of these.)
Drop down the crimson curtains,And shut out the dazzling snow,The cold white mantle that coversThe hills, where the grasses should grow;And stir up the fire till it burneth,With a heat like the midsummer sun,And hang up the cage by the window,And bring in the plants, one by one.
Till they perfume the air with a fragranceAs rare as the summer can bring.And call to the bird, till he trillethThe sweetest of notes he can sing.And let me lie here, while you fan me,Till the lazy air stirs, like a breeze,That comes o'er the hills in the summer,And rustles the tops of the trees.
Then sing me a song of the summer,A song full of warmth and sunlight,And I will forget that the winterStalks over the earth in his might.I will dream that I lie in the clover,And your voice is the voice of the breeze,And the bird in the cage is the robin,That sends down his song from the trees.
1871
My heart and soul are all too tired to tell;So weary, Lord,Of this long, ceaseless work of doing well,Without reward.
Oh, I have been thy servant now for years,Nor made complaint,Though my life cup has been abrim with tears,But now I faint.
And I have worked for thee, with all my strength,In pain and woe.My Master, canst thou chide me, if at lengthI ask to go?
Oh, if the soul is purified by fire,Then I am blest.The laborer is worthy of his hire--Lord, give me rest.
I know that I have sinned in many ways--A sinner made.But I havetriedto serve thee all my days--I'm not afraid.
I know full well my record is not clear,Nor white as snow;But better meet it than to linger here.Lord, let me go.
I said, last winter, When the grasses grow,And there are flowers abloom in every place,And soft south winds have melted all the snow,Then I shall meet my darling face to face;And I shall clasp, and hold her hand in mine,And I shall see her blue eyes glow and shine.
And now the grass is green on moor and lea;The snow has vanished, and the spring is here,The robins shout from every forest tree,The meadow larks are singing loud and clear,And there are flowers abloom in every place--And yet I do not see my darling's face.
All soft and mild, the gentle south wind blew,The snow clouds vanished, and the sunshine fellUpon the meadow, and the daisies grew,And violets and pansies graced the dell.The bees are busy, while they softly hum,And yet--and yet--my darling does not come.
Alas! for never will she come again,She sleepeth, sleepeth, still and silent now;Her couch is hollowed from the grassy plain,And daisies bloom and blow above her brow;And I can never hold her hand in mine,And I can never see her blue eyes shine.
1869
I think true love is something like a tree;The oak, that lifts its branches to the sky.The woodman's axe may strike it fatally,Or it may fall, when mighty winds sweep by.And where it grew, the flowers may bloom instead,And all may seem as though the tree were dead.
But underneath the grass, and flowers, there lies,Hid from the gaping world, a tiny root,A little living germ, that never dies;And ever and anon its branches shootUp through the earth, and mock, and strive to beThe mighty forest king--the parent tree.
So love may wither, at the hand of Fate,Or fall beneath the killing winds that blow;And other loves may spring up, soon or late,And flowers of forgetfulness may grow,Over the spot where love once grew instead,And we may think the old-time passion dead.
And still the little germ lies in the heart,So closely hidden that it is not known;And ever and anon its branches start--Vain mimics of the passion that has flown.Though love, once slain, can live not, as of yore,I think its ghost will haunt us evermore.
1871
A poet wandered the city street,With tattered garments, and aching feet;Want and hunger had dimmed his eye,And the children jeered him, as he passed by.
But one of the children sang, at play,A song his mother had sung that day.The poet listened, with cheeks aflame,For the song was his own, and this was fame!
But his heart was lightened. The song of the boyHad thrilled the strings, with a strange, sweet joy."Though I may lie with the nameless dead,The songs I have written will live," he said.
1872
When you go away, my friend,When we say our last good-bye,Then the summer time will end,And the winter will be nigh.Though the green grass decks the heather,And the birds sing all the day,There will be no summer weather,After you have gone away.
When I look into your eyes,I shall thrill with sharpest pain;Thinking that beneath the skies,I may never look again.You will feel a moment's sorrow--I shall feel a lasting grief;You forgetting on the morrow--I, to mourn with no relief
When we say the last, sad words,And you are no longer near,All the winds, and all the birds,Can not keep the summer here.Life will lose its full completeness,Lose it, not for you, but me;All the beauty and the sweetnessEarth can hold, I shall not see.
1870
Dear love, where the red lilies blossomed and grew,The white snows are falling;And all through the wood, where I wandered with you,The loud winds are calling;And the robin that piped to us tune upon tune,Neath the elm--you remember,Over tree-top and mountain has followed the June,And left us--December.
Has left, like a friend that is true in the sun,And false in the shadows.He has found new delights, in the land where he's gone,Greener woodlands and meadows.What care we? let him go! let the snow shroud the lea,Let it drift on the heather!We can sing through it all; I have you--you have me,And we'll laugh at the weather.
The old year may die, and a new one be bornThat is bleaker and colder;But it cannot dismay us; we dare it--we scorn.For love makes us bolder.Ah Robin! sing loud on the far-distant lea,Thou friend in fair weather;But here is a song sung, that's fuller of glee,By two warm hearts together.
1870
I walked to-day, in the grassy dell,Where the cunning ground-bird hides her nest,And just where the plum-tree's shadow fell,I sat me down for a while to rest.And a robin came, and sat in the tree,And told a long-lost tale to me.
Of a maiden, pure as the morning light,And fresh as a white rose, bathed in dew.Of a youth with eyes like a stormy night,And a heart that nothing of candor knew.And all through the valley, green and fair,The youth and the maiden wandered there.
He plucked the violets, blue and pale,The lily white, and the roses red,With every flower that decked the vale--But the maid was fairest of all, he said.And the robin saw him kiss her cheek,And the maiden blushed, but did not speak.
And he held her hand, in a lover's way,And he saw the blush that his glance awoke,And with eye, and tone, he seemed to sayThe words that his false lips never spoke.And of her strength, and her life a part,Was the love that grew in the maiden's heart.
But the summer died, and the autumn came,And the maiden walked in the vale alone;And the hopeless love, like a scorching flame,Burned out her life, but she made no moan.And she drooped, and died, as the year grew old,And this was the tale that the robin told.
Oh, do you remember that night, long ago,When I gave you the rose from my hair?And you whispered, "I'll wear it close over my heart,As I cherish the sweet giver there?"
'Twas a long time ago? you've forgotten, perhaps,That such a thing ever occurred.But to-night, as I sit in the firelight's glow,My heart's with the memory stirred.
And I seem to live over my girlhood again,When my life was as warm as the spring:Before it had read the sharp lesson of pain,And when you were my hero, arid king.
Oh! you were not worthy the love that I gave,Like the sun in midsummer, it burned;While a passionless fancy, an idle day-dream,Was the poor, shallow thing you returned.
Long ago--long ago! time has softened the pain,That threatened to shadow my life.I am older, and wiser I think, now, than then,And you have a beautiful wife--
As pure as the angels, as fair, too, they say,With her blue eyes and snowy-white lid.But I cannot help wondering, here to myself,If she loves you as well as I did.
Ah me! it can never harm you, or your bride,For me to dream over that night,When you whispered sweet words o'er the rose from my hair.And my foolish heart throbbed in delight.
1869
The days flow on, and on,And never one comes back.Another year has vanished and gone,As the waves of the sea wash out the trackOn the shining sands o' th' shore.And patience waneth, and hope is spent,As I wait and watch for the one who went,And cometh to me no more.
The spring-time lived and died,And the summer followed fast;And I watched through both, with a heart that cried,For the one who vanished into the past,> Like a beautiful star from the sky;Who sailed in a good ship over the sea,And the ship came back: But "where is he,Oh, treacherous ship," I cry?
The autumn, gold and brown,Rose from the summer's grave,And the rain and my tears fell down and down,As day by day, I stood by the wave.And cried aloud in my pain.But what cares the sea for a tortured soul!It mocks at grief, and the breakers roll,Singing a loud refrain.
And never a word from thee,But a silence deep as death;Though the winter gleameth on moor and lea,And the cold, cold wind, with its cruel breath,Blows over the angry sea.Yet alway and ever, till life is done,Shall I watch, and wait, and weep for oneWho cometh never, to me.
1869
Farther apart, each day, our lives are drifting;Farther apart at every set of sun.The clouds between us show no signs of lifting,But droop, and gather shadows, one by one.
Drifting apart! the visions that I've cherished,Within my loving, foolish heart for years,At those two meaning words, have rudely perished,And in their place is naught but bitter tears.
I do not weep--I do not sigh, and languish,And murmur at the hard decree of fate.I walk my way, in silent, smiling anguish,Knowing remorse, and tears, are all too late.
But oh, my darling! I am only human,And though 'tis weakness, I do love you yet.Mine is the heart, of clinging, constant woman,Whose lot it is to love, and not forget.
I know that we can never stem the current,That bore the sunshine of my life away;Our feet can never cross the unbridged torrentThat flows between us, wider every day.
Perhaps, when we have passed the heavenly portal.And all our tears are dried by Christ, the Friend,And we have entered on the life immortal,Perhaps our path ways There may meet, and blend.
I cannot tell; the mystic, grand To-morrowWas never meant for earthly, mortal eyes.But it is sweet, to think all tears and sorrow,Will vanish at the dawn of heavenly skies.
1869
[To H. A. M.]
What sounds so sweet as the glad words of greeting?And what starts the tears,Like the warm kiss that is given at meetingAfter long years.
Friend of my heart, we are once more together;Hand clasped in hand.We sit and we walk in the beautiful weatherThat gladdens the land.
Oh, rare golden days, in the heart of September;Days more than sweet--Days that my heart will forever remember,Ye are too fleet!
Why haste away! the greedy "Past's" measureAlready runs o'er;But like a miser who hoards up rare treasure,He cries out for "more."
Oh, bright Autumn days! If you only would lingerAnd loiter, and stay!Too soon old time shall be pointing his fingerAnd bidding me say.
That word "Good-bye," that's so hard to be spoken.Hearts have been stirredAlmost to breaking; and fond heartshavebrokenAt that last word.
Away with these sad thoughts! this rare golden weatherShall not find me sad,Because we cannotalwayswander together,But I will be glad
Of the days that are left. No foreboding of sorrowShall darken my sky.Nor To-day be o'erclouded, because some To-morrow,I must say good-bye.
1871
Once in a while, in this world so strange,To lighten our sad regrets,We find a heart that is true through change--A heart that never forgets.Oh, rare as a blossoming rose in December--As a bird in an Arctic clime,Is a heart,a heartthat can rememberThrough sorrow and change and time.
Once in a while we find a loveThat will live through life and death,Ay! that will follow the soul above.Not passing away with the breath.But rarer, Oh, rarer by far and strangerThan a spring in the desert sand,Is a love that will last, with toil, and danger,And strife on every hand.
Once in a while we find a friendThat will cling through good or ill,Whose friendship follows us e'en to the end,Be it up or adown the hill,But the heart so true, and the love so tender,And friendship's faithful smile,Whether we dwell in squalor or splendor,We find but "once in a while."
1872
Though thy cheek be fair, as the roses are,Thy brow like the drifted snow,And thine eye as bright, as the diamonds light,Yet if in thy heart doth growBut noxious weeds, and selfish deedsFollow thy steps alway,What in the end availeth it, friend,If thy face is fair, I pray.
For the smoothest brow, old Time will plow,And he dimmeth the brightest eye;And the fairest face, and the form of grace,In the lowly grave must lie.But our deeds live on, when life is done.Nor Time, nor death destroy;And the words we say, will make their wayWith sorrow, or with joy.
And even the thought, that we utter not,In heaven is like a shout.And bad or good, it is understood,And the angels write it out.But they do not care, if the face be fair,Or what the world deems plain.They look to the heart, and the deathless part,For the rest is poor and vain.
1870
Let those slander fame who will--Call her cheat and blame her ways.It may all be true; and stillI shall give her words of praise.She has been my faithful friend,True and constant to the end.
Since I saw her hand first beckonFar above my lowly plain,I have had no need to reckonWhat my loss, or what my gain.She has made sweet blossoms blowIn whatever path I go;She hath made the dark ways light,Made the somber places bright;She has filled my empty cupFull to overflow with pleasure,And, though I may drink it up,She again refills the measure.
She has never promised aughtThat she has not more than brought.She has stood by me in danger,Made a friend of many a stranger--Made a welcome warm for meWhereso'er my lot may be;Thrown wide open many a doorThat was closed to me before;Given me every boon and blessing--Almost--that is worth possessing.
All my life, I never knewAny other friend so true.Youth and Love are fleeting things;Wealth has light and airy wings--Fame, once mine, will never flee,She has been a friend to me.Let who will condemn her ways,I shall always sing her praise.
1872
Somewhere there is a spot of ground,Covered with grass, or snow, may-be,That one day will be spaded 'roundAnd dug up to make room for me.
And I unconsciously have trod,Perhaps, and so again may treadUpon the very voiceless sod,That will be roof above my head.
Somewhere upon the earth to-dayAre dwelling men, who yet shall spadeAnd cut and dig the earth away,Until my narrow house is made.
Perchance they have clasped hands with me;Those hands, that, after I am dead,Shall measure me so reverently,To find how long to make my bed.
How strangely, solemn thoughts like theseWill come, when life seems blithe and gay;Like voices of the passing breeze,Saying "All things must pass away-"
Upon a couch all robed by careful handsFor her repose, the maiden Mable lies,Her long bright hair is braided in smooth bands--A mass of stranded gold, that mortal eyesMay, wondering, gaze upon a little while;That mortal hands may touch a few times more.
Her placid lips part in a sweet, faint smile,As if the glories of that mystic shore,When first they fell upon her spirit eyes--All the rare splendors of that unseen wayHad touched her with a wondering, glad surprise,And left the pleased expression on her clay.
Her two fair hands are crossed upon her breast--Two shapes of wax upon a drift of snow.And they have robed her for her peaceful rest.Not in the hateful shroud--that sign of woe,But in that garb we loved to see her wear;A dark blue robe, fashioned by her own hand.
I wonder, as I see her lying there,If God will give her spirit in His landAnother shape. She could not be more fair.I think he will not change her form, or face,But with the same long, rippling, golden hairShe will kneel down before the throne of grace,And wipe God's feet; and her dark eyes will raiseUp to Christ's face, and touch Him with her hand.And will with her own sweet voice, sing God's praise,And still be fairest in the Angel band.
1872
I hear the sound of the reapers,All in the golden grain,And voices of strong young binders,Singing a sweet refrain.The winds are asleep on the hilltops,And the sun smiles down in the vale,Till the rose faints under his glances,And her cheek grows wan and pale.
The meadows are green as the ocean;And the winds, when they wake from rest,Ripple and billow the grasses,Like waves on the ocean's breast.The vine grows over my window,Where the humming bird comes each day,And the robin and thrush in the willow,Are singing their lives away.
Oh, beautiful, languid Summer!You are so fleet, so fleet.Oh, youth, and joy, and gladness,You are so sweet--so sweet!My life is a wonderful poem,Complete in measure and rhyme,And the sweetest of all the stanzasIs written this summer time.
But the golden harvest is going--The summer will fade and pass.The thrush and the robin will vanish,And the snow fall over the grass.The vine at my window will perish.And the beautiful poem of lifeWill change to a measure of sorrow,And be marred and broken by strife.Then revel in youth, and summer;Oh, heart, be glad and gay,For sorrow, and blight, and winter,Are coming to us one day.
1872
The strings of my heart were strung by Pleasure,And I laughed, when the music fell on my ear,For he and Mirth played a joyful measure,And they played so loud that I could not hearThe wailing and moaning of souls a-weary--The strains of sorrow that floated around,For my heart's notes rang loud and cheery,And I heard no other sound.
Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers,Played louder and louder in joyful glee;But sometimes a discord was heard by others--Though only the rhythm was heard by me.Louder and louder, and faster and fasterThe hands of the brothers played strain on strain,When all of a sudden, a Mighty MasterSwept them aside; and Pain,Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner,Restrung the strings of my quivering heart,And the air that he played was a plaintive minor,So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start;Each note was an echo of awful anguish.As shrill as solemn, as sharp as slow.And my soul for a season seemed to languishAnd faint with its weight of woe.
With skillful hands, that were never weary,This Master of Music played strain on strain,And between the bars of the miserere,He drew up the strings of my heart again:And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder,To see that they did not snap in two.
"They are drawn so tight they will break asunder,"I thought, but instead, they grew,In the hands of the Master, firmer and stronger;And I could hear on the stilly air--Now my ears were deafened by Mirth no longer--The sounds of sorrow, and grief, and despair,And my soul grew tender and kind to others;My nature grew sweeter, my mind grew broad;And I held all men to be my brothers,Linked by the chastening rod.
My soul was lifted to God and heaven,And when on my heart-strings fell againThe hands of Mirth and Pleasure, even,There was never a discord to mar the strain.For Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner,Attuned the strings with a Master hand,And whether the music be major or minor,It is always sweet and grand.
1872