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THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

IDous£l)olD (EDition

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY die Ri\jcr6ibe PreiSi^, CambriDse

e2S

Copyright, 1848, 1850, 1853, 1856, 1857, 18G0, 18G3, 18GC, ISOT, 18C8,

1870, 1S72, 1S74, 187(3, 1878, 1881, 1883, 1884, 18SC, and 1888,

3t TICKXOR a- fields, fields, OSGOOD ,S: CO.. JASLES R. OSGOOD & CO.,

AND JOHN G. WHITTIER.

All rights reserved.

The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass , V. S. A. Electrotj pcU aud Printed by U. 0. Uoughtou & Company.

NOTE BY THE AUTHOR

TO THE EDITION OF 1857,

In these volumes, for the first time, a comj^lete collection of my poetical writings has been made. While it 'is satisfactory to know that these scat- tered children of my brain have found a home, I cannot but regret that I have been unable, by reason of illness, to give that attention to their revis- ion and arrangement, which respect for the opinions of others and my own afterthought and experience demand.

That there are pieces in this collection which I would " willingly let die," I am free to confess. But it is now too late to disown them, and I must submit to the inevitable penalty of poetical as well as other sins. There are others, intimately connected with the author's life and times, which owe their tenacity of vitality to the circumstances under which they were writ- ten, and the events by which they were suggested.

The long poem of Mogg Megone was in a great measure composed in early life ; and it is scarcely necessary to say that its subject is not such as the writer would nave chosen at any subsequent period.

J. G. W,

Amesburt, 18th 3d mo., 1357.

PROEM.

I hO^'V. the old melodious lays \\Tiich softly melt tlie ages through,

The songs of Spenser's golden days,

Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase, Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew.

Yet, vainly in my quiet hours To breathe their marvellous notes I try ;

I feel thoni, as the leaves and flowers

In silence feel the dewy showers, And drink with glad still lips the blessing of the sky.

The rigor of a frozen clime, The harshness of an untaught ear.

The jarring words of one whose rhjTiie

Beat often Labor's hurried time. Or Duty's rugged march through stonn and strife, are here.

Of mystic beauty, dreamy gi-ace, No rounded art the lack supplies ;

Unskilled the subtle lines to trace,

Or softer shades of Nature's face, I view her common forms with unanointed eyes.

Nor mine the seer-like power to show The secrets of the heart and mind ;

To drop the plummet-line below

Our common world of joy and woe, A more intense despair or brighter hojie to find.

Yet here at least an earnest sense Of human right and weal is shown ;

A hate of tyranny intense,

And liearty in its vehemence, As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own.

O Freedom ! if to me belong

Nor mighty Milton's gift divine,

Nor Afai-vcll's wit and gi-aceful song. Still with a love as deep and strong

As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy slirine I

AmsBORT , IIM mo., 1847

co:n^tents.

Page MOGG Megone.

Parti 1

Part II "i

Part in 12

The Bridal of Pennacook 15

I. The Merrimack 18

n. The Bashaba 18

ni. The Daughter .20

IV. The Wedding 21

V. The New Home 22

VI. At Pennacoolc 23

VII. The Departure 25

vm. Song of Indian Women 25

llEGEND.^RT.

'fhe Merrimacli ...26

j^ "1. J -The Norsemen 27

— t Cassandra Southwick ... 28

JMneral Tree of tlie Sokokis 31

^+. John 32

Pentucket 34

The Familist's Hymn 35

The Fountain 3<j

The Exiles 37

The New Wife and the Old ... - 40

I'oi.jEs OF Freedom. /

Toussaint L'Ouvcrture 41

The Slave-Ships 43

Stanzas. Our Countrymen in Cliain.s 46

The Yankee Girl 46

To W. L. G 47

Song of the Free .47

The Hunters of Men 48

Clerical Oppressors -49

The Christian Slave 50

Stanzas for the Times 51

Lines, written on reading the Me.ssage of Governor Ritner, of Pennsylvania, 183fi . . 52

The Pastoral Letter 53

Lines, written for the Meeting of the Antislavery Society, at Chatham Street Chapel,

N. Y., 1834 54

\ 1 CONTENTS.

Lines, written for the Celebration of the Third Annirersary of British Emanoipation , 1837 56

Lines, written for the Anniversary of the First of August, at Milton, 1840 ... 55

The Farewell of a Virginia Slave Motlicr to lier Daughters sold into Southern Bondage . 56

The Moral Warfare 57

The World's Convention 57

New Hampshire 59

The New Year : addressed to the I'atrons of the Pennsylvania Fri-cman ... 60

Massachusetts to Virginia 62

TheReUc .... . 64

The Branded Hand 65

Te.\as 66

To Faneuil Hall 67

To Ma.«sachusctts 67

The Pine-Tree 68

Lines, suggested by a Visit to the City of Washington in the 12tli niontl\ of 1845 . 68

Lines, from a Letter to a young Clerical Friend 70

Yorktown 70

Lines, written in the Booli of a Friend 71

Paean 73

To the Memory of Thomas Shipley 74

To a Southern Statesman . 74

Lines, on the Adoption of Pincliney's Resolutions 75

The Curse of the Charter-Breakers 76

The Slaves of Martinique 77

The Crisis 79

lUlSCELLANEOUS.

- The Knight of St. John 81

The Holy Land .... 81

Palestine 82

Ezekiel &3

The Wife of Manonh to her Husband 85

The Cities of the Plain 86

The Crucifi.\iou 86

The Star of Bethlehem 87

— Uymns 88

- The Female Martyr 90

The Frost Spirit 91

The A'audois Teacher .... 91

The Call of the Christian 92

- My Soul and I 02

To a Friend, on her Return from Europe 95

,■ Tlie Angel of Patience 96

Follen 96

To the Reformers of England 9'(

The Quaker of the Olden Time 98

The Reformer 98

The Prisoner for Debt 99

Lines, written on reading Pamphlets published by Clergymen against the Abolition of

the Gallows 10(1

Tlie Human Sacrifice 102

Rjindolph of Roanoke . 104

Democracy ... 105

ToKonge IOC

Chalkley Hall 1(17

CONTENTS. vii

ToJ. P 108

The Cypress-Tree of Ceylon 108

A Dream of Summer 109

To . 109

Leggett-s Monument ... , Ill

soNns OF Labor, and other Poems.

Dedication ... 112

The Sliip-Builders .112

The Shoemakers 113

The Drovers « . 114

The Fishermen , .. 115

TheHuskers . US

The Corn Song . . 117

The Lumbermen IIS

Miscellaneous.

The Angels of Buena Vista .... 119

Forgiveness ....... 121

Barclay of Ury • . . 121

What the Voice said 122

To Delaware . 123

Worship 123

The Demon of the Study 124

The Pumpkin 126

Extract from " A New England Legend ■' 127

Hampton Beach 127

Lines, written on hearing of the Death of Silas Wright of New York .... 128

Lines, accompanying Manuscripts presented to a Friend 129

The Reward 130

Raphael 130

Lucy Hooper 131

Chauning 132

To the Memory of Cliarles B. Storrs 133

Lines on the Death of S. 0. Torrey 134

A Lament 135

Daniel Wheeler 136

Daniel Neall 137

To my Friend on tlie Death of his Sister 138

Gone 139

The Lake-side 139

The Hill-top 140

On receiving an Eagle's Quill from Lake Superior 141

Memories 141

Tlie Legend of St. Mark 142

The Well of Loch Marce , 143

To my Sister 144

Autumn Thoughts 144

Calef in Boston. — 1692 . 144

To Pius IX 145

Elliott 146

Ichabod! .146

The Christian Tourists .147

The Men of Old 148

The Peace Convention at Brussels . . • 149

viii CONTENTS.

The WishofTo-Day ... 150

Our State 150

All 's well 151

Seed-Time and Harvest 151

To A. K 151

The Ch-vpel of the Hermits, and otuer Poems.

\y The Chapel of the Hermits »5S

Miscellaneous.

~^ Questions of Life . . 15'«

The Prisoners of Naples 150

>loloch in State Street . 160

The Peace of Europe. — 1852 161

Wordsworth . . 162

To 162

In Peate 162

Benedicite 163

Pictures 163

Derne 164

Astraea 165

invocation 166

The Cross 166

Eva 166

To Fredrika Bremer 167

April 167

.Stanzas for the Times. — laoO 168

A Sabbath Scene 168

Remembrance 170

The Poor Voter on Election Day . 170

Trust 170

Kathleen 171

First-day Thoughts 172

Kossuth 172

To my old Schoolmaster 173

The Pakoram.v, and other Poems.

The Panorama 176

MiSCELLANXOUS.

• - Summer by the Lakeside 18.3

The Hermit of the Thebaid 186

Burns . 186

William Forster o 187

Kantoul 188

The Dream of Pio None 189

Tauler .190

Lines ... 192

The Voices 192

The Hero 193

My Dream ........ 195

The Barefoot Boy IS-""

Flowers in Winter 196

The Rendition 197

Lines 198

CONTENTS. IX

llie Fruit-Gift 198

A Memory ........•<•.•' ^^^

FoC.S ^^

fhe Kansas Emigrants 200

Song of Slaves in tlie Desert . • . . < « 200

Lines 200

The New Exodus 201

The Haschish 201

Ballads.

Mary Garvin < 202

MaudMuller 2C'4

The Ranger 206

Later Poems.

The Last Walk in Autumn 20S

The Mayflowers 211

Burial of Barbour 211

To Pennsylvania •'^^

The Pass of the Sierra 212

The Conquest of Finland 213

A Lay of Old Time 214

What of the Day? 214

The First Flowers 215

My Namesake 215

Home Ballads.

The Witch's Daughter 218

The Garrison of Cape Ann 221

The Prophecy of Samuel Sewall 223

Skipper Ireson's Ride 225

Telling the Bees 226

The Sycamores 227

The Double-IIeaded Snake of Newbury 228

The Swan Song of Parson Avery 229

The Truce of Piscataqua 231

My Playmate 233

POKMS AND Lyrics.

The Shadow and the Light 234

TheGift of Tritemius 235

The Eve of Election , . 236

The Over-Heart 237

In Remembrance of Joseph Sturge • 238

Trinitas 239

The Old Burjing-Ground 240

The Pipes at Lucknow 241

My Psalm . . ■ 242

Le Marais du Cygne 243

" The Rock "• in El Ghor ... 244

On a Prayer-Book 244

ToJ.T. F 245

The Palm-Tree 246

Lines for the Burns Festival 24'

The Red River Voyageur ^?

X CONTENTS.

Keiioza Lake .* ,• , t » 243

ToG. B. C 248

The Sisters , . . , • 249

Lines for an Agricultural Exhibition . • . 249

The Preacher , .. 249

.- The Quaker Alumni ••••»... ... 264

Brown of Ossawatomie ....... ... 258

From Perugia 258

For an Autumn FestiTal ....c...... , 26C

th War Time.

Thy Will be done .261

A Word for the Hour 261

" Eiu teste Burg ist unsei Gott " . 262

To John (J. Fremont , 263

The Watchers , 263

To Englishmen 264

Astra?a at the Capitol 265

The Battle Autumn of 1862 265

Mithridates at Chios 266

* The Proclamation . • . . 266

Anniversary Poem .. 267

At Port Royal 268

Barbara Frietchie 269

Ballads.

Cobbler Keezar's Vision , 270

Amy Wentworth 279

The Countess 275

Occasional Poems.

Naples. — 1860 .277

The Summons 27?

The Waiting .278

Mountain Pictures.

I. Franconia from the Pemigewasset 278

11. Monadnock from Wachuset 279

Our River 280

,„_ Andrew Rykman's Prayer 281

TheCry ofaLo-st Soul 283

Italy .283

The River Path ,284

A Memorial. M. A. C • . . 284

Hymn sung at Christmas by the Scholar.s of St. Helena's Island, S. C 285

Bnow Bolto) 286

Tn£ Tent on the Beach, and other Pokms.

The Tent on the Beach 294

The Wreck of Ri vermouth 297

The Grave by the Lake . . . . ' 299

The Brother of Mercy 303

The Chdneeling .... 304

The Maids of Attitash . ... 305

Kallundboig Church ... 307

CONTENTS. XI

The Dead Ship of Harpswell 309

The Palatine >.. 310

Abraham Davenport ,.... 312

National Lyrics.

The Mantle of St. John De Matha c . 314

What the Birds said ^ 315

Laus Deo I 316

The Peace Autumn 317

To the Thirty-Ninth Congress 317

OccASio.vAL Poems.

7/; The Eternal Goodness 318

Our Master , 319

The Vauishers 321

Revisited 321

The Common Question 322

Bryant on his Birthday 323

llymn for the Opening of Thomas Starr ICing's House of Worship, 1864 . . . 323

Thomas Starr King 324

Among the Hills, and other Poems.

Prelude 32')

Among the HiUs 327

Miscellaneous Poems.

The Clear Vision . 33I

The Dole of Jarl Thorkell 332

The Two Rabbis 333

p'Sjhe Meeting 334

The Answer 337

G. L. S '338

Freedom in BrazU 33g

Divine Compassion 339

Lines on a Fly -Leaf 339

Hymn for the House of Worship at Georgetown 340

Miriam, and other Poems.

To Frederick A. P. Barnard 34I

— - Miriam 341

Miscellaneous Poems.

Norembega 347

Nauhaught, the Deacon 343

In School-Days 35O

Garibaldi 35O

After Election 35I

My Triumph ^ 35I

The Hive at Gettysburg , 352

Howard at Atlanta 3.53

— To Lydia Maria Child 353

The Prayer-Seeker .354

Poems for Public Occasions.

K Spiritual Manifestation . 35;,

" The Laurels " . . 350

Hymn ... . 3o<

Xll CONTENTS.

The Pennstlvania PacRm, axi> other Poems.

Francis Daniel Pastorius , ,.<.., 358

Prelude .»■.. SoH

The Pennsylvania Pilgrim ...•.....*.. 3tiO

Mbcellajteous.

The Pageant . . SG9

The Singer 371

Chicago „ 372

"**>- My Birthday 372

'"''^^ The Brewing of Soma 373

A Woman 374

Disarmament 374

The Robin 375

The Sisters 375

Marguerite . . . . • 376

King Tolmer and Elsie 377

The Three Bells 379

Hazel Blossoms.

Sdmner 38\

H.^ZEL Blossoms.

The Prayer of Agassiz 383

The Friends Burial 384

John Underbill .385

In Quest 387

A Sea Dream .... 388

A Mystery . . 389

Conductor Bradley . . 390

Child-Songs 391

The Golden Wedding of Longwood 391

Kinsman 392

Testa 892

The Healer 393

A Christmas Carmen 393

Hymn 394

Poems by Elizabeth H. Whittier.

The Dream of Argyle 394

Lines written on the Departure of Joseph Sturge 395

John Quinoy Adams 396

Dr Kane in Cuba 396

Lady Franklin 396

\ight and Death 397

The Meeting Waters 397

The Wedding Veil 898

Charity 398

The Vision of Echard, and other Poems.

The Vision of Echard 399

The Witch of Wenham 401

Sunset on the licarcanip , 404

-»-- The Seeking of the Waterfall , . 404

June on the Merrimac 40fi

CONTENTS.

xni

Ilymn of the Dunkers In the " Old South " . Lexington . Centennial Hymn . Thiers

Kitz-Greene Ilalleck William Francis Bartlett The Two Angels . The Library

407

408

409

409

410

41U

. 411

. . . . 411

412

The Henchman , 41_'

King Solomon and the Auts t 413

Red Riding-Hood 413

414

414

415

415

415

41U

416

The Pressed Gentian

Orerruled

Hymn

Giving and Taking

" I was a Stranger, and ye took me in "'

At School-Close

At Eventide

The Problem 417

Response , 417

The King's Missive, and other Poems

The Prelude .

The King's Missive .

St. Martin's Summer .

The Dead Feast of the Kol

The Lost Occasion

The Emancipation Group

The Jubilee Singers

Within the Gate

The Khan's Devil .

Abram Morrison

Voyage of the Jettie

Our Autocrat

Garrison

Bayard Taylor .

A Xame

The Minister's Daughter

My Trust

Trailing Arbutus

By their Works

The Word .

The Book

Requirement

Help ....

Utterance .

419 41S 4-JO 421 422 423 423 423 424 425 426 428 428 429 430 430 431 431 432 432 432 432 433 433

Inscriptions.

On a Sun-Dial On a Fountain

433

433

xav CONTENTS.

Oriental Maxims.

The Inward Judge 433

Laying up Treasure , 434

Conduct . 434

The Bat of Seven Islands

To II. P. S .434

The Bay of Seven Islands 435

How the Women went from Dover 437

A Summer Pilgrimage 439

The Rock-Tomb of Bradore 440

Storm on Lake Asquam 441

The Wishing Bridge 441

The Mystic's Christmas 442

What the Traveler said at Sunset 442

A Greeting 443

Wilson 444

In Memory 444

The Poet and the Children ... . . 445

Rabbi Ishmael 445

Valuation ... 446

Winter Roses 446

Hymn 446

Godspeed 447

V . At Last 447

Our Country 448

The " Story of Ida " 449

An Autograph 449

Saint Greooky's Guest and Recent Poems.

-~ Saint Gregory's Guest 450

Revelation 451

. — jVdjustment 452

The Wood Giant 452

The Homestead 453

Birchbrook Mill .454

How the Kobin came 455

Sweet Fern .... 45j

Banished from Massachusetts 456

The Two Elizabeths 457

The Reunion 459

Requital 45'J

The Light that is felt 460

The Two Loves 460

An Easter Flower Gift 460

Mulford o .... 460

An Artist of the Beautiful 40.1

Ilvmns of the Brahmo Somaj 401

Notes ,......,.. 4i>3

INDSX 0 . . o o . . . . 475

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Portrait op John G. Whittier Frontispiece

" The solemn pines along its shore ''......,...• 31

" And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet " 83

" Down the wild March flood shall bear them "... 118

Wordsworth's Grave 162

The last walk in autumn , 208

Snow-Bound 286

" And the cloud of her soul was lifted " 305

" On woods that dream of bloom "' 351

" A jewelled elm-tree avenue "' , 369

" And still the water sang the sweet

Glad song " 405

Kdwiu P. Whipplo , .4^4

MOGG MEGONE.

[The story of Mooe Mbsone has been considered by the author only as a framework for sketches of the scenery of New England, and of its early inhabitants. In portraying the Indian character, he has followed, as closely as his story would admit, the rough but natural deliueatious of Church, May hew, Charlevoix, and Roger Williams ; and in so doing he has necessarily discarded much of the romance which poets and noyeUsts have thrown around the ill-fated red man.]

PART I.

Who stands on that cliff, like a iigure of stone, Unmoving and tall in the light of the

sky, "Where the sjiray of the cataract spar- kles on high,

/lonely and sternly, save Mogg Me- gone ? 1

Close to the verge of the rock is he, While beneath him the Saco its work is doing.

Hurrying down to its grave, the sea, And slow through the rock its path- way hewing !

Far down, through the mist of the fall- ing river.

Which rises up like an incense ever.

The splintered points of the crags are seen,

Witli water howling and vexed between,

While the scooping whirl of the jiool be- neath

Seems an open throat, with its giunite teeth !

But Mogg Megone nerer trembled yet

Wherever his eye or his foot was set.

He is watchful ; each form in the moon- light dim,

Of rock or of tree, is seen of him :

He listens ; each sound from afar is caught,

Tlie faintest shiver of leaf and limb ;

But he sees not the waters, which foam and fret,

Whose moonlit spray has his moccasin

wet, — And the roar of their rushing, he hears

it not.

The moonlight, through the open bough Of the gnarl'd beech, whose naked

root Coils like a serpent at his foot, Falls, checkered, on the Indian's brow. His head is bare, save only where Waves in the wind one lock of hair, Reserved for him, whoe'er he be. More mighty than Megone in strife, When breast to breast and knee to knee. Above the fallen warrior's life Gleams, quick and keen, the seal ping- knife.

Megone hath his knife and hatchet and gun.

And his gaudy and tasselled blanket on :

His knife hath a handle with gold inlaid.

And magic words on its polished blade, —

'T was the gift of Castine ^ to Mogg Me- gone,

For a scalp or twain from the Yengees torn :

His gun was the gift of the Tarrantine, And Modocawando's wives had strung

The brass and the beads, which tinkle and shine

On the polished breach, and broad bright line Of beaded wampum around it hung.

MOGG MEGOXE.

What seeks Megone ? His foes are near, — Gre}' Jocelyn's ^ eye is never sleeping, ^d the gaiTison lights are burning clear. Where PhiUips' * men their watch are keeping. Let him hie him away through the dank river fog. Never rustling the boughs nor dis- placing the rocks. For the eyes and the ears which are watching for Mogg Are keener than those of the wolf or the fox.

He starts, — there 's a rustle among the leaves : Another, — the click of his gun is heard ! A footstep, — is it the step of Cleaves, With Indian blood on his English sword ? Steals Hamion* down from the sands of

York, With hand of iron and foot of cork ? Has Scamman, versed in Indian wile, For vengeance left his vine-hung isle ?^ Hai-k ! at that whistle, soft and low.

How lights the eye of Slogg Megone !

A smile gleams o'er his dusky brow, —

" Boon welcome, Johnny Bonjthon ! "

Out steps, with cautious foot and slow. And quick, keen glances to and fro,

The hunted outlaw, Bonj-thon ! ' A low, lean, swarthy man is he. With blanket-garb and buskined knee.

And naught of English fashion on ; For he hates the race from whence he

sprung, And he couches his words in the Indian tongue.

"Hush, — let the Sachem's voice be

weak ; The water-rat shall hear him speak, — The owl shall whoop in the white man's

ear. That ilogg Megone, with his scalps, is

here ! " He pauses, — dark, over cheek and

brow, A flush, as of shame, is stealing now : "Sachem ! " he says, " let me have the

land, Which stretches away upon either liand,

As far about as my feet can stray In the half of a gentle summer's day. From the leaping brook * to the Saco river, — And the fair-haired girl, thou hast sought

of me, Shall sit in the Sachem's wigwam, and be The wife of Mogg Megone forever."

There 's a sudden light in the Indian's glance, A moment's trace of powerful feeling,

Of love or triumph, or both perchance. Over his proud, calm featui-es steal- ing.

' ' The words of my father are very good ;

He shall have the land, and water, and wood ;

And he who harms the Sagamore John,

Shall feel the knife of J*Iogg Megone ;

But the fawn of the Yengees shall sleep on my breast.

And the bird of the clearing shall sing in my nest.".

"But, father!" — and the Indian's hand

Falls gently on the white man's ann. And with a smile as shrewdly bland

As the deep voice is slow and calm, — " Where is my father's singing-bird, —

The sunny eye, and sunset hair ? I know I have my father's word.

And that his word is good and fair ;

But will my father tell me wliere Alegone shall go and look for his

bride ? — For he sees her not by her father's side."

The dark, stem eye of Bonython

Flashes over the features of Mogg Me- gone, In one of those glances which search within ; But the stolid cakn of the Indian alone R^nains where the trace of emotion has been. " Does the Sachem doubt ? Let him

go \vith me. And the eyes of the Sachem his biido shall see."

Cautious and slow, with pauses oft. And watchful eyes and whispers soft, Tlie twain are stealing through the wood, Leaving the downward-rushing flood. Whose deep and solemn roar behind Grows fainter on the evening wind.

MOGG MEGONE.

Hark ! — is that the angry howl

Of the wolf, the hills among ? — Or the hooting of the owl,

On his leafy cradle swung ? — Quickly glancing, to and fro, Listening to each sound they go Round the columns of the pine,

Indistinct, in shadow, seeming Like some old and jiillared shrine ; With the soft and white moonshine. Round the foliage-tracery shed Of each column's branching head.

For its lamps of worship gleaming ! And the sounds awakened there.

In the pine-leaves fine and small,

Soft and sweetly musical, By the fingers of the air. For the anthem's dying fall Lingering round some temple's wall ! Niche and cornice round and round Wailing like the ghost of sound ! Is not Nature's worship thus.

Ceaseless ever, going on ? Hath it not a voice for us

In the thunder, or tlie tone Of the leaf-harp faint and small.

Speaking to the unsealed ear

Words of blended love and fear. Of the mighty Soul of all ?

Naught had the twain of thoughts like

these As they wound along through the

crowded trees. Where never had rung the axeman's stroke On the gnarled trunk of the rough-barked

oak ; — Climbing the dead tree's mossy log. Breaking the mesh of the bramble fine. Turning aside the wild grapevine, And lightly crossing the quaking bog Whose surface shakes at the leap of the

frog. And out of whose pools tlie ghostly fog

Creeps into the chill moonshine ! Y^et, even that Indian's car had heard The jireaching of the Holy Word : Sanchekantacket's isle of sand Was once his father's hunting land. Where zealous Hiacoomes ^ stood, — The wild apostle of the wood. Shook from his soul the fear of harm. And trampled on the Powwaw's charm ; Until the wizard's curses hung Suspended on his palsying tongue, And the fierce warrior, grim and tall, Trembled before the forest Paul !

A cottage hidden in the wood, —

Red through its seams a light is glowing. On rock and bough and tree-trunk rude,

A narrow lustre throwing. "Who's there?" a clear, firm voice demands ;

"Hold, Ruth, —'tis 1, the Saga- more ! " Quick, at the summons, hasty hands

Unclose the bolted door ; And on the outlaw's daughter shine The flashes of the kindled pine.

Tall and erect the maiden stands.

Like some young jiriestess of the wood, The freeborn child of Solitude, And bearing still the wild and rude, Yet noble trace of Nature's hands. Herdark brown cheek has caught its stain More from the sunshine than the rain ; Yet, wliere her long fair hair is parting, A pure white brow into light is starting ; And, where the folds of herblanket sever. Are a neck and bosom as white as ever The foam-wreaths rise on the leaping river. But in the convulsive quiver and grip Of the muscles around her bloodless lip, There is something jiainful and sad to see ; And her eye has a glance more sternly

wild Tlian even that of a forest child

In its fearless and untamed freedom should be. Yet, seldom in hall or court are seen So queenly a form and so noble a mien. As freely and smiling she welcomes them there, — Her outlawed sire and Mogg Megone : ' ' Pray, father, how does thy hunting

fare? And, Sachem, say, — does Scamman wear, In spite of thy promise, a scalp of his

own ? " Hurried and light is the maiden's tone ;

But a fearful meaning lurks within Her glance, as it questions the eye of Megone, — An awful meaning of guilt and sin ! — • The Indian hath opened his blanket, and

there Hangs a human scalp by its long damp

hair ! With hand upraised, with quick drawn

breath, She meets that ghastly .sign of death.

MOGG MEGONE.

In one long, glassy, spectral stare The enlarging eye is fastened there. As if that mesh of pale brown hair

Had power to change at sight alone. Even as the fearful locks which wound Medusa's fatal forehead round,

The gazer into stone. With such a look Herodias read The features of the bleeding head. So looked the mad Moor on his dead, Or the 3'oung Cenci as she stood, O'er-dabbled with a father's blood !

Look ! — feeling melts that frozen glance, It moves that marble countenance, As if at once within her strove Pity with shame, and hate with love. The Past recalls its joy and pain. Old memories rise before her brain, — The lips which love's embraces met, The hand her tears of parting wet. The voice whose ])leading tones beguiled The pleased ear of the forest-child, — And tears she may no more repress Reveal her lingering tenderness.

0, woman wronged can cherish hate

More deep and dark than manhood may ; But when the mockery of Fate

Hath left Kevenge its chosen way, And the fell curse, which years have

nursed. Full on the spoiler's head hath burst, — When all herwTong, andsliame, and pain. Bums fiercely on his heart and brain, — Still lingers something of the spell

Which bound her to the traitor's bosom, — Still, midst the vengeful fires of hell,

Some fiowers of old affection blossom.

John Bonython's eyebrows together are

drawn With a fierce expression of wrath and

scorn, — He hoarsely whispers, " Ruth, beware ! Isthisthetimetobe pla}'ingthe fool, — Crying over a paltry lock of hair.

Like a love-sick girl at school ? — Curse on it ! — an Indian can see and

hear : Away, — and prepare our evening cheer ! "

How keenly the Indian is watching now Her tearful eye and her varying brow, — With a .serpent eye, which kindles and bums,

Like a fiery star in the upper air : On sii-e and daughter his fierce glance turns : — " Has my old white father a scalp to

spare ?

For his young one loves the pale

brown hair

Of the scalp of an English dog far more

Than Mogg Megone, or his wigwam floor ;

Go, — Mogg is wise : he will keep his

land, — And Sagamore John, when he feels with his hand. Shall miss his scalp whereitgrew before.'

The moment's gust of giief is gone, — The lip is clenched, — the tears are .still, — God pity thee, Ruth Bonython ! A\'ith what a strength of will Are nature's findings in thy breast, As with an iron hand, repressed ! And how, upon that nameless woe. Quick as the puhse can come and go, While shakes the unsteadfast knee, and

yet The bosom heaves, — the eye is wet, — Has thy dark spirit power to stay The heart's wild current on its way ? And whence that baleful strength of guile, Which over that still working brow And tearful eye and cheek can throw

The mockery of a smile ? Warned by her father'sblackening frown, AVith one strong effort crushing dow-n Grief, hate, remorse, slie meets again The savage murderer's sullen gaze. And scarcely look or tone betrays How the heart strives beneath its chain.

" Is the Sachem angry, — angry with

Ruth, Because she cries with an ache in her

tooth,!" Which would make a Sagamore jump

and crj'^. And look about with a woman's eye ? No, — Ruth wall sit in the Sachem'e

door And braid the mats for his wigwam floor. And broil his fish and tender fawTi, And weave his wampum, and giind hie

corn, — For she loves the brave and the wise,

and none Are braver and wiser tlian Mogg Megone I"

MOGG MEGONE.

The Indian's brow is clear once move :

With grave, calm face, and half-shut eye. He sits upon the wigwam floor,

And watches Ruth go by. Intent upon her household care ;

And ever and anon, the while, j

Or on the maiden, or her fare, !

Which smokes in grateful promise there, I

Bestows his quiet smile.

Ah, Mogg Megone ! ^ what dreams ai-e thine.

But those which love's own fancies dress, —

The sum of Indian happiness ! — A. wigwam, where the warm sunshine Looks in among the gi'oves of pine, — A stream, where, round thy light canoe, The trout and salmon dart in view, And the fair girl, before thee now. Spreading thy mat with hand of snow. Or plying, in the dews of morn, Her hoe amidst thy patch of corn, Or offering up, at eve, to thee. Thy birchen dish of hominy !

From the rude board of Bonython, Venison and succotash have gone, — For long these dwellers of the wood Have felt the gnawing want of food. But untasted of Ruth is the frugal cheer, — With head averted, yet ready ear, She stands by the side of her austere

sire, Feeding, at times, the unequal fire With the yellow knots of the pitch-pine

tree. Whose flaring light, as they kindle, falls On the cottage-roof, and its black log

walls, And over its inmates three.

From Sagamore Bonython's hunting flask The fire-water burns at the lip of Me- gone : " Will the Sachem hear what his father shall ask ? Will he make his mark, that it may be known, On the speaking-leaf, that he gives the

land. From the Sachem's own, to his father's

hand ? " The fire-water shines in the Indian's eyes. As he rises, the white man's bidding to do :

' ' Wuttamuttata — weekan ! ^^

wise, — For the water he drinks is strong and

new, — - Mogg's heart is gi-eat ! — will he shut his

liand, When his father asks for a little land ?" — With unsteady fingers, the Indian has

drawn On the parchment the shape of a

hunter's bow, " Boon water, — boon water, — Saga- more John ! Wuttamuttata, — weekan ! our hearts

will grow ! " He drinks yet deeper, — he mutters

low, — He reels on his bear-skin to and fro, — His head falls down on his naked

breast, — He struggles, and sinks to a drunken rest.

" Humph — drunk as a beast ! " — and

Bonython's brow Is darker than ever with evil thought — ' ' The fool has signed his warrant ; but

how And when shall the deed be wrought ? Speak, Ruth ! why, what the devil is

there. To fix thy gaze in that empty air ? — Speak, Ruth ! by my soul, if I thought

that tear. Which shames thyself and our purpose

here. Were shed for that cursed and pale- faced dog. Whose green scalp hangs from the belt

of Mogg, And whose beastly soul is in Satan's

keeping, — This — this ! " — he dashes his hand

upon The rattling stock of his loaded gun, — " Should send thee with him to do

thy weeping ! "

" Father ! " — the eye of Bonython Sinks at that low, sepulchral tone, Hollow and deep, as it were spoken

By the unmoving tongue of death, — Or from some statue's lips had broken, —

A sound without a bi'oatli ! " Father ! — my life 1 value less Than yonder fool his gaudy dress ; And how it ends it matters not, Bj' heart-break or by rifle-shot ;

MOGG MEGONE.

Rut spare rtwhile the scoff and threat, — i)ur business is not finished yet."

" True, true, my girl, — I only meant To draw up again the bow unbent. Harm thee, my Ruth ! I only sought To frighten off thy gloomy thought ; Come, — let 's be friends ! " He seeks

to clasp His daughter's cold, damp hand in his. Kuth startles from her father's grasp. As if each nen^e and muscle felt, Instinctively, the touch of guilt. Through all their subtle sympathies.

He points her to the sleeping Mogg : '' What .shall be done with yonder dog ? Scamman isdead, and revenge isthine, — The deed is signed and the land is mine ; And this drunken foolisof use no more, Save as thy hopeful bridegroom, and

sooth, T were Christian mercy to finish him,

Ruth, Now, while he lies like a beast on our

floor, — If not for thine, at least for his sake. Rather than let the poor dog awake To drain my flask, and claim as his bride Such a forest devil to run by his side, — Such a Wetuomanit ^^ as thou wouldst

make ! "

He laughs at his jest. Hush — what is there ? — The sleeping Indian is striving to rise. With his knife in his hand, and glar- ing eyes ! — " Wagh ! — Mogg will have the pale- face's hair. For his knife is .shaq), and his fingers can help The hair to pull and the skin to perl, — Let him cry like a woman and twist like an eel. The great Captain Scamman must lose his scalp ! And Ruth, when she sees it, shall dance

with Mogg." His eyes are fixed, — but his lips draw

in, — With a low, hoarse chuckle, and fiendish grin, — And he sinks again, like a senseless log.

Ruth does not speak, ■ — she does not stir ; Cut .she gazes down on the murderer,

Whose broken and dreamful slumbers tell Too much for her ear of that deed of hell. She sees the knife, with its slaughter red, And the dark fingers clenching the bear- skin bed ! What thoughts of horror and madness

whirl Through the burning brain of that fallen girl!

John Bouython lifts his gun to his eye, Its muzzle is close to the Indian's ear, —

But he drops it again. " Some one may be nigh. And I would not that even the wolves should hear."

He draws his knife from its deer-skin belt, —

Its edge with his fingers is slowly felt ; —

Kneeling down on one knee, by the In- dian's side.

From his throat he opens the blanket wide ;

And twice or thrice he feebly essays

A trembling hand with the knife to raise.

" 1 capnot," — he nmtters, — " did he

not save My life from a cold and wintry grave. When the stonn came down from Agioo-

chook. And the north-wind howled, and the

tree-tops shook, — And 1 strove, in the drifts of the rush- ing snow, Till my knees grew weak and I could

not go. And I felt the cold to my vitals creep. And my heart's blood stiffen, and pulses

sleep ! I cannot strike him — Ruth Bonython ! In the Devil's name, tell me — what's

to be done ? "

0, when the soul, once pure and high. Is strirken down from Virtue's sky. As, with the downcast star of morn. Some gems of light are with it drawn, — And, through its night of darkness, play Some tokens of its jnimal day, — Some lofty feelings linger still, — Tiie .strength to dare, the nerve to meei Whatever threatens with defeat Its all-indomitable will ! — But lacks tiie mean of mind and heart, Thougli eager for the gains of crime, Oft, at his chosen place and time.

MOGG MEGONE,

The strength to bear his evil part ; And, shielded by his very Vice, Escapes from Crime by Cowardice.

Ruth starts erect, — with bloodshot eye, And lips drawn tight across her teeth, Showing theit locked embrace beneath, In the red firelight : — " Mogg must die ! Give me the kniie !" — The outlaw turns, Shuddering in heart and limb, away, — But, fitfully there, the hearth-fire burns, And he sees on the wall strange shad- ows play. A lifted ann, a tremulous blade. Are dimly pictured in light and shade, Plunging down in the darkness. Hark, that cry Again — and again — he sees it fall, — That shadowy arm down the lighted wall ! He hears quick footsteps — a shape

flits by — The door on its rusted hinges creaks : — "Ruth — daughter Ruth ! " the outlaw

shrieks. But no sound comes back, — he is stand- ing alone By the mangled corse of Mogg Megone !

PART II.

T IS morning over Norridgewock, — On tree and wigwam, wave and rock. Bathed in the autumnal sunshine, stiri'ed At intervals by breeze and bird, And wearing all the hues which glow In heaven's own pure and perfect bow,

That glorious picture of the air, Which summer's light-robed angel forms On the dark ground of fading storms,

"With pencil dipped in sunbeams there, — And, stretching out, on either hand, O'er all that wide and unshorn land. Till, weary of its gorgeousness, The aching and the dazzled eye Rests, gladdened, on the calm blue sk}"-, —

Slumbers the mighty wilderness ! The oak, upon the windy hill,

Its dark green burthen upward heaves — The henrlock broods above its rill. Its cone-like foliage darker still,

Against the birch's graceful stem. And the rough walnut-bough receives The sun upon its crowded leaves,

Each colored like a topaz gem ,

And the tall maple wears with them The coronal, which autumn gives, The brief, bright sign of ruin near, The hectic of a dying year !

The hermit priest, who lingers now On the Bald Mountain's shrubless broWj The gray and thunder-smitten }iile Which marks afar the Desert Isle,!^

While gazing on the scene below, May half forget the dreams of home,

That nightly with hisslumberscome, ^. The tranquil skies of sunny France, The peasant's harvest song and dance. The vines around the hillsides wreathing The soft airs midst their clusters breath- ing. The wings which dipped, the stai-s which

shone Within thy bosom, blue Garonne ! And round the Abbey's shadowed wall, At morning spring and even-fall.

Sweet voices in the still air singing, — • The chant of many a holy hymn, —

The solemn bell of vespers ringing, — And hallowed torchlight falling dim

On pictured saint and seraphim ! For here beneath him lies unrolled, Bathed deep in morning's flood of gold, A vision gorgeous as the dream Of the beatified may seem, / When, as his Church's legends say, Borne upward in ecstatic bliss.

The rapt enthusiast soars away Unto a brighter world than this .: A mortal's glimpse beyond the pale, — A moment's lifting of the veil !

Far eastward o'er the lovely bay, Penobscot's clustered wigwams lay ; And gently from that Indian town The verdant hillside slopes adown. To where the sparkling waters play

Upon the yellow sands below ; And shooting round the winding shores

Of narrow capes, and isles whicli lie

Slumbering to ocean's lullaby, ■ — With birchen boat and glancing oars.

The red men to their fishing go ; While from their pdantinggroundis borne The treasure of the golden corn, By laughing girls, whose dark eyes glow Wild through the locks which o'er them

flow. The wrinkled squaw, whose toil is done, Sits on her bear-skin in the sun, Watching tlie buskers, with a smile

8

MOGG MEGONE.

For eacl> full ear whicli swells the pile ; And the old chief, who nevermore May bend the bow or pull the oar, Smokes gravelj' in his wigwam door. Or slowlj- shapes, with axe of stone, The arrow-head from flint and bone.

Beneath the westward turning eye A thousand wooded islands lie, — Gems of the waters ! — with each hue Of brightness set in ocean's blue. Each bears aloft its tuft of trees

Touched by the pencil of the frost, And, with the motion of each breeze,

A moment seen, — a moment lost, —

Changing and blent, confused and tossed.

The brighter with the darker crossed, Their thousand tints of beauty glow Down in the restless waves below,

And tremble in the sunny skies, As if, from wa%Tng bough to bough,

Flitted the birds of paradise. There sleep Placentia's group, — and

there Pere Breteaux marks the hour of prayer ; And there, beneath the sea-worn cliff,

On which the Father's hut is seen. The Indian staj-s his rocking skiff.

And peers the hemlock -boughs '.le- tween. Half trembling, as he seeks to look Upon the Jesuit's Cross and Book.^'' There, gloomily against the sky The Dark Isles rear their summits high ; And Desert Kock, abrupt and bare, Lifts its gray tuirets in the air, — Seen from afar, like some stronghold Built by the ocean kings of old ; And, faint as smoke-wreath white and

thin, Swells in the north vast Katahdin : And, wandering from its marshy feet. The broad Penob.scot comes to meet

And mingle with his own bright bay. Slow sweep his dark and gathering floods, Arched over by the ancient woods, Wliicli Time, in those diin solitudes,

"Wielding the dull axe of Decay,

Alone hath ever shorn away.

Not thus, within the woods which hide The beauty of thy azure tide.

And with their falling timbers block Thv broken currents, Kennebec ! Gazes the white man on the wreck

Of the down-trodden Norridgewock, —

In Dne lone village hemmed at length, In battle shorn of half their strength, Turned, like the panther in his lair,

With his fast-flo\\-ing life-blood wet, For one last struggle of despair.

Wounded and faint, but tameless yet ! Unreaped, upon the planting lands. The scant, neglected harvest stands :

Xo shout is there, — no dance, — no song: The aspect of the very child Scowls with a meaning sad and wild

Of bitterness and wrong. The almost infant Norridgewock Essays to lift the tomahawk ; And plucks his father's knife away, To mimic, in his frightful play.

The scalping of an English foe : Wreathes on his lip a horrid smile. Burns, like a snake's, his small eye, while

Some bough or sapling meets his blow. The fisher, as he drops his line. Starts, when he sees the hazels quiver Along the margin of the river. Looks up and down the rippling tide. And gra.sps the firelock at his side. For Bomazeen ^^ from Taeconock Has sent his runners to Norridgewock, With tidings that Moulton and Harmon of York

Far up the river have come : They have left their boats, — they have

entered the wood, And filled the depths of the solitude

With the sound of the ranger's drum.

On the brow of a hill, which slopes to

meet The flowing river, and bathe its feet, — The bare-washed rock, and the drooping

grass, And the creeping vine, as the waters

pass, — A rude and unshapely chapel stands. Built uj) in that wild by im.skilled hands. Yet the traveller knows it a place of

])rayer. For the holy sign of the cross is there : And should he chance at that place to be. Of a Sabbath morn, or some hallowed

day. When prayers are made and masses are

said. Some for the living and some for the dead, Well might that traveller start to see

The tall dark fonns, tliat take their way From the birch canoe, on the river-shore,

MOGG MEGONE.

And the forest paths, to that chapel door ; And marvel to mark the naked knees

And the dusky foreheads bending there, AVhile, in coarse white vesture, over these

In blessing or in prayer, Stretching abroad his thin pale hands, Like a shrouded ghost, the Jesuit i^ stands.

Two forms are now in that chapel dim. The Jesuit, silent and sad and pale. Anxiously heeding some fearful tale. Which a stranger is telling him. That stranger's garb is soiled and torn. And wet vdili dew and loosely worn ; Her fair neglected hair falls down O'er cheeks with wind and sunshine

brown ; Yet still, in that disordered face, The Jesuit's cautious eye can trace Tliose elements of former gi'ace Which, half effaced, seem scarcely less, Even now, than perfect loveliness.

With drooping head, and voice so low That scarce it meets the Jesuit's ears, —

Wliile through her clasped fingers flow.

From the heart's fountain, hot and slow, Her YJenitential tears, —

She tells the story of the woe And evil of her years.

" 0 father, bear with me ; my heart Is sick and death-like, and my brain Seems girdled with a fiery chain.

Whose scorching links will never part, And never cool again.

Bear with me while I speak, — but tarn Away that gentle eye, the while, —

The fires of guilt more fiercely burn Beneath its holy smile ;

For half I fancy I can see

My mother's sainted look in thee.

•* My dear lost mother ! sad and pale,

MonrnfuUy sinking day by day. And with a hold on life as frail As frosted leaves, that, thin and gray, Kang feebly on their parent spray. And tremble in the gale ; Yet watcliing o'er ni)- childishness With patient fondness, — not the less For all the agony which kept Her blue eye wakeful, while I slept ; And checking every tear and groan That haply miglit have waked my own, And bearing still, without offence, My idle words, and petulance ;

Reproving with a tear, — and, while The tooth of pain was keenly preying Upon her very heart, repaying

My brief repentance with a smile.

"0, in her meek, forgiving eye

There was a brightness not of mirth. A light whose clear intensity

Was borrowed not of earth. Along her cheek a deepening red Told where the feverish hectic fed :

And yet, each fatal token gave To the mild beauty of her face A newer and a dearer grace,

Unwarning of the grave. 'T was like the hue which Autumn giveb To yonder changed and dying leaves,

Breathed over by his frosty breath ; Scarce can the gazer feel that this Is but the spoiler's treacherous kiss.

The mocking-smile of Death 1

"Sweet were the tales .she used to tell

When summer's eve was dear to us, And, fading from the darkening dell, The glory of the sunset fell

On wooded Agamenticus, — When, sitting by our cottage wall. The murmur of the Saco's fall,

And the south-wind's expiring sighs, Came, softly blending, on my ear. With the low tones 1 loved to hear :

Tales of the pure, — the good, — the ■wise, — ■ The holy men and maids of old, In the all-sacred pages told ; — Of Rachel, stooped at Haran's fount- ains,

Amid her father's thirsty flock, Beautiful to her kinsman seeming As the bright angels of his dreaming,

On Padan-aran's holy rock ; Of gentle Ruth, — and her who kept

Her awful vigil on the mountains, By Israel's virgin daughters wept ; Of Miriam, with her maidens, singing

The song for grateful Israel meet. While every crimson wave was bringing

The spoils of Egypt at her feet ; Of her, — Samaria's humble daughter,

Who paused to hear, beside her well,

Le.ssons of love and truth, which fell Softly as Shiloh's flowing water ;

And saw, beneath his pilgrim guise, The Promised One, so long foretold By holy seer and bard of old,

Revealed before her wondering eyes I

10

MOGG MEGONE.

" Slowly she faded. Day by day Her step grew weaker in our hall, And fainter, at each even-fall,

Her sad voice died away. Yet on her thin, pale lip, the while, Sat Resignation's holy smile : And even my lather checked his tread, And hushed his voice, beside her bed : Beneath the calm and sad rebuke Of her meek eye's imploring look. The scowl of hate his brow forsook.

And in his stern and gloomy eye. At tunes, a few unwonted tears Wet the dark lashes, which for years

Hatred and pride had kept so dry.

" Calm as a child to slumber soothed. As if an angel's hand had smoothed

The still, white features into rest. Silent and cold, without a breath

To stir the drapery on her breast. Pain, with its keen and poisoned fang, The horror of the mortal pang, The suffering look her brow had worn, The fear, the strife, the anguish gone, —

She slept at last in death !

•' 0, tell me, father, can the dead Walk on the earth, and look on us.

And lay upon the living's head Their blessing or their cui-se ?

For, 0, last night she stood by me.

As I lay beneath the woodland tree ! "

The Jesuit crosses himself in awe, — " Jesu ! what was it my daugliter saw ? "

" She came to me last night.

The dried leaves did not feel her tread ; She stood by me in the wan moonlight.

In the white robes of the dead ! Pale, and very mournfully She bent her light form over me. I heard no .sound, I felt no breath Breathe o'er me from that face of death : Its 1)1 ue eyes rested on my own, Rayless and cold as eyes of stone ; Yet, in their fi.xed, unchanging gaze. Something, which .spoke of early days, — .\ sadness in their quiet glare, As if love's smile were frozen thei-e, — Came o'er me with an icy thrill ; 0 God ! I feel its presence still ! "

The Jesuit makes the holy sign, — "How parsed the vision, daughtermine?"

" All dimly in the wan mn^Mishine, As a wreath of mist will twist and twine, And scatter, and melt into the light, — ■ So scattering, — melting on my sight,

The pale, cold vision passed ; But those sad eyes were fixed on muie

Mournfully to the last."

' ' God help thee, daughter, tell me why That spirit passed before thine eye ! "

" Father, I know not, save it be That deeds of mine have summoned her From the unbreathing sepulchre, To leave her last rebuke with me. Ah, woe for me ! my mother died Ju.st at the moment when I stood Close on the verge of womanhood, A child in everj'thing besi<le ; And when my wild heart needed most Her gentle counsels, they were lost.

" My father lived a storniy life. Of frecpient change and d'-^ily strife ; And — God forgive him ! — left his child To feel, like him, a freedom wild ; To love the red man's dwelling-place.

The birch boat on his shaded Hoods, The wild excitement of the chase

Sweeping the ancient woods. The camp-lire, blazing on the .shore

Of 1 he still lakes, the clear stream wh-^r*

The idle fish(!r sets his wear, Or aiigles in the shade, far more

Than that restiaining awe I felt B<'neath my gentle mothei-'s care,

When nightly at lier knee I knelf , With childhood's simple prayer.

" There came a change. The wild, glad mood

Of unchecked freedom passed. Annd tlie ancient solitude Of unshoin grass and waving wood.

And waters glancing bright and fist, A softened voice was in my ear, Sweet as tho.se lulling sounds and fine The hunter lifts his head to hear, Now far and faint, now full and near —

The murTiuir of the wind-swept pine. A manly form was ever nigh, A bold, free hunter, with an eye

Wlio.se dark, keen glance had powei to wake Both fear and love, — to awe and chann,

'T was as the wizard rattlesnake, Wliose evil glances lure to hann —

MOGG MEGONE.

11

Whose cold and small and glittering

eye, And brilliant coil, and changing dye, Draw, step by step, the gazer near. With drooping wing and cry of fear, Yet powerless all to turn away, A c&nscious, but a willing prey !

"Fear, dcnibt, thought, life itself, erelong Merged in one feeling deep and strong. Faded the world which I had known,

A poor vain shadow, cold and waste ; In the warm present bliss alone

Seemed I of actual life to taste. Fond longings dimly understood, The glow of passion's quickening blood, And cherished fantasies which press The young lip with a dream's caress, — The heart's forecast and prophecy Took form and life before my eye. Seen in the glance which met my own, Heard in the soft and pleading tone, Felt in the arms around me cast. And warm heart-pulses beating fast. Ah ! scarcely yet to God above Witli deeper trust, with stronger love, Has prayerful saint his meek heart

lent. Or cloistered nun at twilight bent, Than 1, before a human shrine, As mortal and as frail as mine, Withheart, andsoul, and mind, and form. Knelt madly to a fellow-worm.

" Full soon, upon that dream of sin. An awful light came bursting in. The shrine was cold at which I knelt,

The idol of that shrine was gone ; A humbled thing of shame and guilt,

Outcast, and spurned and lone, Wrapt in the shadows of my crime.

With withering heart and burning brain,

And tears that fell like fiery rain, I passed a fearful time.

" There came a voice — it checked the tear —

I n heart and soul it wrought a change ; — ■ My father's voice was in my ear ■,

It whispered of revenge ! A new and fiercer feeling swept

All lingering tenderness away ; And tiger passions, which had slept

In childhood's better day, Hiiknown, uidelt, arose at length In all their own demoniac strength.

" A youthful warrior of the wild, By words deceived, by smiles beguiled, Of crime the cheated instrument. Upon our fatal errands went.

Through camp and town and wilderness He tracked his victim ; and, at last. Just when the tide of hate had passed, And milder thoughts came warm and fast, Exulting, at my feet he cast

The bloody token of success.

"0 God ! with what an awful power

I saw the buried past upiise, And gather, in a single hour.

Its ghost -like memories ! And then I felt — alas ! too late — That underneath the mask of hate. That shame and guilt and wrong had

thrown O'er feelings which they might not own.

The heart's wild love had known no change ; And still that deep and hidden love. With its first fondness, wept above

The victim of its own revenge ! There lay the fearful scalp, and there The blood was on its pale brown hair ! I thought not of the victim's scorn,

I thought not of his baleful guile. My deadly wrong, my outcast name, The characters of sin and shame On heart and forehead drawn ;

I only saw that victim's smile, — The still, green places where we met, — The moonlit branches, dewy wet ; I only felt, I only heard The greeting and the parting word, — The smile, — the eaibrace, — the tone,

which made ^

An Eden of the forest shade.

" And oh, with what a loathing eye,

With what a deadly hate, and deep, I saw that Indian murderer lie

Before me, in his drunken sleep ! What though for me the deed was done, And words of mine had sped him on ! Yet when he murmured, as he slept.

The horrors of that deed of blood, The tide of utter madness swept

O'er brain and bosom, like a flood. And, father, with this hand of mine — "

" Ha ! what didst thou ? " the Jesuit cries, Shuddering, as smitten with sudden pain,

And shading, with one thin hand, his eyes.

12

MOGG MEGONE.

With the other he makes the holy sign. " — I smote him as I would a worm ; — With heart as steeled, with nerves as firm : He never woke again ! "

" "Woman of sin and blood and shame, Speak, — 1 would know that victim's name."

"Father," she gasped, "a chieftain,

known As Saco's Sachem, — MoGG Megone ! "

Pale priest ! What proud and lofty

dreams, What keen desires, what cherished

schemes. What hopes, that time may not recall. Are darkened by that chieftain's fall ! Was he not pledged, by cross and vow.

To lift the hatchet of his sire, And, round his own, the Church's foe,

To light the avenging fire ? Who noAV the Tarrantine shall wake. For thine and for the Church's sake ?

Who summon to the scene Of conquest and unsparing strife. And vengeance dearer than his life.

The fiery-souled Castine ? i' Three backward steps the Jesuit takes, — His long, thin frame as ague shakes ;

And loathing hate is in his eye, As fi-om his lips these words of fear Fall hoarsely on the maiden's ear, —

"Tlie soul tliat sinnetli shall surely die ! "

ShQ stands, as stands the stricken deer, Checked midway in the fearful chase, When bursts, upon his eye and ear, Tlie gaunt, gray robber, baying near, Between him and his hiding-place ; While still behind, with yell and blow, Sweeps, like a storm, the coming foe. " Save me, 0 holy man ! " — her cry Fills all the void, as if a tongue. Unseen, from rib and i after hung. Thrilling with mortal agony ; Her hands are clasping the Jesuit's knee. And her eye looks fearfully into his own ; — * Off, woman of sin ! — nay, touch not me Witli those fingers of blood ; — be- gone ! "

With a gesture of hoiTor, he spurns the

fomi That WTithes at his feet like a trodden

worm.

Ever thus the spirit must.

Guilty in the sight of Heaven, With a keener woe be riven.

For its weak and sinful trust

In the strength of human dust r, And its anguish thrill afresh,

For each vain reliance given To the failing arm of flesh.

PART III.

Ah, weary Priest ! — with pale hands pressed

On thy throbbing brow of pain. Baffled in thy life-long quest.

Overworn with toiling vain. How ill tliy troubled musings fit

Tlie holy quic^t of a breast

With the Dove of Peace at rest, Sweetly brooding over it. Thoughts are thine whicli have no part With the meek and pure of heart, Undisturbed by outward tilings, Kesting in the heavenly shade. By the oversjjrcading wings

Of the Blessed Spirit made. Thoughts of strife and hate and wiong Sweep thy heated brain along, Fading hopes for whose success

It were sin to breathe a prayer ; — Schemes which Heaven may neA'er bless, —

Fears which darken to despair. Hoary priest ! thy dream is done Of a hundred red tribes won

To the pale of Holy Church ; And the heretic o'erthrown. And his name no longer known. And tliy weary brethren turning. Joyful from their yeais of mourning, 'Twixt the altar and the porch. Hark ! what sudden sound is heard

In the wood and in tlie sky, Shriller than the scream of bird, —

Than the trumjjet's clang mwf high ! Every wolf-cave of the hills, —

Forest arch and mountain gorge,

Rock and d(;ll, and river verge, — Witli an answering echo thrills. Well does the Jesuit know that cry

MOGG MEGONE.

13

Which summons the Norridgewock to

die, And tells that the foe of his flock is nigh. He listens, and hears the rangers come, With loud hurrah, and jar of drum, And hurrying feet (for the chase is hot). And the s"hort, sharp sound of rifle shot, And taunt and menace, — answered well By the Indians' mocking cry and yell, — The bark of dogs, — the squaw's mad

scream, — The dash of paddles along the stream, — The whistle of shot as it cuts the leaves Of the maples around the church's

eaves, — And the glide of hatchets fiercely

thrown. On wigwam-log and tree and stone. Black with the grime of paint and dust. Spotted and streaked with human

gore, A grim and naked head is thrust

Within the chapel-door. "Ha — Bomazeen ! — In God's name say, ( "What mean these sounds of bloody fray ?" Silent, the Indian points his hand To where across the echoing glen Sweep Harmon's dreaded ranger-band,

And Moulton with his men. " AVhere are thy warriors, Bomazeen ? "Where are De Rouville i^ and Castine, And where the braves of Sawga's queen ?" " Let my father find the winter snow Which the sun drank up long moons ago ! Under the falls of Tacconock, The wolves are eating the Norridgewock ; Castine with his wives lies closely hid Like a fox in the woods of Pemaquid ! On Sawga's banks the man of war Sits in his wigwam like a squaw, — Bquando has tied, and Mogg Megone, Struck by the knife of Sagamore John, Ijies .stitt' and stark aud cold as a stone."

Fearfully over the Jesuit's face,

(^f a thousand thoughts, trace after trace.

Like swift cloud-shadows, each other

chase. J)ne instant, his lingers grasp his knife. For a last vain struggle for cherished

life, — The next, he hurls the blade away. And kneels at his altar's foot to pray ; Over his beads his fingers stray. And he kisses the cross, aud calls aloud On the "V^irgin and her Son ; F(n- terrible thoughts his memory crowd

Of evil seen and done, — Of scalps brought home by his savage

flock From Casco and Sawga and Sagadahock

In the Church's service won.

No shrift the gloomy savage brooks, As scowling on the priest he looks : "Cowesass — cowesass — tawhich wessa

seen ?i^ Let my father look upon Bomazeen, — My father's heart is the heart of a squaw. But mine is so hard that it does not thaw ; Let my father ask his God to make A dance and a feast for a gi-eat saga- more. When he paddles across the western lake, With his dogs and his squaws to the spirit's shore. "Cowesass — cowesass — tawhich wessa-

seen ? Let my father die like Bomazeen ! "

Through the chapel's narrow doors,

And through each window in the walls, Round the priest and warrior pours

The deadly shower of English balls. Low on his cross the Jesuit falls ; V/'hile at his side the Norridgewock, With failing breath, essays to mock And menace yet the hated foe, — Shakes his scalp-trophies to and fro

Exultingly before their eyes, — Till, cleft and torn by shot and blow.

Defiant still, he dies.

" So fare all eaters of the frog ! Death to the Babylonish dog !

Down with the beast of Rome ! " With shouts like these, around the dead, Unconscious on his bloody bed.

The rangers crowding come. Brave men ! the dead priest cannot hear The unfeeling taunt, — the brutal jeer ; — Spurn — for he sees ye not — in wrath, The symbol of your Saviour's death ;

Tear from his death-grasp, in your zeal. And trample, as a thing accursed. The cross he cherished in the dust :

The dead man cannot feel !

Brutal alike in deed and word,

With callous heart and hand of strife

How like a fiend may man be made,

Plying the foul and monstrous trade Whose harvcst-lield is human life,

Whose sickle is the reeking sword !

14

MOGG MEGONE.

Quenching, with reckless hand in blood, Sparks kindled by the breath of God ; Urging the deathless soul, unshriven,

Of open guilt or secret sin, Before the bar of that pure Heaven

The holy only enter in ! 0, by the widow's sore distress. The orphan's wailing wretchedness, By Virtue struggling in the accursed Embraces of polluting Lust, By the fell discord of the Pit, And the pained souls that people it, And hj the blessed peace which fills

The Paradise of God forever. Besting on all its holy hills.

And flowing with its crystal river, — Let Christian hands no longer bear

In triumph on his crimson car

The foul and idol god of war ; No more the purple wreaths prepare To bind amid his snaky hair ; Nor Christian bards his glories tell. Nor Christian tongues his praises swell.

Through the gun-smoke wreathing white,

Glimpses on the soldiers' sight

A thing of human shape I ween.

For a moment only seen,

AVith its loose hair backward streaming,

And its eyeballs madly gleaming,

Shrieking, like a soul in pain.

From the world of light and breath, Hurrying to its place again,

Spectre-like it vanishcth !

"Wretched girl ! one eye alone Notes the way which thou hast gone. That great Eye, which slumbers never. Watching o'er a lost world ever. Tracks thee over vale and mountain^ By the gushing forest-fountain, Plucking from the vine its fruit, Searching for the giound-nut's root. Peering in the she- wolfs den, Wading through tlie maishy fen, Where the sluggish water-snake Basks beside the sunny brake, Coiling in hLs slimy bed. Smooth and cold against thy tread, — Purposeless, thy mazy way Threading through the lingering day. And at night securely sleeping AVliere the dog^vood's dews are weeping ! Still, though earth and man discard thee. Doth thy Heavenly Father guard thee ■ He who spared the guilty Cain, Even when a brother's blood,

Crying in the ear of God, Gave the earth its primal stain, — He whose mercy ever liveth. Who repentuig guilt forgiveth, And the broken heart receiveth, — Wanderer of the wilderness,

Haunted, guilty, crazed, and wild, He regardeth th}' distress.

And careth for his sinful child !

'T is springtime on the eastern hills ! Like torrents gush the summer rills ; Through winter's moss and dry dead

leaves The bladed grass revives and lives. Pushes the mouldering waste away. And glimpses to the April day. In kindh^ shower and sunshine bud The branches of the dull gi-ay wood ; Out from its sunned and sheltered nooks The blue ej'e of the violet looks ;

The southwest wind is warmly blowing, And odors from the springing grass. The pine-tree and the sassafras.

Are with it on its errands going.

A band is marching through the wood Where rolls the Kennebec his flood, — The warriors of the wilderness, Painted, and in their battle drc.^s ; And with them one whose bearded cheek, And white and wrinkled brow, bespeak

A wanderer from the shores of France. A few long locks of scattering snow Beneath a battered morion flow, And from the rivets of the vest Which girds in steel his ample breast,

The slanted sunbeams glance. In the harsh outlines of his face Passion and sin have left their trace ; Yet, save worn brow and thin gray hair, No signs of weary age are there.

His step is firm, his eye is keen. Nor years in broil and battle spent, Nor toil, nor wounds, nor pain have bcn\

The lordly frame of old Castine.

No purpose now of strife and blood

Urges the hoary veteran on : The fire of conquest and tlie mood

Of chivalry have gone. A mournful ta.sk is his, — to lay

Within the earth the bones of thosti Who perished in that fearful day, \Vii('n Norridgewock became the prey

Of all unsparing foes. Sadly and still, dark thoughts between.

THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK.

15

Of coming vengeance mused Castine, Of the fallen chieftain Bomazeen, Who bade for him the Norridgewocks Dig up their buried tomahawks

For firm defence or swift attack ; And him whose friendship formed the tie

Which held the stern self-exile back From lapsing into savagery ; Whose garb and tone and kindly glance Eecalled a younger, happier day, And prompted memory's fond essay. To bridge the mighty waste which lay Between his wild home and that gi'ay, Tall chateau of his native France, "Whose chapel bell, with far-heard din, Ushered his birth-hour gayly in, ^nd coimted with its solemn toll The masses for Ms father's soul.

Hark ! from the foremost of the band

Suddenly bursts the Indian yell ; For now on the very spot they stand

Where the Norridgewocks fighting fell. Ko wigwam smoke is curling there ; The very earth is scorched and bare : And they pause and listen to catch a sound

Of breathing life, — but there comes not one, Uave the fox's bark and the rabbit's bound ; But hei'e and there, on the blackened ground,

White bones are glistening in the sun. And where the house of prayer arose, And the holy hymn, at daylight's close,

And the aged priest stood up tc bleas The children of the wilderness. There is naught save ashes sodden and dank ; And the birchen boats of the Nor-

ridgewock, Tethered to tree and stump and '•nrl- Rotting along the river bank !

Blessed Mary ! who is she

Leaning against that maple-tree ?

The sun upon her face burns hot, ^

But the fixed eyelid moveth not ;

The squirrel's chirp is shrill and clear

From the dry bough above her ear ;

Dashing from rock and root its spray,

Close at her feet the river rushes ;

The blackbird's mng against lier brushes.

And sweetly tlirough the hazel-bushes

The robin's mellow music gushes ; — God save her ! will she sleep alway ?

Castine hath bent him over the sleeper : " Wake, daughter, — wake ! " — but

she stirs no limb : The eye that looks on him is fixed and dim; And the sleep she is sleeping shall be no deeper. Until the angel's oath is said, And the final blast of the trump goes forth To the graves of the sea and the graves of earth. Ruth Bonython js dead !

THE BRIDAL OF PE:N'¥AC00K.^

We had been wandering for many days Through the rough northern country.

We had seen The sunset, witli its bars of purple cloud. Like a new heaven, shine upward from

the lake Of Winncpiseogee ; and had felt Tlie sunrise breezes, midst the leafy isles Whicli stoop their summer beauty to the

li])s Of thw bright waters. We had checked

our eteeds,

Silent with wonder, where the mountain

wall Is piled to heaven ; and, through the

narrow rift Of the vast rocks, against whose rugged

feet Beats theinad torrent with perpetual roar, Where noonday is as twilight, and the

wind Comes burdened with the everlasting

moan Of forests and of far-ofT waterfalls,

16

THE BKIDAL OF PENNACOOK.

We had looked i:pward where the sum- mer sky,

Tasselled with clouds light-woven by the sun,

Sprung its blue arch above the abutting crags

O'er-roofing the vast portal of the land

Beyond the wall of mountains. We had passed

The high soiu-ce of the Saco ; and be- wildered

In the dwarf spruce-belts of the Crystal Hills,

Had heard above us, like a voice in the cloud,

The horn of Fabyan sounding ; and atop

Of old Agioochoo'k had seen the mountains

PUed to the northward, shagged with wood, and thick

As meadow mole-hills, — the far sea of Casco,

A white gleam on the horizon of the east ;

Fair lakes, embosomed in the woods and hills ;

MoosehUlock's mountain range, and Kearsarge

/lifting his Titan forehead to the svin !

And we had rested underneath the oaks Shadowing the bank, whose grassy spires

are shaken By the perpetual beating of the falls Of the wild Ammonoosuc. We had

tracked The winding Pemigewasset, overhung By beechen shadows, whitening down

its rocks, Or lazily gliding through its intervals, From wa\-ing rye-fields sending up the

gleam Of sunlit waters. We had seen the moon Ri.sing beliind Umbagog's eastern pines, Like a great Indian camp-fire ; and its

beams At rnidnight spanning with a bridge of

silver The Merrimack by Uncanoonuc's falls.

There were five souls of us whom trav- el's chance Had thrown together in these wild

north hills : — A city lawyer, for a month escaping From his dull office, where the weary eye Saw only liot brick walls and close

thronged streets, — Briefless as yet, but with an eye to see

Life's sunniest side, and with a heart to

take Its chances all as godsends ; and his

brother, Pale from long pulpit studies, yet re- taining The wamith and freshness of a genial

heart, Whose muTor of the beautiful and time. In Man and Natm'e, was as yet un

dimmed By dust of theologic strife, or breath Of sect, or cobwebs of scholastic lore ; Like a clear crystal calm of water, taking The hue and image of o'erleaning flowers, Sweet human faces, white clouds of the

noon. Slant starlight glimpses through the

dewy leaves, And tendcrest moom-ise. 'T was, iu

truth, a. study. To mark his sphit, alternating between A decent and professional gravity And an irreverent mirthfulness, which

often Laughed in the face of his divinity, Plucked ofl" the sacred ephod, ipiite un-

shrined The oracle, and for the pattern priest Left us the man. A shrewd, sagacious

merchant, To whom the soiled sheet found in

Crawford's inn, Gi^^ng the latest news of citj' stocks And sales of cotton, had adeeper meaning Than the gieat presence of the awful

• mountains Glorified by the sunset ; — and his

daughter A delicate flower on whom had blown

too long Those evil winds, which, sweeping from

the ice And winnowing the fogs of Labrador, Shed their cold blight round Massachu- setts Bay, With the same breath which stirs

Spring's opening leaves And lifts her half-foiTncd flower-bell on

its stem. Poisoning our seaside atmosphere.

It chanced That as we turned upon our homeward way, A drear northeastern storm came howl«

ing up The valley of the Saco ; and that girl

THE BEIDAL OF PENNACOOK.

17

Who had stood with us upon Mount

Wasliington, Her brown locks rufSed by the wind

which whirled In gusts around its sharp cold pinnacle, \Vho had joined our gay trout-tishing in

the streams Which lave that giant's feet ; whose

laugh was heard jike a bird's carol on the sunrise breeze Which swelled our sail amidst the lake's

green islands, Shrank from its harsh, chill breath, and

visibly drooped Like a flower in the frost. So, in that

quiet inn Which looks from Conway on the moun- tains piled Heavily against the horizon of the north, Lilce summer thunder-clouds, we made

our home : And while the mist hung over dripping

hills. And the cold wind-driven rain-drops all

day long Beat their sad music upon roof and pane, We strove to cheer our gentle invalid.

The lawyer in the pauses of the storm Went angling down the Saco, and, re- turning. Recounted his adventures and mishaps ; Gave us the history of his scaly clients. Mingling with ludicrous yet apt citations Of barbarous law Latin, passages From Izaak Walton's Angler, sweet and

fresh As the flower-skirted streams of Stafford- shire, Where, under aged trees, the southwest

wind Of soft June mornings fanned the thin,

white hair Of the sage fisher. And, if truth be told. Our youthful candidate forsook his ser- mons, His commentaries, articles and creeds. For the fair page of human loveliness, — The missal of young hearts, whose sa- cred text Is music, its illumining sweet smiles. He sang the songs she loved ; and in

his low. Deep, earnest voice, recited many a page Of poetry, — the holiest, tendei-est lines Of the sad bard of Olney, — the sweet songs,

2

Simple and beautiful as Truth and Na- ture, Of him whose whitened locks on Rydal

Mount Are lifted yet by morning breezes blowing From thegi'een hills, immortal in his lays. And for mj'self, obedient to her wish, I searched our landlord's proffered li«

brarj", — A well-thumbed Bunyan, with its nice

wood pictures Of seal)' fiends and angels not unlike

them, — Watts' iimnelodious psalms, — Astrol-

ogy's Last home, a musty pile of almanacs, And an old chronicle of border wars And Indian history. And, as I read A stor}' of the marriage of the Chief Of Saugus to the dusky Weetamoo, Daughter of Passaconaway, who dwelt In tire old time upon the Merrimack, Our fair one, in the jflayful exercise Of her prerogative, — the right di\ane Of youth and beauty, — bade us versify The legend, and with ready pencil

sketched Its plan and outlines, laughingly as- signing To each his part, and barring our excuses With absolute will. So, like the cavaliers Whose voices still are heard in the Ro- mance Of silver-tongued Boccaccio, on the banks Of Arno, with soft tales of love beguiling The ear of languid beauty, plague-exiled From stately Florence, we rehearsed our

rhymes To their fair auditor, and shared by turns Her kind approval and her playful cen- sure.

It may be that these fragments owe alone To the fair setting of their circum- stances, — The associations of time, scene, and

audience, — Their place amid the pictures which

fill up The chambers of mymemor)'. Yet I trust That some, who sigh, while wandering

in thought. Pilgrims of Romance o'er the olden world. That our broad land, — our sea-like

lakes and mountains Piled to the clouds, — our rivers over- hung

18

THE BEIDAL OF PENNACOOK

By forests which have knowii no other

change For ages, than the budding and the fall Of leaves, — our valleys lovelier than

those Which the old poets sang of, — should

but figure On the apocrj'phal chart of speculation As pastures, wood-lots, mill-sites, ^^■ith

the privileges. Eights, and appurtenances, wlrich make

up A Yankee Paradise, — unsung, unknown, To beautiful tradition ; even their names. Whose melody yet lingers like the last Vibration of the red man's requiem, Exchaugt;d for syllables significant Of cotton-mill and rail-car, will look

kindly Upon this effort to call up the ghost Of our dim Past, and listen with pleased

ear To the responses of the questioned Shade.

I. THE MERUIMACK.

O fiiiLD of that white-crested mountain

wliose springs Gush forth in tlie shade of the cliff-eagle's

wings, Do\vn whose slopes to the lowlands thy

wild watei-s shine, Leaping gray walls of rock, flashing

through the dwarf pine.

From that cloud-curtained cradle so cold

and so lone, From the arms of that wintry-locked

mother of stone, By hills hung with forests, through

vales wide and free, Thy mountain-born ])rightness glanced

down to the sea !

No bridge arched thy waters save that

where the trees Stretched their long arms above thee

and kissed in the breeze : No sound save the lapse of the waves on

thj' shores, The plunging of otters, the light dip of

oars.

Green -tufted, oak-shaded, by Amos-

keag's fall Thy twin Uncanoonucs rose stately and

taU,

Thy Na.shua meadows lay green and un.

shorn. And the hills of Pentucket were tasseUed

with corn.

But thy Pennacook valley was fairer

than these, Andgi-eener its grasses and taller its trees, Ere the sound of an axe in the forest

had rung, Or the moAver his scythe in the meadows

had swung.

In their sheltered repose looking out from the wood

The bark-builded wagAs-ams of Pennacook stood,

There glided the corn-dance, the coun- cil-fire shone,

And against the red war-post the hatchet was thrown.

There the old smoked in silence their

pipes, and the young To the pike and the white-perch their

baited lines flung ; There the boy shaped his arrows, and

there the shy maid Wove her many-hued baskets and bright

wampum braid.

0 Stream of the Mountains ! if answer

of thine Could rise from thy waters to question

of mine, Methinks through the din of thy

thronged banks a moan Of soiTOw would swell for the days which

have gone.

Not for thee the dull jar of the loom and

the wheel, The gliding of shuttles, the ringing of

steel ; But that old voice of waters, of bird and

of breeze. The dip of the wild-fowl, the rustling of

trees !

ir. THE BASH ABA. 2^

Lift we the twilight curtains of the Past, And, turning from familiar sight and sound, Sadly and full of reverence let us cast A glance upon Tradition's shadoAvy ground.

THE BEIDAL OF PENNACOOK.

19

Led by the few pale lights which, glim- mering round That dim, strange land of Eld, seem dying fast ;

And that which hiatory gives not to the eye,

The faded coloring of Time's tapestry,

Let Fancy, with her dream-dipped brush, supply.

Eoof of hark and walls of pine. Through whose chinks the sunbeams

shine, Tracing many a golden line

On the ample iioor \\itliin ; Wliere, upon that earth-floor stark, Lay the gaudy mats of bark, With the bear's hide, rough and dark,

And the red-deer's skin.

Window-tracery, small and slight. Woven of the willow v\ hite. Lent a dimly checkered light.

And the night-stars glimmered down. Where the lodge-fire's lieavy smoke. Slowly through an opening broke. In the low roof, ribbed witli oak.

Sheathed with hemlock brown.

Gloomed behind the changeless shade, By the solemn pine-wood made ; Through the rugged palisade,

In the open foreground planted. Glimpses came of rowers rowing. Stir of leaves and wild-flowei-s blow- ing. Steel-like gleams of water flowing,

In the sunlight slanted.

Here the mighty Rashaba

Held his long-unquestioned sway,

From the White Hills, far away.

To the great sea's sounding shore ; Chief of cldefs, his regal word All the river Saclicms heard. At his call tlie war-dance stirred,

Or was still once more.

There liis spoils of chase and war. Jaw of wolf and black bear's paw, Panther's skin and eagle's claw.

Lay beside his axe and bow ; And, adown the ro(if-i)ole hung, Loosely on a snake-skin strung, In the snu)ke ids scalp-lo^ks swung

Grimly to and fro.

Nightly down the river going, Swifter was the hunter's I'owing, When he saw that lodge-fire glowing

O'er the waters still and red ; And the squaw's dark eye burned brighter. And she drew her bhiuket tighter, As, with quicker step and lighter.

From that door she fled.

For that chief had magic skill. And a Fanisee's dark will, Over powers of good and ill.

Powers which bless and powers which ban, — Wizard lord of Pennacook, Chiefs upon their war-path shook, AVhen they met the steady look

Of that wise dark man.

Tales of him the gray squaw told, When the winter night-wind cold Pierced her blanket's thickest fold.

And her fire burned low and small. Till the very child abed. Drew its bear-skin over head, Shrinking from the pale lights shed

On the trembling wall.

All the subtle spirits hiding Under earth or wave, abiding In the caverned rock, or riding

Misty clouds or morning breeze ; Every dark intelligence. Secret soul, and influciuce Of all things which outward sense

Feels, or hears, or sees, —

These the wizard's skill confessed, At his bidding banned or blessed, Stonnful woke or lulled to rest

Wind and cloud, and fire and flood ^ Burned for him the drifted snow. Bade throiigh ice fresh lilies blow, And the leaves of summer grow

Over winter's wood !

Not untrue that tale of old ! Now, as then, the wise and bold All the powers of Naturii hold

Subject to their kingly will ; From the wondering crowds ashore. Treading life's wild waters o'er, As upon a marble floor.

Moves the strong man still.

Still, to such, life's elements With their sterner laws dispense,

20

THE BKIDAL OF PENNACOOK.

And the chain of consequence

Broken in their pathway lies ; Time and change their vassals making, Flowers from icy pillows waking, Tresses of the sunrise shaking Over midnight skies.

Still, to th' earnest soul, the sun Kests oTi towered Gibeon, And the moon of Ajalon

Lights the battle-grounds of life ; To his aid the strong reverses Hidden powers and giant forces. And the high stars, in their courses,

ilingle in his strife !

III. THE DAUGHTER.

The soot-black brows of men, — the yell Of women thronging round the bed, — The tinklingcharm of ring and shell, — The Powah whispering o'er the dead ! — All these the Sachem's home had knovm, When, on her journey long and wild To the dim World of Souls, alone. In her young beauty passed the mother of his child.

Three bow-shots from the Sachem's dwelling They laid lier in the walimt sha<le, A\niere a green hillock gently swelling

Her Jitting mound of burial made. Tliere trailed the viiuun sunnnerhours, Tlie tree-perched squirrel dro])ped his shell, — On velvet moss and jiale-hued flowers, Woven with leaf ami spray, the softened sunshine fell !

The Indian's heart is hard and cold, —

It closes darkly o'er its care, Ami formed in Nature'ssternest mould. Is slow to feel, and stiong to bear. Tli(! war-paint on the Sachem's fiice, Unwet with tears, shone fierce and red. And, still in battle or in chase, pry leaf and snow-rinic crisped beneath His foremost tread.

Yet when her name was heai'd no more. And when the robe her mother gave.

And small, light moccasin she wore.

Had slowly wasted on her grave. Unmarked of him the dark maids sped Their sunset dance and moonlit play; No other shared his lonely bed, No other fair young head upon his bosom lay.

A lone, stern man. Yet, as sometimes

The tempest-smitten tree receives From one small root the sap which climbs Its topmost spray and crowning leaves. So from his child the Sachem drew

A life of Love and Hope, and felt His cold and rugged natuie through The softness and the warmth of her young being melt.

A laugh which in the woodland rang

Benuxking April's gladdest bird, — A light and graceful form which sprang To meet him when his step was heard, — Eyes by his lodge-fire flashing dark,

Small fingers stringing bead n nd shell Or weavingmats of bright -hucd balk, — With these the household-god ^'^ had gi'aced his wigw-iiin well.

Child of the forest ! — strong and free, Sbght-robed, with loosely flowing liair, She swam the lake or climbed the tree,

Or struck the Hying bird in air. O'er the heajied drifts of winter's moon Her snow-.shoes tracked the hunter's way ; And dazzling in the simimer noon The blade of her light oar threw off its shower of s])iay !

Unknown to her the rigid rule.

The dull restraint, the chidingfrown. The weary torture of the school,

Tlie taming of wild nature down. Her only lore, the legends told

Around the liunter's fire at night ; Stars rose and set, and seasons rolled. Flowers bloomed and snow-Hakes fell, uiKpiestioned in her sight.

Unknown to her the subtle skill With which the artist-ej^e can trace

In rock and tree and lake and liill The outlines of divijiest gi-ace ;

THE BKIDAL OF PENNACOOK.

21

Unknown the fine soul's keen tinrest, Which sees, admires, yet yearns alway ; Too closely on her mother's breast To note her smiles of love the child of Nature lay !

It is enough for such to be

Of common, natural things a part, To feel, with bird and stream and tree, The pulses of the same great heart ; But we, from Nature long exiled In our cold homes of Art and Thought^ Grieve like the stranger-tended child, Which seeks its mother's arms, and sees but feels them not.

The gai'den rose may richly bloom

In cultured soil and genial air To cloud the light of Fashion's room Or droop in Beauty's midnight hair, In lonelier grace, to sun and dew

The sweetbrier on the hillside shows Its single leaf and fainter hue, Untrained and wildly free, yet still a sister rose !

Thus o'er the heai-t of Weetamoo

Their mingling shades of joy and ill The instincts of her nature threw, — The savage was a woman still. • Midst outlines dim of maiden .schemes, Heart-colored prophecies of life. Rose on the ground of her youngdreams The light of a new home, — \he lover and the wife.

IV. THE WEDDING.

Cool and dark fell the autumn night. But th(> Bashaba's wigwam glowed with

light, For down from its roof by green withes

hung Flaring and smoking the pine-knots

swung.

And along tlie river great wood-fires Shot into tlieniglit tlieir long red s])ires, Showing behind tlu^ tall, dark wood, Flashing before on the sweeping fiood.

In the changeful wind, with shimmer

and shade. Now high, now low, that firelight played.

On tree-leaves wet with evening dews, On gliding water and still canoes.

The trapper that night on Turee's brook^ And the weary fisher on Contoocook, Saw over the marshes and through the

pine. And down on the river the dance-lights

shine.

For the Saugus Sachem had come to woo The Bashaba's daughter Weetamoo, And laid at her father's feet that night His softest furs and wam[ium white.

From the Crystal Hills to the far south- east

The river Sagamores came to the feast ;

And chiefs whose homes the sea-winds shook,

Sat down on the mats of Pennacook.

They came from Sunapee's shore of rock, From the snowy sources of Snooganock, And from rough Coos whose thick woods

shake Their pine-cones in Umbagog Lake.

From Ammonoosuc's mountain pass. Wild as his home, came Chepewass ; And the Keenomps of the hills whicli

throw Tlieir shade on the Smile of Slanito.

With pipes of peace and bows unstrung, Glowing with paint came old and young, In wampum and furs and feathers arrayed. To the dance and feastthe Bashaba made.

Bird of the air and beast of the field. All which the woods and waters yield. On dishes of birch and hemlock piled, Garnished and graced that banc|uet wild.

Steaks of the brown bear fat and large From the rocky slopes of the Kearsarge ; Delicate trout from Babboosiick brook. And salmon speared in the Contoocook ;

Squirrels which fed where nuts fell tliick In the gravelly bed of the Otternic ; Andsmall wild-hensin reed-snares caught From the banks of Sondagardee brought;

Pike and perch from the Suncook taken, Nuts from the trees of the Blaxik Hills shaken,

22

THE BRIDAL OF PENXACOOK.

Cranbenies picked in tlie Squamscot bog, And gi'apes from the vines of Piscataquog :

And, di'awn from that great stone vase

whicb stands In the river scooped by a spirit's hands, ^3 Garnished with spoons of shell and horn, Stood the birchen dishes of smoking corn.

Thus bird of the air and beast of the field, All which the woods and the waters yield. Furnished in that olden day The bridal feast of the Bashaba.

And merrily when that feast was done On the fire-lit gieen the dance begun. With squaws' shnll stave, and deeper hum Of old men beating the Indian drum.

Painted and plumed, with scalp-locks

flowing, And red arms tossing and black eyes

glowing, Now in the light and now in the shade Around the fires the dancers played.

The step was quicker, the song more shrill, Andthebeat of the small drumslouderstill Whenever within the circle drew The Saugus Sachem and Weetamoo.

The moons of forty winters had shed Their snow upon that cliieftain's head, And toil and care, and battle's chance Had seamed his hard dark countenance.

A fawn beside the bison grim, — Why turns the bride's fond eye on him, In whose cold look is naught beside The triumph of a sullen pride ?

Ask why the graceful grape entwines The rough oak with her arm of vines ; And why the gray rock's rugged cheek The soft lips of the mosses seek :

.AHiy, with wise in.stinct, Nature seems To harmonize her wide extremes, Linking the stronger with the weak, The haughty with the soft and meek 1

V. THE NEW HOME.

A WILD and liroken landscape, spiked with firs, Roughening the bleak horizon's north- ern edge.

Steep, cavernous hillsides, where black hemlock spurs And sharp, gray splinters of the wind- swept ledge

Pierced the thin-glazed ice, or bristling rose,

Where the cold rim of the sky sunk down upon the snows.

And eastward cold, wide marshes

stretched away, Dull, dreary flats without a bush or

tree, O'er-crossed bj'^ icy creeks, where twice a

day Gurgled the waters of the moon-struck

sea ; And faint Avith distance came the stifled

roar, The melancholy lapse of waves on that

low shore.

No cheerful village with its mingling smokes, No laugh of children wrestling in the snow,

No camp-fire blazing through the hill- side oaks, No fishers kneeling on the ice below ;

Yet midst all desolate things of sound and view.

Through the long winter moons smiled dark-eyed Weetamoo.

Her heart had found a home ; and freshly all Its beautiful affections overgrew

Their rugged prop. As o'er some granite wall Soft vine-leaves open to the moisten- ing dew

And warm bright sun, the love of that young wife

Found on a hard cold breast the dew and warmth of life.

The steep bleak hills, the melancholy shore, The long dead level of the marsh be- tween,

A coloring of unreal beaut}' wore

Through the soft golden mist of young love seen.

For o'er those hills and from that dieary plain,

Nightly she welcomed home her hiinter chief again.

THE BFJUAL OF PENNACOOK.

23

J!fo warintli of heart, no passionate burst of feeling, Repaid her welcoming smile and part- ing kiss,

No fond and playful dalliance half con- cealing, Under the guise of mirth, its tender- ness ;

But, in their stead, the warrior's settled pride,

And vanity's pleased smile with homage satisfied.

Enough for Weetamoo, that she alone Sat on his mat and slumbered at his side ;

That he whose fame to her young ear had flown Now looked upon her proudly as his bride ;

That he whose name the Jilohawk trem- bling heard

Vouchsafed to her at times a kindly look or word.

For she had learned the maxims of her race. Which teach the woman to become a slave

And feel herself the pardonless disgi'ace Of love'ri fond weakness in the wise and brave, — -

The scandal and the shame which they incur.

Who give to woman all which man re- quires of her.

So passed the winter moons. The sun at last Broke link by liuk the frost chain of the rills,

And the warm breathings of the south- west passed Over the hoar rime of the Saugus hills.

The gray and desolate marsh grew green once more.

And the birch-tre(;'s tremulous shade fell round the Sachem's door.

Then from far Pennacook swift runners came. With gift and gi-eeting for the Saugus chief ; Beseeching lum in the great Sachem's name. That, with the coming of the llower and leaf.

The song of birds, the warm breeze and

the rain. Young Weetamoo miglit greet her lonely

sire again.

And Winnepurkit called his chiefs to» gether, And a grave council in his wigwam met. Solemn and brief in words, considering whether The rigid rules ol forest etiquette Permitted Weetamoo once more to look Upon her father's face and green-banked Pennacook .

With interludes of pipe-smoke and strong water. The forest sages pondered, and at length.

Concluded in a body to escort her

Up to her father's home of pride and strength,

Impressing thus on Pennacook a sense

Of Winnepurkit's power and regal con- sequence.

So through old woods which Aukeeta- mit's -* hand, A soft and many-sliaded greenness lent.

Over high breezy hills, and meadow land Yellow with flowers, the wild proces- sion went.

Till, rolling down its wooded banks be- tween,

A broad, clear, mountain stream, the Merrimack was seen.

The hunter leaning on his bow undrawn, The fisher lounging on the pebbled

shores, Squaws in the clearing dropping the

seed-corn. Young children peering through the

M'igwam doors. Saw with delight, surrounded by her

train Of pahited Saugus braves, their Weetamoo

a<iaiu.

VI. AT PENNACOOK.

The hills are dearest wliich our childish

feet Have climbed tlie earliest ; and the

streams most sweet

24

THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK.

Are ever tTiose at ■wMcli oui' young lijjs

drank, Stooped to their waters o'er the gi'assy

bank :

Midst the cold dreaiy sea- watch, Home's

hearth-light Shines round the helmsman plunging

through the night ; And still, with inward eye, the traveller

sees In close, dark, stranger streets his native

trees.

The home-sick dreamer's brow is nightly faniu'd

By breezes whispering of his native land,

And on the stranger's dim and dying eye

The soft, sweet pictures of his child- hood lie.

Joy then for Woetamoo, to sit once more

A child uipon lier father's wigwam Uoor!

Once more with her old fondness to be- guile

From his cold eye the strange light of a smile.

Tlie long luight days of summer swiftly jiassed.

The dry leaves whirled in autumn's ris- ing bla.st,

And evening cloud and whitening sun- rise rime

Told of the coming of the winter-time.

But vainly looked, the while, young

Weetamoo, Down the dark river for her chief's canoe ; No dusky messenger from Saugus brouglit The grateful tidings wliich the young

wife sought.

At length a runner from her father sent. To Winnepurkit's sea-cooled wigwam

went : "Eagle of Saugus, — in the woods the

dove Mourns for the shelter of thy wings of

love."

But the dark chief of Saugus turned aside In the grim anger of hard-hearted jnnde ; " I bore her as became a chieftain's

daughter. Up to her home beside the gliding water.

" If now no more a mat for her is found Of all which line her father's wigwam

round, Let Peunacook call out his wariior train. And send her back with wampum gifts

again."

The baffled runner turned upon his track, Bearing the words of Winnepurkit back. " Dog of the Marsh," cried Pennacook,

" no more Shall child of mine sit on lus wigwam

floor.

" Go, — let him seek some meaner squaw

to spread The stolen bear-skin of his beggar's bed : Son of a fish-hawk ! — let huu dig his

clams For some vile daughter of the Agawams,

"Or coward Nipmucks ! — may his scalp dry black

In Mohawk smoke, before I send her back."

He shook his clenched hand towards the ocean wave.

While hoarse assent his listening coun- cil gave.

Alas poor bride ! — can thy gi-im sire

impart His iron hardness to thy woman's heart ? Or cold self-torturing pride like his atone For love denied and lil'e's warm beauty

flown ?

On Autumn's gray and mournful grave

the snow Hung its white wreaths ; with stifled

voice and low The river crept, by one vast bridge o'er-

crossed, Built by the how-locked artisan of Frost.

And many a Moon in beauty newly bom Pierced the red sunset with her silver

hora, Or, from the east, across her azure field Rolled the wide brightness of her full- orbed shield.

Yi't Winnepurkit came not, — on the mat Of tlie scorned wife her dusky rival sat ; And he, the while, in Western woods afar, Urged the long chase, or trod the path of war.

THE BRIDAL OF PENKACOOK.

25

Dry up thy tears, young daughter of a

chief ! Waste not on him the sacredness of gi'ief ; Be the tierce spirit of thy sire thine own, His lips of scorning, andliis heart of stone.

What heeds the warrior of a hundred fights,

The storm-worn watcher through long hunting nights.

Cold, crafty, proud of woman's weak distress,

Her home-bound grief and pining lone- liness ?

VII. THE DEPARTURE.

The wild March vains had fallen fast and long

The snowy mountains of the North among.

Making each vale a watercourse, — each hill

Bright with the cascade of some new- made rill.

Gnawed by the sunbeams, softened by the rain.

Heaved underneath by the swollen cur- rent's strain.

The ice-bridge yielded, and the Merri- mack

Bore the huge ruin crashing down its track.

On that strong turbid water, a small boat Guided by one weak hand was seen to

float ; Evil the fate which loosed it from the

shore. Too early voyager with too frail an oar !

Down the vexed centre of that rushing

tide, The thick liuge ice-blocks threatening

either side. The foam-white rocks of Amoskeag.in

view. With arrowy swiftness sped that light

canoe.

Tlie trapper, moistening his moose's meat On the wet bank by Uncanoonuc's feet, Saw the swift boat flash down the trou- bled stream — Slept he, or waked he ? — was it truth or dream ?

The str;iining eye bent fearfully before, The small hand clenching on the useless

oar. The bead-wrought blanket trailing o'er

the waVer — He knew them all — woe for the Sachem's

daughter !

Sick and aweary of her lonely life, Heedless of peril the still faithful wife Had left her mother's grave, her father'E

door, To seek the wigwam of her chief once

more.

Down the white rapids like a sear leaf

whirled. On tlie sharp rocks and piled-up icea

hurled. Empty and broken, circled the canoe In the vexed pool below — but, where

was Weetamoo ?

VIII. SONG OF INDIAN WOMEN.

The Dark eye has left us.

The Spring-liird has flown ; On the pathway of spirits She wanders alone. The song of the wood-dove has died on

our shore, — Mat wonck kunna-vwnce .' ^ — We hear it no more !

O dark water Siiirit !

We cast on thy wave These furs which may never Hang over her grave ; Rear down to the lost one the robes that

she wore, — Mat ivonck kunna-monce I — We see her no more !

Of the strange land she walks in

No Powah has told : It may burn with tlie sunshine, Or freeze with the cold. L('t us give to OMx lost one the robes that

she wore, Mat tcanck kunna-monee / — We see hei no more !

Tlie path she is treading Shall .soon be our own ;

Eacli gliding in shadow Unseen and alone 1 —

26

LEGENDARY.

In vain shall we call on the souls gone

before, — Mat wonck kunna-monee J — They hear

us no more !

0 mighty Sowanna ! '■^ Thy gate\va3-s unfold. From thy wigwam of sunset Lift curtains of gold ! Take home the poor Spirit whose journey

is o'er, — Hat wo)tck kunjia-mojiee ! — We see her no more !

So sang the Children of the Leaves besidb

The broad, dark river's coldly flowing tide,

Xow low, now harsh, with sob-like pause and swell.

On the high wind their- voices rose and fell.

Nature's wild music, — sounds of wind- swept trees,

The scream of birds, the waiUng of the breeze.

The roar of waters, steady, deep, and strong, —

ilingled and murmured in that farewell sons.

LEGENDARY.

THE MEEKIMACK.

[" The Indians speak of a beautiful river, far fc) the south, which they call Merrimack." — SiEUR DE Moms : 1604.]

Stream of my fathers ! sweetly still The sunset rays thy valley fill ; Poured slantwise down the long defde'. Wave, wood, and spii-e beneath them

smib",. I see the winding Powow fold The green hill in its belt of gold. And following down its wavy line, Its sparkling watere blend with thine. There 's not a tree upon tliy side, Kor rock, which thy returning tide As yet hath left abrupt and stark Above thy evening water-mark ; No calm cove with its rocky hem. No isle whose emerald swells begem Thy broad, smooth current ; not a .sail Bowed to the freshening ocean gale ; No small boat with its busy oars. Nor gray wall sloping to thy .shores ; Nor fann-hou.se with its maple shade. Or rigid pojdar colonnade. But lies distinct and full in sight. Beneath this gush of sunset light. Centuries ago, that harbor-bar. Stretching its length of foam afar, And Salisbury's beach of sliining sand. And yonder island's wave-smoothed

strand. Saw the adventurer's tiny sail.

Flit, stooping from the eastern gale ; ^ And o'er these woods and waters broke The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak, As brightly on the voyager's eye, Weary of forest, sea, and sky, Breaking tlie dull continuous wood. The Merrimack rolled down his Hood ; Mingling that clear pellucid brook, Which channels vast Agioochook When spring-time's sun and shower un- lock The frozen fountains of tlie rock, And luore abundant waters given From that pure lake, "The Smile of

Heaven," -^ Tributes from vale and mountain -side, — With ocean's dark, eternal tide !

On yonder rocky cape, which braves The stormy challenge of the waves, Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood, Tlie liardy Anglo-Saxon stood. Planting upon the topmost crag Tlie staff of England's battle-Hag ; And, while from out its heavy fold Saint George's crimson cross unrolled, l\Iidst roll of drum and trumpet blare. And weapons brandishing in air. He gave to tliat lone promontory The sweetest name in all liis story ; ^ Of her, the ilower of Islam's daughters, Wliose harems look on Stamboul's

watere, — Who, when the chance of war had bound

THE NORSEMEN.

27

The Moslem chain his limbs around, Wreathed o'er w-ith silk that iron chain, Soothed with her smiles his hours of

pain. And fondly to her youthful slave A dearer gift than freedom gave.

But look ! — the yellow light no more Streams down on wave and verdant

shore ; And clearly on the calm air swells The twilight voice of distant bells. From Ocean's bosom, white and thin, The mists come slowly rolling in ; Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim, Amidst the sea-like vapor swim. While yonder lonely coast-light, set Within its wave-washed minaret. Half quenched, a beamless star and pale, Shines dimly through its cloudy veil !

Home of my fathers ! — I have stood Where Hudson rolled his lordly flood : Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade Along his frowning Palisade ; Looked down the Apalachian peak On Juniata's silver streak; Have seen along his valle}^ gleam The Mohawk's softly winding stream ; The level light of sunset shine Through broad Potomac's hem of pine ; And autumn's rainbow-tinted banmu' Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna ; Yet wheresoe'er his step might be, Thy wandering child looked back to

thee ! Heard in his dreams thy river's sound Of murmuring on its pebbly bound, The unforgotten swell and roar Of waves on thy familiar shore ; And saw, amidst the curtained gloom And quiet of his lonely room. Thy sunset scenes before him pass ; A.S, in Agrippa's magic glass, The loved and lost arose to view, Kemembered groves in greenness grew, Bathed still in childhood's morning

dew. Along whose bowers of beauty swept Whatever Memory's mourners we[)t, Sweet faces, which tlie charnel kept, Young, gentle eyes, which long had

slept ; And while the gazer leaned to trace. More near, some dear familiar face, He wept to find the vision flown, — i A phantom and a dream alone !

THE KOESEMEIT.»

Gift from the cold and silent Past ! A relic to the present cast ; Left on the ever-changing strand Of shifting and unstable sand. Which wastes beneath the steady chime And beating of the waves of Time ! Who from its bed of primal rock First wrenched thy dark, unshapel-e block? _ / ^ ^

Whose hand, of curious skill untaught; Thy rude and savage outline wrought ?

The waters of my native stream Are glancing in the sun's warm beam : From sail-urged keel and flashing oar The circles widen to its shore : And cultured field and peopled town Slope to its willowed margin down. Yet, while this morning breeze is bringing The home-life sound of school-bells ring- ing, And rolling wheel, and rapid jar Of the fire-winged and steedless car, And voices from the wayside near Come quick and blended on my ear, A spell is in this old gray stone, — My thoughts are with the Past alone !

A change ! — The steepled to^\'n no more

Stretches along the sail-thronged shore :

Like palace-domes in sunset's cloud.

Fade sun-gilt spire and mansion proud :

Spectrally rising where they stood,

1 see the old, primeval wood :

Dark, shadow-like, on either hand

I see its solemn waste expand :

It climbs the green and cultured hill,

It arches o'er the valley's rill ;

And leans from cliff and crag, to throw

Its wild arms o'er the stream below.

Unchanged, alone, the same bright rivei

Flows on, as it will flow forever !

I listen, and I hear the low

Soft rip])le where its waters go ;

1 hear behind tlie panther's cry.

The wild-bird's scream goes thrilling by,

And shyl}' on the river's brink

The deer is stooping down to drink.

But hark ! — from wood and rock flung

back. What sound comes up the Merrimack ? Wliat sea-worn barks are those which

throw The light spray from each nishing provr '

28

LEGENDARY.

Have they not in the North Sea's blast Bowed to the waves the straining mast ? Their frozen sails the low, pale sun Of Thule's night has shone upon ; Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweep Eonnd icy diift, and headland steep. Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's

daughters Have watched them fading o'er the waters, Lesseningtlirougli drivingmist and spray. Like white-winged sea-birds on then- way !

Onward they glide, — and now I view Their iron-aniicd and stalwart crew ; Joy glistens in each wild blue eye. Turned to green eartli and summer sky : Each broad, seamed bresist has cast aside Its cumbering vest of shaggy hide ; Bared to the sun and soft warm aii-. Streams back the Norsemen's yellow hair. I see the gleam of axe and spear. The sound of smitten shields 1 hear, Keeping a l;ar.sh and fitting time To Saga's chant, and llunic rhyme ; Such lays as Zetland's Scald lias sung. His gray and naked isles among ; Or muttered low at midnight hour liound Odin's mossy stone of ])ower. The wolf lieneatli the Arctic moon Has answered to tliat startling rune ; The Gael has heard its stormy swell, The light Frank knows itssummonswell ; lona's salilc-stoled C'uldee Has heard it sounding o'er the sea, And swept, witli hoaiy beard and hair, His altar's foot in trembling prayer !

'T is past, — the 'wildering vision dies In darkness on my dreaming eyes ! The forest vanishes in air, — HUl-slope and vale lie .starkly bare ; I hear the common tread of men. And hum of work-day life again : The mystic relic seems alone A broken mass of common stone ; And if it be the chiselled limb Of Bei-serker or idol grim, — A fragment of Valhalla's Thor, The stormy Viking's god of War, Or Praga of tlie Eunic laj', Or love-awakening Siona, I know not, — for no giaven line, Nor Dniid mark, nor I'unic sign. Is left me here, by wliich to trace Its name, or origin, or ]>lace. Vet, for tliis vision of the Past, this glance upon its darkness cast,

My spirit bows in gratitude

Before the Giver of all good.

Who fashioned so the human mind,

That, from the waste of Time behind

A simple stone, or mound of earth,

Can summon the departed fortli ;

Quicken the Past to life again, ■ —

The Present lose in what hath been.

And in their primal freshness show

The buried forms of long ago.

As if a portion of that Thought

P>y which the Eternal will is wrought.

Whose impulse fills anew with breath

The frozen solitude of Death,

To mortal mind weie sometimes lent.

To mortal musings sometimes sent.

To wliisper — even when it s(!ems

But Memor)''s fantasy of dreams — •

TJirough the mind's waste of woe and

sin, Of an immortal origin !

CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 1658.

To the God of all sure mercies let my

blessing rise to-daj-. From the .scotJ'er and the cruel He hath

]ilu(ked the spoil away, — Yea, He who cooled the furnace around

the faithful three. And tamed the Clialdean lions, hath set

his handmaid free !

Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison bai-s.

Last night across my damp earth-flobr feU the pale gleam of stars ;

In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night-time,

Mj' grated casement whitened with au- tumn's early rime.

Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after

hour crept by ; Star after star looked palely in and .sank

adow n the sky ; Xo sound amid night's stillness, save that

which seemed to be The dull and heavy beating of tlie ])ulses

of the .sea ;

All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew

that on tlie nioiTow Tlie ruler and the cruel priest woul mock

me in my sorrow,

CASSANDEA SOUTHWICK.

29

Dragged to their place of market, and

bargained for and sold, Like a lamb before the shambles, like a

neifer from the fold !

- the weakness of the flesh was there, —

the shrinking and the shame ; And the low voice of tlie Tempter like

whispers to me came : " Why sit'st thou thns forlornly ! " the

wicked murmur said, '° Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold

earth thy maiden bed ?

''" Where be the smiling faces, and voices

soft and sweet. Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in

the pleasant street ? Wliere be the youths whose glances, the

summer Sabbath through. Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy

father's pew ?

" Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra ? —

Bethink thee with what mirtli Thy happy schoolma.tes gather around the

warm bright hearth ; How the crimson shadows tremble on

foreheads white and fail-, On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in

golden hair.

' ' Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind wordsare spoken,

Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing boys are broken,

No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid,

For thee no flowers of autmnn the youth- ful hunters braid.

*' 0, weak, deluded maiden ! — by crazy fancies led.

With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread ;

To leave a wholesome worship, and teach- ing pure and sound ;

And mate with maniac women, loose- haired and sackcloth bound.

" Mad scoflers of the priesthood, wlio

mock at thii:gs divine. Who rail against the pulpit, and holy

bread and wine ; Sore from their ea'.t-tail scourgings, and

from the pillorj' lame. Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and

glorying in their shame.

" And what a fate awaits tnee ? — a sadly

toiling slave. Dragging the slowly lengthening chaiii

of bondage to the grave ! Think of thy woman's nature, subdued

in ho}ieless thrall, The easy prey of any, the sccft' anil scorn

of all ! "

0, ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble

Nature's fears Wrimg drop by drop the scalding flow

of unavailing tears, I -(vi-estled down the evil thoughts, and

strove in silent prayer. To feel, 0 Helper of the weak ! that

Thou indeed wcrt there !

I thought of Paul and Silas, within

Philippi's cell. And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the

prison-shackles fell, Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an

angel's I'obe of white. And to feel a blessed presence invisible

to sight.

Bless the Lord for all his mercies ! — for

the peace and love I felt, Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upou

my spirit melt ; When "Get behind me, Satan !" was

the language of my heart. And I felt the E^^l Tempter with all his

doubts depart.

Slow broke the gray cold morning ; again

the sunshine fell, Flecked with the shade of bar and grate

within my lonely cell ; The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and

upward from the street Came careless laugh and idle \\-ord, and

tread of passing feet.

At length the heavy bolts fell back, my

. door was open cast. And slowl)' at the sheriff's side, up the

long street I passed ; I heard the murmur round me, and felt,

but dared not see. How, from every door and window, the

people gazed oil me.

And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon my cheek,

Swam earth and sky around mo, HVy trembling limbs grew wet^ ;

30

LEGEKDART.

'* 0 Lord \ support thy handmaid ; and

from her soul cast out The fear of man, which brings a snare, —

the weakness and the doubt."

Then the dreary shadows scattered, like

a cloud in morning's breeze, And a low deep voice within me seemed

whispering words like these : ** Though thy eartli be as the iron, and

tliy heaven a brazen wall. Trust still His lo\'ing-kindness whose

power is over all."

We paused at length, where at my feet

the sunlit watei's broke On glaring reach of shining beach, and

shingly wall of rock ; The merchant-ships lay idly there, in

hard clear lines on high, Tracing with rope and slender spar their

network on the sky.

And there were ancient citizens, cloak-

wrapjied and grave and cold. And grim and stout sea-captains with

faces bronzed and old, And on his horse, with Raw.son, his cruel

clerk at hand, Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the

ruler of the land.

And poisoning with his evU words the ruler's ready ear,

The priest leaned o'er his saddle, with laugh and scotf and jeer ;

It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal of silence broke.

As if through woman's weakness a warn- ing spirit spoke.

I cried, " The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the meek,

fhou robber of the righteous, thou tram- pier of the weak !

Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones, — go turn tlie jirison lock

Of the poor licarts thou hast liunted, thou wolf amid the Hock ! "

Dark lowered the brows of Endicott,

and with a deeper red O'er Rawson's wine-empuv])led cheek the

flush of anger s))read ; " Good people," ([uoth the white-li]ipe(l

priest, ' ' heed not her words so wild. Per Master speaks within her, — the

Devil owns his child ! '

But gray heads shook, and young browg

knit, the while the sherift' read That law the wicked mlei-s against the

poor have made, "Who to their house of Rimmon and idol

priesthood bring No bended knee of worship, nor gainful

offering.

Then to the stout sea-captains the shei iff, turning, said, —

" Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this Quaker maid ?

In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Vir- ginia's shore.

You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl or Moor."

Grim and silent stood the captains ; and

when again he cried, " Speak out, my worthy seamen ! " — no

voice, no sign replied ; But I felt a hard hand press my own,

and kind words met my ear, — "God bless thee, and preserve thee, my

gentle girl and dear ! "

A weight seemed lifted from my heart, —

a pitying friend was nigh, I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw

it in his eye ; And when again the sheriff spoke, that

voice, so kind to me, Growled back its storni}'^ answer like the

roaring of the sea, —

"Pile my ship with bars of silver, — pack

with coins of Spanish gold. From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the

roomage of her hold. By the living God who made me ! — I

would sooner in your bay Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear

this child away ! "

" Well answered, worthy captain, sliame

on their cnud laws ! " Ran througii the crowd in murmurs louc"

the people's just applause. " Like the herdsman of "Tekoa, in Israel

of old, Shall we see the poor and righteous again

for silver sold ? "

I looked on haughty Endicott ; with

weapon half-way drawn. Swept round the throng his lion glare of

bitter hate and scorn ;

'The solemn pines along its shore." Page 31.

FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS.

31

fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and

tnrued in silence back, A.nd sneering priest and baffled clerk rode

murmuring in Ms track.

Hard after them the sheriff looked, in

bitterness of soul ; Thrice smote his staff upon the ground,

and crushed his parchment roll. •Good friends," he said, "since both

have iled, the ruler and tlie priest, Judge ye, if from their further work I

be not well released."

Loud was the cheer which, full and

clear, swept round the silent bay, A-S, with kind words and kinder looks,

he bade me go my way ; For He who turns the courses of the

streamlet of the glen, ^d the river of great waters, had turned

the hearts of men.

0, at that hour the very earth seemed

changed beneath my eye, A holier wonder round me rose the blue

walls of the sky, Alovelierlightonrock andhilland stream

and woodland lay. And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the

waters of the bay.

Thanksgiving to the Lord of life ! — to

Him all praises be, Who from the hands of evil men hath

set his handmaid free ; All praise to Him before whose power

the mighty are afraid. Who takes the crafty in the snare which

for the poor is laid 1

Sing, 0 my soul, rejoicingly, on even- ing's twilight calm

Uplift the loud thanksgiving, — pour forth the grateful psalm ;

Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints of old.

When of the Lord's good angel the res- cued Peter told.

And weep and howl, ye evil priests and

mighty men of ^vrong, The Lord shall smite the proud, and lay

his liand upon the strong. Woe to the wicked rulers in his avenging

hour ! Wcyi to the wolves who seek the flocks to

T^ven and devour !

But let the humble ones arise, •— . the

poor in heart be glad, And let the mourning ones again with

robes of praise be clad, For He who cooled the furnace, and

smoothed the stormj'- wave, And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighig?

still to save I

FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKia

1756.

Arottnd Sebago's lonely lake There lingers not a breeze to break The niiiTor which its waters make.

The solemn pines along its shore.

The firs which hang its gi-ay rocks o'er.

Are painted on its glassy floor.

The sun looks o'er, with hazy eye, The snowy mountain-tops which lie Piled coldly up agaiust the sky.

Dazzlingand white ! save where the bleak. Wild winds have bared some splintering

peak, Or snow-slide left its dusky streak.

Yet green are Saco's banks below, And belts of spruce and cedar show. Dark fringing round those cones of snow.

The earth hath felt the breath of springs Though yet on her deliverer's wing The lingering frosts of winter cUng.

Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks And mildly from its sunny nooks The blue eye of the violet looks.

And odors from the springing grass, The sweet birch and the sassafras, Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass.

Her tokens of renewing care Hath Nature scattered ever}nvherfc, In bud and flower, and warmer air.

But in their hour of bitterness. What reck the broken Sokokis, Beside their slaughtered chief, of this ?

The turfs red stain is yet undried, — Scarce have the death-shot echoes died Along Sebago's wooded side :

32

LEGEND AKT.

And silent now the hunters stand, Grouped darkh', where a swell of land Slopes upward from the lake's white sand.

Fire and the axe hare swept it hare, Save one lone beech, unclosing there Its light leaves in the vernal air.

With grave, cold looks, all sternlj' mute, rhey break the damp turf at its foot, And bare its coiled and twisted root.

They heave the stubborn trunk asids. The firm roots from the earth divide, — The rent beneath yawns dark and wide.

And there the fallen chief is laid, In tasselled garbs of skins arrayed, And girded with his wampum-braid.

The silver cross he loved is pressed Beneath the heavy arms, which rest Upon his scarred and naked breast.

T is done : the roots are backward sent, The beechen-tree stands up unbent, — The Indian's fitting monument 1

When of that sleeper's broken race Their green and jilciisant dwelliiig-jilace WTiich knew them once, retains no trace ;

0, long may sunset's light be shed As now upon that beech's head, — A green memorial of the dead 1

There shall his fitting requiem be.

In northern winds, that, cold and free.

Howl nightly in that funeral tree.

To their wild wail the waves which break Forever round tliat lonely lake A solemn undertone shall make 1

And who shall deem the spot unblest. Where Nature's younger children rest. Lulled on their sorrowing mother'sbreast ?

Deem ye that mother loveth less These bronzed forms of the wilderness She foldeth in her long caress ?

As

them her wild-flowers

sweet o er blow As if with fairer hair and brow The blue-eyed Saxon slept below.

AVhat though the places of their rest No jiriestly knee hath ever pressed, — No funeral rite nor prayer hath blessed!

What though the bigot's ban be there. And thoughts of wailing and despair. And cursing in the place of prayer !

Yet Heaven hath angels watching roun^ The Indian's lowliest forest-mound, — And they have made it hoi}- gi-ound.

There ceases man's frail judgment ; all His powerless bolts of cursing fall Unheeded on that grassy pall.

0, peeled, and hunted, and re\aled, Sleep on, dark tenant of the wild ! Great Nature owns her simjtle child !

And Nature's God, to whom alone The secret of the heart is known, — - The hidden language traced thereon ;

Who from its many cumberings

Of form and creed, and outward things,

To light the naked spirit brings ;

Not with our partial eye shall scan, Not with our pride and scorn shall

ban. The spu-it of our brother man !

ST. JOHN.

1647.

" To the winds give our banner I

Bear homeward again ! " Cried the Lord of Acadia.

Cried Charles of Estienne ; From the prow of his shallop

He gazed, as the sun. From its bed in the ocean.

Streamed up the St. John.

O'er the blue western waters

That shallop had passed. Where the mists of Penobscol.

Clung damp on her mast. St. Saviour had looked

On the heretic sail. As the songs of the Huguenot

Rose on the gale.

The pale, ghostlj' fathers Remembered her well.

ST. JOHN.

33

And had cursed her while passing,

With taper and bell, But the men of Monhegan,

Of Papists abhorred. Had welcomed and feasted

The heretic Lord.

They had loaded his shallop

With dun -fish and ball. With stores for his larder,

And steel for his wall. Peme([uid, from her bastions

And turrets of stone, Had welcomed his coming

With banner and gain.

And the prayers of the eldei-s

Had followed his way, As homeward he glided,

Down Pentecost Bay. 0, well sped La Tour !

For, in peril and pain. His lady kept watch,

For his coming again.

O'er the Lsle of the Pheasant

The morning sun shone. On the jilane-trees which shaded

The shores of St. John. "Now, why from yon battlements

Speaks not my love ! Why waves there no banner

My fortress above ? "

Dark and wild, from his deck

St. Estienne gazed about, On fire-wasted dwellings,

And silent redoubt ; From the low, shattered walls

Which the flame had o'errun, There floated no banner.

There thundered no gun !

But beneath the low arch

Of its doorway there stood A pale priest of Rome,

In his cloak and his hood. With the bound of a lion,

La Tour sprang to land. On the throat of the Papist

He fastened his hand.

"Speak, son of the Woman

Of scarlet and .sin ! What wolf has been prowling

My castle within ?" 3

From the grasp of the soldier

The Jesuit broke. Half in scorn, half in sorrow,

He smiled as he spoke :

" No wolf. Lord of Estienne,

Has ravaged thy hall. But thy red-handed rival.

With fire, steel, and ball ! On an errand of mercy

I hitherward came. While the walls of thy castle

Yet spouted -with flame.

" Pentagoet's dark vessels

Were moored in the bay, Grim sea-lions, roaring

Aloud for their prey." " But what of my lady ? "

Cried Charles of Estienne : " On the shot-crumbled tuiTct

Thy lady was seen :

" Half- veiled in the smoke-cloud.

Her hand grasped thy pennon. While her dark tresses swayed

In the hot breath of cannon ! But woe to the heretic.

Evermore woe ! AV'hen the son of the church

And the cross is his foe !

" In the track of the shell,

In the path of the ball, Pentagoet swept over

The breach of the wall ! Steel to steel, gun to gun.

One moment, — and then Alone stood the victor.

Alone with his men !

" Of its sturdy defenders.

Thy lady alone Saw the cross-blazoned banner

Float over St. John." " Let the dastard look to it ! "

Cried fiery Estienne, "Were D'Aulney King Loui.s,

I 'd free her again ! "

" Alas for thy lady !

No service from thee Is needed by her

Whom the Lord hath set free : Nine days, in stern silence,

Her thraldom she bore,

34

LEGENDAEY.

I3ut the tenth morning came, And Death opened her door ! "

As if suddenly smitten

La Tour staggered back ; His hand grasped his sword-hilt,

His forehead gi-ew black. He sprang on the deck

Of his shallop again. " We cruise now for vengeance !

Give way ! " cried Estienne.

" Massachusetts shall hear

Of the Huguenot's wrong, And from island and ('reekside

Her fishers shall throng ! Pentagoet shall rue

What his Papists have done, When his palisades echo

The Puritan's gun ! "

0, the loveliest of heavens

Hung tenderly o'er him, There were waves in the sunshine.

And green isles before him : But a pale hand was beckoning

The Huguenot on ; And in blackness and ashes

Behind was St. John !

PENTUCKET.

1708.

How sweetly on the wood-girt to\^'n The niellow light of sunset shone ! Each small, briglitlake, whose waters still Mirror tlic forest and the hill. Reflected from its waveless breast The beauty of a cloudless west, Glorious as if a glimpse were given Within the western gates of heaven, Left, by the spirit of the .star Of sunset's holy hour, ajar !

Beside the river's tranquil flood The dark and low-walled dwellings stood. Where many a rood of open land Stretched up and down on either hand, With corn-leaves waving freshly green The thick and lilackened stumps between. Behind, unbroken, deep and dread. The wild, untravelled forest spread, Back to those mountain'3, white and cold, Of which the Indiaii tra])per told, Upon whose summits n(!ver yet Was mortal foot in safety set.

Quiet and calm, without a fear Of danger darkly lurking near, The weary laborer left his plough, — The milkmaid carolled by her cow, — From cottage door and household hearth Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth. At length the murmur died away. And silence on that village lay, — So slept Pompeii, tower and hall, Ei-e the quick earthquake swallowed all, Undreaming of the fiery fate Which made its dwellings desolate !

Hours passed away. By moonlight sped The Slerrimaek along his bed. Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood, Silent, beneath that tranquil beam, As the hushed grouping of a dream. Yet on the still air cnqit a sound, — Ko bark of lb,\, nor rabbit's bound, Nor stir of Mings, nor waters flowing, Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing.

Was that the tread of many feet. Which downward from the hillside beat ? What forms were those which darkly

stood Just on the margin of the wood ? — Chai-red tree-stumps in the moonlight

dim. Or paling rude, or leafless limb ? No, — through the trees fierce eyeballs

glowed. Dark human forms in moonshine showed. Wild from tlieir native wilderness. With painted limbs and battle-dress !

A j'cll the dead might wake to hear Swelled on the night air, far and clear, — Then smote the Indian tomahawk On crashing door and shattering lock, — Then rang the rifle-shot, — and then The shrill death-scream of stricken

men, — Sank the red axe in woman's brain. And childhood's cry arose in vain, — Bursting through roof and window came. Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame ; And blended fire and moonlight glared On still dead men and weapons bared.

Themorning.sun looked brightly through The river willows, wet with dew. No sound of combat filled the air, — No.shout was heard, — noi'gunshotthere' Yet still the thick and sullen smoke

THE FAMILIST'S HYMN.

35

From smouldering ruins slowly broke ; And on the greensward many a stain, And, here and there, the mangled slain, Told how that midnight bolt had sped Pentucket, on thy fated head !

Even now the villager can tell Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell, Still show the door of wasting oak, Through wliich the fatal death-shot broke, And ])oint the curious stranger where De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare, — ■ Whose hideous head, in death still feared. Bore not a trace of hair or beard, — And still, within the churchyard ground. Heaves darkly up the ancient mound, Whose grass-grown surface overlies The victims of that sacrifice.

THE FAMILIST'S HYM¥.

Father ! to thy suffering poor

Strength and grace ;ind faith impart. And with thy own love restore

Comfort to the broken heart ! 0, the failing ones confirm

With a holier strength of zeal ! — Give thoii not the feeble worm

Helpless to the spoiler's heel !

Father ! for thy holy sake

We are spoiled and hunted thus ; Joyful, for thy truth we take

Bonds and burtliens unto us : Poor, and weak, and robbed of all,

Weary with our daily task. That thy truth may never fall

Thi'ough our weakness, Lord, we ask.

Round our fired and wasted homes

Flits the forest-liird unscared. And at noon the wild beast comes

Where our frugal meal was shared ; For th(! song of praises there

Shrieks the crow tin; livelong day ; For the sound of evening prayer

Howls the evil beast of prey !

Sweet the songs we loved to sing

Underneath thy holy sky, — Words and tones that used to bring

Tears of joy in every eye, — Dear the wrestling hours of prayer,

When we gathered knee to knee, Blameless youth and lioary liair.

Bowed. 0 God, alone to thee.

As thine early children, I^ord,

Shared their wealth and daily bread. Even so, with one accord,

We, in love, each other fed. Not with us the miser's hoard.

Not with us his grasping hand ; Equal round a common board,

Drew our meek and brother band 5

Safe our quiet Eden lay

When the war-whoop stirred the land And the Indian turned away

From our home his bloody hand. Well that forest-ranger saw,

That the burthen and the curse Of the white man's cruel law

Rested also upon us.

Torn apart, and driven forth

To our toiling hard and long, Father ! from the dust of earth

Lift we still our grateful song ! Grateful, — that in bonds we share

In thy love which maketh free ; Joyful, — ■ that the wrongs we bear,

Draw us nearer. Lord, to thee !

Grateful ,'. — that where'er we toil, —

By Wachuset's wooded side, On Nantucket's sea-worn isle.

Or by wild Neponset's tide, — Still, in spirit, we are near,

And our evening hymns, which riso Separate and discordant here.

Meet and mingle in the skies !

Let the scoff"er scorn and mock.

Let the proud and evil priest Rob the needy of his flock.

For his wine-cup and his feast, — Redden not thy bolts in store

Through the blackness of thy skies I For the sighing of the poor

Wilt Thou not, at length, arise ?

Worn and wasted, oh ! how long

Shall thy trodden poor complain ? In thy name they bear the wrong,

In thy cause the bonds of pain ! Melt opiiression's heart of steel.

Let the haughty priesthood see, And their blinded followers feel.

That in us they mock at Thee 1

In thy time, 0 Lord of hosts, Stretch abroad that hand to saVfc

36

LEGlfXDARY.

UTiich of old, on Egypt's coasts, Smote apart the Red Sea's wave !

Lead us fi-om this evil hiiid, From the spoiler set us free,

Ajid once more our gathered hand, Heart to heart, shall worship thee !

THE FOUXTAIK

Traveller ! on thy journey toiling

By the swift Powow, With the summer sunshine falling

On thj^ heated brow. Listen, while all else is still, To the brooklet from the hill.

"Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing

Bj' that streamlet's side. And a greener verdure showing

"Where its watei-s glide, — Down the hill-slope murnmring on. Over root and mossy stone.

"Where yon oak his broad amis flingeth

O'er the sloping hill. Beautiful and freshly springeth

That soft-flowing rill. Through its dark roots wreathed and

bare. Gushing up to sun and air.

Brighter waters sparkled never

In that magic well. Of whose gift of life forever

Ancient legends tell, — In the lonely desert wasted. And by mortal lip untasted.

"Waters which the proud Castilian^^

Sought with longing eyes, Underneath the bright pavilion

Of the Indian skies ; Where his forest pathway lay Through the blooms of Florida.

Y'ears ago a lonely stranger,

With the dusky brow Of the outcast forest-ranger,

Crossed the swift Powow ; And betook him to the rill And the oak upon the hill.

O'er his face of moody sadness

For an instant shone Something like a gleam of

As he stooped him down

To the fountain's grassy side. And his eager thii-st supplied.

With the oak its shadow throwing

O'er his moss}' seat. And the cool, sweet waters flowing

Softly at his feet. Closely by the fountain's rim That lone Indian seated him.

Autumn's earliest frost had given

To the woods below Hues of beauty, such as heaven

Lendeth to its bow ; And the soft breeze from the west Scarcely broke their dreamy rest.

Far behind was Ocean striving

With his chains of sand ; Southward, sunnj' glimpses giving,

'Twixt the swells of laud. Of its calm and silvery track, Rolled the tranquil Merrimack.

Over ^'i^age, wood, and meadow

Gazed that stranger man. Sadly, till the twilight shadow

Over all things ran. Save where si)ire and westward paue Flashed the sunset back again.

Gazing thus upon the dwelling

Of his warrior sires. Where no lingeiing trace was telling

Of their wigwam flres. Who the gloomy thoughts might know Of that wanderiug child of woe ?

Naked lay, in sunshine glowing.

Hills that once had stood Down their sides the shadows throw ing

Of a mighty wood, Where the deer his covert kept. And the eagle's pinion swept !

Where the birch canoe had glided

Down the swift Powow, Dark and gloomy bridges strided

Those clear waters now ; And where once the beaver swam, Jarred the wheel and frowned the dam,

For the wood-bird's merry tinging.

And the hunter's cheer Iron clang and hammer's ringing

Smote upon his ear ;

THE EXILES.

37

And the thick and sullsa smoke From the blackened forges broke.

Could it be his fathers ever

Loved to linger here ? These bare hills, this conquered river,

Could they hold them dear, With their native loveliness Tamed and tortured into this ?

Sadly, as the shades of even

I Gathered o'er the hill.

While the western half of heaven

Blushed with siinset still, From the fountain's mossy seat Turned the Indian's weary feet.

Year on year hath flown forever,

But he came no more To the hillside or the river

Where he came before. But the villager can tell Of that strange man's visit well.

And the merry children, laden With their fruits or flowers, —

Roving bo}'' and laughing maiden, In their school-day hours,

Love the simple tale to tell

Of the Indian and his well.

THE EXILES. 1660.

The goodman sat beside his door

One sultry afternoon. With his young wife singing at his side

An old and goodly tune.

A glimmer of heat was in the air ;

The dark green woods were still ; And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud

Hung over the western hill.

Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud

Above the wild(;rness. As some dark world from upper air

Were stooping over this.

At times the solemn thunder pealed,

And all was still again. Save a low murmur in the air

Of coming wind and rain.

Just as the first big rain-drop fell, A weary stranger came,

And stood before the farmer's door, With travel soiled and lame.

Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope

Was in his quiet glance, And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed

His tran(|uil countenance.

A look, like that his Master wore

In Pilate's council-hall : It told of wrongs, — but of a love

Meekly forgiving all.

"Friend! wilt thou give me shelter here?"

The stranger meekly said ; And, leaning on his oaken staff,

The goodman's features read.

" My life is hunted, — evil men

Are following in my track ; The traces of the torturer's whip

Are on my aged back.

"And much, I fear, 't will peril thee

Within thy doors to take A hunted seeker of the Truth,

Oppressed for conscience' sake."

0, kindly spoke the goodman's wife, — "Come in, old man ! " quoth she, —

' ' We will not leave thee to the storm, Whoever thou mayst be."

Then came the aged wanderer in,

And silent sat him down ; While all within grew daik as night

Beneath the storm-cloud's frown.

But while the sudden lightning's blaze

Filled every cottage nook, And with the jarring thunder-roll

The loosened casements shook,

A heavy tramp of horses' feet

Came sounding up the lane. And half a score "of horse, or more,

Came plunging througli the rain.

"Now, Goodman Macey, ope thy door,— We would not be house-breakers ;

A rueful deed thou 'st done this day. In harboring banished Quakers."

Out looked the cautious goodman then. With ^uuch of fear and awe,

38

LEGENDAEY.

For there, with broad wig drenched with raiu, The parish priest he saw.

" Open thy door, thou wicked man,

And let thy pastor in. And give God thanks, if forty stripes

Repay thy deadly sin."

"What seek ye ? " quoth the goodman, — ' ' The stranger is my guest :

He is worn with toU and grievous wrong, — Pray let the old man rest."

" Now, out ui^on thee, canting knave ! " And strong hands shook the door.

" Believe me, Macey," quoth the priest, — " Thou 'It rue thy conduct sore."

Then kindled Macey's eye of fire : " No priest who walks the earth.

Shall pluck away the stranger-guest Made welcome to my hearth."

Down from his cottage wall he caught

The matchlock, hotly tried At Preston -pans and ]\larston-moor,

By fiery Ireton's side ;

Where Puritan, and Cavalier,

With shout and psalm contended ;

And Eupert's oath, and Cromwell's prayer. With battle-thunder blended.

Up rose the ancioit stranger then :

" My spirit is not free To bring tlie wrath and violence

Of evil men on thee :

" And for thyself, I pray forbear, —

Bethink thee of thy Lord, Who liealed again the smitten ear.

And sheathed his follower's sword.

" I go, as to the slaughter led : Fiiends of the poor, farewell ! "

Bene.ath his hand the oaken door Back on its hinges fell.

" Come forth, old graybeard, yea and "ay,"

The reckless scoffers cried, /Is to a horseman's saddle-bow

The old man's arms were tied.

And of his bondage hard and long

In Boston's crowded jail, Where suffering woman's prayer was heard,

With sickening childhood's wail,

It suits not with our tale to tell : Those scenes have passed away, —

Let the dim shadows of the past Brood o'er that evil day.

" Ho, sherifi" ! " quoth the ardent priest, —

" Take Goodman Macey too ; The sin of this day's heresy

His back or purse shall rue."

"Now, goodwife, haste thee!" Macey cried.

She caught his manly arm : — Behind, the parson urged pursuit,

With outcry and alarm.

Ho ! speed the Maceys, neck or naught, — • The river-course was near : —

The plashing on its pebbled shore Was music to their ear.

A gray rock, tasselled o'er with birch,

Above the waters hung, And at its base, with every wave,

A small light wherry swung.

A leap — tliey gain the boat — and there The goodman wields his oar :

"111 luck betide them all," — he cried, — " The laggards upon the shore."

Down through the crashing imderwood,

The burly sheriff came : — "Stand, Goodman Macey, — yield thy- self ;

Yield in the King's own name."

" Now out upon thy liangman's face ! " Bold Macey answered then, —

' ' Whip women, on the village green, But meddle not with men."

The priest came panting to the shore, — His grave cocked hat was gone ;

Behind him, like some owl's nest, hung His wig upon a thorn.

" Come back, — come back ! " the par- son cried, "The church's curse beware."

THE EXILES.

39

"Curse, an' thou wilt," saidMacey, "but Tliy blessing prithee spare."

"Vile scoffer ! " cried the baffled priest, — " Thou 'It yet the gallows see."

" Who 's bom to be hanged, will not be drowned," Quoth IMacey, merrily ;

"Andso, sir sheriff and priest, good by ! "

He bent him to his oar, And the small boat glided quietly

From the twain upon the shore.

Now in the west, the heavy clouds

Scattered and fell asunder. While feebler came the rush of rain.

And fainter growled the thunder.

And through the broken clouds, the sun Looked out serene and warm,

Painting its holy symbol-light Upon the passing storm.

0, beautiful ! that rainbow span.

O'er dim Crane-neck was bended ; — ■

One bright foot touched the eastern hills. And one with ocean blended.

By green Pentucket's southern slope Tho small boat glided fast, —

The watchers of "the Block-house" saw The strangers as they passed.

That niglit a stalwart garrison

Sat shaking in their shoes. To hear the dip of Indian oars, —

The glide of birch canoes.

The fisher- wives of Salisbury,

(The men were all away,) Looked out to see the stranger oar

Upon their waters play.

Deer-Island's rocks and fir-trees threw Their sunset-shadows o'er them.

And Newbury's spire and weathercock Peered o'er the pines before them.

Around the Black Piocks, on their left, The marsh lay broad and green ;

And on their right, with dwarf shrubs crowned, Plum Island's hills were seen,

With skilful hand and wary eye The harbor-bar was crossed ; —

A plaything of the restless wave. The boat on ocean tossed.

The glory of the sunset heaven

On land and water lay, — On the steep hills of Agawam,

On cape, and blufl', and bay.

Tliey passed the gray rocks of Cape Ann, And Gloucester's harbor-bar ;

The watch-fire of the garrison Shone like a setting star.

How brightly broke the morning

On Massachusetts Bay ! Blue wave, and bright green island,

Kejoicing in the day.

On passed the bai-k in safety

Round isle and headland steep, —

No temjiest broke above them. No fog-cloud veiled the deep.

Far round the bleak and stormy Cape The vent'rous Macey passed.

And on Nantucket's naked isle Drew up his boat at last.

And how, in log-built cabin.

They braved the rough sea- weather ;, And there, in peace and quietness,

Went down life's vale together :

How others drew around them.

And how their fishing sped. Until to every wind of heaven

Nantucket's sails were spread ;

How pale Want alternated AVith Plenty's golden smile ;

Behold, is it not written In the annals of the isle ?

And yet that isle remaineth

A refuge of the free. As when true-hearted Macey

Beheld it from the sea.

Fiee as the winds that winnow Her shrubless hills of sand, —

Free as the waves that batter Along her yielding land.

Than hers, at duty's summons,

No loftier spirit stirs, — Nor falls o'er human sullering

A readier tear than hers.

40

LEGENDAEY.

God bless the sea-beat island ! — •

And grant forevermore, That charity and freedom dwell

As now upon her shore !

THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD.

Dark the halls, and cold the feast, — Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest : All is over, — all is done, Twain of yesterday are one ! Blooming girl and manhood gi'ay, Autumn in the arms of May !

Hushed within and hushed without. Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout ; Dies the bonfire on the hill ; All is dark and all is still. Save the starlight, save the breeze Moaning through the graveyard ti'ees ; And the great sea-waves below. Pulse of the midnight beating slow.

From the brief dream of a bride

She hath wakened, at his side.

With half-uttered shriek and start, —

Feels she not his beating heart ?

And the pressure of his arm,

And liis breathing near and warm ?

Liglitly from the bridal bed Springs that fair dishevelled head. And a feeling, new, intense, Half of shame, half innocence, Maiden fear and wonder speaks Through her lips and changing cheeks.

From the oaken mantel glowing Faintest light the lamp is throwing On the mirror's antique mould. High-backed chair, and wainscot old, And, through faded curtains stealing, His dark sleeiiing face revealing.

Listless lies the strong man there, Silver-streaked his careless hair ; Lips of love have left no trace On that hard and haughty face ; And that forehead's knitted thought Love's soft hand hath not unwrought.

" Yet," she sighs, "he loves me well, More than these calm lips will tell. Stooping to my lowly state. He hath made me nch and great, And I bless him, though he be Hard and steru to all save me ! "

While she speaketh, falls the light O'er her fingers small and white ; Gold and gem, and costly ring Back the timid lustre fling, — Love's selectest gifts, and rare, His proud hand had fastened there.

Gratefully she marks the glow From those tapering lines of snow ; Fondly o'er the sleeper bendiug His black hair with golden blending. In her soft and light caress, Cheek and lip together press.

Ha ! — that start of horror ! — Why That wild stare and wilder cry, Full of terror, full of pain ? Is there madness in her brain ? Hark ! that gasping, hoarse and low, ' ' Spare me, — spare me, — let me go !"

God have mercy ! — Icy cold Spectral hands her own enfold, Drawing silently from them Love's fair gifts of gold and gem, " AVaken ! save me ! " still as death At her side he slumbereth.

Ring and bracelet all are gone.

And that ice-cold hand withdrawn ;

But she lufais a murmur low.

Full of sweetness, full of woe.

Half a sigh and half a moan :

' ' Fear not ! give the dead her own ! "

Ah ! — the dead wife's voice she knows! That cold hand, Mhose pressure froze, Once in warmest life; had borne Gem and baud her own hath worn. " Wake thee ! wake thee ! " Lo, his

eyes Open with a dull surprise.

In his arms the strong man folds her. Closer to his breast he holds her ; Trembling limbs his own are meeting. And he feels her heart's quick beating : " Nay, my dearest, why this fear ? " ' ' Hush ! " she saith, ' ' the dead is here ! "

" Nay, a dream, — an idle dream." But before the lamp's pale gleam Tremblingly her haiul she 7-aises, — There no more the diamond blazes, Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold, — "Ah!" she sighs, " her hand was cold ! "

TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTUEE.

41

Broken words of cheer he saith, But his dark lip quivereth, And as o'er the past he think eth, From his young wife's arms heshrinketh ; Can those soft arms round liim lie, Underneath his dead wife's eye ?

She her fair young head can rest Soothed and childlike on his breast, And in trustful innocence Draw new strength and courage thence ; He, the proud man, feels within But the cowardice of sin !

She can murmur in her thought Simple prayers her mother taught, And His blessed angels call. Whose great love is over all ; He, alone, in prayerless pride, Meets the dark Past at her side !

One, who living shrank with dread From his look, or word, or tread, Unto whom her early grave Was as freedom to the slave, Moves him at this midnight hour, With the dead's unconscious power !

Ah, the dead, the unforgot !

From their solemn homes of thought.

Where the cypress shadows blend

Darkly over foe and friend.

Or in love or sad rebuke.

Back upon the living look.

And the tenderest ones and weakest, Who their wrongs have borne the meekest Lifting from tiiose dark, still place^ Sweet and sad-remembered faces, O'er the guilty hearts behind An unwitting triumph hnd.

VOICES OF FREEDOM.

TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.32

'T WAS night. The tranquil moonlight

smile With which Heaven dreams of Earth,

shed down Its beauty on the Indian isle, —

On broad green field and white-walled

town ; And inland waste of rock and wood. In searching sunshine, wild and rude, Rose, mellowed through the silver gleam, Soft as the landscape of a dream, All motionless and dewy wet. Tree, vine, and flower in shadow met : The myrtle with its snowy bloom. Crossing the nightshade's solemn

gloom, — The white cecropia's silver rind Relieved by deeper gi-een behind, — ■ The orange with its fruit of gold, — The lithe paullinia's verdant fold, — The passion-flower, with symbol holy. Twining its tendrils long and lowly, — The rhexias dark, and cassia tall, And proudly rising over all. The kingly ])alm's imperial stem, Crowned with its leafy diadem,

Star-like, beneath whose sombre shade. The fiery-winged cueullo played ! Yes, — lovely was thine aspect, then.

Fair island of the Western Sea ! Lavish of beauty, even when Thy brutes were happier than thy men.

For they, at least, were free ! Regai'dless of thy glorious clime.

Unmindful of thy soil of flowers. The toiling negro sighed, that Time

No faster sped his hours. For, by the dewy moonlight still. He fed the weary-turning mill. Or bent him in the chill morass. To pluck the long and tanghid grass. And hear above his scar-worn back The lieavy slave-whip's frequent crack : While in his heaj't one evil thought In solitary madness wrought. One baleful fire surviving still

The quenching of the immortal mind,

One sterner passion of his kind. Which even fetters could not kill, — The savage hope, to deal, erelong, A vengeance bitterer than his wrong 1

Hark to that cry ! — long, loud, and shrill, From field and forest, rock and hiU,

42

VOICES OF FEEEDOM.

Tliiilling and horrible it rang, Around, benc^ath, above ; — The wild beast from his cavern sprang,

The wild bird from her grove ! Nor fear, nor joy, nor agony Were mingled in that midnight cry ; But like the lion's growl of wrath. When falls that hunter in his path Whose barbed arrow, deeply set, Is rankling in his bosom yet. It told of hate, full, deep, and strong. Of vengeance kindling out of wi-ong ; It was as if the ciimes of years — The unre(iuited toil, the tears, The shame and hate, which liken well Earth's garden to the nether hell — Had found in nature's self a tongue. On which the gathered horror hung ; As if from clitf, and stream, and glen Burst on the startled ears of men That voice which rises unto God, Solemn and stern, — the cry of blood ! It ceased, — and all was still once more. Save ocean chafing on his shore. The sighing of the wind between The broad banana's leaves of gi'een, Or bougli by i-estless plumage shook. Or murmuring voice of mountain brook.

Brief was the silence. Once again

Pealed to the skies that frantic yell. Glowed on the heavens a fiery stain.

And fliishes rose and fell ; And painted on the blood-red skj'. Dark, naked arms were tossed on higli ; And, round the white man's lordly hall.

Trod, fierce and free, thebrutc he made; And those who crept along the wall, And answered to his lightest call

With more than sjtaniel dread, — The creatures of his lawless beck, — Were trampling on his very neck ! And on the night-air, wild and clear. Hose woman's shriek of more than fear ; For bloodied annswere round her thrown. And dark cheeks pressed against her owii !

Then, injured Afric ! — for the shame Of thy own daughters, vengeance came Full on the scornful hearts of those, Who mocked thee in thy nameless woes, And to thy hapless children gave One clioice, — pollution or the grave ! Where then Wiis he wliose liery zeal Had taught the trampled heart to feel, Until despair itself grew strong. And vengeance fed its torch from wrong ?

Now, when the thunderbolt is speeding ;

Now, when oppression's heart is bleed- ing;

Now, when the latent curse of Time Is raining down in fire and blood, —

That curse which, through long years rf crime.

Has gathered, drop by drop, its flood, —

Why strikes he not, the foremost one,

Where murder's sternest deeds are done?

He stood the aged palms beneath.

That shadowed o'er his humble door. Listening, with half-susjiended breath. To the wild sounds of fear and death,

Toussaint I'Ouverture ! What marvel that his heart beat high !

Tlie blow for freedom had been given. And blood had answered to the cry

Which Earth sent up to Heaven ! What marvel that a fierce delight Smiled griudy o'er his biow of night, — As groan and shout and bursting llame Told where the inidniglit tempest came. With lilood and lire along its van. And death behind ! — he was a Man !

Yes, dark-souled chieftain ! — if the light

Of mild Keligion's lieaveidy ray Unveiled not to thy mental sight

Tlie lowlier and tlie purer way. In which the Holy Suiferer trod,

Weekly amidst the sons of crime, — That calm reliance upon God

For justice in his own good time, — That gentleness to which belongs Forgiveness for its many wrongs. Even as the primal martyr, kneeling For mercy on the evil-dealing, — Let not the favored white man name Tliy stem appeal, with words of blame. Has he not, with the light of heaven

Broadly around him, made the same ? Yea, on his thousand war-fields striven.

And gloried in his ghastlj' shame ? — Kneeling amidst his brotlier's blood. To offer mockeiy unto God, As if the High and Holy One Could smile on deeds of murder done ! — As if a human sacrifice Were ])urer in his Holy eyes, Thougli olfeied up by Christian hands, Than the foul rites of Pagan lands !

Sternly, amidst his household band, His carbine grasped within his hand.

THE SLAVE-SHIPS.

43

The white man stood, prepared and still, Waiting the shock of maddened men, Unchained, and fierce as tigers, when

The horn winds thi'ough their cavemed hiU. And one was weeping in his sight, —

The sweetest flower of all the isle, • — ■ The bride who seemed but yesternight

Love's fair embodied smile. And, clinging to her trembling knee. Looked up the form of infancy. With tearful glance in either face The secret of its fear to trace.

" Ha ! stand or die ! " The white man's

eye His steady musket gleamed along. As a tall Negro hastened nigh,

With fearless step and strong. " What, ho, Toussauit ! " A moment

more. His shadow crossed the lighted floor. "Away!" he shouted; "llywithme, — The white man's bark is on the sea ; — Her sails must catch the seaward wind. For sudden vengeance sweeps behind. Our brethren from their graves have

spoken. The yoke is spurned, — the chain is

broken ; On all the hills our fires are glo^ving, — Through all the vales red blood is flowing! No more the mocking White shall rest His foot upon the Negro's breast ; No more, at morn or eve, shall drip The warm blood from the driver's whip: Yet, though Toussaint has vengeance

sworn Forall the wrongs his race have borne, — Though for each drop of Negro blood The white man's veins shall pour a flood ; Not all alone the sense of ill Around Ms heart is lingering still. Nor deeper can the white man feel The generoiis warmth of grateful zeal. Friends of tlie Negro ! fly with me, — The path is open to the sea : Away, for life !" — He spoke, and pressed The young child to his manly breast, As, headlong, through the cracking cane, Down swept the dark insurgent train, — Drunken and gi'im, with shout and yell Howled through the dark, like sounds

from hell.

Far out, in peace, the white man's sail Swayed free before the sunrise gale.

Cloud-like that island hung afar,

Along the bright horizon's verge. O'er which the curse of sei-vile war

Rolled its red ton-ent, surge on surge ; And he — the Negro champion — where

In the fierce tumult struggled he ? Go trace him by the fiery glare Of dwellings in the midnight air, — The yells of triumph and despair, —

The streams that crimson to the sea !

Sleep calmly in thy dungeon-tomb.

Beneath Besan9on's alien sky, Dark Haytien ! — for the time shall come.

Yea, even now is nigh, — When, everj^vhere, thy name shall be Redeemed from color's infamy ; And men shall leam to speak of thee, As one of earth's gi'eat spirits, born In servitude, and nursed in scorn, Casting aside the weary weight And fetters of its low estate, In that strong majesty of soul

Which knows no color, tongue, or clime, — • Which still hath spurned the base control

Of tyrants through all time ! Far other hands than mine may wreathe The laurel round thy brow of death. And speak thy praise, as one whose word A thousand iiery spirits stirred, — Who crushed his foeman as a worm, — Whose step on human hearts fell firm : — ®* Be mine the better task to find A tribute for thy lofty mind. Amidst whose gloomy vengeance shone Some milder virtues all thine own, — Some gleams of feeling pure and warm, Like sunshine on a sky of storm, — Proofs that the Negi'o's heart retains Some nobleness amidst its chains, — That kindness to the wronged is nerer

Without its excellent reward, — Holy to human-kind and ever

Acceptable to God.

THE SLAVE-SHIPS.3*

" That fatal, that porfidious bark, Built i' the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark.' Milton's Lyddas-

" All ready ? " cried the captain ;

" Ay, ay ! " the seamen said ; " Heave up the worthless lubbers, —

Tlie dying and the dead." Up fiom the slave-shiji's prison

Fierce, bearded heads were thrust :

44

VOICES OF FREEDOM.

" Now let the sharks look to it, — Toss'up the dead ones fii'st ! "

Corpse after corpse came up, —

Death had been busy there ; "Where every blow is mercy,

AVhj- should the spoiler spare ? Corpse after corpse they cast

Sullenly from the ship, Yet bloody witli the traces

Of fetter-link and whip.

Gloomily stood the captain,

With his arms upon his breast, With his cold brow sternly knotted,

And his iron lip compressed. "Are all the dead dogs over ?"

Growled through that matted lip, ■ " The blind ones are no better.

Let 's lighten the good ship."

Hark ! from the ship's dark bosom.

The very sounds of hell ! The ringing clank of iron, —

The maniac's short, sharp yell ! — The hoarse, low curse, throat-stifled.

The starving infant's moan, — The horror of a breaking heart

Poured through a mother's groan.

Up from that loathsome prison

The stricken blind ones came : Below, had all been darkness, —

Above, was still the same. Yet the holy breath of heaven

Was sweetly breathing there, And the lieated brow of fever

Cooled in the soft sea air.

" Overboard with them, shipmates !

Cutlass and dirk were plied ; Fettered and blind, one after one,

Plunged down the vessel's side. The sabre smote above, —

Beneath, the lean shark lay. Waiting with wide and bloody jaw

His <iuick and human prey.

God of the earth ! what cries

Rang upward unto thee ? Voices of agony and blood,

From ship-deck and from sea. The last dull plunge was heard, —

The last wave caught its stain, — And the unsated .shark looked up

Far human hearts in vain.

Red glowed the western waters, —

The setting sun was there. Scattering alike on wave and cloud

His fiery mesh of hair. Amidst a group in blindness,

A solitary eye Gazed, from the burdened slaver's dec^

Into that burning sky.

" A storm," spoke out the gazer,

" Is gathering and at hand, — Curse on 't — 1 'd give my other eye

For one finn rood of land." And then he laughed, — but only

His echoed laugh replied, — For the blinded and the sutfering

Alone were at his side.

Night settled on the waters.

And on a stormy heaven. While fiercely on that lone .ship's track

The thunder-gust was driven. " A sail ! — thank God, a sail ! "

And as the helmsman spoke, Up through the stormy murmur

A shout of gladness broke.

Down came the stranger vessel.

Unheeding on her waj-. So near that on the slaver's deck

Fell oH' her driven spray. " Ho ! for the love of mercy, —

We 're peri.shing and blind ! " A wail of utter agony

Came back upon the wind :

" Help us I for we are stricken

With blindness every one ; Ten days we 've floated fearfully,

Unnoting star or sun. Our ship 's the slaver Leon, —

We 've but a score on board, — Our slaves are all gone over, —

Help, — for the love of God ! "

On livid brows of agony

The broad red lightning shone, — But the roar of wind and thunder

Stifled the answering groan ; Wailed from the broken waters

A last despairing cry, As, kindling in the .stormy light,

The stranger ship went by.

In the sunny Guadaloupe A dark-hulled vessel lay, —

STANZAS.

45

With a crew who noted never

The nightfall or the day. The blossom of the orange

Was white by every stream, And tropic leaf, and flower, and bird

Were in the warm sunbeam.

And the sky was bright as ever,

And the moonlight slept as well. On the palm-trees by the hillside,

And the streamlet of the dell -. And the glances of the Creole

Were still as archly deep. And her smiles as full as ever

Of passion and of sleep.

But vain were bird and blossom,

The green earth and the sky, And the smile of human faces.

To the slaver's darkened eye ; At the breaking of the morning,

At the star-lit evening time. O'er a world of light and beauty

Fell the blackness of his crime.

STANZAS.

[" The despoton which our fathers could not bear in their name country is expiring, and tlie sword of justice in her reformed hands lias ap- plied its exterminating edge to slavery. Shall the United States — the free United States, which could not bear the bonds of a king — cradle the bondage which a king is abolishing? Shall a Republic be less free than a Monarchy ? Shall we, in the vigor and buoyancy of our manhood, be less energetic in righteousness than a kingdom in its age ? " — Dr. Follen^s Address.

" Genius of America ! — Spirit of our free in- stitutions 1 — where art thou? — IIow art thou fallen, 0 Lucifer I son of the morning, — how art thou fallen from Heaven ! Hell from beneath is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy coming I ' — The kings of the earth cry out to thee, Aha !

Aha! — ART THOU BKOOME LIKE UNTO US?" —

Speech of Samuel J. May.]

Our fellow-countrymen in chains !

Slaves — in a land of light and law ! Slaves — crouching on the very plains

Where rolled the storm of Freedom's war ! A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood, —

A wail where Camden's martyrs fell, — By every shrine of patriot blood,

From Moultiie's wall and Jaspar'swell!

By storied hill and hallowed grot, By mossy wood and marshy glen,

Whence rang of old the rille-shot,* And hurrying shout of Marion's men '.

The groan of breaking hearts is there, — The falling lash, — the fetter's clank !

Slaves, — SLAVES are breathing in that air, Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank \

What, ho ! — our countrymen in chains ! The whip on woman's shrinking flesh ! Ou7' soil yet reddening with the stajHis Caught from her scourging, warm and fresh ! What ! mothers from their children riven ! What ! God's own image bought and sold ! Americans to market driven.

And bartered as the brute for gold !

Speak ! shall their agony of prayer

Come thrilling to our hearts in vain ? To us whose fathers scorned to bear

The paltry menace of a chain ; To us, whose boast is loud and long

Of holy Liberty and Light, — Say, shallthese writhing slaves of Wrong

Plead vainly for their plundered Right ?

What ! shall we send, with lavish breath,

Our sym]mthies across the wave. Where Manhood, on the field of death,

Strikes for his freedom or a grave ? Shall prayers go up, and hymns be sung

For Greece, the Moslem fetter sp'.uriir.g, And millions hail with pen and tongue

O^cr light on all her altars burning ?

Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France,

By Vendome's pile and Schoenbrun's wall. And Poland, gasping on her lance,

The impulse of our cheering call ? And shall the slave, beneath our eye.

Clank o'er our fields his hateful chain \ And toss his fettered arms on high.

And groan for Freedom's gift, in vain ?

0, say, shall Prussians banner be

A refuge for the stricken slave ' And shall the Russian serf go free

By Baikal's lake and Neva's wave ? And shall the wintry-bosomed Dane

Relax the iron hand of pride. And bid his bondmen cast the chain,

From fettered .soul and limb, aside ?

Shall every flap of England's flag Proclaim that all around are free.

46

VOICES OF FREEDOM.

From - farthest Ind " to each blue crag Th»» beetles o'er the AVestern Sea ?

And ciiriU we scoff at Europe's kings, When Freedom's fire is dim with us,

And round our country's altar clings The damning shade of Slavery's curse ?

Go — let us ask of Constantine

To loose his grasp on Poland's throat ; And beg the lord of Mahmoud's line

To spare the struggling Suliote, — Will not the scorching answer come

From lurbaned Turk, and scornful Russ : " Go, loose your fettered slaves at home.

Then turn, and ask the like of us ! "

Just God ! and shall we calmly rest,

The Christian's scorn, ■ — the heathen's mirth, — Content to live the lingering jest

And by-word of a mocking Earth ? Shall our own glorious land retain

That curse whicli Europe scorns to bear ? Shall our own brethren drag the chain

Which not even Russia's menials wear ?

Up, then, in Freedom's manly part,

From graybeard eld to fiery youth, And on the nation's naked heart

Scatter the living coals of Truth ! Up, — while ye slumber, deeper yet

The shadow of our fame is growing ! Up, — while ye jiause, our sun may set

In blood, around our altars flowing !

Oh ! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth, —

Thegathcred wrath of God and man, — Like that which wasted Eg>iit's earth.

When hail and fire above it ran. Hear ye no warnings in the air ?

Feel ye no earthquake underneath ? Up, — up ! why will ye slumber where

The sleeper only wakes in death ?

Up nov) for Freedom ! — not in strife

Like that your sterner fathers saw, — The awful waste of human life, —

The glory and the guilt of war : But break the chain, — the yoke remove.

And smite to earth Opjuession's rod, With those mild arms of Truth and Love,

Made mighty through the living God !

Down let the shrine of Moloch sink. And leave no traces where it stood ;

Nor longer let its idol drink His daily cup of human blood ;

But rear another altar there.

To Truth and Love and ]\Iercy given,

And Freedom'sgift, and Freedom's prayer. Shall call an answer down from Heaven !

THE YANKEE GIRL.

She sings by her wheel at that low cot"

tage-door. Which the long evening shadow is

stretching before, With a music as sweet as the music

which seems Breathed softly and faint in the ear of

our dreams !

How brilliant and mirthful the light of

her ej-e. Like a star glancing out from the blue

of the sky ! And lightly and freely her dark tresses

play O'er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they !

Who comes in his pride t^hat low cot- tage-door, —

The haughty and rich to the humble and l)oor ?

'T is the great Southern planter, — the master who waves

His whii> of dominion o'er hundreds of slaves.

" Na)', Ellen, — for shame ! Let those

Yankee fools spin, Who would pass for our slaves with a

change of their skin ; Let them toil as they will at the loom

or the wheel. Too stu]iid for shame, and too vulgar to

feel !

" But thou art too lovely and precious a gem

To be bound to their burdens and sul- lied by them, —

For shame, ILllen, shame, — cast thy bondage aside.

And away to the South, as my blessing and pride.

" 0, come where no winter thy footsteps can wrong,

SONG OF THE FREE.

47

But where flowers are blossoming all tlie

year long, Where the shade of the palm-tree is

over my home, And the lemon and orange are white in

their bloom !

" 0, come to my home, where my ser- vants shall all

Depart at thy bidding and come at thy call;

They shall heed thee as mistress with trembling and awe,

And each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a law."

0, could ye have seen her — that pride

of our girl's — Arise and cast back the dark wealth of

her ciirls, With a scorn in her eye which the gazer

could feel. And a glance like the sunshine that

flashes on steel !

" Go back, haughty Southron ! thy

treasures of gold Are dim with the blood of the hearts thou

hast sold ; Thy home may be lovely, but round it

I hear The crack of the whip and the footsteps

of fear !

"And the sky of thy South may be brighter than ours.

And greener thy landscapes, and fairer thy flowers ;

But dearer the blast round our moun- tains which raves.

Than the sweet summer zephyr which breathes over slaves !

" Full low at thy bidding thy negroes

may kneel, With the iron of bondage on spirit and

heel ; Yet know that the Yankee girl sooner

would be In fetters with them, than in freedom

with thee ! "

TO W. L. G.

Champion of those who groan beneath

Oppression's iron liand : In view of penury, hate, and death,

I see thee fearless stand.

Still bearing up thy lofty brow. In the steadfast strength of truth,

In manhood sealing well the vow And promise of thy youth.

Go on, — for thou hast chosen well ;

On in the strength of God ! Long as one human heart shall swell

Beneath tlie tyrant's rod. Speak in a slumbering nation's ear,

As thou hast ever spoken. Until the dead in sin shall hear, —

The fetter's link be broken !

I love thee with a brother's love,

I feel my pulses thrill. To mark thy spirit soar above

The cloud of human ill. My heart hath leaped to answer thine,

And echo back thy words, As leaps the warrior's at the shine

And flash of kindred swords !

They tell me thou art rash and vain, — •

A searcher after fame ; That thou art striving but to gain

A long-enduring name ; That thou hast nerved the Afric's hand

And steeled the Afric's heart, To shake aloft his vengeful brand.

And rend his chain apart.

Have I not known thee well, and read

Thy mighty purpose long ? And watched the trials which have mad^

Thy human spirit strong ? And shall the slanderei-'s demon breath

Avail with one like me. To dim the sunshine of my faith

And earnest trust in thee ?

Go on, — the dagger's point may glare

Amid thy pathway's gloom, — - The fate which sternly threatens there

Is glorious martyrdom ! Then onward with a martyr's zeal ;

And wait thy sure reward When man to man no more shall kneel.

And God alone be Lord ! 1833.

SOKG OF THE FREE.

Pride of New England !

Soul of our fathers ! Slirink we all craven-like,

When the storm gathers ?

48

VOICES OF FEEEDOM.

What though the tempest be

Over us loweiing, "VNTiere 's the New-Englander

Shamefully cowering ? Graves green and holy

Around us are Ipng, — Free were the sleepers all,

Living and dying !

Back with the Southerner's

Padlocks and scourges ! Go, — let him fetter down

Ocean's free surges ! Go, — let him silence

Winds, clouds, and waters, Never New England's own

Free sons and daughters ! Free as our rivers are

Ocean-ward going, — Free as the breezes are

Over us blowing.

Up to our altars, then,

Haste we, and summon Courage and loveliness,

Manhood and woman ! Deep let our pledges be :

Freedom forever ! Truce witli oppression.

Never, O, never ! By our own birthright-gift,

Granted of Heaven, — Freedom for heart and lip,

Be the pledge given !

If we have whispered tnith.

Whisper no longer ; Speak as the tempest does.

Sterner and stronger ; Still be the tones of truth

Louder and firmer. Startling the haughty South

With the deep murmur ; God and our charter's right,

Freedom forever ! Tnice with oppression,

Never, 0, never !

THE HUNTERS OF MEN.

Have ye heard of our hunting, o'er

mountain and glen. Through cane-brake and forest, — the

hunting of men ? The lords of our land to this hunting

have gone,

As the fox-hunter follows the sound of

the horn ; Hark ! — the cheer and the hallo ! — the

crack of the whip. And the yell of the hound as he fastens

his grip ! All blithe are our hunters, and noble

their match, — Though hundreds are caught, there are

millions to catch. So speed to their hunting, o'er mountain

and glen, Through cane-brake and forest, — the

hunting of men !

Gay luck to our hunters ! — how nobly

they ride In the glow of their zeal, and the strength

of their pride ! — The priest with his cassock flung back

on the wind, Just screening the politic statesman be- hind, — The saint and the sinner, with cursing

and prayer, The drunk and the sober, ride merrily

there. And woman, — kind woman, — wife,

widow, and maid. For the good of the hunted, is lending

her aid : Her foot 's in the stirrup, her hand on

the rein, How blithely she rides to the hunting of

men !

0, goodly and grand is our hunting to

see. In this "land of the brave and this

home of the free." Priest, warrior, and statesman, from

Georgia to Maine, All mounting the saddle, — all grasping

the rein, — Right merrily hunting the black man,

whose sin Is the curl of his hair and the hue of

his skin ! Woe, now, to the hunted who turns him

at bay ! Will our hunters be turned from their

puqiose and |)rey ? Will their liearts fail within them ? ■—

their nerves tremble, when All roughly they ride to the hunting of

men ?

CLERICAL OPPRESSORS.

49

Ho ! — ALMS for our hunters ! all weary

and faint, Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer

of the saint. The horn is wound faintly, — the echoes

are still, Over cane-brake and river, and forest

and hill. Haste, — alms for our hunters ! the

hunted once more Have turned from their flight with their

backs to the shore : What right have they here in the home

of the white. Shadowed o'er by our banner of Free- dom and Right ? Ho ! — alms for the hunters ! or never

again Will they ride in theiv pomp to the

hunting of men !

Alms, — alms for our hunters ! why

will ye delay, When their pride and their glory are

melting away ? The parson has turned ; for, on charge

of his own. Who goeth a warfare, or hunting, alone ? The politic statesman looks back with a

sigh, — There is doubt in his heart, — there is

fear in his eye. 0, haste, lest that doubting and fear

shall prevail. And the head of his steed take the place

of the tail. 0, haste, ere he leave us ! for who will

ride then, For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of

men? 1835.

CLERICAL OPPRESSORS.

[In the report of the celebrated proslavery meeting in Charlestown, S. C, on the 4th of the 9tli month, 18.35, published in the Courier of that city, it is stated : " The CLP:RGY of nil (lenoyninations attendfil in a bnilij, lending thkir SANCTION TO THE PROCEEDINGS, and adding by their presence to the impressive character of the scene '. "]

Just God ! — and these are tliey Whoministeratthinealtar, GodofRight ! Men wlio their hands with prayer and blessing lay

On Israel's Ark of light !

What ! preach and kidnap men ? Give thanks, — and rob thy own af- flicted poor ? Talk of thy glorious liberty, and then

Bolt hard the cajDtive's door ?

What ! servants of thy own Merciful Son, who caine to seek and

save The homeless and the outcast, — fetter- ing down The tasked and plundered slave !

Pilate and Herod, friends ! Chief priests and rulers, as of old, com- bine ! Just God and hoi}' ! is that church, which lends Strength to the spoiler, thine ?

Paid liypocrites, who turn Judgment aside, and rob the Holy Book Of those high woi-ds of tioith which search and burn

In warning and rebuke ;

Feed fat, ye locusts, feed ! And, in your tasselled pulpits, thank

the Lord That, from the toiling bondman's utter need, Ye pile your own full board.

How long, 0 Lord ! how long Shall such a priesthood barter truth away, And in thy name, for robbery and wrong

At thy own altars pray ?

Is not thy hand stretched forth Visibly in the heavens, to awe and smite ? Shall not the living God of all the earth,

And heaven above, do right ?

Woe, then, to all who grind Their brethren of a common Father

down ! To all who plunder from the immortal mind Its briglit and glorious crow'n !

Woe to the priesthood ! woe To those whose hire is with the price of

blood, — Perverting, darkening, changing, as they go, The searching truths of God 1

50

VOICES OF FEEEDOM.

Their glory and their might Shall jierish ; and their very names

shall be Vile before all the people, in the light

Of a world's liberty.

0, speed the moment on When Wrong shall cease, and Liberty

and Love And Truth and Eight throughout the earth be known As in their home above.

THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE.

[In a late publication of L. F. Tasistro — " Random Shots and Southern Breezes " — is a description of a slave auction at New Orleans, at which the auctioneer recommended the woman on the stand as " a good Christian I " J

A Christian ! going, gone ! Who bids for God's own image ? — for

his grace, Which that poor victim of the market- place Hath in her suffering won ?

My God ! can such things be ? Hast thou notsaid that whatsoe'er is done Unto thj' weakest and thy humblest one

Is even done to thee ?

In that sad victim, then. Child of thy pitying love, I see thee

stand, — Once more the jest-word of a mocking band. Bound, sold, and scourged again !

A Christian up for sale ! Wet with her blood your whips, o'er-

task her frame. Make her life loathsome with your wrong and shame, ^•r ijatience shall not fail !

A heathen hand might deal Back on your heads the gathered wrong

of years : But her low, broken prayer and nightly tears. Ye neither heed nor feel.

Con well thy lesson o'er, Thou prudent teacher, — tell the toiling slave

No dangerous tale of Him who came to save The outcast and the poor.

But wisely shut the ray OfGod's free Gospel from her simple heart, And to her darkened mind alone impart

One stern command, — Obey !

So shalt thou deftly raise The market price of human ilesh ; and

while On thee, their pampered guest, the planters smile. Thy church shall praise.

Grave, reverend men shall tell From Northern pulpits how thy work

was blest. While in that vile South Sodom first and best, Thjj^ poor disciples sell.

0, shame ! the Moslem thrall, Who, with his master, to the Prophet

kneels. While turning to the sacred Kebla feels

His fetters break and fall.

Cheers for the turbaned Bey Of robber-])eopled Tunis ! he hath torn The dark slave-dungeons open, and hath borne

Their inmates into day :

But our poor slave in vain Turns to the Christian shrine his aching

eyes, — Its rites will only sw-ell his market price,

And rivet on his chain.

God of all right ! how long Shall priestly robliers at thine altar stand. Lifting in prayer to thee, the bloody hand

And haughty brow of wrong ?

0, from the fields of cane. From the low rice-swamp, from the

trader's cell, — From the black slave-ship'.s foul and loathsome hell, And coffle's weary chain, —

Hoarse, horrible, and strong. Rises to Heaven that agonizing cry, Filling the arches of the hollow sky,

How LONG, 0 God, now long ?

STANZAS FOR THE TI-MES.

51

STANZAS FOR THE TIMES.

Is this the land our fathers loved. The freedom which they toiled to win ?

Is this the soil whereon they moved ? Are these the graves they slumber in ?

Are ive the sons by whom are borne

The mantles which the dead have worn ?

And shall we crouch above these graves, With craven soul and fettered lip ?

Yoke in witluaarked and branded slaves. And tremble at the driver's whip ?

Bend to the earth our pliant knees,

And speak — but as our masters please ?

Shall outraged Nature cease to feel ?

Shall Mercy's tears no longer flow ? Shall ruffian threats of cord and steel, —

The dungeon's gloom, — the assas- sin's blow. Turn back the spirit roused to save The Truth, our Country, and the Slave ?

Of human skulls that shrine was made. Round which the priests of Mexico

Before their loathsome idol prayed ; — Is Freedom's altar fashioned so ?

And must we yield to Freedom's God,

As oS'ering meet, the negro's blood ?

Shall tongues be mute, when deeds are wrought Wliich well might shame extremest hell? Shall freemen lock the indignan t thought ?

Shall Pity's bosom cease to swell ? Shall Honor bleed ? — shall Truth suc- cumb ? Shall pen, and press, and soul be dumb 1

No ; — by each spot of haunted ground. Where Freedom weeps her children's

fall, — By Plymouth's rock, and Bunker's

mound, — • By Griswold's stained and shattcicd

wall, — By Warren's ghost, — by Langdoii's

shade, — By all th(; memories of our dead !

By their enlarging souls, which burst The bands and fetters round them set, —

By tiic free Pilgrim spirit nursed Within our inmost bosoms, yet, —

By all above, around, below,

Be ours the indignant answer, — NO !

No ; — guided by our country's laws, For truth, and right, and suffering man,

Be GUI'S to strive in Freedom's cause. As Christians may, — as freemen can /

Still pouring on unwilling ears

That truth oppression only fears.

What ! shall we guard our neighbor still, While woman shrieks beneath his rod,

And while he tramples down at will The image of a common God !

Shall watch and ward be round him set.

Of Northern nerve and bayonet ?

And shall we know and share with him The danger and the growing shame ?

And see our Freedom's light grow dim, Which should have filled the world with flame ?

And, writhing, feel, where'er we turn,

A world's reproach around us burn ?

Is 't not enough that this is borne ?

And asks our haughty neighljor more ? Must fetters which his slaves have wom

Clank round the Yankee farmer's door? Must he be told, beside his plough. What he must speak, and when, and how ?

Must he be told his freedom stands On Slavery's dark foundations strong, —

On breaking hearts and fettered hands, On robbery, and crime, and wrong ?

That all his fathers taught is vain, —

That Freedom's emblem is the chain ?

Its life, its soul, from slavery drawn ?

False, foul, profane ! Go, — teach a well Of holy Truth from Falsehood born !

Of Heaven refreshed by airs from Hell I Of Virtue in the arms of Vice ! Of Demons planting Paradise !

Kail on, then, " bretliren of the South," — Ye sliail not hear the truth the less ; — ■ No seal is on the Yankee's mouth. No fetter on the Yankee's press ! From our Green Mountains to the sea. One voice shall thunder, — We ARB FltEE !

52

VOICES OF FREEDOM.

LINES,

WRITTEN ON READING THE MESSAGE OF GOVERNOR RITNER, OF PENN- SYLVANIA, 1836.

Thank God for the token ! — one lip is

still free, — One spirit untrammelled, — unbending

one knee ! Like the oak of the mountain, deep- rooted and firm, Erect, when the multitude bends to the

storm ; When traitors to Freedom, and Honor,

and God, Are bowed at an Idol polluted with

blood ; When the recreant North has forgotten

her trust. And the lip of her honor is low in the

dust, — Thank God, tliat one arm from the

shackle has broken ! Thank God, that one man as a freeman

has spoken !

O'er thy crags, Alleghany, a blast has been blown !

Down thy tide, Susquehanna, the mur- mur has gone !

To the land of the South, — of the char- ter and eliain, —

Of Liberty sweetened with. Slavery's pain ;

Where the cant of Deraocracy dwells on the lips

Of the forgers of fetters, and wielders of whips !

Where "chivalric" honor means really no more

Than scourging of women, and robbing the poor !

Where the Moloch of Slavery sitteth on liigh.

And the words which he utters, are — Worship, or die !

Right onward, 0 speed it ! Wherever the blood

Of the wronged and the guiltless is ciy- ing to God ;

Wherever a slave in his fetters is pining ;

Wherever the lash of the diiver is twin- ing ;

Wherever from kindred.» torn rudely apart,

Comes the sorrowful wail of the broken

of heart ; Wherever the shackles of t3Tanny bind, In silence and darkness, the God-given

mind ; There, God speed it onward ! — • its truth

will be felt, — The bonds shall be loosened, — the iron

shall melt !

And 0, will the land where the free soul of Penn

Still lingers and breathes over mountain and glen, —

Will the land where a Benezet's spirit went forth

To the ])eeled and the meted, and outcast of Earth, —

Where the words of the Charter of Lib- erty first

From the soul of the sage and the pa- triot burst, —

Where first for the wronged and the weak of their kind.

The Christian and statesman their efforts combined, —

Will that land of the free and the good wear a chain ?

AVill the call to the rescue of Freedom be vain ?

No, RiTNER ! — her "Friends" at thy

warning shall stand Erect for the truth, like their ancestral

band ; Forgetting the feuds and the strife of

past time. Counting coldness injustice, and silence

a crime ; Turning back from the cavil of creeds,

to unite Once again for the poor in defence of the

Right ; Breasting calmly, but firmly, the full

tide of Wrong, Overwhelmed, but not borne on its surges

along ; Unappalled by the danger, the shame,

and the pain, And counting each trial for Truth as

their gain !

And that bold-lieaiied yeomanry, hon- est and true.

Who, haters of fraud, give to labor its due ;

Whose fathers, of old, sang in concert with thine.

THE PASTORAL LETTEE.

53

Un the banks of Swetara, the songs of

the Rhine, — • The German-born pilgrims, who first

dared to brave The scorn of the proud in the cause of

the slave : — "Will the sons of such men jaeld the

lords of the South One brow for the brand, — for the pad- lock one mouth ? They cater to tyrants ? — They rivet the

chain, Which their fathers smote off, on the

negro again ?

No, never ! — one voice, like the sound

in the cloud, When the roar of the storm waxes loud

and more loud. Wherever the foot of the freeman hath

pressed From the Delaware's marge to the Lake

of the West, On the South-going breezes shall deepen

and grow Till the land it sweeps over shall tremble

below ! The voice of a people, — uprisen, —

awake, — - Pennsylvania's watchword, with Free- dom at stake. Thrilling up from each valley, flung

down from each height,

" OUE COUXTRY AND LIBERTY ! — GOD

FOR THE Right ! "

THE PASTORAL LETTER.

So, this is all, — the utmost reach

Of priestly power the mind to fetter ! When laymen think — when women preach — A war of words — a " Pastoral Let- ter ! " Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes ! Was it thus with those, your prede- cessors. Who sealed with racks, and fire, and ropes Their loving-kindness to transgressors ?

A " Pastoral Letter," grave and dull — Alas ! in hoof and horns and features.

How different is your Brookfield bull, From him who bellows from St. Pe- ter's 1

Your pastoral rights and powers from harm. Think ye, can words alone preserve them ? Your wiser fathers taught the arm And sword of temporal power to seive them.

0, glorious days, — when Church and State

Were wedded by your spiritual fathers ! And on submissive shoulders sat

Your Wilsons and your Cotton Ma- thei's. No vile " itinerant " then could mar

The beauty of your tranquil Ziou, But at his peril of the scar

Of hangman's whip and branding-iron.

Then, wholesome laws relieved the Church

Of heretic and mischief-maker. And priest and bailiff joined in search,

By tuins, of Papist, witch, and Qua- ker ! The stocks were at each church's door,

The gallows stood on Boston Common, A Papist's ears the pillory bore, —

The gallows-rope, a Quaker ^voman !

Your fathers dealt not as ye deal

With " non-professing " frantic teach- ers ; They bored the tongue with red-hot steel, And flayed the backs of " female pi'eachers." Old Newbury, had her fields a tongue. And Salem's streets could tell their story. Of fainting woman dragged along, Gashed by the whip, accursed and gory!

And will ye ask me, why this taunt

Of memories sacred from the scomer J And why with reckless hand I plant

A nettle on the graves ye honor ? Not to reproach New England's dead

This record from the ]>ast I summon, Of manhood to the scaffold led,

And suft'ering and heroic woman.

No, — for yourselves alone, I turn The pages of intolerance over,

Tliat, in their spirit, dark and stern, Ye haply may your own discover !

For, if ye claim tlic " pastoral right," To silence Freedom's voice of warning,

54

VOICES OF FREEDOM.

And from your precincts shut the light Of Freedom's day around ye dawn- ing ;

If whea an earthquake voice of power.

And signs in earth and heaven, are showing That forth, in its appointed hour,

The Spirit of the Lord is going ! And, ^^■itll that Spirit, Freedom's light

On kindred, tongue, and people break- ing, Wliose slumbering millions, at the sight.

In glory and in strength are waking !

When for the sighing of the poor.

And for the needy, God hath risen, And chains are breaking, and a door

Is opening for the souls in prison ! If then ye would, with puny hands.

Arrest the verj^ work of Heaven, And bind anew the evil bands

Which God's right arm of power hath riven, —

What marvel that, in many a mind,

Those darker decids of bigot madness Are closely with your own combined,

Yet *' less in anger than in sadness " ? What marvel, if tlie ])eoi)le learn

To claim the right of free opinion ? What marvel, if at times they spurn

The ancient yoke of your dominion ?

A glorious remnant linger yet,

Whose lii>s are wet at Freedom's foun- tains. The coming of whose welcome feet

Is beautiful upon our mountains ! Men, wlio tlie gosjiel tidings bring

Of Liberty and Love forever, Whose joy is an abiding spring,

Whose peace is as a gentle river 5

But ye, who scorn the thrilling tale

Of Carolina's high-souled daughters, Which echoes here tlie muuriiful wail

Of sorrow from Edisto's waters, Close wliile ye may the ])ublic car, —

With malice vex, with slander wound them, — Tlie pure and good shall throng to hear,

And tried and maidy hearts surround them.

0, ever may the power wliich led Their way to such a fiery trial,

And strengthened womanhood to tread The ^\•ine-press of such self-denial,

Be round them in an evil land,

AVith wisdom and with strength from Heaven,

With Miiiam's voice, and Judith's hand, And Deborah's song, for triumphgiven !

And what are ye who strive with God

Against the ark of his salvation, Sloved by tlie breath of prayer abroad,

With bk'ssings for a dying nation ? What, but the stubble and the hay

To perish, even as flax consuming, With all tliat bars Ids glorious waj"^.

Before the brightness of his coming ?

And thou, sad Angel, who so long

Hast waited for the glorious token, That Earth from all her bonds of wrong

To liberty and light has broken, — Angel of Freedom ! soon to thee

The sounding trumjiet shall be given, Anil over Earth's full jubilee

Shall deeper joy be felt in Heaven !

LINES,

WRITTEN FOR THE MEETING OF THE ANIISLAVERY SOCIETY, AT CHAT- HAM STREET CHAPEL, N. Y., HELD ON THE 4Tn OF THE 7t1I MONTH, 1834.

O Thou, whose presence went before Our fathers in their weary way,

As with tliy chosen moved of yore The fire by night, the cloud by day !

When from each temple of the free, A nation's song ascends to Heaven,

Most Holy Father ! unto thee

May not our humble prayer be given ?

Thy children all, — though hue and form Are varied in thine own good will, —

With thy own lioly breathings warm, And fashioned in thine image still.

We thank thee, Fathei- ! — liill and plain An-und us wave (heir fruits once more.

And clustered vine, and blossomed grain. Are bending round each cottage door.

And peace is here ; and liope and love Are round us as a mantle thrown,

LINES.

55

And unto Thee, supreme above, The knee of prayer is bowed alone.

But 0, for those this day can bring, As unto us, no joyful thrill, —

For those who, under Freedom's wing. Are bound in Slavery's fetters still :

For those to whom thy living word Of light and love is never given, —

For those whose ears liave never heard The promise and the hope of Heaven !

For broken heart, and clouded mind, Whereon no human mercies fall, — ■

0, be thy gracious love inclined, Who, as a Father, pitiest all !

And grant, 0 Father ! that the time Of Earth's deliverance may be near;

When every land and tongue and clime The message of thy love shall hear, —

When, smitten as with fire from heaven. The captive's chain shall sink in dust.

And to his fettered soul be given The glorious freedom of the just !

LINES,

WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE THIRD ANNIVERSARY OF BRIT- ISH EMANCIPATION AT THE BROAD- WAY TABERNACLE, N. Y., " FIRST OF AUGUST," 1837.

0 Holy Father ! — just and true

Are all thy works and words and ways. And unto thee alone are due

Thanksgiving and eternal praise ! ^s children of thy gracious care.

We veil the eye, we bend the knee, With l)ioken words of praise and prayer,

Father and God, we come to thee.

For thou hast heard, 0 God of Right,

The sighing of the island slave ; And stretched for him tlu; arm of might.

Not shortened that it could not save. The laborer sits beneath his vine.

The shackled soul and liand are free, — Thanksgiving ! — for tlie work is tliine !

Praise ! — for the blessing is of thee !

And 0, we feel thy presence here, — Thy awful arm in judgment bare !

Thine e3'ehath seen the bondman's tear, — Thine ear hath heard the bondman's prayer.

Praise ! — for the pride of man is low, The counsels of the wise are naught,

The fountains of repentance flow ;

What hath our God in mercy wrought ?

Speed on thy work, Lord God of Hosts !

And ■when the bondman's chain is riven, And swells from all our guilty coasts

The anthem of the free to Heaven, 0, not to those whom thou hast led.

As with thy cloud and fire before. But unto thee, in fear and dread,

Be praise and glorj^ evermore.

LINES,

WRITTEN FOR THE ANNIVERSARY CEL- EBRATION OF THE FIRST OF AUGUST, AT MILTON, 1846.

A FEW brief years have passed away

Since Britain drove her million slaves Beneath tlie tropic's fiery ray : God willed their freedom ; and to-day Life blooms above those island gi-aves !

He spoke ! across the Carib Sea,

We heard the clash of breaking chains. And felt the heart-throb of the free, The first, strong pulse of liberty

Which thrilled along the bondman's

Though long delayed, and far, and slow,

The Briton's triumph shall be ours : Wears slavery here a prouder brow Than that which twelve short ycai's ago Scowled darkly from her island bow- ers ?

Mighty alike for good or ill

Witli mother-land, w(! fully share

The Saxon strength, — the nerve of steel, —

The tireless energy of will, —

The power to do, the pride to dare.

What she has done can we not do ?

Our hour and men are both at hand ; Tlie blast which Freedom's angel blew O'er her green islands, echoes through

Each valh'y of our forest laml.

56

VOICES OF FREEDOM.

Hear it, old Europe ! we have sworn

The death of slaveiy. — When it falls, Look to your vassals iu their turn, Your poor dumb millions, crushed and worn, Your prisons and your palace walls !

0 kingly mockers ! — scoffing show

What deeds in Freedom's name we do ; Yet know that every taunt ye throw Across the waters, goads our slow

Progression towards the right and true.

Not always shall your outraged poor,

Appalled by democratic crime, Grind as their fathers ground before, — The hour which sees our prison door Swing wide shall be </ieir triumph time.

On then, my brothers ! eveiy blow

Ye deal is felt the wide earth tlirough ; Whatever here uplifts the low Or humbles Freedom's hateful foe, Blesses the Old World through the New.

Take heart ! The promised hour draws near, — 1 hear tlie O own ward beat of wings. And Freedom's trumpet sounding clear : " Joy to the ])eoi)le ! — woe and fear To new-world tyrants, old-world kings ! "

THE FAREWELL

OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER TO HEU DAUGHTERS SOLD INTO SOUTHERN BONDAGE.

Gone, gone, — .sold and gone. To the rice-swamp dank and lone. Where the .slave-whip ceaseless swings, Where the noisome insect stings. Where the fever demon strews Poison witli the falling dews. Where the sickly sunbeams glare Through the hot and misty air, — Gone, gone, — sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. From Virginia's hills and waters, — Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. To the rice-swamp dank and lone.

There no mother's eye is near them. There no mother's ear can hear them ; Never, when the torturing lash Seams their back with many a gash, Shall a mother's kindness bless them. Or a mother's arms caress them. Gone, gone, — sold and gone, To the rice-swamp darik and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters, — Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 0, when weary, sad, and slow, From the fields at night the}' go, Faint with toil, and racked with pain, To their cheerless homes again, Thei'e no brother's voice shall greet

them, — There no father's welcome meet them. Gone, gone, — sold and gone. To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters, — ■ Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. To the rice-.swcimp dank and lone. From the tree whose sliadow lay On their childhood's place of play, — From the cool s])ring where they drank, — Eock, and hill, and rivulet bank, — From the solemn house of prayer, And the holy counsels there, — Gone, gone, — sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. From Virginia's hills and waters, — Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. To the rice-swamp dank and lone, — Toiling through the weary day, And at night the spoiler's ])rey. 0 that they had earlier died, Sleeping calmly, side by side, Where the tyrant's power is o'er, And the fetter galls no more !

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, To the rice-swamji dank and lone, From Virginia's liills and waters, — ' Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. To the rice-swamp dnnk and lone. By the holy love He bearcth, — By the bruised reed He sjjareth — 0, may He, to whom a\one All their cruel wrongs are known.

THE world's convention.

57

Still their hope and refuge prove, With a more than mother's love. Gone, gone, — sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters, - Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

THE MORAL WARFARE.

When Freedom, on her natal day. Within her war-rocked cradle lay, An iron race around her stood. Baptized her infant brow in blood ; And, through the storm which round her

swept. Their constant ward and watching kept.

Then, where our quiet herds repose, The roar of baleful battle rose. And brethren of a conamon tongue To mortal strife as tigers sprung. And evei'}' gift on Freedom's shrine Was man for beast, and blood for wine !

Our fathers to their graves have gone ; Their strife is past, — their triumph won ; But sterner trials wait the race Which rises in their honored place, — A moral warfare with the crime And folly of an evil time.

So let it be. In God's own might We gird us for the coming fight, And, strong in Him whose cause is ours In conflict with unholy powers, We grasp the weapons He has given, — The Light, and Truth, and Love of Heaven.

THE WORLD'S CONVENTION

OF THE FRIENDS OF EMANCIPATION, HELD IN LONDON IN 1840.

Yes, let them gather ! — Summon forth The pledged philanthropy of Earth, From every land, whose hills havt^ Ih .trd

The bugle blast of Freedom waking ; Or shrieking of her symbol-bird

From out his cloudy eyrie breaking : AVhere .Justice hath one worshipper, Or truth one altar built to her ; Where'er a human eye is weeping

O'er wrongs which Earth's sad chil- droii know, —

Where'er a single heart is keeping

Its prayerful watch viith human woe -. Thence let them come, and greet each

other. And know in each a friend and brother !

Yes, let them come ! from each gi'een vale Where England's old baronial halls Still bear upon their storied walls The grim crusader's rusted mail, Battered by Paynim spear and brand On Malta's rock or Syria's sand ! And mouldering pennon-staves once set

Within the soil of Palestine, By Jordan and Genesaret ;

Or, borne with England's battle line, O'er Acre's shattered turrets stooping. Or, midst the camp theii' banners droop-

With dews from hallowed Hermon wet, A liolier summons now is given

Than that gray hermit's voice of old, Which unto all the winds of heaven

The banners of the Cross unrolled ! Not for the long-deserted .shrine, —

Not for the dull unconscious sod, Which tells not by one lingering sign

That there the hope of Israel trod ; — But for that truth, for which alone

In pilgrim eyes are sanctified The garden moss, the mountain stone, Whereon his holy sandals pressed, — The fountain which his lip hath

blessed, — Whate'er hath touched his garment's hem At Bethany or Bethlehem,

Or .Jordan's river-side. For Fkeedom, in the name of Him

Who came to raise Earth's drooping poor, '

To break the chain from every limb. The bolt from everj' prison door ! For these, o'er all the earth hath passed An ever-deepening trumpet blast, As if an angel's breath had lent Its vigor to the instrument.

And Wales, from Snowden's mountain

wall. Shall startle at that thrilling call.

As if she Inward her bards again ; And Erin's " harp on Tara's wall "

Give out its ancient strain, Mirthful and sweet, yet sad withal, —

The melody which Erin loves. When o'er that harp, 'mid bursts of glad- ness

58

VOICES OF FREEDOM.

And slogan cries and lyke-wake sadness,

The hand of her O'Connell moves ! Scotland, from lake and tarn and rill, And mountain hold, and heathery hill. Shall catch and echo back the note. As if she heard upon her air Once more her Cameronian's prayer

And song of Freedom float. And cheering echoes shall reply From each remote dependencj', Where Britain's mighty sway is known, In tropic sea or frozen zone ; Where'er her sunset flag is furling. Or morning gim-fire's smoke is curling ; From Indian Bengal's groves of palm Aiid rosy fields and gales of balm, Where Eastern pomp and power are rolled Through regal Ava's gates of gold ; And from tlie lakes and ancient woods And dim Canadian solitudes, W^hence, sternly from her rocky throne. Queen of the North, Quebec looks down ; And from those bright and ransomed

Isles Where aU unwonted Freedom smiles, And the dark laboier still retains The scar of slavery's broken chains !

From the hoar Alps, which sentinel The gateways of the land of Tell, Where morning's keen and earliestglance

On Jura's rocky wall is thrown. And from the olive bowcis of France

And vine groves garlanding the Rhone, — " Friends of the Blacks," as true and

tried As those who stood by Oge's side. And heard the Ilaj'tien's tale of WTong, Shall gather at that summons strong, — Broglie, Pas.sy, and him whose song Breathed over SjTia's holy sod, And in the paths which Jesus trod, And niunnured midst the hills which hem Crownle.ss and sad Jerusalem, Hath echoes whereso'er the tone Of Israel's pro])het-lyre is known.

Still let them come, — from Quito's walls,

And from the Orinoco's tide. From Lima's Inca-haunted halls, From Santa Fe and Yucatan, —

Men wlio by swart Guerrero's side Proclaimed the deathless rights of man.

Broke every bond and fetter off,

And hailed in every sable serf

A free and brother Mexican ! Chiefs who across the Andes' diain

Have followed Freedom's flowing pennon. And seen on Jimin's fearful plain, Glare o'er the broken ranks of Spain

The fire-burst of Bolivar's cannon ! And Hayti, from her mountain laud,

Shall send the sons of those who hurled Defiance from her blazing strand, — The war-gage from her Petion's hand.

Alone against a hostile world.

Kor all unmindful, thou, the while, Land of the daik and mystic Nile ! —

Thy Moslem mercj^ yet may shame

All tyrants of a Christian name, — When in the shade of Gizeh's pile, Or, where from Abyssinian hills El Gerek's upper fountain fills, Or M'here from Mountains of the Moon El Abiad bears his ^\atery boon. Where'er thy lotus blo.ssoms swim

Within their ancient hallowed wa- ters, — Where'er is heard the Coptic hymn,

Or song of Nubia's sable daugliters, — • The cui-se of slavery and the crime. Thy bequest from remotest time. At thy dark ilehemet's decree ForeveiTuore shall pass from thee ;

And chains forsake each captive's limh Of all those tribes, whose hills around Have echoed back the cymbal sound

And victor horn of Ibrahim.

And thou whose glory and whose crime To earth's remotest bound and clime, In mingled tones of awe and scorn. The echoes of a world have boine. My countiy ! glorious at thy birth, A day-star flashing biightly forth, —

The herald-sign of I'reedom's dawn ! 0, who could dream that saw thee then,

And watched thy rising from afar. That vapors from o])prefision's fen

Wouhl cloud tlie upward tending .star ?

Oi-, that earth's tyrant powei-s, which

heard,

Awe-stnick, the shout which haUed

thy dawming,

Would rise so soon, prince, peer, and

king. To mock thee with their welcoming. Like Hades when her thrones were stirred To greet the down-cast Star of Morn- ing !

NEW HAMPSHIRE.

59

"Aha ! and art thou fallen thus ? Art THOU become as one of us ? "

Land of my fathers ! — there will stand, Amidst that world-assembled band, Those owning thy maternal claim Unweakened by thy crime and shame, — The sad reprovers of thy wrong, — The children thou hast spurned so long. Still with affection's fondest yearning To their unnatural mother turning. No traitors they ! — but tried and leal, Whose own is but thy general weal, Still blending with the patriot's zeal The Christian's love for human kind. To caste and climate unconlined.

A holy gathering ! — peaceful all ; No thi-eat of war, — no savage call

For vengeance on an erring Ijrother ! But in their stead the godlike plan To teach the brotherhood of man

To love and reverence one another, As sharers of a common blood. The children of a common God ! — Yet, even at its liglitest word, Shall Slavery's darkest depths be stirred : Spain, watching from her Moro's keep Her slave-ships traversing the deep, And Rio, in her strength and prid(!. Lifting, along her mountain -side. Her snowy battlements and towers, — Her lemon-gi'oves and tropic bowers. With bitter hate and sullen fear Its freedom-giving voice shall hear ; And where my country's flag is flow- ing, On breezes from Mount Vernon blowing

Above the Nation's council halls. Where Freedom's praise is loud and long.

While close beneath the outward walls The driver plies his reeking thong, —

The hammer of the man-thief falls. O'er hypocritic clieek and brow The crimson flu.sh of .shame shall glow : And all who for their native land Are pledging life and heart and hand, — Worn watchers o'er her changing wisal. Who for her tarnished honor feel, — Through cottage door and council-hall Shall thunder an awakening call. The pen along its page shall burn With all intolerable scorn, — An eloquent rebuke .shall go On all the winds tliat Southward l)low, — From j>rie,stly lii;vs, now .scaled and dumb, Warning and dread appeal shall come,

Like those which Israel heard from him,

The Prophet of the Cherubim, — •

Or those which sad Esaias hurled

Against a sin -accursed world !

Its wizard leaves the Press shall fling

Unceasing from its iron wing.

With characters inscribed thereon.

As fearful in the despot's hall As to the pomp of Babylon

The fire-sign on the palace wall ! And, from her dark iniquities, Methinks I see my country rise : Not challenging the nations round

To note her tardy justice done, — Her captives from their chains unbound,

Her prisons opening to the sun : — But tearfully her arms extending Over the poor and unoffending ;

Her regal emblem now no longer A bird of prey, with talons reeking. Above the djdng captive shrieking. But, spreading out her ample wing, — A broad, impartial covering, —

The weaker sheltered by the stron- ger ! — ^ 0, then to Faith's anointed eyes

The promised token shall be given ; And on a nation's sacrifice. Atoning for the sin of years. And wet with penitential tears, —

The fire shall fall from Heaven ! 18S9.

NEW HAMPSHIRE.

1845.

God bless New Hampshire ! — from her

granite peaks Once more the voice of Stark and

Langdon speaks. The long-bound vassal of the exulting . South For very shame her self-forged chain has broken, — Torn the black seal of slavery from her mouth, I

And in the clear tones of her old time spoken ! 0, all undreamed-of, all unhoped-for changes ! — Tlie tyrant's ally proves his sternest foe ; To all his biddings, from her mountain ranges. New Hamp.shlre thunders an indig- nant No !

60

VOICES OF FREEDOM.

"VVlio is it now despairs? 0, faiut of heart, Look upward to those Northern moun- tains cold, Flouted by Freedom's victor-flag un- rolled. And gather strength to bear a manlier

part ! All is not lost. The angel of God's blessing Encamps with Freedom on the field of fight ; Still to her banner, day by day, are pressing, Unlooked-for allies, striking for the right ! Courage, then. Northern hearts ! — Be

firm, be true : What one brave State hath done, can ye not also do ?

THE NEW YEAK:

ADDRESSED TO THE PATRONS OF THE PENNSYLVANIA FREEMAN.

The wave is breaking on the shore, — The echo fading from the chime, —

Again the shadow moveth o'er The dial-plate of time !

0, seer-seen Angel ! waiting now With weary feet on sea and shore,

Impatient for the last di-ead vow That time shall be no more !

Once more across thy sleepless eye The semblance of a smile has passed :

The year departing leaves more nigh Time's fearfuUest and last.

0, in that dying year hath been The sum of all since time began, —

Tlie birth and death, the joy and pain. Of Nature and of Man.

Spring, with her change of sun and shower, And streams released from Winter's chain, And bursting bud, and opening flower, And greenly growing grain ;

And Summer's shade, and sunshine warm. And rainbows o'er her hill-tops bowed.

And voices in her rising storm, — God speaking from his cloud ! —

I And Autumn's fruits and clustering I sheaves.

And soft, warm days of golden light, The glory of her forest leaves.

And harvest-moon at night ;

And Winter ^vith her leafless gi'ove, And prisoned stream, and drifting snow,

The brilliance of her heaven above And of her earth below : —

And man, — in whom an angel's mind With earth's low instincts find* abode, —

The highest of the links which bind Brute nature to her God ;

His infant eye hath seen the light. His childhood's merriest laughter rung,

And active sports to manlier might The nerves of boyhood strung !

And quiet love, and passion's fires. Have soothed or burned in manhood's breast.

And lofty aims and low desires By turns disturbed his lest.

The wailing of the newly -born

Has mingled with the funeral knell ;

And o'er the dying's ear has gone The merry marriage-bell.

And Wealth has filled his halls with mirth.

While Want, in many a humble shed, Toiled, shivering by her cheerless hearth.

The live-long night for bread.

And WDrse than all, — the human slave, — The sport of lust, and pride, and scorn ! Plucked ofl" the crown his Maker gave, — His regal manhood gone !

0, still, my country 1 o'er thy plains. Blackened with slavery's blight and ban.

That human chattel drags his chains, — An uncreated man !

And still, where'er to sun and breeze. My country, is thj' flag unrolled.

With scorn, the gazing stranger sees A stain on every fold.

THE NEW YEAR.

6J

0, tear the gorgeous emblem down !

It gathers scorn from every eye, And despots smile and good men frown

Whene'er it passes by.

Shame ! shame ! its starry splendors glow

Above the slaver's loathsome jail, — Its folds are ruffling even now

His crimson flag of sale.

Still round our country's proudest hall Tlie trade in human flesh is driven,

And at each careless hammer-fall A human heart is riven.

And this, too, sanctioned by the men Vested with power to shield the right.

And throw each vile and robber den Wide open to the light.

Yet, shame upon them ! — there they sit, Men of the North, subdued and still ;

Meek, pliant poltroons, only fit To work a master's will.

Sold, — bargained off for Southern votes, — A passive herd of Northern mules, - Just braying through their purchased throats Whate'er their owner rules.

And he,^ — the basest of the base. The vilest of the vile, — whose name,

Embalmed in inflnite disgrace, Is deathless in its shame ! —

A tool, — to bolt the people's door Against the people clamoring there,

An ass, — to trample on their floor A people's right of prayer !

Nailed to his self-made gibbet fast, Self-pilloried to the public view, —

A. mark for every passing blast Of scorn to whistle through ;

There let him hang, and hear the boast Of Southrons o\^x their pliant tool, —

A new Stylites on his post, " Sacred to ridicule ! "

Look we at home ! — our noble hall, To Freedom's holy purpose given,

Now rears its black and ruined wall, Beneath the wintry heaven, —

Telling the story of its doom, — .

The fiendish mob, — the prostrate law, — The fiery jet through midnight's gloom,

Our gazing thousands saw.

Ijook to our State, — the poor man's right Torn from him : — and the sons of those

Whose blood in Freedom's sternest fight Sprinkled the Jersey snows,

Outlawed witliin the land of Penn, That Slavery's guilty fears might cease,

And those whom God created men Toil on as brutes in peace.

Yet o'er the blackness of the storm A bow of j)romise bends on high,

And gleams of sunshine, soft and warmj Break through our clouded sky.

East, West, and North, the shout is heard,

Of freemen rising for the right : Each valley hath its rallying word, —

Each hill its signal light.

O'er Massachusetts' rocks of gray. The strengthening light of freedom shines,

Rhode Island's Narragansett Bay, — And Vermont's snow-hung pines !

From Hudson's frowning palisades To Alleghany's laurelled crest,

O'er lakesandpi'airies, streams andglades, It shines upon the West.

Speed on the light to those who dwell In Slavery's land of woe and sin.

And through the blackness of that hell, Let Heaven's own light break in.

So shall the Southern conscience quake Before that light poured full and strong.

So shall the Southern heart awake To all the bondman's wrong.

And from that rich and sunny land The song of grateful millions rise,

Like that of Israel's ransomed band Beneath Arabia's skies :

And all who now are bound beneath Our banner's shade, our eagle's win^

62

VOICES OF FREEDOM.

From Slavery's night of moral death To light and lite shall spring.

Broken the bondman's chain, and gone The master's guilt, and hate, and fear,

And imto both alike shall dawn A Xew and Happy Year. 1839.

MASSACHUSETTS TO VIEGINIA.

[TVritten on reading an account of the pro- ceedings of the citizens of Norfolk, Va., in refer- ence to George Latimer, the alleged fugitive slave, the result of whose case in Massachusetts will probably be similar to that of the negro SoJiEEsn' in England, in 1772.]

The blast from Freedom's Northern hills, upon its Southern way,

Bears greeting to Virginia from Massa- chusetts Bay : —

No word of haughty challenging, nor battle bugle's peal,

Nor steady tread of marching files, nor clang of horsemen's steel.

No trains of deep-mouthed cannon along

our highways go, — Around our silent arsenals untrodden

lies the snow ; And to the land-breeze of our ports, upon

their errands far, A thousand sails of commerce swell, but

none are spread for war.

We hear thy threats, Virginia ! thy

stormy words and high. Swell harshly on the Southern winds

which melt along our sky ; Yet, not one brown, hard hand foregoes

its honest labor here. No hewer of our mountain oaks suspends

his axe in fear.

Wild are the waves which lash the reefs

along St. George's bank, — Cold on the shore of Labrador the fog

lies white and dank ; Through storm, and wave, and blinding

mist, stout are the heart s which man The fishing-smacks of Marblehead, the

sea-boats of Cape Ann.

The cold north light and wintry sun glare on their icy forms.

Bent grimly o'er their straining lines or wrestling witt the storms ;

Free as the winds +hey drive betore, rough as the waves they roam,

They laugh to scorn the slaver's threat against their rocky home.

What means the Old Dominion ? Hath

she forgot the day Wlien o'er her conquered valleys swept

the Briton's steel array ? How side hy side, with sons of here, the

Massachusetts men Encountered Tarleton's charge of fire,

and stout Cornwallis, then ?

Forgets she how the Bay State, in an- swer to the call

Of her old House of Burgesses, spoke out from Faneuil Hall ?

When, echoing back her Henr}''s cry, came pulsing on each breath

Of Northern winds, the thrilling sounds of " Liberty or Death ! "

What asks the Old Dominion ? If now

her sons have jiroved False to their fathers' nicmorj-, — false

to the faith they loved. If she can scoff at Freedom, and its great

charter spurn. Must we of Massachusetts from truth

and duty turn ?

W(; hunt your bondmen, flying from

Slaveiy's hateful hell, — Our voices, at your bidding, take up the

blootlhound's yell, — We gather, at your summons, above our

fathers' graves. From Freedom's holy altar-horns to tear

your wretched slaves !

Thank God ! not yet so vilely can Massa- chusetts bow ;

The spirit of her early time is with her even now ;

Dream not because her Pilgiim blood moves slow and calm and cool.

She thus can stoop her chainless neck, a sister's slave and tool !

All that a sister State should do, all that

a free State may, Heart, hand, and purse we proffer, as in

our early day ; But that one dark loathsome burden ye

must stagger with alone, And reap the bitter harvest which ye

yoiu'selves have sown !

MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA.

63

Hold^ wliile ye may, your struggling

slaves, aud burden God's free air With woman's shriek beneath the lash,

and manhood's wild despair ; Cling closer to the "cleaving curse " that

writes upon your plains The blasting of Almighty wrath against

a land of chains.

Still shame your gallant ancestry, the

cavaliers of old, By watching round the shambles where

human flesh is sold, — Gloat o'er the new-born cliild, and count

his market value, when The maddened mother's cry of woe shall

piei'ce the slaver's den !

Lower than plummet soundeth, sink the

Virginia name ; Plant, if ye will, your fathers' graves

with rankest weeds of shame ; Be, if ye will, the scandal of God's fair

universe, — • We wash our hands forever of your sin

and sliame and curse.

A voice from lips whereon the coal from Freedom's shrine hath been.

Thrilled, as but yesterday, the hearts of Berkshire's mountain men :

The echoes of that solemn voice are sadly lingering still

In all our sunny valleys, on every wind- swept hill.

And when the prowling man-thief came

hunting for his prey Beneath the very shadow of Bunker's

shaft of gray. How, through the free lips of the son,

the father's warning spoke ; How, from its bonds of trade and sect,

the Pilgrim city broke !

A hundred thousand right arms were

lifted up on high, — A hundred thousand voices sent back

their loud reply ; Through the thronged tov.-ns of Essex

the startling summons rang. And up from bi-nch and loom and wheel

her young mechanics sprang !

The voice of free, broad Middlesex, — oi

thousands as of one, — The shaft of Bunker calling to that of

Lexington, —

From Norfolk's ancient villagee, from Plymouth's rocky bound

To where Nantucket feels the arms of ocean close her round ; — •

From rich and rural Worcester, where

through the calm repose Of cultured vales and fringing woods the

gentle Nashua flows. To where Wachuset's wintry blasts the

mountain larches stir. Swelled up to Heaven the thrilling cry

of "God save Latimer ! "

And sandy Barnstable rose up, wet with the salt sea spray, —

And Bristol sent her answering shout down Narragansett Bay !

Along the broad Connecticut old Hamp- den felt the thrill.

And the cheer of Hampshire's woodmen swept down from Holyoke Hill.

The voice of Massachusetts ! Of her free

sons and daughters, — Deep calling unto deep aloud, — the

sound of many waters ! Against the burden of that voice what

tyrant power shall stand ? Xo fdtcrs in (lie, Bay Slate, ! No slave

u])on her land I

Look to it well, Virginians ! In calm- ness we have borne.

In answer to our faith and trust, your insult and yoiu' scorn ;

You 've spurned our kindest counsels, — you 've hunted for our lives, —

And shaken round our hearths and homes your manacles and gyves !

We wage no war, — we lift no arm, — we fling no torch within

The fire-damps of the quaking mine be- neath j'our soil of sin ;

We leave ye with your bondmen, to wrestle, while- ye can,

With the strong upward tendencies and godlike soul of man !

But for us and for our children, the vow

which we liavc given For freedom and luimanity is registered

in heaven ; No slave-hunt in our borders, — no pirate

OH our strand I No fetters in the Bay Slate, — no slave

upon our land I

64

VOICES OF FREEDOM.

THE RELIC.

[Pevnstlvama Hall, dedicated to Free Discus- sion and the cause of human liberty, was de- stroyed by a mob in 1838. The following was nrritten on receiving a cane wrought from a frag- ment of the wood-work which the fire had spared.]

Token of friendsliiiJ true and tried, From one whose fiery heai-t of youth

With mine has beaten, side by side, For Liberty and Tnith ;

With honest pride the gift I take.

And prize it for the giver's sake.

But not alone because it tells

Of generous hand and heart sincere ;

Around that gift of friendship dwells A memory doubly dear, —

Earth's noblest aim, — man's holiest thought.

With that memorial frail inwrought !

Pure thoughts and sweet, like flowers unfold,

And precious memories round it cling, Even as the Prophet's rod of old

In beaiit}- blossoming : And buds of feeling pure and good Spring from its cold unconscious wood.

Kelic of Freedom's shrine ! — a brand Plucked from its burning ! — let it be

Dear as a jewel from the hand Of a lost friend to me ! —

Flower of a perished garland left,

Of life and beauty iinbereft !

0, if the young enthusiast bears. O'er weary wa.ste and sea, the stone

Which crumbled from the Forum's -stairs. Or round tlie Parthenon ;

Or olive-bougli from some wild tree

Hung over old Thermopylaj :

If leaflets from some hero's tomb.

Or moss-wreath torn from ruins hoary, —

Or faded flowers whose sisters bloom On fields renowiied in stor}', —

Or fragment from the Alhambra's crest.

Or the gray rock by Pniids blessed ;

Sad Erin's shamrock greenly growing Where Freedom led her .stalwart kern,

Or Scotia's " rough bur thistle " blowing On Bruce's Baunockbum, —

Or ilunnymede's wild English rose, Or lichen plucked from Sempach's snows . —

If it be true that things like these To heart and eye bright visions bring,

Shall not far holier memories To this memorial cling ?

Which needs no mellowing mist of time

To hide the crimson stains of crime !

Wreck of a temple, unprofaned, — Of courts where Peace with Freedom trod. Lifting on high, with hands unstained,

Thank.sgiving unto God ; Where Mercy's voice of love was plead- ing For himian hearts in bondage bleeding ! —

Where, midst the sound of rushing feet And cuises on the night-air flung.

That pleading voice rose calm and sweet From woman's earnest tongue ;

And Riot turned his scowling glance.

Awed, from her tranquil countenance I

That temple now in ruin lies ! — The fire-stain on its shattered wall.

And open to the changing skies Its black and roofless hall,

It stands before a nation's sight,

A gi-avestone over buried Right !

But from that ruin, as of old.

The fire-scorched stones themselves are crying. And from their ashes white and cold

Its timbers are replying ! A voice which slavery cannot kill Speaks from the cnimbling arches still 1

And even this relic from thy shrine, 0 holy Freedom ! hath to me

A potent power, a voice and sign To testify of thee ;

And, gras])ing it, methinks I feel

A dee])er faith, a stronger zeal.

And not unlike that mystic rod.

Of old stretched o'er the Egj'ptiai wave.

Which opened, in the strength of God, A ])athway for the slave.

It 3'et may point the bondman's waj',

And turn the spoiler from his prey.

THE BRANDED HAND.

65

THE BEANDED HAND.

1846.

Welcome home again, brave seaman !

with thy thoughtful brow and gray, And the old heroic spirit of our earlier,

better day, — With that front of calm endurance, on

whose steady nerve in vain Pressed the iron of the prison, smote the

fiery shafts of pain !

Is the tyrant's brand upon thee ? Did the brutal cravens aim

To make God's truth thy falsehood, his holiest work thy shame ?

When, all blood-quenched, from the tor- ture the iron was withdrawn.

How laughed their evU angel the baffled fools to sconi !

Tliey change to wrong the duty which

God hath written out On the great heart of humanity, too

legible for doubt ! Theij, the loathsome moral lepers,

blotched fron^ footsole up to crown, Give to shame what God hath given unto

honor and renown !

Why, that brand is highest honor ! —

than its traces never yet Upon old armorial hatchments was a

prouder blazon set ; And thj^ unborn generations, as they

tread our rocky strand. Shall tell with pride the story of their

father's branded hand !

As the Templar home was welcome, bear- ing back from Syrian wars

The scars of Arab lances and of Paynim scymitars,

The pallor of the prison, and the shackle's crimson span,

80 wo meet thee, so we greet thee, truest friend of God and man.

He suffered for the ransom of the dear Redeemer's gi'ave.

Thou for liis living ])resence in the bound and lileeding slave ;

He for a soil no longer by the feet of an- gels trod,

Thou for the tnie Shechinah, the pres- ent home of God !

For, while the jurist, sitting with the

slave-whip o'er him swung, From the tortured truths of freedom the

lie of slavery wrung. And the solemn priest to Moloch, on

each God-deserted shrine. Broke the bondman's heart for bread,

poured the bondman's blood for

wine, —

While the multitude in blindness to a

far-off' Saviour knelt, And spurned, the while, the temple

where a present Saviour dwelt ; Thou beheld'st him in the task-field, in

the prison shadows dim, And thy mercy to the bondman, it was

mercy unto him !

In thy lone and long night-watches, sky

above and wave below, Thou didst learn a higher wisdom than

the babbling schoolmen know ; God's stars and silence taught thee, as

his angels only can. That the one sole sacred thing beneath

the cope of heaven is Man !

That he who treads profanely on the

scrolls of law and creed, In the depth of God's great goodness

may find mercy in his need ; But woe to him who crushes the SOUL

with chain and rod, And herds with lower natures the awful

form of God !

Then lift that manly riglit-haud, bold ploughman of the wave !

Its branded palm shall j^rophesy, " Sal- vation TO the Slaa^e ! "

Hold up its fire-wronght language, that whoso reads may feel

His heart swell strong within him, \\iH sinews change to steel.

Hold it up before our sunshine, up

against our Northern air, — Ho ! men of IMassachusetts, for the lov«

of God, look there ! Take it henceforth for your standard,

like the Bruce's heart of yore. In the dark strife closing round ye, let

that hand be seen before !

And the tyrants of the slave-land^hall tremble at that sign,

66

VOICES OF FREEDOM.

When it points its finger Southward

along tlie Puritan line : Woe to the State-gorged leeches and the

Church's locust band, Vfhen they look from slavery's ramparts

on the coming of that hand !

TEXAS.

VOICE OF KEW ENGLAND.

tJp the hUlside, down the glen, Rouse the sleeping citizen ; Summon out the might of men !

Like a lion gi'owling low, — Like a night-storm rising slow, — Like the tread of unseen foe, —

It is coming, • — it is nigh ! Stand your homes and altars by ; On your own free thresholds die.

Clang the bells in all your spires ; On the gray hills of your sires lling to heaven your signal-fires.

From Wachuset, lone and bleak,

Unto Berkshire's tallest peak.

Let the flame-tongued heralds speak.

0, for God and duty stand. Heart to heart and hand to hand. Round the old graves of the land.

"Wlioso shriidvs or falters now, Whoso to the yoke would bow, Ikand the craven on his brow !

Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race, — None for tnutors false and base.

Perish party, — perish clan ; Strike together while ye can, Like the arm of one .strong man.

Like that angel's voice sublime, Heard above a world of crime. Crying of the end of time, —

With one heart and with one mouth. Let the North unto the South Speak the word befitting both :

" What though Lssachar be .strong ! Ye may load liis back with wrong Ovcmnudi and over long :

" Patience with her cup o'erruu, With her weary thread outspun. Murmurs that her work is done.

' ' ]\Lake our LTnion-bond a chain, Weak as tow in Freedom's strain Link by link shall snap in twain.

' ' Vainly shall your sand-wrought rop« Bind the starry cluster up. Shattered over heaven's blue cope !

"Give us bright though broken rays, Rather than eternal haze, Clouding o'er the full-orbed blaze.

"Take your land of sun and bloom ;

Only leave to Freedom room

For her plough, and forge, and loom ;

' ' Take your slavery-blackened vales ; Leave us but our own free gales, Blowing on our thousand sails.

" Boldly, or with treacherous art. Strike the blood-wrought chain a2)art ; Break the Union's mighty heart ;

" Work the niin, if ye will ; Pluck upon your heads an ill Which shall grow and deepen still.

" With your bondman's right arm bare, With liis heart of black despair, Stand alone, if .stand ye dare !

"Onward with your fell design ; Dig the gidf and di'aw the line : Fire beneath your feet the mine :

"Deeply, when the wide abyss Yawns between your laiul and this, Shall ye feel your lielples.sness.

" By the hearth, and in the bed, Sliaken by a look or tread. Ye shall own a guilty dread.

" And the curse of unpaid toil. Downward througli your generous soil Like a lire shall burn and spoil.

" Our bleak hills shall bud and blow. Vines our rocks shall overgrow, Plenty in our valleys flow ; —

" And when vengeance clouds your skies, Hither shall ye turn your eyes, As the lost on Paradise !

TO MASSACHUSEITS.

67

" We hilt ask onr rocky sti-and, Freedom's true and brother band, Freedom's strong and honest hand,

"Valleys by the slave untrod. And the Pilgrim's mountain sod, Blessed of our fathers' God ! "

TO FANEITIL HALL.

1844.

Men ! — if manhood still ye claim.

If the Northern pulse can thrill, Roused by wrong or stung by shame,

Freely, strongly still, — Let the sounds of traffic die :

Shut the mill-gate, ^ leave the stall, — Fling the axe and hammer by, —

Throng to Faneuil Hall !

Wrongs which freemen never brooked, —

Dangers grim and fierce as they, Which, like couching lions, looked

On your fathers' way, — These your instant zeal demand,

Shaking with their earthquake -call Every rood of Pilgrim land,

Ho, to FaneuirHall !

From your capes and sandy bars, —

From your mountain-ridges cold, Through whose pines the westering stars

Stoop their crowns of gold, — • Come, and with your footsteps wake

Echoes from that holy wall ; Once again, for Freedom's sake,

Rock your fathers' hall !

Up, and tread beneath your feet

Every cord by party spun : Let your hearts togethe/- beat

As the heart of one. Banks and tariffs, stocks and trade,

Let them rise or let them fall : Freedom asks your common aid, -^

Up, to Faneuil Hall !

[Jp, and let each voice that speaks

Ring from thence to Southern plains. Sharply as the blow wliicli breaks

Prison-l)olts and chains ! Speak as well becomes the free ;

Dreaded more than steel or ball. Shall your calmest utterance be,

Heard from Faneuil Hall !

Have they wronged us ? Let us then

Render back nor threats nor prayers ; Have they chained our free-born men ?

Let us unchain theiks ! Up, your banner leads the van,

Blazoned, " Liberty for all ! " Finish what your sires began !

Up, to Faneuil Hall !

TO MASSACHUSETTS. 1844.

What though around thee blazes

No fiery rallying sign ? From all thy own high places.

Give heaven the light of thine ! What though unthrilled, unmoving,

The statesman stand apart. And comes no warm approving

From Mammon's crowded mart ?

Still, let the land be shaken

By a summons of thine own ! By all save truth forsaken,

Why, stand with that alone ! Shrink not from strife unequal !

With the best is always hope ; And ever in the sequel

God holds the right side uj) !

But when, \vith thine uniting.

Come voices long and loud, And far-off hills are writing

Thy fire-words on the cloud ; When from Penobscot's fountains

A deep response is heard. And across the Western mountains

Rolls back thy rallying word ;

Shall thy line of battle falter,

A\^ith its allies just in view ? 0, by hearth and holy altar,

Mj^ fatherland, be true ! Fling abroad thy scrolls of Freedom !

Speed them onward far and fast ! Over hill and valley S})eed tliem.

Like the sibyl's on the blast !

Lo ! the Empire State is shaking

The shackles from her hand ; With the rugged North is waking

The level sunset land ! On they come, — the free battalions !

East and West and North they come. And the heart-beat of the millions

Is the beat of Freedom's drum.

68

VOICES OF FREEDOM.

" To the tyrant's plot no favor !

No heed to place-fed knaves ! Bar and bolt the door forever

Against the land of slaves ! " Hear it, mother Earth, and hear it,

The Heavens above us spread ! The land is roused, — its spiiit

Was sleeping, but not dead !

THE PINE-TREE. 1846.

Lift again the stately emblem on the

Bay State's rusted shield. Give to Northern winds the Pine-Tree

on our banner's tattered field. Sons of men who sat in council with their

Bibles round the board. Answering England's royal missive with

a firm, "Thus saith thk Lord !" Rise again for home and freedom ! — set

the battle in array ! — What the fathers did of old time we

their sons must do to-day.

Tell us not of banks and tariffs, — cease

your paltry pedler cries, — Shall the good State sink her honor that

your gambling stocks may rise ? WouVi ye barter man for cotton '( — That

your gains may sum up higher, Must we kiss the feet of Moloch, pass

our children through the fire ? Is the dollar only real ? — God and truth

and right a dream ? Weighed against your Ijing ledgers must

our manhood kick the beam ?

0 my God ! — for that free spirit, wliich

of old in Boston town Smote the Province House with terror,

stmck the crest of Andros down ! — For another strong-voiced Adams in the

city's streets to cry, "Up for God and Massachusetts !— Set

your feet on Mammon's lie ! Perish banks and perish traffic, — spin

your cotton's latest pound, — . Rutin Heaven's name keep your honor, —

keep the heart o' the Bay State

sound ! "

Where 's the man for Massachusetts ? — Where's the voic* to speak her free? —

Where 's the hand to light up bonfires

from her mountains to the sea ? Beats her Pilgrim pulse no longer ? —

Sits she dumb in her despair ? — Has she none to break the silence ? —

Has she none to do and dare ? 0 mj' God ! for one right worthy to lift

up her rusted shield, And to plant again the Pine-Tree in her

banner's tattered field !

LINES,

SUGGESTED BY A VISIT TO THE CITY OF WASHINGTON, IN THE 12TH MONTH OF 1845.

With a cold and wintry noon-light,

On its roofs and steeples shed,

Shadows weaving with the sunlight

From the gray sky overhead,

Broadly, vaguely, all around me, lies the

half-built town outspread.

Through this broad street, n^stlessever,

Ebbs and flows a human tide, Wave on wave a living river ; Wealth and fashion side by side • Toiler, idler, slave and master, in the same quick current glide.

Underneath yon dome, whose coping Springs above them, vast and tall, Grave men in the dust are groping For the largess, base and small. Which the hand of Power is S(;attering. crumbs which from its table fall.

Base of heart ! They vilely barter

Honor's wealtli for party's place :

Step by step on Freedom's charter

Leaving footprints of disgrace ;

Foi>-to-day's poor pittance turning from

the great hope of tlieir race.

Yet, where festal lamps are throwing

Glory round the dancer's hair, Gold-tressed, like an angel's, flowing Backward on the sunset air ; And tlie low quick pulse of music beats its measure sweet and rare :

There to-night shall woman's glances.

Star-like, welcome give to them. Fawning fools witli shy advances Seek to touch their garments' hem, With tlie tong^ie of flatter)- glozing deeds which God and Truth condemn

LINES.

69

From this glittering lie my vision Takes a broader, sadder range, Full before me have arisen

Other pictures dark and strange ; From the parlor to the prison must tlie scene and witness change.

Hark ! the heavy gate is swinging On its hinges, harsh and slow ; One pale prison lamp is flinging On a fearful grouj) below Such a light as leaves to terror whatso- e'er it does not show.

Pitying God ! — Is that a woman

On whose wrist the shackles clash ? Is that shriek she utters human, Underneath the stinging lash ? ^re they men whose eyes of madness from that sad procession flash ?

Still the dance goes gayly onward !

What is it to Wealth and Pride

That without the stars are looking

On a scene which earth should hide ?

That the slave-ship lies in waiting,

rocking on Potomac's tide !

Vainly to that mean Ambition

Which, upon a rival's fall, Winds above its old condition, With a reptile's slimy crawl. Shall the pleading voice of sorrow, shall the slave in anguish call.

Vainly to the child of Fashion,

Giving to ideal woe Graceful luxury of compassion, Shall the stricken mourner go ; Hateful seems the earnest sorrow, beau- tiful the hollow show !

Nay, my words are all too sweeping ;

In this crowded human mart, Feeling is not dead, but sleeping ; Man'sstrong willand woman's heart, In the coming strife for Freedom, yet shall bear their generous part.

And from yonder sunny valleys.

Southward in the distance lost, Freedom yet sliall summon allies Worthier than the North can boast. With the Evil by their hearth-stones grappling at severer cost.

Now, the soul alone is willing : Faint the heart and weak the knee ;

And as yet no lip is thrilling With the mighty words, " Be Free ! " Tarrieth long the land's Good Angel, but his advent is to be !

Meanwhile, turning from the revel

To the prison-cell my sight. For iutenser hate of evil, For a keener sense of right. Shaking oft" thy dust, I thank thee, City of the Slaves, to-night !

" To thy duty now and ever !

Dream no more of rest or stay ; Give to Freedom's great endeavor All thou art aud hast to-day " : — Thus, above the city's mui-mur, saith a Voice, or seems to say.

Ye with heart and vision gifted To discern and love the right, Whose worn faces have been lifted To the slowly -gi-owing light, Where from Freedom's sunrise drifted slowly back the murk of night ! —

Ye who through long years of trial Still have held your purpose fast, While a lengthening shade the dial From the westering sunshine cast, And of hope each hour's denial seemed an echo of the last ! —

0 my brothers ! 0 my sisters !

Would to God that ye were near. Gazing with me down the vistas Of a sorrow strange and drear ; Would to God that ye were listeners to the Voice I seem to hear !

With the storm above us driving.

With the false earth mined below, — AVlio shall marvel if thus striving We have counted friend as foe ; Unto one another giving in the darkness blow for blow.

Well it may be that our natures

Have grown sterner and more hard, And the fi'cshness of their features Somewhat harsh and battle-scarred, And their harmonies of feeling over- tasked and rudely jarred.

Be it so. It should not swerve us From a purpose true and brave ;

70

VOICES OF FKEEDOM.

Dearer Freedom's nigged service Than the pastime of the slave ; Better is the storm above it thau the quiet of the gi-ave.

Let us then, uniting, bury

All our idle feuds in dust, And to future conflicts cany

Mutual faith and common trust ; Alwaj's he who most forgiveth in his brother is most just.

From the eternal shadow rounding

All our sun and starlight here,

Voices of our lost ones sounding

Bid us be of heart and cheer,

Through the silence, down the spaces,

falling OH the inward ear.

Know we not our dead are looking

Downward with a sad surprise, All our strife of words rebuking With their mild and loving eyes ? Shall we giieve the holy angels ? Shall we cloud their blessed skies ?

Let us draw their mantles o'er us AVhich have fallen in our way ; Let us do the work before us, Cheerly, bravely, while we may, Ere the long night-silence coraeth, and with us it is not day !

LINES,

FROM A LETTER TO A YOUNG CLERI- CAL FRIEND.

A .STREXGTH Tliv service cannot tire, — A faitli which doubt can never dim, —

A heart of love, a lip of fire, —

0 Freedom's God ! be thou to him !

Speak through him words of power and fear.

As through thy prophet bards of old, And let a scornful ])eople hear

Ouce more thy Sinai-thunders rolled.

For lying lips thj' blessing seek.

And hands of blood are raised to Thee,

And on thy children, crushed and weak, The oppressorplants hiskneelingknee.

Let then, 0 God ! thy servant dare Thy truth in all its power to tell.

Unmask the priestly thieves, and tear The Bible from the gi-asp of hell !

From hollow rite and narrow span Of law and sect by Thee released,

0, teach Mm that the Christian man Is holier than the Jewish priest.

Chase back the shadows, gray and old, Of the dead ages, from his way,

And let his hopeful eyes behold

The dawn of thy nulleunial day ; —

That day ^\■hen fettered limb and mind Shall know the truth which maketh free.

And he alone who loves his kind

Shall, childlike, claim the love of Thee !

YORKTOWN.36

From Yorktown's ruins, ranked and still. Two lines stretch far o'er vale and hill : Who curbs his steed at head of one ? Hark ! the low munnur : Washington ! Who bends his keen, approving glance Where down the gorgeous line of Fj-ance Shine knightly star and plume of snow ? Thou too art victor, Rochambeau !

The earth which bears this calm array Shook with the war-charge yesterday. Ploughed deep with huriying hoof and

wheel. Shot-sown and bladed thick with steel ; October's clear and noonday sun Paled in the breath-smoke of the gun. And down night's double blackness fell. Like a dropped star, the blazing shell.

Now all is hushed : the gleaming lines Stand moveless as the neighboring pines ; While through them, sullen, grim, and

slow. The conquered hosts of England go : O'Hara's brow belies his dress. Gay Tarleton's troop rides bannerless : Shout, from thy lired and wasted homes, Thy scourge, Virginia, captive comes !

Nor thou alone : with one glad voice Let all thy sister States rejoice ; Let Freedom, in whatever clime She waits with sli-epless eye her time, Shouting from cave and mountain wood Make glad her desert solitude,

LINES.

71

While they who hunt her quail with fear ; The New World's chain lies broken here !

But who are they, who, cowering, wait Within the shattered fortress gate ? Dark tillers of Virginia's soil, Classed with the battle's common spoil. With household stuffs, and fowl, and

swine. With Indian weed and planters' wine. With stolen beeves, and foraged corn, — Are they not men, Virginian born ?

0, veil your faces, young and brave ! Slee]i, Scammel, in thy soldier grave ! Sons of the Northland, ye who set Stout hearts against the bayonet, And pressed with steady footfall near The moated battery's blazing tier, Turn your scarred faces from the sight. Let shame do homage to the right !

Lo ! threescore years have passed ; and

where The Gallic timbrel stirred the air, With Northern drum-roll, and the clear. Wild horn-blow of the mountaineer, While Britain grounded on that plain The arms she might not lift again, As abject as in that old day The slave still toils his life away.

0, fields still green and fresh in story. Old days of pride, old names of glory, Old marvels of the tongue and pen. Old thoughts which stirred the hearts

of men. Ye spared the xyrong ; and over all Behold the avenging shadow fall ! Your world-wide honor stained with

shame, — Your freedom's self a hollow name !

Where 's now the flag of that old war ? Where flows its stripe ? Where burns

its star ? Bear witness, Palo Alto's day, Dark Vale of Palms, red Monterey, Where Mcxic Freedom, young and weak, Fleshes the Northern eagle's beak ; Symbol of tei'ror and despair. Of chains and slaves, go seek it there !

Laugh, Prussia, midst thy iron ranks ! Laugh, Russia, from thy Neva's banks ! Brave sport to sec the fledgling born Of Freedom by its jjarent torn '

Safe now is Speilberg's dungeon cell, Safe drear Siberia's frozen hell ; With Slavery's flag o'er both unrolled, What of the New World fears the Old ?

LINES,

WRITTEN IN THE BOOK OF A FRIEND.

On page of thine I cannot trace

The cold and heartless commonplace, —

A statue's fixed and marble grace.

For ever as these lines I penned.

Still with the thought of thee will blend

That of some loved and common friend, —

Who in life's desert track lias made His i)ilgrim tent with mine, or strayed Beneath the same remembered shade.

And hence my pen unfettered moves In freedom which the heart approves, -^ The negligence which friendship loves.

And wilt thou prize my poor gift less

For simple air and rustic dress.

And sign of haste and carelessness ? —

0, more than specious counterfeit

Of sentiment or studied wit,

A heart like thine should value it.

Yet half I fear my gift will be Unto thy book, if not to thee, Of more than doubtful courtesy.

A banished name from fashion's sphere, A lay unheard of Beauty's eai'. Forbid, disowned, — what do they here ? —

Upon my ear not all in vain

Oame the sad captive's clanking chain, —

The groaning from his bed of pain.

And sadder still, I saw the woe Which only wounded spirits know When Pride's strong footsteps o'er them

go- Spurned not alone in walks abroad. But from the " temples of the Lord" Thrust out apart, like things abhorred.

Deep as I felt, and stern and strong. In words wliich Prudence smothered long, My soul spoke out against the wrong ;

72

VOICES OF FEEEDOM.

Not mine alone the task to speak Of comfort to the poor and weak, And dry the tear on Sorrow's cheek ;

But, mingled in the conflict warm, To pour the fiery breath of storm Through the harsh trumpet of Reform ;

To brave Opinion's settled frown, From ermined robe and saintly gown, While wrestling reverenced Error down.

Founts gushed beside my pilgrim way, Cool shadows on the greensward laj', Flowers swung upon the bending spray.

And, broad and bright, on either hand, Stretched the green slopes of i'airy-land, AVith Hope's eternal sunbow spanned ;

Whence voices called me like the flow, Which on the listener's ear will grow. Of forest streamlets soft and low.

And gentle eyes, which still retain Their picture on the heart and brain. Smiled, beckoning from that path of pain.

In vain ! — nor dream, nor rest, nor

pause Remain for him who round him draws The battered mail of Freedom's cause.

From youthful hopes, — from each gi-een

spot Gf young Romance, and gentle Thought, Where storai and tumult enter not, —

From each fair altar, where belong The offerings Love requires of Song In homage to lier bright-eyed throng, —

With soul and strength, with heart and

hand, I turned to Freedom's struggling band, — To the sad Helots of our land.

What marvel then that Fame should

turn Her notes of praise to those of scorn, — Her gifts reclaimed, — her smiles with- drawn ?

What matters it ! — a few years more, Life's surge so resth^ss heretofore Shall break upon the unknown shore !

In that far land shall disappear

The shadows which we follow here, —

The mist-wreaths of our atmosphere !

Before no work of mortal hand. Of human will or strength expand The pearl gates of the Better Land ;

Alone in that great love which gave Life to the sleeper of the grave, Resteth the power to "seek and save."

Yet, if the spirit gazing through

The vista of the past can view

One deed to Heaven and virtue true, — •

If through the ■vvi-eck of wasted powers. Of garlands wreathed from Folly's

bowers. Of idle aims and misspent hours, —

The eye can note one sacred spot

By Pride and Self profaned not, —

A green place in the waste of thouglit, —

AVhere deed or word hath rendered less "The sum of human wretchedness," And Gratitude looks forth to bless, —

The simple burst of tenderest feeling From sad hearts worn by evil-dealing, For blessing on the hand of healing, —

Better than Glory's pomp will be That green and blessed spot to me, A palm-shade in Eternity ! —

Something of Time whiclj may invite The purified and spiritual sight To rest on with a calm delight.

And when the summer winds shall

sweep With their light wings my place of sleep, And mosses round my headstone creep, —

If still, as Freedom's ralljnng sign. Upon the young heart's altars shine The very fires they caught from mine, — ■

If words my lips once uttered still. In the calm faith and steadfast will Of other hearts, tlieir work fulfil, —

Perchance with joy the soul may learn These tokens, and its eye discern The tires which on those altars burn, —

P^AN.

73

A marvellous joy that even then,

lio oniric iTfltVi its lifp ao-flin.

men.

A marveuous joy uiai. even iii'

The spirit hath its life again.

In the strong hearts of mortal

Take, lady, then, the gift I bring,

No gay and graceful offering, —

No flower-smile of the laughing spring.

Midst the green buds of Youth's fresh

May, With Fancy's leaf-enwoven bay, My sad and sombre gift 1 lay.

And if it deepens in thy mind

A sense of suffering human-kind, —

The outcast and the spirit-blind ;

Oppressed and spoiled on every side, By Prejudice, and Scorn, and Pride, Life's common courtesies denied ;

Sad mothers mourning o'er their trust, Children by want and misery nursed. Tasting life's bitter cup at first ;

If to their strong appeals which come From tireless hearth, and crowded room. And the close alley's noisome gloom, —

Though dark the hands upraised to thee

In mute beseeching agony.

Thou lend'st thy woman's sympathy, —

Not vainly on thy gentle shrine. Where Love, and Mirth, and Friendship

twine Their varied gifts, I offer mine.

P^AN.

1848.

Now, joy and thanks forevermore \ The dreary night has wellnigh passed,

The slum1)ers of the North are o'er. The Giant stands erect at last .!

More than we hoped in that dark time When, famt with watching, few and worn.

We saw no welcome day-star climb Tlie cold gi-ay pathway of tlie morn !

0 weary hours ! 0 night of years \ What storms our darkling pathway swept,

Wliere, beating back our thronging fears. By Faith alone our march '■-'e kept.

How jeered the scoffing crowd beliind. How mocked before tlie tyrant train,

As, one by one, the true and kind Fell fainting in our path of pain !

They died, — their brave hearts breaking slow, —

But, self-forgetful to the last, In words of cheer and bugle blow

Their breath upon the darkness passed.

A mighty host, on either hand. Stood waiting for the dawn of day

To crush like reeds our feeble band ; The morn has come, — and where are they ?

Troop after troop their line forsakes ;

With peace-white banners waving free. And from our own the glad shout breaks,

Of Freedom and Fraternity !

Like mist before the gTowing light. The hostile cohorts melt away ;

Our frowning foemen of the night Are brothers at the dawn of day !

As unto these repentant ones

Vie open wide our toil-worn ranks.

Along our line a murmur runs

Of song, and praise, and grateful

thanks.

Sound for the onset ! — Blast on blast !

Till Slavery's minions cower and quail ; One charge of fire shall drive them fast

Like chaff before our Northern gale !

0 prisoners in your house of pain,

Dumb, toiling millions, bound and sold. Look ! stretched o'er Southern vale and plain, The Lord's delivering hand behold !

Above the tyrant's pride of power, His iron gates and guarded wall.

The bolts which shattered Sliinar's tower Hang, smoking, for a fiercer fall.

Awake ! awake ! my Fatherland !

It is thy Northern light that shines ; This stirrir.g march of Freedom's band ( 'the storm-song of thy mountain pines.

74

VOICES OF FEEEDOM.

Wake, dwellers where the day expires !

And hear, in winds that sweep your lakes And fan your prairies' roaring fires,

The sifirnal-call that Freedom makes !

TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS SHIPLEY.

Gone to tliy Heavenly Father's rest 1

The flowers of Eden round thee blow- ing.. And on tliine ear the mumiurs blest

Of Siloa's waters softly flowing ! Beneatli that Tree of Life which gives To all the earth its healing leaves In the white rohe of angels clad,

And wandering by that sacred river, "WTiose streams of holiness make glad

The city of our God forever !

Gentlest of spirits ! — not for thee

Our tears are shed, our sighs are given ; Why mourn to know thou art a free

Partaker of the joys of Heaven ? Finished thy work, and kept thy faith hi Cliristian firmness unto death ; And beautiful as sky and earth,

When autumn's sun is downward go- ing, Tlie blessed memory of thy worth

Around tliy place of slumber glowing !

But woe for us ! wlio linger still

With feebler strength and hearts less lowly. And minds less steadfast to the will

Of Him whose every work is holy. For not like thine, is crucified The spirit of our human pride : And at the bondman's tale of woe.

And for tlie outcast and forsaken, Not warm like tliine, but cold and slow,

Our weaker sympathies awaken.

Darkly upon our struggling way

The stonn of human hate is sweepmg ; Hunted and branded, and a prey.

Our watch amidst the darkness keep- ing, 0 for that hidden strength which can Nerve unto death the inner man ! 0 for thy spirit, tried tuid true,

And constant in the hour of trial, Prepared to suffer, or to do,

In meekness and in seK-denial.

0 for that spirit, meek and mild.

Derided, spiu'ned, yet uncomplain- ing, — By man deserted and reviled.

Yet faithful to its trust remaining. Still prompt and resolute to save From scourge and chain the hunted

slave ; Unwavering in the Truth's defence, Even where the fires of Hate were burning, The imrpiailing ej'e of innocence Alone upou the oppressor turning !

C loved of thousands ! to thy grave.

Sorrowing of heart, thy bretliren bore thee. The poor man and the rescued slave

Wept as the broken earth closed o'ei thee ; And grateful tears, like summer rain, Quickened its dyuig grass again ! And there, as to some pilgrim-shrine,

Shall come the outcast and tlie lowly, Of gentle deeds and vorcU of thine

Kecalling memories sweet and holy !

0 for the death the righteous die !

An end, like antunin's day declining, On human lieiirts, as on tlie sk)',

With holier, tenderer beauty shining ; As to the parting soul were given The radiance of an o])cning Heaven ! As if that jiure and blessed light.

From off the Eternal altar flowing. Were batliing, in its upward flight,

The sjiirit to its worship going !

TO A SOUTHERN STATESMAN. 1846.

Is this thy voice, whose treble notes of

fear Wail in the wind ? And dost thou shake

to hear, Actaeon-likc, the bay of thine own

liounds. Spurning tlie leash, and leaping o'er

their bounds ? Sore-baffled statesman ! when thy eager

hand. With game afoot, unslipped the hungry

pack. To hunt down Freedom in her cliosen

land,

LINES.

75

Hadst thou no fear, that, erelong,

doubling back, These dogs of thine might snuif on

Slavery's track ? Where 's now the boast, which even thy

guarded tongue. Cold, calm, and proud, in the teeth o'

the Senate flung, O'er the fulfilment of thy baleful plan. Like Satan's triumph at the fall of man ? How stood'st thou then, thy feet on

Freedom planting. And pointing to the lurid heaven afar, Whence all could see, through the south

windows slanting, Crimson as blood, the beams of that

Lone Star ! The Fates are just ; they give us but our

own ; Nemesis ripens what our hands have

sown. There is an Eastern storj^ not unknown. Doubtless, to thee, of one whose magic

skill Called demons up his water-jars to fill ; Deftly and silently, they did his will. But, when the task was done, kept

pouring still. In vain with spell and charm the wizard

\vrought, Faster and faster were the buckets

brought. Higher and higher rose the flood around, Till the fiends clapped their hands above

their master drowned ! So, Carolinian, it may prove with thee. For God still overrules man's schemes,

and takes Craftiness in its self-set snare, and

makes The wrath of man to praise Him. It

may be. That the roused spirits of Democracy May leave to freer States the same wide

door Through which thy slave-cursed T xas

entered in. From out the blood and fire, the wrong

and sin. Of the stormed city and the ghastly

plain, Beat by hot hail, and wet with bloody

rain, A myriad-handed Aztec host may ^mur. And swarthy South with pallid North

combine Back on thyself to turn thy dark design.

LINES,

WRrrTEN ON THE ADOPTION OF PINCK- NEY'S BESOLUTIOXS, IX THE HOUSB OF REPEESENTATIVES, AND THE PAS- SAGE OF Calhoun's "bill for ex- cluding PAPERS written OR PRINT- ED, TOUCHING THE SUBJECT OF SLAVERY, FROM THE U. S. POST- OFFICE," IN THE SENATE OF THE UNITED STATES.

Men of the North-land ! where 's the manly spirit Of the true-hearted and the unshacklec? gone ? Sons of old freemen, do we but inherit Their names alone ?

Is the old Pilgiim spirit quenched with- in us. Stoops the strong manhood of our souls so low, That Mammon's lure or Party's wile can win us

To silence now ?

Now, when our land to ruin's brink is verging. In God's name, let us speak while there is time ! Now, when the padlocks for our lips are forging,

Silence is crime !

"\^Tiat ! shall we henceforth humbly ask as favors Rights all our own ? In madness shall we barter. For treacherous peace, the freedom Nature gave us,

Gid and our charter ?

Here shall the statesman forge his hu- man fetters. Here the false jurist liuniau rights! deny. And, in the church, their proud and skilled abettors

Make truth a lie ?

Torture the pages of the hallowed Bible, To sanction crime, and robbery, and blood ? And, in Oppression's hateful ser^ace, Ubel

Both man and God ?

76

VOICES OF FREEDOM.

Shall our Kew England stand erect no longer, But stoop in chains upon her down- ward way, Thicker to gather on her limbs and stronger

Day after day ?

0 no ; methinks from all her wild, gi-een mountains, — From valleys where her slumbering fothers lie, — From her blue rivers and her welling fountains,

And clear, cold sky, —

From her rough coast, and isles, which hungiy Ocean Gnaws with his surges, — fi'om the fisher's skiff. With wliite sail swajong to the billows' motion

Round rock and cliff, —

From the free fireside of her unbought fanner, — From her free laborer at his loom and wheel, — From the bro^m smith-shop, w-hero, be- neath the hammer,

Eings the red steel, —

From each and all, if God hath not forsaken Our land, and left us to an e^dl choice. Loud as the summer thunderbolt shall waken

A People's voice.

Startling and stern ! the Northern winds shall bear it Over Potomac's to St. Mar}''s wave ; And buried Freedom shall awake to hear it

Within her grave.

0, let that voice go forth ! The bond- man sighing Bj' Santee's wave, in Mississippi's cane. Shall feel the hope, within bis bosom dying,

Revive again.

Lei it go forth ! The millions who are gazing Sadly upon us from afar, shall smile,

And unto God devout thanksgiving raising.

Bless us the wliile.

0 for your ancient freedom, pure and holy. For the deliverance of a gioaning earth. For the wronged captive, bleeding, crushed, and lowly,

Let it go forth !

Sons of the best of fathers ! will ye faltei With all they left ye perilled and at stake ? Ho ! once again on Freedom's holy altai The fire awake !

Prayer-strengthened for the ti'ial, come together. Put on the harness for the moral fight. And, with the blessing of your Heav- enly Father,

Maixtaix the right !

THE CURSE OF THE CHARTER- BREAKERS.*?

In Westminster's royal halls, Robed in their pontificals, England's ancient prelates stood For the peoi)le's right and good.

Closed around the waiting crowd. Dark and still, like winter's cloud ; King and council, lord and knight. Squire and yeoman, stood in sight, —

Stood to hear the priest rehearse. In God's name, the Church's curse, By the tajKns round them lit, Slowly, sternly uttering it.

" Right of voice in framing laws, Riglit of ])eers to try eacli cause ; Peasant homestead, mean and small. Sacred as the monarch's hall, —

" Whoso lays his hand on these, England's ancient liberties, — Wlioso lireaks, by word or deed, England's A'ow at Runnpnede, —

" Be he Prince or belted knight. Whatsoe'er his rank or might. If the liighcst, then the worst, Let hijn live and die accursed.

THE SLAVES OF MARTINIQUE.

77

' ' Thou, who to thy Church hast given Keys alike, of hell and heaven, Make our word and witness sure, Let the curse we speak endure ! "

Silent, while that curse was said. Every bare and listening head Bowed in reverent awe, and then All the people said. Amen !

Seven times the bells have tolled. For the centuries gray and old. Since that stoled and mitred band Cursed the tyrants of their land.

Since the priesthood, like a tower. Stood between the poor and power ; And the wronged and trodden down Blessed the abbot's shaven crown.

Gone, thank God, their wizard spell. Lost, their keys of heaven and hell ; Yet I sigh for men as bold As those bearded priests of old.

Now, too oft the priesthood wait At the threshold of the state, — Waiting for the beck and nod Of its power as law and God.

Fraud exults, while solemn woi'ds Sanctify his stolen hoards ; Slavery laughs, while ghostly lips Bless his manacles and whips.

Not on them the poor rely,

Not to them looks liberty.

Who with fawning falsehood cower

To the wrong, when clothed with power.

0, to see them meanly cling, Round the master, round the king. Sported with, and sold and bought, — PitifuUer sight is not !

Tell me not that this must be : God's true priest is always free ; Free, the needed truth to speak. Right the wronged, and raise the weak.

Not to fawn on wealth and state, Leaving Lazarus at tlie gate, — Not to peddle creeds like wares, -^ Not to mutter hireling prayers, —

Nor to paint the new life's bliss I

On the sable ground of this, —

Golden streets for idle knave, Sabbath rest for weary slave !

Not for words and works like these. Priest of God, thy mission is ; But to make earth's desert glad, In its Eden greenness clad ;

And to level manhood bring Lord and peasant, serf and king ; And the Christ of God to find In the humblest of thy kind !

Thine to work as well as pray, Clearing thorny wrongs away ; Phu'king up the weeds of sin. Letting heaven's warm sunshine in, -

Watching on the hills of Faith ; Listening what the spirit saith, Of the dim-seen light afar. Growing like a nearing star.

God's interpreter art thou. To the waiting ones below ; 'Twixt them and its light midway Heralding the better day, —

Catching gleams of temple spires, Hearing notes of angel choirs, Where, as yet unseen of them, Comes the New Jerusalem !

Like the seer of Patmos gazing. On the glory downward blazing ; Till upon Earth's grateful sod Rests the City of our God !

THE SLAVES OF MARTINIQUE.

SUGGESTED BY A DAGUERREOTYPE FROM A FRENCH ENGRAVING.

Beams of noon, like burning lances, through the tree-tops flash and glisten.

As she stands before her lover, with raised face to look and listen.

Dark, but comely, like the maiden in the

ancient J(>wish song : Scarcely has the toil of task-lields done

her graceful beauty ^^Tong.

He, the strong one and the manly, Avith the vassal's garb and hue.

78

VOICES OF FREEDOM.

Holding still his spirit's birthright, to his higher nature true ;

Hiding deep the strengthening purpose of a freeman in his heart,

As the gi-eegree holds his Fetich from the wliite man's gaze apart.

Ever foremost of his comrades, when the

driver's morning horn Calls away to stifling mill-house, to the

fields of cane and corn :

Fall the keen and burning lashes never

on his back or limb ; Scarce with look or word of censure, turns

the driver unto him.

Yet, his brow is always thoughtful, and his eye is hard and stern ;

Slavery's last and humblest lesson he has never deigned to learn.

And, at evening, when his comrades dance before their master's door,

Folding arms and knitting forehead, stands he silent evermore.

God be praised for every instinct which

rebels against a lot Where the brute sur\'ives the human, and

man's upright form is not !

As the serpent-like bejuco winds his

spiral fold on fold Round the tall and stately ceiba, till it

withers in his hold ; —

Slow decays the forest monarch, closer

girds the fell embrace, Till the tree is siien no longer, and the

vine is in its place, —

So a base wnd bestial nature round the vassal's manhood twines.

And the spirit wastes beneath it, like the ceiba choked %vith vines.

God is Love, saith the Evangel ; and our

world of woe and sin Is made light and happy only when a

Love is shining in.

Ye whose lives are free as sunshine, find- ing, whcresoe'er j'e roam,

Smiles of welcome, looks of kindness, making all the world like home ;

In the veins of whose affections kindind

blood is but a part. Of one kindly current throbbing from tl «

universal heart ;

Can ye know the deeper meaning of a

love in Slavery nursed. Last flower of a lost Eden, blooming in

that Soil accursed ?

Love of Home, and Love of Woman ! — dear to all, but doubly dear

To the heart whose pulses elsewheri measure only hate and fear.

All around the desert circles, underneath

a brazen sky, Onl}' one green spot remaining where the

dew is never dry !

From the horror of that desert, from its

atmosphere of hell, Turns the fainting s[)irit thither, as the

diver seeks his bell.

'T is the fervid tropic noontime ; faint and low the sea-waves beat ;

Hazy rise the inland mountains ttivough the glinnner of the heat, —

Where, through mingled leaves and blos- soms, arrowy sunbeams flash and glisten.

Speaks her lover to the slave-girl, and she lifts her head to listen : —

"We shall live as slaves no longer!

Freedom's hour is close at hand ! Eocks her bark upon the waters, rests the

boat upon the strand !

" 1 have seen the Haytien Captain ; 1 have seen his swarthy cn^w.

Haters of the pallid faces, to their race and color true.

" They have sworn to wait our coming till the night has passed its noon,

And the gi-ay and darkening waters roll above the sunken moon ! "

0 the blessed hope of freedom ! how with

joy and glad surprise, For an instant throbs her bosom, for an

instant beam her eyes 1

THE CRISIS.

79

But she looks across the valley, where her mother's hut is seen,

Through the snowy bloom of coffee, and the lemon-leaves so green.

And she answars, sad and earnest : "It were wrong for thee to stay ;

God hath heard thy prayer for freedom, and his finger points the way.

" Well I know with what endurance, for the sake of me and mine,

Thou hast borne too long a burden never meant for souls like thine.

*' Go ; and at the hour of midnight, when

our last farewell is o'er. Kneeling on our jjlace of parting,- I will

bless thee from the shore.

" But for me, my mother, lying on her

sick-bed all the day, Lifts her weary head to watch me, coming

through the twilight gray.

' ' Should 1 leave her sick and helpless, even freedom, shared with thee,

"Would be sadder far than bondage, lonely toil, and stripes to me.

" For my heart would die within me, and my brain would soon be wild ;

I should hear my mother calling tlirough the twilight for her child ! "

Blazing upward from the ocean, shines the sun of morning-time.

Through the coffee-trees in blossom, and green hedges of the lime.

Side by side, amidst the slave-gang, toil the lover and the maid ;

Wherefore looks he o'er the waters, lean- ing forward on his spade ?

Sadly looks he, deeply sighs he : 't is the

Haytien's sail he sees. Like a white cloud of the mountains,

driven seaward by the breeze !

But his arm a light hand presses, and he

hears a low voice call : Hate of Slavery, hope of Freedom, Love

is mightier than all.

THE CKISIS.

WRITTEN ON LEARNING THE TERMS OF THE TREATY WITH MEXICO.

Across the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand,

The circles of our empire touch the West- ern Ocean's strand ;

From slumberous Timpanogos, to Gila, wild and free,

Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to Cali- fornia's sea ;

And from the mountains of the East, to Santa Rosa's shore.

The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air no more.

0 Vale of Rio Bravo ! Let thy simple

children weep ; Close watch about their holy fire let maid«

of Pecos keep ; Let Taos send her cry across Sierra Madre's

pines. And Algodones toll her bells amidst her

corn and vines ; For lo ! the pale land-seekers come, with

eager eyes of gain, Wide scattering, like the bison herds on

broad Salada's plain.

Let Sacramento's herdsmen heed what

sound the winds bring down Of footsteps on the crisping snow, from

cold Nevada's crown ! Full hot and fast the Saxon rides, with

rein of travel slack, And, bending o'er his saddle, leaves the

sunrise at his back ; By many a lonely river, and gorge of fir

and pine. On many a wintry hill-top, his nightly

camp-fires shine. .

0 countrymen and brothers ! that land of lake and plain.

Of salt wastes alternating with valleys fat with grain ;

Of mountains white with winter, looking downward, cold, serene,

On their feet with spring-vines tangled and lap]ied in softest green ;

Swift througli wliose black volcanic gates, o'er many a sunny vale,

Wind-like the Arapahoe sweeps the bi- son's dusty trail !

80

VOICES OF FREEDOM.

Great spaces yet untravelled, great lakes

whose mystic shores The Saxon rifle never heard, nor dip of

Saxon oars ; Great herds that wander all unwatched,

wild steeds that none have tamed, Strange fish in unknown streams, and

birds the Saxon never named ; Deep mines, dark mountain c:rucibles,

where Nature's chemic powers ^York out the Great Designer's will ; —

all these j^e say are ours !

Forever ours ! for good or ill, on us the

burden lies ; God's balance, watched by angels, is hung

across the skies. Shall Justice, Truth, and Freedom turn

the poised and trembling scale ? Or shall the E^nl triumph, and robber

Wrong prevail ? Shall the broad land o'er which our flag

in starry splendor waves, Forego through us its freedom, and beai-

the ti'ead of slaves ?

The day is breaking in the East of which

the prophets told, A.nd brightens up the sky of Time the

Christian Age of Gold ; Old Might to Eight is yielding, battle

blade to clerkly pen, Earth's monarchs are her peoples, and

her serfs stand up as men ; The isles rejoice together, in a day are

nations born, And the slave walks free in Tunis, and

by Staraboul's Golden Horn !

Is this, 0 countrymen of mine ! a day for

us to sow The soil of new-gained empire ^vith

slavery's seeds of woe ? To feed with our fresh life-blood the Old

World's cast-off crime, Dropjied, like some monstrous early birth,

from the tired laji of Time ? To run anew the evil race the old lost

nations ran, And die like them of unbelief of God, and

wrong of man ?

Great Heaven ! Is this our mission "i

End in this the prayers and tears, The toil, the strife, the watchiugs of our

younger, better A'ears ? Still as the Old World rolls in light, sliall

ours in shadow turn, A beamless Chaos, cursed of God, through

outer darkness borne ? Where the far nations looked for light, a

blackness in the air ? Where for words of hope they listened

the long wail of despair ?

The Crisis presses on us ; face to fftc»

with us it stands. With solemn lijis of question, like the

Siiliinx in Egypt's sands ! This day we fashion Destiny, our web

of Fate we spin ; This day for all hereafter choose we

holiness or sin ; Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal's

cloudy crown, We call the dews of blessing or the bolts

of cursing down !

By all for which the martyrs bore their

agony and shame ; By all the M-aniiug words of truth with

which the prophets came ; By the Future wliich awaits us ; by all

the hopes which cast Their faint and trembling beams across

the blackness of the Past ; And by the blessed thought of Him who

for Earth's freedom died, 0 my people ! 0 my brothei-s ! let us

choose the righteous side.

So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful on his way ;

To wed Penobscot's waters to San Fran- cisco's bay ;

To make the rugged jilaces smooth, and sow the vah's with grain ;

And bear, with Liberty and Law, the Bible in his train :

The mighty West shall bless the East, and sea shall answer sea,

And mountain unto mountain call, Praise God, for we are free 1

THE HOLY LAXD.

SI

MISCELLA:^rEOUS.

THE KNIGHT OF ST. JOHN.

Ere down yon blue Carpathian hills

The sun shall sink again, Farewell to lite and all its ills,

Farewell to cell and chain.

These prison shades are dark and cold, —

But, darker far than they. The shadow of a sorrow old

Is on my heart alway.

For since the day when Warkworth ATOod

Closed o'er my steed and I, An alien from my name and blood,

A weed cast out to die, —

When, looking back in sunset light,

I saw her turret gleam. And from its casement, far and white.

Her sign of farewell stream.

Like one who, from some desert shore, Doth home's green isles descry.

And, vainly longing, gazes o'er The waste of wave and sky ;

So from the desert of my fate

I gaze across the past ; Forever on life's dial-plate

The shade is backward cast !

I 've wandered wide from shore to shore, I 've knelt at many a shrine ;

And bowed me to the rocky floor Where Bethlehem's tapers shine ;

And by the Holy Sepulchre

I 've pledged my knightly sword

To Christ, his blessed Church, and her, The Motlier of our Lord.

0, vain the vow, and vain the strife !

How vain do all things seem ! My soul is in the past, and Life

To-day is but a dream !

In vain the penance strange ami long.

And hard for flesh to bear ; The prayer, the fasting, and the thong

And sackcloth shirt of hair.

The eyes of memorj^ will not sleep,-

Its ears are open still ; And vigils with the past they keep

Against my feeble will.

And still the loves and joys of old

Do evermore uprise ; I see the flow of locks of gold,

The shine of loving eyes !

Ah me ! upon another's breast

Those golden locks recline ; I see upon another rest

The glance that once was mine.

' ' 0 faithless priest ! 0 perjured kaight ! "

I hear the Master cry ; "Shut out the vision from thy syrht.

Let Earth and Nature die.

' ' The Church of God is now thy i^pouse, And thou the bridegroom art ',

Then let the burden of thy vows Crush down thy human heart !

In vain ! This heart its grief tuiiat know.

Till life itself hath ceased. And falls beneath the self-same bl"»

The lover and the priest !

0 pitying Mother ! souls of light. And saints, and mart^TS old !

Pray for a weak and sinful knight- A suffering man uphold.

Then let the Paynim work his will. And death unbind my chain.

Ere down yon blue Carpathiai) hill The sun shall fall ajjain.

THE HOLY LAND.

FROM LAMARTIXE.

I HAVE not felt, o'er seas of sand. The rocking of the desert bark ;

Nor laved at Hebron's fount my hand. By Hebron's palm-trees cool and dark :

82

MISCELLANEOUS.

Nor pitched my tent at even-fall, On dust where Job of old has lain,

Nor dreamed beneath its canvas wall. The dream of Jacob o'er again.

One vast world-page remains unread ;

How shine the stars in Chaldea's sky. How sounds the reverent pilgrim's tread.

How beats the heart with God so nigh ! — How round gray arch and column lone

The spirit of the old time broods, And sighs in all the winds that moan

Along the sandy solitudes !

In thy tall cedars, Lebanon,

1 have not heard the nations' cries, Nor seen thy eagles stooping down

Where burieil Tyre in ruin lies. The Christian's jirayer I have not said

In Tadmor's temples of decay, Nor startled, with my dreary tread,

The waste where Memnon's empire lay.

Nor have I, from thy hallowed tide,

0 Jordan ! heard the low lament, Like that sad wail along thy side

"Whicli Israel's mournful prophet sent ! Nor thrilled \vithin that grotto lone

Where, deep in night, the Bard of Kings Felt hands of fire direct his own.

And sweep for God the conscious strings.

I have not climbed to Olivet,

Nor laid me where my Sa^^our lay, And left his trace of tears as yet

By angel eyes unwept away ; Nor watched, at midnight's solemn time.

The garden where his prayer and groan. Wrung by his sorrow and our crime,

Rose to One listening ear alone.

I have not kissed the rock-hewn grot Where in his Mother's amis he lay, Nor knelt upon the sacred spot

Where last his footsteps pressed the clay ; Nor looked on that sad mountain head, Nor smote my sinful breast, where wide H's arms to fold the world he spread, And bowed his head to bless — and diedl

PALESTINE.

Blest land of Judaea ! thrice hallowed

of song, Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-

* like throng ; In the shade of thy palms, by the shores

of thy sea. On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is

with thee.

AVith the eye of a spirit I look on that shore,

AATaere pilgrim and prophet have lin- gered before ;

With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod

Made bright by the steps of the angels of God.

Blue sea of the hiUs ! — in my spirit I hear

Thj' waters, Genesaret, chime on my ear ;

Wliere the Lowly and Just with the peo- ple sat down.

And th}' spray on the dust of his san- dals was thrown.

Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of

green, And the desolate hills of the wild Gad-

arene ; And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor

to see The gleam of thy waters, 0 dark Galilee !

Hark, a sound in the valley ! where, swollen and strong.

Thy river, 0 Kishon, is sweeping along ;

Where the Canaanite strove with Je- hovah in vain.

And thy torrent gi-ew dark with the blood of the slain.

There down fi-om his mountains stern Zebulon came.

And Naphtali's stag, with his eyeballs of flame.

And the chariots of Jabin rolled harm- lessly on.

For the arm of the Lord was Abinoam's son !

There sleep the still rocks and the cav- erns which rang

To the song wliich tlie beautiful proph- etess sang,

EZEKIEL.

83

When the princes of Issachar stood by

her side, And tlie shout of a host iu its triumph

replied.

Lo, Bethlehem's hill-site before me is

seen, With the mountains around, and the

valleys between ; There rested the shepherds of Judah,

and there The song of the angels rose sweet on

the air.

And Bethany's palm-trees in beauty still

throw Their shadows at noon on the ruins

below ; But where are the sisters who hastened

to greet The lowl}^ Redeemer, and sit at his feet ?

I tread where the twelve in their way- faring trod ;

1 stand where they stood with the CHOSEN OF God, —

Where his blessing was heard and his lessons were taught,

Where the blind were restored and the healing was wrought.

0, here with his flock the sad Wanderer came, —

These hills he toiled over in grief are the same, —

The founts where he drank by the way- side still flow.

And the same airs are blowing which breathed on his brow !

And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem

yot,

But with dust on her forehead, and

chains on her feet ; For the crown of her pride to the mocker

hath gone, And the holy Shechinah is dark where

it shone.

But wlierefore this dream of the earthly

abode Of Humanitv clothed in the brightness

of God ? Were my spirit but turned from the

outward and dim, It could gaze, even now, on the presence

of Him !

Not in ciouds and in terrors, but gentle

as when, In love and in meekness. He moved

among men ; And the voice which breathed peace to

the waves of the sea In the hush of my spirit would whisper

to me !

And what if my feet may not tread where He stood,

Nor my ears hear the dashing of Gal- ilee's flood.

Nor my eyes see the cross which He bowed him to bear,

Nor my knees press Getlisemane's gar- den of prayer.

Yet, Loved of the Father, thy Spirit is

near To the meek, and the lowly, and jieni-

tent here ; And the voice of thy love is the same

even now As at Bethany's tomb or on Olivet's

brow.

0, the outward hath gone ! — but in

glory and jiower, The SPIRIT surviveth the things of an

hour ; Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost

flame On the heart's secret altar is burning

the same !

EZEKIEL.

CHAPTER, XXXIII. 30-33.

They hear thee not, 0 God ! nor see ; Beneath thy I'od they mock at thee ; The princes of our ancient line Lie clrunken with Assyrian wine ; The priests around thy altar speak The false words which their hearers .seek ; And hjanns which Chaldea's wanton

maids Have sung in Dura's idol-shades Are with the Levites' cliant ascending. With Zion's holiest anthems blending 1

On Israel's bleeding bosom set, The heathen heel is crushing yet ; Tlu! towci-s upon our holy hill Echo Chaldean footsteps still.

84

MISCELLANEOUS.

Our wasted shrines, — who weeps for

them ? Who luourneth for Jerusalem ? "Who tunieth from his gairis away 1 Whose kuee with mine is bowed to pray ? Who, lea^^ng feast and purpling cup. Takes Zion's lamentation up ?

A sad and thoughtful youth, I went With Israel's early hauishmeut ; And where the sullen Chebar crept. The ritual of my fathers kept. The water for the trench I drew, The firstling of the Hock I slew. And, standing at the altar's side, I sliared the Le\-ites' lingering pride, That still, amidst her mocking foes. The smoke of Zion's offering rose.

In sudden whirlwind, cloud and flame. The Spirit of the Highest came ! Before njine eyes a vision passed, A glory terrible and vast ; With dreadful eyes of living things. And sounding sweep of angel wings, With circling light and sapphire throne. And flame-iike form of One thereon, And voice of that dread Likeness sent Down from the crystal finnameut !

The burden of a prophet's power Fell on me in that fearful hour ; From oir unutterable woes The curtain of the future rose ; I saw far down the coming time The flery chastisement of crime ; With noise of mingling hosts, and jar Of falling towei-s and shouts of war, 1 saw the nations rise and fall, Jjike lire-gleams on my tent's white wall.

In dream and trance, I saw the slain Of Egjqit heajjed like hanest grain. I saw the walls of sea-boni Tyre Swejit over by the spoiler's fire ; And heard the low, expiring moan Of Edom on his rocky throne ; And, woe is me ! the wild lament From Zion's desolation sent ; And felt witliin my heart each blow Which laid her holy places low.

In bonds and sorrow, day by day, Before the pictured tile I lay ; And there, as in a miiTor, saw The coming of Assyria's war, —

Her swarthy lines of speannen pass Like locusts through Bethlioron's gras» j I saw them draw their stormy hem Of battle round Jerusalem ; And, listening, heard the Hebrew wail Blend with the victor-trump of Baal !

^\Tio trembled at my warning word ? Who o\vned the prophet of the Lord ? How mocked the rude, — how scoffed

the vile, — How stung the Levites' scornful smile. As o'er my spirit, dark and slow, The shadow crept of Israel's woe As if the angel's mournful roll Had left its record on my soul, And traced in lines of darkness there The pictin-e of its great despair !

Yet ever at the hour I feel Mj' lips in prophecy unseal. Prince, priest, and Legate gather near, And Salem's daughters haste to hear, On Chcbar's waste and alien shore. The harp of Judah swept once more. They listen, as in Babel's throng The Chaldeans to the dancer's song, Or wild sabbeka's nightly ]ilay. As careless and as vain as thev.

And thus, O Prophet-bard of old. Hast thou thy tale of sorrow told ! The same which earth's unwelcome seer* Have felt in all succeeding years. Sport of the changeful multitude, Nor calmly heaid nor understood, Their song has seemed a trick of art, Their warnings but the actor's part. With bonds, and scorn, and evil will. The world requites its prophets still.

So was it when the Holy One The garments of the flesh put on ! lien followed wheie the Highest led For common gifts of daily bread. And gross of ear, of vision dim. Owned not the godlike power of him. Vain as a dreamer's words to them His wail above Jerusalem, And meaningless the watch he kept Through which his weak disciples slept

Yet shrink not thou, whoe'er thou art. For God's great purpose set apart, Befoie whose far-discerning eyes. The Future as the Present lies !

THE WIFE OF MANOAH TO HER HUSBAND,

85

Beyond a narrow-bounded age Stretches thy prophet-heritage, Through Heaven's dim spaces angel-trod, Through arches round the throne of

God ! Thy audience, worlds ! — all Time to be The witness of the Truth in thee !

THE WIFE OF MANOAH TO HUSBAND.

HER

Against the sunset's glowing wall The city towers rise black and tall, Where Zorah, on its rocky height. Stands like an armed man in the light.

Down Eshtaol's vales of ripened gi'ain Falls like a cloud the night amain, And up the hillsides climbing slow The barley reapers homeward go.

Look, dearest ! how our fair child's head The sunset light hath hallowed. Where at this olive's foot he lies, Uplooking to the tranquil skies.

0, while beneath the fervent heat Thy sickle swept the bearded wheat, I 've watched, with mingled joy and

dread, Our child upon his grassy bed.

Joy, which the mother feels alone Whose morning hope like mine had

flown, YvTien to her bosom, over-blessed, A dearer life than hers is pressed.

Dread, for the future dark and still, Which shapes our dear one to its will ; Forever in his large calm eyes, I read a tale of sacrifice. —

The same foreboding awe I felt When at the altar's side we knelt, And he, who as a jiilgrim came. Rose, winged and glorious, through the flame.

I slept not, though the wild bees made A dre^ndike murmuring in the shade. And on me the warm-fingered hours Pressed with the drowsy smell of flowers.

Before me, in a vision, rose

l"he hosts of Israel's scornful foes, —

Rank over rank, helm, shield, and spear, Glittered in noon's hot atmosphere.

I heard their boast, and bitter word, Their mockery of the Hebrew's Lord, I saw their hands his ark assail. Their feet profane liis holy veil.

No angel down the blue space spoke. No thunder from the still sky broke ; But in their midst, in power and awe. Like God's waked WTath, our child 1

A child no more! — harsh-browed and

strong. He towered a giant in the throng. And down his shoulders, broad and bare, Swept the black terror of his hair.

He raised his arm ; he smc>te amain ; As round the reaper falls the grain, So the dark host around Mm fell. So sank the foes of Israel !

Again I looked. In sunlight shone The towers and domes of Askelon. Priest, warrior, slave, a mighty crowd, Within her idol temple bowed.

Yet one knelt not ; stark, gaunt, and

blind. His arms the massive pillai's twined, — An eyeless captive, strong with hate, He stood there like an evil Fate.

The red shrines smoked, — the trumpets

pealed : He stooped, — the giant coluinns

reeled, — Reeled tower and fane, ^nk arch and

wall. And the thick dust-cloud closed o'er

all!

Above the sliricsk, tlie crash, tlie groan Of the faUen jtrich- of Askeh)n, I heard, sheer down the eclioing sky, A voice as of an angel cry, —

The voice of him, who at our side Sat through the golden eventide, — Of him who, on thy altar's blaze. Rose fire-winged, with his song of praise.

" Rejoice o'er Israel's bi'oken chain, Gray mother of the niiglity slain 1

86

MISCELLANEOUS.

Rejoice ! " it cried, "he vanquisheth ! The strong in life is strong in death !

" To him shall Zorah's daughters raise Through coming years their hymns of

praise, And gray old men at evening tell Of all he WTOUght for Israel.

"And they who sing and they who

hear Alike shall hold thy memory dear, And pour their blessings on thy head,

0 mother of the mighty dead ! "

It ceased ; and though a sound I heard As if great wings the still air stirred,

1 only saw the barley sheaves And hills half hid by olive leaves.

I bowed my face, in awe and fear.

On the dear child who slumbered near.

" With me, as with my only son,

0 God," I said, "thy avill be done ! "

THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN.

" Get ye up from the wrath of God's teiTible day !

Ungirded, uiisandalled, arise and away !

'T is the vintage of blood, 't is the ful- ness of time.

And vengeance shall gather the harvest of crime ! "

The warning was spoken ; the righteous

had gone. And the proud ones of Sodom were

feasting alone ; All gay was ^e banquet ; the revel was

long. With the pouring of wine and the

breathing of song.

'T was an evening of beauty ; the air was

perfume, The earth was all greenness, the trees

were all bloom ; And softly the delicate Aiol was heard. Like the murmur of love or the notes of

a bird.

And beautiful maidens moved down in

the dance, With the magic of motion and sunshine

«f glance ;

And white anns wreathed lightly, a)«i

tresses fell fi-ee As the plumage of birds in some tropical

ti'ee.

Where the shrines of foul idols were

lighted on high. And wantonness tempted the lust of the

eye ; Midst rites of obseeneness, strange,

loathsome, abhorred, The blasjihemer scoffed at the name of

the Lord.

Hark ! the growl of the thunder, — the

quaking of earth ! Woe, woe to the worship, and woe to

the mirth ! The black sky has opened, — there 's

flame in the air, — The red arui of vengeance is lifted and

bare !

Then the shriek of the d}dng rose wild where the song

And the low tone of love had been whis- pered along ;

For the fierce flames went lightly o'er palace and bower,

Like the red tongues of demons, to blast and devour !

Down, — down on the fallen the red

ruin rained, And the reveller sank with liis wine-cup

undrained ; The foot of the dancer, the music's loved

thrill. And the siiout and the laughter grew

suddenly still.

The last throb of anguish was fearfully

given ; Tlie last eye glared forth in its madness

on Heaven ! The last gioan of horror rose wildly and

vain. And death brooded over the pride of the

Plain !

THE CRUCIFIXION.

Sunlight upon Judcea's hills !

And on the waves of Galilee, — On Jordan's stream, and on the rills

That feed the dead and sleeping sea !

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

87

Most freshly from the green wood springs The light breeze on its scented wings ; And gayly quiver in the sun The cedar toj's of Lebanon !

A- few more hours, — a change hath come !

The sky is dark without a cloud ! The shouts of wrath and joy are dumb,

And proud knees unto earth are bowed. A change is on the hill of Death, The helmed watchers pant for breath, And turn with wild and maniac eyes From the dark scene of sacrifice !

That Sacrifice ! — the death of Him, —

The High and ever Holy One ! AVell may the conscious Heaven grow dim, And blacken the beholding Sun. The wonted light hath fled away. Night settles on the middle day. And earthquake from his caverned bed Is waking with a thrill of dread !

The dead are waking underneath !

Their prison door is rent away ! And, ghastly with the seal of death,

They wander in the eye of day ! The temple of the Cherubim, The House of God is cold and dim ; A curse is on its trembling walls, Its mighty veil asunder falls !

Well may the cavern-depths of Earth

Be shaken, and her mountains nod ; Well may the sheeted dead come forth

To gaze upon a suifering God ! Well may the temple-shi'ine grow dim, |i.nd shadows veil the Cherubim, When He, the chosen one of Heaven, A sacrifice for guilt is given !

/\jk1 shall the sinful heart, alone,

Behold unmoved the atoning hour, When Nature trembles on her throne. And Death resigns his iron power ? 0, shall tlie heart — whose sinfulness Save ktienness to his soi-e distress, And added U) his tears of blood — Refuse its trembling gratitude !

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

WiiEiiK Time the measure of his hours By changel"ul bud and blossom keeps.

And, like a young bride crowned with flowers. Fair Shiraz in her garden sleeps ;

Where, to her poet's turban stone. The Spring her gift of flowers imparts,

Less sweet than those his thoughts have sown In the warm soil of Persian hearts :

There sat the stranger, where the shade Of scattered date-trees thinly lay,

"While in the hot clear heaven delayed The long and still and weary day.

Strange trees and fruits above him hung, Strange odors filled the sultry air,

Strange birds upon the branches swung, Strange insect voices murmured there.

And strange bright blossoms shone around. Turned sunward from the shadowy bowers. As if the Gheljer's soul had found A fitting home in Iran's flowers.

Whate'er he saw, whate'er he heard. Awakened feelings new and sad, —

No Christian garb, nor Christian word. Nor church with Sabbath-bell chimes glad.

But Moslem graves, with turban stones, And mosque-spires gleaming white, in view,

And graybeard Mollahs in low tones Chanting their Koran service through.

The flowers which smiled on either hand, Like tempting fiends, were such as they Which once, o'er all that Eastern land. As gifts on demon altars lay.

As if the burning eye of Baal

The servant of his Conqueror knew,

From skies which knew no cloudy veil, The Sun's hot glances smote him . through.

"Ah me ! " the lonely stranger said, ' ' The hope which led my footsteps on.

And light from heaven around them shed. O'er weary wave and waste, is gone !

88

MISCELLANEOUS.

" VSTiere are the harvest fields all

white,

For Truth to thrust her sickle in ?

Where flock the souls, like doves in

flight.

From the dark hiding-place of sin ?

"A silent horror broods o'er all, — The burden of a hateful spell, —

The very flowers around recall The hoary magi's rites of hell !

" And what am I, o'er such a land The banner of the Cross to bear ?

Dear Lord, uphold me with thy hand. Thy strength with human weakness share ! "

He ceased ; for at his very feet

In mild rebuke a floweret smiled, —

How thiilled his sinking heart to greet The Star-flower of the Vii-gin's child I

So\vn by some wandering Frank, it drew

Its life from alien air and earth. And told to Papiun sun and dew

The story of the Saviour's birth.

From scorching beams, in kindly mood, Tlie Persian plants its beauty screened.

And on its ])agan sisterhood.

In love, the Christian floweret leaned.

"With tears of joy the wanderer felt The darkness of his long despair

Before that hallowed sjTubol melt, Which God's dear love had nurtured there.

From Nature's face, that simple flower The lines of sin and sadness swept ;

4ind Magian ])ile and Paynim bower In peace like that of Eden slept.

Each Moslem tomb, and cypress old, Looked holy through the sunset air ;

And, angel-like, the Muezzin told

From tower and mosque the hour of prayer.

With cheerful steps, the morrow's dawn From Shiraz saw the stranger part ;

Tlie Star-flower of the Virgin-Bom Still blooming in his hopeful heart !

HYMXS.

FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMAKTINE.

OxE hjTun more, 0 my lyre ! Praise to the God above. Of joy and life and love.

Sweeping its strings of fire !

0, who the speed of bird and wind

And sunbeam's glance will lend to me, That, soaring upward, I may find

My resting-jilace and home in Thee? — Thou, whom my soul, midst doubt and gloom,

Adoreth vdth a fervent flame, — Mysterious spirit ! unto whom

Pertain nor sign nor name !

Swiftly my lyre's soft murmurs go,

Up from the cold and joyless earth, Back to the God who bade them flow.

Whose moving spirit sent them forth. But as for me, 0 God ! for me,

The lowly creature of thy will. Lingering and sad, I sigh to thee.

An earth-bound pilgrim still !

Was not my spirit born to shine

Where yonder stars and suns are glow- ing? To breathe with them the light divine

From God's own holy altar flowing ? To be, indeed, whate'er the soul

In dreams hath thirsted for so long, — A portion of Heaven's glorious whole

Of loveliness and song ?

0, watchers of the stars at night.

Who breathe their fire, as we the air, — Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light,

0, say, is He, the Eternal, there ? Bend there around his awful throne

The seraph's glance, the angel's knee * Or are thj' inmost depths his own,

0 wild and mighty sea ?

Thoughts of my soul, how swift j'e go J

Swift as the eagle's glance of fire, Or arrows from the archei-'s bow,

To the far aim of 3'our desire ! Thought after thought, ye tlironging rise.

Like spring-doves from the startled wood, Bearing like them your sacrifice

Of music unto God !

HYMisrs.

8^

ind shall these thotiglits of joy and love

Come bacft again no more to me ? — Keturning like the Patriarch's dove

Wing-weary from the eternal sea, To bear within my longing arms

The promise-bough of kindlier skies, Plucked from the green, immortal palms

Which shadow Paradise ?

All-moving spirit ! — ■ freely forth

At thy command the strong wind goes : Its en-and to the passive earth,

Nor art can stay, nor strength oppose. Until it folds its weary wing

Once more within the hand divine ; So, weary from its wandering.

My spirit turns to thine !

Child of tlie sea, the mountain stream,

From its dark caverns, hurries on, Ceaseless, by night and morning's beam,

By evening's star and noontide's sun. Until at last it sinks to rest,

O'erwearied, in the waiting sea. And moans uj^on its mother's breast, —

So turns my soul to Thee !

0 Thou who bidd'st the torrent flow.

Who lendest wings unto the wind, — Mover of all things ! where art thou !

0, whither shall I go to find The secret of thy resting-place ?

Is there no holy wing for me. That, soaring, I may seai'ch the space

Of highest heaven for Thee ?

0, would I were as free to rise

As leaves on autumn's whirlwind borne, — The arrowy light of sunset skies.

Or sound, or i-ay, or star of morn, Which melts in heaven at twilight's close. Or aught which soars unchecked and free Through Earth and Heaven ; that I might lose Myself in finding Thee !

When the bukatii divink is flowing, Zephyr-like o'm- all things going. And, as the touch of vic^wless fingers, Softly on my soul it lingers, Open to a breath the lightest.

Conscious of a touch the slightest, — As some calm, still lake, whereon Sinks the snowy-bosoraed swan, And the glistening water-rings Circle round her moving wings : When my upward gaze is turning Where the stai's of heaven are burning Through the deep and dark abyss, — Flowers of midnight's wilderness. Blowing with the evening's breath Sweetly in their Maker's path :

When the breaking day is flushing All the east, and light is gushing Upwaixl through the horizon's haze. Sheaf-like, with its thousand rays, Spreading, until all above Overflows with joy and love. And below, on earth's green bosom, All is changed to light and blossom :

When my waking fancies over Forms of brightness flit and hover. Holy as the seraphs are. Who by Zion's fountains wear On their foreheads, white and broad, " Holiness xjxto the Loud ! " When, inspired with rapture high. It would seem a single sigh Could a world of love create, — That my life could know no date, And my eager thoughts could fill Heaven and Earth, o'erfiowing stUl ! — '

Then, 0 Father ! thou alone.

From the shadow of thy tlirone,

To the sighing of my breast

And its rapture answerest.

All my thoughts, M'hich, upward wing

Bathe where thy own light is spring

ing. — All my yearnings to be free Are as echoes answering thee 1

Seldom upon lips of mine.

Father ! rests that name of thine, —

Deep within my inmost breast, In the secret place of mind, Like an awful presence shrined,

Doth the dread idea rest !

Hushed and holy dwells it there, —

Prompter of tlie silent prayer,

Lifting up my spirit's eye

And its flint, but earnest cry,

From its dark and cold abode,

Unto thee, my Guide and God !

90

MISCELLANEOUS,

THE FEMALE MAETYR.

[Mart G , aged 18, a " Sister of Charitt,"

died in one of our Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian cholera, while in volun- tary attendance upon the sick.]

"Bring out j^our dead!" The mid- night street Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call ;

Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet, —

Glanced through the dark the coarse white sheet, — Her coffin and her pall.

' ' What — only one ! " the brutal hack- man said,

As, with an oath, he spurned away the dead.

How sunk the inmost hearts of all.

As rolled that d(!ad-cart slowly b}% With creaking wheel and harsh hoof- fall ! The dying turned him to the wall,

To iiear it and to die ! — Onward it rolled ; while oft its driver

stayed, And hoarsely clamored, "Ho! — bring out your dead."

It paused beside the burial-jilace ;

"Toss in your load ! " — and it was done. — With quick hand and averted face, Hastily to tlie grave's embrace ' They cast them, one by one, — Stranger and fiiend, — the evil and the

just, Together trodden in the churchyard dust !

And thou, young mart}T ! — thou wast

there, — No white-robed sisters round thee

trod, — Nor holy hymn, nor funeral prayer Rose through the damp and noisome air,

Giving thee to thy God ; Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallowed taper

gave Grace to the dead, and beauty to the

grave !

Yet, gentle sufferer ! there shall be,

In every heart of kindly feeling, A rite as holy ]iaid to thee As if l)eneath the convent-tree Thy sisterhood were kneeling.

At vesper hours, like sorrowing angels,

keeping Their tearful watch around thy place of

sleeping.

For thou wast one in whom the light Of Heaven's own love was kindled well. Enduring with a martyr's might. Through weary day and wakeful night

Far more than words may tell : Gentle, and meek, and lowly, and un- known, — Thy mercies measured by thy God alone !

Where manly hearts were failing, — where The throngful street grew foul with death,

0 high-souled martyr ! — thou wast there,

Inhaling, from the loathsome air, Poison with eveiy breath.

Yet shrinking not from offices of dread

For the wrung dying, and the uncon- scious clead.

And, where the sickly taper shed

Its light through vapors, damp, con- fined,

Hu.shed as a seraph's fell thy tread, —

A new Electra by the bed Of suffering human-kind !

Pointing the sjjirit, in its dark dismay,

To that pure hope whichfadeth not away.

Innocent teacher of the high

And holy mysteries of Heaven ! How turned to thee each ghizing eye. In mute and awful sympathy.

As thy low 2)rayers were given ; And the o'er-hovering Spoiler wore, the

while, An angel's features, — a deliverer's smile !

A blessed task ! — and worthy one

Who, turning from the w'orld, as thou, Before life's pathway had begun To leave its spring-time llower and sun,

Had sealed her early vow ; Giving to God her beauty and her youth, Her pure aff"ections and her guileless truth.

Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here Could be for thee a meet rewai-d ;

THE VAUDOIS TEACHER.

91

Thine is a treasure far more dear, — Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear

Of lining mortal heard, — The joys prepared, — • the promised bliss

above, — The holy presence of Eternal Love !

Sleep on in peace. The earth has not A nobler name than thine sliall be.

The deeds by martial manliood wrought.

The lofty energies of thought, The fire of poesy, —

These have but frail and fading hon- ors ; — thine

Shall Time unto Eternity consign.

Yea, and when thrones shall crumble down, '

And human pride and gi-andeur fall, — The herald's line of long renown, — The mitre and the kingly crown, —

Perishing glories all ! The pure devotion of thy generous heart Shall live in Heaven, of which it was a part.

THE FROST SPIRIT.

He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes ! You may trace his foot- steps now

On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill's withered brow.

He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth.

And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth.

He comes, — he comes, — tlie Frost Spirit comes ! — from the frozen Labrador, —

From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wan- ders o'er, — -

Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and tlie luckless forms below

In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues gi'ow !

He comes, — he comes, — the Frost

S]iirit comes ! — on the rushing

Northern blast. And the dark Norwegian pines have

bowed as his fearful breath went

past.

With an unscorched wing he has hur- ried on, where the fires of Hecla glow

On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.

He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes ! — and tlie quiet lake shall feel

The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater's heel ;

And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the lean- ing grass.

Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.

He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes ! — let us meet him as we may,

And turn with the light of the parlor- fire his evil power away ;

And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high.

And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by !

THE VAUDOIS TEACHER.^^

" 0 LADY fair, these silks of mine are

beautiful and rare, — The richest web of the Indian loom,

which beauty's queen might wear ; And my pearls are pure as thy own fair

neck, with whose radiant light

they vie ; I have brought them with me a weary

way, — will my gentle lady buy ? "

And the lady smiled on the worn old man

through the dark and clustering

curls Which veUed her brow as she bent to

view his silks and glitteringpearls ; And she placed their ])ric(> in the old

man's hand, and lightly turned

away. But she paused at the wanderer's earnest

call, — " My gentle lady, stay ! "

" 0 lady fair, I have yet a gem which a

purer lustre flings. Than the diamond flash of the jewelled

crown on the lofty brow of

kings,—

92

MISCELLANEOUS.

A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, ■whose virtue shall not decay,

Whose light shall be as a spell to thee and a blessing on thy way ! "

The lady glanced at the mirroring steel

where her form of grace was seen. Where her eye shone clear, and her dark

locks waved their clasping pearls

between ; "Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding

worth, thou traveller gray and

old, — And name the price of th}' precious gem,

and my page shall count thy gold."

The cloud went off from the pilgrim's

brow, as a small and meagi-e book, Unchased with gold or gem of cost, from

his folding robe he took ! " Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price,

may it prove as such to thee ! Kay — keep thy gold — I ask it not, for

the word of God is free ! "

The hoary traveller went his way, but

the gift he left behind Hath had its ]nire and perfect work on

that high-born maiden's mind. And she hath turned from the pride of

sin to the lowliness of truth. And given her human heart to God in

its beautiful hour of youth !

And she hath left the gray old halls,

where an evil faith had power. The courtly knights of her father's train,

and the maideus of her bower ; And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales

by lordly feet untrod, Where the poor and needy of earth are

rich in the perfect love of God !

THE CALL OF THE CHRISTIAN.

Not always as the whii'lwind's nish

On Horeb's mount of fear. Not always as the burning bush

To Midian's sliepherd seer, Nor as the awful voice which came

To Israel's jirojjhet bards. Nor as the tongues of cloven flame,

Nor gift of fearful words, —

Not always thus, with outward sign Of fire or voice from Heaven,

The message of a truth divine,

Tlie call of God is given ! Awaking in the human heart

Love for the true and right, — Zeal for the Christian's better part,

Strength for the Christian's tight.

Nor nnto manhood's heart alone

The holy influence steals : "Warm with a rapture not its own,

The heart of woman feels ! As she who by Samaria's wall

The Saviour's errand sought, — As those who -with the fervent Paul

And meek Aquila wrought :

Or those meek ones whose martyrdom

Rome's gathered grandeur saw : Or those who in their Alpine home

BraAed the Crusader's war. When the green Vaudois, trembling, lieard.

Through all its vales of death, The martyr's song of triumph poured

From woman's failing breath.

And gently, bj' a thousand things

Which o'er our spirits pass. Like breezes o'er the harp's flue strings,

Or vapors o'er a glass. Leaving their token strange and new

Of music or of shade. The summons to the right and true

And merciful is made.

0, then, if gleams of truth and light

Flash o'er thy waiting mind. Unfolding to thy mental sight

The wants of human-kind ; If, brooding over human gi'ief.

The earnest wish is known To soothe and gladden with reliet

An anguish not thine own ;

Though heralded with naught of fear,

Oi- outward sign or show ; Thougli only to tlie inward ear

It whispers soft and low ; Thougli dro])])ing, as the manna fell.

Unseen, yet from above. Noiseless as dew-fall, heed it well, —

Thy Father's call of love !

MY SOUL AND L

Stand still, my soul, in the silent dark I would question thee,

MY SOUL ANl) I.

93

A.lone in the shadow drear and stark With God and me !

What, my soul, was thy errand here ?

Was it mirth or ease, Or heaping up dust from year to year ?

" Nay, none of these ! "

Speak, soul, aright in His holy sight

Whose eye looks still And steadily on thee through the night :

" To do his will ! "

What hast thou done, 0 soul of mine, That thou tremblest so ? —

Hast thou wrought his task, and kept the line He bade thee go ?

Wliat, silent all ! — art sad of cheer ?

Art fearful now ? When God seemed far and men were near.

How brave wert thou !

A.ha ! thou tremblest ! — well I see

Thou 'rt craven grown. Is it so hard with God and me

To stand alone ? —

Summon thy sunshine bravery back,

0 wretched sprite !

Let me hear thy voice through this deep and black Abysmal night.

What hast thou wrought for Right and Truth, For God and Man, From the golden hours of bright-eyed youth To life's mid span ?

Ah, soul of mine, thy tones I hear.

But weak and low, Like far sad murmurs on my ear

They come and go.

" 1 have wrestled stoutly with the Wrong,

And borne the Right From beneath the footfall of the throng

To life and light.

" Wherever Freedom shivered a chain,

God spe('d, quoth I ; To En'or amidst her shouting train

1 gave the lie."

Ah, soul of mine f ah, soul of mine J

Thy deeds are well : Were they wrought for Truth's sake> or for thine ?

My soul, pray tell.

' ' Of all the work my hand hath wrought

Beneath the sky, Save a place in kindly human thought.

No gain have I."

Go to, go to ! — for thy very self

Thy deeds were done : Thou for fame, the miser for pelf,

Your end is one !

And where art thou going, soul of mine 1

Canst see the end ? And whither this troubled life of tliine

Evermore doth tend ?

What daunts thee now ? — what shakes thee so ?

My sad soul say. " I see a cloud like a curtain low

Hang o'er my way.

" Wliither I go I cannot tell :

That cloud hangs black. High as the heaven and deep as hell

Across my track.

"I see its shadow coldly enwrap

The souls before. Sadly they enter it, step by step.

To return no more.

" Th^ .shrink, they shudder, dear God! they kneel 'To thee in prayer. They shut their eyes on the cloud, but feel That it still is there.

"In vain they turn from the dread Before To the Known and Gone ;

For while gazing behind them evemiore Their feet glide on.

"Yet, at times, I see upon sweet pale faces

A light begin To tremble, as if from holy places

And shrines within.

" And at times methinks their cold lips move With hynin and p^a^'Rr^

94

MISCELLAlv'EOUS.

As if somewhat of awe, but more of love And hope were there.

" I call on the souls who have left the light

To reveal their lot ; I bend mine ear to that wall of night,

And they answer not.

" But I hear around me sighs of pain

And the cry of fear, And a sound like the slow sad dropping of rain.

Each drop a tear !

" Ah, the cloud is dark, and day by day

1 am moving thither : I must pass beneath it on my way —

God pity me ! — Whither ? "

Ah, soul of mine ! so brave and wise

In the life-storm loud, Fronting so calmly all human eyes

In the sunlit crowd !

Now standing apart with God and me

Thou art weakness all, Gazing vainly after the things to be

Through Death's dread wall.

But never for this, never for this

Was thy being lent ; For the craven's fear is but selfishness,

Like his memment.

Folly and Fear are sisters twain :

One closing her eyes, The other peopling the dark inane

With spectral lies.

Know well, my soul, God's hand controls

Whate'er thou fearest ; Round him in calmest music rolls

Whate'er tliou hearest.

Wliat to thee is shadow, to him is day,

And the end he knoweth. And not on a blind and aimless way

The spirit goeth.

Man sees no futiire, — a phantom show

Is alone before him : Past Time is dead, and the grasses grow,

And flowers bloom o'er him.

Kothing before, nothing behind ;

The steps of Faith i

Fall on the seeming void, and find The rock beneath.

The Present, the Present is all thou hast

For thy sure possessing ; Like the patriarch's angel hold it fast

Till it gives its blessing.

Why fear the night ? why shrink from Death, That jjhantom wan ? There is nothing in heaven or earth be. neath Save God and man.

Peopling the shadows we turn from Him

And from one another ; All is .spectral and vague and dim

Save God and our brother !

Like wai-p and woof all destinies

Are woven fast. Linked in sympathy like the keys

Of an organ vast.

Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar ;

Bi'eak but one Of a thousand keys, and the paining jai

Through all will run.

0 restless spirit ! wherefore strain

Beyond thy sphere ? Heaven and liell, with their joy and pain,

Are now and here.

Back to thyself is measured well

All thou hast given ; Thy neighbor's wrong is thy present hell,

His bliss, thy heaven.

And in life, in death, in dark and light,

All are in God's care : Sound the black abyss, pierce the deep of night.

And he is there !

All which is real now remaineth,

And fadeth never : The hand which upholds it now sustain eth

The soul forever.

Leaning on him, make with reverent meekness His own thy will. And with strength from Him shall thy utter weakness Life's task fulfil ;

TO A FRIEND.

95

And that cloud itself, which now before thee Lies dark in view, Shall with beams of light from the inner glory Be stricken through.

And like meadow mist through autumn's dawn

Uprolling thin, Its thickest folds when about thee drawn

Let sunlight in.

Then of whatisto be, and of whatis done,

"Why queriest thou ? — The past and the time to be are one.

And both are now !

TO A FRIEND,

ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE.

How smiled the land of France Under thy blue eye's glance,

Light-hearted rover ! Old walls of chateaux gray. Towers of an early day. Which the Three Colors play

Flauntingly over.

Now midst the brilliant train Thronging the banks of Seine :

Now midst the splendor Of the wild Alpine range, Waking with change on change Thoughts in thy young heart strange. Lovely, and tender.

Vales, soft Elysian, Like those in the vision

Of Mirza, when, dreaming, He saw the long hollow dell. Touched by the prophet's spell, Into an ocean swell

With its isles teeming.

Cliffs wTapped in snows of years, Splintering with icy spears

Autumn's blue heaven : Loose rock and frozen slide, Hung on the mountain -side, Waiting their hour to glide

Downward, storm-driven !

Rhine-stream, by castle old, Biron's and robber's hold,

Peacefully flowing ;

Sweeping through vineyards green,

Or where the cliffs are seen

O'er the broad wave between

Grim shadows throwing.

Or, where St. Peter's dome Swells o'er eternal Rome,

Vast, dim, and solemn, — Hymns ever chanting low, — Censers swung to and fro, — Sable stoles sweeping slow

Cornice and column !

O, as from each and all Will there not voices call

Evermore back again ? In the mind's gallery Wilt thou not always see Dim phantoms beckon thee

O'er that old track again ?

New forms thy presence haunt, -^ New voices softly chant, —

New faces greet thee ! — Pilgi'ims from many a shrine Hallowed by poet's line. At memory's magic sign,

Rising to meet thee.

And when such visions come Unto thy olden home.

Will they not waken Deep thoughts of Him whose hand Led thee o'er sea and land Back to the household band

Whence thou wast taken ?

While, at the sunset time. Swells the cathedral's chime.

Yet, in thy dreaming, "\Aniile to thy spirit's eye Yet the vast mountains lie Piled in the Smtzer's sky.

Icy and gleaming :

Prompter of silent prayer, Be the wild picture there

In the mind's chamber, And, through each coming day Him who, as staff and stay. Watched o'er thy wandering way.

Freshly remember.

So, when the call shall be Soon or late unto thee, As to all given.

96

MISCELLANEOUS.

Still may that picture live, All its fair fomis survive, And to thy spirit give Gladness in Heaven !

THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE.

A FREE PAEAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN.

To weary hearts, to mourning homes, God's meekest Angel gently comes : No power has he to banish pain, Or give us back our lost again ; And yet in tenderest love, our dear And Heavenly Father sends him here.

There 's quiet in that Angel's glance, 'o'here 's rest in his still countenance ! He mocks no grief with idle cheer, Norwouudswitli words the mourner's ear ; But ills and woes he may not cure He kindly trains us to endure.

Angel of Patience ! sent to calm Our feverish brows with cooling palm ; To lay the storms of hope and fear. And reconcile life's smile and tear ; The throbs of wounded pride to still, And make our own our Father's will !

O thou who mournest on thy way, "With longings for the close of day ; He walks with thee, that Angel kind. And gently whispers, " Be resigned : Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell The dear Loid ordereth all things well ! "

FOLLEN.

ON RR\DING HIS ESSAY ON THE "FU- TURE STATE."

Friend of my soul ! — as with moist eye I look up from this page of thine.

Is it a dream that thou art nigh. Thy mild face gazing into mine ?

That presence seems before me now, A placid heaven of sweet moonrise.

When, dew-like, on the earth below Descends the quiet of the skies.

The calm brow through the parted hair. The gentle lips which knew no guile,

Softening the Ijlue eye's thoughtful care With the bland beauty of their smile.

Ah me ! — at times that last dread scent Of Frost and Fire and moaning Sea,

Will cast its shade of doubt between The failing eyes of Faith and thee.

Yet, lingering o'er thy charmed page. Wherethrough the twilight air of earth,

Alike enthusiast and sage,

Prophet and bard, thou gazest forth i

Lifting the Future's solemn veil ;

The reaching of a mortal hand To put aside the cold and pale

Cloud-curtains of the L^nseen Land ;

In thoughts which answer to my own. In words which reach my inward ear,

Like whispers from the void Unknown, I feel thj"- living presence here.

The waves which lull thy body's rest. The dust thy pilgrim footsteps trod,

Unwasted, through each change, attest The fixed economy of God.

Shall these poor elements outlive

The mind whose kingly will they wrought ?

Their gross unconsciousness survive Thy godlike energy of thought ?

Tiinu LIVEST, FoLLEN ! — not in vain Hath thy fine spirit meekly borne

The burthen of Life's cross of pain. And the thorned crown of sufferini'

0, wliile Life's solemn mystery glooms Around us like a dungeon's wall, —

Silent earth's pale and crowded tombs. Silent the heaven which bends o'ei aU! —

While day by day our loved ones glide In spectral silence, hushed and lone,

To the cold shadows which divide The living from the dread Unknown ;

While even on the closing eye,

And on the lip which moves in vain,

The seals of that stern mystery _ Their undiscovered trust retain ; —

And only midst the gloom of death, Its mournful doubts and haunting fears,

Two pale, sweet angels, Hope and Faith, Smile dimly on us through their tears ;

TO THE REFOEMERS OF ENGLAND.

97

'T is something to a lieart like mine To think of thee ns living yet ;

To feel that such a light as thine Could not in utter darkness set.

Leas dreary seems the untried way Since thou hast left thy footprin ts there,

And beams of mournful beauty play Round the sad Angel's sable hair.

Oh ! — at this hour when half the sky Is glorious with its evening light,

And fair broad fields of summer lie Hung o'er with greenness in my sight ;

Whilethroughtheseelm-boughs wet with rain The sunset's golden walls are seen. With clover-bloom and yellow grain And wood-draped hill and stream be- tween ;

I long to know if scenes like this Are hidden from an angel's eyes ;

If earth's familiar loveliness Haunts not thy heaven's serener skies.

For sweetly here upon thee grew The lesson which that beauty gave.

The ideal of the Pure and True

In earth and sky and gliding wave.

And it may be that all which lends The soul an upward impulse here,

With a diviner beauty blends. And greets us in a holier sphere.

Through groves where blightingneverfell The humbler flowers of earth may twine ; And simple draughts from childhood's well Blend with the angel-tasted wine.

But be the prying vision veiled,

And let the seeking lips be dumb, —

Where even seraph eyes have failed Shall mortal blindness seek to come ?

We only know that thou hast gone, And that the same returnless tide

Wliieh bore thee from us still glides on. And we who mourn thee with it glide.

On all thou lookest we .shall look, 1

And to our gaze erelong shall turn )

That l»iige of Ciod's mysti-rious book We so much wish, yet dread, to learn. |

With Him, before whose awful power Thy sj^irit bent its trembling knee ; —

Who, in the silent gi'eeting flower, And forest leaf, looked out on thee, — >

We leave thee, with a, trust serene. Which Time, nor Change, nor Death can move,

While with thy childlike faith we lean On Him whose dearest name is Love !

TO THE

REFORMERS LAND.

OF ENG-

GoD bless ye, brothers ! — in the fight Ye 're waging now, j'e cannot fail,

For better is your sense of right Than Mng-craft's triple mail.

Than tyrant's law, or bigot's ban. More mighty is your simplest word ;

The free heart of an honest man Than crosier or the sword.

Go, — let yonr bloated Church rehearse The lesson it has learned so well ;

It moves not with its prayer or curse The gates of heaven or hell.

Let the State scaff'old rise again, — Did Freedom die when Russell died ^

Forget ye how the blood of Vane From earth's green bosom cried ?

The great hearts of your olden time Are beating with you, full and strong

All holy memories and sublime And glorious round ye throng.

The bluff", hold men of Runnymede Ai'e with ye still in times like these

The shades of England's mighty dead. Your cloud of witnesses !

The truths ye urge are borne abroad By every wind and every tide ;

The voice of Nature and of God Speaks out upon your side.

The weapons which your hands have found Are those which Heaven itself has wrought, Light, Truth, and Love ; — your battle- ground The free, broad field of Thought.

98

MISCELLANEOUS.

No partial, selfish purpose breaks The simple beauty of j'our plan,

Nor lie from throne or altar shakes Your steady faith in man.

The languid pulse of England starts And bounds beneath your words of power,

The beating of her million hearts Is with you at this hour !

0 ye who, with undoubting eyes.

Through present cloud and gathering storm,

Bshold the span of Freedom's skies. And sunshine soft and warm, —

Press bravely onward ! — not in vain Your generous trust in human-kind ;

The good which bloodshed could not gain Your peaceful zeal shall find.

Press on ! — the triumph shall be won Of common rights and equal laws.

The glorious dream of Harrington, And Sidney's good old cause.

Blessing the cotter and the crown, Sweetening worn Labor's bitter cup ;

And, plucking not the highest down, Lifting the lowest up.

Press on ! — and we who may not share The toil or glory of your fight

May ask, at least, in earnest prayer, God's blessing on the right !

THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TIME.

The Quaker of the olden time ! —

How calm and firm and true. Unspotted by its wrong and crime.

He walked the dark earth through. Tbe lust of power, the love of gain,

The thousand lures of sin Around him, had no power to stain

The purity within.

"With that deep insight wliich detects

All great things in the small, And knows how each man's life affects

The spiritual life of all. He walked by faith and not by sight,

By love and not bj' law ; The presence of tlie wrong or right

He rather felt than saw.

He felt that wrong with wrong partakes,

That nothing stands alone, That whoso gives the motive, makes

His brother's sin his own. And, pausing not for doubtful choice

Of evils great or small, He listened to that inward voice

Which called away from all.

0 Spirit of that early day.

So pure and strong and true, Be with us in the narrow way

Our faithful fathers knew. Give strength the e^il to forsake,

The cross of Truth to bear, And love and reverent fear to make

Our daily lives a prayer !

THE REFORMER.

All grim and soiled and brown with tan, I saw a Strong One, in his wrath, Smiting the godless shrines of man Along his path.

The Church, beneath her trembling dome,

Essayed in vain her ghostly charm : AV'ealth shook within his gilded home With strange alarm.

Fraud from his secret chambers fled

Before the .sunlight bursting in :

Sloth drew her pillow o'er her head

To drown the din.

" Spare," Art implored, "yon holy pile ; That gi'and, old, time-worn turret spare " ; Meek Reverence, kneeling In the aisle, Cried out, " Forbear ! "

Gray-bearded Use, who, deaf and blind. Groped for his old accustomed stone, Leaned on his staff, and wept to find His seat o'erthrown.

Young Romance raised his dreamy eyes.

O'erhung with ])aly locks of gold, —

" Why smite," he asked in sad surprise,

"The fair, the old?"

Yet louder rang the Strong One's stroke

Yet nearer flaslied his axe's gleam ; Shuddering and sick of heart I woke. As from a dream.

THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.

99

I looked : aside the dust-cloud rolled. —

The Waster seemed the Builder too ; Up springing from the ruined Old I saw the New.

'T was but tlae ruin of the bad, — ■

The wasting of the wrong and ill ; Whate'er of good the old time had Was .^ving still.

Calm grew the brows of him I feared ;

The frown which awed me passed away, And left behind a smile which cheered Like breaking day.

The grain grew green on battle-plains. O'er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow ; The slave stood forging from his chains The spade and plough.

Wliere frowned the fort, pavilions gay

And cottage windows, flower-entwined. Looked out upon the peaceful bay And liills behind.

Through vine-wreathed cups with wine once red, The lights on brinmring crystal fell, Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head And mossy well.

Through prison walls, like Heaven-sent hope. Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed. And with the idle gallows-rope

The young child played.

Where the doomed victim in his cell Had counted o'er the weary hours. Glad school-girls, answering to the bell, Came crowned with flowers.

Grown wiser for the lesson given,

I fear no longer, for I know That, where the share is deepest driven. The best fruits grow.

The outworn rite, the old abuse.

The pious fraud transparent grown, The good held captive in the use Of wrong alone, —

These wait their doom, from that greatlaw Which makes tbe past time serve to- day ;

And fresher life the world shall draw From their decay.

0, backward -looking sou of time ! The new is old, the old is new. The cycle of a change sublime Still sweeping through.

So wisely taught the Indian seer ;

Destroying Seva, forming Brahm, Who wake by turns Eaith's love and fear. Are one, the same.

Idly as thou, in that old day

Thou mournest, did tliy sire repine ; So, in his time, thy child grown gray Shall sigh for thine.

But life shall on and upward go ;

Th' eternal step of Progi-ess beats To that gi'eat anthem, calm and slow, Which God repeats.

Take heart ! — ■ the Waster buildsagain, ^.

A charmed life old Goodness hath ; The tares may jjerish, — but the grain Is not for death.

God works in all things ; all obey

His first propulsion from the night : Wake thou and watch ! - — the world is gray With mornine: litcht !

THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.

Look on him ! — through his dungeon grate

Feebly and cold, the morning light Comes stealing round him, dun and late,

As if it loathed the sight. Reclining on his strawy bed. His hand upholds his drooping head, — His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard. Unshorn his gray, neglected beaixl ; And o'er his bony fingers flow His long, dishevelled locks of snow.

No grateful fire before him glows, And yet the winter's breath is chill ;

And o'er his half-clad yierson goes The frequent ague thrill !

Silent, save ever and anon,

A sound, half murmur and half gi'oaii,

100

MISCELLANEOUS.

Forces apart the painful grip Of the old sufferer's bearded lip ; 0 sad and crushing is the fate Of old age chained and desolate !

Just God ! why lies that old man there ?

A murderer shares his prison bed, Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair.

Gleam on Mm, tierce and red ; And the rude oath and heartless jeer Fall ever on his loathing ear, And, or in wakefulness or sleep, Nei"ve, flesh, and pulses thrill and creep Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb, Crimson with murder, touches him !

What has the gray -haired prisoner done ?

Has murder stained his hands with gore ? Not so ; his crime 's a fouler one ;

God made the old max poor ! For this he shares a felon's cell, — The fittest earthly type of hell ! For this, the boon for which he poured His young blood on the invader's sword, And counted light the fearful cost, — His blood-gained liberty is lost !

And so, for such a place of rest.

Old prisoner, di-opped thy blood as rain On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest,

And Saratoga's plain ? Look forth, thou man of many scars. Through thy dim dungeon's iron bai-s ; It must be joy, in sooth, to see Von monument upreared to thee, — Piled granite and a prison cell, — The land repays thy service well !

Go, ring the bells and fire the guns. And fling the starry banner out ; Shout "Freedom!" till your lisping ones Give back their cradle-shout ; Let boastful eloquence declaim Of honor, liberty, and fame ; Still let the poet's strain be heard, With glory for each second word. And everything with breath agree To pi-aise "our glorious liberty ! '

But when the patron cannon jars That prison's cold and gloomy wall.

And tlirough its grates the stripes and stars Rise on the wind, and fall, —

Think ye that prisoner's aged ear Rejoices in the general cheer ? Think ye his dim and failing eye Is kindled at your pageantry ? Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb, What is your carnival to him ?

Down with the law that binds hini thus !

Unworthy freemen, let it find No refuge from the withering curse

Of God and human kind ! Open the prison's liNing tomb. And usher from its brooding gloom The victims of j'our savage code To the free sun and air of God ; No longer dare as crime to brand The chastening of the Ahnighty's hand.

LINES,

■WRITTEN ON READING PAMPHLETS PUBLISHED BY CLERGYMEN AGAINST THE ABOLITION OF THE GALLOWS.

The suns of eighteen centuries have shone Since the Redeemer walked with man, and made The flslier's boat, the cavern's floor of stone. And mountain moss, a pillow for his head ; And He, who wandered with the peas- ant Jew, And broke with publicans the bread

of shame, And drank, with blessings in his Fa- ther's name. The water which Samaria's outcast drew. Hath now his temples upon every shore. Altar and shrine and priest, — and in- cense dim Evcmiore rising, with low prayer and hjTun, From lips which press the temple's mar- ble floor. Or kiss the gilded sign of the dread Cross He bore.

Yet as of old, when, meekly "doing

good," He fed a blind and selfish multitudes.

LINES.

And even the poor companions of liis lot With their dim earthly vision knew him

not, How ill are his high teachings under- stood ! Where He hath spoken Liberty, the

priest At his own altar binds the chain

anew ; Where He hath bidden to Life's equal

feast, The starving many wait upon the few ; Where He hath spoken Peace, liis name

hath been The loudest war-cry of contending men ; Priests, pale with vigils, in his name

have blessed The unsheathed sword, and laid the

spear in rest. Wet the war-banner with their sacred

wine. And crossed its blazon with the holy

sign ; Yea, in his name who bade the erring

live. And daily taught his lesson, — to for- give ! — ■ Twisted the cord and edged the mur- derous steel ; And, with his words of mercy on their

lips. Hung gloating o'er the pincer's burning

grips, And the grim horror of the straining

wlieel ; Fed the slow flame which gnawed the

victim's limb. Who saw before his searing eyeballs

swim The image of tlieir Christ in cruel

zeal. Through the black torment-smoke, held

mockingly to him !

The blood which mingled with the des- ert sand. And beaded with its red and ghastly dew

The vines and olives of the Holy Land, — The shrieking curses of the hunted Jew, —

The wliite-sown bones of heretics, where'er

They sank beneath the Crusade's holy spear, —

101

Malta's sea-

Goa's dark dungeons, washed cell, Where with the hymns the ghostly

fathers sung Mingled the groans by subtle torture wrung.

Heaven's anthem blending with the shriek of hell !

The midnight of Bartholomew, ■ — the stake Of Smithfield, and that thrice-ac- cursed flame

Which Calvin kindled by Geneva's lake, —

New England's scaffold, and the priestly sneer

Which mocked its victims in that hour of fear. When guilt itself a human tear might claim, —

Bear witness, 0 thou wronged and mer- ciful One !

That Earth's most hateful crunes have in thy name been done !

IV.

Thank God ! that I have lived to see

the time When the great trath begins at last to

find An utterance from the deep heart of

mankind, Earnest and clear, that all Eevenge is

Crime ! That man is holier than a creed, — that

all Restraint upon him must consult his

good, Hope's sunshine linger on his prison

wall. And Love look in upon his soli<.

tude. The beautiful lesson which our Saviour

taught Through long, dark centuries its way- hath wrought into the common mind and popular

thought ; And words, to which by Galilee's lake

shore The humble fishers listened with hushed

oar. Have found an echo in the general

heart, And of the iiublic faith become a living

part.

102

inSCELLAA'EOUS.

Who shall arrest this tendency ? -~ Bring back

The cells of Venice and the bigot's rack ?

Harden the softening human heart again

To cold indift'erence to a brother's jiain ?

Ye most unhappy men ! — who, tiu-ned away

From the mild sunshine of the Gospel day, Grope in the shadows of Man's twi- light time.

What mean ye, that with ghoul-like zest ye brood.

O'er those foul altars streaming with waiTO blood. Permitted in another age and clime ?

Why cite that law with which the bigot Jew

Rebuked the Pagan's merc}% when he knew

No evU in the Just One? — "Wherefore turn

To the dark cruel past ? — Can ye not learn

From the pure Teacher's life, how mildly free

Js the great Gospel of Humanity ?

The Flamen's knife is bloodless, and no more

Mexitli's altars soak witli human gore,

No more the ghastly sacrifices smoke

Through the green arches of tlie Druid's oak ;

And ye of milder faith, vrith your high claim

Of prophet-utterance in the Holiest name,

Will ye become the Druids of 02i)- time !

Set up your scaffold-altars in our land.

And, consecrators of Law's darkest crime. Urge to its loathsome work the hang- man's hand '

Beware, — lest human nature, roused at last,

From its peeled shoulder your encum- brance cast, And, sick to loathing of your cry for blood.

Rank ye with those who led their vic- tims round

The Celt's red altar and the Indian's mound, AbhoiTed of Eaj-th and Heaven, — a pagan brotherhood ! 1

THE HUMAN SACFJFICE.

Far from his close and noisome cell,

B\- grasey lane and sunny stream, Blown clover held and strawberry dell, And green and meadow freshness, fell

The footsteps of his dream. Again from careless feet the dew

Of summer's misty morn he shook ; Again with merry heart he threw

His light line in the ripjiling brook. Back crowded all his school-day joys, —

He urged the ball and quoit again, And heard the shout of laughing boys

Come ringing down the walnut glen. Again he felt tlie western breeze,

"With scent of flowers and crisj)ing hay ; And down again through wind-stirred trees

He saw the quivering suidight play. An angel in home's vine-hung door. He saw his sister smile once more ; Once more the truant's brown-locked

head Upon his mother's knees was laid. And sweetly lulled to slumber there, "With evening's holy hymn and prayer !

He woke. At once on heart and brain The present Terror rushed again, — Clanked on his limbs the felon's chain ! He woke, to hear the church-tower tell Time's footfall on the conscious bell. And, shuddering, feel that clanging din His life's last hour had ushered in ; To see within his prison-yard. Through the small window, iron haired, The gallows shadow rising dim Between the sunrise heaven and him, — A horror in God's blessed air, —

A blackness in his morning light, — Like some foul devil-altar there

Built up l)v demon hands at night.

And, maddened by that evil sight. Dark, honible, confused, and strange, A chaos of wild, weltering change. All power of check and guidance gone, Dizzy and blind, his mind swept on. In vain he strove to breathe a prayer.

In vain he turned the Holy Book, He only heard the gallows-stair

Creak as the wind its timbers shook. No dream for him of sin forgiven,

While still that baleful spectre stood,

THE HUMAN SACRIFICE.

103

With its hoarse murrauv, " Blood for . Blood I " Between him aud the pitj'ing Heaven !

Low on his dungeon floor he knelt, And smote his breast, and on his chain, Whose iron clasp he alwaj's felt,

His hot tears fell like rain ; Aud near liim, with the cold, calm look And tone of one whose formal part, Unwarmed, imsoftened of the heart, Is measured out by rule and book. With placid lip and tranquil blood, The hangman's ghostly ally stood, Blessing with solemn text and word The gallows-drop and strangling cord ; Lending the sacred Gospel's awe And sanction to the crime of Law.

He saw the victttTi's tortured brow, —

The sweat of anguish starting there, — The record of a nameless woe In the dim eye's imploring stare, Seen hideous through the long, damp hair, — Fingers of ghastly skin and bone Working and writhing on the stone ! — And heard, by mortal terror wrung From heaving breast and stiffened tongue. The choking sob and low hoarse prayer ; As o'er his half-crazed fancy came A vision of the eternal flame, — Its smoking cloud of agonies, — Its demon-woi'm that never dies, — • The everlasting rise and fall Of fire-waves round the infernal wall ; While high above that dark red flood, Black, giant-like, the gallows stood ; Two busy fiends attending there : One with cold mocking rite and prayer, The other with impatient grasp, Tightening the death-rope's strangling clasp.

V.

The unfelt rite at length was done, — The prayer unheard at length was said, — An hour had passed : — the noonday sun

Smote on the features of the! dead ! And he who stood the doomed beside, Calm ganger of the swelling tide Of mortal agony and f(!ar. Heeding with curious eye and ear

Whate'er revealed the keen excess Of man's extremest wretchedness : And wlio in that dark anguish saw

An earnest of the victim's fate, The vengeful terrors of God's law,

The kindlings of Eternal hate, — The first drops of that fieiy rain Which beats the dark red realm of pain, Did he uplift his earnest cries

Against the crime of Law, which gave

His brother to that fearful grave, Whereon Hope's moonlight never lies,

And Faith's white blossoms never wava To the soft breath of Memory's sighs ; — Which sent a spirit marred and stained. By fiends of sin possessed, profaned, In madness and in blindness stark, Into the silent, unknown dark ? No, — from the wild and shrinking dread With which he saw the victim led

Beneath the dark veil which divides Ever the living from the dead,

And Nature's solemn secret hides, The man of j^rayer can only draw New reasons for his bloody law ; New faith in staying Murder's hand By nmrder at that Law's command ; New reverence for the gallows-rope, As human nature's latest hope ; Last relic of the good old time. When Power found license for its crime, And held a writhing world in check By that fell cord about its neck ; Stifled Sedition's rising shout, Choked the young breath of Freedom out. And timely checked the words whicll

sprung From Heresy's forbidden tongue ; While in its noose of terror bound. The Church its cherished union ibund, Conforming, on the Moslem jilan. The motley-colored mind of man, Not by the Koran and the Sword, But by the Bible and the Cord .'

0 Thou ! at whose rebuke the grare Back to warm life its sleeper gave, Beneath whose sad and tearful glance The cold and changed countenance Broke the still horror of its trance, And, waking, saw with joy above, A br'ither's face of tenderest love ; Thou, unto whom the blintl and lame, The sorrowing and the sin-sick came. And from thy very garment's hem Drew life ■•Mid healintr unto them.

104

MISCELLAXEOUS.

The burden of thy holy faith

Was love and life, not hate and death,

Man's demon ministers of pain,

The fiends of his revenge were sent

From thy pure Gospel's element To their dark home again. Thy name is Love ! What, then, is he,

Who in that name the gallows rears, An awful altar built to thee,

"With sacrifice of blood and tears ? 0, once again thy healing lay

On the blind eyes which knew thee not. And let the lighl of thy pure day

Melt in upon his darkened thought. Soften his hard, cold heart, and show

The power which in forbearance lies, And let him feel that mercy now

Is better than old saciiiice !

As on the "UTiite Sea's charmed shore.

The Parsee sees his holy hill With dunnest smoke-clouds curtained

o'er, Yet knows beneath them, evermore.

The low, pale fire is quivering still ; So, underneath its clouds of sin,

The heart of man retaineth yet Gleams of its holy origin ;

And half-quenched stars that never set, Dim coloi-s of its faded bow.

And early beauty, linger there, And o'er its wasted desert blow

Faint breathings of its morning air, 0, never yet upon the scroll Of the sin-stained, but priceless soul,

Hath Heaven inscribed " Despair !" Cast not the clouded gem away. Quench not the dim but living i-ay, —

My brother man. Beware I With that deep voice which from the

skies Forbade the Patriarch's sacrifice,

God's angel cries, Forbear !

RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE.

O Mother Earth ! upon thy lap

Thy weary ones recei\'ing, And o'er them, silent as a dream,

Thy grassy mantle weaving. Fold softly in thy long embrace

That heart so worn and broken. And cool its pulse of fire beneath

Thy shadows old and oaken.

Shut out from him the bitter word

And sei-pent hiss of scorning ; Nor let the storms of yesterday

Disturb his quiet morning. Breathe over him forgetfulness

Of all save deeds of kindness. And, save to smiles of gi-ateful ej^es.

Press down his lids in blindness.

There, where with living ear and eye

He heard Potomac's flowing, And, through his tall ancestral trees,

Saw autumn's sunset glowing. He sleeps, — still looking to the west.

Beneath the dark wood shadow, As if he still would see the sim

Sink down on wave and meadow.

Bard, Sage, and Tribune ! — in himsell

All moods of mind contrasting, — The tenderest wail of human woe.

The scorn-like lightning blasting ; The patlios which from rival eyes

Unwilling tears could summon. The stinging taunt, the fiery burst

Of hatied scarcely human !

Mirth, sparkling like a diamond showei;

From lips of life-long sadness ; Clear picturings of majestic thought

Upon a ground of madness ; And over till Romance and Song

A classic beauty throwing, And laurelled Clio at his side

Her storied pages showing.

All parties feared him : each in turn

Beheld its schemes disjointed. As right or left his fatal glance

And spectral finger pointed. Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down

With trenchant wit unsjiaring, And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand

The robe Pretence was wearing.

Too honest or too proud to feign

A love he never cherished, Beyond Virginia's border line

His patriotism perished. While others hailed in distant skies

Our eagle's dusky jiinion, He only saw the mountain biixl

Stooj) o'er his Old Dominion !

StUl through each change of fortun* strange, Racked nerve, and brain all burning,

DEMOCRACl'.

105

His loTing faith in Mother-land Knew never shade of turning ;

By Britain's lakes, by Neva's wave, Whatever sky was o'er him,

He heard her rivers' rushing sound, Her blue peaks rose before him.

He held his slaves, yet made withal

No false and vain pretences, Nor paid a lying priest to seek

For Scriptural defences. His harshest words of proud rebuke,

His bitterest taunt and scorning, Fell fire-like on the Northern brow

That bent to him in fawning.

He held his slaves ; yet kept the while

His reverence for the Human ; In the dark vassals of his will

He saw but Man and Woman ! No hunter of God's outraged poor

His Roanoke valley entered ; No trader in the souls of men

Across his threshold ventured.

And when the old and wearied man

Lay down for his last sleeping. And at his side, a slave no more.

His brother-man stood weeping, His latest thought, his latest breath,

To Freedom's duty giving. With failing tongue and trembling hand

The dying blest the li\dng.

0, never bore his ancient State

A truer son or braver ! None trampling with a calmer scorn

On foreign hate or favor. He knew her faults, yet never stooped

His proud and manly feeling To poor excuses of the wrong

Or meanness of concealing.

But none beheld with clearer eye

The plague-si)ot o'er her spreading. None heard more sure the steps of Doom

Along her future treading. For lier as for himself he spake.

When, his gaunt frame u]ibracing. He traced with dying hand "Remorse .'"

And perished in the tracing.

As from the grave where Henry sleeps, From Vernon's weejiing willow,

And from the grassy l>all wdiich hides The Sage of JVIouticello,

So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone Of Randolph's lowly dwelling,

Virginia ! o'er thy laud of slaves A warning voice is swelling !

And hark ! from thy deserted fields

Are sadder warnings spoken. From quenched hearths, where thy ea. iled sons

Their household gods have broken. The curse is on thee, — wolves for mcv.-

And briers for corn-sheaves giving ! 0, more than all tliy dead renown

Were now one hero living !

DEMOCRACY.

All things whatsoever ye would that mer should do to you, do ye even so to them. — Matthew vii. 12.

Beaker of Freedom's holy light. Breaker of Slavery's chain and rod,

The foe of all which pains the sight, Or wounds the generous ear of God ! ■

Beautiful yet thy temples rise.

Though there profaning gifts are thrown ;

And fires nnkindled of the skies Are glaring round thy altar-st^-ne.

Still sacred, — though thy name be breathed By those whose hearts thy truth de- ride ; And garlands, plucked from thee, are wreathed Around the haughty brows of Pride.

0, ideal of my boyhood's time !

The faith in which my father stood. Even when the sons of Lust and Crime

Had stained thy peaceful courts with blood !

Still to those courts my footsteps turn, For through the mists which darken there,

I see the flame of Freedom burn, — The Kebla of the patriot's prayer !

The generous feeling, pure and warni, Which owns the rights of nil divine, —

The pitying heart, — tin' hclinng arm, — ■ The prompt self-sacrifice, — are thine.

106

anSCELLANEOUS.

Beneath thy broad, impartial eye, How fade the lines of caste and birth !

How equal in their suffering lie The groaning multitudes of earth !

Still to a stricken brother true,

Whatever clime hath nurtured him ;

As stooped to heal the wounded Jew The worshipper of Gerizim.

By misery unrepelled, unawed

Bj' pomp or power, thou seest a Man

In prince or peasant, — slave or lord, — Pale priest, or swarthy artisan.

Through all disguise, form, place, or name.

Beneath the flaunting robes of sin. Through poverty and squalid shame,

Thou lookest on tlie man within.

On man, as man, retaining yet,

Howe'er debased, and soiled, and dim,

The crown upon his forehead set, — The immortal gift of God to him.

And there is reverence in thy look ;

For tliat frail form which mortals wear The Spirit of the Holiest took,

And veiled his perfect brightness there.

Jfot from the shallow babbling fount Of vain jtliilosophy thou art ;

He who of old on Syria's mount

Thiilled, wanned, by turns, the lis- tener's heart,

In holy words which cannot die.

In thoughts which angels leaned to know.

Proclaimed thy message from on high, — Thy mission to a world of woe.

That voice's echo hath not died !

From the blue lake of Galilee, And Tabor's lonely mountain-side.

It calls a struggling world to thee.

Thy name and watchword o'er this land I hear in every breeze that stii-s.

And round a thousand altars stand Thy banded jjarty worshippers.

Not to these altars of a day.

At party's call, my gift I bring ;

But on thy olden shrine I lay A freeman's dearest offering :

The voiceless iitterance of his will, — His pledge to Freedom and to Truth,

That manhood's heart remembers still The homage of his generous youth.

Election Day, 1848.

TO RONGE.

Strike home, sti-ong - hearted man C

Down to the root Of old oppression sink the Saxon steel. Thy work is to hew down. In God's

name then Put nerve into thy task. Let other men Plant, as they may, that better tree

whose fruit The wounded bosom of the Church shall

heal. Be thou the image-breaker. Let thy

blows Fall heav)' as the Suabian's iron hand. On crown or crosier, which shall inter- pose Between thee and the weal of Father- land. Leave creeds to closet idlers. First of

all, Shake thou all German dream-land with

the fall Of that accui-sed ti-ee, whose evil trunk Was sjiared of old by Erfurt's stalwart

monk. Fight not with ghosts and shadows.

Let us hear The snap of chain-links. Let our glad- dened ear Catch th(! pale prisoner's welcome, as

the liglit Follows thy axe-stroke, through his cell

of night. Be fiiithful to both worlds ; nor think to

feed Earth's starving millions with the hu.sks

of creed. Servant of Him whose mission high and

holy Was to the WTonged, the sorrowing, and

the lowly. Thrust not his Eden promise from oui

sphere. Distant and dim be3'ond the blue sky'a

span ; Like him of Patmos, see it, now and

here, — The New Jeinisalem comes down ta

man !

CHALKLEY HALL.

107

Be warned by Luther's error. Nor like

iiim, When the roused Teuton dashes from his

limb The rusted chain of ages, help to bind His hands for wliom thou claim'st the

freedom of the mind !

CHALKLEY HALL. 39

How bland and sweet the greeting of this breeze To him who flies From crowded street and red Avail's

weary gleam, Till far behind him like a hideous di'eam The close dark city lies !

Here, while the market murmurs, while men throng The marble floor Of Mammon's altar, from the crush and

din Of the world's madness let me gather in My better thoughts once more.

0, once again revive, while on my ear

The cry of Gain And low hoarse hum of Traffic die away, Ye blessed memories of my early day

Like sere grass wet with rain ! —

Once more let God's gi-een earth and sunset air Old feelings waken ; Througli weary years of toil and strife

and ill, 0, let me feel that my good angel still Hath not his trust forsaken.

And well do time and place befit my mood : Beneath the arms Of this embracing wood, a good man

made His home, like Abraham resting in the shade Of Mamre's lonely palms.

Here, rich with autumn gifts of count- less years, The virgin soil Turned from the share he guided, and

in rain And summer sunshine throve the fruits and grain Which blessed his honest toil.

Here, from his voyages on the stormy seas. Weary and worn, He came to meet his children and to

bless The Giver of all good in thankfulness And praise for his return.

And here his neighbors gathered in tc greet Their friend again, Safe from the wave and the destroj^ing

gales. Which reap untimely green Bermuda's vales, And vex the Carib main.

To hearthe good man tell of simple truth,

Sown in an hour Of weakness in some far-off Indian isle, From the parched bosom of a barren soil,

Eaised up in life and power :

How at those gatherings in Barbadian vales, A tendering love Came o'er him, like the gentle rain from

heaven. And words of fitness to his lips were given. And strength as from above :

How the sad captive listened to the Word, Lentil his chain Grow lighter, and his wounded spirit

felt The healing balm of consolation melt Upon its life -long pain :

How the armed warrior sat him down to hear Of Peace and Tnitli, And the proud ruler and liis Creole

dame. Jewelled and gorgeous in her beauty came. And fair and bright-eyed youth.

0, far away beneath New England's sky, Even when a boy. Following my plough by MeiTimack's

green shore, His simjile record I liave pondered o'er With deep and quiet joy.

108

MISCELLANEOUS.

And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm, — Its woods around, Its still stream winding on in light and

shade. Its soft, green naeadows and its upland glade, — To me is holy ground.

And dearer far than haunts where Genius keeps His vigils still ; Than that where Avon's son of song is

laid. Of Vaucluse hallowed by its Petrarch's shade, Or Virgil's laurelled hill.

To the gray walls of fallen Paraclete,

To Juliet's urn. Fair Arno and Sorrento's orange-gi-ove, Wheie Tasso sang, let young Romance and Love

Like brother pilgrims turn.

But here a deeper and serener charm

To all is given ; And blessed memories of the faithful

dead O'er wood and vale and meadow-stream have shed The holy hues of Heaven !

TO J. P.

Not as a poor requital of the joy

With which my childhood heard that

lay of thine. Which, like an echo of the song divine At Bethlehem breathed above the Holy

Boy, Bore to my ear the Airs of Palestine, — Not to the poet, but the man I bring In friendship's fearless trust my offering : How much it lacks I feel, and tliou wilt

see. Yet well I know- that thou hast deemed

with me Life all too earnest, and its time too

short For dreamy ease and Fancy's graceful

sport ; And girded for thy constant strife with

wrong, ^ike Nehemiah fighting while he

wrought

The broken walls of Zion, even thy song Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought !

THE CYPRESS-TKEE OF CEYLON.

[IBS Batuta , the celebiuted Mussulman trav- eller of the fourteenth oeutury, spe.iks of a ey- press-tree in Ce.vloa, universally held sacred by the natives, the leaves of which were Siud to fall only at certain intervals, and he who had the hapi)iness to find and eat one of them was re- stored, at once, to youth and vigor. The trav- eller s;iw several venerable .J ogees, or saints, sit- ting silent and motionless under the tree, pa- tiently awaiting the falhng of a leaf.]

They sat in silent watchfulness The sac-red cypress-tree about,

And, from beneath old wrinkled brows, Their failing eyes looked out.

Gray Age and Sickness waiting there Through weary night and lingering day, —

Grim as the idols at their side, And motionless as they.

Unheeded in the boughs above

The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet ;

Unseen of them the island Howers Bloomed brightly at their feet

O'er them the tropic night-storm swept. The thunder craslied on rock ami hill ;

The cloud-fire on their ej'cballs blazed, Yet there they waited still !

What was the world without to them ?

The Moslem's sunset-call, — the dance Of Ceylon's maids, — tbe passing gleam

Of battle- flag and lance ?

They waited for that falling leaf

Of which the wandering Jogees sing :

Which lends once more to wintry age The greenness of its spring.

0, if these poor and blinded ones In trustful patience wait to feel

O'er tor]>id ])ulse and failing limb A youthful freshness steal ;

Shall we, wlio sit beneath that Tree Whose liealiiig leaves of life are shed,

In answer to the breath of prayer. Upon the waiting head ;

TO

109

Not to restore our failing forms,

And build the spirit's broken shrine,

But on the fainting soul to shed A light and life divine ;

Shall we grow weary in our watch, And murmur at tlie long delay ?

Impatient of our Father's time And his appointed way ?

Or shall the stir of outward things Allure and claim the Christian's eye.

When on the heathen watcher's ear Their powerless murmurs die ?

Alas ! a deeper test of faith

Than prison cell or martjT's stake,

The self-abasing watchfulness Of silent prayer may make.

We gird us bravely to rebuke

Our erring brother in the wrong, —

And in the ear of Pride and Power Our warning voice is strong.

Easier to smite with Peter's sword Than " watch one hour " in humbling prayer. Life's "great things," like the Syrian lord. Our hearts can do and dare.

But oh ! we shrink from Jordan's side, From waters which alone can save ;

And murmur for Abana's banks And Pharpar's brighter wave.

0 Thou, who in the garden's shade Didst wake thy weary ones again.

Who slumbered at that fearful hour Forgetful of thy pain ;

Bend o'er us now, as over them,

And set our sleep-bound spirits free.

Nor leave us slumbering in the watch Our souls should keep with Thee !

A DREAM OF SUMMER.

Blank as the morning breath of June

The southwest breezes play ; And, through its haze, the winter noon

Seems warm as summer's day. The snow-plumed Angol of the North

Has dropped his icy spear ; Again the mossy earth looks forth.

Again the streams gush clear.

The fox his hillside cell forsakes,

The muskrat leaves his nook. The bluebird in the meadow brakes

Is singing witli the brook. " Bear up, 0 Mother Nature ! " cry

Bird, breeze, and streamlet free ; " Our winter voices prophesy

Of summer days to thee ! "

So, in those winters of the soul,

By bitter blasts and drear O'erswept from Memory's frozen pole,

Will sunny days appear. Reviving Ho]ie and Faith, they show

The soul its living powers. And how beneath the winter's snow

Lie germs of summer flowers !

Tlie Night is mother of the Day,

The Winter of the Spring, And ever upon old Decay

The gi'eenest mosses cling. Bfhind the cloud the starlight lurks,

Through showers the sunbeams fall ; For God, who loveth all liis works,

Has left his Hope with all ! ith 1st month, 1847.

TO

WITH A COPT OF AVOOLMAN S JOURNAL.

" Get the writings of John Woolman by heart." — Essays of Eli a.

Maiden ! with the fair brown tresses Shading o'er thj^ dreamy eye,

Floating on thy thoughtful forehead Cloud wreaths of its sky.

Youthful years and maiden beauty, Joy with them should still abide, —

Instinct take the piace of Duty, Love, not Reason, guide.

Ever in the New rejoicing.

Kindly beckoning back the Old,

Turning, with the gift of Midas, All things into gold.

And the passing shades of sadness Wearing even a welcome guise.

As, when some bright lake lies open To the sunny skies.

Every wing of bird above it. Every light cloud floating on.

110

MISCELLANEOUS.

Glitters like that flashing mirror In the self-same sun.

But upon thy youthful forehead Something like a shadow lies ;

And a serious soul is looking From thy earnest eyes.

With an early introversion,

Through the forms of outward things, Seeking for the subtle essence,

And the hidden springs.

Deeper than the gilded surface Hath thy wakeful \ision seen,

Farther tliau the narrow present Have tliy journeyings been.

Thou hast midst Life's empty noises Heard the solemn steps of Time,

\nd the low mysterious voices Of another clime.

A.11 the mystery of Being Hatli upon thy spirit pressed, —

Thoughts which, lilce the Deluge wan- derer, Find no place of rest :

That which mystic Plato pondered. That which Zeno heard with awe,

And the star-rapt Zoroaster In his night-watch saw.

From the doubt and darkness springing

Of the dim, uncertain Past, Moving to tlie dark stiU shadows

O'er the Future cast.

Early hath Life's mighty question Thrilled within thy heart of youth.

With a deep and strong beseeching : What and where is Truth ?

Hollow creed and ceremonial. Whence the ancient life hath fled,

Idle faith unknown to action. Dull and cold and dead.

Oracles, whose wire-worked meanings Only wake a quiet scorn, —

Not from these thy seeking spirit Hath its answer drawn.

But, like some tired child at even. On thy mother Nature's breast.

Thou, metliinks, art vainly seeking Truth, and peace, and rest.

O'er that mother's rugged features Thou art throwing Fancy's veil,

Light and soft as woven moonbeams, Beautiful and frail !

O'er the rough chart of Existence, Eocks of sin and wastes of woe.

Soft airs breathe, andgreen leaves tremble^ And cool fountains flow.

And to thee an answer cometh From the earth and from the sky,

And to thee the hills and waters And the stars rejjly.

But a soul-sufficing answer

Hath no outward origin ; ilore than Nature's many voices

May be heard within.

Even as the great Augustine

Questioned earth and sea and sky,*^ And the dusty tomes of learning

And old poesy.

But his earnest spirit needed

More than outward Nature taught, — More than blest the poet's vision

Or the siige's thought.

Only in the gathered silence Of a calm and waiting frame

Liglit and wisdom as from Heaven 'To the seeker came.

Not to ease and aimless quiet Doth that inward answer tend.

But to works of love and duty As our being's end, —

Not to idle dreams and trances, Length of face, and solemn tone,

But to Faith, in daily striving And performance shown.

Earnest toil and strong endeavor

Of a spirit which within Wresth's with familiar evil

And besetting sin ;

And without, with tireless vigor. Steady lieart, and weapon strong,

In the power of truth assailing Every fomi of wrong.

Guided thus, how passing lovely Is the track of ^\ oolman's feet J

LEGGETT'S MONUMENT.

Ill

j\.nd his brief and simple record How serenely sweet !

O'er life's humblest duties throwing Light the earthling never knew,

Freshening all its dark waste places As with Hermon's dew.

All which glows in Pascal's r>ages, — All which sainted Guion sought,

Or the blue-eyed German Rahel Half-unconscious taught : —

Beauty, such as Goethe pictured, Such as Shelley dreamed of, shed

Living warmth and starry brightness Bound that poor man's head.

ITot a vain and cold ideal.

Not a poet's dream alone. But a pi-esence warm and real,

Seen and felt and known.

When the red right-hand of slaughter Moulders with the steel it swung.

When the name of seer and poet Dies on Memory's tongue.

All bright thoughts and pure shall gather Round that meek and suffering one, —

Glorious, like the seer-seen angel Standing in the sun !

Take the good man's book and ponder What its pages say to thee, — •

Blessed as the hand of healing May its lesson be.

Tf it only serves to strengthen Yearnings for a higher good,

For the fount of living waters Aiid diviner food ;

If the pride of human reason Feels its meek and still rebuke,

Quailing like the eye of Peter From the Just One's look ! —

If with readier ear thou heedest What the Inward Teacher saith.

Listening with a willing spirit And a childlike faith, —

Thou mayst live to bless the giver, Who, himself but frail and weak.

Would at least the highest welfare Of another seek ;

And his gift, though poor and lowly It may seem to other eyes,

Yet may prove an angel holy In a pilgrim's guise.

LEGGETT'S MONUMENT.

" Ye build the tombs of the prophets."

Holy Writ

Yes, — pile the marble o'er him ! ^t is well That ye who mocked him in his long

stern strife, And planted in the pathway of his life The ploughshares of your hatred hot from hell. Who clamored down the bold reformer

when He pleaded for his captive fellow-men, Who spurned him in the market-place, and sought Within thy walls, St. Tammany, to bind In party chains the free and honest thought, The angel utterance of an upright mind, Well is it now that o'er his grave ye rais« The stony tribute of your tardy ])raise, For not alone that pile shall tell to Fame Of the brave lieart beneath, but of the builders' shame !

112

SONGS OF LABOR.

so:n^gs of labor

AND OTHER POEMS.

DEDICATION.

I WOULD the gift I offer here

Might graces from thy favor take, And, seen through Friendship's at- mosphere, On softened lines and coloring, wear The unaccustomed light of beauty, for thy sake.

Few leaves of Fancy's spring remain :

But what I have I give to thee, —

The o'er-sunned bloom of summer's

plain, And paler flowers, the latter rain CaUo from the westering slope of life's autunmal lea.

Above the fallen groves of green, Where youth's enchanted forest stood, Dry root and mossed trunk between, A sober after-growth is seen, As springs the pine where falls the gay- leafed maple wood !

Yet birds will sing, and breezes play

Their leaf-harps in the sombre tree ; And through the bleak and wintry day It keeps its steady green alway, — So, even my after-thoughts may have a charm for thee.

Art's perfect forms no moral need,

And beauty is its own excuse ; *i

But for the dull and flowerless weed

Some healing virtue still must plead,

And the rough ore must find its honors

in its use.

So haply these, my simple lays

Of homely toil, may serve to show The orchard bloom andtasselled maize That skirt and gladden duty's ways, The unsung beauty hid life's common things below.

Haply from them the toiler, bent Above his forge or plough, may gain.

A mauUer spirit of content, And feel that life is wisest spent AVhere the strong working hand makes strong the working brain.

The doom which to the guilty pair Without the walls of Eden came. Transforming sinless ease to care And rugged toil, no more shall bear The burden of old crime, or mark of primal shame.

A blessing now, — a curse no more ; Since He, whose name we breathe with awe, The coarse mechanic vesture wore, — A poor man toiling with the poor, In labor, as in prayer, fulfilling the sam« law.

THE SHIP-BUILDERS.

The sky is ruddy in the east.

The earth is gray below. And, s])ectral in the river-mist.

The ship's Avhite timbers show. Then let the sounds of measured stroke

And grating saw begin ; The broad-axe to the gnarled oak.

The mallet to the pin !

Hark ! — roars the bellows, blast on blast,

The sooty smithy jars. And fire-sparks, rising far and fast,

Are fading ^\•ith the stars. All day for us the smitli shall stand

Beside that flashing forge ; All day for us his heavy hand

The groaning anvil scourge.

From far-off" hills, the panting team

For us is toiling near ; For us the raftsmen down the stream

Their island barges steer. Rings out for us the axe-man's stroke

In forests old and still, — For us the century-circled oak

Falls crashing down his hill.

THE SHOEMAKERS.

113

Up ! — up ! — ill nobler toil than ours

No craftsmen bear a 2)art : We make of Nature's giant powers

The slaves of human Art. Lay rib to rib and beam to beam,

And drive the treenails free ; . Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam

Shall tempt the searching sea !

Where'er the keel of our good ship

The sea's rough field shall plough, — Where'er her tossing spars shall drip

With salt- spray caught below, — That ship must heed her master's beck,

Her helm obey his hand, And seamen tread her reeling deck

As if they trod the land.

Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak

Of Northern ice may peel ; The sunken rock and coral peak

May grate along her keel ; And know we well the jjainted shell

We give to wind and wave, Must flout, the sailor's citadel,

Or sink, the sailor's grave !

Ho ! — strike away the bars and blocks.

And set tlie good ship free ! Why lingers on these dusty rocks

The young bride of the sea ? Look ! how she moves adown the grooves.

In graceful beauty now ! How lowly on the breast she loves

Sinks down her virgin prow !

God bless her ! wheresoe'er the breeze

Her snowy wing shall fan, Aside the frozen Hebrides,

Or sultry Hindostan ! Where'er, in mart or on the main.

With peaceful flag unfurled, STie helps to wind the silken chain

Of commerce round the world !

Speed on the ship ! — But let her bear

No mercliandise of sin. No groaning cargo of despair

Her roomy hold within ; No Lethean drug for Eastern lands,

Nor poison-draught for ours ; But honest fruits of toiling hands

And Nature's sun and showers.

Be hers the Prairie's golden grain,

The Desert's golden sand. The clustered fruits of sunny Spain,

Tlie spice of Morning-land ! 8

Her pathway on the open main IVIay blessings follow free.

And glad hearts welcome back again Her white sails from the sea !

THE SHOEMAKERS.

Ho ! workers of the old time styled

The Gentle Craft of Leather ! Young brothers of the ancient guild,

Stand forth once more together ! Call out again your long array,

In the olden merry manner ! Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day,

Fling out your blazoned banner !

Rap, rap ! upon the well-worn stone

How falls the polished hammer ! Rap, rap ! the measured sound has grown

A (juick and merry clamor. Now shape the sole ! now deftly curl

The glossy vamp around it, And bless the while the bright-eyed girl

Whose gentle lingers bound it !

For you, along the Spanish main

A hundred keels are ploughing ; For you, the Indian on the plain

His lasso-coil is throwing ; For you, deep glens with hemlock dark

The woodman's fire is lighting ; For you, upon the oak's gray bark,

The woodman's axe is smiting.

For you, from Carolina's pine

The rosin-gum is stealing ; For you, the dark-eyed Florentine

Her silken skein is reeling ; For you, the dizzy goatherd roams

His rugged Aljnne ledges ; For yon, round all her shepherd homes.

Bloom England's tliorny hedges.

The foremost .still, by day or night.

On moated mound or heather, Where'er the need of trampled right

Brought toiling mem together ; Where tlie frm; burghers fi'om the \vall

Defied the mail-clad master. Than yours, at Freedom's trumpet-call.

No craftsmen rallied faster.

Let lopiings sneer, let fools deride, —

Ye heed no idle scorner ; Freehands and hearts are still your pride.

And duty done, your honoi".

114

SONGS OF LABOK.

Ye dare to trust, for honest fame,

The jury Time empanels, And leave to truth each noble name

Which glorifies your annals.

Thy songs, Han Sachs, are living yet.

In strong and hearty German ; And Bloomfield's lay, and Gitiord's wit,

And patriot fame of Sherman ; Still from his hook, a mystic seer,

The soul of Behmen teaches. And England's priestcraft shakes to hear

Of Fox's leathern breeches.

The foot is yours ; where'er it falls,

It treads your well-wrought leather, On earthen iloor, in marble halls,

On carpet, or on heather. Still there the sweetest ehann is found

Of matron grace or vestal's. As Hebe's foot bore nectar round

Among the old celestials !

Rap, rap ! — your stout and bluff brogan.

With footsteps slow and wearj'. May wander \\here the sky's blue span

Shuts down upon the prairie. On Beauty's foot your slippers glance.

By Saratoga's fountains. Or twinkle down the summer dance

Beneath the Crystal Mountains !

The red brick to the mason's hand.

The brown earth to the tiller's, The shoe in yours shall wealth command.

Like fairj'^ Cinderella's ! As they who shunned the household maid

Beheld the crown upon her, So all shall see your toil repaid

With hearth and home and honor.

Then let the toast be freely quaffed,

In water cool and brimming, — " All honor to the good old Craft,

Its merry men and women ! " Call out again your long array,

In the old time's pleasant manner : Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day,

Fling out his blazoned banner !

THE DROVEKS.

THROUon heat and cold, and shower and sun.

Still onward cheerly driving ! There 's life alone in dutj" done,

And rest alone in striving.

But see ! the day is closing cool, The woods are dim before us ;

The wdiite fog of the wayside pool Is creeping slowly o'er us.

The night is falling, comrades mine,

Our footsore beasts are weary, And through yon elms the tavern sign

Looks out upon us cheery. The landlord beckons from his door,

His beechen tire is glowing ; These ample barns, with feed in store,

Are filled to overflowing.

From many a valley frowned across

By brows of rugged mountains ; From hillsides where, through spongj moss.

Gush out the river fountains ; From quiet farm-fields, green and low,

And bright with blooming clover ; From vales of corn tlie wandering crow

Is o licher hovers over ;

Daj"^ after da}' our Avay has been.

O'er many a hill and hollow ; By lake and stream, by wood and glen,

Our stately drove w(; follow. Through dust-clouds rising thick and dun,

As smoke of battle o'er us. Their white horns glisten in the sun.

Like plumes and crests before us.

We see them slowly climb the hill,

As slow behind it sinking ; Or, thronging close, from roadside rill,

Or sunny lakelet, drinking. Now crowding in the narrow road.

In thick and struggling masses, They glare upon the teamster's load,

Or rattling coach that passes.

Anon, with toss of horn and tail.

And paw of hoof, and bellow, Tliey leap some farmer's broken pale,

O'er meadow-close or fallow. Forth comes the startled goodman ; forth

Wife, children, house-dog, sail}'. Till once more on their dusty path

The baffled truants rally.

We drive no starvelings, scraggy grown, Loose-legged, and ribbed and bony,

Like those who grind their noses dovm On pastures bare and stony, —

Lank oxen, rough as Indian (logs. And cows too lean for shadows,

THE FISHERMEN.

115

Disputing feebly with the frogs The crop of saw-grass meadows !

In our good drove, so sleek and fair,

No bones of leanness rattle ; No tottering hide-bound ghosts are there.

Or Pharaoh's evil cattle. Each stately beeve bespeaks the hand

That fed him unrepining ; The fatness of a goodly land

In each dun hide is shining.

We 've sought them where, in warmest nooks.

The freshest feed is growing, By sweetest springs and clearest brooks

Through honeysuckle flowing ; Wherever hillsides, sloping south.

Are briglit with early grasses, Or, tracking gi-een the lowland's drouth,

The mountain streamlet passes.

But now the day is closing cool,

The woods are dim before us. The white fog of the wayside pool

Is creeping slowly o'er us. The cricket to the frog's bassoon

His shrillest time is keeping ; The sickle of yon setting moon

The meadow-mist is reaping.

The night is falling, comrades mine.

Our footsore beasts are weary, And through you elms the tavern sign

Looks out upon us cheery. To-morrow, eastward with our charge

We '11 go to meet the dawning, Ere yet the pines of Kearsarge

Have seen the sun of morning.

When snow-flakes o'er the frozen earth,

Instead of birds, are flitting ; When children throng the glowing heartli.

And quiet wives are knitting ; While in the fire-light strong and clear

Young eyes of pleasure glisten, To tales of all we see and hear

The ears of home shall listen.

By many a Northern lake and hill,

From many a mountain pasture. Shall Fancy play the Drover still.

And speed the long niglit faster. Then hit us on, througli sliower and sun,

And lieat and (;old, Ije driving ; There 's life alone in duty done,

And rest alone in striving.

THE FISHERMEN.

Hurrah ! the seaward breezes

Sweep down the bay amain ; Heave up, my lads, the anchor !

Run up the sail again ! Leave to the lubber landsmen

The rail-car and the steed ; The stars of heaven shall giude us.

The breath of heaven shall speed.

From the hill-top looks the steeple.

And the lighthouse from the sand ; And the scattered pines are waving

Their farewell from the land. One glance, my lads, behind us,

For the homes we leave one sigh, Ere we take the change and chances*

Of the ocean and the sky.

Now, brothers, for the icebergs

Of frozen Labradoi-, Floating spectral in the moonshine,

Along the low, black shore ! Where like snow the gannet's feathers

On Brador's rocks are shed, And the noisy murr are flying.

Like black scuds, overhead ;

Where in mist the rock is hiding,

And the sharp reef lurks below, And the white squall smites in sum- mer.

And the aiitumn tempests blow ; Where, tlirough gray and rolling vapor,

From evening unto morn, A thousand boats are hailing,

Horn answering unto horn.

Hurrah ! for the Red Island,

AVith the white cross on its crown ! Hurrah ! for Meccatina,

And its mountains bare and brown ! Where the Caribou's tall antlers

O'er the dwarf- wood freely toss. And the footstep of the Mick mack

Has no sound upon the moss.

There we '11 drop our lines, and gather

Old Ocean's ti'casures in. Where'er the mottled mackerel

Turns up a steel -dark fin. The sea 's our field of harvest,

Its scaly tribes our grain ; We '11 reap the teeming waters

As at home they reap the plain !

116

SONGS OF LABOR.

Our wet hands spread the carpet,

And light the hearth of home ; From our tish, as in the old time,

The silver coin shall come. As the demon fled the chamber

Where the fish of Tobit lay. So ours from all our dwellings

Shall frighten AVant away.

Though the mist upon our jackets

In the bitter air congeals. And our lines wind stiff and slowly

From off the frozen reels ; Though the fog be dark around us,

And the storm blow high and loud, "VVe will whistle down the wild wind,

And laugh beneath the cloud !

In the darkness as in daylight.

On the water as on land, God's eye is looking on us.

And beneath us is his hand ! Death will find us soon or later.

On the deck or in the cot ; And we car.not meet him better

Than in working out our lot.

Hurrah ! — hun-ah ! — the west-wind

Comes freshening down the bay. The lising sails are filling, —

Give way, my lads, give way ! Leave the coward landsman clinging

To the dull earth, like a weed, — The stars of heaven shall guide us,

The breath of heaven shall speed !

THE HUSKERS.

It was late in mild October, and the

long autumnal rain Had left the summer harvest-fields all

green with gi-ass again ; The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving

all the woodlands gay With the hues of summer's rainbow, or

the meadow-flowers of May.

Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, th(! sun rose broad and red.

At first a raylcss disk of fire, he bright- ened as he sped ;

Yet, even his noontide glory fell chas- tened and subdued.

On the cornfields and the orchards, and softly pictured wood.

And all that quiet afternoon, slow slop.

ing to the night, He wove with golden shuttle the haze

with yellow light ; Slanting through the painted beeches,

he glorified the hill ; And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay

brighter, gi-eener still.

And shouting boys in woodland haunts

caught glimpses of that sky, Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and

laughed, they knew not why ; And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers,

beside the meadow brooks, Mingled the glow of autumn with the

sunshine of sweet looks.

From spire and barn looked westerly the

patient weathercocks ; But even the birches on the hill stood

motionless as rocks. No sound was in the woodlands, save the

squirrel's dropping shell. And the yellow leaves among the boughs,

low rustling as they fell.

The summer grains were harvested ; the

stubble-fields lay dry, Where June winds rolled, in light and

shade, the pale green waves of rye ; But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys

fringed with wood, Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the

heavy corn crop stood.

Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain,

through husks that, dry and .sere, Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone

out the yellow ear ; Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in

many a venlant fold. And glistened in the slanting light the

pumpkin's sphere of gold.

There WTOUght the busy harvesters ; and

many a creaking wain Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load

of husk and grain ; Till broad and i-ed, as when he rose, the

sun sank down, at last, And like a merry guest's farewell, the

day in brightness passed.

And lo ! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream, and pond.

Flamed the led radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond,

THE LUMBERMEN.

117

Slowly o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder

glory shone, And the sunset and the moonrise were

mingled into one !

As thus into the quiet night the twilight

lapsed away, And deeper in the brightening moon the

tranquil shadows lay ; From many a brown old farm-house, and

hamlet without name, Their milkingand their home-tasks done,

the merry buskers came.

S^vung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from

pitchforks in the mow. Shone dimly down tlie lanterns on the

pleasant scene below ; The growing pile of husks behind, the

golden ears before, And laughing eyes and busy hands and

brown cheeks glimmering o'er.

Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of

look and heart. Talking their old times over, the old men

sat apart ; While, up and down the unhusked pile,

or nestling in its shade. At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout,

the happy children played.

Urged by the good host's daughter, a

maiden young and fair. Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and

pride of soft brown hair. The master of the village school, sleek of

hair and smooth of tongue. To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a

husking-ballad siing.

THE CORN-SONG.

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard !

Heap high the golden corn ! No richer gift has Autumn poured

From out her lavish horn !

Let other lands, exulting, glean

The apple from the pine, The orange from its glossy gi'oen.

The cluster from the vine ;

We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow,

To cheer us when the storm shall drift Our harvest-fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of

flowers. Our ploughs their furrows made. While on the hills the sun and show- ers Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain. Beneath the sun of May, And frightened from our sprouting grain The robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June

Its leaves grew green and fair, And waved in hot midsummer's noon

Its soft and yellow hair.

And now, with aiitumn's moonlit eves.

Its harvest-time has come, We pluck away the frosted leaves,

And bear the treasure home.

There, richer than the fabled gift

Apollo showered of old. Fair hands the broken grain shall silt,

And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk

Around their costly board ; Give us the bowl of samp and milk,

By homespun beauty poured !

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth

Sends up its smoky curls. Who will not thank the kindly earth,

And bless our farmer girls !

Then shame on all the proud and vain. Whose folly laughs to scorn

The blessing of our haril}' grain, Our wealth of golden corn !

Let earth withhold her goodly root.

Let mildew liliglit the rye. Give to the worm the orcliard's fruit.

The wheat-field to the fly :

But let the good old crop adorn

The hills our fathers trod ; Still let us, for his golden corn.

Send up our thanks to God !

118

SONGS OF LABOR.

THE LUMBERMEJf.

WliyDLY round our woodland quarters,

Sad- voiced Autumn grieves ; Thickly down these swelling waters

Float his fallen leaves. Through the tall and naked timber,

Colimiu-like and old, Gleam the sunsets of November,

From their skies of gold.

O'er us, to the soutUand heading.

Screams the gray wild-goose ; On the night-frost sounds the treading

Of the brindled moose. Noiseless creejiing, while we 're sleeping,

Frost his task-work pUes ; Soon, his icy bridges heaping.

Shall our log-piles rise.

When, with sounds of smothered thun- der. On some night of rain. Lake and river break asunder

Winter's weakened chain, Down the wild March flood shall bear them To the saw-mill's wheel. Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them With his teeth of steel.

Be it starlight, be it moonlight.

In these vales below. When tlie earliest beams of sunlight

Streak the mountain's snow. Crisps the hoar-frost, keen and early.

To our hurrying feet. And the foiest echoes clearly

All our blows repeat.

Where the crj'stal Ambijejis

Stretches broad and clear. And Millnoket's ]nne-black ridges

Hide the browsing deer : Wliere. througli lakes and wide morasses.

Or through rocky walls. Swift and strong, Penobscot passes

White with foamy falls ;

Where, through clouds, are glimpses given

Of Katahdin's sides, — Rock and forest piled to heaven.

Torn and jjloiiglied by slides ! Far below, the Indian trapping,

In the sunshine warm ;

Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping Half the peak in storm !

Where are mossy carpets better

Tlian the Persian weaves^ And than Eastern perfumes sweeter

Seem the fading leaves ; And a music wild and solemn.

From the pine-tree's height. Polls its vast and sea-like volume

On the wind of night ;

Make we here our camp of ■winter ;

And, through sleet and snow, Pitchj- knot and beechen splinter

On our hearth shall glow. Here, with mirth to lighten duty,

We shall lack alone Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty,

Childhood's lisping tone.

But their hearth is brighter burning

For our toil to-da}' ; And tlie welcome of returning

Shall our lo.ss repay. When, like seamen from the waters.

From the woods we come. Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters,

Angels of our home !

Not for us the measured ringing

From the village spire, Not for ns the Sabbath singing

Of tlie sweet-voiced choir : Ours the old, majestic temple,

Where God's brightness shines Down the dome so grand and ample,

Propped by lofty pines !

Through each branch -en woven skylight.

Speaks He in the breeze, As of old beneath the twilight

Of lost Eden's trees ! For his ear, the inward feeling

Needs no outwaid tongue ; He can see the spirit kneeling

While the axe is swung.

Heeding truth alone, and turning

From the false and dim. Lamp of toil or altar bui-ning

Are alike to Him. Stiike, then, comrades ! — Trade is waiting

On onr rv.gged toil ; Far siiips waiting for the freighting

Of our woodland s]}oil i

"Down the wild March flood shall bear them." Pice iiS-

THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA.

119

Ships, whose traSicliiiks these highlands,

Bleak and cold, of ours. With the citron-planted islands

Of a clime of tiowers ; To our frosts the tribute bringing

Of eternal heats ; In our lap of winter flinging

Tropic fruits and sweets.

Cheerly, on the axe of labor.

Let the sunbeams dance, Better than the flash of sabre

Or the gleam of lance ! Strike ! — With every blow is given

Freer sun and sky, And the long-hid earth to heaven

Looks, with wondering eye !

Loud behind us grow the murmurs

Of the age to come ; Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers,

Bearing harvest home ! Here her virgin lap with treasures

Shall the green earth fill ; Waving wheat and golden maize-ears

Crown each beechen hill.

Keep who will the city's alleys,

Take the smooth-shorn ])]ain, — Give to us the cedar valleys.

Rocks and hills of Maine ! In our North-land, wild and woody,

Let us still have part : Eugged nurse and mother sturdy,

Hold us to thy heart !

0, our free hearts beat the warmer

For thy breath of snow ; And our tread is all the firmer

For thy rocks below. Freedom, hand in hand with labor,

Walketh strong and brave ; On the forehead of his neighbor

No man 'WTiteth Slave !

Lo, the day breaks ! old Katahdin's

Pine-trees show its fires. While from these dim forest gardens

Rise their blackened spires. Up, my comrades ! up and doing !

Manhood's rugged play Still rene^^^ng, bravely hewing

Through the world our way !

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA.

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking

nortliward far away. O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the

Mexican array, Wlio is losing ? who is winning ? are they

far or come they near ? Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither

rolls the storm we hear.

" Down the hills of Angostura still the

stomi of battle rolls ; Blood is ilowing, men are dying ; God

have mercy on their souls ! " Who is losing? who is winning? —

" Over hill and over plain, I see but smoke of cannon clouding

through the mountain rain."

Holy Mother ! keep our brothers ! Look, Ximena, look once more.

*' Still I see tlie feaiful whirlwind rolling darkly as before,

Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse.

Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course."

Look forth once more, Ximena I "Ah !

the smoke has rolled away ; And I see the Northern rilles gleaming

down the ranks of gray. Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! there

the troop of Minon wheels ; There the Northern horses thunder, mth

the cannon at their heels.

" Jesu, pity ! how it thickens ! now re-

ti'eat and now advance ! Right against the blazing caTinon shivers

Puebla's charging lance ! Down they go, the brave young riders ;

liorse and foot togetlier fall ; Like a ploughsliaie in tlie fallow, through

them ploughs the Northern ball."

120

MISCELLAiS'EOUS.

Nearer came the storm and nearer, roll- ing fast and frightful on !

Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has won ?

" Alas ! alas ! I know not ; friend and foe together fall.

O'er the dpng rush the living : pray, mj' sisters, for them all !

" Lo ! the wind the smoke is lifting :

Blessed Mother, save my brain ! I can see the wounded crawling slowly

out from heaps of slain. Now they stagger, blind and bleeding ;

now they fall, and strive to i-ise ; Hasten, sisters, liaste and save them, lest

they die before our eyes !

" 0 my heart's love ! 0 my dear one !

lay thy poor head on my knee : Post thou know the lips that kiss thee ?

Canst thou hear me ? canst thou

see ? 0 my husband, brave and gentle ! 0 my

Bernal, look once more On the blessed cross before thee ! Mercy !

mercy ! all is o'er ! "

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena ; lay thy

dear one down to rest ; Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the

cross upon his breast ; Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his

funeral masses said : To-day, thou poor bereaved cue, the

living ask thy aid.

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair

and young, a soldier lay. Torn with shot and pierced with lances,

bleeding slow his life away ; But, as tenderly before him the lorn

Ximena knelt. She saw the Northern eagle shining on

his pistol-belt.

With a stifled cry of horror straight she

turned away her head ; With a sad and bitter feeling looked she

back upon her dead ; But she heaid the youth's low moaning,

and his struggling breath of pain, And she raised the cooling water to his

parching lips again.

Whispered low the djing soldier, pressed

her hand and faintly smiled : Was that pitying face his mother's ? did

she watch beside her child ? All his stranger words with meaning her

woman's heart supplied ; Witli her kiss upon his forehead^

" Mother ! " murmured he, and

died !

"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy,

who led thee forth. From some gentle, sad-eyed mother,

weeping, lonely, in the North ! " Spake the mournful ilexic woman, as

she laid him with her dead, And turned to soothe the living, and

bind the wounds which bled.

Look forth once more, Ximena ! " Like

a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountains,

leaving blood and death behind ; Ah ! they jilead in vain for mercy ; in

the dust the wounded strive ; Hide your fiices, holy angels ! 0 thou

Christ of God, forgive ! "

Sink, 0 Night, among thy mountains ■.

let the cool, gray shadows fall ; Dying brothers, iightin^ demons, drop

thy curtain over all ! Through the thickening winter twilight,

wide apart the battle rolled, In its sheath the sabre rested, and the

cannon's Ups grew cold.

But the noble Mexic women still their

holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow,

worn and faint and lacking food. Over weak and sufll'ering brothers, with

a tender care they hung, And the dying foenian blessed them in

a strange and Northern tongue.

Not wholly lost, 0 Father ! is this evil

world of ours ; Upward, through its blood and ashes,

spring afresh the Eden flowers ; From its smoking hell of battle. Love

and Pity send their praj'er. And still tliy white-winged angels hovei

dimly in our air 1

BARCLAY OF URY.

121

FORGIVENESS.

My heart was heavy, for its trust had been Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong ; So, turning gloomilj' from my fellow- men, One summer Sabbath day I strolled among The green mounds of the village burial- place ; Where, pondering how all human love

and hate Find one sad level ; and how, soon or late. Wronged and wrongdoer, each with meekened face. And cold hands folded over a still heart, Pass the green threshold of our common grave. Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart. Awed for myself, and pitjing my race. Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave. Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave !

BARCLAY OF URY.*2

Up the streets of Aberdeen, By the kirk and college green,

Rode the Laird of Ury ; Close behind him, close beside, Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,

Pressed the mob in fury.

Flouted him the drunken churl. Jeered at him the serving-girl.

Prompt to please her master ; And the begging carlin, late Fed and clothed at Ury's gate,

Cursed him as he passed her.

Yet, with calm and stately mien, Up the streets of Aberdeen

Came he slowly riding : And, to all he saw and heard, Answering not with bitter word.

Turning not for chiding.

Came a troop with broadswords swinging. Bits and bridles sharply ringing, Loose and free and froward ; Quoth the foremost, " Hide him down ! Push him ! prick him ! through the town I Drive the Quaksr coward ! "

But from out the thickening crowd Cried a sudden voice and loud :

" Barclay ! Ho ! a Barclay ! " And the old man at his side Saw a comrade, battle tried,

Scarred and sunburned darkly ;

Who with ready weapon bare, Fronting to the troopers there.

Cried aloud : " God save us, Call ye coward him M'ho stood Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood.

With the brave Gustavus ? "

" Nay, I do not need thy sword, Comrade mine," said Ury's lord ;

" Put it up, 1 pray thee : Passive to his hoi}' will. Trust I in my Master still,

Even though he slay me.

" Pledges of thy love and faith, Proved on many a field of death.

Not by me are needed." Marvelled much that henchman bold. That his laird, so stout of old.

Now so meekly pleaded.

" Woe 's the day ! " he sadly said. With a slowly shaking head,

And a look of pity ; " Ury's honest lord reviled, Mock of knave and sport of child,

In his own good city !

"Speak the word, and, master mine, As we charged on Tilly's line,

And his Walloon lancers, Smiting through their midst we '11 teach Civil look and decent speech

To these boyish prancers ! "

" Man- el not, mine ancient friend, Like beginning, like the end " :

Quoth the Laird of Ury, " Is the sinful servant more Than Ins gracious Lord who bore

Bonds and stripes in Jewry ?

" Give me joy that in his name I can bear, with patient frame.

All these vain ones offer ; Wliilo for them He snffereth long. Shall I answer wrong with wrong.

Scoffing with the scoffer ?

122

MISCELLANEOUS.

" Happier 1, with loss of all, Hunted, outlawed, held iu thrall,

With few friends to greet me. Than when reeve and squire were seen, Riding out from Aberdeen,

With bared heads to meet me.

" When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, Blessed me as I jjassed her door ;

And the snooded daughter, Tlirough her casement glancing down, Smiled on him who bore renown

From red fields of slaiighter.

" Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, Hard the old friend's falling off.

Hard to learn forgiving : But the Lord his owm rewards, And his love with theirs accords,

Warm and fresh and living.

" Through this dark and stormy night Faith beholds a feeble light

Up the blackness streaking ; Knowing God's ovra time is best, In a patient hope 1 rest

For the full day-breaking ! "

So the Laird of Ury said. Turning slow his horse's head

Towards the Tolbooth prison, Where, through iron gi-ates, he heard Poor (liscij)les of the Word

Preach of Christ arisen !

Not in vain. Confessor old. Unto us the tale is told

Of thy day of trial ; Every age on him, who strays From its broad and beaten ways,

Pours its sevenfold vial.

Happy he whose inward ear Angel comfortings can hear.

O'er the rabble's laughter ; And while Hatred's fagots burn, Glim])ses tlirough the smoke discern

Of the good hereafter.

Knowing this, that never yet Share of Truth was vainly set

In tlie world's wide fallow ; After hands shall sow the seed, After hands from hill and mead

Reap the harvests yellow.

Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, Alust the moi-al pioneer

From the Future borrow ; Clothe the waste with dreams of gi-ain. And, on midnight's sky of rain.

Paint the golden morrow !

WHAT THE VOICE SAID.

Maddened by Earth's wrong and evil, " Lord ! " 1 cried iu sudden ire,

" From thy right hand, clothed with thunder. Shake the bolted fire !

" Love is lost, and Faith is dying ;

With the bnite the man is sold ; And the dro])ping blood of labor

Hardens into gold.

" Here the dying wail of Famine, Tliere the battle's gi'oan of pain ;

And, in silence, smooth-faced JMammon Rea})ing men like grain.

" 'Where is God, that we should fear Him?'

Thus the earth-born Titans say ; ' God ! if thou art living, hear us ! '

Thus the weak ones pray."

"Tliou, the patient Heaven ujibraid-

ii'g." Spake a solemn Voice witliiu ; " Weary of our Loi-d's forbearance, Art tliou frc(! from sin ?

" Fearless brow to Him ni)lifting. Canst thou for his thunders call,

Knowing that to guilt's attraction Evermore they fall ?

" Know'st thou not all germs of evil In thy heart await their tiuie ?

Not thyself, but God's restraining, Stays their gi'owth of crime.

" Couldst thou boast, 0 cliild of weak- ness !

O'er the sons of wrong and strife. Were their strong temptations planted

In thy path of life ?

' ' Thou hast seen two streamlets gush, ing

From one fountain, clear and free, But V)y widely varying channels

Searching for the sea.

WORSHIP.

123

" Glideth one through greenest valleys, Kissing them with lips still sweet ;

One, mad roaring down the mountains. Stagnates at their feet.

"Is it choice whereby the Parsee Kneels before his mother's fire ?

In his black tent did the Tartar Choose his wandering sire ?

*' He alone, whose hand is bounding Human power and human will.

Looking through each soul's surrounding, Knows its good or ill.

" For thyself, while wrong and sorrow Make to thee their strong appeal,

Coward wert thou not to utter What the heart must feel.

" Earnest words must needs be spoken When the warm heart bleeds or burns

With its scorn of wrong, or pity For the wronged, by turns.

" But, by all thy nature's weakness, Hidden faults and follies known.

Be thou, in rebuking evil. Conscious of thine own.

" Not the less shall stern-eyed Duty To thy lips her trumpet set,

Bi't with harsher blasts shall mingle Wailings of regret."

Cy^se not, Voice of holy speaking, Teacher sent of God, be near.

Whispering through the day's cool silence. Let my spirit hear !

r>o, when thoughts of evil-doers Waken scorn, or hatred move.

Shall a mournful fellow-feeling Tp'mper all with love.

TO DELAWARE.

[Written during the discussion in the Legisla- ture of that Sfcite, in tlie winter of 1846-47, of a bill for the abohtion of slavery.]

Ihrice welcome to thy .sisters of the East,

To the .strong tillers of a rugged home,

^ith spray-wet locks to Northern winds

released,

Anrl hardy feet ■o'^erswept by ocean's

♦bam ;

And to the young n\nnphs of the golden West, Whose harvest mantles, fringed with prairie bloom. Trail in the sunset, — 0 redeemed and ble.st. To the warm welcome of thy sisters come ! Broad Pennsylvania, down her sail-white bay Shall give thee joy, and Jersey from her plains. And the great lakes, where echo, free alway. Moaned never shoreward with the clank of chains. Shall weave new sun-bows in their toss

ing spray. And all their waves keepgi'ateful holiday. And, smiling on thee through her moun- tain rains, Vermont shall bless thee ; and the Granite peaks, And vast Katahdin o'er his woods, shall

wear Their snow-crowns brighter in the cold keen air ; And Massachusetts, with her rugged cheeks O'errun with grateful tears, shall turn to thee, 'When, at thy bidding, the electric wire Shall tremble northward with its words of fire ; Glory and praise to God ! another State is free !

WOESHIP.

" Pure religion, and undefiled, before God and the Father is this : To visit the widows and the fathcrles.s in their affliction, and to keep liiiuselj unspotted from the world." — Janies i. 2".

The Pagan's myths through marble lipe are spoken. And ghosts of old Beliefs still flit and moan Round fane and altar overthrown and broken. O'er tree-groAvn barrow and gray ring of stone.

Blind Faith had martyrs in those old high places, The Syrian hill grove and the Dniid'a wood.

124

MISCELLANEOUS.

With mother's offering, to the Fiend's embraces, Bone of their bone, and blood of their own blood.

Red altars, kindling through that night

of error,

Smoked with warm blood beneath the

cruel eye

Of lawless Power and sanguinary Terror,

. i Throned on the cii-cle of a pitiless sky ;

Beneath whose baleful shadow, overcast- ing All heaven above, and blighting earth below. The scourge gi-ew red, the lij) grew pale with fasting. And man's oblation was his fear and woe !

Hien through great temples swelled the dismal moaning Of dirge-like music and sepulchral prayer ; Pale wizard priests, o'er occult symbols droning, S^vung their white censers in the bur- dened air :

As if the pomp of rituals, and the savor

Of gums and spices could the Unseen

One please ;

As if his ear could bend, with childish

favor.

To the poor flattery of the organ keys !

Feet red from war-fields trod the church aisles holy. With trembling reverence : and the oppressor tliere. Kneeling before his priest, abased and lowly. Crushed human hearts beneath liis knee of prayer.

Not such the service the benignant Father Requireth at his earthly children's hands : Kot the poor offering of vain rites, but rather The simple duty man from man de- mands.

For Earth lie asks it : the full joy of Heaven Knoweth no change of waning or in- crease ;

The great heart of the Infinite beats even. Untroubled flows the river of his peace.

He asks no taper lights, on high sur- rounding The priestly altar and the saintly grave, Nodolorous chant nor organ nmsicsound-

Nor incense clouding up the twilight nave.

For he whom Jesus loved hath truly spoken : The holier worship which he deigns to bless Restores the lost, and binds the spuit broken. And feeds the widow and the fatherless !

Types of our human weakness and our sorrow ! Who lives unhauuted by his loved ones dead ? Who, Avith vain longing, seeketh not to borrow From stranger eyes the home lights which have fled ?

0 brother man ! fold to thy heart thj- brother ; Where pity dwells, the peace of God is tlien; ; To worshij) rightly is to love each other, Each smile a hynm, each kindly deed a prayer.

Follow with reverent steps the great ex- ample Of Him whose holy work was "doing good " ; So shall the wide earth seem our Father's temple. Each loving life a psalm of gratitude.

Then shall all shackles fall ; the stormy clangor Of wild war music o'er the earth shall cease ; Love shall tread out the baleful fire of anger, And in its ashes plant the tree of peace .'

THE DEMON OF THE STUDY.

The Bro^vnie sits in the Scotchman'* room, And eats his meat and drinks his ale,

THE DEMON OF THE STUDY.

125

And beats the maid ^\^th her unused

broom, And the lazy lout with his idle flail, But he sweeps the floor and threshes the

corn, And hies him away ere the break of

dawn.

The shade of Denmark fled from the sun. And the Cocklane ghost from the barn- loft cheer.

The fiend of Faust was a faithful one, Agrijipa's demon wrought in fear,

And the devil of Martin Luther sat

By the stout monk's side in social chat.

The Old Man of the Sea, on the neck of him Who seven times crossed the deep, T\vined closely each lean and witliered limb, Like the nightmare in one's sleep. But he drank of the wine, and Sindbad cast The evil weight from his back at last.

But the demon that coraeth day by day To my quiet room and fireside nook.

Where the casement light falls dim and gray On faded painting and ancient book,

Is a sorrier one than any whose names

Are chronicled well by good King James.

No bearer of burdens like Caliban, No runner of errands like Ariel,

He comes in the shape of a fat old man. Without rap of knuckle or pull of beU ;

And whence he comes, or whither he goes,

I know as I do of the wind which blows.

A. stout old man with a greasy hat Slouched heavily down to his dark, red nose. And two gray eyes enveloped in fat, Looking through glasses with iron bows. Read ye, and heed ye, and ye who can, Guard well your doors from that old man !

He comes with a careless "How d' ye do ? " And seats himself in my elbow-chair ;

And my morning paper aiul pamphlet new Fall forthwitli under liis special care |

And he wipes his glasses and clears his j throat,

And, button by button, unfolds his coat

And then he reads from paper and book,

In a low and husky asthmatic tone,

With the stolid sameness of posture and

look

Of one who reads to himself alone ;

And hour after hour on my senses come

That husky wheeze and that dolorous

hum.

The price of stocks, the auction sales. The poet's song and the lover's glee.

The horrible murders, the seaboard gales. The marriage list, and the jeu cV esprit.

All reach my ear in the self-same tone, —

1 shudder at each, but the fiend reads on !

0, sweet as the lapse of water at noon

O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree,

The sigh of the wind in the woods of June,

Or sound of flutes o'er a moonlight sea,

Or the low soft music, perchance, which

seems To float through the slumbering singer's dreams,

So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone. Of her in whose features I sometimes look. As 1 sit at eve by her side alone,

And we read by turns from the self- same book, — Some tale perhaps of the olden time. Some lover's romance or quaint old rhyme.

Then when the story is one of woe, — Some prisoner's plaint through his dun- geon-bar.

Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low Her voice sinks down like a moan afar ;

And I seem to hear that prisoner's wail.

And his face looks on me worn and pale.

And when she reads some merrier song, Her voice is glad as an April bird's.

And when the tale is of war and wrong, A trumpet's sunnnons is in her words,

And the rush of tlie hosts 1 sin-m to hear.

And see the tossing of plume and spear ! —

0, pitj'' me then, when, day by daj',

Tlie stout fiend darkens my parlordoor ; And reads me perchance the self-same lay AVhich melted in music, the night be- fore. From lips as the lips of Hylas sweet. And moved like twin roses which zephyrs meet !

126

MISCELLANEOUS.

I cross my floor with a nervous tread, I whistle and laugh and sing and shout,

I flourish my cane above his head. And stir up the fire to roast him out ;

I topple the chaire, and drum on the pane,

And press my hands on my ears, in vain !

I 've studied Glanville and James the wise, And wizard black-letter tomes which treat Of demons of every name and size. Which a Christian man is presumed to meet, But never a liint and never a line Can I find of a reading fiend like mine.

I 've crossed the Psalter with Brady and Tate, And laid the Primer above them all, I 've nailed a horseshoe over the grate.

And hung a wig to m)' parlor wall Once worn by a learned Judge, they

say, At Salem court in the witchcraft day !

*' Covjuro U, scderatissime, Abire ad tuum locum ! " — still

Like a visible nightmare he sits by me, — The exorcism has lost its skill ;

And I hear again in m)' haunted room

The husky wheeze and the dolorous hum !

Ah ! — commend me to !Mary Magdalen

With her sevenfold plagues, — to the

wandeiing Jew,

To the terrors which haunted Orestes

when

The furies his midnight curtains drew,

But charm him ofl", ye who charm him

can. That reading demon, that fat old man !

THE PUMPKIN.

0, GREENLY and fair in the lands of the sun.

The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,

And the rock and the tree and the cot- tage enfold,

With bioad leaves all greennesB and blossoms all gold.

Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once gi'ew,

While he waited to know that his warn- ing was tiiie,

And longed for the storm-cloud, and

listened in vain For the rush of the whirlwind and red

fire-rain.

On the banks of the Xenil the dark

Spanish maiden Comes up with the fruit of the tangled

vine laden ; And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to

behold Through orange-leaves shining the broad

spheres of gold ; Yet Avrth dearer delight from his home

in the North, On the fields of his harvest the Yankee

looks forth. Where crook-necks are coiling and yel- low fiTiit shines, And the sun of Sejitember melts down

on his vines.

Ah ! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,

From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest.

When the gray-haired New-Englander sees round his board

The old broken links of afi"ection re- stored,

WTien the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more.

And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before.

What moistens the lip and what bright- ens the eye ?

What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie ?

0, — fruit loved of boyhood ! — the old

days recalling, "NAlien wood-gi'ajies were purjiling ard

brown nuts were falling ! When wild, ugly faces we carved in its

skin. Glaring out through the dark with a

candle within ! When we laughed round the corn-heap,

with hearts all in tune. Our chair a broad pumpkin, — our ]an»

tem the moon, Telling tales of the fairy who travelled

like steam, In a punii)kin-sliell coach, with two rats

for her team !

HAMPTON BEACH.

127

Then thanks for thy present ! — none sweeter or better

E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter !

Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry- more fine,

Brighter eyus never watched o'er its baking, than thine !

And the prayer, which my month is too full to express,

Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less.

That the days of thy lot may be length- ened below,

And the fame of thy worth like a pimip- kin-vine grow,

And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky

Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie !

EXTRACT FROM "A NEW ENG- LAND LEGEND."

How has New England's romance fled,

Even as a vision of the morning ! Its rites foredoue, — its guardians dead, — Its priestesses, bereft of dread.

Waking the veriest urchin's scorning ! Gone like the Indian wizai'd's yell

And fire-dance round the magic rock, Forgotten like tlie Druid's spell

At moonrise by his holy oak ! No more along the shadowy glen. Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men ; No more the unquiet churchyard dead Glimpse upward from their turfy bed.

Startling tlie traveller, late and lone ; As, on some niglit of starless weather, riiey silently commune together.

Each sitting on his own head-stone ! The roofless house, decayed, deserted, Its living tenants all departed, No longer rings with midnight revel Of witch, or ghost, or goljliu evil ; No pale blue flame sends out its flashes Tlu'ough creviced roof and shattered

sashes ! — The witch-gi'ass round tlie hazel spring May sharply to the night-an sing. But there no more shall withered hags Refresh at ease their broomstick nags, Or taste tliose hazel-shadowcnl waters As beverage meet for Satan's daugliters ; No more their mimic tones be lieard, — The mew of cat, — the chii-p of bird, —

Shrill blending with the hoarser laughtei Of the fell demon following after ! The cautious goodman nails no more A horseshoe on his outer door, Lest some unseemly hag should fit To his own mouth lier bridle-bit, — The goodwife's churn no more refuses Its wonted culinary uses Until, with heated needle burned. The witch has to her place returned ! Ox(,i- witches are no longer old And wrinkled beldames, Satan-sold, But young and gay and laughing cvei

tures. With the heart's sunshine on their fea- tures, — Their sorcery — the light which danceo Where the raised lid unveils its glances; Or that low-breathed and gentle tone.

The music of Love's twilight hours. Soft, dream-like, as a fairy's moan

Above her nightly closing flowers, Sweeter than that which sighed of yor» Along the charmed Ausonian shore t Even she, our own weird heroine. Sole Pythoness of ancient Lynn,

Sleeps calmly where the living laid het And the wide realm of sorcery, Left by its latest mistress free,

Hatii found no gray and skilled in- vader : So perished Albion's "glammarye,"

With him in Melrose Abbey sleeping His charmed torch beside his knee. That even the dead himself might see

The magic scroll within his keeping. And now our modern Yankee sees Nor omens, spells, nor mysteries ; And naught above, below, around, Of life or" death, of sight or sound,

Whate'er its nature, form, or look Excites his terror or surprise, — All seeming to his knowing eyes Familiar as his " catechize,"

Or " Webster's Spelling-Book."

HAMPTON BEACH.

The sunlight glitters keen and bright.

Where, miles away, Lies stretching to my dazzled sight A luminous belt, a misty light. Beyond the dark pine blutt"s and wasteii of sandy gray.

The tremulous sliadow of the Sea 1 Against its ground

128

MISCELLANEOUS.

Of silvery light, rock, hill, and tree. Still as a picture, clear and free, With varying outline mark the coast for miles around.

On — on — -we tread with loose-flung rein Our seaward way. Through dark-green fields and hlos-

soming grain. Where the wild brier-rose sku-ts the lane. And bends above our heads the flowering locust spray.

Ha ! like a kind hand on my brow

Comes this fresh breeze, ■'ooling its dull and feverish glow, Wliile through my being seems to flow f ne breath of a new life, — the healing of the seas !

Kow rest we, where this grassy mound

His feet hath set In the gi'eat waters, which have bound His gi'anite ankles greenly round With long find tangled moss, and weeds vitli cool spray v/et.

Good by to pain and care ! I take

Mine ease to-day : Here where these sunny waters break, And ripples this keen lireeze, I shake ^11 burdens from the heart, al) weary thoughts away.

I draw a freer breath — I seem

Like all I see — Waves in the sun — the white-winged

gleam Of sea-birds in the slanting beam — And far-off sails which flit before the south-wind free.

So when Time's veil shall fall asunder.

The soul may know No fearful change, nor sudden wonder. Nor sink the weight of mystery under. But with the upward rise, and with the vastness gi'ow.

And all we shrink from now may seem

No new revealing ; Familiar as our childhood's stream, Or pleasant memory of a dream die loved au<l olifrished Past upon the new life stealing.

Serene and mild the untried light

ilay have its dawning ; And, as in summer's northern night The evening and the dawn unite, The sunset hues of Time blend with the soul's new morning.

I sit alone ; in foam and spray

AVave after wave Breaks on the rocks which, stern and

Shoulder the broken tide away. Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy cleft and cave.

What heed I of the dusty land

And noisy town ? I see the mighty deep expand From its white line of glimmering sand To where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shuts down !

In listless quietude of mind,

I yield to all The change of cloud and wave and

wind And passive on the flood reclined, I wander with the waves, and with them rise and fall.

But look, thou dreamer ! — wave and shore In shadow lie ; The night-^>nnu warns me back once

more To where, my native hill-tops o'er. Bends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset sky.

So then, beach, blufl", and wave, fare- well ! I bear with me No token stone nor glittering shell, But long and oft shall Memory tell Of this brief thoughtful hour of musing by the Sea.

LINES,

WRITTEN ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF SILAS AVRIGHT OF NEW YORK.

As they who, tossing midst the storm ai night. While turning shoreward, where a beacon shone.

LINES.

129

Meet the walled blackness of the heaven alone, So, on the turbulent waves of party tossed, In gloom and tempest, men have seen thy light Quenched in the darkness. At thy hour of noon. While life was pleasant to thy undimmed

sight. And, day by day, within thy spirit grew A holier hope than young Ambition knew, As through thy rural quiet, not in vain, Pierced the sharp thrill of Freedom's cry of pain, Man of the millions, thou art lost too soon ! Portents at which the bravest stand

aghast, — The birth-throes of a Future, strange and vast. Alarm the land ; yet thou, so wise and strong, Suddenly summoned to the burial bed, Lapped in its slumbers deep and ever long, Hear'st not the tumult surging overhead. Who now shall rally Freedom's scatter- ing host ? Who wear the mantle of the leader lost ? Who stay the march of slavery ? He whose voice Hath called thee from thy task-field

shall not lack Yet bolder champions, to beat bravely back The ^vl■ong which, through his poor ones,

reaches Him : Yet firmer hands shall Freedom's torch- lights trim, And wave them high across the abys- mal black. Till bound, dumb millions Hiere shall see them and rejoice. mh7nn.,lU~.

LINES,

ACCOMPANYING MANUSCRIPTS PRESENT- ED TO A FRIEND.

'T IS said that in the Holy Land The angels of the place have blessed

The pilgrim's bed of desert sand. Like Jacob's stone of rest.

That down the hush of Syrian skies Some svreet-voiced saint at twilight sings

9

The song whose holy symphonies Are beat by unseen wings ;

Till starting from his sandy bed, The wayworn wanderer looks to see

The halo of an angel's head

Shine through the tamarisk-tree.

So through the shadows of my way Thy smile hath fallen soft and clear,

So at the weary close of day

Hath seemed thy voice of cheer.

That pilgrim pressing to his goal May pause not for tlie vision's sake.

Yet all fair things within his soul The thought of it shall wake :

The gi-aceful palm-tree by the well. Seen on the far horizon's rim ;

The dark eyes of the fleet gazelle. Bent timidly on him ;

Each pictured saint, whose golden hair Streams sunlike through the convent's gloom ;

Pale shrines of martjTS young and fair, And loving Mary's tomb ;

And thus each tint or shade M'hich fall*, From sunset cloud or waving tree.

Along my pilgi-im path, recalls The pleasant thought of thee.

Of one in sun and shade the same. In weal and woe my steady friend,

Whatever by that holy name The angels comprehend.

Not blind to faults and follies, thou Hast never failed the good to see,

Nor judged by one unseemly bough The upward-struggling tree.

These light leaves at thy feet I lay, — Poor common thoughts on common things,

Which time is shaking, day by day. Like feathers from his wings, —

Chance shootings from a fiail life-tree. To nurturing care but little known.

Their good was partly learned of thee. Their folly is my own.

That tree still clasps the kindly mould. Its leaves still drink the twiiig)^t dew.

130

MISCELLANEOUS.

And wea\ang its pale gi-eeii with gold, Still shines the sunlight through.

There still the morning zephjTS plaj% And there at times the spring bird sings,

And mossy tnmk and fading spray Are liowered witli glossy wings.

Yet, even in genial sun and rain.

Root, branch, and leaflet foil and fade ;

The wanderer on its lonely plain Erelong shall miss its shade.

0 friend beloved, whose curions skill Keeps bright the last year's leaves and tlowers, With warm, glad sunmier tlioughts to iill The cold, dark, winter hours !

Pressed on thy heart, tlie leaves I bring May well defy the wintry cold.

Until, in Heaven's eternal spring, Life's fairer ones unfold.

THE REWAED.

Who, looking backward from his man- hood's piinie, Sees not the spectre of his misspent time ?

And, through the shade Of funeral cj-press jdanted thick behind. Hears no reproachful whisper on the wind From his loved dead ?

Wlio bears no trace of passion's evil

force ? Who shuns thy sting, 0 terrible Re- morse ? — Who does not cast On the tlironged pages of his memory's

book, At times, a sa j and half-reluctant look, Regretful of the past ?

Alas! — the evil wliich we fain would

shun We do, and leave the wished-for good undone : Our strength to-day Is but to-morrow's weakness, prone to

fall; Poor, blind, unprofitable servants all Are we alway.

Yet who, thus looking backward o'ei

his years. Feels not his eyelids wet with gi-atefnl tears. If he hath been Permitted, weak and sinful as he was, To cheer and aid, in some ennobling cause. His fellow-men ?

If he hath hidden the outcast, or let in A ray of sunshine to the cell of sin, —

If he hatli lent Strength to the weak, and, in an hour of

need. Over the suffering, mindless of his creed

Or home, hath bent.

He has not lived in vain, and while he

gives The praise to Him, in whom he moves and lives. With thankful heart ; He gazes backward, and with liope

before. Knowing that from his works he never- more Can henceforth part

RAPHAEL.

I .'JHALL not soon forget that sight : The glow of autumn's westering day,

A hazy warmth, a dieamy light. On Raphael's pictui'e lay.

It was a simple print I saw. The fair face of a musing boy ;

Yet, while I gazed, a sense of awe Seemed blending with my joy.

A simple print : — the graceful flow Of boyhood's soft and wavy liair.

And flesh young lip and cheek, and brow Unmarked and clear, were there.

Yet tlirough its sweet and calm repose I saw the inward spirit shine ;

It was as if before me rose The white veil of a shrine.

As if, as Gothland's sage has told, The hidden life, the man within.

Dissevered from its frame and mould, Bj' mortal eye wei'e seen.

LUCY HOOPER.

131

Was it the lifting of that eye, The waving of that pictured hand ?

Loose as a cloud- wreatli on the sky, I saw the walls expand.

The narrow room had vanished, — space. Broad, luminous, remained alone.

Through which all hues and shapes of grace And beauty looked or shone.

Around the mighty master came

The marvels wliich his pencil wi-ought.

Those miracles of power whose fame Is wide as human thought.

There drooped thy more than mortal face,

0 Mother, beautiful and mild ! Enfolding in one dear embrace

Thy Saviour and thy Child !

The rapt brow of the Desert John ;

The awful glory of that day When all tlie Father's brightness shone

Through manhood's veil of clay

And, midst gi'ay prophet forms, and wild

Dark visions of the days of old, How sweetly woman's beauty smiled

Through locks of brown and gold !

There Fornarina's fair young face Once more upon her lover shone,

Whose model of an angel's gi'ace He borrowed from her own.

Slow passed that vision from my view, But not the lesson which it taught ;

The soft, calm shadows which it threw Still rested on my thought :

Thc! truth, that painter, bard, and sage. Even in Earth's cold and changeful clime,

Plant for their deathless heritage The fruits and ilowers of time.

We shape ourselves the joy or fear Of wliich the coming life is made,

i^nd fill our Future's atmosphere AVith sunshine or with shade.

riie tissue of the I>ife to be

And in the field of Destiny We reap as we have sown.

Still shall the soul around it call The shadows which it gathered here,

And, painted on the eternal wall. The Past shall reappear.

Think ye the notes of holy song On Milton's tuneful ear have died ?

Think ye that Raphael's angel throng Has vanished from his side ?

0 no ! — We live our life again ;

Or warmly touched, or coldly dim. The pictures of the Past remain, —

Man's works shall follow him !

LUCY HOOPER."

They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, — That all of thee we loved and cher

ished Has with thy summer roses per ished ; And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen niemorj^ in its stead, — The twilight of a parted day

Whose fading light is cold and vain The heart's faint echo of a strain Of low, sweet music passed away. That true and lo\'ing heart, — that gift

Of a mind, earnest, clear, profound. Bestowing, with a glad unthrift. Its sunny light on all around, Affinities which onlj' could Cleave to the jiure, the true, and good.^ And sj'mpathies which found no rest, Save with the loveliest and best. Of them — of thee — remains there naught But sorrow in the mourner's Itrcast ? — A shadow in the land of thought ? No ! — Even iny weak and trembling faith Can lift for thee the veil whic-h doubt And human fear have drawn about The all-awaiting scene of death.

Even as thou wast I see thee still ; And, save the absence of all ill And pain and weariness, whicli here Summoned the sigh or wrung the ti'ar^ Tlie same as when, two summers back, Beside our childliood's Merrimack,

We weave witli colors all our own, I I saw thy dark eye wander o'er

132

MISCELLANEOUS.

Stream, siiimy upland, rocKy shore, And heard thy low, soft voice alone Midst lapse of waters, and the tone Of pine-leaves by the west-wind blown. There 's not a charm of sonl or brow, —

Of all we knew and loved in thee, — But lives in holier beauty now,

Baptized in immortality ! Not mine the sad and freezing dream

Of souls that, witli theireaithly mould.

Cast oft' the loves and joys of old, — Unbodied, — like a pale moonbeam.

As pure, as jtassionless, and cold ; Nor mine the hope of Indra's son,

Of slumbering in oblivion's rest. Life's myriads blending into one, —

In blank annihilation blest ; Dust-atoms of the infinite, — Sparks scattered from the central light, And winning back through mortal pain Their old unconsciousness again. No ! — 1 liaveFUiENDsin Spirit Land, — Not shadows in a shadowy band.

Not otliers, but tJiemselves are they. And still I think of them the same As when the Master's summons came ; Their change, — the holy morn-light

breaking Upon the dream-worn sleeper, waking, —

A change from twilight into day.

They 've laid thee midst the household

gi-aves, "VNHiei-e father, brother, sister lie ; Below thee sweep the dark blue waves,

Above thee bends the summer sky. Thy own loved church in .sadness read Her solemn ritual o'er tliy head, ^nd blessed and hallowed with her

prayer The turf laid lightly o'er thee there. That church, whose rites and liturgy, Sublime and old, were ti-uth to thee, Undoubted to thj' bosom taken. As symbols of a faith unshaken. Even I, of simpler views, could feel The beauty of thy trust and zeal ; And, owning not thy creed, could see How deep a truth it seemed to thee. And liow thy fervent heart had thrown 0 er all, a coloring of its own, /»d kindled \\\>, intense and warm, A life in every rite and form, /^B, when on Chebar's banks of old, The Hebrew's gorgeous vision rolled, A spirit filled the vast machine, — A Me ' ' within the wheels " was seen.

Farewell ! A little time, and we

Who knew thee well, and loved theft here, One after one shall follow thee

As pilgrims through the gate of fear, "Which opens on eternity. Yet shall we cherish not the less

All that is left our hearts meanwhile ; The memory of thy loveliness

Shall round our weary pathway smile, Like moonlight when the sun has set, — A sweet and tender radiance yet. Thoughts of thy clear-eyed sense of duty.

Thy generous scorn of all things ■wrong, — The truth, the strength, the gi-aceful beauty

Which blended in thy song. All lovely tilings, by thee beloved,

Shall whis])er to our hearts of thee ; These green liills, where thy childhood roved, —

Yon river winding to the sea, — The sunset light of autumn eves

Reflecting on the deep, still fiords. Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves

Of rainbow-tinted woods, — These, in our view, shall lienceforth take A tenderer meaning for thy sake ; And all thou lovedst of earth and sky. Seem sacred to thy memory.

CHANNING."

Not vainly did old ])oets tell. Nor vainly did old genius paint

God's great and crowning miracle, — - The hero and tlie saint !

For even in a faithless day

Can we our sainted ones discern ;

And feel, while with them on the way. Our hearts within us burn.

And thus the common tongue and pen Which, world-Avide, eclio Channing's fame.

As one of Heaven's anointed men. Have sanctified his name.

In vain shall Rome her portals bar. And shut from him her .saintly prize,

AVhoni, in the world's great cal'^noKii All men shall canonize.

TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORKS.

133

By Narragansett's sunny bay, Beneatli his green embowering wood,

To me it seems but yesterday Since at his side I stood.

The slopes lay green with summer rains. The western wind blew fresh and free,

And glimmered down the orchard lanes The white surf of the sea.

With us was one, who, calm and true, Life's highest purpose understood.

And, like his blessed Master, knew The joy of doing good.

Unlearned, unknown to lettered fame, Yet on the lips of England's poor

And toiling millions dwelt his name. With blessings evermore.

Unknown to power or place, yet where The sun looks o'er the Carib sea.

It blended with the freeman's prayer And song of jubilee.

He told of England's sin and wrong, — Tlie ills her suffering children know, — •

The squalor of the city's throng, — The green field's want and woe.

O'er Channing's face the tenderness Of sympathetic sorrow stole.

Like a still shadow, passionless, — - The sorrow of the soul.

But when the generous Briton told How hearts were answering to his own.

And Freedom's rising murmur rolled Up to the dull-eared throne,

I saw, methought, a glad surprise

Thrill through that frail and pain- worn frame.

And, kindling in those deep, calm eyes, A still and earnest flame.

His few, brief words were such as move The human heart, — the Faith-sown seeds

Which riiicn in the soil of love To high heroic deeds.

No bars of sect or clime were felt, — '^\ic Babel strife of tongues had censed, —

And at one common altar knelt The Quaker and the priest.

And not in vain : with strength renewed. And zeal refreshed, and hope less dim,

For that brief meeting, each pursued The path allotted him.

How echoes yet each Western hill And vale with Channing's dyinf word !

How are the hearts of freemen still By that great warning stirred !

The stranger treads his native soil. And pleads, with zeal uiifelt before

The honest right of British toil. The claim of England's poor.

Before him time-wi-ought barriers fall, Old fears subside, old hatreds melt,

And, stretching o'er the sea's blue wall. The Saxon greets the Celt.

The yeoman on the Scottish lines, The Sheffield grinder, worn and grim,

The delver in the Cornwall mines. Look up with hope to him.

Swart smiters of the glowing steel. Dark feeders of the forge's flame,

PaL watchers at the loom and wheel. Repeat his honored name.

And thus the influence of that hour Of converse on Rhode Island's strand

Lives in the calm, resistless power Which moves our father-land.

God blesses still the generous thought.

And still the fitting word He speeds And Truth, at his reqiiiring taught,

He quickens into deeds.

Where is the victory of the grave ?

What dust upon the spirit lies ? God keeps the sacred life he gave, ~-

The prophet never dies !

TO THE MEMORY OF

CHARLES B. STORKS,

LATE PRESIDENT OF WESTERN RESERVC COLLEGE.

Tiiou hast fallen in thine armor. Thou martyr of the Lord !

134

MISCELLANEOUS.

With thy last breath crying, — "On- ward ! "

And thy hand upon the sword. The haughty heart deridetli,

And the sinful lip reddles, But the blessing of the perishing

Around tliy pillow smiles !

When to our cup of trembling

The added drop is given, And the long-suspended thunder

Falls terribly fi'om Heaven, — When a new and fearful freedom

Is proffered of the Lord To the slow-consuming Famine, —

The Pestilence and Sword ! —

When the refuges of Falsehood

Shall be swept away ;n wrath, And the temple shall be shaken,

With its idol, to the earth, — Shall not thy words of warning

Be all remembered then ? And thy now unheeded message

Bum in the hearts of men ?

Oppression's hand may scatter

Its nettles on thy tomb, And even Christian bosoms

Deny thy memory room ; For lying lips shall torture

Th}-^ mercy into crime, And the slanderer shall flourish

As the baj'-tree for a time.

But where the south-wind lingers

On Carolina's pines. Or falls the careless sunbeam

Down Georgia's golden mines, — Where now beneath his burthen

The toiling slave is driven, — Where now a tyrant's niockerj'

Is offered unto Heaven, —

Where Mammon hath its altars

Wet o'er with human blood, And pride and lust debases

The workmanship of God, — ■ Tliere shall thy praise be spoken,

Redeemed from Falsehood's ban, When the fetters shall be broken,

And the slave shall be a man I

Joy to thy spirit, brother !

A thousand hearts are warm, — (i. thousand kindred bosoms

Are baring to the storm.

What though red-handed Violence' With secret Fraud combine ?

The wall of fire is round us, — Our Present Help was thine.

Lo, — the waking up of nations.

From Slavery's fatal sleep, — The murmur of a Universe, —

Deej) calling unto Deep ! Joy to thy spirit, brother !

On every wind of heaven The onward cheer and summons

Of Fkeedoji's a^oice is given !

Glory to God forever !

Beyond the despot's will The soul of Freedom liveth

Imperishable still. The words which thou hast uttered

Aie of that soul a ])art, And the good seed thou hast scattered

Is springing from the heart.

In the evil days before us.

And tlie trials yet to come, =— In the shadow of the prison.

Or the cruel martATdom, — We will think of thee, 0 biother !

And thy sainted name shall be In the blessing of the captive,

And the anthem of the free. 1834.

LINES,

ON THE DEATH OF S. 0. TOIIREY.

Gone before us, 0 our brother.

To the spirit-land ! Vainly look we for another

In thy place to stand. Who shall oiler youth and beauty

On the wasting shrine Of a stern and lofty duty.

With a faith like thine ?

0, thy gentle smile of greeting

Who again shall see ? Who amidst the solemn meeting

Gaze again on thee ? — '\\'ho, when peril gathers o'er us.

Wear so calm a brow ? Who, with evil men before us.

So serene as thou ?

Early hath the spoiler found thee, Brother of our love !

A LAMENT.

135

Autumn's faded earth around thee,

And its storms above ! Evermore that turf lie lightly,

And, with future showers, O'er thy slumbers fresh and brightly

Blow the summer flowers !

In the locks thy forehead gracing.

Not a silvery streak ; Nor a line of sorrow's tracing

On thy fair young cheek ; Eyes of light and lips of roses,

Such as Hylas wore, — Over all that curtain closes.

Which shall rise no more !

Will the vigil Love is keeping

Round that grave of thine. Mournfully, like Jazer weeping

Over Sibmah's vine,*^ — Will the pleasant memories, swelling

Gentle hearts, of thee, 3n the spirit's distant dwelling

All unheeded he ?

If the spirit ever gazes.

From its journeyings, back ; If the immortal ever traces

O'er its mortal track ; Wilt thou not, 0 brother, meet us

Sometimes on our way. And, in hours of sadness, greet us

As a spirit may ?

Peace be with thee, 0 our brother,

In the spirit-land ! Vainly look we for another

In tliy place to stand. Unto Truth and Freedom giving

All thy early powers. Be thy virtues with the living,

And thy spirit ours !

A LAMENT.

" The parted spirit, Knoweth it not our sorrow ? Answereth not Its blessing to our tears ? "

The circle is broken, — one seat is for- saken, —

One bud from the tree of our friendship is shaken, —

One- heart from among us no longer shall thrill

Willi joy in our gladness, -ov grief in our ill.

Weep ! — ■ lonely and lowly are slumber.

ing now The light of her glances, the pride of her

brow. Weep ! — sadly and long shall we listen

in vain To hear the soft tones of her welcome

again.

Give our tears to the dead ! For humaH-

ity's claim From its silence and darkness is ever the

same ; The hope of that World whose existence

is bliss May not stifle the tears of the mourners

of this.

For, oh ! if one glance the freed spirit

can throw On the scene of its troubled }irobation

below. Than the pride of the marble, the pomp

of the dead. To that glance will be dearer the tears

which we shed.

0, who can forget the mild light of her

smile. Over lips moved with music and feeling

the while — ■ The eye's deep enchantment, dark,

dream-like, and clear, In the glow of its gladness, the shade of

its tear.

And the charm of her features, while

over the whole Played the hues of the heart and the

sunshine of soul, — And the tones of her voice, like the mu.

sic which seems ]\Iurmured low in our ears by the Angel

of dreams !

But holier and dearer our memories hold Those treasures of feeling, mor(^ precious

than gold, — The love and the kindness and pity

which gave Fresh flowers for the bridal, green

wreaths for the grave !

The heart ever open to Charity's claim, Unmoved from its puqiose by censura and blame.

136

MISCELLANEOUS.

While vainly alike on her eye and her ear

Fell the scorn of the heartless, the jest- ing and jeer.

How true to our hearts was that beauti- ful sleeper !

With smiles for the joyful, with tears for the weeper ! —

Yet, evermore prompt, whether mourn- ful or gay.

With warnings in love to the passing astray.

For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for them

Who sullied with evil the spirit's pure gem ;

And a sigh or a tear could the erring re- prove,

And the sting of reproof was still tem- pered by love.

As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting

in heaven, As a star that is lost when the daylight

is given. As a glad dream of slumber, which

wakens in bliss, She hath passed to the world of the

holy from this.

DANIEL WHEELER.

rDA^TEL ■WnF.FLF.R, a minister of the Society of Friends, and who had labored in the cause of his Divine Master in Great Britain, Kussia, and the islands of tlie Pacific, died in New York in the spring of 1840, while on a reUgious visit to this country.]

0 DE.A.RLY loved ! And worthy of our love ! — No more Thy aged foi-m shall rise before The hushed and waiting worshipper, In meek obedience iitterance giving To words of truth, so fresh and living. That, even to the inward sense, They bore unquestioned e\adence Of an anointed Messenger ! Or, bowing down thy silver hair In reverent awfulness of prayer, — The world, its time and .sense, shut

out, — The brightness of Faith's holy trance Gathered upon thy countenance,

Ab if each lingering cloud of doubt, — The cold, diiik shadows resting here

In Time's unluminous atmosphere, ~

Were lifted by an angCi's hand. And through them on thy spiritual eye Shone down the blessedness on high. The glory of the Better Land !

The oak has fallen ! Wlrile, meet for no good work, the virie May }-et its worthless branches twine. Who knoweth not that with thee fell A great man in our Israel ? Fallen, while thy loins were girded still.

Thy feet with Zion's dews still wet,

And in thy hand retaining yet The pilgrim's staff and scallop-shell ! Unharmed and safe, where, wild and free.

Across the Neva's cold morass The breezes from the Frozen Sea

With winter's arrowy keenness pass ; Or where the unwarning tro])ic gale Smote to the waves thy tattered sail. Or where the noon-hour's fervid heat Against Tahiti's mountains beat ;

The same mysterious Hand which gave

Deliverance upon land and wave. Tempered for thee the blasts which blew

Ladaga's frozen surface o'er, And blessed for thee the baleful dew

Of evening upon Eimeo's shore. Beneath this sunny heaven of ours. Midst our soft airs and opening Howers

Hath given thee a grave !

His will be done, Wlio seeth not as man, whose way Is not as ours! — 'T is well with tliee ! Nor anxious doubt nor dark dismay Disquieted thy closing day, I'ut, cvennore, thy soul could say,

" My Father carcth .still for me !" Called from thy hearth and home, -^ from her. The last bud on thy household tree. The last dear one to minister

In duty and in love to thee. From all which nature holdeth dear. Feeble with years and worn with

pain. To seek our distant land again. Bound in the spirit, yet unknowing The things Mhich .should befall the*

here. Whether for labor or for death.

DANIEL NEALL.

137

^n childlike trust serenely going To that last trial of thy faith .'

0, far away, Where never shines our Northern star

On that dark waste which Balboa saw From Darien's mountains stretching far, So strange, heaven-broad, and lone, that

there, With forehead to its damp wind bare,

He bent his mailed knee in awe ; In many an isle whose coral feet The surges of that ocean beat. In thy palm shadows, Oahu,

And Honolulu's silver bay, Amidst Owyhee's hills of blue,

And taro-plains of Tooboonai, Are gentle hearts, which long shall be Sad as our own at thought of thee, — Worn sowers of Truth's holy seed. Whose souls in weariness and need

Were strengthened and refreshed by thine. For blessed by our Father's hand

Was thy deep love and tender care,

Th}'^ ministry and fervent prayer, — Grateful as Eschol's clustered vine To Israel in a weary land !

And they who drew By thousands round thee, in the hour Of prayerful waiting, hushed and

deep. That He who bade the islands keep Silence before him, might renew

Their strength with his unslumbering power. They too shall mourn that thou art gone,

That nevermore thy aged lip Shall soothe the weak, the erring warn. Of those who first, rejoicing, heard Through thee the Gospel's glorious word, — Seals of thy true apostleship. And, if the brightest diadem,

Whose gems of glory purely burn Around the ransomed ones in bliss. Be evermore reserved for them

Who here, through toil and sorrow,

turn Many to righteousness, — May we not tliink of thee as wearing That star-like crown of light, and bear- ing, Amidst Heaven's white and blissful

band. The fadeless palm-brancK in thy hand ;

And joining with a seraph's tongue In that new song the elders sung. Ascribing to its blessed Giver Thanksgiving, love, and praise forever !

Farewell ! And though the ways of Ziou mourn When her strong ones are called away, Who like thyself have calmly borne The heat and burden of the day. Yet He who slumbereth not nor sleep-

eth His ancient watch around us keepeth ; Still, sent from his creating hand, New witnesses for Truth shall stand, — New instruments to sound abroad The Gospel of a risen Lord ;

To gather to the fold once more Tlie desolate and gone astray, The scattered of a cloudy day,

And Zion's broken walls restore ; And, through the travail and the toil

Of true obedience, minister Beauty for ashes, and the oil

Of joy for mourning, unto her ! So shall her holy bounds increase With walls of praise and gates of peace : So shall the Vine, which martyr tears And blood sustained in other years,

With fresher life be clothed upon ; And to the world in beauty show Like the rose-plant of Jericho,

And glorious as Lebanon !

DANIEL NEALL.

Friend of the Slave, and j^et the friend of all ; Lover of peace, yet ever foremost when The need of battling Freedom called for men

To plant the banner on the outer wall ;

Gentle and kindly, ever at distress

Melted to more than woman's tender- ness.

Yet firm and steadfast, at his duty's post

Fronting the violence of a maddened host.

Like some gi-ay rock from which the waves are tossed !

Knowing his deeds of love, men ques- tioned not The faith of one whose walk snd word were right, —

138

MISCELLANEOUS.

Who tranquilly in Life's great task- field wrought,

And, side by side with evil, scarcely caught A stain ujion his pilgrim garb of white :

Prompt to redress another's wrong, his own

Leaving to Time and Truth and Peni- tencte alone.

Such was our friend. Formed on the

good old plan, A true and brave and downright honest

man ! — He blew no trumpet in the market-place. Nor in the church with hypocritic face Supplied with cant the lack of Christian

gi-ace ; Loathing pretence, he did with cheerful

will . What others talked of while their hands

were still ; And, while " Lord, Lord ! " the pious

tyrants cried. Who, in the poor, their ]\Iaster crucified. His daily prayer, far better understood In acts than words, was simply doing

GOOD.

So calm, so constant was his rectitude. That by his loss alone we know its

woith. And feel how true a man has walked with

us on eaith. tth 6th month, 1846.

TO MY FRIEND ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER.*"

Thine is a giief, the depth of which another May never know ; Yet, o'er the waters, 0 my stricken brother ! To thee I go.

I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding

Thy hand in mine ; With even the weakness of my soul up- holding

Tlie strength of thine.

I never knew, like thee, the dear de- parted ; I stopd not by

When, in calm trust, the pure and tran» quil-hearted Lay down to die.

And on thy ears my words of weak con- doling Must vainly fall : The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling. Sounds over all !

I will not mock thee with the pooi world's common And heartless phrase. Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman With idle praise.

With silence only as their benediction,

God's angels come Where, in the shadow of a great afflic- tion,

The soul sits dumb !

Yet, woidd I say what thy own heart approveth : Our Father's will, Calling to Him the dear one whom He lovetli. Is mercy still.

Not upon thee or thine the solemn an- gel

Hath evil wi-ought : Her funeral anthem is a glad evangel, —

The good die not !

God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly What He hath given ; They live on earth, in thouglit and deed, as truly As in his heaven.

And she is with thee ; in thy path of trial

She walketh yet ; Still witli the baptism of thy self-denial

Her locks are wet.

Up, then, my brother ! Lo, the fields of liarvcst Lie white in view ! She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest To both is true.

THE LAKE-SIDE.

139

Thrust in thy sickle .' — England's toil- worn peasants Thy call abide ; And she thou mouru'st, a pure and holy presence, Shall glean beside !

GONE.

Another hand is beckoning us,

Another call is given ; And glows once more with Angel-steps

The path which reaches Heaven.

Onr young and gentle friend, whose smile

Made brighter summer hours, Amid the frosts of autumn time

Has left us with the flowers.

No paling of the cheek of bloom

Forewarned us of decay ; No shadow from the Silent Land

Fell round our sister's way.

The light of her young life went down.

As sinks behind the hill The glory of a setting star, —

Clear, suddenly, and still.

As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed

Eternal as the sky ; And like the brook's low song, her voice, —

A sound which could not die.

And half we deemed she needed not

Tlie changing of her sphere, To give to Heaven a Shining One,

Who walked an Angel here.

The blessing of her quiet life

Fell on us like the dew ; And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed

Like fairy blossoms grew.

Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds

AVere in her very look ; We read lier fact;, as one who reads

A true and holy book :

The measure of a blessed liymn, To which our liearts could move ;

The breathing of an inward psalm ; A canticle of love.

We miss her in the place of prayer, And by the hearth-lire's light ;

We pause beside her door to hear Once more her sweet " Good-night 1 *

There seems a shadow on the day, Her smile no longer cheers ;

A dimness on the stars of night, Like eyes that look through tears.

Alone unto our Father's wiU One thought hath reconciled ;

That He whose love exceedeth ours Hatli taken home his cliild.

Fold her, 0 Father ! in thine arms,

And let her henceforth be A messenger of love between

Our human hearts and thee.

Still let her mild rebuking stand

Between us and the wrong. And her dear memory serve to mako

Our faith in Goodness strong.

And grant that she who, trembling, hun

Distrusted all her powers. May welcome to her holier home

The well-beloved of ours.

THE LAKE-SIDE.

The shadows round the inland se

Are deepening into night ; Slow up the slopes of Ossipee

They chase the lessening light. Tired of the long day's blinding heat,

I rest my languid eye. Lake of the Hills ! where, cool and sweet.

Thy sunset waters lie !

Along the sky, in wavy lines.

O'er isle and reach and bay, Green-belted with eternal pines,

The mountains stretch away. Below, the majile masses sleep

Where sliore with water blends. While midway on the tranquil deep

The evening light descends.

So seemed it when yon hill's red crown,

Of old, the Indian trod, And, through the sunset air, looked down

Upon the Smile of God.*^

140

MISCELLANEOUS.

To him of light and shade the laws

Ko I'orest sceptic taught ; Their living and eternal Cause

His truer instinct sought.

He saw these mountains in the light

Which now across them shines ; This lake, in summer sunset bright,

AYalled round with sombering ijines. God near him seemed ; from earth and skies

His loving voice he lieard. As, face to face, in Paradise,

Man stood before the Lord.

Thanks, 0 our Father ! that, like him.

Thy tender love I see, In radiant hill and woodland dim.

And tinted sunset sea. For not in mockery dost thou fill

Our earth with light and grace ; Thou hid'st no dark and cruel will

ISehind thy smiling face !

THE HILL-TOP.

The burly driver at my side,

"*A'e slowly climbed the hill. Whose summit, in the hot noontide.

Seemed rising, rising still. At last, our short noon-shadows hid

The top-stone, bare and brown, From whence, like Gizeh's pyramid,

The rough mass slanted down.

I felt the cool breath of the North ;

Between me and the sun. O'er deep, still lake, and ridgy earth,

I saw the cloud-shades run. Before me, stretched for glistening miles,

Lay mountain-girdled Squam ; Like green-winged liirds, the leafy isles

Uj)on its bosom swam.

And, glimmering through the sun-haze wann.

Far as the eye could roam. Dark billows of an earthquake .storm

Beflecked with clouds like foam, Their vales in misty shadow deep,

Their rugged peaks in shine, 1 saw the mountain ranges sweep

The horizon's northern line.

There towered Choconia's peak ; and west, Moosehillock's woods were seen,

With many a nameless slide-scarred crest

And pine-dark gorge between. Beyond them, like a sun-rimmed cloud.

The great Notch mountains shone. Watched over by the solemn-browed

And awful face of stone !

" A good look- off ! " the driver spake :

" About tills time, last year, I drove a party to the Lake,

And stojijicd, at evening, here. 'T was duski.sh down below ; but aU

These hills stood in the sun. Till, dipped behind yon purple wall.

He left them, one by one.

"A lady, who, from Thornton hill,

Had held her place outside. And, as a pleasant woman will.

Hail cheered the long, dull ride, Besought me, with so sweet a smile,

That — though I hate delays — I could not choose but rest awhile, —

(These women have such ways !)

" On yonder mossy ledge she sat,

Her sketch upon her knees, A stray brown lock beneath her hat

Unrolling in the breeze ; Her sweet face, in the sunset light

L^jnaised and glorified, — I never saw a prettier sight

In all my mountain ride.

'* As good as fair ; it seemed her joy

To comfort and to give ; My jioor, sick wife, and cripple boy.

Will bless her while they live ! " The tremor in the driver's tone

His manhood did not shame : "I dare say, sir, you may haveknown — *

He named a well-known name.

Then sank the pyramidal mounds.

The blue lake tied away ; For mountain-scope a parlor's bound.s,

A lighted hearth for day ! From lonely years and weary miles

The shadows fell apart ; Kind voices cheered, sweet humac .smiles

Shone warm into my heart.

We Journeyed on ; but earth and sky Mad power to chann no more ;

Still dieamed my inward-turning eye The dream of memory o'er.

MEMORIES.

141

All ! human kindness, human love, To few who seek denied, — ■

Too late we learn to prize above The whole round world beside !

ON RECEIVING AN EAGLE'S QUILL FROM LAKE SUPERIOR.

All day the darkness and the cold

Upon my heart have lain, Like shadows on the winter sky,

Like frost upon the pane ;

But now my torpid fancy wakes,

And, on thy Eagle's plume. Rides forth, like Sindbad on his bird.

Or witch upon her broom !

Below me roar the rocking pines,

Before me spreads the lake Whose long and solemn-sounding waves

Against the sunset break.

I hear the wild Rice-Eater thresh

The grain he has not sown ; I see, with flashing scythe of fire,

The prairie harvest mown !

I hear the far-off voyager's horn ;

I see the Yankee's trail, — His foot on every mountain-pass.

On every stream his sail.

By forest, lake, and waterfall,

I see his pedler show ; The mighty mingling with the mean,

The lofty with the low.

He 's whittling by St. Mary's Falls,

Upon his loaded wain ; He "s measuring o'er the Pictured Rocks,

With eager eyes of gain.

I hear the mattock in the mine.

The axe-stroke in the dell. The clamor from the Indian lodge.

The Jesuit chapel bell !

I see the swarthy ti-appcrs come

From Mississippi's springs ; And war-chiefs with their painted brows,

And crests of eagle wings.

Behind the scared squaw's birch canoe. The steamer smokes and raves;

And city lots are staked for sale Above old Indian graves.

I hear the tread of pioneers

Of nations yet to be ; The iirst low wash of waves, where soon

Shall roll a human sea.

The rudiments of empire here

Are plastic yet and warm ; The chaos of a mighty world

Is rounding into form !

Each rude and jostling fragment soon Its fitting place shall find, —

The raw material of a State, its muscle and its mind !

And, westering still, the star which leads

The New World in its train Has tipped with fire the icy spears

Of many a mountain chain.

The snowy cones of Oregon

Are kindling on its way ; And California's golden sands

Gleam brighter in its ray !

Then blessings on thy eagle quill. As, wandering far and wide,

I thank thee for this twilight dream And Fancy's airy ride !

Yet, welcomer than regal plumes, Which Western trappers find.

Thy free and pleasant thoughts, chance sown, Like feathers on the wind.

Thy symbol be the mountain -bird, "\\niose glistening quill I hold ;

Thy home the ample air of hope, And ■>"emory's sunset gold !

In thee, let joy with duty join, And strength unite with love.

The eagle's pinions folding round The warm heart of the dove !

So, when in darkness sleeps the vale Where still the blind bird clings,

The sunshine of the upper sky Shall glitter on thv wings !

MEMORIES.

A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl.

With step as light as summer air. Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl, Shadowed by many a careless curl Of nnconlined and flowing hair ;

142

MISCELLANEOUS.

A seeming child in everything,

Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms,

As Nature wears the smile of Spring When sinking into Summer's arms.

A mind rejoicing in the light

Which melted through its graceful bower. Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright, And stainless in its holy white.

Unfolding like a morning flower : A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute,

With every breath of feeling woke, And, even when the tougue was mute.

From eye and hp in music spoke.

How thrills once more the lengthening chain

Of memory, at the thought of thee ! Old hopes which long in dust have lain Old dreams, come thronging back again.

And boyhood lives again in me ; I feel its glow upon my cheek.

Its fulness of the heart is mine. As when I leaned to hear thee speak.

Or raised my doubtful eye to thine.

I hear again thy low replies,

I feel thy arm within my own, And timidlv again uprise The fringed lids of hiizel eyes.

With soft brown tresses overblown. Ah ! memories of sweet summer eves.

Of moonlit wave and willowy way. Of stars and flowers, and dewy leaves,

And .smiles and tones more dear than they!

Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smiled

My picture of thy youth to see. When, half a woman, half a child, Thy very artlessness beguiled.

And foll}''s self seemed wise in thee ; I too can smile, when o'er that hour

The lightsof memory backward stream, Yet feel the while that manhood's ]iower

Is vainer than mj' boyhood's dream.

Years have passed on, and left their trace.

Of graver care and deeper thought ; And unto me the calm, cold face Of manhood, and to thee the grace

Of woman's pensive beauty brought. More wide, perchance, for blame than praise, The school-boy's humble name has flown ;

Thine, in the green and quiet ways Of unobtrusive goodness known.

And wider yet in thought and deed

Diverge our pathways, one in youth | Thuie the Genevan's sternest creed. While answers to my spirit's need

The Derby dalesman's simple truth. For thee, the priestly rite and prayer,

And holy daj-, and solemn psalm ; For me, the silent reverence where

My brethren gather, slow and calm.

Yet hath thy spirit left on me

An impress Time has worn not out, And something of myself in thee, A shadow from the past, I see,

Lingering, even j'et, thy way about ; Not wholly can the heart unlearn

That lesson of its better hours. Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn

To common dust that path of flowers.

Thus, while at times before our eyes

The shadows melt, and fall apart. And, smiling through them, round us

lies The warm light of our morning skies, —

The Indian Summer of the heart ! — In .secret sympathies of mind.

In founts of feeling which retain Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find

Our early dreams not wholly vain !

THE LEGEND OF ST. MAKK.*8

The day is closing dark and cold. With roaring blast and sleety showers ;

And through the dusk the lilacs wear The bloom of snow, instead of flowers.

1 turn me from the gloom without,

To ponder o'er a tale of old, A legend of the age of Faith,

By dreaming monk or abbess told.

On Tintoretto's canvas lives That fancy of a loWng heart,

In graceful lines and shapes of power, And hues inmiortal as his art.

In Provence (so the story runs)

There lived a lord, to whom, as slave,

A peasant-boy of tender years

The chance of trade or conquest gave.

THE WELL OF LOCH MAKEE.

143

Forth-looking from the castle tower, Beyond the hills with almonds dark,

The straining eye could scarce discern The chapel of the good St. Mark.

And there, when bitter word or fare The ser\ice of the youth repaid.

By stealth, before that holy shrine, Foi- grace to bear his wrong, he prayed.

The steed stamped at the castle gate. The boar-hunt sounded on the hill ;

Why stayed the Baron from the chase. With looks so stern, and words so ill?

" Go, bind yon slave ! and let him learn. By scath of fire and strain of cord.

How ill they speed who give dead saints The homage due their li\'ing lord ! "

They bound him on the fearful rack. When, through the dungeon's vaulted dark.

He saw tlie light of shining robes, And knew the face of good St. Mark.

Then sank the iron rack apart,

The cords released their cruel clasp.

The pincers, with their teeth of lire, Fell broken from the torturer's grasp.

And lo ! before the Youth and Saint, Barred door and wall of stone gave way ;

And up from bondage and the night They j^assed to freedom and the day !

0 dreaming monk ! thy tale is true ; — 0 painter ! true thy pencil's art ;

In tones of hope and prophecy, Ye whisper to my listening h'eart !

Unheard no burdened heart's appeal Moans up to God's inclining ear ;

Unheeded by his tender eye.

Falls to the earth no sufferer's tear.

For still the Lord alone is God !

The pomp and power of tyrant man Are scattered at his lightest' breath,

Like chaff before the winnower's fan.

Not always shall the slave uplift His heavy hands to Heaven in vain

God's angel, like the good St. Mark, Comes shiningdown to break hischain I

0 weary ones ! ye may not see

Your helpers in their downward flight ;

Nor hear the sound of silver wings Slow beating thi'ough the hush of night !

But not the less gray Dothan shone, With sunbright watchers bending low,

That Fear's dim eye beheld alone The spear-heads of the Syrian foe.

There are, who, like the Seer of old, Can see the helpers God has sent.

And how Life's rugged mountain-side Is white with many an angel tent !

They hear the heralds whom our Lord Sends down his pathway to prepare ;

And light, from others hidden, shines On their high place of faith and prayer.

Let such, for earth's despairing ones. Hopeless, yet longing to be free.

Breathe once again the Prophet's prayer : ' ' Lord, ope their eyes, that they may

THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE.*'

Calm on the breast of Loch Maree

A little isle reposes ; A shadow woven of the oak

And willow o'er it closes.

Within, a Druid's mound is seen, Set round with stony warders ;

A fountain, gushing through the turf. Flows o'er its grassy borders.

And whoso bathes therein his brow, With care or madness burning,

Feels once again his healthful thought And sense of peace returning.

0 restless heart and fevered brain.

Unquiet and unstable. That holy well of Locli Maree

Is more than idle fable !

Life's changes vex, its discords stun, Its glaring sunshine blindcth.

And blest is he who on liis way That fount of healing findeth !

The shadows of a humbled will And contrite heart are o'er it ;

Go read its legend — "Trust ix God " On Faith's white stones before it.

144

MISCELLANEOUS.

TO MY SISTER;

WITH A COPY OF " SUPEKXATtTRALISM OF NEW ENGLAND."

Dear Sister ! — while the wise and sage Turn cohlly from mj' playful page, And count it strange that ripened age

Should stoop to boyhood's folly ; I know that thou wilt judge aright Of all which makes the heart more light, Or lends one stJir-gleam to the night

Of clouded Melancholy.

Away with wear}- cares and themes ! — Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams I Leave free once more the laud which teems

With wonders and romances ! Where thou, with clear discerning ej-es, Shalt rightly read the truth which lies Beneath the quaintly masking guise

Of wild and wizard fancies.

Lo ! once again our feet we set

On still green wood-paths, twilight wet.

By lonely brooks, whose waters fret

The roots of spectral beeches ; Again the hearth-fire glimmers o'er Home's whitewashed wall and painted

floor, And young eyes widening to the lore

Of faerj'-folks and witches.

Dear heart ! — the legend is not vain Which lights that holy hearth again, And calling back from care and pain,

And death's funereal sadness, Draws round its old familiar blaze The clustering groups of happier days, And lends to sober manhood's gaze

A glimpse of childish gladness.

And, knowing how my life hath been A wear}' work of tongiie and pen, A long", harsh strife with strong-willed men.

Thou wilt not chide my turning To con, at times, an idle rhyme. To pluck a flower from childhood's clime, Or listen, at Life's noonday chime.

For the sweet bells of Morning !

AUTUMN THOJGHTS.

FROM "MARG.\RET SMITH'S JOURNAL."

Gone hath the Spring, with all its flow- ers, AndgonetheSummer'spompandshow,

And Autumn, in his leafless bowers. Is waiting for the Winter's snow.

I said to Earth, so cold and gray, ' ' An emblem of myself thou art " ;

" Not so," the Earth did seem to say, ' ' For Spring shall warm my frozen heai't."

I soothe my wintry sleep with dreams Of warmer sun and softer rain.

And wait to hear the sound of streams And songs of merry birds again.

But thou, from whom the Spring hath gone.

For whom the flowers no longer blow, Who standest blighted and forlorn.

Like Autumn waiting for the snow :

No hope is thine of sunnier hours, Thy Winter shall no more depart ;

No Spring revive thy wasted flowers. Nor Summer warm thy frozen heart.

CALEF IN BOSTON. 1692.'

In the solemn days of old. Two men met in Boston town,

One a tradesman frank and bold, One a preacher of renown.

Cried the last, in bitter tone, — " Poisoner of the wells of truth !

Satan's hireling, thou hast sown With his taxes the heart of youth ! '

Spake the simple tradesman then, — " God be judge 'twixt thou and I ;

All thou knowest of truth hath been Unto men like thee a lie.

" Falsehoods which we spuni to-day AVere the truths of long ago ;

Let the dead boughs fall away, Fresher shall the living grow.

" God is good and God is light, In this faith I rest secure ;

Evil can but seiwe the right, Over all shall love endure.

" Of your spectral puppet play I have traced the cunning wires ;

TO PIUS IX.

145

Come what will, I needs miist say, God is true, and ye are liars."

When the thought of man is free, Error fears its lightest tones ;

So the priest cried, " Sadducee ! " And the people took up stones.

In the ancient burying-ground. Side by side the twain now lie, —

One with humble gi-assy mound, One with marbles pale and liigh.

But the Lord hath blest the seed Which that tradesman scattered then,

And the preacher's spectral creed Chills no more the blood of men.

Let us trust, to one is known

Perfect love which casts out fear,

While the other's joys atone For the wrong he suffered here.

TO PIUS IX.5'

The cannon's brazen lips are cold ;

No red shell blazes down the air ; And street and tower, and temple old.

Are silent as despair.

The Lombard stands no more at bay, — Rome's fresh young life has bled ru vain ;

The ravens scattered by the day Come back with night again.

Now, while the fratricides of France Are treading on the neck of Rome,

Hider at Gaeta, — seize thy chance ! Coward and cruel, come !

Creep now from Naples' bloody skirt ;

Tliy mummer's part was acted well. While Rome, with steel and fire begirt,

Before thy cmsade fell !

Her death -groans answered to thy prayer ;

Thy chant, the drum and bugle- call ; Thy lights, the burning villa's glare ;

Thy beads, the shell and ball !

Let Austria clear thy way, with hands Foul fi'oin Ancona's cruel sack,

/\.nd Napli'S, with his dastard bands Of murderers, lead thee back t 10

Rome's lips are dumb ; the orphan's wail, The mother's shriek, thou mayst not hear

Above the faithless Frenchman's hail. The unsexed shaveling's cheer !

Go, bind on Rome her cast-off' weight, The double cui'se of crook and crown,

Though woman's scorn and manhood's hate From wall and roof flash down !

Nor heed those blood-stains on the wall, Not Tiber's flood can wash away.

Where, in thy stately Quirinal, Thy mangled victims lay !

Let the world murmur ; let its cry Of horror and disgust be heard ; —

Truth stands alone ; thy coward lie Is backed by lance and sword 5

The cannon of St. Angelo,

And chanting priest and clanging bell. And beat of drum and bugle blow,

Shall greet thy coming well !

Let lips of iron and tongues of slaves Fit welcome give thee ; — for her part,

Rome, frowning o'er her new-made graves, Shall curse thee from her heart !

No wreaths of sad Campagna's flowers Shall childhood in thy pathway fling ;

No garlands from their ravaged bowers Shall Terni's maidens bring ;

But, hateful as that t5Tant old. The mocking witness of his crime,

In thee shall loathing eyes behold The Nero of our time !

Stand where Rome's blood was freest shed, Mock Heaven with impious thanks, and call

Its curses on the patriot dead, Its blessings on the Gaul !

Or sit upon thy throne of lies,

A poor, mean idol, blood-besmeared,

Whom even its worslnp])ers despise, — Unhonored, unrevered !

Yet, Scandal of the World ! from thee One needful truth mankind shall lear;i, —

146

MISCELLANEOUS.

That kings and priests to Liberty And God are false in turn.

Earth wearies of them ; and the long Meek sufferance of the Heavens doth fail;

Woe for weak tjTants, when the strong Wake, struggle, and prevail !

Not vainly Roman heart.s have bled To feed the Crozier and the CrowTi,

If, roused thereby, the world shall tread The twin-born vampires down !

ELLI0TT.61

Hands off ! thou tithe-fat plunderer ! play

No trick of priestcraft here ! Back, puny lordling ! darest thou lay

A hand on Elliott's bier ? Alive, your rank and pomp, as dust.

Beneath his feet he trod : He knew the locust swarm that cursed

The hai-vest- fields of God.

On these pale lips, the smothered thought

Which England's millions feel, A fierce and fearful splendor caught,

As from his forge the steel. Strong-armed as Thor, — a shower of fire

His smitten anvil flung ; God's curse, Eai-th's wTong, dumb Hun- ger's ire, —

He gave them all a tongue !

Then let the poor man's horny hands

Bear up the mighty dead. And labor's swart and stalwart bands

Behind as mourners tread. Leave cant and craft their baptized bounds.

Leave rank its minster floor ; Give England's green and daisied grounds

The poet of the poor !

Lay down upon his Sheaf's green verge

Tliat brave old lieai't of oak. With fitting dirge from sounding forge.

And i)all of I'urnace smoke ! Where whirls the stone its dizzy rounds,

And axe and sledge are swung, ^nd, timing to tlieir stonny sounds.

His stormy lays are sung.

There let the peasant's step be heard,

The grinder chant his rhyme ; Nor patron's praise nor dainty word

Belits the man or time. No soft lament nor dreamer's sigh

For him whose words were bread, —^ The Runic rhyme and spell whereby

The foodless poor were fed !

Pile up thy tombs of rank and pride,

0 England, as thou wilt ! With pomp to nameless worth denied.

Emblazon titled guilt ! No part or lot in these we claim ;

But, o'er the sounding wave, A common right to Elliott's name,

A freehold in his grave !

ICHABOD !

So fallen ! so lost ! the light with« drawn

Which once he wore ! The glory from his gray hairs gone

Forevermore !

Rei'ile him not, — the Tempter hath

A snare for all ; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,

Befit liis fall !

0, dumb be passion's stormy rage,

When he who might Have lighted up and led his age.

Falls back in night.

Scorn ! would the angels laugh, to mark

A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,

From hope and heaven !

Let not the land once proud of him

Insult him now. Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,

Dishonored brow.

But let its humbled sons, instead,

From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead,

In sadness make.

Of all we loved and honored, naught

Save power remains, — A fallen angel's pride of thought. Still strong in chains.

THE CHRISTIAN TOUEISTS.

147

AH else is gone ■, from those gi-eat eyes

The soul has fled : When faith is lost, when honor dies,

The man is dead !

Then, pay the reverence of oI4 days

To his dead fame ; "Walk backward, with avertuil gaze,

And hide the shame !

THE CHRISTIAN TOUKISTS-^^

No aimless wanderers, by the fiend Unrest Goaded from shore to shore ; No schoolmen, turning, in their classic quest, The leaves of empire o'er. Simple of faith, and bearing in their heai'ts The love of man and God, Isles of old song, the Moslem's ancient marts, And Scythia's steppes, they trod.

Where thelong shadows of the fir and pine

In the night sun are cast. And the deep heart of many a Norland mine Quakes at each riving blast ; Where, in barbaric grandeur, Moskwa stands. A baptized Scythian queen, With Europe's arts and Asia's jewelled hands. The North and East between !

Where still, through vales of Grecian fable, stray The classic forms of yore. And beauty smiles, new risen from the spray. And Dian weeps once more ; Where every tongue in Smyrna's mart resounds ; And Stamboul from the sea Lifts her tall minarets over burial- grounds Black with the cypress-tree !

From Malta's temples to the gutes of Rome, Following the track of Paul, ^nd whore the Alps gird round the Switzcr's home Their vast, eternal wall ;

They paused not by the ruins of old time. They scanned no pictures rare. Nor lingered where the snow-locked mountains climb The cold abyss of air !

"^ulr unto prisons, where men lay in chains, To haunts where Hunger pined. To kings and courts forgetful of the plains And wants of human-kind, Scattering sweet words, and quiet deeds cf good. Along their way, like flowers. Or pleading, as Christ's freemen only could. With princes and with powers ;

Their single aim the purpose to ful- fil Of Truth, from day to day. Simply obedient to its guiding will.

They held their pilgrim way. Yet dream not, hence, the beautiful and old Were wasted on their sight, Who in the school of Christ had learned to hold All outward things aright.

Not less to them the breath of vineyards blown From off" the Cyprian shore. Not less for them the Alps in sunset shone. That man they valued more. A life of beauty lends to all it sees

The beauty of its thought ; And fairest forms and sweetest harmo- nies Make glad its way, unsought.

In sweet accordancy of praise and love. The singing waters ran ; And sunset mountains wear in light above The smile of duty done ; Sure stands the promise, — ever to th« meek A heritage is given ; Nor lose they Earth who, single-hearted, seek The iT^hteousness of Heaven J

148

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE MEN OF OLD.

Well speed tliy mission, bold Icouo- clast ! Yet all unworthy of its trust thou

art, If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart. Thou tread'st the solemn Pantheon of the Past, By the great Future's dazzling hope

made blind To all the beauty, power, and truth behind. Not without reverent awe shouldst thou put by The cj^press branches and the ama- ranth blooms. Where, with clasped hands of prayer, upon their tombs The effigies of old confessors lie, God's witnesses ; the voices of his will, Heard in the slow march of the cen- turies still ! Such were the men at whose rebuking

frown. Dark with God's wrath, the tjTant's

knee went down ; Such from the terrors of the guilty drew The vassal's freedom and the poor man's due.

St. Anselm (may he rest forevennore In Heaven's sweet peace !) forbade,

of old, the sale Of men as slaves, and from the sacred

pale Hurled the Northumbrian buyers of the

poor. To ransom souls from bonds and evil

fiite St. Ambrose melted down the sacred

plate, — Image of saint, the chalice, and the pix. Crosses of gold, and silver candlesticks.

" M\y IS WORTH MORE THAN TEM- PLES ! " he replied

To such as came his holy work to chide.

And brave Cesarius, .stripinng altars bare, And coining from the Abbey's golden hoard

The captive's freedom, answered to the prayer Or threat of those whose fierce zeal for the Lord

Btifled their love of man, — ' ' An earth- en dish

The last sad supper of the Master bore : Most miserable sinners ! do ye wish More than your Lord, and grudge his

d3-iug poor What your own pride and not his need

requires ? Souls, than these shining gauds. He

values more ; j.\Iercy, not sacrifice, his heart desires ! " 0 faithful worthies ! resting far behind In your dark ages, since ye fell asleep. Much has been done for ti'uth and hu- man-kind, — Shadows are scattered wherein ye groped

blind ; Man claims his birthright, freer pulses

leap Through peoples driven in your day like

slice]) ; Yet, like your owa, our age's sphere of

light. Though widening still, is walled around

by night ; With slow, reluctant eye, the Church has

read, Sceptic at heart, the Jessons of its Head ; Counting, too oft, its lining members

less Than the wall's garnish and the pulpit's

dress ; World-moving zeal, with power to bless

and feed Life's fainting pilgrims, to their utter

need. Instead of bread, holds out the stone of

creed ; Sect builds and worships where its

wealtli and pride And vanity stand shrined and deified, Careless that in the shadow of its walls God's living temple into ruin falls. We need, mcthinks, the prophet-hero

still, Saints true of life, and martyrs strong of

will, To tread tlie land, even now, as Xavicr

trod The streets of Goa, barefoot, with his

bell, Proclaiming freedom in the name of God, And startling tyrants with the fear of

hell! Soft words, smooth prophecies, are

doubtless well ; But to rebuke the age's popular crime. We need the souls of fire, the hearts d

that old time !

THE PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUSSELS.

149

THE PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUSSELS.

Still in thy streets, O Paris ! doth the stain

Of blood defy the cleansing autumn rain ;

Still breaks the smoke Messina's ruins through,

And Naples mourns that new Bartholo- mew,

When squalid beggary, for a dole of Dread,

At a crowned murderer's beck of license, fed

The yawning trenches with her noble dead ;

Still, doomed Vienna, through thy stately halls

The shell goes crashing and the red shot falls,

And, leagued to crush thee, on the Dan- ube's side,

The bearded Croat and Bosniak spear- man ride ;

Still in tliat vale where Himalaya's snow

Melts round the cornfields and the vines below.

The Sikh's hot cannon, answering ball for ball.

Flames in the breach of Moultan's shat- tered wall ;

On Chenab's side the vulture seeks the slain.

And Sutlej paints with blood its banks again.

"What folly, then," the faithless critic cries.

With sneering lip, and wise world-know- ing eyes,

"While fort to fort, and post to post, repeat

The ceaseless challenge of the war-drum's beat,

And round the green earth, to the church- bell's chime.

The morning drum-roll of the camp keeps time.

To dream of peace amidst a world in arms.

Of swords to ploughshares changed by Scriptural charms,

Of nations, drunken with the wine of blood,

Staggering to take the Pledge of Broth- erhood,

Like tipplers answering Father Mathew's

call, — The sullen Spaniard, and the mad-cap Gaul,

The bull-dog Briton, yielding but with

life, The Yankee swaggering with his bowie- knife. The Russ, from banquets with the vul*

ture shai'ed. The blood still dripping from his amber

beard. Quitting theu" mad Berserker dance to

hear The dull, meek droning of a drab-coat

seer ; Leaving the sport of Presidents and

Kings, Where men for dice each titled gambler

flings. To meet alternate on the Seine and

Thames, For tea and gossip, like old country

dames ! No ! let the cravens plead the weakling's

cant. Let Cobden cipher, and let Vincent rant, Let Sturge preach peace to democratic

throngs. And Burritt, stammering through his

hundred tongues, Piepeat, in all, his ghostly lessons o'er. Timed to the pauses of the battery's roar; Check Ban or Kaiser with the bai-ricade Of " Olive-leaves" and Resolutions made, Spike guns with pointed Scripture-texts,

and hope To capsize navies with a windy trope ; Still shall the glory and the pomp of War Along their train the shouting millions

draw ; Still dusty Labor to the passing Brave His cap shall doff, and Beauty's kerchief

wave ; Still shall the bard to Valor tune his song. Still Hero-worship kneel before the

Strong ; Rosy and sleek, the sable-gowned divine, O'er his third bottle of suggestive wine. To plumed and sworded auditors, shall

prove Their trade accordant with the La\r of

Ijove ; And Church for State, and State for

Church, shall fight, And both agi-ee, that Might alone is

Right ! " Despite of sneers like these, 0 faithful

few. Who dare to hold God's word and wit- ness true.

150

MISCELLANEOUS.

Whose clear-eyed faith transcends our

evil time, And o'er the present wilderness of crime Sees the cahu future, with its robes of

gi-een, Its fleece-flecked mountains, and soft

streams between, — Still keep the path which duty bids ye

tread, Though worldly wisdom shake the cau- tious head ; No truth from Heaven descends ujjon

oui- sphere, Without the greeting of ilie sceptic's

sneer ; Denied and mocked at, till its blessings

fall, Common as dew and sunshine, over all.

Then, o'er Earth's war-field, till the

strife shall cease, liike Morven's harpers, sing j^our song

of peace ; As in old fable rang the Thracian's l}Te, Midst howl of fiends and roar of penal fire. Till the fierce din to pleasing mminurs

fell. And love subdued the maddened heart

of hell. Lend, once again, that holy song a

tongue. Which the glad angels of the Advent

sung. Their cradle-anthem for the Saviour's

birth. Glory to God, and peace unto the earth ! Through the mad discord send that

calming word Which wind and wave on wild Genesa-

reth heard. Lift in Christ's name his Cross against

the Sword ! Not vain the ^^sion which the prophets

saw. Skirting with green the fiery waste of war, Through the hot sand-gleam, looming

soft and calm On the sky's rim, the fountain-shading

palm. Still lives for Earth, which fiends so long

have trod. The great hope resting on the truth of

God, — Evil .shall cease and Violence pass away. And the tired world breathe free through

a loutc Sabbath day. llJAmo.,1848.

THE WISH OF TO-DAY.

I ASK not now for gold to gild

With mocking shine a weaiy frame ;

The yearning of the mind is stilled, — I ask not now for Fame.

A rose-cloud, dimly seen above,

Melting in heaven's blue depths away, —

0, sweet, fond dream of human Love ! For thee I may not pray.

But, bowed in lowliness of mind,

I make my humble wishes known, — I only ask a wiU resigned,

0 Father, to thine own !

To-day, beneath thy chastening eye

1 crave aloue for peace and rest, Submissive in thy hand to lie.

And feel that it is best.

A marvel seems the Universe, A miracle our Life and Death ;

A mystery which I cannot pierce, Around, above, beneath.

In vain I task ni}' aching brain, In vain the sage's thought I scaji,

I only feel how weak and vain. How poor and blind, is man.

And now my spirit sighs for home. And longs for light wliereby to see,

And, like a wear}' child, would come, 0 Father, imto thee !

Though oft, like letters traced on s;ind. My weak resolves have passed away.

In mercy lend thy heliiing hand Unto my prayer to-day !

OUR STATE.

The South-land boasts its teeming cane, The prairied West its lieavy grain, .And sunset's radiant gates unfold On rising marts and sands of gold !

Rough, bleak, and hard, our little Stat* Is scant of soil, of limits strait ; Her yellow sands are sands alone. Her only mines are ice and stone J

TO A. K.

151

From Autumn ft'ost to April rain, Too long her winter woods complain ; From budding flower to falling leaf, Her summer time is all too brief.

Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands,

And wintry hills, the school-house stands,

And what her rugged soil denies.

The harvest of the mind supplies.

I

'The riches of the Commonwealth

'Are free, strong minds, and hearts of

health ; And more to her than gold or grain, The cunning hand and cultured brain.

For well she keeps her ancient stock. The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock ; And still maintains, with milder laws. And clearer light, the Good Old Cause !

Nor heeds the sceptic's puny hands. While near her school the church-spire

stands ; Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule. While near her church-spire stands the

school.

ALL'S WELL.

The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake

Our thirsty souls with rain ; The blow most dreaded falls to break

From off our limbs a chain ; And wrongs of man to man but make

The love of God more plain. As through the shadowy lens of even The eye looks farthest into heaven On gleams of star and depths of blue The glaring sunshine never knew !

SEED-TIME AND HARVEST.

As o'er his furrowed fields which lie Beneath a coldly-droj)ping sky. Yet chill with winter's melted snow, Tlie husbandman goes forth to sow,

Tlius, Freedom, on the bitter blast The ventures of thy seed we cast. And trust to warmer sun and rain To swell the germs and fill the gi-ain.

Who calls thy glorious service hard ? Who deems it not its own reward ?

Who, for its trials, counts it less A cause of praise and thankfulness ?

It may not be our lot to wield The sickle in the ripened field ; Nor ours to hear, on summer eves. The reaper's song among the sheaves.

Yet where our duty's task is wrought In unison with God's great thought. The near and future blend in one. And whatsoe'er is willed, is done !

And ours the grateful service whence Comes, day by day, the recompense ; The hoj^e, the trust, the purpose stayed, The fountain and the noonday shade.

And were this life the utmost span, The only end and aim of man. Better the toil of fields like these Than waking dream and slothful ease.

But life, though falling like our grain, Like that revives and springs again ; And, early called, how blest are they Who wait in heaven their harvest-day !

TO A. K.

ON EECEIVING A BASKET OF SEA-MOSSES.

Thanks for thy gift Of ocean flowers. Born where tlie golden drift Of the slant sunshine falls Down the green, tremulous walls Of water, to the cool still coral bowers, Where, under rainbows of perpetual showers, God's gardens of the deep His patient angels keej) ; Gladdening the dim, strange solitude With fairest forms and hues, and

thus Forever teaching us The lesson which the many-colored skies. The flowers, and leaves, and painted

butterflies, The deer's branched antlers, the gay

bird that flings The tropic sunshine from its golden

wings. The brightness of the human counte- nance. Its play of smiles, the magic of a glance,

152

MISCELLANEOUS.

Forevermore repeat, lu varied tones and sweet, That beauty, in and of itself, is good.

0 kind and generous friend, o'er whom The sunset hues of Time are cast. Painting, upon the overpast And scattered clouds of noonday

sorrow The promise of a fairer morrow. An earnest of the better life to come ; The binding of the spirit broken. The warning to the erring spoken.

The comfort of the sad. The eye to see, the hand to cull Of common things the beautiful.

The absent heart made glad By simple gift or graceful token Of love it needs as daily food, All own one Source, and all are good ! Hence, tracking sunny cove and

reach. Where spent waves gUmmer up the

beach. And toss their gifts cf weed and shell From foamy curve and combing swell. No unbefitting task was thine

To weave these flowers so soft and fair In unison with His design

Who loveth beauty everywhere ; And makes in every zone and clime.

In ocean and in upper air, " All things beautiful in their time."

For not alone in tones of awe and power He speaks to man ; The cloudy horror of the thunder- shower His rainbows span ;

And where the caravan Winds o'er the desert, leaving, as in

air The crane-flock leaves, no trace of pas- sage there, He gives the weary eye The pahn-leaf shadow for the hot noon hours. And on its branches dry Calls out the acacia's flowers ; And where the dark shaft pierces down Beneath the mountain roots, Seen by the miner's lamp alone, The star-like crystal shoots ; So, where, the Minds and waves

below. The coral-branched gardens grow. His climbing weeds and mosses

show. Like foliage, on each stony bough, Of varied hues more strangely gay Than forest leaves in autumn's day;- Thus evermore. On sky, and wave, and shore, An all-pervading beauty seems to

say : God's love and power are one ; and

they, Who, like the thunder of a sultry day. Smite to restore. And they, who, like the gentle wind,

uplift The petals of the dew-wet flowers, and drift Their perfume on the air, Alike may serve Him, each, with their own gift. Making their lives a pra} er I

THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS.

153

THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS,

AND OTHER POEMS.

THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS.

" I DO believe, and yet, in grief, I pray for help to unbelief ; For needful strength aside to lay The daily cumberings of my way.

" I 'm sick at heart of craft and cant. Sick of the crazed enthusiast's rant. Profession's smooth hypocrisies, And creeds of iron, and lives of ease.

" I ponder o'er the sacred word, I read the record of our Lord ; And, weak and troubled, envy them Who touched liis seamless garment's hem ; —

" Who saw the tears of love he wept Above the grave where Lazarus slept ; And heard, amidst the shadows dim Of Olivet, his evening hymn.

" How blessed the swineherd's low

estate. The beggar crouching at the gate, The leper loathly and abhorred, Whose eyes of flesh beheld the Lord !

* ' O sacred soil his sandals pressed ! Sweet fountains of his noonday rest ! 0 light and air of Palestine, Impregnate with his life divine !

" 0, bear me thither ! Let me look On Siloa's pool, and Kedron's brook, — Kneel at Gethseinane, and by Gennesaret walk, before I die !

" Methinks this cold and northern night Would melt before that Orient light ; And, wet by Hermon's dew and rain. My childhood's faith revive again ! "

So spake my friend, one autumn day. Where the still river slid away Beneath us, and above tlie brown Red curtains of the woods shut down.

Then said I, — ■ for I could not brook The mute appealing of his look, — " 1, too, am weak, and faitn is small, And blindness happeneth unto all.

"Yet, sometimes glimpses on my sight, Through present wrong, the eternal

right ; iVnd, step by step, since time began, I see the steady gain of man ;

" Tliat all of good the past hath nad Remains to make our own time glad, — ■ Our common daily life divine, And every land a Palestine.

" Thou weariest of thy present state ; What gain to thee time's holiest date ? The doubter now perclianiH' had been As High Priest or as Pilate then !

' ' What thought Chorazin's scribes'

What faith In Him had Nain and Nazareth ? Of the few followers whom He led One sold him, — all forsook and fled.

" 0 friend ! we need nor rock nor sand, Nor storied stream of Morning-I.,and ; The heavens are glassed in ]\Ieri7

mack, — What more could Jordan render back ?

" We lack but open eye and ear To find the Orient's marvels here ; — The still small voice in autumn's hush. Yon mai)le wood the burning bush.

" For still the new transcends the old. In signs and tokens manifold ; — Slaves rise up men ; the olive waves. With roots deep set in battle graves !

" Through the harsh noises of our day A low, sweet prehule finds its way ; Through clouds of doubt, and creeds ol

fi^ar, A light is breaking, calm and alear.

154

THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS.

" That song of Lotc, now low and far, Erelong shall swell from star to star ! That light, the breaking day, which tips The golden-spired Apocalj'pse ! "

Then, when mj' gooi,i friend shook his

head. And, sighing, sadly smiled, I said : " Thou mind'st me of a stor}'^ told In rare Bemardin's leaves of gold." ^

And while the slanted sunbeams wove The shadows of the frost-stained gi'ove. And, picturing all, the river i-an O'er cloud and wood, I thus began :

In Mount Valerien's chestniit wood The Chapel of the Hermits stood ; And tliither, at the close of day, Came two old pilgrims, worn and gi'ay.

One, whose impetuous youth defied The storms of Baikal's \niitry side. And mused and dreamed where tropic

day Flamed o'er his lost Virginia's bay.

His simple tale of love and woe All hearts had melted, high or low ; — A blissful ])ain, a sweet distress, Immortal in its tenderness.

Yet, while above liis charmed page Beat quick the young heart of liis age. He walked amidst the crowd unknowii, d. sorrowing old man, strange and lone.

A homeless, troubled age, — the gray Pale .si-tting of a weary day ; Too dull his ear for voice of praise, Too sadly worn his brow for bays.

Pride, lust of power and glory, slept ; Yet still his heart its young dream kept. And, wandering like the deluge-dove. Still sought the resting-place of love.

And, mateless, childless, en^ned more Tlie peasant's welcome from his door By smiling eyes at eventide, Than kingly gifts or lettered pride.

Until, in place of wife and child, A.ll-pitying Nature on him smiled, And gave to him tlie golden keys lo all her inmost sanctitiea.

Mild Druid of her wood-paths dim \ She laid her great heart bare to him, 1 ts loves and sweet accords ; — he saw The beauty of her perfect law.

The language of her signs lie knew, What notes her cloudy clarion blew ; The rln-thm of autimm's forest dyes, The h3-mn of sunset's painted skies.

And thus he seemed to hear the song Which swept, of old, the stars along ; And to his eyes the earth once more Its fresh and primal beauty wore.

Who sought with him, from summei

air. And field and wood, a balm for care ; And bathed in light of sunset skies His tortured nerves and weary eyes '

His fame on all the winds had flown ; His words had shaken crypt and throne ; Like fire, on camp and court and cell They dropped, and kindled as tney fell.

Beneath the pomps of state, below The mitred juggler's masque and show, A prophecy — a vague hope — ran His burning thought from man to man.

For peace or rest too well he saw The fraud of priests, the wrong of law, And felt how hard, between the two. Their breath of pain the millions drew.

A prophet-utterance, strong and wild, The weakness of an unweaned child, A sun-bright hope for human -kind. And self-despair, in him combined.

He loathed the false, yet lived not

time To half the glorious truths he knew ; The doubt, the discord, and the sin. He mourned without, he felt within.

Untrod by him the path he showed. Sweet pictures on liis easel glowed Of simple faith, and loves of home, And virtue's golden days to come.

But weakness, shame, and folly made The foil to all his pen portrayed ; Still, where his dreamy s]ileiidors shone; The shadow of himself was thrown.

THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS.

155

Lord, what is man, whose thought, at

times, Up to thy sevenfold brightness climbs. While still his grosser instinct clings To earth, like other creeping things !

So rich in words, in acts so mean ; So high, so low ; chance-swung between The foulness of the penal pit And Truth's clear sky, millennium- lit !

Vain pride of star-lent genius ! — vain Quick fancy and creative brain, Unblest by prayerful sacrifice. Absurdly gi-eat, or weakly wise !

Midst yearnings for a truer life, "Without were fears, within was strife ; And still his wayward act denied The perfect good for which he sighed.

The love he sent forth void returned ; The fame that crowned him scorched

and burned, Burning, yet cold and drear and lone, — A fire-mount in a frozen zone !

]jke that the gray-haired sea-king

passed,** Seen southward from his sleety mast. About whose brows of changeless frost A wreath of flame the wild winds tossed.

Far round the mournful beauty played Of lambent light and purple shade. Lost on the fixed and dumb despair Of frozen earth and sea and au' !

A man apart, unknown, unloved

By those whose wrongs his sovxl had

moved, He bore the ban of Church and State, The good man's fear, the bigot's hate !

Forth from the city's noise and throng. Its pomp and shame, its sin and A\Tong, The twain that summer day had strayed To Mount Valerien's chestnut shade.

To them the green fields and the wood Lent something of their cpiietude, And gold(;n-tinte(l sunset seemed Prophetical of all they dreamed.

The hermits from their simple cares The bell was calling home to prayers,

And, listening to its sound, the twain Seemed lapped in childhood's trust

Wide open stood the chapel door ; A sweet old music, swelling o'er Low prayerful murmurs, issued thence, — The Litanies of Providence !

Then Rousseau spake : ' ' Where two or

three In His name meet, He there will be ! '" And then, in silence, on their knees They sank beneath the chestnut-trees.

As to the blind returning light, As daybreak to the Arctic night, Old faith revived : the doubts of years Dissolved in reverential tears.

That gush of feeling overpast, " Ah me ! " Bernardin sighed at last, " I would thy bitterest foes could see Thy heart as it is seen of me !

" No church of God hast thou denied ; Thou hast but spurned in scorn aside A base and hollow counterfeit, Profaning the pure laame of it !

" With dry dead moss and marish weeds His fire the western herdsman feeds. And greener from the ashen plain The sweet spring grasses rise again.

" Nor thunder-peal nor mighty wind Disturb the solid sky behind ; And through the cloud the red bolt rends The calm, still smile of Heaven descends 1

"Thus through the world, like bolt and

blast, And scourging fire, thy words have

passed. Clouds break, — the steadfast heavens

remain ; Weeds burn, — the ashes feed the grain !

' ' But whoso strives with wrong may find Its touch pollute, its darkness blind ; And learn, as latent fraud is shown In others' faith, to doubt his own.

" With dream and falsehood, simple trust And ] lions hope we tread in dust ; Lost th(^ calm faith in goodness, — lost The Ijaptism of the Pentecost !

156

THE CHAPEL OF THE HEEMITS.

" Alas ! — the blows for error meant Too oft on truth itself are spent, As through the false and vile and base Looks forth her sad, rebuking face.

" Kot ours the Theban's charmed life ; We come not scathless from the strife ! The Python's coil about lis clings, The trampled Hydra bites and stings !

" Meanwhile, the sport of seeming

chance, The plastic shapes of circumstance, What might have been we fondly guess. If earlier born, or tempted less.

" And thou, in these wild, troubled

days, Misjudged alike in blame and praise, Unsought and undeserved the same The sceptic's praise, the bigot's blame ; —

"I cannot doubt, if thou hadst been Among the highly favored men Who walked on earth with Fenelon, He would have owned thee as his son ;

"And, bright with wings of cherubim

Visibly waving over him,

Seen through his life, the Church had

seemed All that its old confessors dreamed.

" I would have been," Jean Jaques re- plied, " The humblest servant at his side, Obscure, unknown, content to see How beautiful man's life may be !

" 0, more than thrice-blest relic, more Than solemn rite or sacred lore. The holy life of one who trod The foot-marks of the Christ of God !

" Amidst a blinded world he saw

The oneness of the Dual law ;

That Heaven's sweet peace on Earth

began, And Got! was loved through love of

man.

" He lived the Truth which reconciled The .<;troug man Reason, Faith the child : In him belief and act were one, The homilies of duty done ! "

So speaking, through the twilight gray The two old pilgrims went their way.

What seeds of life that day were sown, The heavenly watchers knew alone.

Time passed, and Autumn came to fold Green Summer in her brown and gold; Time passed, and Winter's tears of snow Dropped on the gi-ave-mound of Rous- seau.

" The tree remaineth where it fell, The pained on earth is pained in hell ! " So priestcraft from its altars cursed The mournful doubts its falsehood nursed.

Ah ! well of old the Psalmist prayed, "Thy hand, not man's, on nie be laid ! " Earth frowns below. Heaven weeps above, And man is hate, but God is love !

Ko Hermits now the wanderer sees, Kor chapel with its chestnut-trees ; A morning dream, a tale that 's told. The wave of change o'er all has rolled.

Yet lives the lesson of that day ; And from its twilight cool and gray Comes up a low, sad whisper, ' ' Make The truth thine own, for truth's own sake.

"Why wait to see in thy brief span Its perfect flower and fruit in man ? No saintlj' touch can save ; no balm Of healing hath the martyr's palm.

"Midst soulless forms, and false pre- tence Of spiritual pride and pampered sense, A voice saith, ' What is that to thee ? Be ti-ue thyself, and follow Me ! '

" In da3-s when throne and altar heard The wanton's wish, the bigot's word, And pomp of state and ritual show Scarce hid the loathsome death be- low, —

"Midst fawning priests and courtieri

foul, The losel swarm of crown and cowl, White-robed walked Francois Fenelon, Stainhiss as Uriel in the sun !

" Yet in his time the stake blazed red. The poor wore eaten up like bread : Men knew liim not : his garment's hem No healing virtue had for them.

QUESTIONS OF LIFE.

157

" Alas ! no present saint we find ; The white cymar gleams far behind, Revealed in outline vague, sublime, Through telescopic mists of time I

•" Trust not in man with passing lireath. But in the Lord, old Scripture saith ; The truth which saves thou mayst not

blend With false professor, faithless friend.

"Search thine own heart. What j^ain-

eth thee In others in thyself may be ; All dust is frail, all flesh is weak ; Be thou the true man thou dost seek !

* ' Where now with pain thou treadest, trod The whitest of the saints of God ! To show thee where their feet were set, The light which led them shineth yet.

" The footprints of the life divine, Which marked their path, remain in

thine ; And that great Life, transfused in theirs, Awaits thy faith, thy love, thy prayers ! "

A lesson which I well may heed, A word of fitness to my need ; So from that twilight cool and gray Still saith a voice, or seems to say.

We rose, and slowly homeward turned. While down the west the sunset burned; And, in its light, hill, wood, and tide, And human forms seemed glorified.

The village homes transfigured stood, And purple bluffs, whose belting wood Across the waters leaned to hold The yellow leaves like lamps of gold.

Then spake my friend : "Thy words arft

true ; Forever old, forever new. These home-seen splendors are the same Which over Eden's sunsets came.

' ' To these bowed heavens let wood and

hill Lift voiceless praise and anthem still ; Fall, warm with blessing, over them, Light of the New Jerusalem !

"Flow on, sweet river, like the stream Of John's Apocalyptic dream ! This mapled ridge shall Horeb be, Yon gi'een -banked lake our Galilee !

"Hencefoi-th my heart shall sigh no

more For olden time and holier shore ; God's love and blessing, then and there, Are now and here and everywhere."

MISCELLANEOUS.

QUESTIONS OF LIFE.

And the ansjel that was sent unto me, whose name was Uriel, gave me an answer and said,

" Thy heart hath gone too far in this world, and thhikest thou to comprehend the way of the Most High?"

Then said I, " Yea, my Lord."

Then said he unto me, " Oo thy way, weijh me the weight of the fire or meiisure me the hlast of the wind, or call me again the day that is past." — 2 Esdras, chap. iv.

A BENDiNo staff" I would not break, A feeble faith I would not shake, Nor even rashly pluck away The error which some truth may stay. Whose loss might leave the soul without A shield against the shafts of doubt.

And yet, at times, when over all A darker mystery seems to fall, (May God forgive the child of dust, Who seeks to knoio, where Faith shouid

trust ! ) I raise the questions, old and dark, Of Uzdom's tempted ])atriarch, And, speech-confounded, build again The baffled tower of Shinar's plain.

I am : how litth; more I know ! Whence came I ? Whither do I go ? A centred self, which feels and is ; A cry between the silences ; A shadow-birth of clouds at strife With sunshine on the hills of life ;

158

MISCELLANEOUS.

A shaft from Nature's quiver cast Into the Future from the Past ; Between the cradle and the shroud, A meteor's flight from cloud to cloud.

Thorough the vastness, arching all,

I see the great stars rise and fall,

The rounding seasons come and go,

The tided oceans ebb and flow ;

The tokens of a central force,

Wliose circles, in theii- widening course,

O'erlap and move the universe ;

The workings of the law whence springs

The rhythmic harmony of things,

Which sha])es in earth the darkling

spar. And orbs in heaven the morning star. Of all I see, in earth and sky, — Star, flower, beast, bird, — what part

have I ? This conscious life, — is it the same A^^hich thrills the universal frame, Whereby the caverncd crystal shoots. And mounts the sap from forest roots, Whereby the exiled wood-bird tells When Spring makes green her native

dells? How feels the stone the pang of birth. Which brings its sparkling jtrism forth ? The forest-tree the throb which gives The life-blood to its new-born leaves ? Do bird and blossom feel, like me, Life's many-folded my-sterj', — The wonder which it is to be ? Or stand I severed and distinct, From Nature's chain of life unlinked ? Allied to all, yet not the less Prisoned in separate consciousness. Alone o'erburdened vrith a sense Of life, and cause, and consequence ?

In vain to me tlie Sphinx propounds The riddle of her sights and sounds ; Back still the vaulted mystery gives The echoed question it receives. What sings the brook ? What oracle Is in the pine-tree's organ swell ? What may the wind's low burden

be? The meaning of the moaning sea ? The hieroglyphics of the stars ? Or clouded sunset's crim.son bars ? I vainly ask, for mocks my skill The trick of Nature's cipher -stilL

I turn from Nature unto men, I ask the stylus and the pen ;

What sang the bards of old ? What

meant The prophets of the Orient ? The rolls of buried Egypt, hid In painted tomb and pyramid ? What mean Idumea's arrowy lines, Or dusk Flora's monstrous signs ? How speaks the primal thought of man From the giim carWugs of Copan ? Where rests the secret ? Where the keys Of the old death-bolted mysteries ? Alas ! the dead retain their trust ; Dust hath no answer from the dust.

The gi-eat enigma still unguessed,

Unanswered the eternal quest ;

I gather up the scattered rays

Of wisdom in the early da3's.

Faint gleams and broken, like the lig^t

Of meteors in a northern night.

Betraying to the darkling earth

Tlic unseen sun which gave them birtf ;

1 listen to the sibyl's cliant,

Tilt; voice of priest and hierophant ;

1 know what Indian Kreeshna saith,

And what of life and what of death

The demon taught to Socrates ;

And what, beneath his garden-trees

Slow pacing, with a dream-like treadj

The solemn-thoughted Plato said ;

Nor lack 1 tokens, gieat or small.

Of God's clear light in each and all,

While holding with more dear regard

The scroll of Hebrew seer and bard.

The starry pages promise-lit

With Christ's Evangel over-writ,

Thy miracle of life and death,

0 holy one of Nazareth !

On Aztec ruins, gray and lone, The circling serpent coils in stone, — Type of the endless and unknown ; Whereof we seek the clew to find. With gi'oping fingers of the blind ! Forever sought, and never found. We trace that serpent-symbol round Our resting-place, our starting bound ! 0 thriftlessness of dream and guess ! 0 wisdom which is foolishness ! Why idly seek from outward things The answer inward silence brings ; AVliy stretch beyond our ]iioper sphere And age, for that whicli lies so near ? Why climb tlie far-ofl' hills with pain, A nearer view of heaven to gain ? In lowliest depths of bosky dells The hernyt Contemplation dwells.

THE PRISONERS OF NAPLES.

159

A fountain's pine-liung slope Ms seat, And lotus-twined liis silent feet, Whence, piercing heaven, with screened

sight. He sees at noon the stars, whose light Shall glorify the coming night.

Here let me pause, my quest forego ; Enough for me to feel and know That He in whom the cause and end, The past and future, meet and blend, — Who, girt with his immensities, Our vast and star-hung system sees, Small as the clustered Pleiades, -- Moves not alone the heavenly quires, But waves the spring-time's grassy

spires, Guards not archangel feet alone, But deigns to guide and keep my own ; Speaks not alone the words of fate Which worlds destroy, and worlds

create, But whispers in my spirit's ear, In tones of love, or wai'ning fear, A language none beside may hear.

To Him, from wanderings long and

wild, I come, an over- wearied child, In cool and shade his peace to find, Like dew-fall settling on my mind. Assured that all I know is best, And humbly trusting for the rest, I turn from Fancy's cloud-built scheme. Dark creed, and mournful eastern dream Of power, impersonal and cold. Controlling all, itself controlled. Maker and slave of iron laws, Alike the subject and the cause ; From vain philosophies, that tiy The sevenfold gates of mystery. And, baffled ever, babble still, Word-prodigal of fate and will ; From Nature, and her mockery. Art, And book and speeeli of men apart. To the still witness in my heart ; With reverence waiting to behold His Avatar of love untold, The Eternal Beauty new and old !

THE PRISONERS OF NAPLES.

I HAVE been thinking of the victims

bound In Naples, dying for the lack of air

And sunshine, in their close, damp

cells of pain. Where hope is not, and innocence in

vain Appeals against the toiture and the

chain ! Unfortunates ! whose crime it was to

shai-e Our common love of freedom, and to

dare. In its behalf, Rome's harlot triple- crowned. And her base pander, the most hateful

thing Who upon Christian or on Pagan

ground Makes vile the old heroic name of king. 0 God most merciful ! Father just and

kind! Whom man hath bound let thy right

hand unbind. Or, if thy purposes of good behind Their ills lie hidden, let the sufl'erers

find Strong consolations ; leave them not to

doubt Thy providential care, nor yet without The hope which all thy attributes in- spire. That not in vain the martyr's robe of

fire Is worn, nor the sad prisoner's fretting

chain ; Since all who suffer for thy truth send

forth, Electrical, with every throb of pain. Unquenchable sparks, thy own bap- tismal rain Of fire and spirit over all the earth, Making the dead in slavery live again. Let this great hope be with them, as

they lie Shut from the light, the greenness, and

the sky, — From the cool waters and the pleasant

breeze, '

The smell of flowers, and shade of sum- mer trees ; Bound with the felon lepers, whom

disease And sins abhorred make loathsome ;

let them share Pellico's faith, Foresti's strength to bear Years of unutterable toiment, stern and

still, As the chained Titan victor through Ids

will !

160

MISCELLANEOUS.

Comfort them with tliy future ; let them

see The day-dawn of Italian liberty ; For that, with all good things, is hid

with Thee, And, perfect in thy thought, awaits its

time to be !

I, who have spoken for freedom at the cost Of some weak friendships, or some pal-

ti}' prize Of name or place, and more than I have

lost Have gained in ^^•ider reach of sym- pathies. And free communion with the good and

Avise, — May God forbid that I should ever

boast Such easy self-denial, or repine That the strong pulse of health no more

is mine ; That, overworn at noonday, I must

yield To other hands the gleaning of the

field, — A tired on-looker through the day's

decline. For blest beyond deserving still, and

knowing That kindly Providence its care is

showing In the withdrawal as in the bestowing, Scarcely I dare for more or less to praj'. Beautiful yet fir nie this autumn day Melts on its sunset hills ; and, far away. For me the Ocean lifts its solemn psalm. To me the pine-woods whisper ; and

for me Yon river, winding through its vales of

calm. By greenest banks, with asters purple- starred. And gentian bloom and golden-rod

made gay, Flows down in silent gladness to the sea. Like a pure spirit to its great reward !

Nor lack I friends, long-tried and near and dear.

Whose love is round me like this atmos- phere,

Warn, soft, and golden. For such gifts to me

What shall I render, 0 my Ood, to thee ?

Let m<i not dwell u])on my lighter .share

Of pain and ill that human lifemu.st bear ;

Save me from selfish pining ; let my heart, Drawn from itself in sympathy, forget The bitter longings of a vain regret. The anguish of its own peculiar smart. Remembering others, as I have to-day. In their great sorrows, let me live alway Not for myself alone, but have a part, Such as a frail and erring spirit may. In love which is of Thee, and which in- deed Thou art 1

MOLOCH IN STATE STREET.

The moon has set : while yet the dawn

Breaks cold and gray, BetAveen the midnigiit and the mora

Bear off your prey !

On, swift and still ! — the conscious street

Is panged and stirred ; Tread light ! — that fall of serried feet

The dead have heai'd !

The first drawn blood of Freedom's veins

Gushed where ye tread ; Lo ! thi-ough the dusk the martyr-stains

Blush darkly red !

Beneath the slowly waning stars

And whitening daj^ What stern and awful presence bars

That sacred way ?

What faces frown upon ye, dark

With shame and pain ? Come these from ri3Tnouth'5 Pilgrim bark?

Is that young Vane ?

Who, dimly beckoning, speed ye on

With mocking cheer '( Lo ! spectral Aiulros, Hutchinson,

And Gage are here !

For ready mart or favoring blast

Through Moloch's fire Flesh of his flesh, unsparing, passed

The Tyrian sire.

Ye make that ancient sacrifice

Of Man to Gain, Your tiaffic thrives, where Freedom diesy

Beneath the chain.

Ye sow to-day, your harvest, gcom And hate, is near ;

THE PEACE OF EUKOPE.

161

How thiuk ve freemen, mountain-born, The tale will hear ?

Thank God ! our mother State can yet

Her fame retrieve ; To j'ou and to your children let

The scandal cleave.

Chain Hall and Pulpit, Court and Press,

Jlake gods of gold ; Let honor, truth, and manliness

Like wares be sold.

Your hoards are gi-eat, your walls are strong.

But God is just ; The gilded chambers built by wrong

Invite the rust.

"What ! know ye not the gains of Crime

Are dust and dross ; Its ventures on the waves of time

Foi-odoomed to loss !

And still the Pilgrim State remains

What she hath been ; Her inland hills, her seaward plains,

Still nurture men !

Nor wholly lost the fallen mart, —

Her olden blood Through many a free and generous heart

Still pours its flood.

That brave old blood, quick-flowing yet.

Shall know no check. Till a free people's foot is set

On Slavery's neck.

Even now, the peal of bell and gun,

And hills aflame. Tell of the first great triumph won

In Freedom's name.^

Yne long night dies : the welcome gray

Of dawn we see ; Speeil up the heavens thy perfect day,

God of the free ! "1851.

THE PEACE OF EUROPE.

1852.

■'Gi;eat peace in Europe ! Order reigns From Tiber's hills to Danube's plains !" So say her kings and priests ; so say The lying pro])hets of our day. 11

Go lay to earth a listening ear ; The tramp of measured marches hear, — The rolling of the cannon's wheel. The shotted musket's murderous peal, The night alarm, the sentry's call. The quick-eared sjiy in hut and

hall ! From Polar sea and tropic fen The dying-groans of exiled men ! The bolted cell, the galley's chains, The scaffold smoking with its stains ! Order, — the hush of brooding slaves ! Peace, — in the dungeon - vaults and

graves !

0 Fisher ! of the world-wide net,

With meshes in all waters set.

Whose fabled keys of heaven and

hell Bolt hard the patriot's prison-cell. And open wide the banquet-hall. Where kings and priests hold carni- val! Weak vassal tricked in royal guise, Boy Kaiser with thy lip of lies ; Base gambler for Napoleon's crown, Barnacle on his dead renown ! Thou, Bourbon Neapolitan, Crowned scandal, loathed of God and I man ;

And thou, fell Spider of the North ! Stretching thy giant feelers forth. Within whose web the freedom dies Of nations eaten up like flies ! Speak, Prince and Kaiser, Priest and

Czar ! If this be Peace, pray what is War ?

White Angel of the Lord ! unmeet

That soil accursed for thy pure feet.

Never in Slavery's desert flows

The fountain of thy charmed repose ;

No tyrant's hand thy chaplet weaves

Of lilies and of olive-leaves ;

Not with the wicked shalt thou dwell, /

Thus saith the Eternal Oracle ;

Thy home is with the pure and free !

Stern herald of thy better day.

Before thee, to prepare thy way,

The Baptist Shade of Libertj',

Gray, scarred and hairy-robed, must

press With bleeding feet the wilderness ! O that its voice might pierce the ear Of ]irinces, trembling while tlic}- liear A crj' as of the Helircw seer : Repent ! God's kingdom draweth near !

162

MISCELLANEOUS.

WORDSWOETH.

WniTTEX ox A BLAXK LEAF OF HIS JIEMOIRS.

Dear friends, who read the world aright, And in its comniou forms discern

A beauty and a harmony The many never learn !

Kindred in soul of hira who found In simple flower and leaf and stone

The impulse of the sweetest lays Our Saxon tongue has known, —

Accept this record of a life

As sweet and jiuve, as calm and good, As a long day of blandest June

In green field and in wood.

How welcome to our ears, long pained By strife of sect and party noise,

The brook-like murmur of his song Of nature's simple joys !

The violet by its mossy stone, The primrose by the river's brim.

And chance-sown daffodil, have found Immortal life through him.

The sunrise on his breezy lake, The rosy tints his sunset brought.

World-seen, are gladdening all tlie vales And mountain-peaks of thought.

Art builds on sand ; the works of jiride And human passion change and fall ;

But that which .shares the life of God With him surviveth all.

TO

i.tnes wkitten after a kttmmer day's excursion.

Fair Nature's priestesses ! to whom, In hieroglyph of bud and bloom.

Her mysteries are told ; Wlio, wise in lore of wood and mead. The seasons' pictured scrolls can read,

In lessons manifold !

Thanks for the courtesy, and gay Good-humor, which on Washing Day

Our ill-timed visit bore ; Thanks for yourgracefuloaT-s, which broke The nioniing dreams of Articlioke,

Along his wooded shore !

Varied as varj'ing Nature's ways. Sprites of the river, woodland fays,

Or mountain nymphs, ye seem ; Free-limbed Dianas on the green. Loch Katrine's Ellen, or Undine,

Upon your favorite stream.

The forms of which the poets told, The fair benignities of old,

Were doubtless such as you ; What more than Artichoke the rill Of Helicon ? Than Tipe-stave hill

ArcatUa's mountain-A-iew ?

No sweeter bowers the bee delayed, In wild Hymettus' scented shade,

Than those you dwell among ; Snow-flowered azalias, intertwined With ro.ses, over banks inclined

With trembling harebells hung !

A charmed life unknown to death, Immortal freshness Nature hath ;

Her fabled fount and glen Are now and here : Dodona's shrine Still murmurs in the wind-swept pine, —

All is that e'er hath been.

The Beauty which old Greece or Rome Sung, painted, wrought, lies close at home ;

We need but eye and ear In all our daily walks to trace The outlines of incarnate grace.

The hymns of gods to hear !

IN PEACE.

A track of moonlight on a quiet lake. Whose small waves on a silver-sanded

shore "NVliisper of peace, and with the low winds

make Such harmonics as keep the woods awake, And listening all nightlongfortheirsweet

.sake ; A green-waved slope of meadow^, hov- ered o'er By angel-troops of lilies, swaying light On viewless stems, with folded wings of

white ; A slumberous stretch of mountain-land,

far seen Where the low westering day, with gold

and green. Purple and amber, softly blended, fills

■VORDSWORTH'S GRAVE. Page 162.

PICTURES.

163

The wooded vales, and melts among the

liills ; A vine-fringed river, winding to its rest On the calm bosom of a stormless sea, Bearing alike upon its placid breast, With earthly flowers and heavenly stars impressed. The hues of time and of eternity : Such are the pictures which the thought

•of thee, 0 friend, awakeneth, — charming the keen pain Of thy departure, and our sense of loss Requiting with the fulness of thy gain. Lo ! on the cpiiet grave thy life-borne cross, Dropped only at its side, methinks doth

shine. Of thy beatitude the radiant sign ! No sob of grief, no wild lament be there, To break the Sabbath of the holy air ; But, in their stead, the silent-breathing

prayer Of hearts still waiting for a rest like thine. 0 spirit redeemed ! Forgive us, if hence- forth, With sweet and pure similitiides of earth, We keep thy pleasant memory freshly green, Of love's inheritance a priceless part, Which Fancy's self, in reverent awe, is seen To paint, forgetful of the tricks of art, With pencil dipped alone in colors of the heart.

BENEDICITE.

God's love and peace be with thee, where Soe'er this soft autumnal air Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair !

Wliether through city casements comes Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, Or, out among the woodland blooms,

It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face, Imparting, in its glad embrace. Beauty to beauty, grace to grace !

Fair Nature's book together read,

The old wood-paths that knew our tread,

The maple shadows overhead, —

The hills we climbed, the river seen By gleams along its deep raviiu^, — All keep thy memory fresh and green.

Where'er I look, where'er I stray, Thy thought goes with me on my way, And hence the prayer I breathe to-day ;

O'er lapse of time and change of scene. The weary waste which lies between Thyself and me, my heart I lean.

Thou lack'st not Friendship's spell-word,

nor The half-unconscious power to draw All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law.

With these good gifts of God is cast Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast To hold the blessed angels fast.

If, then, a fervent wish for thee

The gracious heavens will heed from me,

What should, dear heart, its burden be 'i

The sighing of a shaken reed, — What can I more than meekly plead The greatness of our common need ?

God's love, — unchanging, pure, and

true, — The Paraclete white-shining through His peace, — the fall of Hermon's dew !

With such a prayer, on this sweet day. As thou mayst hear and I may say, I greet thee, dearest, far away !

PICTURE?

Light, warmth, and sprouting gi-eenness, and o'er all

Blue, stainless, steel -bright ether, rain- ing down

Tranquillity upon the deep-hushed town,

The freshening meadows, and the hill- sides brown ; Voice of the west-wind from the lulls of pine, And tlie brimmed river from its distant foil,

Low hum of bees, and joyous interlude

Of bird-songs in the streamlet-skirting wood, —

Heralds and prophecies of sound and sight,

Blessrd forerunners of the warmth and light,

164

MISCELLANEOUS.

Attendant angels to tlie house of praj^er, With reverent footsteps keeping pace with mine, — Once more, through God's great love, with

you I share A morn of resurrection sweet and feir As that which saw, of old, in Pales- tine, Immortal Love uprising in fresh hloom From the dark night and winter of the tomb ! m mo., 2d, lSo2.

White ^^^th its sun-bleached dust, the pathway winds Before me ; dust is on the shrunken

grass, And on the trees beneath whose

boughs I pass ; Frail screen against the Hunter of the

sky, ^Vlio, glaring on mewithhislidlessej'e, While mounting with his dog-star liigh and higher Ambushed in light intolerable, unbinds The burnished quiver of his shafts of fire. Between me a.nd the hot fields of his

South A tremulous glow, as from a furaace-

mouth, Glimmers and swims before my daz- zled siglit. As if the burning arrows of his ire Broke as they fell, and shattered into light ; Yet on my cheek I feel the western wind. And hear it telling to the orchard

trees, And to the faint and flower-forsaken

bees. Tales of fair meadows, green with con- stant streams, And mountains rising blue and cool behind. Where i7i moist dells the purple or- chis gleams, And starred with white the virgin's

bower is twined. So the o'envearied pilgrim, as he fares Along life's suumier waste, at times is fanned. Even at noontide, by the cool, sweet airs Of a scroner and a holier land, Fresli as tlie morn, and as the dew- faU bland.

Breath of the blessed Heaven for whif-h

we pray. Blow from the eternal hills ! — make

glad our earthly way ! Sth mo., 1852.

DEEXE.56

, Night on the city of the Moor ! On mosque and tomb, and white-walled

shoie. On sea-waves, to whose ccixseless knock The narrow harbor-gates unlock, On corsair's galley, carack tall. And plundered Cluistian caraval ! The sounds of Moslem life are still ; No mule-bell tinkles down the liill ; Stretched in the broad court of the

khan, The dusty Bornou caravan Lies heaj)ed in slumber, beast and man ; The Sheik is dreaming in his tent, His noisy Amb tongue o'ers])ent ; The kiosk's glimmering lights are gone, The merchant with his wares with>

drawn ; Rough pillowed on some pirate l^rt^ast, Tlie dancing-girl has sunk to rest ; And, ssive where measured footsteps

fall Along the Bashaw's guarded wall. Or where, like some bad dream, the

Jew Creejis stealthily his quarter through. Or counts with fear his golden heajis, The City of the Corsair sleeps !

But where yon prison long and low Stands l>lack against tlu' ))ale star-glow. Chafed by the ceaseless wash of waves, There watch and pine the Cliristian

slaves ; — j Rough-bearded men, whose far-off wives Wear out with grief tlieir lonely lives ; i And youth, still Hashing from his eyes The clear bine of New England skies, A treasured lock of whose soft hair Now wakes some sorrowing mother's

prayer ; Or, worn u])on some maiden breast. Stirs with the loving heart's unrest !

A bitter cup each life must drain. The groaning earth is cursed with pain, And, like the scroll the angel bore The shuddering Hebrew seer before,

ASTRiEA.

165

O'erwrit alike, without, within, With all the woes which follow sin ; But, bitterest of the ills beneath Whose load man totters down to death, Is that which plucks the regal crown Of Freedom from his forehead down, And snatches from his jjowerless hand The sceptred sign of self-command. Effacing with the chain and rod The image and the seal of God ; Till from his nature, day by day, The manly virtues fall away. And leave him naked, blind and mute, The godlike merging in the brute !

Why mourn the quiet ones who die Beneath affection's tender eye, Unto their household and their kin Like ripened corn-sheaves gathered in ? 0 weeper, from that tranquil sod, That holy harvest-home of God, Turn to the quick and suffering, — shed Thy tears upon the living dead ! Thank God above thy dear ones' graves, They sleep with Him, — they are not slaves.

What dark mass, down the mountain- sides Swift-pouring, like a stream divides ? — A long, loose, straggling caravan. Camel and horse and armed man. The moon's low crescent, glimmering

o'er Its grave of waters to the shore, Lights up that mountain cavalcade, And glints from gun and spear and

blade Near and more near ! — now o'er them

falls The shadow of the city walls. Hark to the sentry's challenge, drowned In the fierce trumpet's charging

sound ! — ■ The rush of men, the musket's peal. The short, sharp clang of meeting steel !

Vain, Moslem, vain thy lifeblood poured So freely on thy foeman's sword ! Not to the swift nor to the strong The battles of the right belong ; For he who strikes for Freedom wears The armor of the captive's prayers, ' And Nature proflers to his cause The strength of her eternal laws ; While h(! whose arm essays to bind And herd witli common brutes his kind

Strives evermore at fearful odds With Nature and the jealous gods, And dares the dread recoil which late Or soon their right shall vindicate.

'T is done, — the horned crescent falls ! The star-flag flouts the broken walls ! Joy to the captive husband ! joy To thy sick heart, 0 brown-locked boy ' In sullen wrath the coiKjuered Moor "Wide oj^en flings your dungeon-door. And leaves ye free from cell and chain. The owners of yourselves again. Dark as his allies desert-born. Soiled with the battle's stain, and worn "With the long marches of his band Through hottest wastes of rock and

sand, ■ — Scorched by the sun and furnace-breath Of the red desert's wind of death, "With welcome words and grasping

hands. The victor and deliverer stands !

The tale is one of distant skies ; The dust of half a century lies Upon it ; yet its hero's name Still lingers on the lips of Fame, ilen speak the praise of liim who gave Deliverance to the iloorman's slave. Yet dare to brand with shame and crime The heroes of our land and time, — The self- forgetful ones, who stake Home, name, and life for Freedom's

sake. God mend his heart who cannot feel The impulse of a holy zeal. And sees not, with his sordid eyes, The beauty of self-sacrifice ! Though in the sacred place he stands, Uplifting consecrated laands. Unworthy are his lips to tell Of Jesus' martyr-miracle. Or name aright that dread embrace Of suffering for a fallen race !

ASTR.EA.

" Jove means to settle Aslrfea in her seat again, And let down from his polden chain An age of better metiU."

Ben Jomson, 1615

0 POET rare and old !

Tliy words are prophecies ; Forward the age of gold.

The new Saturniau lies.

166

MISCELLANEOUS.

The uiiiversal praj^er

And hope are not in vain ;

Rise, brothers ! and prepare The way for Saturn's reigu.

Perish shall all which takes From labor's board and can ;

Perish shall all which makes A spaniel of the man !

Free from its bonds the mind, The body from the rod ;

Broken all chains that bind The image of our God.

Just men no longer pine Behind their prison-bars ;

Through the rent dungeon shine The free sun and the stars.

Earth own, at last, uuti-od By sect, or caste, or clan,

The fatherhood of God, The brotherhood of man !

Fraud fail, craft perish, forth The money-changers driven,

And God's will done on earth, As now in heaven !

INVOCATION.

Through thy clear spaces, Lord, of

old, Fonnless and void the dead earth rolled ; Deaf to thy heaven's sweet music, blind To the great lights which o'er it sliined ; No sound, no ray, no warmth, no

breath, — A dumb despair, a wandering death.

To that dark, weltering horror came Thy spirit, like a subtle flame, — A breath of life electrical, Awakening and transforming all, Till beat and thrilled in every part The pulses of a living heart.

Then knew their bounds the land and

sea ; Then smiled the bloom of mead and

tree ; From flower to moth, from beast to man, The ciuick creative impulse ran ; And earth, with life from thee renewed, Was in thy holy eyesight good.

As lost and void, as dark and cold And formless as that earth of old, — A wandering waste of storm and night, Midst spheres of song and realms ol

light, - A blot upon thy holy sky. Untouched, unwarned of thee, am I.

0 thou who movest on the deep Of spirits, wake my own from sleep ! Its darkness melt, its coldness warm, The lost restore, the ill transform, That flower and fruit henceforth may b* Its grateful oftering, worthy thee.

THE CROSS.

ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD DILLING. HAM, IN THE NASHVILLE PENITEN- TIARY.

" The cross, if rightly borne, shall be No burden, but support to thee " ; * So, moved of old time for our sake. The holy monk of Keinpen spake.

Thou brave and true one ! ujjon whom Was laid the cro«s of martyi'dom. How didst thou, in thy generous youth, Bear witness to this blessed truth !

Thy cross of suffering and of shame A staff within tliy hands became, In paths where faith alone could see The Master's steps supporting thee.

Thine was the seed-time ; God alone Beliolds the end of what is sown ; Beyond our vision, weak and dim, The harvest-time is hivl with Him.

Yet, unforgotten where it lies. That seed of generous sacrifice. Though seeming on the desert cast, Shall rise with bloom and fruit at last.

EYA.

Dry the tears for holy Eva, With the blessed angels leave her ; Of the form so soft and fair Give to earth the tender care.

For the golden locks of Eva Let the sun-ny south-land give hei * Thomas k KetnpU. ImU. Christ.

APRIL.

167

Flowery pillow of repose,— Orange-bloom and budding rose.

In the better liome of Ev^a Let the shining ones receive her, With the welcome-voiced psalm. Harp of gold and waving palm !

All is light and peace with Eva ; There the darkness cometh never ; Tears are wiped, and fetters fall. And the Lord is all in all.

Weep no more for happy Eva,

Wrong and sin no more shall grieve

her ; Care and pain and weariness Lost in love so measnreless.

Gentle Eva, loving Eva, Child confessor, true believer, Listener at the Master's knee, " Suffer such to come to me."

0, for faith like thine, sweet Eva, Lighting all the solemn river, And the blessings of the poor Wafting to the heavenly shore !

TO FREDKIKA BREMER.^t

Seeress of the misty Norland, Daughter of the Vikings bold.

Welcome to the sunny Vineland, Which thy fathers sought of old !

Soft as flow of Silja's waters,

When the moon of summer shines.

Strong as Winter from his mountains Roaring through the sleeted pines.

Heart and ear, we long have listened To thy saga, rune, and song.

As a household joy and presence

We have known and loved thee long.

By the mansion's marble mantel.

Round the log-walled cabin's hearth,

Thy sweet thoughts and northern fan- cies Meet and mingle with our mirth.

And o'er weary spirits keeping

Sorrow's night-watch, long and chill.

Shine they like thy sun of summer Over midnight vale and hill.

We alone to thee are strangers, Thou our friend and teacher art ;

Come, and know us as we know thee ; Let us meet thee heart to heart !

To our homes and household altars We, in turn, thy steps would lead

As thy loving han<l has led us O'er the threshold of the Swede.

APRIL.

" The spring comes slowly up this way."

Christabel.

'T IS the noon of the spring-time, yet

never a bird In the wind-shaken elm or the maple is

heard ; For green meadow-grasses wide levels of

snow, And blowing of drifts where the crocus

should blow ; Where wind-flower and violet, amber

and white, On south - sloping brook sides should

smile in the light, O'er the cold winter-beds of their late- waking roots The frosty flake eddies, the ice-crystal

shoots ; And, longing for light, under wind- driven heaps. Round the boles of the pine-wood the

ground-laurel creeps, Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of

s>howers. With buds scarcely swelled, which

should burst into flowers ! We wait for thy coming, sweet wind of

the south ! For the touch of thy light wings, the

kiss of thy mouth ; For the yearly evangel thou bearest from

God, Resurrection and life to the gi-aves of the

sod ! Up our long river-valley, for days, have

not ceased The wail and the shriek of the bitter

northeast, — Raw and chill, as if winnowed through

ices and snow. All the way from tlie land of th(^ wild

Esquimau, — Until all our dreams of the land of the

blest,

168

MISCELLANEOUS.

Like that red hunter's, turn to the simuy

southwest. 0 soul of the spriiig-tmie, its light and

its breath, Bring warmth to this coldness, bring

life to this death ; Renew the great miracle ; let us behold The stone from the mouth of the sej)ul-

chre rolled, And Nature, like Lazarus, rise, as of

old! Let our faith, which in darkness and

coldness has lain. Revive with the warmth and the bright- ness again. And in blooming of flower and budding

of tree The sJ^nbols and tj-pes of our destiny

see ; The life of the spring-time, the life of

the whole, And, as .sun to the sleeping earth, love

to the soul !

STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. 1850.

The evil daj-s have come, — the poor

Are made a prey ; Bar up the hos])itable door. Put out the fire-lights, point no more

The wanderer's way.

For Pity now is crime ; the chain

Which binds our States Ts melted at her hearth in twain, Is rusted by her tears' soft rain :

Close up her gates.

Our Union, like a glacier stirred

By voice below. Or bell of kine, or wing of bird, A beggar's crust, a kindly word

May overthrow !

Poor, whispering tremblers ! — yet we boast Our blood and name ; Bursting its centurj'-bolted frost, Each gray cairn on the Northman's coast Cries out for shame !

0 for the open firmament, The prairie free.

Tlie desert hillside, cavern-rent. The Pawnee's lodge, the Arab's tent, The Bushman's tree !

Than web of Persian loom most rare.

Or soft divan. Better the rough rock, bleak and bare. Or hollow tree, which man may .share

With suflering man.

I hear a voice : " Thus saith the Law,

Let Love be dumb ; Clasping her liberal hands in awe. Let sweet-lipped Charity withdraw

From hearth and home."

1 hear another voice : " The poor

Are thine to feed ; Turn not the outcast from thy door. Nor give to bonds and wrong once mof*

Whom God hath freed."

Dear Lord ! between that law and thee

No choice remains ; Yet not untrue to man's decree. Though spurning its rewards, is he

Who bears its pains.

Not mine Sedition's trum])et-blast

And threatening word ; I read the lesson of the Past, That firm endurance wins at last

I\Iore than the sword.

0 cloar-eyed Faith, and Patience, thou

So calm and strong ! Lend strength to weakness, teach us how The sleepless eyes of God look through

This night of wrong !

A SABBATH SCENE.

Scarce had the solemn Sabbath-bell Ceased quivering in the steeple.

Scarce had the parson to his desk Walked stately through his people,

When down the summer-shaded street

A wasted female figure, With dusky brow and naked feet,

Came rushing wild and eager.

She saw the white spire through the trees.

She heard the sweet hymn swelling : 0 int}-ing Christ ! a refuge; give

That poor one in thy dwelling !

A SABBATH SCENE.

169

Like a scared fawn before the hounds, Eight up the aisle slie glided,

While close behind her, whip in hand, A knk-haired Iiunter strided.

She raised a keen and bitter cry. To Heaven and Earth appealing ; —

Were manhood's generous pulses dead ? Had woman's heart no feehng ?

A score of stout hands rose between

The hunter and the flying : "Age clenched his staff", and maiden eyes

Flashed tearful, yet defying.

"Who dares profane this house and

day ? " ' Cried out the angry pastor. ' ' Why, bless your soul, the wench 's a

slave. And I 'm her lord and master !

" I 've law and gospel on my side, And who shall dare refuse me ? "

Down came the parson, bowing low, " My good sir, pray excuse me !

" Of course I know your right divine To own and work and whip her ;

Quick, deacon, throw that Polyglott Before the wench, and trip her ! "

Plump dropped the holy tome, and o'er

Its sacred pages stumbling. Bound hand and foot, a slave once more,

The hapless wretch lay trembling.

I saw the parson tie the knots. The while his flock addressing.

The Scriptural claims of slavery With text on text impressing.

" Although," said he, " on Sabbath day

All secular occupations Are deadly sins, we must fulfil I Our moral obligations :

" And this commends itself as one

To every conscience tender ; As Paul sent back Onesimus,

My Christian friends, we send her !''

Shriek rose on shriek, — the Sabbath air Her wild cries tore asunder ;

I listened, with hu-shed breath, to hear God answering with his thunder !

All still ! — the very altar's cloth Had smothered down her shrieking,

And, dumb, she turned from face to face. For human pity seeking !

I saw her dragged along the aisle. Her shackles harshly clanking ;

I heard the parson, over all, The Lord devoutly thanking !

My brain took fire : " Is this," I cried, " The end of prayer and preach- ing ? Then down with pulpit, down with priest. And give us Nature's teaching !

' ' Foul shame and scorn be on ye all

Who turn the good to evil. And steal the Bible from the Lord,

To give it to the Devil !

" Than garbled text or parchment law

I own a statute higher ; And God is true, though every book

And every man's a liar ! "

Just then I felt the deacon's hand In wrath my coat-tail seize on ;

I heard the priest cry, " Infidel ! " The lawyer mutter, ' ' Treason ! "

I started up, — where now were church. Slave, master, priest, and people ?

I only heard the supi^er-bell. Instead of clanging steeple.

But, on the open window's sill.

O'er which the white blooms drifted,

The pages of a good old Book The wind of summer lifted.

And flower and ^'ine, like angel wings

Around the Holy Mother, Waved softly there, as if God's truth

And Mercy kissed each other.

And freely from the cherry-bough Above the casement swinging.

With golden bosom to the sun, The oriole was singing.

As bird and flower made plain of old

The lesson of the Teacher, So now I iieard the written Word

Interpreted by Nature !

170

MISCELLANEOUS.

For to my ear methoiiglit the breeze Bore Freedom's blessed word on ; Thus saith the Lord : Bkeak every

YOKE,

Undo the heavy burden !

REMEMBRANCE.

WITH COPIES OF THE AUTHOR'S WRIT- INGS.

Friend of mine ! whose lot was cast ATith me in the distant iiast, — \\'liere, like shadows flitting fast,

Fact and fancy, thought and theme, Word and work, begin to seem Like a half-remembered dream !

Touched by change have all things

been. Yet I think of thee as when AVe had speech of lip and pen.

For the calm thy kindness lent To a path of discontent. Rough with trial and dissent ;

Gentle words where such were few, Softening blame where blame was

true. Praising where small praise was due ;

For a waking dream made good.

For an ideal underetood.

For thy Christian womanhood ;

For thy marvellous gift to cull From our connnon life and dull Whatsoe'er is beautiful ;

Thoughts and fancies, Hybla's bees Dropping sweetness ; true heart's-ease Of congenial sympathies ; —

Still for these I own my debt ; Memoiy, with her eyelids wet. Fain would thank thee even yet !

And as one who scatters flowers Where the Qu<'en of May's sweet hours Sits, o'ertwined with blossomed bowers,

In superfluous zeal bestowing Gifts where gifts are overflowing, So I pay the debt I 'm owing.

To thy full thoughts, gay or sad, Sunny-hued or sober clad, Something of my own I add ;

Well assured that thou wilt take Even the oflering which I make Kindly for the giver's sake.

THE

POOR VOTER TION DAY.

ON ELEC'

The proudest now is but my peer,

The highest not more high ; To-day, of all tlie weary year,

A king of men am I . To-day, alike are gi-eat and small.

The nameless and the known ; My palace is the people's hall.

The ballot-box my throne !

"V\Tio serves to-day upon the list

Beside the served shall stand ; Alike the brown and w riiikled tist.

The gloved and dainty hand ! The rich is level with the poor.

The weak is strong to-daj^ ; And sleekest broadcloth counts no more

Than homespun frock of gray.

To-day let pomp and vain pretence

My stubborn right abide ; I set a plain man's common sense

Against the pedant's pride. To-day shall simple manhood try

The strength of gold and land ; .The wide world has not wealth to buy

The power in my riglit hand !

While there 's a giief to seek redress.

Or balance to adjust. Where weighs our living manhood less

Than Mammon's vilest dust, — While there's a right to need my vote,

A wrong to sweep away, Ul5 ! clouted knee and ragged coat !

A man 's a man to-day !

TRUST.

The same old bafliing questions ! 0 my

friend, I cannot answer them. In vain I send My soul into the dark, where never burn. The lamps of science, nor the natural

light

KATHLEEN.

171

Of Reason's sun and stars ! I cannot

learn Their great and solemn meanings, nor

discern The a-^A-ful secrets of the e3'es which tiirn Evermore on us through the day and

night With silent challenge and a dumb

demand, Proffering the riddles of the dread un- known. Like the calm Sphinxes, with their eyes

of stone, Questioning the centuries from their

veils of sand ! I have no answer for myself or thee. Save that I learned beside my mother's

knee ; " All is of God that is, and is to be ; And God is good." Let this suffice

us still, Resting in childlike trust upon his

will Who moves to his great ends unthwarted

by the ill.

KATHLEEJT.58

0 NoRAH, lay your basket dovm,

And rest your weary band. And come and hear me sing a song

Of our old Ireland.

There was a lord of Galaway,

A mighty lord Avas he ; And he did wed a second wife,

A maid of low degree.

But he was old, and she was young,

And so, in evil sjiite. She baked the black bread for his kin.

And fed her own with white.

She whipped the maids and starved the kern.

And drove away the poor ; "Ah, woe is me ! " the old lord said,

" I rue my bargain sore ! "

This lord he had a daughter fair.

Beloved of old and young, Ami nightly round the shealing-fires

Of her the gleeman sung.

" As sweet and good is young Kathleen As Eve before her fall " ;

So sang the harper at the fair. So harped he in the hall.

' ' 0 come to me, my daughter dear !

Come sit upon my knee. For looking in your face, Kathleen,

Your mother's own I see ! "

He smoothed and smoothed her hair away He kissed her forehead fair ;

" It is my darling Mary's brow, It is my darling's hair ! "

0, then spake up the angry dame, " Get up, get up," quoth she,

" I '11 sell ye over Ireland, I '11 sell ye o'er the sea ! "

She clipped her glossy hair away. That none her rank might know,

She took away her gown of silk. And gave her one of tow.

And sent her down to Limerick town

And to a seaman sold This daughter of an Irish lord

For ten good pounds in gold.

The lord he smote upon his breast,

And tore his beard so gray ; But he was old, and she was young,

And so she had her way.

Sure that same night the Banshee howksi

To fright the evil dame. And fairy folks, who loved Kathleen,

With funeral torches came.

She watched them glancing through the trees.

And glimmering down the hill ; They crept before the dead-vault door.

And there they all stood still !

" Get up, old man ! the wake-lightc shine ! "

"Ye murthering witch," quoth he, " So I 'm rid of your tongue, I little care

If they shine for you or me."

" 0, whoso brings my daughter back, My gold and land shall liave ! "

0, then spake uj) his handsome page, " No gold nor land I crave !

" But give to me your daughter dear. Give sweet Katldecu to me.

172

MISCELLANEOUS.

Be she on sea or "be she on land, I '11 bring her back to thee."

" Mj' daughter is a lady bom,

And j-QU of low degree, But she shall be your bride the day

You bring her back to me."

He sailed east, he sailed west.

And far and long sailed lie. Until he came to Boston town,

Across the great salt sea.

*•' 0, have 3' e seen the young Kathleen,

The flower of Ireland ? Ye '11 know her by her eyes so blue,

And by her snow-wliite hand ! "

Out spake an ancient man, " 1 know The maiden whom ye mean ;

1 bought her of a Limerick man. And she is called Kathleen.

" No .skill hath she in household work. Her hands are .soft and white,

Yet well by loving looks and ways She doth her cost rec^uite."

So up they walked through Boston touTi,

And met a maiden fair, A little basket on her arm

So snowy-white and bare.

" Come hither, child, and say hast thou This young man ever seen ?"

They wept within each other's aims, The page and young Kathleen.

" 0 give to me this darling child. And take my purse of gold."

" Nay, not by me," her master .said, " Shall sweet Kathleen be sold.

•" We loved her in the place of one

The Lord hath early ta'en ; But, since her heart's in Ireland,

We give her back again ! "

0, for that same the saints in heaven For his poor soul shall pra)'.

And Mary Mother wash with tears His heresies away.

Sure now they dwell in Ireland,

As you go up Claremore Ye '11 see their castle looking down

The pleasant Galway shore.

And the old lord's wife is dead and gone,

And a happy man is he. For he sits beside his own Kathleen,

With her darling on his knee.

FIKST-DAY THOUGHTS.

In calm and cool and silence, once again I find my old accustomed place among My brethren, where, perchance, no

himmn tongue Shall utter words ; where never hjinn

is sung. Nor deep-toned organ blown, nor cen- ser swung, Nor dim light falling through the pic- tured pane ! There, syllabled b}' silence, let me hear The still small voice which reached the

prophet's ear ; Read in my heart a still diviner law Than Israel's leader on his tables saw ! There let me strive with each besetting sin. Recall my wanderiug fancies, and re- strain The sore disquiet of a restless brain ; And, a.s the jiath of duty is made plain. May gi'ace be given that I may walk therein. Not like the hireling, for his selfish gain. With backward glances and reluctant

tread, JMaking a merit of his coward dread, — But, cheerful, in the light around me

thrown. Walking as one to pleasant service

led; Doing God's will as if it were my oAvn, Yet trusting not in mine, but in his strength alone !

KOSSUTH.59

Type of two mighty continents ! — com- bining The st)-ength of Europe with the warmth and glow

Of Asian song and prophec}'-, — the shin- ing Of Orient splendors over Northern snow !

Who shall receive him ? Who, unblush- ing, speak

TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER.

173

Welcome to him, who, while he strove to break

The Austrian yoke from Magyar necks, smote off

At the same blow the fetters of the serf, —

Rearing the altar of his Father-land On the ftrm base of freedom, and thereby

Lifting to Heaven a patriot's stainless hand. Mocked not the God of Justice with a lie !

Who shall be Freedom's mouth-piece ? Who shall give

Her welcoming cheer to the great fugi- tive ?

Not he who, all her sacred trusts betray- ing, Is scourging back to slavery's hell of

pain The swarthy Kossuths of our land again !

Not he whose utterance now from lips designed

The bugle-march of Liberty to wind,

And call her hosts beneath the breaking light, -

The keen reveille of her morn of fight, — Is but the hoarse note of the blood- hound's baying.

The wolf's long howl behind the bond- man's flight !

0 for the tongue of him who lies at rest In Quincy's shade of patrimonial trees, —

Last of the Puritan tribunes and tlie best, — To lend a voice to Freedom's sjTiipa- thies.

And hail the coming of the noblest guest

The Old World's wrong has given the New World of the West !

TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER.

AN EPISTLE NOT AFTER THE MANNER OF HORACE.

Old friend, kind friend ! lightly down

Drop time's snow-flakes on thy crown !

Never be thy shadow less,

Never fail thy cheerfulness ;

Care, tliat kills the cat, may plough

Wrinkles in the miser's brow.

Deepen envy's spiteful frown,

Draw the mouths of bigots down, Plague ambition's dream, and sit Heavy on tlie hypocrite. Haunt the rich man's door, and ride In the gilded coach of pride ; — Let the fiend pass ! — what can he Find to do with such as thee ? Seldom comes that evil guest Where the conscience lies at rest. And brown health and quiet wit Smiling on the threshold sit.

I, the urchin unto whom. In that smoked and dingy room. Where the district gave thee rule O'er its ragged winter school. Thou didst teach the mysteries Of those weary A B C's, — Where, to fill the every pause Of thy wise and learned saws. Through the cracked and ciazy wall Came the cradle-rock and squall. And the goodman's voice, at strife With his shrill and tipsy wife, — Luring us by stories old, With a comic unction told. More than by the eloquence Of terse birchen arguments (Doubtful gain, I fear), to look With complacence on a book ! — AVhere the genial pedagogue Half forgot his rogues to flog, Citing tale or apologue, Wise and merry in its drift As o]dPh;iedrus' twofold gift, Had the little rebels known it, Fdsxmn et prudentiam monet ! I, — the man of middle years, In whose sable locks appears Many a warning fleck of gray, — Looking back to that far day. And tliy primal lessons, feel Grateful smiles my lips unseal, As, remembering thee, I blend Olden teacher, jiresent friend, Wise with antiquarian search, In the scrolls of State and Church : Named on history's title-page, Parish-clci-k and justice sage ; For the feiule's wholesome awe Wielding now the sword of law.

Threshing Time's neglected sheaves. Gathering u]) tlie scattered leaves Wliicli the wrinkled sibyl cast Cai-eless from lior as she passed, — Twofold citizen art thou,

174

MISCELLANEOUS.

Freeman of the past and now.

He who bore thy name of old

Midway in the heavens did hold '

Over Gibeou moon and sun ;

Thou hast bidden them backward run

Of to-day the present ray

Flinging over yesterday !

Let the busy ones deride What I deem of riglit thy pride : Let the fools their tread-mills grind, Look not forward nor behind, Shuffle in and wriggle out, Veer with every bi'eeze about. Turning like a windmill sail. Or a dog that seeks his tail ; Let them laugh to see thee fast Tabernacled in the Past, Working out with eye and lip, Riddles of old penmanship, Patient as Belzoni there Sorting out, with loving care, ^lunnnies of dead questions stripped From their sevenfold manuscript !

Dabbling, in their noisy way,

In the puddles of to-day.

Little know they of that vast

Solemn ocean of the past.

On whose margin, wreck-bespread.

Thou art walking with the dead.

Questioning the stranded years,

AVaking smiles, by turns, and tears.

As thou callest up again

Shapes the dust has long o'erlain, —

Fair-haired woman, bearded man,

Cavalier and Puritan ;

In an age whose eager viovi

Seeks but present things, and new,

Mad for partj-, sect and gold,

Teaching reverence for the old.

On that shore, with fowler's tact, Coolly bagging fact on fact, Naught amiss to thee can float, Tale, or song, or anecdote ; Village gossip, centuries old. Scandals by owv gran dams told. What the pilgrim's table spread. Where he lived, and whom he wed. Long-drawn bill of wine and beer For his ordination cheer. Or the flip that wellnigh made Glad his funeral cavalcade ; Weary pi'ose, and poet's lines, ' Flavored by their age, like wines. Eulogistic of some quaint,

Doubtful, puritanic saint ;

Lays that quickened husking jigs,

Jests that shook grave periwigs,

When the parson had his jokes

And his glass, like other folks ;

Sermons that, for mortal hours,

Taxed our fathers' vital powers,

As the long nineteenthlies poured

Downward from the sounding-board,

And, for fire of Pentecost,

Touched their beai'ds December's frost

Time is hastening on, and we What our father's are shall be, — Shadow-sliajies of memory ! Joined to that vast multitude Where the great are but the good. And the mind of strength shall prove Weaker than the heart of love ; Pride of graybeard wisdom less Than the infant's guilelessness, And his song of sorrow more Than the crown the Psalmist wore ! Who shall then, with pious zeal. At our moss-grown thresholds kneel. From a stained and stony l^age Keading to a careless age. With a jiatient eye like thine. Prosing tale and limping line, Names and words the hoary rime Of the Past has made sublime ? Who shall work for us as well- The anti(piarian's miracle ? Who to seeming life recall Teacher gi-ave and ])upil small ? Who shall give to thee and me Freeholds in futurity ?

Well, whatever lot be mine. Long and hajipy days be thine. Ere thy full and honored age Dates of time its latest page ! Squire for master. State for school, Wisely lenient, live and rule ; Over grown-up knave and rogue Play the watchful pedagogue ; Or, while pleasure smiles on duty. At the call of youth and beaut)', Speak for them the spell of law Which shall bar and bolt withdraw. And the flaming sword remove From the Paradise of Love. Still, with undimmed eyesight, por« Ancient tome and record o'er ; Still thy week-day lyrics croon. Pitch in church the Sunday tune. Showing something, in thy part,

THE PANORAMA.

175

Of the old Puritanic art, Singer after Stenihold's heart ! In thy pew, for many a year, Homilies from Ohlbug hear,^° Who to wit like that of South, And the Syrian's golden mouth. Doth the homely pathos add Which the pilgi'im preachers had Breaking, like a child at play, Gilded idols of the day, Cant of knave and pomp of fool Tossing with his ridicule,

Yet, in earnest or in jest. Ever keeping ti'uth abreast. And, when thou art called, at last, To thy townsmen of the past. Not as stranger shalt thou come ; Thou shalt find thyself at home ! With the little and the big, Woollen cap and peri^\ag. Madam in her high-laced ruff. Goody in her home-made stuff, — Wise and simple, rich and poor. Thou hast known them all before !

THE pa:n^orama,

AND OTHER POEMS.

THE PANORAMA.

" A ! fredome is a nobill thing 1 Fredome mayse man to half liking, fredome all solace to man giffls ; He levys at ese that frely levys I A nobil hart may half nane ese Na ellys nocht that may him plese Gyff Fredome failythe."

Archdeacon Barbour.

Through the long hall the shuttered

windows shed A dubious light on every upturned

head, — On locks like those of Absalom the fair. On the bald apex ringed with scanty

hair. On blank indifference and on curious

stare ; On the pale Showman reading from his

stage The hieroglyphics of tliat facial page ; Half sad, half scornful, listening to the

bruit Of restless cane-tap and impatient foot. And the shrill call, across the general

din, " IloU up your curtain ! Let the show

begin ! "

At length a murnmr like; the winds that break Into green waves the prairie's grassy lake.

Deepened and swelled to music cleaj

and loud. And, as the west-wind lifts a summer

cloud, The curtain rose, disclosing wide and far A green land stretching to the evening star, Fair rivers, skirted by primeval trees And flowers hummed over by the desert

bees. Marked by tall bluffs whose slopes of

greenness show Fantastic outcrops of the rock below, — The slow result of patient Nature's pains, And plastic fingering of her sun and

rains, — Ai'ch, tower, and gate, grotesquely win- dowed hall. And long escarpment of half-crumbled

wall, Huger than those which, from steep

hills of vine, Stare througli their loopholes on the

travelled Rhine ; Suggesting vaguely to the gazer's mind A fanc3% idle as tlie ]>i'airie wind. Of the land's dwellers in an age un«

guessed, — The unsung Jotuns of the mystic West.

Beyond, the prairie's sea-like swells sur])ass The Tartar's marvels of his Land of Grass,

176

THE PANORAMA-

Vast as the sky against whose sunset

shores Wave after wave the hillowj" greenness

pours ; And, onward still, like islands in that

main Loom the rough peaks of many a moun- tain chain. Whence east and west a thousand waters

run From winter lingering under summer's

sun. And, still beyond, long lines of foam

and sand Tell where Pacific rolls his waves a-

land. From many a wide-lapped port and

land-locked bay. Opening with thunderous pomp the

world's highway To Indian isles of spice, and marts of far

Cathay.

"Such," said the Showman, as the

curtain fell, " Is the new Canaan of our Israel, — The land of promise to the swarming

North, Which, hive-like, sends its annual sur- plus forth. To the poor Southron on his worn-out

soil. Scathed by the curses of unnatural toil ; To Europe's exiles seeking home and

rest, And the lank nomads of the wandering

West, Who, asking neither, in their love of

change And the free bison's amplitude of range. Rear the log-hut, for present shelter

meant, - ot future comfort, like an Arab's tent."

Then spake a shrewd on-looker, " Sir," said he,

"I like your picture, but I fain would see

A sketch of what your promised land will be

When, with electric nerve, and fiery- brained,

With Nature's forces to its chariot chained.

The future grasping, by the past obeyed.

The twentieth century rounds a new decade."

Then said the Showman, sadly : "He

who grieves Over the scattering of the sibyl's leaves Unwisely mourns. Suffice it, that we

know What needs must ripen from the seed

we sow ; That present time is but the mould

wherein We cast the shapes of holiness and sin. A painful watcher of the passing hour. Its lust of gold, its strife for place and

power ; Its lack of manhood, honor, reverence,

truth, Wise-thoughted age, and generous- hearted youth ; Nor j^et unmindful of each better sign, — The low, far lights, which on th' horizon

shine. Like those which sometimes tremble on

the rim Of clouded skies when day is closing

dim, Flashing athwart the purple spears of

rain The hope of sunshine on the hills

again : — 1 need no prophet's word, nor shapes

that pass Like clouding shadows o'er a magic

glass ; For now, as ever, passionless and cold, Doth the dread angel of the future hold Evil and good before us, with no voice Or warning look to guide us in our

choice ; With spectral hands outreaching through

the gloom The shadowy contrasts of the coming

doom. Transferred from these, it now remains

to give The sun and shade of Fate's alternative."

Then, with a burst of music, touching all

The keys of thrifty life, — the mill- stream's fall,

The engine's pant along its quivering rails.

The anvil's ring, the measured beat of flails,

The sweep of scythes, the reaper'* whistled tune,

Answering the summons of the bells of noon.

THE PANOEAMA.

177

riie wooelman's hail alcng the river

shores, The steamboat's signal, and the dip of

oars, — Slowly the curtain rose from off a land Fair as God's garden. Broad on either

hand The golden wheat-fields glimmered in

the sun. And the tall maize its yellow tassels

spun. Smooth highways set with hedge-rows

living green, With steepled towns through shaded

vistas seen, The school-house murmuring with its

hive-like swarm, The hrook-bank whitening in the grist- mill's storm. The painted farm-house shining through

the leaves Of fruited orchards bending at its eaves, Where live again, around the Western

hearth. The homely old-tune virtues of the

North ; Where the blithe housewife rises with

the day, And well-paid labor counts his task a

play. And, grateful tokens of a Bible free. And the free Gospel of Humanity, Of diverse sects and differing names the

shrines. One in their faith, whate'er their out- ward signs. Like varying strophes of the same sweet

hymn From many a prairie's swell and river's

brim, A thousand church-spires sanctify the

air Of the calm Sabbath, with their sign of

prayer.

Like sudden nightfall over bloom and

green The curtain dropped : and, momently,

between The clank of fetter and the crack of

thong. Half sob, half laugliter, music swept

along, — A strange refrain, whose idle words and

low. Like drunken mourners, kept the time

of woe ;

As if the revellers at a masquerade Heard in the distance funeral marches

played. Such music, dashing all his smiles with

tears. The thoughtful voyager on Poachartrain

hears. Where, through the noonday dusk ot

wooded shores The negro boatman, singing to his oars, With a wild pathos borrowed of his

wrong Redeems the jargon of his senseless song. "Look," said the Showman, sternly,

as he rolled His curtain upward ; ' ' Fate's reverse

behold ! "

A village straggling in loose disarray Of vulgar newness, premature decay ; A tavern, crazy with its whiskey brawls, With " Slaves at Auction!" garnishing

its walls. Without, surrounded by a motley crowd, The shrewd-eyed salesman, garrulous

and loud, A squire or colonel in his pride of place, Known at free fights, the caucus, and

the race. Prompt to proclaim his honor without

blot, And silence doubters with a ten-pace

shot. Mingling the negro-driving bully's rant With pious phrase and democratic cant, Yet never scrupling, ^vith a filthy jest. To sell the infant from its mother's

breast. Break through all ties of wedlock, home,

and kin. Yield shrinking girlhood up to gray- beard sin ; Sell all the virtues with his human stock, The Christian gi'aces on his auction- block. And coolly count on shrewdest bargains

driven ^ hearts regenerate, and in souls for- given !

Look once again ! The mo^ing can- vas shows A slave plantation's slovenly repose. Where, in rude cabins rotting midst

their weeds. The liuman chattel eats, and sleeps, and breeds ;

J178

THE PANORAMA.

And, held a brute, in practice, as in law, j

Becomes in fact the thing he 's, taken for.

There, early summoned to the hemp and corn,

The nursing mother leaves her child new-born ;

There haggard sickness, weak and deathly faint.

Crawls to his task, and fears to make complaint ;

And sad-eyed Rachels, childless in de- cay.

Weep for their lost ones sold and torn away !

Of ampler size the master's dwelling stands,

In shabby keeping \vith his half-tilled lands, —

The gates unhinged, the yard with weeds unclean,

The cracked veranda with a tipsy lean.

Without, loose-scattered like a wreck adrift.

Signs of misrule and tokens of tmthrift ;

Within, profusion to discomfort joined.

The listless body and the vacant mind ;

The fear, the hate, the theft and false- hood, bom

In menial hearts of toil, and stripes, and scorn !

There, all the vices, which, like birds obscene.

Batten on slavery loathsome and un- clean.

From the foul kitchen to the parlor rise.

Pollute the nursery where the child-heir lies.

Taint infant lips beyond all after cure.

With the fell poison of a breast.impure ;

Touch boyhood's passions with the breath of flame.

From girlhood's instincts steal the blush of shame.

So swells, from low to high, from weak to strong.

The tragic chorus of the baleful Avrong ;

Guilty or guiltless, all within its range

Feel the blind justice of its sure revengp

Still scenes like these the moving chart reveals. Up the long western steppes the blight- ing steals ; Down the Pacific slope the evil Fate Glides like a shadow to the Golden Gate : From sea to sea the drear eclipse is thrown.

From sea to sea the Mauvaiscs Tcrrcs

have grown, A belt of ciu-ses on the New World's

zone !

The curtain fell. All drew a freer breath.

As men are wont to do when mournful death

Is covered from their sight. The Show- man stood

With drooping brow in sorrow's attitude

One moment, then with sudden gesture shook

His loose hair back, and with the air and look

Of one who felt, beyond the narrow stage

And listening gi'oup, the presence of the

age, And heard the footsteps of the things to

be. Poured out his soul in earnest words and

free.

" 0 friends !" he said, " in this poor trick of i)aint You see the semblance, incomplete and

faint. Of the two-fronted Future, which, to- day, Stands dim and silent, waiting in your

way. To-day, vour servant, subject to your

will ; To-morrow, master, or for good or ill. If the dark face of Slavery on you turns, If the mad curse its paper barrier spurns, If the world granar}- of the West is made The last foul market of the slaver's trade. Why rail at fate ? The mischief is your

own. "Why hate your neighbor ? Blame your- selves alone !

" :Mcn of the North ! Tlie South you

charge with wrong Is weak and poor, while you are rich

and strong. If questions, — idle and absurd as thase The old-time monks and Paduan doctors

chose, — Mere ghosts of questions, tariffs, and

dead banks. And scarecrow pontiffs, never broke

your ranks, Your thews united could, at once, roll

back

THE PANOKAMA.

179

Tlie jostled nation to its primal track. Nay, were you simply steadlast, manly,

just, True to the faith your fathers left in trust, If stainless honor outweighed in your

scale A codfish quintal or a factory bale. Full many a noble heart, (and such remain In all the South, like Lot in Siddim's

plain, Who watch and wait, and from the

wrong's control Keep white and pure their chastity of

soul, ) Now sick to loathing of your weak com- plaints, Your tricks as sinners, and your prayers

as saints, Would half-way meet the frankness of

your tone, And feel their pulses beating with your

own.

"The North! the South! no geo- graphic line

Can fix the boundary or the point define.

Since each with each so closely inter- blends,

Where Slavery rises, and where Freedom ends.

Beneath your rocks the roots, far-reach- ing, hide

Of the fell Upas on the Southern side ;

The tree whose branches in your north- winds wave

Dropped its young blossoms on Mount Vernon's grave ;

The nursling growth of Monticello's crest

Is now the glory of the free Northwest ;

To the wise maxims of her olden school

Virginia listened from thy lips, Rantoul ;

Seward's words of power, and Sumner's fresh renown,

Flow from the pen that Jeft'erson laid down !

And when, at length, her years of mad- ness o'er,

Like the crowned gi-azer on Euphrates' shore,

From her long lapse to savagery, her mouth

Bitter with baneful herbage, turns the South,

Resumes her old attire, and seeks to smooth

Her unkcnijjt tresses at the glass of truth,

Her early faith shall find a tongue again,

New Wythes and Piuckneys swell tha/t old refrain,

Her sons with yours renew the ancient pact,

The myth of Union prove at last a fact !

Then, if one murmur mars the wide con- tent.

Some Northern lip will drawl the last dissent,

Some Union-saving patriot of your own

Lament to find his occupation gone,

"Grant that the North's insulted, scorned, betrayed,

O'erreached in bargains with her neigh- bor made,

A\nien selfish thrift and party held the scales

For peddling dicker, not for honest sales, —

Whom shall we strike ? Who most de- serves our blame ?

The braggart Southron, open in his aim,

And bold as wicked, crashing straight through all

That bars his purpose, like a cannon-ball ?

Or the mean traitor, breathing northern air.

With nasal speech and jniritanic hair,

Whose cant the loss of principle survives,

As the mud-turtle e'en its head outlives ;

Who, caught, chin-buried in some foul offence.

Puts on a look of injured innocence.

And consecrates his baseness to the cause

Of constitution, union, and the laws ?

" Praise to the place-man who can hold

aloof His still unpurchased manhood, office- proof ; Who on his round of duty walks erect, And leaves it only rich in self-respect, — As More uuiintained his virtue's lofty

port In the Eighth Henry's base and bloody

court. But, if exceptions here and there are

found, Who tread thus safely on enchanted

ground. The normal t}''pe, the fitting symbol still Of those who fatten at the public mill, Is the chained dog beside his master's

door. Or Cikck's victim, feeding on all four I

180

THE PANOEAMA.

" Give me the heroes who, at tuck of i dram,

SaUite thy staff, immortal Quattlebum !

Or they who, doubly armed with vote ' and gun, j

Following thy lead, illustiious Atchison, '

Theu- drunken franchise shift from scene to scene. j

As tile-beard Jom'dan did his guiUo- i tine ! —

Bather than him who, bom beneath oiir skies, I

To Slaveiy's hand its supplest tool sup- plies, —

The party felon whose unblushing face

Looks from the pillory of his bribe of place,

And coolly makes a merit of disgrace, —

Points to the footmarks of indignant scorn,

Shows the deep scars of satire's tossing horn ;

And passes to his credit side the sum

Of all that makes a scoundrel's martyr- dom !

" Bane of the Xorth, its canker and

its moth ! — These modern Esaus, bartering rights for

broth ! Taxing our justice, ^\'ith their double

claim, As fools for pity, and as knaves for

blame ; Who, urged by party, sect, or trads,

within The fell embrace of Slavery's sphere of

sin. Part at the outset with their moral sense, The watchful angel set for Truth's de- fence ; Confound all contrasts, good and ill ;

t'evei-se The poles of Life, its blessing and its

curse ; And lose thenceforth from their perverted

sight The eternal difference 'twixt the wrong

and right ; To them the Law is but the iron span That girds the ankles of imbruted man ; To them the GoS]iel has no higher aim Than simple sanction of the master's

claim, Dragged in the slime of Slavery's loath- some trail, Like Chalier's Bible at his ass's tail !

" Such are the men who, with instinc.

tive dread. Whenever Freedom lifts her drooping

head, Make prophet -ti'ipods of their office- stools, And scare the nurseries and the •^'illage

schools With dire presage of ruin grim and great, A broken Union and a foundered State ! Such are the patriots, self-bound to the

stake Of office, mart jTS for their coiantry's sake : AV' ho fill themselves the hungrj' jaws of

Fate, And by their loss of manhood save the

State. In the wide gulf themselves like Curtius

throw. And test the virtues of cohesive dough ; As tropic monkeys, linking heads and

tails. Bridge o'er some torrent of Ecuador's

vales !

"Such are the men who in yourcliurch-

es rave To swearing-pouit, at mention of the

slave ! When some poor parson, haply unawares. Stammers of freedom in his timid prayers ; Who, if some foot-sore negro through the

town Steals northward, volu^^teer to hunt him

down. Or, if some neighbor, flying from disease, Courts the mild balsam of the Southern

breeze, With liue and cry pursue him on hi*

track, And write Frcc-soiltr on the poor man's

back. Such are the men who leave the pedler's

cart, Wliilc faring South, to learn the driver's

art, Or, in white neckcloth, soothe with pious

aim The gi-aceful sorrows of some languid

dame, Who, from the wTeck of her bereavement,

saves The double charm of widowhood and

slaves ! — Pliant and apt, they lose no chance to

show To what base depths apostasy can go ;

THE PANOKAMA.

181

Outdo the natives in tlieir readiness

To roast a negro, or to mob a {)ress ;

Poise a tarred sclioolmate on the lynch- er's rail,

Or make a bonfire of their birthplace mail !

" So some poor wretch, whose lijjs no

longer bear The sacred burden of his mother's prayer, By fear impelled, or lust of gold enticed. Turns to the Crescent from the Cross of

Clirist, And, over-acting in superfluous zeal. Crawls prostrate where the faithful only

kneel. Out-howls the Dervish, hugs his rags to

court The squalid Santon's sanctity of dirt ; And, when beneath the city gateway's

span Files slow and long the Meccan caravan, And through its midst, pursued by Islam's

prayers, The prophet's Word some favored camel

bears. The marked apostate has his place as- signed , The Koran-bearer's sacred rump behind, "With brush and pitcher following, grave

and mute, In meek attendance on the holy brute !

"Men of the North! beneath your

very eyes, By hearth and home, your real danger

lies. Still day by day some hold of freedom

falls, Through home-bred traitors fed within

its walls. — Men whom yourselves with vote and

purse sustain, At posts of honor, influence, and gain ; The right of Slavery to your sons to

teach. And " South-side" Gospels in your pul- pits preach, Transfix the Law to ancient freedom dear On the sharp point of her subverted spear. And imitatt^ ujion her cushion plump The mad Alissourian lynching from his

stump ; Or, in your name, upon the Senate's floor Yield up to Slaverj' all it asks, and more ; A.nd, ere your duU eyes ojiea to the

cheat, 1

Sell your old homestead underneath your

feet ! While such as these your loftiest outlooks

hold. While truth and conscience with your

wares are sold. While grave-browed merchants band

themselves to aid An annual man-hunt for their Southern

trade. What moral power within your grasp

remains To stay the mischief on Nebraska's

plains ? — High as the tides of generous impulse

flow. As far rolls back the selfish undertow ; And all your brave resolves, though

auned as true As the horse-pistol Balmawhapple di'ew, To Slavery's bastions lend as slight a

shock As the poor trooper's shot to Stirling

rock I

' ' Yet, while the need of Freedom's

cause demands The earnest efibrts of your nearts and

hands. Urged by all motives that can ^^rorapt

the heart To prayer and toil and manhood's man- liest part ; Though to the soul's deep tocsin Nature

joins The warning whisper of her Orphic pines, The north-wind's anger, and the south-

wind's sigh. The midnight sword-dance of the north- ern sky. And, to the ear that bends above the

sod Of the green grave-mounds iu the Fields

of God, In low, dee]) murmurs of rebuke or cheer, The land's dead fathers speak their hope

or fear. Yet let not Passion wrest from Reason's

hand The guiding rein and symbol of com-

numd. Blame not tha caution proflfering to your

zeal A well-meant drag upon its hurrying

wheel ; Ifor chide the man whose honest doubt

extends

132

THE PANORAMA.

To the means only, not the righteous

ends ; Nor fail to weigh the scraples and the

fears Of milder natures and serener years. In the long strife with evil which began With the hrst lapse of new-created man, Wisely and well has Providence assigned To each his part, — some forward, some

behind ; And they, too, serve who temper and

restrain The o'erwarm heart that sets on fire the

brain. True to j-om-selves, feed Freedom's altar- flame With what you have ; let others do the

same. Spare timid doubters ; set like flint your

face Against the self-sold knaves of gain and

place : Pity the weak ; but with unsparing hand Cast out the traitors who infest the

land, — From bar, press, pulpit, cast them every- where. By dint of fasting, if you fail by prayer. And in their place bring men of antique

mould. Like the grave fathers of your Age of

Gold, — Statesmen like those who sought the

primal fount Of righteous law, the Sermon on the

Mount ; Lawyers who prize, like Quincy, (to our

day Still spared. Heaven bless him !) honor

more than pay. And Christian jurists, starry-pure, like

Jiiy ;

Preachers like Woolman, or like them who bore

The faith of Wesley to our Western shore,

And held no convert genuine till he broke

Alike bis servants' and the Devil's yoke ;

(Vnd priests like him who Newport's mar- ket trod,

And o'er its slave-ships shook the bolts of God !

"80 shall your power, with a A\'ise prudence used,

fctrong but forbearing, firm but not abused,

In kindly keeping with the good of all.

The nobler majdms of the past recall.

Her natural home-born right to Freedom

give. And leave her foe his robber-right, — to

live. Live, as the snake does in his noisome

fen ! Live, as the wolf does in his bone-strewn

den ! Live, clothed with cursing like a robe of

flame, The focal point of million-fingered

shame ! Live, till the Southron, wlio, with all his

faidts, Has manly instincts, in his pride re- volts. Dashes from ofi^ him, midst the glad

world's cheers. The hideous nightmare of his dream of

years. And lifts, self-prompted, with his own

right hand, The vile encumbrance from his glorious

land !

" So, wheresoe'er our destiny sends

forth Its ^videuing circles to the South or

Nortb, Where'er our banner flaunts beneath

the stars Its mimic splendors and its cloudlike

bars. There shall Free Labor's hardy children

stand The equal sovereigns of a slaveless land. And when at last the hunted bison tires, And dies o'ertaken by the squatter's

fires ; And westward, wave on wave, tlie living

flood Breaks on the snow-line of majestic

Hood ; And lonely Sliasta listening hears the

tread Of Europe's fair-haired children, Hes-

])er-led ; And, gazing downward through his

hoar-locks, sees The tawny Asian climb his giant knees. The Eastern sea shall hush his waves to

liear Pacific's surf-beat answer Freedom's

cheer, And one long rolling fire of triumph

run Between the sunrise and the sunset gun 1 "

SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE.

183

My task is done. The Showman and

his show, Themselves but shadows, into shadows

go; And, if no song of idlesse I have sung. Nor tints of beauty on the canvas

flung, — If the harsh numbers gi-ate on tender

ears, And the rough picture ovenvrought ap- pears, ■ — With deeper coloring, with a sterner

blast. Before my soul a voice and vision passed. Such as might Milton's jarring trump

require. Or glooms of Dante fringed with lurid

fire. 0, not of choice, for themes of public

wrong I leave the green and pleasant paths of

song, — The mild, sweet words which soften and

adorn, For griding taunt and bitter laugh of

scorn. More dear to me some song of private

worth,

Some homely idyl of my native North, Some summer pastoral of her inland

vales Or, grim and weird, her winter fireside

tales Haunted by ghosts of unreturning

sails, — Lost barks at parting hung from stem

to helm With prayers of love like dreams on

Virgil's elm. Nor private grief nor malice holds my

pen ; I owe but kindness to my fellow-men ; And, South or North, wherever hearts

of prayer Their woes and weakness to our Father

bear, Wherever fruits of Christian love are

found In holy lives, to me is holy ground. But the time passes. It were vain to

crave A late indulgence. What I had I

gave. Forget the poet, but his warning heed, And shame his poor word with your

nobler deed.

MISCELLANEOUS.

SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE.

White clouds, whose shadows haunt

the deep, Light mists, whose soft embraces keep The sunshine on the hills asleep !

0 isles of calm ! — 0 dark, still wood ! And stiller skies that ovi^rbrood Your rest with deeper quietude !

0 shapes and hues, dim beckoning,

through Yon mountain gaps, my longing view Beyond the puqile and the blue,

To stiller sea and greener land.

And softer lights and airs moi'e bland,

i^nd skies, — the hollow of God's hand !

Transfused through you, 0 mountain

friends ! With mine your solemn spirit blends, And life no more hath separate ends.

I read each misty mountain sign, 1 know the voice of wave and pine, And 1 am yours, and ye are mine.

Life's burdens fall, its discords cease,

I lapse into the glad release

Of Nature's own exceeding peace.

0, welcome calm of heart and mind ! As falls yon fir-ti-ee's loosened rind To leave a tenderer growth behind.

So fall the weary years away ; A child again, my head 1 lay Upon the lap of this sweet day.

184

MISCELLANEOUS.

This western wind hatli Lethean powers, Yon noonday cloud nepentlie showers, The lake is white with lotus-tiowers !

Even Ihity's voice is faint and low, And slumberous Conscience, waking

slow, Forgets her blotted scroll to show.

The Shadow which pursues us all, Whose ever-neariug steps appall, Whose voice we hear behind us call, —

That Shadow blends with mountain

gray, It speaks but what the light waves say, — Death walks apart from Fear to-day !

Eocked on her breast, these pines and 1 Alike on Nature's love rely ; And equal seems to live or die.

Assured that He whose presence fills With light the spaces of these liills No evil to his creatures wills,

The simple faith remains, that lie Will do, whatever that may be. The best alike for man and tree.

What mosses over one shall grow. What light and life the otlier know, Unanxious, leaving Ilmi to show.

II. EVENING.

Yon mountain's side is black with night, While, broad-orbed, o'er its gleaming crown

The moon, slow-rounding into sight. On the hushed inland sea looks down.

How start to light the clustering isles. Each silver-hemmed ! How sharply show

The shadows of tlicir rocky piles, And tree-tops in the wave below !

How far and strange the mountains seem. Dim-looming through the pale, still light ! The vagiu% vast grouping of a dream, They stretch into the solemn night.

Beneath, lake, wood, and peopled vale. Hushed by that presence grand and grave,

Are silent, save the cricket's wail, And low response of leaf and ware.

Fair scenes ! whereto the Day and Nighl Make rival love, I leave ye soon,

AVhat time before the eastern light The pale ghost of the setting moon

Shall hide behind yon rocky spines. And the young archer, JVIorn, shall break

His arrows on the mountain pines. And, golden-sandalled, v.alk the lake !

Farewell ! around this smiling bay Gay-hearted Health, and Life in bloom,

\\'ith lighter steps than mine, may stray In radiant summers yet to come.

But none shall more regretful leave These waters and these hills than I :

Or, distant, fonder dream how eve Or dawn is painting wave and sky ;

How rising moons shine sad and mild On wooded isle and silvering bay,-

Or setting suns beyond the piled And purple mountains lead the day ;

Nor laugliing girl, nor bearding boy. Nor fuU-imlsed manhood, lingering here.

Shall add, to life's abounding joy. The charmed repose to suffering dear.

Still waits kind Nature to impart Her choicest gifts to such as gain

An entrance to her loving heart

Through the sharp discipline of pain.

Forever from the Hand that takes One blessing from us others fall ;

And, soon or late, our Father makes His perfect recompense to all !

0, watched by Silence and the Night, And folded in the strong embrace

Of the gi-eat mountains, with the light Of the sweet heavens upon thy face,

Lake of the Northland ! keep thy dowel Of beauty still, and while above

Thy solemn mountains speak of power, Be thou the mirror of God's lovs.

THE HERMIT OF THE THEBAID.

18j^

THE HERMIT OF THE THEBAID. Nor

0 STRONG, upwelling prayers of faith, From inmost founts of life ye start, —

The spirit's pulse, the vital breath Of soul and heart !

From pastoral toil, from traffic's din, Alone, in crowds, at home, abroad.

Unheard of man, ye enter in The ear of God.

Ye brook no forced and measured tasks. Nor weary rote, nor formal chains ;

The simple heart, that freely asks In love, obtains.

For man the living temple is : The mercy-seat and cherubim,

And all the holy mysteries. He bears with him.

And most avails the prayer of love. Which, wordless, shapes itself in deeds.

And wearies Heaven for naught above Our common needs.

Which brings to God's all-perfect will That trust of his undoubting child

Whereby all seeming good and ill Are reconciled.

And, seeking not for special signs

Of favor, is content to fall Within the providence which shines

And rains on all.

Alone, the Thebaid hermit leaned At noontime o'er the sacred word.

Was it an angel or a fiend "Whose voice he heard ?

It broke the desert's hush of awe, A human utterance, sweet and mild ;

And, looking up, the hennit saw A little child.

A child, with wonder-widened eyes, O'erawed and troubled by the sight

Of hot, red sands, and brazen skies, And anchorite.

" "What dost thou here, poor man ? No sliade Of cool, green doums, nor grass, nor well,

corn, nor vines, said : "With God I dwell.

The hermit

"Alone with Him in this great calm, I live not by the outward sense ;

My Nile his love, my sheltering palm His providence."

The child gazed round hun. ' ' Dock God live

Here only ? — where the desert's rim Is green with corn, at morn and eve,

^Fe pray to Him.

"My brother tills beside the Nile His little iield : beneath the leaves

My sisters sit and spin the while. My mother weaves.

"Anel when the millet's ripe heads fall, And all the bean-field hangs in pod,

My mother smiles, and says that all Are gifts from God.

" And when to share our evening meal. She calls the stranger at the door,

She says God fills the hands that deal Food to the poor."

Adown the hermit's wasted cheeks Glistened the flow of human tears ;

"Dear Lord!" he said, "thy angel speaks. Thy servant hears."

Within his arms the child he took, And thought of home and life -with men ;

And all his pilgrim feet forsook Eeturned again.

The palmy shadows cool and long, The eyes that smiled through lavish locks,

Homci's cradle-hymn and liarvest-song, And bleat of flocks.

"0 child ! " he said, "thou teachest m« Tliere is no place where God is not ;

That love will make, where'er it be, A holy spot."

He rose from off the desert sand, And, leaning on his staff of thorn.

Went, witli the young child, hand-iH' hand, Like night with morn.

186

MISCELLANEOUS.

They crossed the desert's burning line, And heard the palm-tree's rustling fan,

The Nile-bird's cry, the low of kine, And voice of man.

Unquestioning, his childish guide He followed as the small hand led

To where a woman, gentle-eyed, Her distaff fed.

She rose, she clasped her truant boy, She thanked the stranger with her eyes.

The hermit gazed in doubt and joy And dumb surprise.

And lo ! — with sudden warmth and light

A tender memory thrUled his frame ; New-born, the world-lost anchorite

A man became.

" 0 sister of El Zara's race,

Behold me ! — had we not one moth- er ? " She gazed into the stranger's face ; —

" Thou art my brother ? "

■' 0 kin of blood ! — Thy life of use And patient trust is more than mine ;

dnd wiser than the gray recluse This child of thine.

" For, taught of him whom God hath sent.

That toil is praise, and love is jjrayer, I come, life's cares and pains content

With thee to share."

Even as his foot the threshold crossed, The hermit's better life began ;

Its holiest saint the Thebaid lost, And found a man !

BURNS.

ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF HEATHER IN BLOSSOM.

No more these simple flowers belong To Scottish maid and lover ;

Sown in the common soil of song, They bloom the wide world over

In smiles and tears, in sun and showers. The minstrel and the heather.

The deathless singer and the flowers He sang of live together.

Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns !

The moorland flower and peasant ! How, at theii' mention, memory turns

Her pages old and pleasant !

The gray sky wears again its gold

And purple of adorning, And manhood's noonday shadows hold

The dews of boyhood's morning.

The dews that washed the dust and soil From off" the wings of pleasure. The sky, that flecked the gi-ound of toil With golden threads of leisure.

I call to mind the sunmicr daj%

The eaily harvest mowing. The sky with sun and clouds at play,

And flowers with breezes blowing.

1 hear the blackbird in the corn.

The locust in the haying ; And, like the fabled hunter's horn,

Old tunes my heart is playing.

How oft that day, with fond delay, 1 sought the maple's shadow.

And sang with Burns the hours away. Forgetful of the meadow !

Bees hummed, birds twittered, over- head

1 heard the squirrels leaping, Th(; good dog listened while 1 read,

And wagged his tail in keeping.

I watched him while in sportive mood

I read " Tlie Twa Docjs " story, And half believed he understood The poet's allegory.

t Sweet day, sweet songs ! — The goldeii hours Grew brighter for that singing, From brook and bird and meadow flowers A dearer welcome bringing.

New light on home-seen Nature beamed,

New glory over Woman ; And daily life and duty seemed

No longer poor and common.

WILLIAM FOESTEK.

187

( woke to find the simple truth

Of fact and feeling better Than all the dreams that held my youth

A still repining debtor :

That Nature gives her handmaid, Art, The themes of sweet discoursing ;

The tender idyls of the heart In every tongue rehearsing.

Why dream of lands of gold and pearl,

Of loving knight and lady. When farmer boy and barefoot girl

Were wandering there already ?

I saw through all familiar things

The romance underlying ; The joys and gi-iefs that plume the wings

Of Fancy skjTvard flying.

I saw the same blithe day return, The same sweet fall of even.

That rose on wooded Craigie-burn, And sank on crystal Devon.

] matched with Scotland's heathery hills The sweetbrier and the clover ;

With Ayr and Doon, my native rills. Their wood-hymns chanting over.

O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen,

I saw the Man uprising ; No longer common or unclean.

The child of God's baptizing !

With clearer eyes I saw the worth

Of life among the lowly ; The Bible at his Cotter's hearth

Had made my own more holy.

And if at times an evil strain,

To lawless love appealing. Broke in upon the sweet refrain

Of pure and healthful feeling.

It died upon the eye and ear,

No inward answer gaining ; No heart had I to see or hear

The discord and the staining.

Let those who never erred forget His worth, in vain bewaiUngs ;

Sweet Soul of Song ! — I own my debt Uncancelled lay his failings !

Lament who will the rbald line Which tells his lapse from duty

How kissed the maddening lips of wine Or wanton ones of beauty ;

But think, while falls that shade be- tween The eiTing one and Heaven,

That he who loved like Magdalen, Like her may be forgiven.

Not his the song whose thunderous chime

Eternal echoes render, — The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme,

And Milton's starry splendor !

But who his human heart has laid

To Nature's bosom nearer ? Who sweetened toil like him, or paid

To love a tribute dearer ?

Through all his tuneful art, how strong

The human feeling gushes ! The very moonlight of his song

Is warm with smiles and blushes !

Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, So " Bonnie Doon " but tarry ;

Blot out the Epic's stately rhyme. But spare his Highland Mary 1

WILLIAM FORSTER."

The years are many since his hand

Was laid upon my head. Too weak and young to understand

The serious words he said.

Yet often now the good man's look

Before me seems to swim. As if some inward feeling took

The outward guise of him.

As if, in passion's heated war, Or near temptation's charm,

Through him the low-voiced monitor Forewarned me of the harm.

Stranger and pilgrim ! — from that daj

Of meeting, first and last. Wherever Duty's pathway lay.

His reverent steps have passed.

, The poor to feed, the lost to seek, ^ To proffer life to death, Hope to the erring, — to the weak Th*" strength of his own faith.

188

MISCELLANEOUS.

To plead the captive's right ; remove The sting of hate from Law ;

And soften in the fire of love The hardened steel of War.

He walked the dark world, in the mild,

Still guidance of tlie Light ; In tearful tenderness a child,

A strong man in the right.

From what great iierils, on his way, He found, in prayer, release; ;

Through what abysmal shadows lay His pathway unto peace,

God knoweth : we could only see The tranquil strength he gained ;

The bondage lost in liberty, 'J'he fear in love unfeigned.

And I, — my youthful fancies grown

The habit oi' the man, Whose field of life by angels sown

The wilding vines o'erran, —

Low bowed in silent gratitude,

My manhood's heart enjoys That reverence for the pure and good

Which blessed the dreaming boy's.

Still shines the light of holy lives Like star-beams over doubt ;

Each sainted memory, Cliristlike, drives Some dark possession out.

0 friend ! 0 brother ! not in vain

Thy life so calm and true, The silver dropping of the rain,

The fall of summer dew !

How many burdened hearts have prayed Their lives like thine might be !

But more shall ]iray lienceforth for aid To lay them down like thee.

With weary hand, yet steadfast will,

In old age as in youth, Thy Master found thee sowing still

The good seed of his truth.

As on thy task-field clo.sed the day

In golden-skied decline. His angel met thee on the way,

And lent liis arm to thine.

Thy latest care for man, — thy last Of earthly thuuglxt a prayer, —

0, who thy mantle, backward cast, Is worthy now to wear ?

Methinks the mound wliich marks thj bed

Might bless our land and save, As rose, of old, to life the dead

Who touched the prophet's grave !

RANTOUL.62

On'e day, along the electric wire His manly word for Freedom sped ;

AVe came next morn : that tongue of fin Said only, " He who spake is dead ! '

Dead ! while his voice was living yet, In echoes round the pillared dome !

Dead ! while his blotted page lay wet AVith themes of state and loves oi home !

Dead ! in that crowniing gi-ace of time, That triumph. of life's z('nith hour !

Dead ! while we watched his manhood's prime Break from the slow bud into flower !

Dead ! he so great, and strong, and wise, While the mean thousands yet drew breath ; How deepened, through that dread sur prise. The mystery and the awe of death !

From the high place whereon our votes Had borne him, clear, calm, earnest fell

His first words, like the prelude notes Of some great anthem yet to swell.

AVe seemed to see our flag imfurled, Our champion waiting in his place

For the last battle of the world, — The Armageddon of the race.

Through him we hoped to speak thts word AVhich wins the freedom of a land ; And lift, for human right, the sword AVhicli dropped from Hampden's dy ing hand.

For lie had sat at Sidney's feet,

And walked with Pym and Yay* apart ;

THE DEEAM OF PIO NONO.

189

And, through the centuries, felt the beat Of Freedom's march in Cromwell's heart.

He knew the paths the worthies held, Where England's best and wisest trod ;

And, lingering, drank the springs that welled Beneath the touch of Milton's rod.

No wild enthusiast of the right,

Self-poised and clear, he showed alway

The coolness of his northern night, The ripe repose of autumn's day.

His steps were slow, yet forward still He pressed where others paused or failed ;

The calm star clomb with constant will, — The restless meteor flashed and paled !

Skilled in its subtlest wile, he knew And owned the higher ends of Law ; ^.

Still rose majestic on his view

The awful Shape the schoolman saw.

Her home the heart of God ; her voice The choral harmonies whereby

The stars, through all their spheres, re- joice. The rhythmic rule of earth and sky !

We saw his gi'eat powers misapplied To poor ambitions ; yet, through all,

We saw him take the weaker side. And right the wronged, and free the thrall.

Now, looking o'er the frozen North, For one like him in word and act,

To call her old, free spirit forth,

And give her faith the life of fact, —

To break her party bonds of shame. And labor with the zeal of him

To make the Democratic name Of Liberty the synonyme, —

We sweep the land from hiK to strand, We seek the strong, the wise, the brave,

A.nd, sad of heart, return to stand In silence by a new-made grave !

There, whore his breezy hills of home Look out upon his sail-white seas.

The sounds of mnds and waters come. And shape themselves to words like these :

"Why, murmuring, mourn that he, whose power

Was lent to Party over-long. Heard the still whisper at the hour

He set his toot ou Party wrong ?

" The human life that closed so well No lajjse of folly now can stain :

The lips whence Freedom's protest fell No meaner thought can now profane.

' ' Mightier than living voice his grave That lofty protest utters o'er ;

Through roaring wind and smiting wave It speaks his hate of wrong once more.

" Men of the North ! your weak regret Is wasted here ; arise and pay

To freedom and to him your debt. By following where he led the way 1"

THE DREAM OF PIO NONO.

It chanced, that while the pious

troops of France Fought in the crusade Pio Nono

preached, "WHiat time the holy Bourbons stayed

his hands (The Hur and Aaron meet for such a

Moses), Stretched forth from Naples towards

rebellious Rome To bless the ministry of Oudinot, And sanctifj' his iron homilies And sharp persuasions of the bayonet, That the great pontifl" fell asleep, and

dreamed.

He stood by Lake Tiberias, in the sun

Of the bright Orient ; and beheld the lame.

The sick, and blind, kneel at the Mas- ter's feet.

And rise up whole. And, sweetly over all.

Dropping the ladder of their hymn of praise

From heaven to earth, in silver round? of song,

190

MISCELLANEOUS.

He heard the hlessed angels sing of

peace, Good-will to man, and glory to the

Lord.

Then one, Avith feet unshod, and leathern face

Hardened and darkened by fierce sum- mer suns

And hot winds of the desert, closer drew

His fisher's haick, and girded up his loins,

And spake, as one who had authority :

" Come thou with me."

Lakeside and eastern sky And the sweet song of angels passed

away, And, with a dream's alacrity of change. The priest, and the swart fisher by his

side. Beheld the Eternal City lift its domes And solemn fanes and monumental

pomj) Above the waste Campagna. On the

hills The blaze of burning villas rose and

fell. And momently the mortar's iron throat Eoared from the trenches ; and, within

the walls. Sharp crash of shells, low groans of hu- man pain. Shout, drum beat, and the clanging

larum-bell. And tramp of hosts, sent up a mingled

sound, Half wail and half defiance. As they

passed The gate of San Pancrazio, human blood Flowed ankle-high about them, and

dead men Choked the long street with gashed and

gory piles, — A ghastly barricade of mangled flesh. From which, at times, quivered a living

hand. And white lips moved and moaned. A

father tore His gray hairs, by the body of his son. In frenzy ; and his fair young daughter

w-ept On his old bosom. Suddenly a flash Clove the thick sulphurous air, and

man and maid Bank, cnislied and mangled by the

shattering shell.

Then spake the Galilean : * ' Thou hast

seen The blessed Master and his works of

love ; Look now on thine ! Hear'st thou the

angels sing Above this open hell? Tlioii, God's

high-priest ! Thou the Vicegerent of the Prince of

Peace ! Thou the successor of his chosen ones ! I, Peter, fishennan of Galilee, In the dear Master's name, and for the

love Of his true Church, proclaim thee Anti- christ, Alien and separate from his holy faith, Wide as , the diflerence between death

and life. The hate of man and the great love of

God! Hence, and repent ! "

Thereat the pontiff woke.

Trembling, and muttering o'er his fear- ful dream.

" What means he ? " cried the Bourbon. " Nothing more

Than that your majesty hath all too well

Catered for your poor guests, and that, in sooth.

The Holy Father's supper troubleth him,"

Said Cardinal Antonelli, with a umile.

TAULER.

Tauler, the preacher, walked, ono

aiitumn day. Without the walls of Strasburg, by the

Rhine, Pondering the solemn Miracle of Life ; As one who, wandering in a starless

night. Feels, momently, the jar of unseen

w'aves. And hears the thunder of an unknown

sea. Breaking along an unimagined shore

And as he walked he prayed. Even the same Old prayer with which, for half a scor* of years,

TAULER.

191

Morning, and noon, and evening, lip

and heart Had gi-oaned : " Have pity upon me.

Lord ! Thou seest, while teaching others, I am

blind. Send me a man who can direct my

steps ! "

Then, as he mused, he heard along his path A. sound as of an old man's staff among The dry, dead linden-leaves ; and, look- ing up, He saw a stranger, weak, and poor, and old.

" Peace be unto thee, father ! " Tau-

ler said, " God give thee a good day ! " The old

man raised Slowly his calm blue eyes. "I thank

thee, son ; But all my days are good, and none are

iU."

Wondering thereat, the preacher spake

again, "God give thee hapjiy life." The old

man smiled, "I never am unhappy."

Tauler laid His hand upon the stranger's coarse gray

sleeve : "Tell me, 0 father, what thy strange

words mean. Surely man's days are evil, and his

life Sad as the gi'ave it leads to." "Nay,

my son. Our times are in God's hands, and all

our days Are as our needs : for shadow as for

sun. For cold as heat, for want as wealth,

alike Our thanks are due, since that is best

which is ; And that which is not, sharing not liis

life. Is evil only as devoid of good. And for tlie hap])inps.s of which I spake, I find it in submission to his will, And calm trust in the holy Trinity Of KnowU'dgc, Goodness, and Al- mighty Power."

Silently wondei-ing, for a little space.

Stood the gi-eat preacher ; then he spake as one

Who, suddenly gi-appling with a haunt- ing thought

Which long has followed, whispering through the dark

Strange terrors, cb'ags it, shrieking, into light :

"What if God's will consign thee hence to HeU ? "

"Then," said the stmnger, cheerily,

"be it so. What Hell may be I know not ; this I

know, — I cannot lose the presence of the Lord : One arm, Humility, takes hold upon His dear Humanity ; the other, Love, Clasps his Divinity. So where I go He goes ; and better fire-walled Hell

with Him Than golden-gated Paradise without."

Tears sprang in Tauler's eyes. A

sudden light. Like the first ray which fell on chaos,

clove Apart the shadow wherein he iad walked Darkly at noon. And, as the strange

old man Went his slow way, until his silver

hair Set like the white moon where the hills

of vine Slope to the Rhine, he bowed his head

and said : "My prayer is answered. God hath

sent the man Long sought, to teach me, by his simple

trust. Wisdom the weary schoolmen never

knew."

So, entering with a changed and

cheerful step The city gates, he saw, far down the

street, A mighty shadow break the light of

noon, Which tracing backward till its aiiy

lines Hardened to stony plinths, he raised his

eyes O'er broad fa9ade and lofty pediment. O'er architrave and frieze and sainted

nichH,

192

MISCELLANEOUS.

Up the stone lace-work chiselled by the wise

Erwin of Steinbacli, dizzily up to where

In the noon-brightness the great Min- ster's tower,

Jewelled with sunbeams on its mural crown,

Rose Kke a ^-isible prayer. " Behold ! " he said, '

"The stranger's faith made plain be- fore mine eyes.

As yonder tower outstretches to the earth

The dark triangle of its shade alone

"When the clear day is shining on its top.

So, darkness in the pathway of Man's life

Is but the shadow of God's pro\adence.

By the great Sun of Wisdom cast there- on ;

And what is dark below is light in Heaven."

LINES,

SUGGESTED BY READING A STATE PA- PER, WUEREIN THE UIGHER LAW IS INVOKED TO SUSTAIN THE LOWER ONE.

A PIOUS magistrate ! sound his praise

throughout The wondering churches. Who shall henceforth doubt That the long-wished millennium draweth nigh ? Sin in high places has become devout, Tithes mint, goes painful-faced, and

prays its lie Straight up to Heaven, and calls it piety !

The pirate, watching from his bloody

deck The weltering galleon, heavy with the

gold Of Acapulco, holding death in check Wliile prayers are said, brows crossed,

and beads ai'e told, — The robber, kneeling where the wayside

cross On dark Abnizzo tells of life's dread loss From Ills own carbine, glancing stiU

abroad For some new victim, offering thanks to

God! —

Rome, listening at her altars to the

cry Of midnight LIurder, while her hounds

of hell Scour France, from baptized cannon and

holy bell And thousand-throated priesthood,

loud and high. Pealing Te Deums to the shuddering

sky, "Thanks to the Lord, who giv«th

victory ! " What prove these, but that crime was

ne'er so black As ghostlv cheer and pious thanks to

lac'k? Satan is modest. At Heaven's door he

lays His evil offspring, and, in Scriptural

phrase And saintly posture, gives to God the

praise And lionor of the monstrous progeny. What marvel, then, in our own time to

see His old devices, smoothly acted o'er, — Official piety, locking fast the door Of Hojje against three million souls of

men, — Brothei-s, God's children, Christ's re- deemed, — and then, With uproUed eyeballs and on bended

knee. Whining a prayer for help to hide the

key!

THE VOICES.

"Why urge the long, unequal fight. Since Truth lias Allien in tlie street.

Or lift anew the trampled light. Quenched by the heedless million's feet?

"Give o'er the thankless task -, forsake The fools who liiiow not ill from good ;

Eat, drink, enjoy thy own, and take Thine ease among the multitude.

" Live out thyself ; with others share Tliy proper life no more ; assume

The unconcern of sun and air.

For life or death, or blight or bloom.

"The mountain pine looks calmly on The iii-es that scourge the plain* oalow.

THE HERO.

193

Nor heeds the eagle in the sun The small birds piping in the snow !

" The world is God's, not thine •, let him Work out a change, if change must be :

The hand tliat planted best can trim And nurse the old unfruitful tree."

So spake the Tempter, when the light Of sun and stars had left the sky,

I listened, through the cloud and night. And heard, methought, a voice reply :

" Thy task may well seem over-hard, Who scatterest in a thankless soil

Thy life as seed, with no reward Save that which Duty gives to Toil.

*' ITot wholly is thy heart resigned To Heaven's benign and just decree.

Which, linking thee with all thy kind, Transmits their joys and griefs to thee.

** Break off that saored chain, and turn Back on thyself thy love and care ;

Be thou thine own mean idol, burn Faith, Hope, and Trust, thy children, there.

" Released from that fraternal law Which shares the common bale and bliss.

If o sadder lot could Folly draw.

Or Sin provoke from Fate, than this.

" The meal unshared is food unblest : Thou hoard'st in vain what love should spend ;

Self-ease is pain ; thy only rest Is labor for a worthy end.

"A toil that gains with what it yields, And scatters to its own increase,

And hears, while sowing outward fields, The harvest-song of inward peace.

" Free-lipped the liberal streamlets run, Free shines for all tlie healthful ray ;

The still pool stagnates in the sun, The land earth-fire haunts decay !

' What is it that the crowd requite Thy love with hate, thy truth with lies ? And but to faith, and not to sight. The walls of Freedom's temple rise ? 13

" Yet do thy work ; it shall succeed In thine or in another's day ;

And, if denied the victor's meed, Thou shalt not lack the toiler's pay.

"Faith shares the future's promise; Love's

Self-offering is a triumph won ; And each good thought or action mdVes

The dark world nearer to the sun.

" Then faint not, falter not, nor plead Thy weakness ; truth itself is strong ;

The lion's strength, the eagle's speed, Are not alone vouchsafed to wrong.

' ' Thy nature, which, through fire and flood,

To place or gain finds out its way, Hath power to seek the highest good.

And duty's holiest call obey !

"Strivest thou in darkness? — Foes without In league with traitor thoughts with- in ; Thy night-watch kept with trembling Doubt And pale Remorse the ghost of Sin ? —

' ' Hast thou not, on some week of storm, Seen the sweet Sabbath breaking fair.

And cloud and shadow, sunlit, form The curtains of its tent of prayer ?

" So, haply, when thy task shall end, The wrong shall lose itself in right,

And all thy week-day darkness blend With the long Sabbath of the light 1 "

THE HERO.

" 0 FOR a knight like Bayard,

Without reproach or fear ; My light glove on his casque of steel»

My love-knot on his spear !

" 0 for the white plume floating Sad Zutphen's field above, —

Tlie lion heart in battle. The woman's heart in love !

"0 that man once more were manly, Woman's pride, and not her scorn :

That once more the pale young mother Dared to boast ' a man is bom ' 1

194

MISCELLANEOUS.

'• But, now life's slumberous current No sun-bowed cascade wakes ;

jfo tall, heroic manhood The level duiness breaks.

" 0 for a knight like Bayard,

Without reproach or fear ! My light glove on his casque of steel.

My love-knot on his spear ! "

Then I said, my cwn heart throbbing To the time her proud pulse beat,

'■ Life bath its regal natures yet, — True, tender, brave, and sweet !

" Smile not, fair imbelie%'er !

One man, at least, I know, Who might wear the crest of Bayard

Or Sidney's plvmie of snow.

" Once, when over piirple mountains Died away the Grecian sun,

And the far Cyllenian ranges

Paled and darkened, one by one, —

" Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder,

CleaTlng all the quiet sky, And against his sharp .«teel lightnings

Stood the Suliote but to die.

"Woe for the weak and lialtilig I

The crescent blazed beliind A curving line of sabres.

Like fire. befoie the wind •

" Last to fly, and first to rally,

"Rode he of wlioni 1 sjieak, Ulien, groaning in his bridle-path,

Sank down a wounded Greek.

" With the rich Albanian costume Wet with many a ghastly stain.

Gazing on earth and sky as one Who might not gaze again !

" He looked forward to the mountains, Back on foes that never s])are,

Then flung him from his saddle, And placed the stranger there.

" ' Allah ! hu ! ' Through flashing sa- bres,

Through a stormy hail of lead, rhe good Tliessalian charger

Up the slopes of olives sped.

" Hot spurred the tnrbaned riders ,

He almost felt their breath, Where a mountain sti-eam rolled darklj down

Between the hills and death.

" One brave and manful struggle, —

He gained the solid land. And the cover of the mountains.

And the carbines of his band ! "

" It was very great and noble," Said the moist-eyed listener then,

" But one brave deed makes no hero ; Tell me what he since hath been ! "

"Still a brave and generous manhood. Still an honor without stain.

In the prison of the Kaiser, By the barricades of Seine.

" But dream not hehn and harness

The sign of valor true ; Peace hath higher tests of manhood

Tliau battle ever knew.

' ' Wouldst know him now ? Belioli) him,

Tlie Cadmus of the blind. Giving the dumb lip language,

The idiot clay a mind.

" Walking his round of duty

Serenely day by da\'. With the strong man's hand of labor

And childhood's heart of play.

" True as the knights of story.

Sir Lancelot and his peei-s, Brave in his calm endurance

As they in tilt of spears.

"As w-aves in stillest waters.

As stars in noonday skies. All that wakes to noble action

In his noon of calmness lies.

' Wherever outraged Nature Asks word or action brave. Wherever struggles labor. Wherever groans a slave, —

" Wherever rise the peoples,

Wherever sinks a throne. The throbbing heart of Freedom finds

An answer in hi£ own

THE BAEEFOOT BOY.

195

*' Knight of a better era, AVitliout reproach or fear !

Said I not well that Bayards And Sidneys still are here ? '

MY DREAM. <

In my dream, methought I trod. Yesternight, a mountain road ; Narrow as AI Sirat's sjmn. High as eagle's flight, it ran.

Overhead, a roof of cloud "With its weight of thunder bowed / Underneath, to left and right, Blankness and abysmal night.

Here and there a wild-flower blushed, Now and then a bird-song gushed ; Now and then, through rifts of shade, Stars shone out, and sunbeams played.

But the goodly company. Walking in that path with me, One by one the brink o'erslid, One by one the darkness hid.

Some with wailing and lament. Some with cheerful courage went ; But, of all who smiled or mourned, Never one to us returned.

Anxiously, with eye and ear. Questioning that shadow drear. Never hand in token stirred. Never answering voice I heard !

Steeper, darker ! — lo ! I felt From my feet the pathway melt. Swallowed by the black despair, And the hungry jaws of air.

Past the stony-throated caves. Strangled by the wash of waves, Past the splintered crags, I sank On a green and flowery bank, — •

Soft as fall of thistle-down, Lightly as a cloud is blown. Soothingly as childhood pressed To the bosom of its rest.

Of the shai-p-horned rocks instead. Green the gi'assy meadows sy)read. Bright witli waters singing by Trees that propped a golden sky.

Painless, trustful, sorrow-free,

Old lost faces welcomed me, With whose sweetness of content Still expectant hope was blent.

Waking while the dawning gray Slowly brightened into day. Pondering that -vision fled, Thus unto myself I said : —

" Steep, and hung with clouds of striffe Is our narrow path of life ; And our death the dreaded fall Through the dark, awaiting all.

"So, with painful steps we climb Up the dizzy ways of time. Ever in the shadow shed By the forecast of our dread.

' ' Dread of mystery solved alone. Of the untried and unknown ; Yet the end thereof may seem Like the falling of my di'eam.

' ' And this heart-consuming care, All our fears of here or there. Change and absence, loss and death. Prove but simple lack of faith."

Thou, 0 Most Compassionate ! Who didst stoop to our estate, Drinking of the cup we drain. Treading in our path of pain, — •

Through the doubt and mystery, Grant to us thy steps to see. And the grace to draw from thence Larger hope and confidence.

Show thy vacant tomb, and let, As of old, the angels sit. Whispering, by its open door : " Fear not ! He hath gone before ! *

THE BAREFOOT ROY.

Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! Witli thy turned-up pantaloons. And thy merry whistled tunes ; With tiiy red "lip, redder still Kissed by strawberric^s on the hill ', With tbe sunshine on thy face, Tlu<iui;h tliy torn brim's jaunty grai»» ; From my heart I give thee joy, —

196

MISCELLANEOUS.

I was once a barefoot boy !

Prince thou art, — the giown-up man

Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride !

Barefoot, trudging at his side.

Thou hast more than he can buy

In the reach of ear and eye, —

Outward sunshine, inward joy :

Blessings on thee, barefoot boy !

0 for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day. Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools. Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood ; How the tortoise bears his shell. How the woodehuck digs his cell. And the ground-mole sinks his well ; How the robin feeds her young. How the oriole's nest is hung ; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries gi'ow. Where the gioundnut trails its vine. Where the wood-grape's clusters sliiue ; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Masoij of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans ! — For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks ; Hand in hand with her he walks. Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, — Blessings on the barefoot boy !

0 for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, Wlien all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. 1 was rich in flowers and trees. Humming-birds and honey-bees ; For my sport the squirrel played. Plied the siiitnted mole his spade ; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone ; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through tlie night, NMiispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall ; Mine the saud-rimmed pickerel pond. Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard treesj Apples of Hes])erides ! Still as my horizon grow.

Larger grew my riches too , All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy. Fashioned for a barefoot boy !

0 for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, — • Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gi'aj^ and rude ! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-eurtaiued, fringed with gold, Loojied in many a wind-swung fold ; While for music came the play Of the pied fi'ogs' orchestra ; And, to light the nois}- choir. Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was n) on arch : pomp and joy Wpited on the barefoot boy !

Cheeril)', then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Sti'.bble-speared tlie new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh bajitisms of the dew ; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat : All too soon these feet must hide In tl;e prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod. Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil : Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground ; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy. Ere it passes, barefoot boy !

FLOWERS IN WINTER.

PAINTED UPON A PORTE LIVUE.

How strange to greet, this frosty mom, In graceful counterfeit of flowers,

These children of the meadows, bora Of sunshine and of showers !

How well the conscious wood retains The pictures ot its flower - sown home, — The lights and shades, the purple stains. And golden hues of bloom I

THE RENDITION.

197

It was a happy thought to bring To the dark season's frost and rime

This painted memory of spring, This dream of summer-time.

Our hearts are lighter for its sake, Our fancy's age renews its youth.

And dim-remembered fictions take The guise of present truth.

A wizard of the Merrimack, — So old ancestral legends say, — •

Could call green leaf and blossom back To frosted stem and spray.

The dry logs of the cottage wall,

Beneath his touch, put out their leaves ;

The clay-bound swallow, at his call. Played round the icy eaves.

The settler saw his oaken flail

Take bud, and bloom before his eyes ; From frozen pools he saw the pale.

Sweet summer lilies rise.

To their old homes, by man profaned. Came the sad dryads, exiled long,

And through their leafy tongues com- plained Of household use and wrong.

The beechen platter sprouted wild, The pipkin wore its old-time green ;

The cradle o'er the sleeping child BecamB a leafy screen.

Haply our gentle friend hath met. While wandering in her sylvan quest.

Haunting his native woodlands yet, That Druid of the West ; —

And, wliile the dew on leaf and flower Glistened in moonlight clear and still. Learned the dusk wizard's spell of power. And caught his trick of skill.

But welcome, be it new or old. The gift which makes the day more bright.

And paints, upon the ground of cold And darkness, warmth and light !

Without is neither gold nor green ; Within, for birds, the birch-loga sing ;

Yet, summer-like, we sit between The autumn and the spring.

The one, with bridal blush of rose. And sweetest breath of woodland balm.

And one whose matron lips unclose lu smUes of saintly calm.

Fill soft and deep, 0 winter snow !

The sweet azalia's oaken dells. And hide the bank where roses bloWj

And swing the azure bells !

O'erlay the amber violet's leaves, The pui-ple aster's brookside home,

Guard all the flowers her pencil gives A life beyond their bloom.

And she, when spring comes round again. By greening slope and singing flood

Shall wander, seeking, not in vain, Her darlings of the wood.

THE RENDITION.

I HEARD the train's shrill whistle call, I saw an earnest look beseech. And rather by that look than speech

My neighbor told me all.

And, as I thought of Liberty

Marched handcuffed down that sworded street.

The solid earth beneath my feet Reeled fluid as the sea.

I felt a sense of bitter loss, —

Shame, tearless grief, and stifling wrath.

And loathing fear, as if my path A serpent stretched across.

All love of home, all pride of place. All generous confidence and trust, Sank smothering in that deep disgusi

And anguish of disgrace.

Down on my native hills of June, And home's green quiet, hiding all Fell sudden darkness like the fall

Of midnight upon noon !

And Law, an unloosed maniac, strong, Blood-drunken, through the blackness trod,

198

MISCELLANEOUS.

Hoarse-shouting in the ear of God The blasjihemy of wrong.

** 0 Mother, from thj- memories proud, Thy old renown, dear Commonwealth, Lend tliis dead air a breeze of health.

And smite Avith stars this cloud.

" Mother of Freedom, wise and brave, Rise awful in thy strength, " I said ; Ah me ! I spake but to the dead ;

I stood upon her gi'ave ! 6rA?wo.,1854.

LINES,

ON THE PASSAGE OF THE BILL TO PKO- TECT THE RIGHTS AND LIBEKTIES OF THE PEOPLE OF THE STATE AGAINST THE FUGITIVE SLAVE ACT.

I SAID I stood upon thy grave.

My Mother State, when last the moon Of blossoms clomb the skies of June.

And, scattering ashes on my head, I wore, undreaming of relief. The sackcloth of thy shame aind grief.

Again that moon of blossoms shines On leaf and flower and folded wing, And thou hast risen with the spring !

Once more thy strong maternal arms Are round about thy children flung, — A lioness that guards her young !

No threat is on thy closed lips, But in thine eye a power to smite The mad wolf backward from its light.

Southward the baffled robber's track Henceforth runs only ; hereaway. The fell lycanthrope finds no prey.

Henceforth, within thy sacred gates. His first low howl shall downward draw The thunder of thy righteous law.

Not mindless of thy trade and gain, But, acting on the wiser plan, Thou 'rt grown conservative of man.

Bo shalt thou clothe vdth life the hope, Dream-jiainted on the sightless eyes Of him who saug of Paradise, —

The vision of a Christian man, In Aartue as in stature great, Embodied in a Christian State.

And thou, amidst thy sisterhood Forbearing long, yet standing fast, Shalt win their grateful thanks at last ;

When North and South shall strive nc more. And all their feuds and fears be lost In Freedom's holy Pentecost.

6th mo., 1855.

THE FRUIT-GIFT.

Last night, just as the tints of autumn's sky Of sunset faded from our liills and

streams, I sat, vague Listening, lapped in twi- light dreams.

To the leaf's rustle, and the cricket's cry.

Then, like that basket, flush with sum- mer fruit,

Dropped by the angels at the Prophet's foot^

Came, unannounced, a gift of clustered sweetness. Full-orbed, and glowing witli the prisoned beams

Of summery suns, and rounded to com- pleteness

By kisses of the south-\vind and the dew.

Thrilled with a glad surprise, methought I knew

The pleasure of the homeward-turning Jew,

When Eschol's clusters on his shouldere lay,

Dropping their sweetness on his desert way.

I said, " Tliis fruit beseems no world of sin. Its parent vine, rooted in Paradise, O'ercrept the wall, and never paid tho

price Of the gi'eat mischief, — an ambrosial tree, Eden's exotic, somehow smuggled in, To keep the thorns and thistles com- pany." Perchance our frail, sad mother plucked in haste

TO C. S.

199

A single vine- slip as she passed the

gate, Wliere the dread sword alternate paled

and burned,

And the steru angel, pitying her fate,

Forgave the lovely trespassei', and turned

Aside his face of fire ; and thus the waste

And fallen world hath yet its annual

taste Of primal good, to prove of sin the cost, And show by one gleaned ear the

mighty harvest lost.

A MEMORY.

Here, while the loom of Winter weaves The shroud of flowers and fountains,

I think of thee and summer eves Among the Northern mountains.

When thunder tolled the twilight's close. And winds the lake were rude on,

And thou wert singing, GcC the Yowcs, The bonny yowes of Cluden !

When, close and closer, hushing breath. Our circle narrowed round thee,

And smiles and tears made up the wreath Wherewith our silence crowned thee ;

And, strangers all, we felt the ties

Of sisters and of brothers ; Ah ! whose of all those kindly eyes

Now smile upon another's ?

The sport of Time, who still apart The waifs of life is flinging ;

0, nevermore shall heart to heart Draw nearer for that singing !

Yet when the panes are frost}'-starred, And twilight's fire is gleaming,

I hear the songs of Scotland's bard Sound softly through my dreaming !

A song that lends to winter snows The glow of summer weather, —

Again I hear thee ca' the yowes To Cluden's hills of heather !

TO C. S.

If I have seemed more prompt to cen- sure wrong Than jiraise the right ; if seldom to thine car

My voice hath mingled with the ex- ultant cheer

Borne upon all our Northern winds along ;

If I have failed to join the fickle throng

In wide-eyed wonder, that thou standest strong

In victory, surprised in thee to find

Brougham's scathing power with Can- ning's grace combined ;

That he, for whom the ninefold Muses sang.

From their twined arms a giant athlete sprang.

Barbing the arrows of his native tongire

With the spent shafts Latona's archer flung,

To smite the Python of our land and time.

Fell as the monster born of Crissa's slime,

Like the blind bard who in Castalian springs

Tempered the steel that clove the crest of kings,

And on the shrine of England's freedom laid

The gifts of Cumae and of Delphi's shade, —

Small need hast thou of words of praise from me. Thou knowest my heart, dear friend,

and well canst guess That, even though silent, I have not the less

Rejoiced to see thy actual life agree

With the large future which I shaped for thee.

When, years ago, beside the summer sea.

White in the moon, we saw the long waves fall

Baffled and broken from the rocky wall,

That, to the menace of tlie brawling flood,

Opposed alone its massive quietude.

Calm as a fate ; with not a leaf nor vine

Nor birch-spray trembling in the still moonshine.

Crowning it like God's peace. I some- times think That night-scene by the sea prophet- ical, —

(For Nature speaks in symbols and in signs,

And through her jtictures human fate divines), —

That rock, wherofrom we saw the billows sink

200

MISGELLAJSTEOUS.

Ill daui'mming rout, uprising clear and

tall In the white light of heaven, the type

of one Who, momently by Error's host assailed, Stands strong as Truth, in gi'eaves of

granite mailed ; And, tranquil-fronted, listening over

all The tumult, hears the angels say. Well

done !

THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS.

We cross the prairie as of old The pilgrims crossed the sea.

To make the West, as they the East, The homestead of the free !

We go to rear a wall of men

On Freedom's southern line. And plant beside the cotton-tree

The rugged Northern pine !

We 're flowing from our native hills

As our free rivers flow ; The blessing of our JI other-land

Is on us as we go.

We go to plant her common school*-

On distant prairie swells. And give the Sabbaths of the wild

The music of her bells.

Upbearing, like the Ark of old,

The Bible in our van. We go to test tlie truth of God

Against the fraud of man.

No pause, nor rest, save where the streams

That feed the Kansas run. Save where our Pilgrim gonfalon

Shall flout the setting sun !

We '11 tread the prairie as of old

Our fathers sailed the sea. And make the West, as they the East,

The homestead of the free !

SONG OF SLAVES IN THE DESERT.68

Where are we going ? where are we go- ing, Where are we going, Rubee ?

Lord of peoples, lord of lands. Look across these shining sands. Through the funiace of the noon, Through the white light of the moon. Strong the Ghiblee wind is blowing, Strange and large the world is growing Speak and tell us where we are going, Wliere are we going, Rubee ?

Boruou land was rich and good. Wells of water, fields of food, Dourra fields, and bloom of bean, And the palm-tree cool and green : Bornou land we see no longer, Here we thirst and here we hunger. Here the Moor-man smites in anger : Where are we going, Rubee ?

When we went from Bornou land. We were like the leaves and sand, We were many, we are few ; Life has one, and death has two : Whitened bones our path are showing, Thou All-seeing, thou All-knowing ! Hear us, tell us, Avhere are we going, Wliere are we going, Rubee ?

Moons of marclies from our eyes Bornou land behind us lies ; Stranger round us day by day Bends the desert circle gray ; Wild the waves of sand are flomng, Hot the winds above them blowing, — Lord of all things ! — where are we go ing? Where are we going, Rubee ?

We arc weak, but Thou art strong ; Short our lives, but Thine is long ; Ve are blind, but Thou hast eyes ; Wfc. are fools, but Thou art wise !

Thou, our morrow's pathway knowing Through the strange world round us

growing. Hear us, tell us where are we going, AVhere are we going, Rubee ?

LINES,

INSCRIBED TO FRIENDS UNDER ARREST FOR TREASON AGAINST THE SLAVE POWER.

The age is dull and moan. Men creep, Not walk ; with blopd too jjale and tame

THE HASCHISH.

201

To pay tlie debt they owe to sliame ; Buy cheap, sell dear ; eat, diink, and sleep

Down-pillowed, deaf to moaning want; Pay tithes for soul-insurance ; keep

Six days to Mammon, one to Cant.

In such a time, give thanks to God, That somewhat of the holy rage With which the prophets in their age

On all its decent seemings trod, Has set your feet upon the lie.

That man and ox and soul and clod Are market stock to sell and buy !

The hot words from your lips, my own, To caution trained, might not repeat ; But if some tares among the wheat Of generous thought and deed were sown, No common wrong provoked your zeal ; The silken gauntlet that is thrown In such a quarrel rings like steel.

The brave old strife the fathers saw For Freedom calls for men again Like those who battled not in vain

For England's Charter, Alfred's law ; And right of speech and trial just

Wage in your name their ancient war With venal courts and perjured trust.

God's ways seem dark, but, soon or late.

They touch the shining hills of day ;

The evil cannot brook delaj'', The good can well afford to wait.

Give ermined knaves their hour of crime ; Ye have the future grand and great,

The safe appeal of Truth to Time !

THE NEW EX0DUS.6*

Bv fire and cloud, across the desert sand, And througli the parted waves, From their long bondage, with au out- stretched hand, God led the Hebrew slaves !

Dead as the letter of the Pentateuch,

As Egypt's statues cold. In the adytum of the sacred book

Now stands that marvel old.

" Lo, God is great !" the simple Mos- lem says. We seek the ancient date. Turn the dry scroll, and make that liv- ing phrase A dead one : " God vxis great ! "

And, like the Coptic monks by ilousa's wells, We dream of wonders past. Vague as the tales the wandering Arab tells, Each drowsier than the last.

0 fools and blind ! Above the Pyramids Stretches once more that hand,

And tranced Egypt, from her stony lids, Flings back her veil of sand.

And morning-smitten Memnon, singing, wakes ; And, listening by his Nile, O'er Amnion's grave and awful visage breaks A sweet and human smile.

Not, as before, with hail and lire, and call Of death for midnight graves, But in the stillness of the noonday, fall The fetters of the slaves.

No longer through the Eed Sea, as of old. The bondmen walk dry shod ; Through human hearts, by love of Him controlled. Runs now that ^mth of God !

THE HASCHISH.

Of all that Orient lands can vaunt Of marvels with our own comjieting,

The strangest is the Haschish plant, And what will follow on its eating.

What ]iictui-es to the taster rise, Of Dervish or of Alnieh dances !

Of Eblis, or of Paradise,

Set all aglow with Houri glances !

The poppy visions of Cathay,

The heavy beer-trance of the Suabian; The wizard liglits and demon jilay

Of nights Walpurgis and Arabian J

202

BALLADS.

The Mollah and the Christian dog Change place in mad metempsycho- sis ;

The Muezzin climbs the sjTiagogue, The Rabbi shakes his beard at Moses !

The Arab by his desert well

Sits choosing from some Caliph's daughters, And hears his single camel's bell

Sound welcome to his regal quarters.

The Koran's reader makes complaint Of Shitan dancing on and oif it ;

The robber offers alms, the saint

Drinks Tokay and blasphemes the Prophet.

Such scenes that Eastern plant awakes ;

But we have one ordained to beat it, The Haschish of the West, which makes

Or fools or knaves of all who eat it.

The i)reacher eats, and straight appears His Bible in a new translation ;

Its angels negro overseers,

And Heaven itself a snug planta- tion !

The man of peace, about whose dreams The sweet millennial angels cluster.

Tastes the mad weed, and plots and schemes, A raving Culaan filibuster !

The noisiest Democrat, with ease, It turns to Slavery's parish beadle ;

The shrewdest statesman eats and sees Due southward point the polar needi©

The Judge partakes, and sits erelong Upon his bench a railing blackguard j

Decides off-hand that right is wrong, And reads the ten commandments backward.

0 potent plant ! so rare a taste Has never Turk or Gentoo gotten ;

The licmpen Haschish of the East Is powerless to oui- Western Cotton !

BALLADS.

MARY GARVIN.

From the heai-t of Waumbek Metlma, from the lake that never fails,

Falls the Saco in the gieen lap of Con- way's intervales ;

There, in wild and virgin freshness, its waters foam and flow.

As when Darby Field first saw them, two hundred years ago.

But, vexed in all its seaward course with

bridges, dams, and mills. How changed is Saco's stream, how lost

its freedom of the hills. Since travelled JoceljTi, factor Vines,

and stately Champemoon Heard on its banks the gray wolfs howl,

the trumpet of the loon !

With smoking axle hot with speed, with steeds of fire and steam,

Wide-waked To-day leaves Yesterday behind him like a dream.

Still, fi-om the hurrying train of Life, fly backward far and fixst

The milestones of the fathers, the land- marks of the past.

But human hearts remain unchanged :

the sorrow and the sin. The loves and hopes and fears of old, are

to our own akin ; And if, in tales our fathers told, the

songs our mothei-s sung. Tradition wears a snowy beard, Romance

is always young.

0 sharp-lined man of traffic, on Saco's

banks to-day ! 0 mill-girl watching late and long the

shuttle's restless play ! Let, for the once, a listening ear the

working hand beguile, And lend my old Provincial tale, as

suits, a tear or smile I

MARY GARVIN.

203

The evening gim had sounded from gray

Fort Mary's walls ; Through the forest, like a wild beast,

roared and plunged the Saco's falls.

And westward on the sea-wind, that

damp and gusty grew, Over cedars darkening inland the smokes

of Spurwink blew.

On the hearth of Farmer Garvin blazed the crackling Avalnut log ;

Right and left sat dame and goodman, and between them lay the dog,

Head on paws, and tail slow wagging, and beside him on her mat.

Sitting drowsy in the fire-light, winked and purred the mottled cat.

" Twenty years ! " said Goodman Gar- vin, speaking sadly, under breath,

And his gray head slowly shaking, as one who speaks of death.

The goodwife dropped her needles : "It

is twenty years to-day. Since the Indians fell on Saco, and stole

our child away "

Then they sank into the silence, for each knew the other's thought.

Of a great and common sorrow, and words Avere needed not.

"Whoknocks?" cried Goodman Garvin.

The door was open thrown ; On two strangers, man and maiden, cloaked

and furred, the fire-light shone.

One with courteous gesture lifted the bear-skin from his head ;

"Lives here Elkanah Garvin?" "I am he," the goodman said.

" Sit ye down, and dry and warm ye, for the night is chill with rain."

And the goodwife drew the settle, and stirred the fire amain.

The maid unclasped her cloak-hood, the

fire-light gli.stened fair In her large, nioi.st eyes, and over soft

folds of dark brown hair.

Dame Garvin looked upon her : " It is Mary's self I see !

Dear heart ! " she cried, " now tell me, has my child come back to me ? "

"My name indeed is Mary," said the stranger, sobbing wild ;

"Will you be to me a mother? I am Mary Garvin's child !

" She sleeps by wooded Simcoe, but on her dying day

She bade my father take me to her kins- folk far away.

" And when the pi'iest besought her to

do me no such wrong. She said, ' May God forgive me ! I have

closed my heart too long.

" ' When I hid me from my father, and shut out my mother's call,

I sinned against those dear ones, and the Father of us all.

" ' Christ's love rebukes no home-love, breaks no tie of kin ajiart ;

Better heresy in doctrine, than heresy of heart.

' ' ' Tell me not the Chiirch must censure : she who wept the Cross beside

Never made her own flesh strangers, nor the claims of blood denied ;

" ' And if she who wTonged her parents, with her child atones to them.

Earthly daughter, Heavenly mother ! thou at least wilt not condemn ! '

" So, upon her death -bed lying, my

blessed mother spake ; As we come to do her bidding, so receive

us for her sake."

" God be praised ! " said Goodwife Ga.T- \4n, " He taketh, and he gives ;

He woundeth, but he healeth ; in her child our daughter lives ! "

" Amen ! " the old man answered, as he

bnished a tear away. And, kneeling by his hearthstone, said,

with reverence, " Let us pray."

All its Oriental symbols, and its Hebrew

paraphrase. Warm with earnest life and feeling, rose

his prayer of love and praise.

204

BALLADS.

But he started at beholding, as he rose

frow off his knee, The stranger cross his forehead with the

sign of Papistrie.

" "What is this ? " cried Farmer Garvin.

" Is an English Christian's home A chapel or a mass-house, that you make

the sign of Eome ? "

Then the young girl knelt beside him, kissed his trembling hand, and cried :

" 0, forbear to chide my father ; in that faith my mother died !

" On her wooden cross at Simcoe the

dews and sunshine fall, As they fall on Spurwink's graveyard ;

and the dear God watches all ! "

The old man stroked the fair head that

rested on his knee ; " Your words, dear child," he answered,

" are God's rebuke to me.

" Creed and rite perchance may differ, yet our faith and hope be one.

Let me be your father's father, let him be to me a son."

When the horn, on Sabbath morning, through the still and frosty air,

From Spurwink, Pool, and Black Point, called to sennon and to prayer.

To the goodly house of woi-ship, where,

in order due and fit. As by public vote directed, classed and

ranked the people sit ;

Mistress first and goodwife after, clerkly squire before the clown.

From the brave coat, lace-embroidered, to the gray frock, shading down ;

From the pulpit read the preacher, — " Goodman Garvin and his wife

Fain would thank the Lord, whose kind- ness has followed them through life,

" For the great and crowning mercy, that their daughter, from the wild.

Where she rests (they hope in God's peace), has sent to themher child ;

' ' And the prayers of all God's people they ask, that they may prove

Not unworthy, through their weakness, of such special proof of love."

As the preacher prayed, uprising, the aged couple stood,

And the fair Canadian also, in her mod- est maidenhood.

Thought the elders, grave and doubting, " She is Papist bom and bred " ;

Thought the young men, " 'T is an angel in Mary Garvin's stead ! "

MAUD MULLER.

Maud Muller, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her meiry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But when she glanced to the far-off

town. White from its hill-slope looking down,

Tlie sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast, —

A wish, that she hardly dared to own. For something better than .she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane. Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And a.sked a draught from the spring that

flowed Through the meadow across the road.

Slie stooped where the cool s])ring bub- bled up. And filled for him her small tin aip.

And blushed as she gave it, looking

down On her feet so bare, and her tattered I gown.

MAUD MULLER.

205

" Thanks ! " said fbe Judge ; " a sweeter

draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and

trees, Of the singing birds and the humming

bees ;

Then talked of the haying, and won- dered whether

The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And her gi-aceful ankles bare and brown ;

And listened, while a pleased surjirise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller looked and sighed : "Ah

me ! That I the Judge's bride might be !

" He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine.

"My father should wear a broadcloth

coat ; My brother should sail a painted boat.

"I'd dress my mother so grand and

gay,

A.nd the baby should have a new toy each daj'.

" And I'd feed the hungry and clothe

the poor, And all should bless me who left our

door."

The Judge looked back as he climbed

the hill. And saw Maud Muller standing still.

"A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

"And her modest answer and graceful

air Show her wise and good as .she is fair

"Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay :

"No doubtful balance of rights and

wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

' ' But low of cattle and song of birds, And health and quiet and loving words."

But he thought of his sisters proud and

cold, And his mother vain of her rank and

gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode

on, And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love- tune ;

And the young girl mused beside the

M-eli Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright

glow. He watched a pictm-e come and go ;

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft, when the wine in his glass was

I'ed, He longed for the wayside well instead ;

And closed his eyes on his garnished

rooms To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.

And the proud man sighed, with a se- cret pain, ' ' Ah, that I were free again !

' ' Free as when I rode that da}'. Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door.

But care and sorrow, and childbirth

pain, Left their traces on heart and brain.

206

BALLADS.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot.

And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall.

In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein.

And, gazing down \^ith timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls ;

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned,

And for liiin who sat by the chimney

lug, Dozing and gi-umbling o'er pipe and

mug,

A manly form at her side she saw. And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life

again. Saying only, " It might have been."

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,

For ricli repiner and household drudge !

God pity them both ! and pity us all. Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these : "It might have been ! "

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope

lies Deeply buried from human eyes ;

And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its gi-ave away !

T?IE RANGER.

Robert Rawi.ix ! — Frosts were falling When the ranger's horn was calling

Through the woods to Canada. Gone the winter's sleet and snowing. Gone the spring-time's bud and blowing, Gone the summer's harvest mowing.

And again the fields are gray. Yet away, he 's away ! Faint and fainter hope is growing In the hearts that mourn his stay.

Where the lion, crouching high on Abraham's rock with teeth of iron.

Glares o'er wood and wave away, Faintly thence, as pines far sighing, Or as thunder spent and dying. Come the challenge and replying,

Come the soiiuds of flight and fray.

Well-a-day ! Hope and pray ! Some are li"ving, some are lying

In their red graves far away.

Straggling rangers, worn with dangerSj Homeward faring, weary strangers

Pass the farm -gate on their way ; Tidings of the dead and living. Forest march and ambush, giving, Till the maidens leave their wea^^ng,

And tlie lads forget their play.

" Still away, still away ! " Sighs a sad one, sick with grieving,

" Why does Robert stiU. delay ! "

Nowhere fairer, sweeter, rarer. Does the golden-locked fruit-bearer

Through his painted woodlands stray, Tlian where hillside oaks and beeches Overlook the long, blue reaches. Silver coves and j)cbbled beaches,

And green isles of Casco Bay ;

Nowhere day, for delay. With a tenderer look beseeches,

"Let me with my charmed earth staj'."

On the grain-lands of the mainlands Stands the serried corn like train-bands,

Plume and pennon rustling gay ; Out at sea, tlie islands wooded. Silver birches, golden-hooded. Set with maples, crimson-blooded.

White sea-foam and sand-hills gray,

Stretch away, far away. Dim and dr(>amy, over-brooded

By the hazy autumn day.

Gayly chattering to the clattering

Of the brown nuts downward pattering

Leap tlie S(iuirrcls, red and gray. On the grass-land, on the fallow. Drop the apples, red and yellow ; Drop the russet pears and mellow.

Drop the red leaves all the day.

And away, swift away.

THE KANGEK.

207

Sun and cloud, o'er hill and hollow Chasing, Aveave their wel) of play.

"Martha Mason, Martha Mason, Prithee tell us of the reason

Why you mope at home to-day : Surely smiling is not sinning ; Leave your quilling, leave your spinning ; What is all your store of linen,

If your heart is never gay ?

Come away, come away ! Never yet did sad beginning

Make the task of life a iday."

Overbending, till she 's blending With the flaxen skein she 's tending

Pale brown tresses smoothed away From her face of patient sorrow. Sits she, seeking but to borrow, From the trembling hope of moriow,

Solace lor the weary day.

" Go your way, laugh and play ; Unto Him who heeds the sparrow

And the lily, let me pray."

" With our rally, rings the valley, — Join us ! " cried the blue-eyed Nelly ;

" Join us ! " cried the laughing May, ' ' To the beach we all are going. And, to save the task of rowing. West by north the wind is blowing.

Blowing briskly down the bay !

Come away, come away ! Time and tide are swiftly flowing.

Let us take them while we may !

" Never tell us that you 'll'fail us, Where the purple beach-plum mellows

On the bluffs so wild and gray. Hasten, for the oars are falling ; Hark, our merry mates are calling : Time it is that we were all in,

Singing tideward down the bay ! "

" Nay, nay, let me stay ; Sore and sad for Robert Kaw-lin

Is my heart," she said, "to-day."

" Vain your calling for Rob Rawlin !

Some red scpiaw his moose-meat 's broil- ing, Or some French lass, singing gay ;

Just forget as he 's forgetting ;

What avails a life of fretting ?

U some stars must needs be setting, Others rise as good as they." " Cease, I pray ; go your way ! "

Martha cries, her eyelids wetting ; " Foul and false the words you say ! "'

' ' Martha Mason, hear to reason ! Prithee, put a kinder face on ! "

" Cease to vex me," did she say ; ' ' Better at his side be lying. With the mournful pine-trees sighing, And the wild birds o'er us crying.

Than to doubt like mine a prey ;

While away, far away, Turns my heart, forever trying

Some new hope for each new day.

"When the .shadows veil the meadows, And the sunset's golden ladders

Sink from twilight's walls of gray, — From the window of my dreaming, I can see his sickle gleaming. Cheery-voiced, can hear him teaming

Down the locust-shaded way ;

But away, swift away. Fades the fond, delusive seeming.

And I kneel again to pray.

" When the gi-owing dawn is showing And the barn-yard cock is crowing,

And the horned moon pales away : From a dream of him awaking. Every sound my heart is making Seems a footstep of his taking ;

Then I hush the thought, and say, "

' Nay, nay, he 's away ! ' Ah ! my heart, my heart is breaking

For the dear one far away."

Look up, Martha ! worn and swarthy, Glows a fcice of manhood worthy :

" Robert ! " " Martha !" all they say O'er went wheel and reel together. Little cared the owner whither ; Heart of limd is heart of feather,

Noon of night is noon of day !

Come away, come away ! When such lo\'ers meet each other.

Why should prying idlers stay ?

Quench the timber's fallen embers, Quench the red leaves in December's

Hoary rime and chilly spray. But the hearth shall kindle clearer. Household welcomes sound sincerer, Heart to loving heart draw nearer.

When the bridal bells .shall say :

"Hope and pray, trust alway ; Life is sweetei-, love is dearer,

For the trial and delay ! "

208

LATER POEMS.

LATER POEMS.

THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN.

O'er the bare woods, whose out- stretched hands Plead with the leaden heavens in vain, I see, beyond the valley lands,

The sea's long level dim with rain. Around me all things, stark and dumb, Seem praying for the snows to come, And, for the summer bloom and green- ness gone. With winter's sunset lights and dazzling mom atone.

Along the river's sunnner walk,

The \nthered tufts of asters nod ; And trembles on its arid stalk

The hoar i)lum(' of the golden -rod. And on a ground of sombre lir, And azure-studded juniper, The silver birch its buds of purple shows, And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet wild-rose !

With mingled sound of honis and bells, A far-heard clang, the wild geese

Storm-sent, from Arctic moors and fells. Like a great arrow through the sky. Two dusky lines converged in one, Chasing the southward-flying sun ; Wliile the brave snow-bird and the hardy

Call to them from the pines, as if to bid them stay.

I passed this way a year ago :

Tlu! wind blew south ; the noon of day Was wnrm as June's ; and save that snow Flecked the low mountains far away.

And that the vernal-seeming breeze Mocked faded grass and leafless trees, I might have dreamed of summer as 1 lay, Watching the fallen leaves with the soYt wind at play.

Since then, the winter blasts have piled

The white pagodas of the snow On tliese rough slopes, and, strong and ^^■ild, Yon river, in its overflow Of spring-time rain and sun, set free, Crashed with its ices to the sea ; And over these gray fields, then gi-een

and gold. The summer corn has waved, the thun- der's organ rolled.

Rich gift of God ! A year of time !

What i)omp of rise and shut of day, Wliat hues wlierewith our Northern clime

Makes autumn's dropping woodlands

What airs outblown from ferny dells. And clover - bloom and sweetbrier smells, What songs of brooks and birds, what

fruits and flowers, Green woods and moonlit snows, have in its round been ours !

I know not how, in other lands,

The changing seasons come and go ; What s])h'iidurs fall on Syrian sands. What purjilc liglits on Alpine snow ! Nor how the jiomj) of sunrise waits On Venice at her watery gates ; A dream alone to me is Arno's vale. And the Alhambra's halls are but a trav- eller's tale.

VIII,

Yet, on life's current, he who drifts Is one with him who rows or sails ;

THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN.

209

And he who wanders widest lifts

No more of beauty's jealous veils Tliaii he who from his doorway sees Tlie miracle of flowers and trees, S'eels the warm Orient in the noonday air, \ud from cloud minarets hears the sun- set call to prayer !

The eye may well be glad, that looks Where Pharpar's fountains rise and fall ; But he who sees his native brooks

Laugh in the sun, has seen them all. The marble palaces of hid Rise round him in the snow and wind ; From his lone sweetbrier Persian Hafiz

smiles, And Rome's cathedral awe is in his woodland aisles.

And thus it is my fancy blends

The near at hand and far and rare ; And while the same horizon bends Above the silver-sprinkled hair Wliich flashed the light of morning

skies On childhood's wonder-lifted eyes, Within its round of sea and sky and field. Earth wheels with all her zones, the Kosmos stands revealed.

And thus the sick man on his bed.

The toiler to his task-work bound. Behold their ])rison-walls outspread.

Their clipped horizon widen round ! While freedom-giving fancy waits. Like Peter's angel at the gates, The ])ower is theirs to baffle care and pain, To bring the lost world back, and make it theirs again !

What lack of goodly company,

When masters of the ancient lyre Oliey my call, and trace for me

Their words of nungled tears and fire ! I talk with Bacon, grave and wise, I read the world with Pascal's ey^s ; And jiriest and sage, with solemn brows

austere, hid poets, garland-ljound, the liOiils of Thought, draw near. 14

Methinks, 0 friend, I hear thee say,

"In vain the hunian heart we mock ;

Bring living guests who love the day,

Not ghosts who fly at crow of cock !

The herbs we share with flesh and blood,

Are better than ambrosial food.

With laurelled shades." 1 grant it,

nothing loath. But doubly blest is he who can partake of l)oth.

He who might Plato's banquet grace,

Have I not seen before me sit. And watched his puritanic face,

AVith more than Eastern wisdom lit? Shrewd mystic ! wlio, upon the back Of his Poor Richard's Almanack, Writing the Sufi's song, the Gentoo's

dream. Links Menu's age of thought to Fulton's age of steam !

Here too, of answering love secure.

Have I not welcomed to my hearth The gentle pilgrim troubadour.

Whose songs have girdled half the earth ; Whose pages, like the magic mat Whereon the Eastern lover sat, Have borne me over Rhine-land's purj^le

vines. And Nubia's tawny sands, and Phrygia's mountain pines !

And lie, who to the lettered wealth

Of ages adds the lore unpriced. The wisdom and the moral liealth.

The ethics of the school of Ohrist ; The statesman to his holy trust. As the Athenian arcluni, just, Struck down, exiled like liim for truth

alone. Has he not graced my home with beauly all his own ?

XVII.

What greetings smile, what farewells wave, Wliat loved ones entrr and ilcpart ' Till' good, the beautiful, tlie liravt. The Heaveu-le^it treasures of tlw heart !

210

LATER POEMS.

How conscious seems tlie frozen sod And beechen slope whereon they trod I I'he oak-leaves rustle, and tlie di y grass

bends Beneath the shadowy feet of lost or ab- sent friends.

Then ask not why to these bleak hill>.

1 cling, as clings the tufted moss, To bear the winter's lingering chills.

The mocking spring's perpetual loss.

I dream of lands where summer smiles,

And soft wiuds blow from spicy isles.

But scarce would Ceylon's breath ol

flowers be sweet, Could 1 not feel thy soil, New England, at my feet !

At times T long for gentler skies.

And bathe in dreams of softer ail'. But homesick tears would fill the eyes That saw tlie Cross without tlie Px-ar. Tile pine must whisper to tiic jialm. The nortli-wind break the tropic calm ; And with the dreamy languor of the Line, Tlie North's keen virtue blend, and strength to beauty join.

Better to stem with heart and hand The roaring tide of life, than lie. Unmindful, on its flowery strand, Cif God's occasions drifting by ! Better witli naked nerve to bear Tlie needles of this goading air, Tliaii, in the lap of sensual ease, forego The godlike power to do, the godlike aim to know.

Home of my heart ! to me more fair Tlian gay Versailles or Windsor's halls. The painted, shingly town-house where The freeman's vote for Freedom falls I The simple roof where jirayer is made, Than Gotliic gi'oin and colonnade ; 'I'lie living temple of the heart of man, rii.m Rome's sky-mocking vault, or many-spired Milan !

More dear thy eqtial village schools, AVhere rich and poor the Bible read,

Than classic halls where Priestcraft

rules.

And Learning wears the chains of

Creed ;

Thy glad Thanksgiving, gathering in

The scattei ed sheaves of home and kin,

Than the mad license following Lenten

pains. Or holidays of slaves who laugh ami dance in chains.

XXIII.

And sweet homes nestle in these dales, And perch along these wootled swells ; And, blest beyond Arcadian vales, Thev hear the sound of Sabbath bells ! Here dwells no perfect man sublime, Kor woman winged before her time, But with the faults and follies of the

race, Old liome-bred virtues hold tlieir not unhonored jtlace.

Here manhood struggles for the sake

Of mother, sister, daughter, wife, The graces and the loves which make

The music of the march of life ; And woman, in her daily round Of duty, walks on holy ground. No unpaiil menial tills the .soil, nor here Is the bad lesson learned at human rights to sneer.

Then let the icy north-wind blow

The trumpets of the coming storm, To arrowy .sleet and blinding snow

Yon slanting lines of rain transform. Young hearts shall hail the drifted

cold. As gayU' as I did of old ; And 1, Vho watch them through the

frosty pane, Unenvious, live in them my boyhood o'er again.

XXVI.

And I will trust that He who heeds The life that hides in mead and wold, Who hangs yon alder's crimson beads, And stains these mosses green ami gold,

BURIAL OF BARBOUR.

211'

Will still, as He hath done, incline

His gracious care to me and mine ;

)!rant what we ask aright, from wrong

debar, And, as the earth grows dark, make brighter every star !

I have not seen, I may not see.

My hopes for man take form in fact. But God will give the victory

In due time ; in that faith I act. And he who sees the future sure, The baffling present may endure, And bless, meanwliile, the unseen Hand

that leads The heart's desires beyond the halting step of deeds.

And thou, my song, I send thee forth, Where harsher songs of mine have flown ; Go, find a place at home and hearth

Where'er thy singer's name is known ; Revive for him the kindly thought Of friends ; and they who love him not, Touclied by some strain of thine, per- chance may take The hand he proffers all, and thank him for thy sake.

THE MAYFLOWERS.

Tho trailing arbutus, or mayflower, grows ftbundantly in tho. vicinity of Plymouth, and was tlie first flower that greeted the Pilgrims after their fearful winter.

Sad Mayflower ! watched by winter stars, And nursed by winter gales,

With petals of tlie sleeted spars, And leaves of frozen sails !

Willi! hnd she in those dreary hours, Within her ice-rimmed bay,

Jn common with the wild-wood flowers, Tiie first sweet smiles of May ?

Vet, " God be praised ! " the Pilgrim said.

Who saw the blossoms peer (Vbove the l)rowii leaves, dry and dead,

" Behold our Mayllover here ! "

" God wills it : here our rest shall be, Our years of wandering o'er,

For us "the Mayflower of the sea Shall spread her sails no more."

0 sacred flowers of faith and hope,

As sweetly now as then Ye bloom on many a birchen slope,

In many a pine-dark glen.

Behind the sea-wall's rugged length. Unchanged, your leaves unfold.

Like love behind the manly strength Of the brave hearts of old.

So live the fathers in their sons.

Their sturdy faith be ours. And ours the love that overruns

Its rocky strength with flowers.

The Pilgrim's wild and wintry day Its shadow round us draws ;

The Mayflower of his stormy bay, Our Freedom's struggling cause.

But warmer suns erelong shall bring

To life the frozen sod ; And, through dead leaves of hope, shall spring

Afresh the flowers of God !

BURIAL OF BARBOUR.

Bear him, comrades, to his grave ; Never over one more bi'ave

Shall the prairie grasses weep, In the ages yet to come. When the millions in our room.

What we sow in tears, shall reap.

Bear him up the icy hill. With the Kansas, frozen still

As his noble heart, below, And the land he canu^ to till AVith a freeman's thews and will.

And his poor hut roofed with snow

One more look of that dead face, Of his murder's ghastly trace !

One more kiss, O widowed one ! Lay your left hands on his brow. Lift your right hands up, and vow

That liis work shall yet be done.

Patience, friends ! The eye of God Every path by Murder trod

212

LATER POEMS.

"Watches, lidless, day and night • And the di-ad man in his shroud, And his \vi(h)\v weeping loud,

And our hearts, are in his sight.

F.very deadly threat that swells With the roar of giunhling hells,

Every hrutal jest and jeer. Every Avicked thought and jdan Of the cruel lieait of man,

Tiiough but whispered, lie can hear!

■\Ve in suflering, the}' in crime, Wait tlie just award of time.

Wait the vengeance that is due ; Not in vain a heart shall break, Not a tear for Freedom's sake

Fall unheeded : Gotl is true.

While the flag with stars hedecked Tiircatens where it should protect.

And the Law shakes hands with Crime, What is left us but to wait, ALitch our patience to our fate,

And abide the better time ?

Patience, friends ! The human heart Everywhere shall take our ])ait.

Everywhere for us shall pray ; On our side are nature's laws. And God's life is in the cause

That we suffer for to-daj'.

Well to suffer is divine ;

Pass the watchword down the line.

Pass the countersign : "Enduiie." Not to him who raslily dares. But to him who nobly bears,

Ls the victor's garland sure.

Frozen earth to frozen breast. Lay our slain one down to rest ;

Lay him down in hope and faith. And above the broken sod, Once again, to Freedom's God,

Pledge ourselves for life or death,

That the State whose walls we lay. In our blood and teai-s, to-day,

Shall be free from bonds of shame And our goodly land untrod By the feet of Slavery, shod

With cursing as with flame !

Plant the Buckeye on his grave, For the hunter of the slave

In its shadow cannot rest ; And let martyr mound and tree Be our pledge and guaranty

Of the freedom of the West !

TO PENNSYLVANIA.

0 Statk praj'er-founded ! never hui-.^ Such choice upon a people's tongue.

Such power to bless or ])aii. As that wdiich makes thy whisjier Fate, For which on thee the centuries Mait,

And destinies of man !

Across thy Alleghanian chain. With groauings from a land in pain.

The west-wind finds its way : Wild-wailing from Missouri's flood The crying of thy children's blood

Is in thy ears to-daj' !

And unto thee in Freedom's hour Of sorest need God gives the 2)ower

To ruin or to save ; To wound or heal, to blight or bless With fertile field or wilderness,

A free home or a grave !

Then let thy virtue match the crime. Pise to a level with the time ;

And, if a son of thine Betray or tempt thee, Brntus-likc For Fatherland and Freedom strike

As Justice gives the sign.

Wake, sleeper, from thy dream of ease, The great occasion's forelock seize ;

And, let tl>e north-wind strong, And golden leaves of autumn, be Thy coronal of Victory

And thy triumphal song. 10th mo., 1866.

THE PASS OF THE SIERRA.

All night above their rocky bed They saw the stars march slow ;

The wild Sien-a overhead, The desert's death below.

The Indian from his lodge of bark, The giay bear from his den,

Beyond their camp-fire's wall of dark Glared on the mo-'intain men.

THE CONQUEST OF FINLAND.

213

Still upward turned, with anxious strain,

Their leader's sleepless eye. Where splinters of the mountain chain

Stood black against the sky.

The night waned slow : at last, a glow,

A gleam of sudden fire. Shot up behind the walls of snow,

And tipped each icy spire.

"Up, men!" he cried, "yon rocky cone,

To-day, please God, we '11 pass. And look from Winter's frozen tlirone

On Summer's flowers and grass ! "

They set their faces to the blast,

They trod the eternal snow. And faint, worn, bleeding, hailed at last

The promised land below.

Bjhind, they saw the snow-cloud tossed

By many an icy horn ; Before, warm valleys, wood-embossed.

And green with vines and corn.

They left the Winter at their backs

To flap his baffled wing, And downward, with the cataracts.

Leaped to the lap of Spring.

Strong leader of that mountain band.

Another task remains. To break from Slavery's desert land

A path to Freedom's plains. •

The winds are wild, the way is drear. Yet, flashing through the night,

Lo ! icy ridge and rocky spear Blaze out in morning light !

Rise up, Frem(>nt ! and go before ;

The Hour must have its Man ; Put on the hunting-shirt once more,

And lead in Freedom's van ! itn mo., 1856.

TlIK CONQUEST OF FINLAND.^s

Across the frozen marshes The winds of autumn blow,

And the fen-lands of the Wetter Are white with early snow.

But where the low, gray headlands Look o'er the Baltic brine,

A bark is sailing in the track Of England's battle-line.

No wares hath she to barter For Bothnia's fish and grain ;

She saileth not for pleasure. She saileth not for gain.

But still by isle or mainland She drops her anchor down.

Where'er the British cannon Rained fire on tower and tovni.

Outspake the ancient Anitman, At the gate of Helsingfors :

" Why comes this ship a-spj'ing In the track of England's wars ? "

"God bless her," said the coast-guard, - " God bless the ship, I say.

The holy angels trim the sails That sjieed her on her way !

" Where'er she drops her anchor, The peasant's heart is glad ;

Where'er .she spreads her parting sail, The peasant's heart is sad.

"Each wasted town and hamlet

She \isits to restore ; To roof the shattered cabin.

And feed the starving poor.

" The sunken boats of fishers. The foraged beeves and gi'ain.

The spoil of flake and storehouse, The good ship brings again.

' ' And so to Finland's sorrow

The sweet amend is made. As if the healing hand of Christ

Upon her wounds were laid ! "

Then said the gray old Amtman, "The will of God be done !

The battle lost by England's hate, By England's love is won !

"We braved the iron tempest That thundered on our shore ;

But when did kindness fail to find The key to Finland's door '!

" No more from Aland's ramparts Shall warning signal come.

Nor startled Sweaborg hear again The i-oll of midnight drum.

214

LATER POEMS.

' ' Beside our fierce Black Eagle The Dove of Peace shall rest ;

And in the mouths of cannon The sea-bird make her nest.

' ' For Finland, looking seaward,

No coming foe shall scan ; And the holy bells of Abo

Shall ring, ' Good-will to man ! '

"Then row thy boat, 0 fisher !

In peace on lake and bay ; And thou, young maiden, dance again

Around the poles of May !

" Sit down, old men, together,

Old wives, in quiet spin ; Henceforth the Anglo-Saxon

Is the brother of the Finn ! "

A LAY OF OLD TIME.

WRITTEN FOR THE ESSEX COCXTY AGRICTJLTUUAL FAIR.

One morning of the fii-st sad Fall,

Poor Adam and his bride Sat in the shade of Eden's wall —

But on the outer side.

She, blushing in her fig-leaf suit

For th'- ihaste garb of old ; He, sighing o'er his bitter fruit

For Eden's dnipes of gold.

Behind them, smiling in the morn.

Their forfeit garden lay. Before them, wild with rock and thorn,

Tlie desert stretched away.

/hey heard the air above them fanned,

A light step on the sward, And lo ! they saw before them stand

The angel of the Lord !

" Arise," he said, " why look behind,

"When hope is all before. And ])atient hand and willing mind,

Your loss may yet restore ?

" I leave with you a spell whose power

Can make the desert glad, \m\ call arouufl you fruit and flower

As fair as Eden had.

•' I clothe your hands with power to lift The curse from off your soil ;

Your very doom shall seem a gift, Your loss a gain through Toil.

" Go, cheerful as yon humming-bees,

To labor as to play." White glimmering over Eden's trees

The angel passed away.

The pilgrims of the world went forth

Obedient to the word, And found where'er they tilled the earth

A garden of the Lord !

The thorn-tree cast its evil fruit And blu.shed with plum and pear.

And seeded grass and trodden root Grew sweet beneath their care.

We share our primal parents' fate,

And in our turn and day. Look back on Eilon's sworded gate

As sad and lost as they.

But still for us his native skies

The j)itying Angel leaves, And leads through Toil to Paradise

New Adams and new Eves !

WHAT OF THE DAY?

A sor.vn of tumult trouliles all the air. Like the low thundei-s of a .sultrj" sky

Far-rolling ere the downright lightning.«i glare ; The hills blaze red with warnings ;

foes draw nigh. Treading the dark with challenge and reply.

Behold the burden of tlie prophet's vision, —

The gathering hosts, — the Yalley of Decision, Dusk with the wings of eagles wheel- ing o'er.

Day of the Lord, of darkness and not light ! It breaks in thunder and the whirl- wind's roar !

Even so, Father ! Let th)' will bo done, —

Turn and o'erturn, end what thou hast begun

In judgment or in mercy : as for me,

If but the least and frailest, let me Ik-

Evermore numbered with the truly free

Who find thy service perfect liberty !

MY NAMESAKE.

215

I fain would thank Thee that my mor- tal life Has reached the hour (albeit through care and pain) When Good and Evil, as for final strife, Close dim and vast on Armageddon's plain ; And .^lichael and his angels once again Drive howling back the Spirits of the Night. I ) for the faith to read the signs aright And, from the angle of thy perfect sight. See Trath's white banner floating on

befoi'e ; And the Good Cause, despite of venal

friends, And base expedients, move to noble

ends ; See Peace vnth Freedom make to Time amends, And, through its cloud of dust, the threshing-floor, Flailed by the thunder, heaped with chaffless grain !

THE FIRST FLOWERS.

For ar/e:s on our river borders,

The.se tassels in their tawny bloom.

And willowy studs of downy silver. Have prophesied of Spring to come.

For ages have the unbound waters Smiled on them from their pebbly hem.

And the clear carol of the robin

And song of bluel)ird welcomed them.

But never yet from .smiling river, Or song of early bird, have they

Been greeted with a gladder welcome Than whispers from my heart to-day.

Till y break the spell of cold and dark- ness,

The weaiy watcli of sleepless pain ; .\;id from my heart, as from the river,

The ice of winter melts again.

Tlnnks, Mary ! for this wild-wood token Of Freya's footsteps drawing near ;

\lmost, as in the rune of Asgard, The growing of the grass I hear.

It is as if the pine-trees called me From ceiled room and silent books,

To see the dance of woodland shadows. And hear the song of April brooks !

As in the old Teutonic ballad

Live singing bird and flowering tree,

Together live in bloom and music, I blend in song thj^ flowers and thee.

Earth's rocky tablets bear forever

The dint of rain and small bird's track '

Who knows but that my idle verses May leave some trace by Menimack !

The bird that trod the mellow layers

Of the young earth is sought in vain ; The cloud is gone that wove the sand- stone, From God's design, with threads of rain !

So, when this fluid age we live in

Shall stiffen round ni}' careless rhyme.

Who made the vagrant tracks may puzzle The savans of the coming time :

And, following out their dim suggestions. Some idly-curious hand may draw

My doulitful portraiture, as Cuvier Drew fish and bird from fin and claw.

And maidens in the far-off" twilights, Singingmy words to breeze and .stream,

Shall wonder if the old-time Mary Were real, or the rhymer's dream !

1st 3d mo., 1857.

MY NAMESAKE.

YoTT scarcely need my tardy thanks. Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend —

A green leaf on your own Green Banks The memory of 3-our friend.

For me, no wreath, bloom-woven, hidiv- The sobered brow and les.sening hair ;

For aught I know, the myrtled sides Of Helicon are bare.

Their scallop-shells so many bring The fabled founts of song to tiy,

They 've drained, for aught I know, the spring Of Aganippe dry.

Ah well ! — The wreath the Muses braid Proves often Folly'.s cap and bell ;

216

LATER POEMS.

Mctliinks, my ample beaver's shade M:iy serve my turn as well.

Let Love's and Friendship's tender debt Re paid by those 1 love in lite.

Why should the unborn critic whet For me his scalping-knife ?

Why should the stranger peer and pry One's vacant house of lite about,

And dr;ig for curious ear and Cj'e His faults and follies out ? —

Why stufT, for fools to gaze upon,

With cliaff of words, the garb he wore,

As corn-husks when the ear is gone An; rustled all the more ?

Let kindly Silence close again, The picture vanish from the eye,

And on the dim and misty main Let the small ripple die.

Yet not the less I own your claim

To grateful thanks, dear friends of mine.

Hang, if it jdease you so, my name Upon your household line.

Let Fame from brazen lips blow wide Her chosen names, I en%T none :

A mother's love, a father's pride, Shall keep alive my own !

Still shall that name as now recall The young leaf wet w^th morning dew,

The glot-y where the sunbeams fall The breezy woodlands through.

Tliat name shall be a household word, A spell to waken smile or sigh ;

In many an evening prayer be heard And cradle lullaby.

And thou, dear child, in riper days Wlien asked the reason of thy name,

Shalt answer: "One 't were vain to praise Or censure bore the same.

" Some blamed him, some believed him good, — The truth lay doubtless 'twixt the two, — He reconciled as best he could Old faith and fancies new.

" In him the grave and playful mixeil, And wisdom held witli folly truo<'.

And Nature compromised betwixt Good fellow and recluse.

' ' He loved his friends, forgave his foes ;

And, if his words were harsh at tinie.s, He spared his fellow-men, — his blows

Fell only on their crimes.

" He loved the good and wise, but found His human heart to all akin

Who met him on the common ground Of suffering and of sin.

" Whate'er his neighbors might endure Of pain or grief his own became ;

For all the ills he could not cure He held himself to blame.

" His good was mainly an intent. His evil not of foretliought done ;

The work he wrought was rarely meant Or finished as begun.

"Ill served his tides of feeling strong To turn the common mills of use ;

And, over restless wings of song. His birthright garb hung loose !

" His eye was beauty's powerless slave, And his the ear which discord pains •

Few guessed beneath his aspect grave What ])assions strove in chains.

" He had his .share of care and pain. No holiday was life to him ;

Still in the heirloom cup we drain The bitter drop will swim.

" Yet Heaven was kind, and here a bin] And there a flower beguiled his way ;

And, cool, in summer noons, he heard The fountains i)lash and play.

" On all his sad or restless moods The patient peace of Nature stole ;

Tlie (piiet of the fields and woods Sank deep into his soul.

" He worshipped as his fathers did, And kept the faith of childish day.s,

And, howsoe'er he strayed or slid. He loved the good old ways.

" The simple tastes, the kindly traits, The tranquil air, and gentle speech.

MY NAMESAKE.

217

The silence of the soul that waits For more than man to teach.

"The cant of party, school, and sect, Provoked at times his honest scorn.

And Folly, in its gray respect. He tossed on satire's horn.

" But still his heart Avas full of awe And reverence for all sacred things ;

And, brooding over form and law, He saw the Spirit's wings !

' ' Life's mystery wrapt him like a cloud ;

He heard far voices mock his own. The sweep of wings unseen, the loud.

Long roll of waves unknown.

" The arrows of his straining sight Fell quenched in darkness ; priest and sage.

Like lost guides calling left and right. Perplexed his doubtful age.

" Like childhood, listening for the sound Of its dropped pebbles in the well,

All vainly down the dark profound His brief-lined plummet fell.

"So, scattering flowers with pious pains On old beliefs, of later creeds.

Which claimed a place in Truth's do- mains, He asked the title-deeds.

"He saw the old-time's groves and shrines

In the long distance fair and dim ; And heard, like sound of far-off" pines,

The centar3'-mellowed hymn !

" He dared not mock the Dervish whirl. The Brahmin's rite, the Lama s spell ;

Ixod knew the heart ; Devotion's pearl Might sanctify the shell.

'•' Wliile others trod the altar stairs He faltered like the publican ;

And, while they praised a.s saints, his prayers Were those of sinful man.

" For, awed by Sinai's Mount of Law, The trembling faith alone sufficed.

That, through its cloud and flame, he saw The sweet, sad face of Christ ! —

" And listening, with his forehead bowed, Heard the Divine com[)assion fill

The pauses of the trump and cloud With whisjjers small and still.

" The words he spake, the thoughts he penned.

Are mortal as his hand and brain. But, if they served the blaster's end,

He has not lived in vain ! "

Heaven make thee better than thy name. Child of my friends ! — For thee I crave What riches never bought, nor fame To mortal longing gave.

I pray the prayer of Plato old : God make thee beautiful within,

And let thine eyes the good behold In everything save sin I

Imagination held in check

To serve, not rule, thy poised mind ; Th}' Reason, at the frown or beck

Of Conscience, loose or bind.

No dreamer thou, but real all, —

Strong manhood cro\vning vigorous youth ;

Life made by duty epical And rhythmic with the truth.

So shall that life the fruitage yield Which trees of healing only give.

And green-leafed in the Eternal field Of God, forever live !

218

HOME BALLADS.

HOME BALLADS.

I CALL the old time back : I bring these

lays To thee, in memory of the summer

days When, by our native streams and forest

ways,

We dreamed them over ; while the rivu- lets made

Songs of their own, and the great pine- trees laid

On \varm noon-lights the masses of their shade.

And she was with us, living o'er again Her life in ours, despite of years and

pain, — The autumn's brightness after latter

rain.

Beautiful in her holy peace as one Who stands, at evening, when the work

is done, Glorified in the setting of the sun !

Her memory makes our common land- scape seem

Fairer than any of which jiaintcis dream,

Lights the brown hills and sings in every stream ;

For she whose speech was always truth's

pure gold Heard, not unpleased, its simple legends

told. And loved with us the beautiful and

old.

TlIF, WITf'TI'S DATir.lITEll.

It was the pleasant harvest time. When cellar-Inns are closely stowed. And gaiTCts bend beneath their load,

And the old swallow-haunted barns — Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams Through which the mated sunlight streams,

And winds blow freshly in, to .shake The red plumes of the roosted cocks. And the loo.se hay-mow's .scented locks —

Are filled with summer's ripened stores, Its odorous grass and barley slieaves, From their low scaffolds to their eaves.

On Esek Harden's oaken floor,

With many an autunm threshinj,

worn, Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn.

And thither came young men and maids. Beneath a moon that, large and low, Lit that sweet eve of long ago.

They took their places ; some by chance, And others by a merry voice Or sweet smile guided to their choice.

IIovv pleasantly the rising moon, Between the shadow of the mows, Looked on them through the great elm-boughs ! —

On sturdy boyhood .';un -embrowned, On girlhood with its .solid iiurves Of healthful strength .and painless nerves !

And jests went round, and laughs thai made The hou.se-dog answer with his howl, And kept a.stir the barn-yard fowl ;

And quaint old songs their fathers

sung, In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, Ere Norman William trod their

shores ;

And tales, who.se merry licen.se shook Tbe fat sides of the Saxon thane, Forgetful of the hovering Dane !

But still the sweetest voice was mute That river-valley ever heard From li|) of maid or throat of bird ;

THE WITCH S DAUGHTER.

219

For Mabel Martin sat apart,

And let the hay-mow's shadow fall Upon the loveliest face of all.

She sat apart, as one forbid,

Who knew that none would conde- scend

To own the Witch-wife's child a friend.

The seasons scarce had gone their round, Since curious thousands thronged to

see Her niotlier on the gallows-tree ;

And mocked the palsied limbs of age. That faltered on the fatal stairs, And wan lip trembling with its prayers !

Few questioned of the sorrowing child, Or, when they saw the mother die. Dreamed of the daughter's agony.

They went up to their homes that day. As men and Christians justified : God willed it, and the wretch liad died !

Dear God and Father of us all, Forgive our faith in cruel lies, • — Forgive the blindness that denies !

Forgive thy creature when he takes, For the all-perfect love thou art. Some grim creation of his heart.

Cast down our idols, overturn Our bloody altars ; let us see Thyself in thy humanity !

Poor Mabel from her mother's grave Crept to her desolate hearth-stone. And wrestled with her fate alone ;

With love, and anger, and despair, The phantoms of disordered sense, The awful doubts of Providence !

The school-boys jeered her as they

passed. And, when she sought the house of

prayer, Her mother's curse pursued her there.

\nd still o'er many a neighboring door Slu' saw the liorsf shoe's curved chaini, To guard against her mother's harm ; —

That mother, poor, and sick, and lame. Who daily, by the old arm-chair. Folded her withered hands in pray-

AVho turned, in Salem's dreary jail. Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er. When lier dim eyes could read nc more !

Sore tried and pained, the poor gin

kept Her faith, and trusted that hel

way. So dark, would somewhere meet the

day.

And still her weary wheel went round Day after day, with no relief ; Small leisure have the poor for grief.

So in the shadow Mabel sits ;

Untouched by mirth she sees and

hears, Her smile is sadder than her tears.

But cruel eyes have found her out. And cruel lips repeat her name. And taunt her with her mother's shame.

She answered not with railing words, But drew her a])ron o'er her face. And, sobbing, glided from the place.

And only pausing at the door.

Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze Of one who, in her better days.

Had been her warm and steady friend, Ei-e yet her mother's doom had made Even Esek Harden half afraid.

He felt that mute appeal of tears. And, starting, with an angiy frown Hushed all the wicked murmurs down.

"Good neighbors mine," he sternlj said, " This passes harmless mirtli or jest ; I brook no insult to my guest.

" Slie is indeed her mother's child : P)ut tJod's sweet pity ministers Unto no wliiter soul than her?.

220

HOME BALLADS.

'■ Let Goody Martin rest in peace ; 1 never knew her harm a fly, And witch oruot, God knows, — not I .

" I know who swore her life away ; And, as God lives, 1 'd not condemn An Indian dog on word of them."

The broadest lands in all the town. The skill to guide, the ]iower to awe, Were Harden's ; and Ids word was law.

None dared withstand him to his face, But one sly maiden spake aside : '• The little witch is evil-eyed !

" Her mother only killed a cow. Or ^vitched a churn or dairy-pan ; But she, forsooth, must charm a man ! "

Poor Mabel, in her lonely home. Sat by the window's narrow pane, White in the moonlight's silver rain.

The river, on its pebbled rim.

Made music such as childhood knew , The door-yard tree was whispered through

By voices such as childhood's ear Had heard in moonlights long ago ; And through the willow-bouglis below

She saw the rippled waters shine ; Beyond, in waves of sliade and light The hills rolled olf into the night.

Sweet sounds and pictures mocking so Tlie sadness of her liuman lot. She saw and heard, but heeded not.

She strove to drowTi her sense of wrong. And, in her old and simjde way. To teach her bitter heart to l)ray.

Poor child ! the prayer, begun in faith, Grew to a low, despairing cry Of utter misery : " Let me die !

'■' Oh ! take me from the scornful eyes. And hide me where the cruel speech And mocking finger may not reach !

" I dare not breathe my motlier's name : A daugliter's right I dare not crave To weep above her unblest grave !

" Let me not live until my heart. With few to pity, and with none To love me, hardens into stone.

' 0 God ! have mercy on thy child. Whose faith in thee glows weak and

small, And take me ere 1 lose it all ! "

A shadow on the moonlight fell,

And murmuring wind and wave be- came A voice whose burden was her name.

Had then G od heard her ? Had he sent His angel down ? In flesh and blood, Before her Esek Harden stood !

He laid his hand upon her arm :

"Dear Mabel, this no more shall

be: Who scoffs at you, must scoff at me.

"You know rough Esek Harden well ; And if he seems no suitor gay, And if his hair is touched with gray,

" The maiden grown shall never find His heart less wann than when she

smiled. Upon his knees, a little child ! "

Her teai-s of grief were tears of joy, As, folded in his strong embrace. She looked in Esek Harden's face.

" 0 truest friend of all ! " she said, "God bless you for j'our kindly

thouglit, And make me worthy of my lot ! "

He led lier througli liis dewy fields. To where the swinging lanterns

glowed. And through the doors the huskcrs

showed.

"Good friends and neighbors!" Esek said, " 1 'm weary of this lonely life ; In Mabel sci; my cliosen wife !

"She greets you kindly, one ami all ; Tlie past is jiast, ami all (illcnee Falls harmless from her inno<;euee.

THE GARRISON OF CAPE ANN.

221

" Henceforth she stands no more alone ; You know what Esek Harden is : — He brooks no wrong to him or his."

Now let the merriest tales be told, And let the sweetest songs be sung Tliat ever made the old heart young !

For now the lost has found a home ; And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, As all the household joys return !

0, pleasantly the harvest-moon. Between the shadow of the mows. Looked on them through the great elm-boughs !

On Mabel's curls of golden hair, On Esek's shaggy strength it fell ; And the wind whispered, "It is well ! "

THE GARRISON OF CAPE ANN.

From the hills of home forth looking,

far beneath the tent-like sjian Of the sky, I see the white gleam of the

headland of Cape Ann. Well I know its coves and beaches to the

ebb-tide glimmering down, And the white-walled hamlet children of

its ancient fishing-town.

Long has passed the summer morning,

and its memory waxes old. When along yon breezy headlands with

a pleasant friend I strolled. Ah ! the autumn sun is shining, and the

ocean wind blows cool. And the golden-rod and aster bloom

around thy grave, Rautoul !

With the memory of that morning by the

summer sea I blend A wild and wondrous story, by the

younger Mather penned, [n that quaint MagnrUia Chrisfi, with

all strange and marvellous things. Heaped up huge and undigested, like

the chaos Ovid sings.

Dear to me these far, faint glimpses of

the dual life of old. Inward, grand with awe and reverence ;

outward, mean and coarse and

cold ;

Gleams of mystic beauty playing over

dull and vulgar clay. Golden-threaded fancies weaving in a

web of hodden gray.

The great eventful Present hides the

Past ; but through the din Of its loud life hints and echoes from

the life behind steal in ; And the lore of home and fireside, and

the legendary rhyme. Make the task of duty lighter which the

true man owes his time.

So, with something of the feeling which the Covenanter knew.

When with pious chisel wandering Scot- land's moorland graveyards through.

From the graves of old traditions I part the blackberry-vines.

Wipe the moss from off the headstones, and retouch the faded lines.

Where the sea- waves back and forward,

hoarse with rolling pebbles, ran, The garrison-house stood watching on

the gray rocks of Cape Ann ; On its windy site uplifting gabled roof

and palisade. And rough walls of unhewn timber with

the moonlight overlaid.

On his slow round walked the sentry,

south and eastward looking forth O'er a rude and broken coast-line, white

with breakers stretching north, — Wood and rock and gleaming sand-drift,

jagged capes, with bush and tree, Leaning inland from tlie smiting of the

wild and gusty sea.

Before the deep-mouthed cliinuiey, dim- ly lit by dying brands.

Twenty soldiers sat and waited, with their nmskets in their hands ;

On the rough-hewn oaken table the veni- son haunch was shared.

And the pewter tankard circled slowly round from beard to beard.

Long they sat and talked togcthoj-, — talked of wizards Satan-sold ;

Of all ghostly siglits and noises, — signs and wonders manifold ;

222

BOME BALLADS.

Of the spectre-sKip of Saleifl, -with the Once again, without a sliadow on the dead men in h^r shiv>uu.s, j sands the moonlight lay,

Sailing sheer above tLe water, in the loom of morning clouds ;

Of the marvellous valley hidden in the

depths of Gloucester woods, Full of plants that love the summer, —

blooms of warmer latitudes ; Where the Arctic birch is braided by

the tropic's flowery vines, And the white magnolia-blossoms star

the twilight of the pines !

But their voices sank yet lower, sank to

husky tones of fear. As they spake of present tokens of the

powers of evil near ; Of a spectral host, defying stroke of steel

and aim of gun ; Never yet was ball to slay them in the

mould of mortals run !

Thrice, with plumes and flowing scalp- locks, from the midnight wood they came, —

Thrice around the block-house marching, met, unharmed, its volleyed flame ;

Then, with mocking laugh and gesture, sunk in earth or lost in air,

All the ghostly wonder vanished, and the moonlit sands lay bare.

Midnight came ; from out the forest

moved a dusky mass that soon Grew to warriors, jilumed and painted,

grimly marching in the moon. " Ghosts or witches," said the captain,

"thus I foil the Evil One ! " And he i-ainmed a silver button, from

his doublet, down his gun.

Once again the spectral horror moved

the guarded wall about ; Once again the jevelled muskets through

the ])alisades flashed out, With that deadly aim the squirrel on his

tree-top might not shun, Nor the beach-bird seaward flying with

his slant wing to the sun.

Like the idle rain of summer sped the hannless shower of lead.

With a laugh of fierce derision, once agiiin the phantoms fled ;

And the white smoke curling through it drifted slowly down the bay \

" God preserve us ! " said the captain ;

" never mortal foes were there ; They have vanished with their leader.

Prince and Power of the air ! Lay aside your useless weapons ; skill

and prowess naught avail ; They wlio do the Devil's service wear

their master's coat of mail ! "

So the night grew near to cock-crow, when again a warning call

Roused the score of weary soldiers watch- ing round the dusky hall :

And they looked to flint and priming, and they longed for break of day ;

But the captain closed his Bible : " Let us cease from man, and pray ! "

To the men who went before us, all the

unseen ])owers seemed near. And their steadfast strength of courage

struck its roots in holy fear. Every hand forsook the musket, evei-y

head was bowed and bare. Every stout knee pressed the flag-stor e.s,

as the captain led in prayer.

Ceased thereat the mystic marching of

the spectres round the wall, But a sound abhorred, unearthly, smote

the ears and hearts of all, - — Howls of rage and shrieks of anguish !

Never after mortal man Saw the gho.stly leaguers marching rountl

the block-house of Cape Ann.

So to us who walk in summer through

the cool and sea-blown town. From the childhood of its people conies

the solemn legend down. Not in vain the ancient fiction, in whose

moral lives the youth And the fitness and the freshness of an

undecaying trath.

Soon or late to all our dwellings come

the spectres of the mind. Doubts and fears and dread foreboding.s,

In the darkness undefined ; Round us throng tlie grim jirojections

of the heart and of the brain. And our pride of strength is weakness,

and the cunning hand is vain.

THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL.

22o

[n the dark we cry like children ; and no answer from on high

Breaks the crystal spheres of silence, and no white wings downward fly ;

But the heavenly help we pray for comes to faith, and not to sight,

And our prayers themselves drive back- ward all the spirits of the night !

THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL.

1697.

Up and down the village streets Btrange are the forms my fancy lueet", For the thoughts and things of to-day

are hid, And through the veil of a closed lid The ancient worthies I see again : I hear the tap of the elder's cane. And his awful periwig I see. And the silver buckles of shoe and knee. Stately and slow, with thoughtful air, His black cap hiding his whitened hair. Walks the Judge of the great Assize, Samuel Sewall the good and wse. His face with lines of firmness wrought, He wears the look of a man unbought, Who swears to his hurt and changes

not ; Yet, touched and softened nevertheless With the grace of Christian gentleness. The face that a child would climb to

kiss ! True and tender and brave and just, That man might honor and woman trust.

Touching and sad, a tale is told, Like a penitent hymn of the Psalmist- old, ~)l' the fast which the good man lifelong

kept With a haunting sorrow that never slept. As the circling year brought round the

time Of an error that left the sting of crime, When he sat on the bench of the witch- craft courts. With the laws of Moses and Hale's Re- ports, And spake, in the name of both, the

word That gave the witch's neck to the

cord, ,\iid ]nl('d the oaken ]ilanks that |>r(^ssed The feeble life from the warlock's breast !

All the day long, from dawn to dawn. His door was bolted, his curtain drawn ; No foot on his silent threshold trod. No eye looked on him save that of God, As he baflled the ghosts of the dead wit!i

charms Of penitent tears, and prayers, ami

psalms. And, with precious proofs from the sacred

word Of the boundless pity and love of tlie

Lord, His faith confirmed and his trust re- newed That the sin of his ignorance, sorely

rued. Might be washed away in the mingled

flood Of his human sorrow and Christ's dear

blood !

Green forever the memory be Of the Judge of the old Theocracy, Whom even his errors glorified. Like a far-seen, sunlit mountain-side By the cloudy shadows which o'er it

glide ! Honor and praise to the Puritan Who the halting step of his age outran. And, seeing the infinite worth of man hi the priceless gift the Father gave, In the infinite love that stooped to save, Dared not brand his brother a slave ! " Who doth such wrong," he was wont

to say. In his own quaint, picture-loving way, ' ' Flings up to Heaven a hand-grenade Which God shall cast down upon his

head ! "

Widely as heaven and hell, contrast That brave old jurist of the past And the cunning trickster and knave of

courts Who the holy features of Truth dis- torts, — Ruling as right the will of the strong. Poverty, crime, and weakness wrong ; Wide-eared to power, to the wronged

and weak Deaf as Egypt's gods of leek ; Scotfing aside at party's nod Order of nature and law of God •, For whose dabbled ermine respect wer«

waste, Reverence folly, and awe misplaced ; Justice of whom 't were vain to seek

224

HOME BALLADS.

A.S from Koordisli robber or Syrian

Sheik ! 0, leave the wretch to his bribes and

sins ; Let him rot in the web of lies he spins ! To the saintly soul of the early day, To the Christian judge, let us turn and

say: " Praise and thanks for an honest

man ! — Glory to God for the Puritan ! "

I see, far southward, this quiet day, The hills of Xewbury rolling away. With the many tints of the season gay, Dreamily blending in autumn mist Crimson, and gold, and amethyst. Long and low, with dwarf trees crowned, Plum Island lies, like a whale aground, A .stone's toss over the narrow sound. Inland, as far as the eye can go, The hills curve round like a bended

bow ; A silver arrow from out them sprung, I see the shine of the Quasycung ; And, round and round, over valley and

hill. Old roads winding, as old roads will. Here to a ferry, and there to a mill ; And glimpses of chimneys and gabled

eaves, Through green elm arches and maple

leaves, — Old homesteads sacred to all that can Gladden or .sadden the heart of man, — Over whose thresholds of oak and stone Life and Death have come and gone ! There pictured tiles in the firei)lace

show. Great beams sag from the ceiling low, The dresser glitters with polished wares, Tlie long clock ticks on the foot-worn

stairs, And the low, broad cliinmey shows the

crack By the eartlupiake made a century

back. Up from their midst springs the village

spire With the crest of its cock in the sun

afire ; Beyond are orchards and planting lamls, And great salt marshes and glimmering

sands. And, where north and south the coast- lines run. The blink of the sea in breeze and sun I

I see it all like a chart unrolled, But my thoughts are full of the past

and old, I hear the tales of my boyhood told ; And the shadows and shapes of early

days Flit dimly by in the veiling haze, With measured movement and rhythmic

chime Weaving like shuttles my web of rhyme. I think of the old man vnse and good Who once on yon misty hillsides stood, (A poet who never measured rhjane, A seer unknown to his dull-eared time,) And, propped on his staff of age, looked

down. With his boyhood's love, on his native

town, Where, written, as if on its hills and

]ilains, His burden of prophecy yet remains, For the voices of wood, and wave, and

wind To read in the earof the musingniind : —

"As long as Plum Island, to guarJ

the coast As God appointed, shall keep its post ; As long as a salmon shall haunt the deep Of Jlerrimack River, or sturgeon leap ; As long as pickerel swift and slim. Or red-backed perch, in Crane Pond swim ; As long as the annual sea-fowl know Their time to come and their time to go ; As long as cattle shall roam at will Tlie green, gra,ss meadows by Turkey H ill ; As long as .?heep shall look from the^ide Of Oldtown Hill on marishes wide. And Parker Piver, and .salt-sea tide ; As longas a wandering jiigcon shall. search The fields below from his white-oak percli. When the barley-harvest is ripe an-1

shorn. And the dry husks fall from the stand

ing corn ; As long as Nature shall not grow old. Nor drop her work I'rom her doting hold, And lu!r care for the Indian corn forget, And the yellow rows in pairs to set ; — So long shall Christians here be born, Growup andri])en as God's sweet corn ! — By the beak of bird, by the breath of

frost, Shall never a holy ear be lost. But, husked by Death in the Planter's

sight, Be sown again in the fields of light ! "

SKIPPEK IRESON'b RIDE.

225

The Island still is purple with plums,

Up the river the salmon comes,

The sturgeon leaps, and the wild-fowl

feeds On hillside berries and marish seeds, — All tlie beautiful signs remain. From spring-time sowing to autumn rain Tlie good man's vision returns again! And let us hope, as well we can, riiat the Silent Angel who garners man May find some grain as of old he found In thi' human cornfield ripe and sound. And the Lord of the Harvest deign to

own The precious seed by the fathers sown !

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE.

Of all the rides since the birth of time, Told in story or sung in rhyme, — On Apuleius's Golden Ass, Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass. Witch astride of a human back, Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, — The strangest ride that ever was sped Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead ! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart. Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead !

Body of turkey, head of owl, Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, Feathered and ruflHed in every part, Skijjper Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, old and young, Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane. Shouting and singing the shrill refrain : "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd

horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead ! "

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, Girls in bloom of clicek and lips, Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase Bacchus round some antique vase, Brief of .skirt, with ankles bare. Loose of kerchief and loose of hinr. With conch-shells blowing and fish- horns' twang, Over and over tlu; Mienads sang :

" Here's Find Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,

15

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead ! "

Small pity for him ! — He sailed away From a leaking ship, in Ohaleur Bay, — Sailed away from a sinking wreck. With his own town's-people on her deck ! " Lay by ! lay by ! " they called to him. Back he answered, " Sink or swim ! Brag of your catch of fish again ! " And off he sailed through the fog and rain ! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead !

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur That wi'eck shall lie forevermore. Mother and sister, wife and maid. Looked from the rocks of Marblehead Over the moaning and rainy sea, — Looked for the coming that might not

be ! What did the winds and the sea-birds

say Of the cruel captain who sailed away ? — Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart. Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead !

Through the street, on either side. Up flew Avindows, doors swung wide ; Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound. Hulks of old sailors run aground. Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, And cracked with curses the hoarse re- frain : ' ' Here 's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd

horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead ! "

Sweetly along the Salem road Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. Little the wicked skipper knew Of the fields so gi'een and the sky sc

blue. Riding there in his sorry trim, Like an Indian idol glum and grim. Scarcely he seemed the sound to Ue.'*« Of voices shouting, far and uear :

226

HOME BALLADS.

" Here 's Flud Oirson, fui" his liorrd

liorrt, Torr'd an' futlierr'd an' corr'd in a

corrt By the women o' Morble'ead ! "

" Hear me, neighbors ! " at last he

cried, — " What to me is this noisy ride ? What is the shame that clothes the skin To the nameless horror that lives within ? \\'aking or sleeping, 1 see a wreck, And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! Date me and curse me, — I only dread The hand of God and the face of the

dead ! " Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard

heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a

cart By the women of Marblehead !

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea Said, "God has touched him! — why

should we ? " Said an old wife mourning her only son, " Cut the rogue's tether and let him

run ! " So with soft relentings and rude excuse, Half scorn, half pit\% the}' cut him loose, And gave him a cloak to hide him in. And left him alone with his shame and

sin. Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart. Tarred and feathered and carried in a

cart By the women of Marblehead !

TELLING THE BEES.e^

Here is the place ; right over the hill

Runs the path I took ; You can see the gap in the old wall still,

And the stepping-stones in the shal- low brook.

There is the house, with the gate red- barred, And the pojilars tall ; And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard. And the white horns tossing above the wall.

There are the beehives ranged in the sun ; And down by the brink

Of the brook are her poor flowera, weed. o"errun. Pansy and dali'odil, rose and pink.

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes.

Heavy and slow ; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows. And the same brook sings of a ycui ago.

There 's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze ;

And the June sun warm Tangles his wings of fire in the trees.

Setting, as then, over Feruside farm.

I mind me how with a lover's care

From my Sunday coat I bruslied olf the burrs, and smooth.d my hair. And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.

Since we parted, a month had passed,^

To love, a year ; Down through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate and the well- sweep near.

I can see it all now, — the slantwise rain

Of light through the leaves. The sundown's blaze on her window- pane,

The bloom of her roses under the eaves.

Just the same as a month before, —

The house and the trees. The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door, —

Nothing changed but the hives of bees.

Before them, under the garden wall,

Forward and back, Went drearily singing the cliore-girl small. Draping each hive with a shred of black.

Trembling, I listened : the summer sun

IIa<l the chill of snow ; For I knew she was telling the bees of one

Gone on the journey we all must go !

Then I said to myself, ' ' My Mary wee])3 For the dead to-day :

THE SYCAMORES.

227

Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps The fret and the i)ain of his age away. "

But her dog whined low ; on the door- way sill.

With his cane to his chin, The old man sat ; and the chore-girl still

Sung to the bees stealing out and in.

And the song she was singing ever since

In my ear sounds on : — ■ " Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence !

Mistress Mary is dead and gone ! "

THE SYCAMORES.

In the outskirts of the village, On the river's winding shores.

Stand the Occidental plane-trees. Stand the ancient sycamores.

One long century hath been numbered.

And another half-way told, Since the rustic Irish gleeman

Broke for them the virgin mould.

Deftly set to Celtic music.

At his violin's sound they grew,

Through the moonlit eves of summer, Making Amphion's fable true.

Rise again, thou poor Hugh Tallant !

Pass in jerkin green along, With thy eyes brimful of laughter,

And thy mouth as full of song.

Pioneer of Erin's outcasts. With his fiddle and his pack ;

Little dreamed the village Saxons Of the myriads at his back.

How he wrought with spade and fiddle. Delved by day and sang by night,

AV^ith a hand that never wearied, And a heart forever light, —

Still the gay tradition mingles With a record grave and drear,

I, ike the rolic air of Cluny, With the solemn march of Mear.

When the box-tree, white with blossoms, Made the sweet May woodlands glad,

And the Aronia by the river Lighted up the swarming shad,

And the bulging nets swept shoreward. With their silver-sided haul,

Midst the shouts of dripping fishers, He was merriest of them all.

When, among the jovial buskers, Love stole in at Labor's side

With the lusty airs of England, Soft his Celtic measures vied.

Songs of love and wailing lyke-wake, And the merry fair's carouse ;

Of the wild Red Fox of Erin And the Woman of Three Cows,

By the blazing hearths of winter. Pleasant seemed his simple tales.

Midst the grmimer Yorkshire legends And the mountain myths of Wales.

How the souls in Purgatory Scrambled up from fate forlorn,

On St. Keven's sackcloth ladder. Slyly hitched to Satan's horn.

Of the fiddler who at Tara

Played all night to ghosts of kings ; Of the brown dwarfs, and the fairies

Dancing in their moorland rings !

Jolliest of our birds of singing. Best he loved the Bob-o-link.

" Hush ! " lie 'd say, " the tipsy fairies ! Hear the little folks in drink ! "

Merry-faced, with spade and fiddle, Singing through the ancient town,

Only this, of poor Hugh Tallant, Hath Tradition handed down.

Not a stone his grave discloses ;

But if yet his spirit walks, 'T is beneath the trees he planted.

And when Bob-o-Lincoln talks ;

Green memorials of the gleeman !

Linking still the river-shores, With their .shadows cast by sunset,

Stand Hugh Tallant's sycamores !

When the Father of his Country

Through the north-land riding came.

And the roofs were starred with banners. And the steeples rang acclaim, —

When each war-scarred Continental, Leaving smithy, mill, and farm.

228

HOME BALLADS.

Waved his nisted SAVord in welcome, And shot off Ms old king's arm, —

Slowl)^ passed that august Presence Down the thronged and shouting street ;

Village girls as white as angels, Scattering flowers around his feet.

Midway, where the plane-tree's shadow Deepest fell, his rein he drew :

On his stately head, uncovered. Cool and soft the west-wind blew.

And he stood up in his stirrups. Looking up and looking down

On the hills of Gold and Silver Einmiing round the little town, —

On the river, full of sunshine.

To the lap of greenest vales Winding down from wooded headlands,

Willow-skirted, white with sails.

And he said, the landscape sweeping Slowly with his ungloved hand,

" I have seen no prospect fairer In this goodly Eastern land."

Then the bugles of his escort Stirred to life the cavalcade :

And that head, so hare and stately, Vanished down the depths of shade.

Ever since, in town and farm-house, Life has had its ebb and flow ;

Thrice hath passed the human har- vest To its garner green and low.

•But the trees the gleeman planted, Through the changes, changeless stand ;

As the marble calm of Tadmor JIarks the desert's shifting sand.

Still tlie level moon at rising .Silvers o'er each stately shaft ;

Still beneath them, half in shadow, Singing, glides the pleasure craft.

Still beneath them, arm-enfolded, Love and Youth together stray ;

While, as heart to heart beats fa.ster, More and more their feet delay.

Where the ancient cobbler, Keezar, On the open hillside wrought,

Singing, as he drew his stitches. Songs his German masters taught.

Singing, with his gray hair floating Round his rosy ample face, —

Xow a thousand Saxon craftsmen Stitch and hammer in his place.

All the pastoral lanes so grassy Xow are Trafiic's dusty streets ;

From the village, grown a city, Fast the rural grace retreats.

But, still green, and tall, and statelj', On the river's winding shores,

Stand the Occidental plane-trees. Stand Hugh Tallant's sycamores.

THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE OF NEWBURY.

" Concerning y Amphisbfena , as soon as I re- ceived your commands, I made diligent inquiry : . ... he a.<sures me y' it had really two heads, one at each end ; two mouths, two stings or tongues." — Rev. Christopher Toppa.n to Cot- ton Mather.

Far away in the twilight time Of ever}' people, in every clime. Dragons and grifSns and monsters dire. Born of water, and air, and fire. Or nursed, like the Python, in the mud And ooze of the old Deucalion flood, Crawl and wriggle and foam witli rage, Through dusk tradition and ballad age. So from the childhood of Newbury town And its time of fable the tale comes

down Of a terror which haunted bush and

brake. The Amphisbffina, the Double Snake !

Thou who makest the tale thy mirth.

Consider that strip of Cliristian earth

On the desolate shore of a sailless sea.

Full of terror and mvstery.

Half redeemed from the evil hold

Of the wood so dreary, and dark, and old.

Which drank with its lips of leaves the

dew Wlien Time was young, and the world

was new. And wove its shadows with sun and

moon. Ere the stones of Cheops were squared

aTid hewn. Think of the sea's* dre«td monotone.

THE SWAN SONG OF PARSON AVERY.

229

Of the mournful wail from the pine-wood

blown, Of the strange, vast splendors that lit

the North, Of the troubled throes of the quaking

earth, And the dismal tales the Indian told, Till the settler's heart at his he?rth

grew cold, ^nd he shrank from the tawny A.izan."^

boasts, And the hovering shadows seemed full of

ghosts. And above, below, and on every side, The fear of his creed seemed verified ; — And think, if his lot were now thine

own, To grope with terrors nor named nor

known. How laxer muscle and weaker nerve And a feebler faith thy need might

serve ; And own to thyself the wonder more That the snake had two heads, and not

a score !

Whether he lurked in the Oldtown fen Or the gray earth-flax of the Devil's Den, Or swam in the wooded Artichoke, Or coiled by the Northman's Written

Rock, Nothing on record is left to sliow ; Only the fact that he lived, we know. And left the cast of a double head In the scaly mask which he yearly shed. For he carried a head where his tail

should be. And the two, of course, could never

agi-ee. But wriggled about with main and might. Now to the left and now to the right ; Pulling and twisting this way and that. Neither knew what the other was at.

A snake with two heads, lurking so

near ! — Judge of the wonder, guess at the fear ! Tliink what ancient gossips might say, Shaking their heads in their dreary way, Betw(H;n tlie meetings on Sabbath-day ! How urchins, searching at day's decline The Common Pasture for sheep or kinc, The terrible double-ganger heard In leafy rustle or whir of bird ! Think what a zest it gave to the sport. In berry-time, of the younger sort. As over pastures blackberry-twined,

Reuben and Dorothy lagged behind, And closer and closer, for fear of harm, The maiden clung to her lover's arm ; And how the spark, who was forced to

stay, By his sweetheart's fears, till the break of

day. Thanked the snake for the fond delay !

7ar and wide the tale was told,

Like a snowball growing while it rolled.

The nurse hushed with it the baby's

cry ; And it served, in the worthy minister's

eye, To paint the primitive serpent by. Cotton Mather came galloping down All the way to Newbury town, With his eyes agog and his ears set

wide. And his marvellous inkhorn at his side ; Stirring the while in tlie shallow pool Of his brains for the lore he learned at

school. To garnish the story, with here a

streak Of Latin, and there another of Greek : And the tales he heard and the notes he

took, Behold ! are they not in his Wonder- Book ?

Stories, like dragons, are hard to kill. If the snake does not, the tale runs

still In Byfield Meadows, on Pipestave Hill. And still, whenever husband and wife Publish the shame of their daily strife. And, with mad cross-purpose, tug and

strain At either end of the marriage-chain. The gossips say, with a knowing shake Of their gray heads, " Look at the

Double Snake ! One in body and two in will, The Amphisbsena is living still ! "

THE SAVAN SONG OF PARSON AVERY.

When the reaper's task was ended, and the summer wearing late,

Parson Avery sailed from Newbury, A\it'r his wife and children eight.

Dropping down the river-harbor in thi shallop " Watch and Wait."

50

HOME BALLADS.

rieasantly lay the clearings in the mel- low summer-mom,

With the newly planted orchards drop- ping their fruits first-born,

And the homesteads like green islands amid a sea of corn.

Broad meadows reached out seaward tlie

tided creeks between, And hills rolled wave-like inland, with

oaks and walnuts green ; — A fairer home, a goodlier land, his eyes

had never seen.

Yet away sailed Parson Avery, away

M'here duty led. And the voice of God seemed calling,

to break the living bread To the souls of fishers star\'iug on the

rocks of Marblehead.

All day they sailed : at nightfall the pleasant land-breeze died,

The blackening sky, at midnight, its starry lights denied.

And far and low the thunder of tempest prophesied !

lilotted out were all the coast-lines, gone were rock, and wood, and sand ;

Grimly anxious stood the .skipper with the rudder in his hand.

And questioned of the darkness what was sea and what was land.

And the preacher heard his dear ones, nestled round him, weeping sore :

" Never heed, my little children ! Christ is walking on before

To the pleasant land of heaven, where the sea shall be no more."

All at once the great cloud parted, like

a curtain drawn aside. To let down the torch of lightning on

the terror far and wide ; ^nd the tlninder and the Avhirlwind

together smote the tide.

There was wailing in the .sliallop, wo- num's wail and man's despair,

A crash of breaking timbers on the rocks so sharp and bare,

And, through it all, the munnur of Father Avery's prayer.

From his struggle in the darkness with the wild waves and the blast.

On a rock, where every billow broke above him as it passed,

Alone, of all his household, the man of God was cast.

There a comrade heard him praying, in the pause of wave and wind :

" All my own have gone before me, and 1 linger just behind;

Not for life I ask, but only for the rest thy ransomed find !

" In this night of death I challenge the promise of thy word ! —

Let me see the great salvation of which mine ears have heard ! —

Let me pass from hence forgiven, through the grace of Christ, our Lord !

"In the baptism of these waters wash white my everj^ sin,

And let me follow uj) to thee my house- hold and ni)' kin !

Open the sea-gate of thy heaven, awd let me enter in ! "

"When the Christian sings his death- song, all the listening heavens draw near,

Ami the angels, leaning over the walls of crystal, hear

How the notes so faint and broken swell to music in God's ear.

The ear of God was open to his servant's

last request ; As the strong wave swept him downward

the sweet liymn upwartl pressed. And the soul of Father Avery went,

singing, to its rest.

There was wailing on the mainland, from the rocks of Marblehead ;

In the stricken church of Newbury the notes of prayer were read ;

And long, by board and heai'thstone, the living mourned the dead.

And still the fishers outbound, or scud- ding from the .squall,

"With grave and rever(;nt faces, the an- cient tale recall,

"When they s<!e the; white M'aves break- ing on the Iiock of Avery's Fall !

THE TRUCE OF PISCATAQUA,

231

THE TKUCE OF PISCATAQUA. 1675.

R.\ZE these long blocks of brick and

stone, These huge mill-monsters overgrown ; Hlot out the humbler piles as well, Where, moved like living shuttles,

dwell The weaving genii of the bell ; Tear from the wild Cocheco's track The dams that hold its torrents back ; And let the loud-rejoicing fall Plunge, roaring, down its rocky wall ; And let the Indian's paddle play On the unbridged Piscataqua ! Wide over hill and valley spread Once more the forest, dusk and dread. With here and there a clearing cut From the walled shadows round it shut ; Each with its farm-house builded rude. By English yeoman squared and hewed. And the grim. Hankered block-house

bound With bristling palisades around. So, haply shall before thine eyes The dusty veil of centuries rise, The old, strange scenery overlay The tamer pictures of to-day. While, like the actors in a play, Pass in their ancient guise along The figures of my border song : What time beside Cocheco's flood The white man and the red man stood. With words of peace and brotherhood ; When passed the sacred calumet From lip to lip with fire-draught wet. And, puffed in scorn, the peace-pipe's

smoke Through the gray beard of Waldron broke. And Squando's voice, in suppliant plea For mercy, struck the haughty key Of one who held, in any fate, His native pride inviolate !

" Let your ears be opened wide ! He who speaks has never lied. Waldron of Piscataipia, Hear what Squando has to say !

" Squando shuts his eyes and sees, Far off, Saco's hemlock-trees. In his wigwam, still as stone, Sits a woman all alone.

" Wampum beads and birchen strands " There is rust on Squando's knife, Dropping from her careless hands, From the warm, red springs of life ,

Listening ever for the fleet Patter of a dead child's feet !

" When the moon a year ago Told the flowers the time to blow, In that lonely wigwam smiled Menewee, our little child.

" Ere that moon grew thin and old. He was lying still and cold ; Sent before us, weak and small, When the Master did not call !

"On his little grave I lay ; Three times went and came the day ; Thrice above me blazed the noon, Thrice upon me wept the moon.

" In the third night-watch I heard. Far and low, a spirit-bird ; Very mournful, very wild. Sang the totem of my child.

" ' Menewee, poor Menewee, Walks a path he cannot see : Let the white man's wigwam light With its blaze his steps aright.

' ' ' All-uncalled, he dares not show Empty hands to Manito : Better gifts he cannot bear Than the scalps his slayers wear.'

' ' All the while the totem sang. Lightning blazed and thunder rang ; And a black cloud, reaching high, Pulled the white moon from the sky.

" I, the medicine-man, whose ear All that spirits hear can hear, — I, whose eyes are wide to see All the things that are to be, —

" Well I knew the dreadful signs In the whispers of the pines. In the river roaring loud. In the mutter of the cloud.

" At the breaking of the day. From the grave I passed away : Flowers bloomed round me, birds sana

glad. But my heart was hot and mad.

232

HOME BALLADS.

On the funeral hemlock-trees Many a scalp the totem sees.

" Blood for blood ! But evermore Sijuaiido's heart is sad and sore ; And his poor squaw waits at home For the feet that never come !

"Waidron of Cocheco, hear ! Squando speaks, who laughs at fear ; Take the captives he has ta'en ; Let the land have peace again ! "

As the words died on his tongue, Wide apart his warriors s^\-ung ; Parted, at th(i sign he gave, Right and left, like Egypt's wave.

And, like Israel passing free Through the prophet-charmed sea. Captive mother, wife, and child Through the dusky terror tiled.

One alone, a little maid, Middleway her steps delayed. Glancing, with quick, troubled sight. Round about from red to white.

Then his hand the Indian laid On the little maiden's head, Lightly from her forehead fair Smoothing back her yellow hair.

" Gift or favor ask I none ; "What I have is all my own : Never yet the birds have sung, ' Squando hath a beggar's tongue.*

" Yet for her who waits at home. For the dead who cannot come. Let the little Gold-hair be In the place of Menewee !

•' Mishanock, my little star ! Come to Saco's pines afar ; Where the sad one waits at home, Wequashim, my moonlight, come ! "

"What!" quoth Waldron, "leave a

child Chiistian-bom to heathens wild ? As God lives, from Satan's hand I will pluck her as a brand !"

" Hear me, white man ! " Squando

cried ; "Let the little one decide.

We(|uashim, my moonlight, say. Wilt thou go with me, or stay i "

Slowly, sadly, half afraid. Half regretfully, the maid Owned the ties of blood and race, — Turned from Squando's pleading facs.

Xot a word the Indian spoke. But his wamjjum chain he broke, And the beaded wonder hung On that neck so fair and young.

Silence-shod, as phantoms seem In the marches of a dream. Single-filed, the glim array Through the pine-trees wound away.

Doubting, trembling, sore amazed. Through her tears the young child gazed " God preserve her ! " Waldron said ; "Satan hath bewitched the maid ! "

Years went and came. At close of day Singing came a child from play. Tossing from her loose-locked head- Gold in sunshine, brown in shade.

Pride was in the mother's look, But her liead she gravely shook. And with lips that fondly smiled Feigned to chide her tniant child.

Unabashed, the maid began : "Up and down the brook I ran. Where, beneath the bank so steep, Lie the spotted trout asleep.

" ' Chip ! ' went squirrel on the wall. After me I heard him call. And tlie cat-bird on the tree Tried his best to mimic me.

' ' Where the hemlocks grew so dark That I stopped to look and hark. On a log, with feather-hat. By the path, an Indian sat.

" Then I cried, and ran away ; But he called, and bade me stay ; And his voice was good and mild As my motlier's to her child.

" And he took my wam])um chain. Looked and looked it o'er again ; Gave me berries, and, beside. On my neck a pla}'thing tied-"

MY PLAYMATE.

23;^

.straight the motlier stooped to see Wliat the Indian's gift might be. On the braid of wampum hung, Lo ! a cross of silver swung.

Well she knew its graven sign, Squando's bird and totem pine ; And, a mirage of the brain, Flowed her childhood back again.

Flashed the roof the sunshine through, Into space the walls outgrew ; On the Indian's wigwam-mat. Blossom-crowned, again she sat.

Cool she felt the west-wind blow, In her ear the pines sang low. And, like links from out a chain. Dropped the years of care and pain.

From the outward toil and din, From the griefs that gnaw within, To the freedom of the woods Called the birds, and winds, and floods.

Well, 0 painful minister ! Watch thy flock, but blame not her, If her ear grew sharp to hear All their voices whispering near.

Blame her not, as to her soul All the desert's glaiiiour stole, That a tear for childhood's loss Dropped upon the Indian's cross.

When, that night, the Book was read. And she bowed her widowed head. And a prayer for each loved name Rose like incense from a flame.

To the listening ear of Heaven, Lo ! another name was given : " Father, give the Indian rest ! Bless him ! for his love has blest ! "

MY PLAYMATE.

The pines were dark on Ramoth hill. Their song was soft and low ;

The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow.

The blossoms drifti'd at our feet. The orchard birds sang clear ;

The sweetest and the .saddest day It seemed of all the year.

For, more to me than birds or flowers,

j\Iy playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring.

The music and the bloom.

She kissed the lips of kith and kin.

She laid her hand in mine : What more could ask the bashful boy

Who fed her father's kine ?

Slie left us in the bloom of May :

The constant years told o'er Their seasons with as sweet May morns^

But she came back no more.

I walk, with noiseless feet, the round

Of uneventful years ; Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring

And reap the autumn ears.

She lives where all the golden year

Her summer roses blow ; The dusky children of the sun

Before her come and go.

There haply with her jewelled hands She smooths her silken gown, —

No more the homespun lap wherein I shook the walnuts down.

The wild grapes wait us by the brook.

The brown nuts on the hill, And still the May-day flowers make sweet

The woods of FoUymill.

The lilies blossom in the pond,

The bird builds in the tree. The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill

The slow song of the sea.

1 wonder if she thinks of them, And how the old time seems, —

If ever the pines of Ramoth wood Are sounding in her dreams.

I sec her face, I hear her voice :

Does she remember mine ? And what to her is now the boy

Who fed her father's kine ?

What cares she that the orioles build For other ej'es than ours, — ■

That other hands willi nuts are filled, And other laps with flowers ?

234

POEMS AND LYRICS.

0 jilajTiiate in tlie golden time !

Our mossy seat is green, Its fringing violets blossom yet,

The old trees o'er it lean.

The winds so sweet with birch and fern A sweeter memory blow ;

And there in spring the veeries sing The song of long ago.

And still the pines of Ramoth Avood Are moajiing like the sea, —

The moaning of the sea of change Between myself and thee !

POEMS AN^D LYRICS.

THE SHADOW AND THE LIGHT.

" And I sought, whence is Evil : I set before the ej-e of my spirit the whole creation ; what- socTer we see therein, — sea, earth, air, stars, trees, moral creatures, — yea, whatsoever there is we do not see, — angels and spiritual powers. Where is evil, and whence comes it, since God the Good hath created all things ? Why made He anything at all of evil, and not rather by His Almigiitiness cause it not to be ? These thoughts 1 turned in my miserable heart, overcharged with most gnawing cares." " And, admonished to re- turn to myself, I entered even into my inmost soul, Thou being my guide, and beheld even be- yond my soul and mind the Light unchangeable. lie who knows the Truth knows what that Light is, and he that knows it knows Eternity ! 0 Truth, who art Eternity ! Love, who art Truth 1 Eternity , who art Love 1 And 1 beheld that Thou madest'all things good, and to Thee is nothing whatsoever evil. From the angel to the worm, from the first motion to the last. Thou settest each in its place, and everything is good in it? kind. Woe is me I — how high art Thou in the highest, how deep in the deepest! and Thou never departest from us and we scarcely return to Thee." —Augusthie''s Soliloquies, Book VII.

The fourteen centuries fall away

Between us and the Afric saint, And at his side we urge, to-day, The immemorial quest and old complaint.

Ko outward sign to us is given, —

From sea or earth comes no reply ; Mushed as the warm Numidian heaven I'e vainly questioned bends our frozen sky.

No victory comes of all our strife, —

^"roin all we grasp the meaning slips ; Tiie Sphinx sits at the gate of life, With the old question on her awful lips.

In paths unknown we hear the feet Of fear hefore, and guilt behind ; "We i)luck tiHe wayside fruit, an<l eat iVshes and dust' beneath its golden rind.

From age to age descends unchecked

The sad bequest of sire to son, The bodj-'s taint, the mind's defect, — Through every web of life the dark threads run.

0, why and whither ? — God knows all ; I only know that he is good, And that whatever may befall Or here or there, must be the best that could.

Between tlu' dreadful cherubim A Father's face I still discern, As Moses looked of old on him. And saw his glory into goodness turn !

For he is merciful as just;

And so, by faith correcting sight, 1 bow before his will, and tru.st Howe'er they seem he docth all things right.

And dare to hope that he will make The rugged .smooth, the doubtful plain ; His mercy never quite forsake ; His healing visit every realm of pain ;

That suffering is not his revenge

Upon his creatures weak and frail, Sent on a pathway new and strange "With feet that wander and with eyes that fail ;

That, o'er the crucible of jiain,

Watches the tender eye of Love The slow transmuting of the chain Whose links are iron below to gold above !

THE GIFT OF TRITEMIUS.

235

Ah me ! we doubt the shining skies,

Seen through our shadows of offence, And drown with our poor childish cries The cradle-hymn of kindly Providence.

And still we love the evil cause.

And of the just effect comjdain : We tread upon life's broken laws, And murmur at our self-inflicted pain ;

We turn us from the light, and find Our spectral shapes before us thrown. As they who leave the sun behind Walk in the shadows of themselves alone.

And scarce by will or strength of ours

We set our faces to the day ; Weak, wavering, blind, the Eternal Powers Alone can turn us from ourselves away.

Our weakness is the strength of sin.

But love must needs be stronger far, Outreaching all and gathering in The erring spirit and the wandering star.

A Voice gi'ows with the growing years ;

Earth, hushing down her bitter cry,

Looks upward from her graves, and

hears,

'* The Resurrection and the Life am I."

0 Love Divine ! — who.se constant

beam

Shines on the eyes that will not see,

And waits to bless us, while we dream

Thou leavest us because we turn from

thee!

All souls that struggle and aspire.

All hearts of prayer by thee are lit ; And, dim or clear, thy tongues of tire On dusky tribes and twilight centuries sit.

Nor bounds, nor clime, nor creed thou know'st, Wide as our need thy favors fall ; The white wings of the Holy Ghost Stoop, seen or unseen, o'er the heads of all.

0 Beauty, old yet ever new ! ^'^ Eternal Voice, au I Inward Word,

The Logos of the Greek and Jew, The old sphere-music which the Samian heard !

Truth which the sage and prophet saw. Long sought without, but found within, The Law of Love beyond all law. The Life o'erflooding mortal death and sin !

Shine on us with the light which glowed Upon the trance-bound shepherd's way, Who saw the Darkness overflowed And drown (>d by tides of everlasting Day. 08

Shine, light of God ! — make broad thy scope To all who sin and suff'er ; more And better than we dare to hope With Heaven's compassion make our longings poor !

THE GIFT OF TPJTEMIUS.

Tritemius of Herbipolis, one daj'. While kneeling at the altar's foot to

pray, Alone with God, as was his pious choice, Heard from \rithout a miserable voice, A sound which seemed of all sad things

to tell. As of a lost soul crying out of hell.

Thereat the Abbot paused ; the chain

whereby His thoughts went upward broken b}'

that cry ; And, looking from the casement, saw

below A wretched woman, with gray hair a-flow. And withered hands held up to him,

who cried For alms as one who might not be

denied.

She cried, ' ' For the dear love of Him

who gave His life for ours, my child from bondage

save, — My beautiful, brave flrst-born, chained

with slaves

236

POEMS AND LYRICS.

Ill the Moor's galley, where the suii-siiiit

waves Lap the white walls of Tunis ! " —

" What I can I give," Tritemius said : " my prayers."

■ — " O man ( )f God ! " she cried, for gi'ief had made

her bold, " Mock me not thus ; I ask not prayers,

but gold. Words will not serve me, alms alone

suffice ; Even \\liile 1 speak perchance my fii-st-

borii dies."

" Woman ! ' Tritemius answered, " from

our door None go unfed ; hence are we always

poor, A single soldo is our only store. Thou hast our jjiaj-ers ; — what can we

give thee more ? "-^

*' Give me," she said, " the silver can- dlesticks

On either side of the gi-eat crucifix.

God well may spare them on his errands sped,

Or he can give you golden ones instead."

Then .spake Tritemius, " Even as thy

word. Woman, so be it ! (Our most gracious

Lord, Who loveth mercy more than sacrifice, Pardon me if a human soul I prize Above the gifts upon his altar j)iled I) Take what thou askest, and redeem thy

child."

But his hand trembled as the holy

alms He placed within the beggar's eager

palms ; And as she vanished down the linden

shade. He bowed his head and for forgiveness

prayed.

So the day passed, and when the twi- light came

He woke to find the chapel all aflame,

And, dumb with gi'ateful wonder, to be- hold

Upon the altar candlesticks of gold !

THE EVE OF ELECTION.

From gold to gi-ay

Our mild sweet day Of Indian Summer fades too soon ;

But tenderly

Above the sea Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon.

In its pale fire.

The village spire Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance ;

The painted walls

AV hereon it falls Transfigured stand in marble trance 1

O'er fallen leaves

The west-wind grieves. Yet comes a seed-time round again ;

And morn shall see

The State sown free With baleful tares or healthful grain.

Along the street

The .shadows meet Of Destiny, whose hands conceal

The moulds of fate

That sliajie the State, And make or mar the common weal.

Around I see

The powers that be ; I stand by Empire's j)rinial springs ;

And princes meet,

In every street, And hear the tread of uncrowned kings !

Hark ! through the crowd

The laugh runs loud, Beneath the sad, rebuking moon.

God save the land

A careless hand ^lay shake or swerve ere morrow's noon !

No jest is this ;

One cast amiss May blast the lioi)e of Freedom's year.

0, take me where

Aw hearts of ])rayer. And foreheads bowed in reverent fear !

Not lightly fall

Beyond recall The written scrolls a breath can float ;

Tlie crowning fact

Till! kingliest act Of Freedom is the freeman's vote 1

THE OVER-HEART.

237

For pearls that gem

A diadem riie di\'ei- in the deep sea dies ;

The regal right

We boast to-night Is ours through costlier sacrifice ;

The Llood of Vane,

His prison pain Who traced the path the Pilgrim trod,

And hers whose faith

Drew strength from deatli, And prayed her Russell up to God !

Our hearts grow cold.

We lightly hold A right which brave men died to gain ;

The stake, the cord.

The axe, the sword. Grim nurses at its birth of pain.

The shadow rend. And o'er us bend, O martyrs, with your crowns and palms, — Breathe through these throngs Your battle songs, Jour scaffold prayers, and dungeon psalms !

Look from the sky,

Like God's great eye, Thou solemn noon, with searching beam.

Till in the sight

Of thy pure light Our mean self-seekings meaner seem.

Shame from our hearts

Unworthy arts, The fraud designed, the purpose dark ;

And smite away

The hands we lay Profanely on the sacred ark.

To party claims

And private ajms. Reveal that august face of Truth,

Wliereto are given

The age of heaven. The beauty of immortal youth.

So sliall our voice

Of sovereign choice Swell the deep bass of duty done.

And strike the key

Of tinu^ to be, When God and man shall speak as one !

THE OVER-HEART.

" For of Him, and through Iliin, and to Him

are all things, to whom be glory forever 1 " — Paul

Above, below, in sky and sod, In leaf and spar, in star and man, Well might the wise Athenian scan

The geometric signs of God, The measured order of his plan.

Anil India's mystics sang aright Of the One Life pervading all, — • One Being's tidal rise and fall

In soul and form, in sound and sight, — • Eternal outflow and recall.

God is : and man in guilt and fear The central fact of Nature owns ; — Kneels, trembling, by his altar-stones,

And darkly drens the ghastly smear Of blood ajjpeases and atones.

Guilt shapes the Terror : deep within The human heart the secret lies Of all the hideous deities ;

And, painted on a ground of sin. The fabled gods of torment rise !

And what is He ? — Tlie ripe grain nods, The sweet dews fall, the sweet flower.s

blow ; But darker signs his presence show :

The earthquake and the storm are God's, And good and evil interflow.

0 hearts of love ! 0 souls that turn Like sunflowers to the pure and best ! To you the truth is manifest :

For they the mind of Christ discern Who lean like John upon his breast !

In him of whom the sibyl told,

For whom the prophet's harp was

toned, Whose need the sage and magian owned, Tlie loving heart of God behold.

The hojte for which the ages groaned .'

Fade, pomp of dreadful imagery Wherewitli mankind have deified Their hate, and selfi.shness, and pride !

Let the scared dreamer wake to see The Christ of Nazareth at his side !

What doth that holy Guiilc require ? — No rite of ])ain, nor gift of lilood, But man a kindly brotherhood.

238

POEMS AND LYRICS.

Looking, where duty is desire. To him, the beautiful and good.

Gone be the faithlessness of fear.

And let the pitying heaven's sweet

rain AVash out the altar's bloody stain ;

The law of Hatred disappear, The law of Love alone remain.

How fall the idols false and grim ! — And lo ! their hideous wreck above The emblems of the Lamb and Dove ! Man turns from God, not God from him ; And guilt, in Kutfering, whispers Love !

The world sits at the feet of Christ, Unknowing, blind, and unconsolcd ; It yet shall touch his garment's fold.

And feel the heavenly Alchemist Transform its very dust to gold.

The theme befitting angel tongues Bej'ond a mortal's scope has grown. 0 heart of mine ! with reverence own

The fulness which to it belongs.

And trust the unknown for the known.

IN REMEMBRANCE OF JOSEPH STURGE.

In the fiiir land o'envatched by Ischia's mountains, Across the charmed bay Whose blue waves keep with Capri's sil- ver fountains Perpetual holiday,

A king lies dead, his wafer duly eaten, His gold-bought masses given ;

And Rome's great altar smokes with gums to sweeten Her foulest gift to Heaven.

And while all Naples thrills with mute thanksgiving, The court of England's queen For the dead monster so abhorred while living In mourning garb is seen.

With a true sorrow God rebukes that feigning ; By lone Edgbaston's side

Stands a gi-eat city in the sky's sad raining. Bareheaded and wet-eyed !

Silent for once the restless hive of labor. Save the low funeral tread,

Or voice of craftsman whispering to liis neighbor The good deeds of the dead.

For him no minster's chant of tlie im- mortals Rose from the lijis of sin ; No mitred priest swung back the heav- enly portals To let the white soul in.

But Age and Sickness framed their tear, ful faces In the low hovel's door. And prayers went up from all the dark bj'-places And Ghettos of the poor.

The jiallid toiler and the negi-o chattel, The vagi'ant of the street.

The liumau dice wherewith in games of battle The lords of earth compete.

Touched with a grief that needs no ont- Avard draping, All swelled the long lament. Of grateful hearts, instead of marble, shaping His viewless monument !

For never yet, with ritual pomp and splendor. In the long heretofore, A heart moie loj-al, wann, and true, and tender, Has England's turf clo.sed o'er.

And if there fell from out her grand old steeples No crash of brazen wail. The murmurous Avoe of kindreds, tongues, and peoples Swept in on every gale.

It came from Holstein's birchen-belted meadows. And from the tropic calms Of Indian islands in the .sun-smit shad ows Of Occidental palms ;

TRINITAS.

239

From the locked roadsteads of the Bothnian peasants, And harbors of the Finn, Where war's worn victims saw his gentle presence Come sailing, Christ-like, in,

To seek the lost, to build the old waste places, To link the hostile shores Of severing seas, and sow with Eng- land's daisies The moss of Fiidand's moors.

Tiianks for the good man's beautiful example.

Who in the vilest saw Some sacred cry|it or altar of a temple

Still vocal with God's law ;

And heard with tender ear the spirit sighing As from its prison cell. Praying for pity, like the mournful cry- ing Of Jonah out of hell.

Not his the golden pen's or lip's per- suasion, But a fine sense of right, And Trutii's directness, meeting each occasion Straight as a line of light.

His faith and woiks, like streams that iiitt^rmingle, In the sa7ue channel ran : The crystal clearness of an eye kept single Shamed all the frauds of man.

The very gentlest of all human natures He joined to courage, strong,

And love outreaching unto all God's creatures With sturdy hate of wrong.

Tender as woman ; manliness and meekness In him were .so allied That th(^y who judged him by his strength or weakness Saw but a single side.

M^n failed, lietrayed him, but his zeal seemed nourislieil By failure and by fall ;

Still a large faith in human-kind ho cherished. And in God's love for all.

And now he rests : his greatness and his sweetness No more shall seem at strife ; And death has moulded into calm com- j)leteness The .statue of his life.

Wliere the dews glisten and the song- birds warble. His dust to du.st is laid, In Nature's keeping, with no pomp of marble To shame his modest shade.

The forges glow, the hammers all aie ringing ; Beneath its smoky vale. Hard by, the city of his love is swing- ing Its clamorous iron flail.

But round his grave are quietude and beauty,

And the sweet heaven above, — The titting symbols of a life of duty

Transfigured into love !

TRINITAS.

At jnorn I prayed, " I fain would see How Three are One, and One is Thi-ee ; Read the dark riddle unto me."

I wandered forth, the sun and air I saw bestowed with equal care On good and evil, foul and fair.

No paitial favor dropped the rain ; — Alike the righteous and ]irofane Rejoiced aliove their h(^ading grain.

And my heart murmured, " Is it meet That blindfold Nature thus should ti'cat With e(pial hand the tares and wheat ? "

A ])resence m(>lted tlu'ough my mood, — A warmth, a light, a sense of good. Like sunshine through a winter wood.

I saw that presence, mailed complete In her white innocence, ])ause to greet A fallen sister of the street.

240

POEMS AND LYRICS.

Upon \er bosom snowy pure The lost one clung, as if secure From inward guilt or outward lure.

" Beware ! " I said ; "in this I see No gain to her, but loss to thee : Who touches pitch defiled must be."

I passed the haunts of shame and sin, And a voice whispered, " Who therein Shall these lost souls to Heaven's peace win ?

" Who there shall hope and health dis- pense, And lift the ladder up from thence Whose rounds are prayers of penitence ?"

I said, " No higher life they know ; These earth-worms love to have it so. Who stoops to raise them sinks as low."

That night with painful care I read AVhat Hippo's saint and Cahin said, — The living seeking to the dead !

In vain I turned, in weary quest. Old pages, where (God give them rest !) The poor creed-mongers dreamed and guessed.

And still I prayed, " Lord, let me see How Three are One, and One is Three ; Head the dark riddle unto me ! "

Then something whispered, ' ' Dost thou

pray For what thou hast ? This very day The Holy Three have crossed thy way.

" Did not the gifts of .sun and air

To good and ill alike declare

The all-comijassionate Father's care ?

" In the white soul that stooped to

raise The lost one from her evil ways, Thou saw'st the Christ, whom angels

praise !

" A bodiless Divinity,

The still small Voice that spake to thee

Was the Holy Spirit's mystery !

" 0 blind of .sight, of faith how small ! F'ather, and Son, and Holy Call ; — This day thou hast denied them all !

' ' Revealed in love and sacrifice. The Holiest passed before thine eyes, One and the same, in threefold guise.

" The equal Father in rain and sun. His Christ in the good to evil done, His Voice in thy soul ; — and the Three are One ! "

I shut my gi'ave Aquinas f;vst ; The monkish gloss of ages past. The schoolman's creed aside I cast.

And my heart answered, " Lord, I see How Three are One, and One is Three ; Thy riddle hath been read to me ! "

THE OLD BURYING-GROUND.

Our vales are sweet with fern and rose.

Our hills are maple-crowned ; But not from them our fathers chose

The village burying-ground.

The dreariest spot in all the land

To Death they set apart ; With scanty grace from Nature's hand,

And none from that of Art.

A winding wall of mossy stone, Frost-ilung and broken, lines

A lonesome acre thinly grown With grass and wandering vines.

Without the wall a birch-tree shows Its drooped and tasselled head ;

Within, a stag-horned sumach grows. Fern-leafed, with spikes of red.

There, sheep that graze the neighboring plain

Like white ghosts come and go, The farm-horse drags his fetlock chain,

The cow-bell tinkles slow.

Low moans the river from its bed,

The distant pines rejily ; Like mourners shrinking from the dead,

They stand apart and sigh.

Unshaded smites the summer sun, Unchecked the winter blast ;

The school-girl leanis the jihice to slum. With glances backward cast.

THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW,

241

For thus our fathers testified, — That he might read who ran, —

The eiiiptiuess of human pride, The uotliingness of man.

They dared not plant the grave with flowers,

Nor dress the funeral sod, Where, with a love as deep as ours.

They left their dead with God.

The hard and thorny path they kept

From beauty turned aside ; Nor missed they over those who slept

The grace to life denied.

Unharmed from change to change we glide,

"We fall as in our dreams ; The far-oif terror at our side

A smiKng angel seems.

Secure on God's all-tender heart

Alike rest great and small ; Why fear to lose our little part,

When he is pledged for all ?

0 fearful heart and troubled brain !

Take hope and strength from this, — That Nature never hints in vain,

Nor prophesies amiss.

Yet still the wilding flowers would Her wild birds sing the same sweet stave, blow. Her lights and airs are given

The golden leaves would fall, The seasons come, the seasons go, And God be good to all.

Above the gi-aves the blackberry hung In bloom and green its wreath.

And harebells swung as if they rung The chimes of peace beneath.

The beauty Nature loves to share.

The gifts she hath for all, The common light, the common air,

O'ererept the graveyard's wall.

It knew the glow of eventide.

The sunrise and the noon. And glorified and sanctified

It slept beneath the moon.

With flowers or snow-flakes for its .sod.

Around the seasons ran, And evermore the love of God

Reljuked the fear of man.

We dwell with fears on either hand.

Within a daily stiife. And specti'al problems waiting stand

Hefore the gates of life.

Tlie doubts we vainly seek to solve, The truths we know, are one ;

The known and nameless stars revolve Around the Central Sun.

And if we reap as we have sown. And take the dole we deal.

The law of pain is love alone. The wounding is to heal. 16

Alike to playgi'ound and the gi'ave ; And over both is Heaven.

THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW.

Pipes of the misty moorlands.

Voice of the glens and hills ; The droning of the torrents.

The treble of the rills ! Not the braes of broom and heather.

Nor the mountains dark witli rain. Nor maiden bower, nor border tower.

Have heard your sweetest strain 1

Dear to the Lowland reaper.

And plaided mountaineer, — To the cottage and the castle

The Scottish pipes are dear ; — Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch

O'er mountain, loch, and glade ; ■ But the sweetest of all music

The pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger

Louder yelled, and nearer crept ; Round and round the jungle-serpent

Near and nearer circles swejjt. " Pray for rescue, wives and mothers, -

Pray to-day ! " the soldier said ; " To-morrow, death 's between us

And the WTong and shame we dread.

0, they listened, looked, and waited. Till their liope became <lespair ;

And tlie sobs of low bewailing Filled the pauses of their prayer.

Then up spake a Scottish maiden, With her ear unto the ground :

242

POEMS AXD LYKICS.

" Dinna ye hear it ? — dinna ye hear it ? The pipes o' Havelock sound ! "

Hushed the wounded man his groaning ;

Hushed the wife her Httle ones ; Alone they lieard the drum-roll

And the roar of Sepoy guns. But to sounds of home and childhood

The Highland ear Avas true ; — As her mother's cradle-crooning

The mountain pipes she knew.

Like the march of soundless music

Through the ^-ision of the seer, More of feeling than of hearing.

Of the heart tluiu of the ear, She knew the droiiuig pibroch,

She knew the Campbell's call : ■' Hark ! hear j'e no' ilacGregor's, —

The grandest o' them all ! "

O, they listened, dumb and breathless,

And the}' caught the sound at last ; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee

Rose and fell tlie piper's blast ! Then a burst of wild thanksgiving

Mingled woman's voice and man's ; " God be praised ! — the march of Have- lock !

The piping of the clans ! "

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,

Sharp and shrill as swords at strife. Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call,

Stinging all the air to life. But when the far-olf dust-cloud

To ])laidcd legions grew, Full tenderly and blithesomely

The pipes of rescue blew !

Round the silver domes of Lucknow,

Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine, Breathed the air to liritons dearest.

The air of Auld Lang Syne. O'er the cruel roll of war-drums

Rose that sweet and homelike strain ; And the tartjm clove the turban,

As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.

Dear to the corn-land reaper

And plaided mountaineer, — To the cottage and the castle

Tlie piper's song is dear. Sweet sounds the Gaelic pilirocli

O'er mountain, glen, and glade ; But the sweetest of all music

The Pipes at Lucknow played !

MY PSALM.

I MOURN no more my vanished years :

Beneath a tender rain, Aji AprU rain of smiles and tears.

My heart is young agaui.

The west- winds blow, and, singing low, I hear the glad streams run ;

The windows of my soul T throw Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind

I look in hope or fear ; But, gi-ateful, take the good I find,

The best of now and here.

I plough no more a desert land. To har\'est weed and tare ;

The manna dropi)ing from God's hand Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim staff, — I lay

Aside the toiling oar ; The angel sought so far away

1 welcome at my door.

The airs of spring may never play Among the ripening com,

Nor freshness of the flowers of ilay Blow through the autumn morn ;

Yet .shall the blue-eyed gentian look Through fringed lids to heaven,

And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given ; —

The woods shall wear their ntbes of praise,

The south-wind softly sigh, And sweet, calm days in golden haze

Melt down the amber .sky.

Not le.ss shall manly deed and word Rebnke an age of wrong ;

Tlie giaven flowers that wreathe the sword Make not the blade less strong.

But smiting hands shall leani to heal,—

To build as to destroy ; Nor less my heart for others feel

That I the more enjo3\

All as God wills, who wisely heeds To give or to withhold,

LE MAKAIS DU CYGNE.

243

Ami knoweth more of all my needs riiau all my prayers have told !

Enough that blessings undeserved

Have marked my erring track ; —

That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, His chastening turned me back ; —

That more and more a Providence

Of love is understood, Making the springs of time and sense

Sweet with eternal good ; —

That d(>ath seems but a covered way

Which opens into light. Wherein no blinded child can stray

Be3-ond the Father's sight ; —

That care and trial seem at last, Through Memory's sunset air,

Like mountain-ranges overiiast. In purple distance fair ; — •

Tliat all the jarring notes of life Seem blending in a psalm,

And all the angles of its strife Slow rounding into calm.

And so the shadows fall apart. And so the west-winds play ;

And all the windows of my heart 1 open to the day.

LE MARAIS DU CYGNE."^

A BLUSH as of roses

Wliere rose never grew ! Great drops on the bunch-grass,

But not of the dew ! A taint in the sweet air

For wild bees to shun ! A stain that shall never

Bleach out in the sun !

Back, steed of the prairies !

Sweet song-bird, fly back ! Wheel hither, bald vulture !

Gray wolf, call thy pack ! The finil human vultuics

Have feasted and fled ; The wolves of the Border

Have crept from tlie dead.

From the hearths of their cabi is, The fields of their com,

Unwarned and nnwcaponed, The victims were torn, —

By the whirlwind of murder S\voo[ied \;p and swept on

To the low, reedy fen-lands. The Marsh of the Swan.

With a vain plea for mercy

No stout knee was crooked ; In the mouths of the rifles

Right manly they looked. How }i;ded the May sunshine,

O Marais du Cygne ! On death for the strong life,

On red grass for green !

In the homes of their reaiing,

Yet warm with their lives. Ye wait the dead only,

Poor children and wives ! Put out the red forge-fire.

The smith shall not come ; Unyoke the brown oxen,

The ploughman lies dumb.

Wind slow from the Swan's Marsh.

0 dreaiy death-train. With pressed lips as Idoodless

As lips of the slain ! Kiss down the young eyelids.

Smooth down the gi'ay hairs ; Let tears ipiench tlie curses

That burn through your prayerp

Strong man of the prairies,

IMourn bitter and wild ! Wail, desolate woman !

Weep, fatherless child ! But the grain of God springs up

From ashes beneath, And the crown of his harvest

Is life out of death.

Not in vain on the dial

The shade moves along, To ]ioint the great contrasts

Of right ami of wrong : Free homes and free altars.

Free prairie and Hood, — - Tlie reeds of the Swan's Mar.4i,

Whose bloom is of blood !

On the lintels of Kansas That blood shall not dry ;

Henceforth the Bad Angel Shall harmless go by ;

244

POEMS AND LYRICS.

Henceforth to the sunset, ITnchecked on her way,

Shall Liberty follow The march of the day.

"THE ROCK" IN EL GHOR.

Dead Petra in her hill-tomb sleeps, Her stones of emptiness renjain ;

Around her sculptured mysterj' sweeps The lonely waste of Edom's plain.

From the doomed dwellers in the cleft The bow of vengeance turns not back ;

Of all her myriads none are left Along the Wady Jlousa's track.

Clear in the hot Arabian day

Her arches spring, lier statues climb ; Unchanged, the graven wonders pay

No tribute to the spoiler. Time !

Unchanged the awful lithograph Of ])ower and glory undertrod, —

Of nations scattered like tlie chalf Blown from the threshing-floor of God.

Yet shall the thoughtful stranger turn From Petra's gates, with deeper awe

To mark afar the burial urn Of Aaron on the cliffs of Hor ;

And where upon its ancient guard Thy Rock, El Ghor, is standing yet, —

Looks from its turrets desertwanl. And keeps tlie watch that God has set.

The same as wlien in thunders loml It heard the voice of God to man, —

As when it saw in fire and cloud The angels walk in Israel's van !

Or when from Ezion-Geber's way It saw the long proces.sion file.

And heard the Hebrew timbrels play The music of the lordly Nile ;

Or saw the tabernacle pause.

Cloud-bound, by Kadesh P)arnea's wells, Wliile Moses gi-aved the sacred laws.

And Aaron swung his golden bells.

ir^ock of the desert, prophet-sung ! How grew its shadowing pile at length.

A symbol, in the Hebrew tongue. Of God's eternal love and strength.

On Yip of bard and scroll of seer,

From age to age went down the name,

Until the Shiloh's promised year.

And Christ, the Rock of Ages, came !

The path of life we walk to-day

Is strange as that the Hebrews trod ;

We need the shadowing rock, as they,— We need, like them, the guides of God.

God send his angels. Cloud and Fire, To lead us o'er the desert sand !

God give our hearts their long desire, His shadow in a weary land !

ON A PKAYER-BOOK,

WITH IT.S FRONTISriECE, ARY SCIIEF- FKK's " CHRISTUS CONSOLATOR," AMERICANIZED BY THE OMISSION OF THE BLACK MAN.

O Ary Scheffer ! when beneath thine

pye.

Touched with the light that comcth

from above. Grew the .sweet picture of the dear Lord's love. No (^rcam hadst thou that Christian

hands would tear Thercfi'om the token of his equal care. And make thy symbol of his truth a lie ! Till' poor, duml) .slave M'hose shackles fall away In his com])assionate gaze, grubbed

smoothly out. To mar no more the exercise devout Of sleek oppression kneeling down to

Where the great oriel stains the Sabbath

day ! Let whoso can before such praying-book,5 Kneel on his velvet cushion ; I, f(jr

one. Would sooner bow, a Parsee, to the sun. Or tend a prayer-wheel in Thibetar brooks. Or beat a drum on Yedo's temple

floor. No falser idol man has bowed before. In Indian groves or islands of the sea.

TO J. T. F.

245

Than that which through the quaint- carved Gothic door Looks forth, — a Cliurch without hu- manity ! Patron of pride, and prejudice, and

wrong, — The rich man's charm and fetish of the strong, The Eternal Fulness meted, clipped, and

shorn, The seamless robe of equal mercy torn, The dear Christ hidden from his kindred

flesh, And, in his poor ones, crucified afresh ! Better the simple Lama scattering wide, Where sweeps the storm Alechan's steppes along, His paper horses for the lost to ride. And wearying Buddha with his prayers

to make The figures living for the traveller's sake. Than he who hopes with cheap praise to

beguile The ear of God, dishonoring man the

while ; Who dreams the pearl gate's hinges,

rusty grown. Are moved by flattery's oil of tongue

alone ; That in the scale Eternal Justice bears The generous deed weighs less than self- ish prayers. And words intoned Avith graceful unction

move The Eternal Goodness more than lives

of truth and love. Alas, the Church ! — Tlie reverend head of Jay, Enhaloed with its saintly silvered hair. Adorns no more the places of her prayer ; 4nd brave young Tyng, too early called away, Troubles the Haman of her courts no

more Like the just Hebrew at the Assyrian's

door ; And her sweet ritual, beautiful but

dead A s the dry husk from which the grain

is shed, And holy hjonns from which the life

devout Of saints and mai'tyrs has wellnigh gone out, Like candles dying in exhausted air.

For Sabbath use in measured grists are groiind ;

And, ever while the spiritual mill goes round.

Between the upper and the nether stones,

Unseen, unheard, the wretched bond- man groans. And urges liis vain plea, prayer-smoth- ered, anthem-drowned !

0 heart of mine, keep patience ! — Look- ing forth. As from the Mount of Vision, I behold. Pure, just, and free, the Church of Christ

on earth, — ■ The martyr's dream, the golden age

foretold ! And found, at last, the mystic Graal I

see, Brinnned with His blessing, pass from

lip to lip Li sacred pledge of human fellowship ; And over all the songs of angels hear, — Songs of the lore that casteth out all

fear, — Songs of the Gospel of Humanity ! Lo ! in the midst, with the same look

he wore. Healing and blessing on Genesaret's

shore. Folding together, with the all-tender

might Of his great love, the dark hands and

the white. Stands tlie Consoler, soothing every

pain. Making all burdens light, and breaking

every chain.

TO J. T. F.

ON A BLANK LEAF OF '* POEJfS PraXT- ED, NOT PUBLISHED."

Well thought ! who would not rather

hear The songs to Love and Friendship sung Than those which move the stranger's

tongue, And feed his unselected ear ?

Our social joys are more tlian fame ' Life withers in the public look. Why mount tlic pillory of a book. Or barter comfort for a name '

246

POEMS AND LYRICS.

Wlio in a lioiise of glass would dwell, With curious eyes at every pane ? To ling him in and out again, Who wants the public crier's bell ?

To see the angel in one's way, Who wants to play the ass's part, — - Bear on his back the wizard Art, And iu his service sjieak or bray ?

And who his manly locks would sliave, And quench the eyes of common sense, 'i\) share tlie noisy recompense That mocked the shorn and blinded slave ?

The lieart has needs beyond the head.

And, starving in the plenitude

Of strange gifts, craves its common

food, — Our human nature's daily bread.

We are l)ut men : no gods are we, To sit in mid-heaven, cold and bleak, Each separate, on liis painful peak. Thin-cloaked in self-complacency !

liettcr his lot wliosc axe is swung In Wartliurg woods, or that ]ioor girl's Who by the 11m her spindle wliirls And sings the songs that Luther sung.

Than liis wlio, old, and cold, and vain. At Weimar sat, a demigod, And bowed with .Tove's inijierial nod His votaries in and out again !

Ply, Vanity, thy winged feet ! Ambition, hew tliy rocky stair ! Who envies him wlio feeds on air The icy splendor of his seat ?

I see your Alps, above me, cut Tlie dark, cold sky ; and dim and Ioiu> 1 see ye sitting, — stotu^ on stone, — With human sen.ses dulled and shut.

I could not reach you, if I would. Nor sit among your cloudy sha])es ; And (spare tlie fable of the grapes And fox) I would not if I could.

Keep to your lofty pedestals ! The safer ])lain below I choose : Who never wins can rarely lose, Who never climbs as rarely falls.

Let such as love the eagle's scream Divide with him his home of ice : For me shall gentler notes suffice, — The valley-song of liird and stream ;

The pastoral bleat, the drone of bees, The flail-beat chiming far away, Tlie cattle-low, at shut of day. The voice of God in leaf and breeze !

Then h'lul thy hand, my wiser friend, And help me to the vales below, (In truth, 1 have not far to go,) Wheie sweet with flowers the fields ex tend.

THE PALM-TKEE.

Is it the jialni, the cocoa-palm.

On th(! Indian Sea, by the isles .)f balml

Or is it a ship in the breezeless calm ?

A ship whose keel is of palm beneath, \Vhose ribs of i>alm have a palm-bark

sheath. And a rudder of palm it steereth with.

Piiauches of palm are its spars and rails, Fibres of palm are its woven .sails. And the rope is of palm that idly trails !

What does the good .ship bearso well ? The cocoa-nut with its stony shell. And the milkj' sap of its inner cell.

^Vhat are its jars, so smooth and fine. But hoUowecl nuts, filled with oil and

wine. And the cabbage that rijx'us under the

Line?

"Who smokes his nargileh, cool and calm ? The master, whose cunning and skill

could charm Cargo and .ship from the bounteous ])alni.

In the cabin he .sits on a ])alni-niat .soft, From a beaker of palm his drink is

(luatled. And a palm-thatch shields from the sun

aloft !

His dre.ss is woven of palmy strands, And he holds a palm-leaf scroll in his

hands, Traced with the Prophet's wise com- mands !

THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUK.

247

The turlian folded ahout his head

Was daintily wrought of the pahn-leaf

braid, And the fan that cools him of palm was

made.

Of threads of palm was the carpet spun Whereon he kneels when the day is done, And the foreheads of Islam are bowed as

To him the palm is a gift divine. Wherein all uses of man condiine, — House, and raiment, and food, and wine !

And, in the hour of his great release, His need of the palm shall only cease With the shroud wherein lie lieth in peace.

" Allah il Allah ! " he sings his psalm, On the Indian Sea, by the isles of lialm ; •' Thanks to Allah who gives the palm ! "

LINES,

HEAD AT THE BOSTON CELEBRATION OF THE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY (>F THE BIRTH OF ROBERT BURNS, 25TH 1st MO., 1859.

How sweetly come the holy psalms

From saints and martyrs down. The waving of triumphal palms

Above the thorny crown ! The clioral praise, the clianted prayers

From harps by angels strung, The hunted Cameron's mountain airs.

The hymns that Luther sung !

Yet, jarring not the heavenly notes,

The sounds of earth are heard, As through the open minster floats

The song of breeze and bird ! Xot less the wonder of the sky

That daisies bloom IjcIow ; The brook sings on, though loud and high

The cloudy organs blow !

And, if the tender ear 1)0 jarred That, haply, hears by turns

The saintly harp of Olney's bard, The ])astoral jiipe of I'uriis,

No discord mars His ]ieiteet ])lan Who gave them both a tongue;

For he who .sings the love of man The love of God hath sung !

To-day be every fault forgiven

Of him in whom we joy ! AVe take, with thanks, the gold of Heaven

And leave the earth's alloy. Be ours his nmsic as of spring.

His sweetness as of flowers. The songs the bard himself might sing

In holier ears than ours.

Sweet airs of love and home, the hum

Of houseliold melodies. Come singing, as the rolnns come

To sing in door-yard trees. And, heart to heart, two nations lean,

No rival wreaths to twine, But blending in eternal green

The holly and the pine !

THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUK.

Out and in the river is winding The links of its long, red chain

Through belts of dusky jtine-laud And gusty leagues of })lain.

Only, at times, a smoke-wreath

With the drifting cloud-rack joins, — ^

The smoke of the hunting-lodges Of the wild Assiniboins !

Drearil)' blows the north-wind From the land of ice and snow ;

The eyes that look are weaiy, And heavy the hands that row.

iVnd with one foot on the water.

And one upon the shore, The Angel of Shadow gives warning

That day shall be no more.

Is it the clang of wild-geese ?

Is it the Indian's yell. That lends to the voice of the nortli wind

The tones of a far-off" bell ?

The voyageur smih-s as he listens To the sound that gi-ows apace ;

Well he knows the vesper ringing Of the bells of St. Boniface.

The bells of the Roman Mission, That call from their turrets twain.

248

POEMS A2sD LYKICS.

To tlie boatman on the river, To the hunter on the plain !

Even so in our mortal journey The bitter north-winds blow,

And thus upon life's Red Eiver Oup hearts, as oarsmen, row.

And when the Angel of Shadow Rests his feet on wave and shore,

And our eyes grow dim witli watehing And oui- hearts faint at the oar,

Happy is he who heareth ' The signal of his release In tlie bolls of the Holy City, The chimes of eternal peace !

KENOZA LAKE.

As Adam did in Paradise,

To-day the primal right we claim : Fair min-or of the woods and skies.

We give to thee a name.

Lake of the pickerel ! — let no more The echoes answerback, "Great Pond,"

But sweet Kenoza, from thj- shore And watching hUls beyond,

Let Indian ghosts, if such there be Wlio ply unseen their shadowy lines,

^all back the ancient name to thee, As witli the voice of pines.

The shores we trod as barefoot boys, The nutted woods we Avandered through.

To friendship, love, and social joJ^s We consecrate anew.

Hi-re shall the tender song be sung, And memory's dirges soft and low.

And wit shall sparkle on the tongue. And mirth shall overflow,

Harndess as summer lightning plays From a low, hidden cloud by night,

A light to set the hills ablaze. But not a bolt to smite.

In sunny South and prairied West Are exiled hearts remembering still,

As bees their hive, as birds their nest. The homes of Haverhill.

The}' join us in our rites to-daj^ ;

And, listening, we may hear, ere- long. From inland lake and ocean bay.

The echoes of our song.

Kenoza ! o'er no sweeter lake

Shall morning break or noon-cloud sail, — No fairer face than thine shall take

The sunset's golden veil.

Long be it ere the tide of trade

Shall break with harsh-resounding din

The quiet of thv banks of shade. And liills that fold thee in.

Still let thy woodlands hide the hare. The shy loon sound his trunijiel-note,

Wing-weary from his fields of air, The wild-goose on thee float.

Thy peace rebuke our feverish stir. Thy beauty oin- deforming strife ;

Thy woods and waters minister "The healing of their life.

And sinless Mirth, from care released. Behold, imawed, thy miiiored sk)'.

Smiling as smiled on Cana's feast The Master's loving eye.

And when the summer day gi'ows dim. And light mists walk thy mimic sea,

Revive in us the thought of Him Who walked on Galilee !

TO G. B. C.

So spake Esaias : .so, in words of flame, Tekoa's prophet-herdsman smote with

. blame The traffickers in men, and put to shame,

All earth and heaven before. The sacerdotal robbers of the poor.

All the dread Scripture lives for thee

again, To smite like lightning on the hfnds

profane Lifted to bless the slave-whip and the

chain.

THE PREACHER.

249

Once more the old Hehrew tongue Bends with the shafts of God a bow new-strung !

Take up the mantle which the prophets

wore ; Warn with their warnings, — show the

Christ once more Bound, scourged, and crucified in his

blameless poor ; And shake above our land The unquenched bolts that blazed in

Hosea's hand !

Not vainly shalt thou cast upon our years

The solemn burdens of the Orient seers,

And smite with truth a guilty nation's ears. Mightier was Luther's word

Than Seckingen's mailed arm or Hut- ton's sword !

THE SISTERS.

A PICTTirvE BY BARRY.

The shade for me, but over thee The lingering sunshine still ;

As, smiling, to the silent stream Comes do^vn the singing rill.

So come to me, my little one, — Aly years with thee I share,

And mingle with a sister's love A mother's tender care.

But keep the smile upon thy lip,

The trust upon thy brow ; Since for the dear one God hath called

"We have an angel now.

Our mother from the fields of heaven

Shall still her ear incline ; Nor need we fear her human love

Is less for love divine.

The songs are .sweet they sing beneath

The trees of life so fair. But sweetest of the songs of heaven

Shall be her children's prayei-.

Then, darling, rest upon my breast, And teach my heart to lean

With thy sweet trust upon tin; arm "Wniich folds us both unseen !

LINES,

FOR THE AGRICULTURAL AND HORTI- CULTURAL EXHIBITION AT AMESBURY AND .SALISBURY, SEPT. 28, 1858.

This day, two hundred years ago. The wild grape b\' the river's side,

And tasteless gi'oundnut trailing low. The table of the woods supplied.

Unknown the apple's red and gold. The blushing tint of peach and pear r

The mirror of the Powow told No tale of orchards ripe and rare.

"Wild as the fraits he scorned to till, These vales the idle Indian trod ;

Nor knew the glad, creative skill, — The joy of him who toils with God.

0 Painter of the fruits and flowers !

"We thank thee for thy wise design Whereby these human hands of ours

In Nature's garden work with thine.

And thanks that from our daily need The joy of simple faith is born ;

Tliat he who smites the summer weed, ilay trast thee for the autumn corn.

Give fools their gold, and knaves their power ;

Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall ; Who sows a field, or trains a flower,

Or plants a tree, is more than all.

For he who blesses most is blest ;

And God and man shall own his worth Who toils to leave as his bequest

An added beauty to the earth.

And, soon or late, to all that sow. The time of harvest shall be given ;

The flower shall bloom, the fruit shdlj grow, If not on earth, at last in heaven

THE PREACHER.

Its windows flashing to the sky. Beneath a thousand roofs of b^o^vn,

Far down the vale, my friend and I Beheld the old and quiet town ;

Tlie ghostly sails that out at sea

Flapped their white wings of mystery

250

POEMS AND LYRICS.

The beaches glimmering in the sun, And tlie low wooded capes tliat run Into tKe sea-mist north and south ; The sand-bluffs at the river's mouth ; The swinging chain-bridge, and, afar, The foam-liue of the harbor- bar.

Over tbe woods and meadow-lands A ci-imson-tinted shadow lay Of clouds through wliich the setting

day Flung a slant glory far away.

It glittered on tlie wet .sea-sands, it llanied upon the city's panes,

Smote the white sails of ships that wore

Outward or in, and glided o'er

The steeples with their veering vanes !

Awhile my friend Avith rapid search O'erran the landscape. . ' ' Yonder spire Ovei- giay loofs, a sliaft of fire ; ^\'hat is it, pray V — " The Whitefield

Church ! AVallcd aliout by its basement stones, Tiicre rest the marvellous prophet's

bones." Then as our homeward way we Malkcd, Of the great ]ireacher's life we talked ; -Anti through the my.stery of our theme The outward glory seemed to stream. And Nature's .self iiittipretcd The doubtful record of the dead ; And every level beam that smote The .sails u])on the dark afloat A symbol of the light became Which touched the shadows of our

blame With tongues of Pentecostal flame.

Over the roofs of the pioneers Oatheis the moss of a hundred years ; On nuin and his works has passed the

change Which needs must be in a century's

range. The land lies open aiul warm in the sun. Anvils clamor and mill-wheels run, — Flocks on the hillsides, herds on the

]ilain, The wilderness gladdened with fruit and

gi'ain ! lint the living faith of the settlers old A dead profession their children hold ; To the lust of office and gi'eed of trade A stepping-stone is the altar made. The Ohurch, to place and power the

door,

Rebukes the sin of the world no more, Nor sees its Lord in the homeless poor. Everywhere is the grasping hand, And eager adding of laud to land ; And earth, which seemed to the fathers

meant But as a pilgrim's wayside tent, — A nightly shelter to fold a\\ ay When the Lord should call at the brcuk

of day, — Solid and steadfast seems to be. And Time has forgotten Eternity !

But fresh and gi-een from the rotting

roots Of primal forests the young growth

shoots ; From the death of the old the new pro- ceeds. And the life of truth from the rot of

creeds : On theladderofGod, which upward leads, The steps of progress are human nee<ls. For his judgments still are a mighty

deep, And the eyes of his providence lunei

sleep : When the night is darkest he gives the

morn : ■\Vhen the famine is sorest, the wine

iuid coin !

In the church of the wilderness Edwards

wrought, Sha]iing his creed at the forge of

thought ; And with Thor's own hammer welded

and bent The iron links of his aiguniciit, Whiih strove to grasp in its mighty span The purpose of God and tin; fate of man ! Yet faithful still, in his daily round To the weak, and the poor, and sin-sick

found. The schoolman's lore and the casuist's art Drew warmth and life from his fei-vent

heart. Had he not seen in the solitudes Of his deep and dark Noithami)ton

woods A vision of love about him fall ? Not the blinding splendor which fell on

Saul, But the tendei'cr glory that rests on them Who walk in the New Jerusalem, "V\Tiere never the sun nor moon are

knowTi,

THE PREACHER.

251

But the Lord and his love are the light

alone ! And watching the sweet, still countenance Of the wife of his bosom rapt in trance, Had he not treasured each broken word Of the mystical wonder seen and heard ; And loved the beautiful dreamer more That thus to the desert of earth she bore Clusters of Eschol from Canaan's shore ?

As the barley-winnower, holding with

pain Aloft in waiting his chaff and grain, Joyfully welcomes the far-off breeze Sounding the pine-tree's slender keys. So he who hacl waited long to liear The sound of the Spirit drawing near, Like that which the son of Iddo heard When the feet of angels the myrtles

stirred, Felt the answer of prayer, at last, As over his church the afflatus passed, Breaking its sleep as breezes break To sun-bright ripples a stagnant lake.

At first a tremor of silent fear. The creep of the flesh at danger near, A vague foreboding and discontent. Over the hearts of the people went. All nature warned in souruls and signs : The wind in the tops of the forest pines In the name of the Highest called to

prayer. As the muezzin calls from the minaret

stair. Through ceiled chambers of secret sin Sudden and strong the light shone in ; A guilty sense of his neighbor's needs Startled the man of title-deeds ; The trembling hand of the worldling

shook The dust of years from tlie Holy Book ; And the psalms of David, forgotten long, Took the place of the S('oHer's song.

The impulse spread like the outward

course ( )f waters moved by a central f(U'ce : Till? tide of sjiiritual life rolled <low)i From inland mountains to seaboard

town.

Hearts are like wax in the furnace, who Shall mould, and shape, and cast them

anew ? Lo ! by the Merrimack Whitefield

stands In the temple that never was made by

hands, — Cui'tains of azure, and crystal wall, And dome of the sunshine over all ! — A homeless pilgrim, with dubious name Blown about on the winds of fame ; Now as an angel of blessing classed, And now as a mad enthusiast. Called in his youth to sound and gauge The moral lapse of his race and age. And, sharp as truth, the contrast draw Of human frailty and perfect law ; Possessed by the one dread thought that

lent Its goad to his fiery temperament. Up and down the world he went, A John the Baptist crying, — Repent !

No perfect whole can our nature make : Here or there the circli? will Ijreak ; The orb of life as it takes the light On one side leaves the other in night,. Never was saint so good and great As to give no chance at St. Peter's gate For the plea of the Devil's advocate. So, incomplete by his being's law. The marvellous preacher had his flaw : With step unequal, and lame with faults, His shade on the path of History halts.

Wisely and well said the Eastern bard : Fear is easy, but love is hard, — Easy to glow \\'ith the Santon's rage, And walk on the Meccan jjilgrimage ; But he is gi'eatest and best who can Worshii) Allah by loving man.

Thus he, — to wliom, in the painful

stress Of zeal on fire fi'om its own excess, I

Heaven seemed so vast and earth so .small That man was nothing, since Cod was

all, — Forgot, as the best at tinu-s have done, That the love of the Lord and of man

are one.

l"'re])ared and ready the altar stands Little to him whose feet unshod

Waiting the prophet's outstretched Tiu; thoi'ny jiath of the desert trod,

haiuls t'areless of ])ain, so it led to Cod,

And prayer availing, to downward call Seemed tiu' liunger-pang and the pooi The fiery answer in view of all. man's wrong.

252

POEMS AND LYRICS.

The weak ones trodden beneath the

strong. Should the worm be chooser ? — the

clay withstand The shaping will of the potter's hand ?

In the Indian fable Arjoon hears Tlie scorn of a god rebuke his fears : "Spare thy pity ! " Krishna saith ; " Not in thy sword is the power of

death ! All is illusion, — loss but seems ; Pleasure and pain are only dreams ; Who deems he slayeth doth not kill ; Who counts as slain is living still. Strike, nor fear thy blow is crime ; Nothing dies but the cheats of time ; Slain or slaj^er, small the odds To each, immortal as Indra's gods ! "

So by Savannah's banks of shade.

The stones of his mission the preacher

laid On the heart of the negro crushed and

rent. And made of his blood the wall's cement ; Bade the slave-ship speed from coast to

coast Fanned by the wings of the Holy Ghost ; And begged, for the love of Christ, the

gold Coined from the hearts in its gi'oaning

hold. AVhat could it matter, more or less Of stripes, and hunger, and weariness ? Living or dying, bond or free, What was time to eternity ?

Ala.sfor the preacher's cherished schemes ! Mission and church are now but dreams ; Nor |)rayer nor fasting availed the })lan To honor God through the wrong of

man. Of all his labors no trace remains Save the bondman lifting his liands in

chains. The woof he wove in the righteous warp Of freedom-loving Oglethoi-])e, Clothes with curses the goodly land, Changes its gi-eenness and bloom to sand ; And a century's lapse reveals once more The slave-ship stealing to Georgia's

sliore. Father of Light ! how blind is he Wlio sprinkles the altar he rears to Thee With the blood and tears of human-

ity:

He erred : Shall we count liis gifts as

naught ? Was the work of Godinhimunwrought ? The servant may through his deafness

err, And blind may be God's messenger ; But the eri'and is sure they go upon, — The word is spoken, the deed is done. Was the Hebrew temple less fair and

good That Solomon bowed to gods of wood ? For his tempted heart and wandering

feet, Were the songs of David less pure and

sweet ? So in light and shadow the preacher

went, God's erring and human instrument ; And the hearts of the people where he

passed Swayed as the reeds sway in the blast. Lender the spell of a voice which took In its compass the flow of Siloa's brook. And the mystical chime of the bells of

gold On the ephod's hem of the priestof old, — Now the roll of thunder, and now the awe Of the trumpet heard in the Mount of

Law.

A solemn fear on the listening crowd Fell like the shadow of a cloud. The sailor reeling from out the ships Whose masts stood thick in the river- slips Felt the jest and the curse die on his

lips. Listened the fisherman rude and hard, The calker rough from the builder'.'^

yard, The man of the market left his load, The teamster leaned on his bending goad, The maiden, and youth beside her, felt Their liearts in a closer union melt. And saw the flowers of their love in

bloom Down the endless vistas of life to come. Old age sat feebly brushing away From his cars the scanty locks of gray ; And careless boyhood, living the free Unconscious life; of bird and tree, Siuldenly wakened to a .sen.sc Of .sin and its guilty consequence. It was as if an angel's voice Called the listeners u)) fdr Ihcir final

choice ; As if a strong hand rent apart

THE PREACHER.

253

The veils of sense from soul and heart,

Showing in light ineffable

The joys of heaven and woes of hell !

All about in the misty air

The hills seemed kneeling in silent prayer ;

The rustle of leaves, the moaning sedge,

The water's lap on its gravelled edge.

The wailing pines, and, far and faint.

The wood-dove's note of sad com- plaint, —

To the solemn voice of the preacher lent

An undertone as of low lament ;

And the rote of the sea from its sandy coast,

On the easterly wind, now heard, now lost.

Seemed the murmurous sound of the judgment host.

Yet wise men doubted, and good men

wept, As that storm of passion above them

swept, And, comet-like, adding flame to flame. The priests of the new Evangel came, — Davenport, flashing upon the crowd. Charged like summer's electric cloud. Now holding the listener still as death With terrible warnings under breath. Now shouting for joy, as if he viewed The vision of Heaven's beatitude ! And Celtic Tennant, Ms long coat

bound Like a monk's with leathern girdle

round. Wild with the toss of unshorn hair. And wTinging of hands, and eyes aglare. Groaning under the world's despair ! Grave pastors, grieving their flocks to

lose. Prophesied to the empty pews That gourds would wither, and mush- rooms die. And noisiest fountains nin soonest dry. Like the spring that gushed in New- bury Street, Under the tramp of the earth(piake's

feet, A silver shaft in the air and light, For a single day, then lost in night. Leaving only, its ])lace to tell, Sandy fissure and sulphurous smell. Witli zeal wing-clipped and white-heat

cool, Moved by the spiiit in grooves of rule.

No longer harried, and cropped, and

fleeced. Flogged by sherift' and cursed by priest. But by wiser counsels left at ease To settle quietly on his lees, And, self-concentred, to count as done The work which his fathers scarce begun, In silent protest of letting alone. The Quaker kept the way of his own, — ■ A non-conductor among the wires. With coat of asbestos proof to tires. And quite unable to mend his pace To catch the falling manna of grace, He hugged the closer his little store Of faith, and silently prayed for more. And vague of creed and barren of rite, But holding, as in his Master's sight. Act and thought to the inner light. The round of his simple duties walked, And strove to live what the others talked.

And who shall marvel if evil went Step by step with the good intent, And with love and meekness, side by

side. Lust of the flesh and spiritual pride ? — That passionate longings and fancies

vain Set the heart on fire and crazed the

brain ? — Tliat over the holy oracles Folly sported with cap and bells ? — That goodly women and learned men Marvelling told with tongue and pen How unweaned children chirped like

birds Texts of Scripture and solemn words. Like the infant seers of the rocky glens In the Puy de Dome of wild Cevennes : Or baby Lamas -who ])ray and preach From Tartar cradU's in Buddha's

speech ?

In the war which Truth or Freedom

wages With impious fraud and tlie WTong of

ages, Hate and malice and self-love mar The notes of triumph with painful jai, And the helping angels turn aside Their sorrowing faces the shame to hide. Never on ciistoni's oiled grooves The world to a higher level moves. But grates and grinds with friction hard On granite boulder and flinty shard. Tlie heart must bleed l)cf'ore it fi-els, Tlie pool be troubled before it heals ;

254

POEMS AND LYRICS.

Ever by losses the right must gain, Every good have its birth of pain ; Tlie active Virtues bhish to find The Vices wearing their badge behind, And Graces and Charities feel the fire Wherein the sins of the age ex])ire : The fiend still rends as of old he rent The tortured body from which he went.

But Time tests all. In the over-drift And flow of the Nile, with its annual

gift, W ho cares for the Hadji's relics sunk ? Who thinks of the drowned-out Coptic

monk ? The tide that loosens the temple's

stones. And scatters the sacred ibis-bones, Drives away from the valley-land That Arab I'obber, the wandering sand, Moistens tlie fields that know no rain, Fringes the desert with belts of grain, And bread to the sower Inings again. So the flood of emotion deep and strong Troubled the land as it swe])t along. Hut left a result of holier lives. Tenderer mothers and worthier wives. The husband and father whose children

fled And sad wife we])t when his drunken

tread Frightened jteace from his roof-tree's

shade. And a rock of ort"ence liis hearthstone

made. In a strength that Ma-s not his own, be- gan To rise from the brute's to the plane of

man. Old friends embraced, long held apart By evil counsel and ]inde of lieart ; And penitence saw thiough misty tears, In the bow of h()])e on its cloud of fear.s. The promise of Heaven's eternal

years, — Tlie j)cace of God for tin; world'.s an-

Beauty for ashes, and oil of joy !

Under the church of Fedei-al Street, Under the tread of its Sabbath feet. Walled about by its basement stones, Lie; the marvidlous jireacher's bones. No saintly honors to them are shown. No sign 7ior miracle have they known ; But he wlio jiasses the ancient chui'ch Stops in the sliade of its belfry-porch.

And ponders the wonderful life of him Who lies at rest in that charnel dim. Long shall the traveller strain his eye From the railroad car, as it plunges by. And the vanishing town behind him

search For the slender spire of the Whitefield

Church ; And feel for one moment the ghosts of

trade. And fashion, and follv, and i)leasure

laid. By the thought of that life of pure in- tent, " That voice of warning yet eloquent. Of one on the errands of angels sent. And if where he labored the flood of .sin Like a tide from the harbor-bar sets in, And over a life of time and .sense The church-spires lift their vain de- fence. As if to .scatter the bolts of God With the points of Calvin's thunder- rod, — Still, a.s tlie gem of its civic crown, Precious beyond tlie world's renown. His memorj' hallows the ancient town .'

THE (vnAKRR ALUMNI.^o

Fi:oM the well-sinings of Hud.son, the

sea-elilfs of Maine, Grave men, sober matrons, 3'ou gather

again ; And, with hearts warmer grown as

your heads grow more cool, Play over tiie old game of going to

school.

-Ml your strifes and vexations, your

whims and complaints, (Von were not saints yourselves, if tlie

children of saints !) All your petty self-seekings and ri\aL

ries done. Hound the dear Alma Mater your hearts

beat as one !

How widely soe'er you have strayed

from the fold, Though your " thee " has grown " you,"

and your drab blue and gold. To the old Iriendly speech and the

garb's sober form, Likr the heart of Argyle to the tartan,

you warm.

THE QUAKER ALUMNI.

255

But, the first greetings over, you glance ' For the wounds of rebuke, when love

round the hall ;

tempered its edge ;

Your hearts call the roll, but they an- 1 For the household's restraint, and the

swer not all : Through the turf green above them the

dead cannot hear ; Name by name, in the silence, falls sad

as a tear !

In love, let us trast, they were sum- moned so soon

From the morning of life, while we toil through its noon ;

They were frail like ourselves, they had needs like our own.

And they rest as we rest in God's mercy alone.

Unchanged by our changes of spirit and

frame. Past, now, and henceforward the Lord

is the same ; Though we sink in the darkness, his

arms break our fall, And in death as in life, he is Father of

aU!

We are older : our footsteps, so light in the play

Of the far-away school-time, move slower to-day ; —

Here a beard touched with frost, there a bald, shining crown,

And beneath the cap's border gray min- gles with brown.

But faith should be cheerful, and trust

should be glad. And our follies and sins, not our years,

make us sad. Should the heart closer shut as the

bonnet gi'ows prim. And the face grow in length as the hat

grows in brim ?

Life is brief, duty grave ; but, with rain- folded wings,

Of yesterday's sunshine the grateful heart sings ;

And we, of all others, have reason to

pay

The trilnite of thanks, and rejoice on our way ;

For the counsels that turned from the

follies of youth ; t'or the beauty of patience, the white-

laess of truth ;

discipline's hedge ;

For the lessons of kindness vouchsafed

to the least Of the creatures of God, whether human

or beast. Bringing hope to the poor, lending

strength to the frail. In the lanes of the city, the slave-hut,

and jail ;

For a womanhood higher and holier, by

aU Her knowledge of good, than was Eyh

ere her fall, — Whose task- work of duty moves lightly

as play. Serene as the moonlight and warm as

the day ;

And, yet more, for the faith which em- braces the wiiole.

Of the creeds of the ages the life and th^ soul,

Wherein letter and spirit the sara« channel nui.

And man has not severed what God has made one !

For a sense of the Goodness revealed

everywhere. As sunshine impartial, and free as th

air ; For a tnist in humanity. Heathen ol

Jew, And a hope for all darkness The Light

shineth through.

Who scoffs at our birthright ? — the

words of the seers, And the songs of the bards in the twi-

light of years. All the foregleams of wisdom in santon

and sage. In prophet and priest, are our true

heritage.

The Word which the reason of Plato

discerned ; Tlie truth, as whose sj'inbol the Mithra-

fire burned ; The soul of the world which the Stoic

but guessed, In the Light Universal the Quaker con

fessed 1

256

POEMS AND LYRICS.

No honors of war to our worthies be- long ;

Their plain stem of life never flowered into song ;

But the fountains they opened stUl gush by the way,

And the world for their healing is better to-day.

He who lies where the minster's groined arches curve down

To the tomb-crowded transept of Eng- land's renown,

The glorious essayist, by genius en- throned.

Whose pen as a sceptre the Muses all owTied, —

Who through the world's pantheon

walked in his pride, Setting new statues up, thrusting old

ones aside, And in fiction the pencils of history

dipped, To gild o'er or blacken each saint in his

crypt, —

How vainly he labored to sully with

blame The white bust of Peun, in the niche of

his fame ! Self-will is self-wounding, perversitv

blind : On himself fell the stain for the Quaker

designed !

For the sake of his true-hearted father

before him ; For the sake of the dear Quaker mother

that bore him ; For the sake of his gifts, and the works

that outlive him. And his brave words for freedom, we

freely forgive him !

Tliere are those who take note that our

numbers are small, — New Gibbons who write our decline and

our fall ; But the Lord of the seed-field takes care

of his own, ^nd the world shall yet reap what our

sowers have sown.

rhe hist of the sect to his fathers may go, Leaving only his coat for some Btirnum to show ;

But the truth will outlive him, and

broaden \vith years, Till the false dies away, and the wrong

disappears.

Nothing fails of its end. Out of sight

sinks the stone, In the deep sea of time, but the circles

sweep on. Till the low-rippled murmurs along the

shores run. And the dark and dead waters leap glad

in the sun.

Meanwhile shall we learn, in our ease.

to forget To the martj-rs of Truth and of Freedom

our debt ? — Hide their words out of sight, like the

garb that they wore. And for Barclay's Apology offer onu

more ?

Shall we fawn round the priestcraft that

glutted the sheai-s, And festooned the stocks with our gi-and-

fathers' ears ? — Talk of Woolman's unsoundness ? — count

Penn heterodox ? And take Cotton JIathcr in place of

George Fox ? —

Make our preachers war-chaplains ? — quote Scripture to take

The hunted slave back, for Onesimv;s' sake ? —

Goto burning church-candles, and chant- ing in choir.

And on the old meeting-house stick up a spire ?

No ! the old paths we '11 keep until bet- ter are shown.

Credit good where we find it, abroad or our own ;

And while " Lo here " and " Lo there " the multitude call,

Be true to ourselves, and do justice to all.

The good round about us we need not

refuse, Nor talk of our Zion as if we were Jeys ; But why shirk the badge which our

fathers have worn. Or beg the world's pardiju fur ha-/inu

been born ?

THE QUAKER ALUMNI.

257

We need not pray over the Pharisee's

prayer, Nor claim that our wisdom is Benjamin's

share. Truth to us and to others is eq^ual and

one : Shall we bottle the free air, or hoard up

the sun ?

Well know we our birthright may serve but to show

3ow the meanest of weeds in the richest soil grow ;

But we need not disparage the good which we hold ;

Though the vessels be earthen, the treas- ure is gold !

Enough and too much of the sect and

the name. What matters our label, so truth be our

aim ? The creed may be wrong, but the life

may be ti'ue, \nd hearts beat the same under drab

coats or blue.

{5o the man he a man, let him worship,

at will. In Jerusalem's courts, or on Gerizim's

hill. When she makes np her jewels, what

cares yon good town for the Baptist of Wayland, the Quaker

of Brown ?

And this green, favored island, so fresh

and sea-blown. When she counts np the worthies her

annals have known. Never waits for the pitiful gangers of

sect To measure her love, and mete out her

respect.

Three shades at tliis moment seem walk- ing her strand.

Each with head halo-crowned, and wiili palms in his hand, —

Wise Berkeley, grave Hopkins, and, smil- ing serene

On prelate and puritan, Channing is seen.

One holy name bearing, no longer they

need Uredwitials of party, and pass-words of

creed :

17

The new song they sing hath a threefold

accord, And they own one baptism, one faith,

and one Lord !

But the golden sands run out : occasions

like these Glide swift into shadow, like sails ob

the seas : While we sport with the mosses and

pebbles ashore, They lessen and fade, and we see then:

no more.

Forgive me, dear friends, if my vagrant

thoughts seem Like a school-bov's who idles and plays

with his theme. Forgive the light measure whose changeg

display The sunshine and rain of our brief AprD

day.

There are moments in life when the lip.

and the eye Try the question of whether to smile or

to cry ; And scenes and reunions that prompt

like our own The tender in feeling, the playful iu

tone.

I, who never sat down with the lioys and the girls

At the feet of your Slocnms, and Cart- lands, and Earles, —

By courtesy only permitted to lay

On your festival's altar my jioor gift, t'r day, —

I would joy in your joy : let me ha^'R a

friend's j)art In the warmth of your welcome of hard

and of heart, — On your pi ay -ground of boyhood unbenil

tlie lirow's care, And shift the old burdens our shouldeis

must bear.

Long live the good School ! giving out

year by year Recruits to true manhood and woma'i-

hoofl dear : Brave boj's, modest maidens, in beairty

sent forth. The living epistles and proof of its worth !

258

POEMS AND LYKICS.

In and ott let the young life as steadily flow

As in broad Narragansett tlie tides come and go ;

And its sous and its daughters in prairie and town

Remember its honor, and guard its re- nown.

Not vainly the gift of its founder was

made ; Not prayerless the stones of its corner

were laid : The blessing of Him whom in secret they

sought Has owned the good work which the

fathers have wrought.

To Him be the glory forever ! — We bear To the Lord of the Harvest our wheat

with the tare. What we lack in our work may He find

in our wiU, And winnow in mercy our good from the

iU!

BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE.

John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day :

" I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay.

But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free,

With her children, from the gallows- stair put up a prayer for me ! "

John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led

him out to die ; And lo ! a poor slave-mother with her

little child pressed nigh. Then the bold, blue eye grew tender,

and the old harsh face grew mild. As he stooped between the jeering ranks

and kissed the negro's child !

Tlie shadows of his stormy life that mo- ment fell apart ;

And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart.

That kiss from all its guilty means re- deemed the good intent,

.And round thi- grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent 1

Perish \vith him the folly that seeks

through evil good ! Long live the generous purpose unstained

with human blood ! Not the raid of midnight terror, but the

thought which underlies ; Not the borderer's pride of daring, but

the Christian's sacrifice.

Nevermore may yoru Blue Ridges the

Northern rifle hear, Nor see the light of blazing homes flash

on the negro's spear. But let the free-winged angel Truth

their guarded passes scale. To teach that right is more than might,

and justice more than mail !

So vainly shall Virginia set her battle

in array ; In vain her trampling squadrons knead

the winter snow with clay. She may strike the pouncing eagle, but

she dares not harm the dove ; And every gate she bars to Hate shall

open wide to Love !

FROii pp:rltgia.

" The thing which has the most dissevered the people from the I'ope, — the xinforgivahte thing, — the breuliing point between iiim and tlicm, — has been the encouragement and promotion he pave to the officer under whom were executed the slaughters of Perugia. That made the break- ing point in many honest hearts that had clung to him before." — Harriet Btecher Stowe^s " Let- ters/rom Italy."

The tall, sallow guardsmen their horse- tails have spread.

Flaming out in their violet, yellow, and red ;

And behind go the lackeys in crimson and buff,

And the chamberlains gorgeous in velvet and ruff;

Next, in red-legged pomp, come the caidinals forth.

Each a lord of the church and a jiriiice of the earth.

What 's this squeak of tlie fife, and this batter of drum ?

Lo ! the Swiss of the Church from Pe- rugia come, —

Tlie militant angels, whose sabres drive home

To the hearts of the malcontents, cursed and abhorred.

FROM PERUGIA.

259

The good Father's missives, and "Thus

saith the Lord ! " And lend to his logic the point of the

sword !

0 maids of Etruria, gazing forlorn

O'er dark Thrasynienus, dishevelled and torn !

0 fathers, who jtliick at your gray beards for shame !

0 mothers, struck dumb by a woe with- out name !

Well ye know how the Holy Church hireling beliaves,

And his tender compassion of prisons and graves !

There they stand, the hired slabbers,

the blood-stains yet fresh, Tliat splashed like red mne from tlie

vintage of flesh, — Grim instruments, careless as pincers

and rack How the joints tear apart, and the

strained sinews crack ; But the hate tliat glares on them is

sliaqi as their swords. And the sneer and the scowl print the

air with fierce words !

Off with hats, down with knees, shout your vivas like mad !

Here 's the Pope in his holiday right- eousness clad,

From shorn crown to toe-nail, kiss-worn to the quick,

Of sainthood in purple the pattern and pick.

Who the r6U of the priest and the sol- dier unites,

And, jn-aying like Aaron, like Joshua fights !

Is this Pio Nono the gracious, for whom We sang our hosannas and lighted all

Rome ; With whose advent we dreamed the new

era began When the priest should be human, the

monk be a man ? Ah, the wolf 's with the slieep, and the

fox with the fowl. When freedom we trust to the crozier

and cowl !

Stand aside, men of Rome ! Here 's a hangman-faced Swiss —

(A blessing for him surely can't go

amiss) — Would kneel down the sanctified slip]ier

to kiss. Short shrift will suflice him, — he 's

blest lieyond doubt ; But there 's blood on his hands which

would scarcely wash out. Though Peter himself held the baptismal

spout !

Make way for the next ! Here 's anothei

sweet son ! What 's this mastiff -jawed rascal in epau

lets done ? He did, whispers rumor, (its truth God

forliid !) At Perugia what Herodat Bethlehem did. And the mothers ? — Don't name them I

— these humors of war They who keep him in service must par

don him for.

Hist ! here 's the arch-knave in a car- dinal's hat,

With the heart of a wolf, and the stealth of a cat

(As if Judas and Herod together were rolled).

Who keeps, all as one, the Pope's con- science and gold,

Mounts guard on the altar, and pilfers from thence,

And flatters St. Peter while stealing liis pence !

Who doubts Antonelli ? Have miracles

ceased When robbers say mass, and Bai'abbas is

priest ? When the Church eats and drinks, at its

mystical board, The true flesh and blood carved and

shed by its SM^ord, When its martyr, nnsinged, claps the

crown on his head, And roasts, as his proxy, his neighboi

instead !

Ther« ! the bells jow and jangle the same blessed way

That they did when they rang for Bar- tholomew's day.

Hark ! the tallow-faced monsters, nor women nor boys.

Vex the air with a shrill, sexless horror of noise.

260

POEMS AND LYRICS.

Te Deum laudamus I— All roiiiul with- out stint

The iiiceiise-pot swings with a tiiiiit of blood in 't !

And now for the blessing ! Of little

account, You know, is the old one they heard on

the Mount. Its giver was landless, his raiment was

poor. No jewelled tiara his fishermen wore ; Ko incense, no lackeys, no liches, no

home, Ko Swiss guards ! ■ — We order things

better at Rome.

So bless us the strong hand, and curse

us the weak ; Let Austria's vidture have food for her

beak ; Let the wolf-whelp of Naples play

Bomba again, With his death-cap of silence, and

halter, and chain ; Put reason, and justice, and truth under

ban ; For the sin unforgiven is freedom for

man !

FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVAL.

The Persian's iloweiy gifts, the shrine Of fruitful Ceres, cliarni no more ;

The woven wreaths of oak and pine Are dust along tlie Isthmian shore.

But beauty hath its homage still, And nature holds us still in debt ;

And woman's grace and household skill. And manhood's toil, are honored yet.

And we, to-day, amidst our flowers And fniits, have come to own again

fhe blessings of the summer hours, The early and i>^ latter rain ;

To see our Father's hand once more Reverse for us the plenteous horn

Of autumn, filled and running o'er With fruit, and flower, and golden corn !

Once more the liberal year laughs out O'er richer stores than gems or gold ;

Once more with harvest-song and shout Is Nature's bloodless triumph told.

Our conmion mother rests and sings. Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves ; Her lap is full of goodly things.

Her brow is bright with autumn leaves.

0 favors every year made new !

0 gifts with rain and sunshine sent ! The Ijounty overruns our due.

The fulness shames our discontent.

We shut our eyes, the flowers bloom on : W(! murmur, Init the corn-ears till ;

We choose the shadow, but the sun That casts it sliiues behind us stiU.

God gives us with our rugged soil The ])ower to make it Eden-lair,

And richer fruits to crown our toil Than summer-wedded islands bear.

Who murmurs at Ids lot to-day ?

AVho.scorns his native fruit and bloom'? Or sighs for dainties far away,

Beside the bounteous board of home ?

Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom's ann

Can change a rocky soil to gold, — That brave and generous lives can warm

A clime with northern ices cold.

And let these altars, wrcatlied with flowers

And ])iled with fruits, awake again Thanksgivings for tlie golden hours,

The early and the latter rain 1

A WOKD FOR THE HOUR.

261

IN WAE TIME.

rO SAMUEL E. SEWALL

AND

HARRIET W. SEWALL,

OF MELKOSE.

OLon LsCANUS queries: "Why sliould

we Vex at tlie land's ridiculous miserie ? " So on liis Usk banks, in the blood-red

dawn Of England's civil strife, did careless

Vaughan Bemock his times. 0 friends of many

years

Though faith and trust are stronger

than our fears. And the signs promise peace with liberty, Not thus we trifle with our country's

tears And sweat of agony. The future's gain Is ceitain as God's truth; but, mean- while, pain Is bitter and tears are salt : our voices

take A sober tone ; our very household songs Are heavy with a nation's griefs and

wrongs ; A.nd innocent mirth is chastened for the

sake Of the brave hearts that nevermore shall

beat, The eyes that smile no more, the unre-

turning feet !

THY WILL BE DONE.

We see not, know not ; all our way Is night, — ■ft'ith Thee alone is day : From out the torrent's troubled drift. Above the storm our prayers we lift, Thy will l)e done !

The flesh may fail, the heart may faint, 15ut wlio are we to make com])laint. Or dare to jdcad, in times like these, The weakness of our love of ease ? Thy will be done !

We take with solemn thankfulness Our burden up, nor ask it less, And count it joy that even we May suffer, serve, or wait for TheCs Whose will be done !

Though dim as yet in tint and line, We trace Thy picture's wise design, And thank "Thee that our age suirjdicg Its dark relief of sacrifice. Thy will be done !

And if, in our unworthiness, Thy sacrificial wine we press ; If from Thy ordeal's heated bars Our feet are seamed with crimson scars, Thy will be done !

If, for the age to come, this hour Of trial hath vicarious power. And, blest by Thee, our present pain, Be Liberty's eternal gain, Thy will be done !

Strike, Thou the Master, we Thy keys, The anthem of the destinies ! The minor of Thy loftier s train, Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain, Thy will be done !

A WORD FOR THE HOUR.

The firmament breaks up. In black

eclipse Light after light goes out. One evil

star. Luridly glaring through the smoke of

war. As in the dream of the Apocalypse, Drags others down. Let us not weakly

weep Nor rashly threaten. Give us gi-ace to

keep Our faith and patience ; wherefore

should we leap On one hand into fratricidal fight. Or, on the other, yield eternal right. Frame lies of law, and good and ill coi^

found ?

262

IN WAR TIME.

What fear we ? Safe on freedom's van-

tage-gi'ound Our feet are planted : let us there remain In unrevengeful calm, no means untried Which truth can sanction, no just claim

denied, The sad spectators of a suicide ! They break the links of Union : shall

we light The fires of hell to weld anew the chain On that red anvil where each blow is

pain ? Draw we not even now a freer breath, As from our shoulders falls a load of

death Loathsome as that the Tuscan's victim

bore W^hen keen with life to a dead hoiTor

bound ? Why take we up the accursed thing

again ? Pity, forgive, but urge them back no

more Who, drunk with passion, flaunt dis- union's rag With its vile reptile-blazon. Let us press The golden cluster on our brave old flag In closer union, and, if numbering less. Brighter shall shine the stars which still

remain. l6thlstmo.,1861.

"EIN FESTE BURG 1ST UNSER GOTT."

(luther's hymn.)

We wait beneath the furnace-blast

The Jiangs of transfonnation ; Not j>ainlessly doth God recast And mould anew the nation. Hot burns the fire Where wrongs expire ; Nor spares the hand That from the land Uproots the ancient evil.

The hand-breadth cloud the sages feared

Its bloody rain is dropping ; The poison plant the fathers spared All else is overtopping. East, West, South, North, It curses the earth ; All justice dies. And fraud and lies Lire only in its shadow.

What gives the wheat-field blades ol steel ? What points the rebel cannon ? What sets the roaring rabble's heel On the old star-spangled pennon ? What breaks the oath Of the men o' the South ? What whets the knife For the Union's life ? — Hark to the answer : Slavery !

Then waste no blows on lesser foes

In strife unworthy freemen. God lifts to-day the veil, and showg The featuics of the demon ! O North and South, Its victims both. Can ye not cry, " Let slavery die !" And union find in freedom ?

What tliough the cast-out spirit tear

The nation in his going ? We who have shared the guilt must share The pang of his o'erthrowing ! Whate'er the loss, Whate'er the cross. Shall they complain Of present pain Who trust in God's hereafter ?

For who that leans on His right arm

Was ever yet forsaken ? What righteous cause can sufl"er harm If He its part has taken ? Though wild and loud, And dark the cloud, Behind its folds His hand ujiholds The calm sky of to-morrow !

Above the maddening cry for blood,

Above the wild war-drumming. Let Freedom's voice be heard, witt good The evil overcoming. Give prayer and purse To stay the Curse Whose wrong we share, Wliose shame we bear, Wliose end shall gladden Heaven I

In vail) thv. bells of war shall ring Of triumphs and revenges.

THE WATCHERS.

263

While still is spared the evil thing That .severs and estranges.

But blest the ear

That yet shall hear

The jubilant bell

That rings the knell Of Slavery forever !

Then let the selfish lip be dumb,

And hushed the breath of sighing Before the joy of peace must come The pains of purifying. God give us grace Each in his place To bear his lot, And, murmuring not. Endure and wait and labor !

TO JOHN C. FREMONT.

Thy error, Fremont, simply was to act A brave man's part, without the states- man's tact, And, taking counsel but of common

sense, To strike at cause as well as consequence. O, never yet since Roland wound his

horn At Roncesvalles, has a blast been blown Far-heard, wide-echoed, startling as

thine own. Heard from the van of freedom's hope

forlorn ! It had been safer, doubtless, for the time, To flatter treason, and avoid offence To that Dark Power whose underlying

crime Heaves upward its perpetual turbulence. But if thine be the fate of all who break The ground for truth's seed, or forerun

their years Till lost in distance, or with stout hearts

make A lane for freedom through the level

spears, Still take thou courage ! God has spoken

through thee, Irrevocable, the mighty words. Be free ! The land shakes with them, and the

slave's dull ear Turns from the rice-swamp stealthily to

hear. Who would recall them now must first

arrest The winds that blow down from the free

Northwest,

Ruffling the Gulf ; or like a scroll roll

lia<_;k The Mississipi)i to its upper springs. Such words fulfil their prophecy, and

lack But the full time to harden into things.

THE WATCHERS.

Beside a stricken field I stood ;

On the torn turf, on grass and wood,

Hung heavily the dew of blood.

Still in their fresh mounds lay the

slain, But all the air was quick with pain And gusty sighs and tearful rain.

Two angels, each with drooping head And folded wings and noiseless tread, Watched by that valley of the dead.

The one, with forehead saintly bland And lips of blessing, not command, Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand.

The other's brows were scarred and knit, His restless eyes were watch-fires lit, His hands for battle-gauntlets fit.

" How long ! " — I knew the voice of

Peace, — " Is there no respite ? — no release ? — When shall the hopeless quarrel cease ?

' ' 0 Lord, how long ! — One human soul Is more than any parchment scroll, Or any flag thy winds unroll.

"Wliat price was Ellsworth's, 3'oung

and brave ? How weigh the gift that Lyon gave. Or count the cost of Winthrop's giave ?

" 0 brother ! if thine eye can see, Tell how and when the end shall be. What hope remains for thee and me."

Then Freedom sternly said : "I shun No strife nor i)ang beneath the sun, Wli(;n human rights are staked and

" I knelt with Ziska's hunted flock, 1 watched in Toussaint's cell of rock, I walked with Sidney to the block.

264

IN WAR TIME.

'' The moor of Marston felt my tread. Through Jersey snows the march I k-d, My voice Magenta's charges sped.

" But now, through weary day and night, I watch a vague and aimless tight For leave to strike one blow aright.

" On either side my foe they own : One guards through love his ghastly

throne, A.nd one through fear to reverence

grown.

" Why wait we longer, mocked, be- trayed, By open foes, or those afraid To speed thy coming through my aid ?

" Why watch to see who win or fall ? —

I shake tlie dust against them all,

I leave them to their senseless brawl."

"Nay," Peace implored: "yet longer

wait ;

The doom is near, the stake is gieat : God kuoweth if it be too late.

" Still wait and watch ; the way prepare AVhere I with folded wings of prayer May follow, weaponless and bare."

"Too late !" the stem, sad voice re- plied, " Too late ! " its mournful echo sighed. In low lament the answer died.

A rustling as of wings in flight.

An upward gleam of lessening white,

So i)assed the Wsion, sound and siglit.

But round me, like a silver bell Kung down the listening sky to tell Of holy help, a sweet voice fell.

"Still hope and trust," it sang; "the

rod Must fall, the wine-press must be trod. But all is possible with God ! "

TO ENGLISHMEN.

YoF flung your taunt across the wave ;

We bore it as became us. Well knowing that the fettered slave Left friendly lijis no option save

To pity or to blame ue.

You scofi"ed our plea. " Mere lack of will,

Not lack of power," you told us : We showed our free-state records ; stiU You mocked, confounding good and ill,

Slave-haters and slaveholders.

We struck at Slaverj^ ; to the verge Of power and means we checked it ;

Lo ! — presto, change ! its claims you urge,

Send gi-eetings to it o'er the surge, And comfort and protect it.

But yesterday you scarce could shake.

In slave-abhorring rigor. Our Northern palms for conscience' sake : To-day you clasp the hands that ache

With " walloping the nigger ! " "i

0 Englishmen ! — in hope and cieed, In blood and tongue our brothers !

We too are heirs of Runnjinede ;

And Shakespeare's fame and Cromwell's deed Are not alone our mother's.

" Thicker than water," in one rill

Through centuries of story Our Saxon blood has flowed, and still We share witli you its good and ill,

The shadow and the glory.

Joint heirs and kinfolk, leagues of wavi

Nor length of years can part us : Your riglit is ours to shrine and grave. The conunon freehold of the brave. The gift of saints and martyrs.

Our very sins and follies teach

Our kindred frail and human : We carji at faults with bitter speech. The wliile, for one unsliared by each. We have a score in common.

We bowed the heart, if not the knee, To England's Queen, God bless her !

W'e praised you when your slaves wviA free :

We seek to unchain ours. Will yc Join hands with the oppressor ?

And is it Christian England cheers

The bniiser, not the bruised ? And nnist she run, desj)ite the tears And prayers of eigliteen liundred years. Amuck in Slavery's crusade ?

THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862.

265

0 black disgrace ! 0 shame and loss Too deep for tongue to phrase on ! Tear from your flag its holy cross, And in your van of battle toss The pirate's skull-bone blazon !

ASTRiEA AT THE CAPITOL.

ABOLITION OF SLAVERY IN THE DIS- TRICT OF COLUMBIA, 1862.

When first I saw our banner wave Above the nation's council-hall, I heard beneath its marble wall

The clanking fetters of the slave !

In the foul market-place I stood, And saw the Christian mother sold, And childhood with its locks of gold.

Blue-eyed and fair with Saxon blood.

I shut my eyes, I held my breath, i\.nd, smothering down the wrath and

shame That set my Northern blood aflame. Stood silent, — where to speak was death.

Beside me gloomed the prison-cell Where wasted one in slow decline For uttering simple words of mine,

And loving freedom all too well.

The flag that floated from the dome Flapped menace in the morning air ; I stood a perilled stranger where

The human broker made his home.

For crime was ^artue : Gown and Sword And Law their threefold sanction gave, .\nd to the quarry of the slave

Went hawking with our symbol-bird.

On the oppressor's side was power ; And yet I knew that every wrong. However old, however strong,

But waited God's avenging hour.

I knew that truth would crush the lie, — Somehow, some time, the end would

be ; Yet scarcely dared I hope to see

The triumph with my mortal eye.

But now I see it ! In the sun A free flag floats from yonder dome,

And at the nation's hearth and home The justice long delayed is done.

Not as we hoped, in calm of prayer, The message of deliverance comes, But heralded by roU of dnams

On waves of battle-troubled air ! —

Midst sounds that madden and appall. The song that Bethlehem's shepherd.s

knew ! The harp of David melting through

The demon-agonies of Saul !

Not as we hoped ; — but what are we ? Above our broken dreams and plans God lays, with wiser hand than man's.

The corner-stones of liberty.

I cavil not with Him : the voice That freedom's blessed gospel tells Is sweet to me as silver bells.

Rejoicing ! — yea, I will rejoice !

Dear friends still toiling in the sun, — Ye dearer ones who, gone before. Are watching from the eternal shore

The slow work by your hands begun, —

Rejoice Avith me ! The chastening rod Blossoms with love ; the furnace heat Grows cool beneath His blessed feet

Whose form is as the Son of God !

Rejoice ! Our Marah's bitter springs Are sweetened ; on our ground of grief Rise day by day in strong relief

The prophecies of better things.

Rejoice in hope ! The day and night Are one with God, and one with them Who see by faith the cloudy hem

Of Judgment fringed with Mercy's light !

THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862.

The flags of war like storm-birds fly, The charging tnunpets blow ;

Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below.

And, calm and patient, Nature keeps

Her ancient promise well. Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps

The battle's breath of hell.

266

IN WAE TIME.

And still she walks in golden hours Through harvest-happy farms,

And still she wears her fruits and flowers Like jewels on her arms.

What mean the gladness of the plain,

This joy of eve and morn, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain

And yellow locks of corn ?

Ah ! eyes may well be full of tears. And hearts with hate are hot ;

But even-paced come round the years, And Nature changes not.

She meets with smiles our bitter gi'icf. With songs our groans of pain ;

She mocks with tint of flower and leaf The war-field's crimson stain.

Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear Her sweet thanksgiving-psaim ;

Too near to God for doubt or fear, She shares the eternal calm.

She knows the seed lies safe below The fires that blast and burn ;

For all the tears of blood we sow She waits the rich return.

She sees with clearer eye than ours The good of su He ring born, —

The hearts that blossom like her flowers, And ripen like her com.

0, give to us, in times like these,

The vision of her eyes ; And make her fields and fruited trees

Our golden prophecies !

0, give to lis her finer ear !

Above this stormy din. We too would hear the bells of cheer

King peace and freedom in.

IIITHRIDATES AT CHIOS."

Know'st thou, 0 slave-cursed land ! /low, when the Chian's cup of guilt Was full to overflow, there came Tiod's justice in the sword of flame That, red with slaughter to its hilt, Blazed in the Cappadocian victor's hand ?

The heavens are still and far ; But, not unheard of awful Jove,

The sighing of the island slave Was answered, when the ^'Egean wave The keels of Mithridates clove, And the vines shrivelled in the T)rcath of war.

" Robbers of Chios ! hark," The victor cried, " to Heaven's de- cree ! riuck your last cluster from the

vine. Drain your last cup of Chiau wine . Slaves of 3'our slaves, jour ilooiii .sliall be, In ("olchian mines by Phasis rolling dark."

Tiien rose the long lament From the hoar sea-god's dusky caves : The priestess rent her liair and

cried, "Woe ! woe ! The gods arc sleeji- less-eyed ! " And, chained and scourged, the slaves of slaves. The lords of Chios into exile went.

" Tlie gods at last pay well," So Hellas sang her taunting song, " The fisher in his net is caught. The Chian hath his master bought" ; And isle from isle, with laughter long. Took up and sped the mocking parable.

Once more the slow, dumb years Bring their avenging cycle round, And, more than Hellas taught of old, Our wiser lesson shall be told. Of slaves uprising, freedom-crowned, To break, not wield, the scourge wet with their blood and tears.

THE TROCLAMATION.

Saint Patkick, slave to Milcho of the

herds Of Ballymena, wakened with these

words : " Arise, and flee Out from the land of bondage, and be

free ! "

Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from

heaven The angels singing of his sins forgiven,

ANNIVERSARY POEM.

2G7

And, wondering, sees His prison opening to their golden, keys.

He rose a man who laid him down a

slave, Shook from his locks the ashes of the

grave. And outward trod Into the glorious liberty of God.

He cast the sjmbols of his shame away ; And, passing where the sleeping Milcho lay, Though back and limb Smarted with wrong, he prayed, " God pardon him ! "

So went he forth ; but in God's time he

came To light on Uilline's hills a holy flame ;

And, dying, gave The land a saint that lost him as a

slave.

0 dark, sad millions, patiently and dumb Waiting for God, your hour, at last, has

come, And freedom's song Breaks the long silence of your night of

wrong !

Arise and flee ! shake off the vile re- straint

Of ages ; but, like Balljnnena's saint. The oppressor spare,

Heap only on his head the coals of prayer.

Go forth, like him ! like him return

again, To bless the land whereon in bitter pain

Ye toiled at first, And h(;al witli freedom what your slav-

eiy cursed.

ANNIVERSARY POEM.

[Read before the ,\lumni of the Friends' Yearly Meeting School, at the Annual Meeting at New- port, K. I., 15tU Gth mo., 1863.]

O.NCE more, dear friends, you meet be- neath

A clouded sky : Not yet th(i swurd has found its slicath, And on the sweet spring airs the breath

01' war floats by.

Yet trouble springs not from the gi-ound.

Nor pain from chance ; The Eternal orders circles round. And wave and storm find mete and bound

In Providence.

Full long our feet the flowery ways

Of peace have trod, Content with creed and garb and phrase . A harder path in earlier days

Led up to God.

Too cheaply truths, once purchased dearj

Are made our own ; Too long the w^rld has smiled to hear Our boast of full corn in the ear

By others sown ;

To see us stir the martyr fires

Of long ago. And wrap our satisfied desires In the singed mantles that our sires

Have tb-opped below.

But now the cross our worthies bore

On us is laid ; Profession's quiet sleep is o'er. And in the scale of truth once more

Our faith is weighed.

The cry of innocent blood at last

Is calling down An answer in the whirlwind-blast. The thunder and the shadow cast

From Heaven's dark frown.

The land is red witli judgments. Who

Stands guiltless forth ? Have we been faithful as we knew. To God and to our brother true.

To Heaven and Earth ?

How faint, through din of merchaudis*

And count of gain. Have seemed to us the captive's cries ! How far away the tears and sighs

Of souls in pain !

This day the fearful reckoning cornea

To each and all ; We liear amidst our jjeaceful liomes Th(! summons of the consciipt dmms,

Tile bugle's call.

Oui' ]iath is ])lain ; the war-net diaw's Round us in vain,

268

IN WAR TIME.

While, faithful to the Higher Cause, We keep oui- fealty to the laws Tluough patient pain.

The levelled gun, the battle-brand,

AVe may not take : But, calmly loyal, we can stand And suffer with onr suffering land

For conscience' sake.

Why ask for ease where all is pain ?

Shall xcc alone Be left to add our gain to gain, When over Armageddon's plain

The tramp is blown ?

To suffer well is well to serve ;

Safe in our Lord The rigid lines of law shall curve To spare us ; from our heads shall swerve

Its smiting sword.

And light is mingled with the gloom,

And joy with grief ; Divincst compensations come. Through thorns of judgment mercies bloom

In sweet relief.

Thanks for our privilege to bless,

By word and deed, The widow in her kt'en distress, The cliildless and the fatherles.s,

The liearts that bleed !

For fields of duty, opening wide,

Where all our powers Are tiu^ketl the eager steps to guide Of millions on a path untried :

The slave is ours !

Ours by traditions dear and old.

Which make the race Our wards to clierish and u])hold. And cast their freedom in the mould

Of Christian grace.

And we may tread the sick-bed floors

Wliere strong men pine. And, down the groaning corridors, Four freelj- from our liberal stores

The oil and wine.

Who murmurs that in these dark days

His lot is cast? God's liand within the shadow lays The stones whereon His gates of praise

Shall rise at last.

Turn and o'erturn, 0 outstretched Hand !

Xor stint, nor stay ; The years have never dropped their

sand On mortal issue vast and grand

As ours to-day.

Already, on the sable ground

Of man's despair Is Freedom's glorious picture found. With all its dusky hands unbound

Upraised in prayer.

O, small shall seem all sacrifice

And jiain and loss, AVhen God sliall wipe the weejting eyes For suffering give the victor's jirize,

The crown for cross !

AT FORT ROYAL.

The tent-lights glimmer on the land.

The ship-lights oji the sea ; TIic night-wind smooths with drifting sand

Our track on lone Tybee.

At last our grating keels outslide. Our good boats forward swing ;

And while we ride the land-locked tide, Our negroes row and sing.

For dear the bondman holds his gifts

Of nnisic and of song : The gold tliat kindly Nature sifts

Among his sands of ^\Tong ;

Tlic power to make his toiling days And poor home-comforts please ;

The (juaint relief of mirth that plays Witli sorrow's minor keys.

Anotlicr glow than sunset's fire Has micd the West witli light,

Wlu'n> field and garner, barn and byre, Are blazing through the night.

The land is wild with fear and hate, The rout runs mad aiul fast ;

From hand to hand, from gate to gate The flaming brand is passed.

The lurid glow falls strong across Dark fai;es liroad with smiles :

Not theirs the tenor, hate, and loss That fu-e yon blazing piles.

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

269

With oar-strokes timing to their song, Tliey weave in simple lays

The pathos of rememlDered wrong, The hope of better days, —

The triumph-note that Miriam sung,

The joy of uncaged birds : Softening with Afric's mellow tongue

Their broken Saxon words.

SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN.

0, praise an' tanks ! De Lord he come

To set de people free ; An' massa tink it day ob doom,

An' we ob jubilee. De Lord dat heap de Eed Sea waves

He ji;s' as 'trong as den ; He say de word : we las' night slaves ; To-day, de Lord's freemen.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,

We'll hab de rice an' corn ; 0 nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn !

Ole massa on ho trabbels gone ;

He leaf de land behind : De Lord's breff blow hun furder on,

Like corn-shuck in de wind. We own de hoe, we own de plough.

We own de hands dat hold ; We sell de pig, we sell de cow, But nebber chile be sold.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow.

We '11 hab de rice an' corn ; 0 nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver IjIow his horn !

We pray de Lord : he gib us signs

Dat some day we be free ; De norf-wind tell it to de pines,

De wild-iluck to de sea ; We tink it when de church-bell ring,

We dream it in de dream ; De rice-bird mean it when he sing, De eagle when he scream.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,

We '11 liab de rice an' corn : 0 nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn !

We know de promi.s(! nel)l)er fail. An' nebber lie de word ;

So like de 'postles in de jail,

We waited for de Lord : An' now he open ebery door,

An' trow away de key ; He tink we lub him so before, We lub him better free .

De yam will gi'ow, de cotton blow.

He '11 gib de rice an' corn ; 0 nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn !

So sing our dusky gondoliers ;

And with a secret pain. And smiles that seem akin to tears,

We hear the wild refrain.

We dare not share the negro's trust,

iSTor yet his hope deny ; We only know that God is just,

And every wrong shall die.

Rude seems the song ; each swarthy face,

Flame-lighted, ruder still : We start to think that hapless race

Must shape our good or ill ;

That laws of changeless justice bind

Oppressor with oppressed ; And, close as sin and suffering joined.

We march to Fate abreast.

Sing on, poor hearts ! your chant shall be

Our sign of blight or Ijlooni, — Tlie Vala-song of Liberty,

Or death-rune of our doom !

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn.

The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as the garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain- wall. —

270

BALLADS.

Over the mountains \rinding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind : the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ;

Bravest of all in Frederick town. She took up the flag the men hauled down ;

In her attic window the stafl" she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced : the old flag met his sight.

" Halt ! " — the dust-brown ranks stood

fast. " Fire ! " — out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the -window, pane and sash ; It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.

She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will.

" Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare j^our country's flag, " she said

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came ;

The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word :

" Who touches a hair of yon gi"ay head Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said.

All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet :

All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well ;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her ! and let a tear

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave !

Peace and order and beauty draw Kound thy sjonbol of light and law ;

And ever the stai-s above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town !

BALLADS.

COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION."

TiiK beaver cut his timber With patient teeth that day,

Tlie minks were fish-wards, and ll crows Surveyors of highway, —

When Keezar sat on the hillside

TTnon his cobbler's form, Witli a pan of coals on either hand

To keep his waxed-ends waim.

.\nd there, in the golden weather. He stitched and hammered and sung;

III the brook he moi.stened his leather. In the pewter mug his tongue.

Well knew the tough old Teuton Wlio brewed the stoutest ale,

And lie paid the goodwife's reckoning In the coin of song and tale.

The songs they still are singing Who drees the hills of vine.

COBBLER KEEZAR S VISION.

271

The tales that haunt the Brocken And whisper down the Rhine.

Woodsy and wild and lonesome, The swift stream wound away,

Through birches and scarlet maples Flashing in foam and spray, —

Down on the sharp-horned ledges

Plunging in steep cascade. Tossing its white-maned waters

Against the hemlock's shade.

Woodsy and wild and lonesome,

East 3J*d west and north and south ;

Only the village of lishers Down at the river's mouth ;

Only here and tliere a clearing,

With its farm-house rude and new,

And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, Where the scanty harvest grew.

No shout of home-bound reapers,

No vintage-song he heard. And on the gi-een no dancing feet

The merry violin stirred.

" Why should folk be glum," said Kee- zar,

" When Nature herself is glad, And the painted woods are laughing

At the faces so sour and sad ? "

Small heed had the careless cobbler What sorrow of heart was theirs

Who travailed in pain with the births of God, And planted a state with prayers, —

Hunting of witches and warlocks, Smiting the heathen horde, —

One hand on the mason's trowel, And one on the soldier's sword !

But give him his ale and cider. Give him his pip(! and song.

Little he cared for Church or State, Or the balance of right and wrong.

"'Tis work, work, work," he mut- tered, —

" And for rest a snuffle of psalms 1 " He smote on his leathcirn apron

With his brown and wa.xen palms.

" 0 for the jmrple harvests Of the days when I was young 1

For the merry grape-stained maidens. And the pleasant songs they sung !

" 0 for the breath of vineyards. Of apples and nuts and wine !

For an oar to row and a breeze to blow Down the grand old river Rhine ! "

A tear in his blue eye glistened. And dropped on his beard so gray.

"Old, old am I," said Keezar,

" And the Rhine flows far away ! "

But a cunning man was the cobbler ;

He could call the birds from the trees, Charm the black snake out of the ledges.

And bring back the swarming bees.

All the virtiies of herbs and metals, All the lore of the woods, he knew.

And the arts of the Old World mingled With the marvels of the New.

Well he knew the tricks of magic, And the lapstone on his knee

Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles Or the stone of Doctor Dee.

For the mighty master Agrippa Wrought it with spell and rhyme

From a fragment of mystic moonstone In the tower of Nettesheini.

To a cobbler Minnesinger

The marvellous stone gave he, —

And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, Who brought it over the sea.

He held up that mystic lapstone.

He held it up like a lens. And he counted the long years coming

By twenties and by tens.

"One hundred years," quoth Keezar,

"And fifty have I told: Now open the new before me.

And shut me out the old ! "

Like a cloud of mist, the blackness Rolled from the magic stone,

And a marvellous picture mingled The unknown and the known.

Still ran the stream to tlie river, And river and ocean joined ;

And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line. And cold north hills behind.

272

BALLADS.

But the miglity forest was broken

By man}' a steepled town, By many a white-walled farm-house,

And many a garner brown.

Turning a score of mill-wheels, The stream no more ran free ;

AVhite sails on the winding river, White sails on the far-off sea.

Below in the noisy village

The flags were floating gay, And shone on a thousand faces

The light of a holiday.

Swiftly the rival ploughmen

Turned the brown earth from their shares ; Here were the farmer's treasures.

There were the craftsman's wares.

Golden the goodwife's butter,

Euby her currant-wine ; Grand were the strutting turkeys,

Fat were the beeves and swine.

Yellow and red were the a]iples. And the ripe pears russet-brown,

And the peaches had stolen blushes From the girls who shook them dowTi.

And with blooms of hill and wild- wood,

That shame the toil of art, Mingled the gorgeous blossoms

Of the garden's tropic heart.

" What is it I see ? " said Keezar : ' ' Am I here, or am I there ?

Is it a fete at Bingen ? Do 1 look on Frankfort fair ?

" But where are the clowns and pup- pets,

And imps with horns and tail ? And where are the lihenisli flagons ?

And where is the foaming ale ?

"Strange tilings, I know, will hap- pen, —

Strange things the Lord jicnnits ; But that droughty folk should be jolly

Puzzles my poor old wits.

" Here are smiling manly faces, And the maiden's step is gay ;

Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drink ing, Nor mopes, nor fools, are they.

" Here 's pleasure without regretting

And good without abuse, The holiday and the bridal

Of beauty and of use.

' ' Here 's a priest and there is a Qua- ker, — Do the cat and dog agree ? Have they burned the stocks for oven^ wood ? Have they cut down the gallows-tree ?

" Would the old folk know their chil- dren ?

Would they own the gi-aceless town, With never a ranter to worry

And never a witch to drown ? "

Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, Laughed like a school-boy gay ;

Tossing his arms above him, The lapstone rolled away.

It rolled dov>n the rugged liillside. It spun like a wheel bewitched,

It j)lunged through the leaning willows, And into the river pitched.

There, in the deep, dark water,

The magic stogie lies still, Lender the leaning willows

In the shadow of the hill.

But oft the idle fisher

Sits on the shadow}^ bank, And his dreams make marvellous pic- tures

Where the wizard's lapstone .sank.

And still, in the summer twilights, Wlien the river seems to run

Out from the inner glorj'. Warm with the melted sun,

The weary mill-girl lingers

Beside the charuKkl stream. And the; sky and the golden water

Shape and color her dream.

Fair wave tlie sunset gardens,

The rosy signals fly ; Her homestead beckons from the cloud.

And love goe>:* .'^ailing by ,

AMY WENTWOETH. AMY WENTWORTH.

273

As they who watch by sick-beds find

relief Unwittingly from the great stress of

grief And anxious care in fantasies ont-

wrought From the hearth's embers flickering low,

or caught From wliispering wind, or tread of pass- ing feet. Or vagrant memory calling up some

sweet Snatch of old song or romance, whence

or why They scarcely know or ask, — so, thou

and I, Nursed in the faith that Truth alone is

strong In the endurance which outwearies

Wrong, With meek persistence baffling brutal

force. And trusting God against the universe, — We, doomed to watch a strife we may

not share With other weapons than the patriot's

prayer. Yet owning, with full hearts and moist- ened eyes, The awful beauty of self-sacrifice. And wrung by keenest sympathy for all Who give their loved ones for the living

wall 'Twixt law and treason, — in this evil

day May haply find, through automatic ])lay Of pen and pencil, solace to onr pain, And hiiarten others with the strengtli we

gain. I know it has been said our times re- quire No play of art, nor dalliance with the

lyre. No weak essay with Fancy's chloroform To calm the hot, mad pulses of the

storm. But the stern war-blast rather, such as

sets The battle's teeth of serried bayonets. And pictures grim as Vernet's. Yet

with these Some softer tints may blend, and milder

keys

18

Relieve the storm-stunned ear. Let us

keep sweet. If so we may, our hearts, even while we

eat The bitter harvest of our own device And half a century's moral cowardice. As Niirnberg sang while Wittenberg

defied. And Krauach painted by his Luther's

side. And through the war-march of the Pu- ritan The silver stream of Marvell's music

ran, So let the household melodies be sung. The pleasant pictures on the wall be

hung, — So let us hold against the hosts of night And slavery all our vantage-ground of

light. Let Treason boast its savagery, and

shake From its flag-folds its symbol rattle- snake. Nurse its fine arts, lay human skins in

tan. And carve its pipe-bowls from the bones

of man. And make the tale of Fijian banquets

dull By drinking whiskey from a loyal

skull, — But let us guard, till this sad war shall

cease, (God grant it soon !) the graceful arts

of peace : No foes are conquered who the victors

teach Their vandal manners and barbaric

speech.

And while, with hearts of thankfulness,

we bear Of the great connnon burden our full '

share, Let none upbraid us that tlu^ waves

entice Thy sea-dipped pencil, or some quaint

device. Rhythmic and sweet, beguiles my pen

away From the sharp strifes and soirows of

to-day. Thus, while the east-wind keen from

Labrador Sings in the leafless elms, and from the

shore

274

BALLADS.

Of the great sea comes the monotonous

roar Of the long-breaking surf, and all the

sky Is gray Avith cloud, home-bound and

dull, I try To time a simple legend to the sounds Of winds in the woods, and waves on

pebbled bounds, — A song for oars to chime with, such as

might Be sung by tired sea-painters, who at

night Look from their hemlock camjis, by

quiet cove Or beach, moon-lighted, on the waves

they love. (So hast thou looked, when level sunset

lay On the calm bosom of some Eastern

bay. And all the spray -moist rocks and waves

that rolled Up the white sand-slopes flashed with

ruddy gold. ) Something it has — a flavor of the

sea, And the sea's freedom — which reminds

of thee. Its faded jjicture, dimly smiling down From the blurred fresco of the ancient

town, I have not touched with warmer tints in

vain. If, in this dark, sad year, it steals one

tliought from pain.

Her fingers shame the ivory keys

The}- dance so light along ; The bloom ujjon her jiarted lips

Is sweeter than the song.

0 perfumed suitor, spare thy smiles !

Her thoughts are not of thee ; She better loves the salted wind.

The voices of the sea.

Pier heart is like an outbound ship

That at its anchor swings ; The muiTOur of tlie stranded shell

Is in the song she sings.

She sings, and, smiling, hears her praise. But dreams the wliile of one

Who watches from liis sea-blown deck The icebergs in the sun.

She questions all the winds that blow,

And every fog-wreath dim. And bids the sea-birds flying north

Bear messages to him.

She speeds them with the thanks of nieu

He perilled life to save. And grateful prayers like holy oil

To smooth for him the wave.

Brown Yiking of the fishing-smack !

Fair toast of all the town ! — The skipper's jerkin ill beseems

The lady's silken gown !

But ne'er shall Amy Wentworth wear For him the blush of shame

Who dares to set his manly gifts Against her ancient name.

The stream is brightest at its spring, And blood is not like wine ;

Xor honored less than he who heirs Is he who founds a line.

Full lightly shall the piize be won,

If love be Fortune's spur ; And never maiden stoo]>s to him

Who lifts himself to her.

Her home is brave in JaffVey Street, ^^'itll stately stairways worn

By feet of old Colonial knights And ladies gentle-born.

Still gi-een about its ample porch

The English ivy twines. Trained back to show in English oak

The herald's carven signs.

And on her, from the wainscot old.

Ancestral faces frown, — And this has worn the soldier's sword>

And that the judge's gown.

But, strong of will and proud as they,

she walks the gallery floor As if she trod her sailor's deck

By stormy Labrador !

The sweetbrier blooms on Kittery-sido, And green are Elliot's bowers ;

Her garden is the pebbled beach, The mosses are her flowers.

She looks across the harbor-bar To see the white gulls fly ;

THE COUNTESS.

275

His greetiag from the Northern sea Is in theii clanging cry.

She hums a song, and dreams that he,

As in its romance okl, Shall homeward ride with silken sails

And masts of beaten gold !

0, rank is good, and gold is fair, And high and low mate ill ;

But love has never known a law Beyond its own sweet will !

THE COUNTESS.

TO E. W.

I KNOW not, Time and Space so inter- vene.

Whether, still waiting with a trust se- rene,

Thou bearest up thj' fourscore years and ten,

Or, called at last, art now Heaven's cit- izen ;

But, here or there, a pleasant thought of thee.

Like an old friend, all day has been with me.

The shy, still boy, for whom thy kindly hand

Smoothed his hard pathway to the won- der-land

Of thought and fancy, in gray manhood yet

Keeps green the memory of his early debt.

To-day, when truth and falsehood speak their words

Through hot-lipped cannon and the teeth of swords.

Listening with quickened heart and ear intent

To each sharp clause of that stern argu- ment,

I still can hear at times a softer noti^

Of the old pastoral music round me float,

While thiough the hot gleam of our civil strife

Looms the green mirage of a simpler life.

As, at his alien post, the sentinel

Props the old bucket in the homestead well,

And hears old voices in the winds that toss

Above his head the live-oak's beard of moss.

So, in our trial-time, and under skies

Shadowed by swords like Islam's para- dise,

I wait and watch, and let my fancy stray

To milder scenes and youth's Arcadian day ;

And howsoe'er the pencil dipped in dreams

Shades the brown woods or tints the sunset streams.

The country doctor in the foreground seems,

AVhose ancient sulky down the village lanes

Dragged, like a war-car, captive ills and pains.

I could not paint the scenery of my song.

Mindless of one who looked thereon so long ;

Who, night and day, on duty's lonely round.

Made friends o' the woods and rocks, and knew the sound

Of each small brook, and what the hill- side ti'ces

Said to the winds that touched their leafy keys ;

Who saw so keenly and so well could paint

The village-folk, with all their humors quaint, —

The parson ambling on his wall-eyed roan.

Grave and erect, with white hair back- ward blown ;

The tough old boatman, half amphibious grown ;

The muttering witch-wife of the gossip's tale.

And the loud straggler levying his black- mail, —

Old customs, habits, superstitions, fears,

All that lies buried under fifty years.

To thee, as is most fit, I bring my lay,

And, grateful, own the debt I cannot pay.

Over the wooded northern ridge,

Between its houses brown. To the dark tunnel of the bridge

276

BALLADS.

You catch a glimpse, through birch and pine,

Of gal lie, roof, and porch, The tavern with its swinging sign,

The sharp horn of the church.

The river's steel-blue crescent curves

To meet, in ebb and flow. The single broken wharf that serves

For sloop and gundelow.

With salt sea-scents along its shores

The heavy hay-boats crawl. The long antennae of their oars

In lazy rise and fall.

Along the graj'^ abutment's wall

The idle shad-net dries ; The toll-man in his cobbler's stall

Sits smoking with closed eyes.

Vou hear the piei''s low undertone Of waves that chafe aud gnaw ;

You start, — a skipper's horn is blown To raise the creaking draw.

At times a blacksmith's anvil sounds "With slow and sluggard beat.

Or stage-coach on its dusty rounds Wakes up the staring street.

A place for idle eyes and ears, A cobwebbed nook of dreams ;

Left by the stream whose waves are years The stranded village seems.

And there, like other moss and rust,

The native dweller clings. And keeps, in uninquiring trust,

The old, dull round of things.

The fisher dro]>s his patient lines.

The fanner sows his grain. Content to hear the munnuring pines

Instead of railroad-train.

Oo where, along the tangled steep That slopes against the west,

The hamlet's buried idlers sleep In still profounder rest.

Throw back the locust's flowery plume. The birch's pale-green scarf.

And break the web of brier and bloom From name and epitaph.

A simple miister-roU of death. Of pomp and romance shorn.

The dr}% old names that common breath Has cheapened and outworn.

Yet pause by one low mound, and part

The A\ild vines o'er it laced, And read the words by rustic art

Upon its headstone traced.

Haply yon white-haired villager

Of fourscore years can say What means the noble name of her

Who sleeps with common clay

An exile from the Gascon land

Found refuge here and rest, And loved, of all the village band,

Its fairest and its best.

He knelt with her on Sabbath morns, He worshipped through her eyes,

And on the pride that doubts and scorns Stole in her faith's surprise.

Her simple daily life he saw

P>y homeliest duties tried. In all things by an untaught law

Of fitness justified.

For her his rank aside he laid ;

He took the hue and tone Of lowly life and toil, and made

Her simple ways his own.

Y(>t still, in gay and careless ease.

To harvest-field or dance He brought the gentle courtesies,

The nameless gi-ace of France.

And she who taught him love not less From him .she loved in turn

Caught in her sweet unconsciousness What love is quick to learn.

Each grew to each in pleased accord,

Xor knew the gazing town If she looked upward to her lord

Or he to her looked down.

How sweet, when summer's day was o'er, His violin's mirth and wail,

The walk on pleasant Newbury's shore. The river's moonlit sail !

Ah ! life is brief, though love be long ;

The altar and the bier, The burial hymn and bridal song,

Were both in one short year !

NAPLES.

277

Her rest is quiet on the liill, Beiieatli tlie locust's bloom :

Far ofi' her lover sleeps as still Within his scutcheoned tomb.

The Gascon lord, the village maid, In death still clasp their hands ,•

The love that levels rank and grade Unites their severed lands.

What matter whose the hillside grave. Or whose the blazoned stone ?

forever to her western wave Shall whisper blue Garonne !

0 Love ! — so hallowing every soil That gives thy sweet flower room,

Wherever, nursed by ease or toil. The human heart takes bloom ! —

I riant of lost Eden, from the sod

Of sinful earth unriven, j White blossom of the trees of God j Dropped down to us from heaven ! —

This tangled waste of mound and stone

Is holy for thy sake ; A sweetness which is all thy own

Breathes out from fern and brake.

And while ancestral pride shall twine The Gascon's tomb with flowers.

Fall sweetly here, 0 song of mine. With summer's bloom and showers 1

And let the lines that severed seem

Unite again in thee. As western wave and Gallic stream

Are mingled in one sea !

OCCASIONAL POEMS

NAPLES. 1860.

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT C. AVATERSTON, OF BOSTON.

I GIVE thee joy ! — I know to thee The dearest spot on earth must be Where sleeps thy loved one by the sum- mer sea ;

Where, near her sweetest poet's

tomb. The land of Virgil gave thee room To lay thy flower with her perpetual

bloom.

I know that when the sky shut

down Behind thee on the gleaming town, On BaiiE's baths and Posilippo's crown ;

And, through thy tears, the mock- ing day

Burned Ischia's mountain lines away. And Capri melted in its sunny bay, —

Through thy great farewell sorrow

shot The sharp pang of a bitter thought That slaves must tread around that holy

spot.

Thou knewest not the land was

blest In giving thy beloved rest. Holding the fond hope closer to her

breast

That every sweet and saintly grave Was freedom's prophecy, and gave The pledge of Heaven to sanctify and save.

That pledge is answered. To th j^ oar The unchained city sends its cheer, And, t" aed to joy, the muffled bells of fear

Ring Victor in. Tlie land sits free And happy by the summer sea. And Bourbon Naples now is Italy !

She smiles above her broken chain The languid smile that follows pain, Stretcliing her cramped limbs to the sou again.

278

OCCASIONAL POEMS.

0, joy for all, who hear her call ; To hiin your suminoiit' comes too late From gray Camaldoli's conveut-wall I Who sinks beneath his armor's weight, - . - ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^ answer but God-speed !

And Elmo's towers to freedom's carni- val!

A new life breathes among her vines And olives, like the breath of pines Blown downward from the breezy Apen- nines.

Lean, 0, my friend, to meet tliat

breath, Rejoice as one who witnesseth Beaiitv from ashes rise, and life from ' (U'ath !

Thy soiTow shall no more be i>ain, Its tears shall fall in sunlit rain, "Writing the grave with Howers : "Arisen again ! "

THE SUMMONS.

Mt ear is full of summer sounds. Of summer sights my languid eye ;

Beyond the dusty village bounds

1 loiter in my daily rounds,

And in the noon-time shadows lie.

J hear the wild bee wind his horn,

The bird swings on the ripened wheat, The long green lances of the com Are tilting in the winds of morn, The locust shrills his song of heat.

Another sound my spirit hears,

A deeper sound that drowns them

A voice of pleading choked with tears, The call of Innnan liopes and fears. The Macedonian cry to Paul I

The stoi-m-bell rings, the trumpet blows ;

I know the word and countersign ; Wherever Freedom's vanguard goes, Wliere stand or fall her friends or foes,

I know the place that .should be mine.

Shamed be the hands that idly fold,

And lips that woo the reed's accord, When laggard Time the hour has tolled For tnie with false and new with old To fight the battles of the Lord !

0 brothers ! blest by partial Fate With power to match the ■will and deed,

THE WAITING.

I WAIT and watch : before my eyes Methinks the night grows thin an<l gray ; I wait and watch the eastern skies To see the golden spears ujjrise Beneath the oriflamme of day !

Like one whose limbs are bound in trance 1 hear the day-sounds swell and grow, And see across the twilight glance, Troop after troop, in swift advance, The shining ones with plumes of snow !

I know the errand of their feet,

I know what mighty work is theirs ; I can but lift u}) hands unmeet. The threshing-floors of God to beat, And speed them with unworthy prayers.

I will not dream in vain despair

The stejis of progress wait for me : The puny leverage of a hair The planet's impulse well may spare, A drop of dew the tided sea.

The loss, if loss there be, is mine.

And yet not mine if understood ; For one shall grasp and one resign, One drink life's rue, and one its wine, And God shall make the balance good.

O power to do ! 0 baffled will !

O jiniyer and action ! ye are one. Who may not strive, may yet fulfil The harder task of standing still.

And good but wished with God is | \ done !

MOUNTAIN PICTURES. I.

FRANCONIA FROM TIIF> rKlIIGEWASSET.

Once more, 0 Mountains of the North, unveil Your brows, and lay your cloudy mantles by I

MOUNTAIN PICTURES.

279

And once more, ere the eyes that seek ye fail, Uplift against the blue walls of the sky ^our mighty shapes, and let the sun- shine weave Its golden net-work in your belting

woods, Smile down in lainbows from your falling floods, Andon your kingly browsat morn and eve Set crowns of fire ! So shall my soul receive Haply the secret of your calm and strength. Your unforgotten beauty interfuse My common life, your glorious shapes

and hues And sun-dropped splendors <it my

bidding come. Loom vast through dreams, and stretch in billowy length From the sea-level of my lowland home !

They rise before me ! Last night's thunder-gust

Eoared not in vain : for where its lightnings thrust

Their tongues of fire, the great peaks seem so near.

Burned clean of mist, so starkly bold and clear,

I almost pause the wind in the pines to hear,

The loose rock's fall, the steps of brows- ing deer.

The clouds that shattered on yon slide- worn walls And splintered on the rocks their spears of rain

Have set in play a thousand waterfalls.

Making the dusk and silence of the woods

Glad with the laughter of the chasing floods.

And luminous with blown spray and silv(a' gleams,

Wliile, in the vales below, the dry- lipped streams Sing to the freshened meadow-lands again.

So, let me hope, the battle-storm that beats The land with hail and fire may pass

away With its spent thunders at the break of day.

Like last night's clouds, and leave, as it retreats,

A greener earth and fairer sky be- hind.

Blown crystal-clear by Freedom's Northern wind !

II.

MONADNOCK FROM WACHTTSET,

I WOULD I were a painter, for the sake Of a sweet picture, and of her who led, A fitting guide, with reverential tread. Into that mountain mystery. First a lake Tinted with sunset ; next the wavy lines Of far receding hills ; and yet more far, Monadnock lifting from his night of pines His rosy forehead to the evening star. Beside us, purple-zoned, Wachuset laid His head against the West, whose warm light made His aureole ; and o'er him, sharp and clear. Like a shaft of lightning in mid-launch- ing stayed, A single level cloud-line, shone upon By the fierce glances of the sunken sun, Menaced the darkness with its gold- en spear !

So twilight deepened round us. Still

and black The gi'eat woods climbed the mountain

at our back ; Andon their skirts, where yet the linger- ing day On the shorn greenness of the clearing lay, The brown old farm-house like a

bird's-nest hung. With home-life sounds the desert air wa3

stirred : The bleat of sheep along the hill we

heard, The bucket plashing in the cool, sweet

well. The pasture-bars that clattered as they

fell; Dogs barked, fowls fluttered, cattle

lowed ; the gate Of the barn-yard creaked beneath the

merry weight Of sun-brown children, listening,

while they swung,

280

OCCASIONAL POEMS.

The welcome sound of supper-call

to hear ; And down the shadowy lane, in tinkliiigs clear, The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung. Thus soothed and pleased, our backward path we took, Praising the farmer's home. He only

spake, Looking into the sunset o'er the lake, Like one to whom the far-oti' is most near : "Yes, most folks think it has a pleasant look ; I love it for my good old mother's sake. Who lived and died here in the peace of God ! " The lesson of his words we pondered o'er. Art silently we turned the eastern flank Of the mountain, where its shadow

deepest sank. Doubling the night along our rugged

road : \Ve felt that man was more than his abode, — The inward life than Nature's rai- ment more ; And the warm sky, the sundown-tinted hill, Tlie forest and the lake, seemed dwarfed and dim Before the saintly soul, whose human will Meekly in the Eternal footsteps trod, Making her homely toil and household

ways An eartldy echo of the song of ])raise Swelling from angel lips and harps of seraphim.

OUR RIVER.

FOR A SUMMER FESTIVAL AT "THE LAURELS " ON THE MERRIMACK.

Once more on yonder laurelled height

The summer flowers have budded ; Once more with summer's golden light

The vales of home are flooded ; And once more, by the grace of Him

Of every good the Giver, We sing upon its wooded rim

The praises of our river ;

Its pines above, its waves below,

The west-wind down it blowing. As fair as when the young Brissot

Beheld it seaward flowing, — And bore its memory o'er the deep,

To soothe a martyr's sadness, And fresco, in his troubled sleep,

His prison-walls with gladness.

We know the world is rich with stream;

Renowned in song and story. Whose music murmurs through oui dreams

Of human love and glory : We know that Arno's banks are fair,

And Rlnne has castled shadows, And, poet-tuned, the Doon and Ayr

Go singing down their meadows.

I'ut while, unpictured and unsung

By painter or by poet. Our river waits the tuneful tongue

And cunning hand to show it, — We only know the fond skies lean

Above it, warm with blessing. And the sweet soul of our Undine

Awakes to our caressing.

No fit'kle sun-god holds the flocks

That graze its shores in keeping ; No icy kiss of Dian mocks

The youth beside it sleeping : Our Christian river loveth most

The beautiful and human ; The heathen streams of Naiads boast,

But ours of man and woman.

The miner in his cabin hears

The ripple we are hearing ; It whispers soft to homesick eai's

Around the settler's clearing : In Sacramento's vales of corn,

Or Santee's bloom of cotton, Our river by its valley-born

Wiis never yet forgotten.

The drum rolls loud, — the bugle fills

The summer air with clangor ; The war-storm shakes the solid hills

Beneath its tread of anger ; Young eyes that last year smiled in ours

Now jroint the rifle's barrel, And hands then stained with fruits an^ flowers

Bear redder stains of quarrel.

ANDREW RYKMANS PRAYER.

281

But blue skies smile, aud flowers bloom on,

Ami riv^ers still keep flowing, — The dear God still his rain and sun

On good and ill bestowing. His pine-trees whisper, "Trust and wait ! "

His flowers are prophesying That all we dread of change or fall

His love is underh'ing.

And thou, 0 Mountain-born ! — no more

We ask the wise Allotter Than for the firmness of thy shore,

The calmness of thy water. The cheerful lights that overlay

Thy rugged slopes with beauty, To match our spirits to our day

And make a joy of duty.

ANDREW RYKMAX'S PRAYER.

Andrew Rykmax 's dead and gone ;

You can see his leaning slate In the graveyard, and thereon

Read his name and date.

" Trust is truer than our fears," Runs the legend through the moss,

'* Gain is not in added years. Nor in death is loss. "

Still the feet that thither trod. All the friendly eyes are dim ;

Only Natiire, now, and God Have a care for him.

There the dews of quiet fall.

Singing birds and soft winds stray ;

Shall the tender Heart of all Be less kind than they ?

What he was and what he is They who ask may haply find,

If thoy road this prayer of his Which he left behind.

Pardon, Lord, the lips that dare Shape in words a mortal's prayer I Prayer, that, when my day is done. And I see its setting sun, Shorn and beamless, cold and dim. Sink beneath the horizon's rim, — When this ball of rock and clay Crumbles fi-om my feet away.

And the solid .shores of sense Melt into the vague immense, Father ! I may come to Thee Even with the beggar's plea, As the poorest of "Thy poor. With my needs, and nothing mori?.

Not as one who seeks his home

With a step assured 1 come ;

Still behind the tread I hear

Of my life-companion. Fear ;

Still a shadow" deep and vast

From my westering feet is cast.

Wavering, doubtful, undefined,

Never sliapen nor outlined :

From myself the fear has grown,

And the shadow is my own.

Yet, 0 Lord, through all a sense

Of Thy tender pro\adence

Stays my failing heart on Thee,

And confirms the feeble knee ;

And, at times, my worn feet press

Spaces of cool c|uietness,

Lilicd whiteness shone upon

Not by light of moon or sun.

Hours there be of inmost calm,

Broken but by grateful psalm.

When 1 love Thee more than fear Thee,

And Thy blessed Christ seems near me.

With forgiving look, as when

He beheld the Magdalen.

Well 1 know that all things move

To the spheral rhvthm of love, —

That to Thee, 0 Lord of all !

Nothing can of chance befall :

Child and seraph, mote and star.

Well Thou knowest what we are i

Through Thy vast creative plan

Looking, from the worm to man,

There is pity in Thine eyes.

But no hatred nor surprise.

Not in blind caprice of will,

Not in cunning sleight of skill.

Not for show of power, w'as wrougM

Nature's marvel in Thy thought.

N(;ver careless hand and vain

Smites these chords of joy and pair '-

No immortal selfishness

Plays the game of curse and bless ;

Heaven and earth are witnesses

That Thy glory goodness is.

>rot for sport of mind and force

Hast Thou made Thy universCi

I^>iit as atmosphere and zone

Of Thy loving heart alone.

Man, who walketh in a show,

Sees befo^•e himi to ami I'ro,

282

OCCASIONAL POEMS.

Shadow and illusion go ;

iUl things flow and fluctuate,

Now contract and now dilate.

In the welter of this sea,

N^othing stable is but Thee ;

In this whirl of swooning trance.

Thou alone art permanence ;

A.11 without Thee only seems,

All beside is choice of dreams.

Never yet in darkest mood

Doubted I that Thou wast good,

Nor mistook my will for fate,

Pain of sin for heavenly hate, —

Never dreamed the gates of pearl

Rise from out the burning marl,

Or that good can only live

Of the bad conservative.

And through countei^poise of hell

Heaven alone be possible.

For myself alone I doubt ;

All is well, I know, without ;

I alone the beauty mar,

I alone the music jar.

Yet, with hands by evil stained.

And an ear by discord pained,

I am gi'oping for the keys

Of the heavenl}^ harmonies ;

Still within my heart I bear

Love for all things good and fair.

Hands of want or souls in pain

Have not sought my door in vain ;

I have kept my fealty good

To the human brotherhood ;

Scarcely have I asked in prayer

That which others might not share.

I, who hear with secret shame

Praise that paineth more than blame,

Rich alone in favors lent,

Virtuous by accident,

Doubtful where I fain would rest,

Frailest where I seem the best.

Only strong for lack of test, —

What am I, that I should press

Special pleas of selfishness,

Coolly mounting into heaven

On my neighbor unforgiven ?

Ne'er to me, howe'er disguised.

Comes a saint unrecognized ;

Never fails my heart to greet

Noble deed with warmer beat ;

Halt and maimed, I own not le.ss

All the grace of holiness ;

Nor, through shame or self-distrust.

Less I love the pure and just.

Lord, forgive these words of mine :

What have I that is not Thine ? —

Whatsoe'er I fain would boast

Needs Thy pitying pardon most.

Thou, 0 Elder Brother ! who

In Thy flesh our trial knew,

Thou, who hast been touched by these

Our most sad infinuities.

Thou alone the gulf canst span

In the dual heart of man.

And between the soul and sense

Reconcile all diff"erence.

Change the dream of me and mine

For the truth of Thee and Thine,

And, through chaos, doubt, and strife.

Interfuse Thy calm of life.

Haply, thus by Thee renewed.

In Thy borrowed goodness good,

Some sweet morning yet in God's

Dim, eeonian periods,

.Joyful I shall wake to see

Those I love who rest in Thee,

And to them in Thee allied

Shall my soul be satisfied.

Scarcely Hope hath shaped for me What the future life may be. Other lips may well be bold ; Like the publican of old, I can only urge the plea, " Lord, be merciful to me ! " Nothing of desert I claim. Unto me belongeth shame. Not for me the crowns of gold. Palms, and harpings manifold ; Not for erring eye and feet Jasper wall and golden street. What thou wilt, 0 Father, give f All is gain that I receive. If my voice I may not raise In tiie eldens' song of praise. If I may not, sin-defiled, Claim my birthright as a child, Sufl'er itthat I to Thee As an hired servant be ; Let the lowliest task be mine, Grateful, so the work be Thine ; Let me find the humblest place In the shadow of Thy grace : IMest to me were any spot Where temptation whispers not. If tlierc! be some weaker one, Give me strength to help him on ; If a blinder soul there be. Let me guide him nearer 1'hee. Make my mortal dreams come true With the woik 1 fain would do ; Clothe with life the weak intent, Let me be tlie thing I meant ; Let me find in Thy employ

ITALY.

283

Peace that dearer is than joy ; Out of self to love be led And to heaven acclimated, Until all things sweet and good Seem my natural habitude.

So we read the prayer of him Who, with John of Labadie,

Trod, of old, the oozy rim Of the Zuyder Zee.

Thus did Andrew Rykman pray.

Are we wiser, better grown, That we may not, in our day.

Make his prayer our own ?

THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL.^*

In that black forest, where, when day is

done. With a snake's stillness glides the

Amazon Jarkly from sunset to the rising sun,

A cry, as of the pained heart of the wood. The long, despairing moan of solitude And darkness and the absence of all good,

Startles the traveller, with a sound so

drear. So full of hopeless agony and fear. His heart stands still and listens like

his ear.

The guide, as if he heard a dead-bell toll, Starts, drops his oar against the gun- wale's thole, Crosses himself, and whispers, "A lost soul ! "

" No, Senor, not a bird. Iknowitwell, — It is the pained soul of some infidel Or cursed heretic that cries from hell.

"Poor fool! with hope still mocking

his despair. He wanders, shrieking on the midnight

air For human pity and for Christian prayer.

" Saints strike him dumb '. Our Holy

Mother hath No prayer for him who, sinning xinto

death, Burns always in the furnace of God's

wrath ! "

Thus to the baptized pagan's cruel lie, Lending new horror to that mournful

cry. The voyager listens, making no reply.

Dim burns the boat-lamp : shadows deepen round.

From giant trees Avith snake-like creep- ers wound,

And the black water glides without k sound.

But in the traveller's heart a secret sense Of nature plastic to benign intents, And an eternal good in Providence,

Lifts to the staiTy calm of heaven his

eyes ; And lo ! rebuking all eai'th's ominous

cries, The Cross of pardon lights the tropic

skies !

"Father of all!" he urges his strong

plea, ' ' Thou lovest all : thy erring child may

be Lost to himself, but never lost to Thee !

" All souls are Thine ; the wings of morning bear

None from that Presence which is every- where,

Nor hell itself can hide, for Thou art there.

' ' Through sins of sense, perversities of

will, Through doxibt and pain, through guilt

and shame and ill. Thy pitying eye is on Thy creature

still.

"Wilt thou not make. Eternal Source

and Goal ! In thy long years, life's broken circle

whole. And change to praise the cry of a lo.st'

soul ? "

ITALY.

ACROSS the sea I heard the groans

Of nations in the intervals Of wind and wave. Their blood and

bones Cried out in torture, eruslied by thrones,

And sucked by priestly cannibals.

284

OCCASIONAL POEMS.

1 dreamed of Freedom slowly gained

By martyr meekness, patience, faith, And lo ! an athlete grimly stained, With corded muscles battle-strained. Shouting it from the fields of death !

T tuni me, awe-struck, from the sight,

Among the clamoring thousands mute, I only know that God is right. And that the children of the light Shall tread the darkness under foot.

1 know the pent fire heaves its crust. That sultry skies the bolt will form To smite them clear ; that Nature must The balance of her powers adjust,

Though with the earthquake and the storm.

God reigns, and let the earth rejoice !

I bow before His sterner plan. Dumb are the organs of my choice ; He speaks in battle's stormy voice.

His praise is in the ^\Tath of man !

Yet, surely as He lives, the day

Of peace He promised shall be ours. To fold the flags of war, and lay Its sword and spear to rust away. And sow its ghastly fields Avith flowers !

THE RIVER PATH.

No bird-song floated down the hill. The tangled bank below was still ;

No rustle from the birchen stem. No ripple from the water's hem.

Tlie dusk of twilight round us grew, We felt the falling of the dew ;

For, from us, ere the day was done, Tlie wooded hills shut out the sun.

But on the river's farther side We saw the hill-tops glorified, —

A tender glow, exceeding fair, A dream of day without its glare.

With us the damp, the chill, the gloom ; With them the sunset's rosy bloom ;

While dark, tlirough willowy vistas seen, The river rolled iu shade between.

From out the darkness where we trod. We gazed upon those hills of God,

Whose light seemed not of moon oi

sun. We spake not, but our thought was one.

We paused, as if from that bright shore Beckoned our dear ones gone before ;

And stilled our beating hearts to hear The voices lost to mortal ear !

Sudden our pathwaj' turned from night ; The hills swung open to the light ;

Through their green gates the sunshine

showed, A long, slant splendor downward flowed,

Down glade and glen and bank it rolleil ; It bridged the shaded stream with gold ;

And, borne on piers of mist, allied The shadowy with the sunlit side !

" So," prayed we, " when our feet diuy

near The river dark, with mortal fear,

" And the night cometh chill with dew, 0 Father ! let thy light break through !

" So let the hills of doubt divide. So bridge with faith the sunless tide !

" So let the eyes that fail on earth On thy eternal hills look forth ;

"And in thy beckoning angels know The dear ones whom we loved below ! "

A MEMORIAL.

0, THICKER, deeper, darker growing, The solemn vista to the tomb

Must know henceforth another shadow. And give another cypress room.

In love surpassing that of brothers, ^\'e walked, 0 friend, fiom childhood's day ;

And, looking back o'er fifty summers. Our footprints track a common way.

HYMN.

286

One in our faitii, and one our longing To make the world within our reach

Somewhat the better for our living, And gladder for our human speech.

Thou heard'st with me the far-off voices, The old beguiling song of fame.

But life to thee was warm and ijresent, And love was better than a name.

To homely joys and loves and friendships Thy genial nature fondly clung ;

And so the shadow on the dial

Kan back and left thee always young.

And who could blame the generous weakness Which, only to thyself unjust, So overprized the worth of others,

And dwarfed thy own with self-dis- trust ?

All hearts gi'ew warmer in the presence Of one who, seeking not his own,

Gave freely for the love of giving. Nor reaped for self the harvest sown.

Thy greeting smile was pledge and prel- ude Of generous deeds and kindly words ; In thy large heart were fair guest-cham- bers. Open to sunrise and the birds !

The task was thine to mould and fashion Life's plastic newness into grace :

Tj make the boyish heart heroic. And light with thought the maiden's face.

O'er all the land, in town and prairie, With bended heads of mourning, stand

The living forms that owe their beauty And fitness to thy shaping hand.

Thy call has come in ripened manhood, The noonday calm of heart and mind,

Wliile I, who dreamed of thy remaining To mourn me, linger still behind :

Live on, to own, with self-upbraiding, A debt of love still due from me, —

The vain remembrance of occasions. Forever lost, of serving thee.

it was not mine among thy kindred To join the silent funeral prayers,

But all that long sad day of summer My tears of mourning dropped witk

theirs.

All day the sea-waves sobbed with sor- row.

The birds forgot their merry trills : All day I heard the pines lamenting

With thine upon thy homestead hills*

Green be those hillside pines forever, And green the meadoiiN-y lowlands be,

And green the old memorial beeches, Name-carven in the woods of Lee !

Still let them greet thy life companions Who thither turn their pilgrim feet.

In every mossy line recalling A tender memory sadly sweet.

0 friend ! if thought and sense avail not To know thee henceforth as thou art,

That all is well with thee forever I trust the instincts of my heart.

Thine be the quiet habitations,

Thine the green pastures, blossom- sown,

And smiles of saintly recognition, As sweet and tender as thy own.

Thou com'st not from the hush and shadow

To meet us, but to thee we come ; With thee we never can be strangers,

And where thou art must still be home.

HYMN,

.SUNG AT CHRISTMAS BY THE SCHOL- ARS OF ST. Helena's island, s. c.

0 xoxE in all the world before

AVere ever glad as we ! We 're free on Carolina's shore.

We 're all at home and free.

Thou Friend and IIcli)er of the poor,

Who suffered for our sake. To open evei'y j)rison door.

And every yoke to break !

Bend low thy pitying face and milil. And help us sing and pray ;

The hand that hlcsscd the little child, Upon our foreheads lay.

286

SNOW-BOUND.

We hear no more the driver's liorn, No more the whip we ft-ar,

This holy day that saw thee born Was never half so dear.

The very oaks are greener clad, The waters brighter smile ;

O never shone a day so glad Op •'weet St. Helen's Isle.

We praise thee in our songs to-day,

To thee in prayer we call. Make swift the feet and straight the way

Of freedom unto all.

Come once again, 0 blessed Lord !

Come walking on the sea ! And let the mainlands hear the word

That sets the islands ft-ee !

s:n^ow-bou:n^d.

A WINTER IDYL.

TO THE MEMORY OF

THE HOUSEHOLD IT DESCRIBES,

THIS POEM IS DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR.

" As the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the lark, so Good Spirits which be Angels of Lij^lit are augmented not only by the Divine light of the Sun, but also by our common Wood Fire: and as the Celestial Fire drives away dark spirits, 80 also this our Fire of Wood doth the same." — Cob. Aorippa, Occult PhHosophy, Book J eh. v.

" Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow ; and, driving o'er the fields. Seems nowhere to alight : the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river and the heav- en And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's

feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates

sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm."

Emerson.

The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon. Slow tracing down the thickening sky Its mtite and ominous prophecy, A portent seeming less than threat. It .sank from sight before it set.

A chill no coat, hoAvever stout,

Of lionu'spun stulf could quite shut out,

A hard, dull bitterness of cold,

That checked, mid-vein, the circling race

Of life-blood in the sharpened face. The coming of the snow-storm told. The wind blew ea.st ; we heard the roar Of Ocean on Ids wintrj' shore. And felt tlie strong jiulse throbbing there Beat with low rhythm our inland air.

Meanwhile we did our nightly chores,— Brought in the wood from out of door.s, Littered the stalls, and from the mows Raked down the herd's-grass for the

cows : Heard the horse whinnying for his corn ; And, sharply clashing horn on honi, Impatient down the stancliion rows The cattle shake their walnut bows ; While, peering from his early perch U]>(m the scaffold's pol(( of birch, Tlie cock his crested helmet lient And down his querulous challenge seot

"SNOW-BOUND." Page 286.

SNOW-BOUND.

287

Unwarmed by any sunset light

The gray day darkened into night,

A night made hoary with the swarm,

And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,

As zigzag wavering to and fro

Crossed and recrossed the winged snow :

And ere the early bedtime came

The white drift piled the window-frame,

And through the glass the clothes-line

posts Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.

So all night long the storm roared on :

The morning broke without a sun ;

In tiny spherule traced with lines

Of Nature's geometric signs.

In starry flake, and pellicle,

All day the lioary meteor fell ;

And, when the second morning shone,

We looked upon a world unknown,

On nothing we could call our own.

Around the glistening wonder bent

The blue walls of the flrmameut.

No cloud above, no earth below, —

A universe of sky and snow !

The old familiar sights of ours

Took marvellous shapes ; strange domes

and towers Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood. Or garden-wall, or belt of wood ; A smooth wliite mound the brush-pile

showed, A fenceless drift M'hat once was road ; The bridle-post an old man sat With loose-flung coat and high cocked

hat ; The well-curb had a Chinese roof ; And even the long sweep, high aloof. In its slant splendor, seemed to tell Of Pisa's leaning miracle.

A prompt, decisive man, no breath Our father wasted : " Boys, a path ! " Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy Count such a summons less than joy ?j Our buskins on our feet we drew ;

With mittened hands, and caps drawn low.

To guard our necks and ears from snow. We cut the solid whiteness through. And, where the drift was deepest, made A tunnel walled and overlaid With dazzling crystal : we had read Of rare .Maddin's wondrous cave, And to our own liis name we gavte, With uiauy a wish the luck were ours

To test his lamp's suj^ernal powers. We reached the barn with merry din. And roused the prisoned brutes within. The old horse thrust his long head out, And grave with wonder gazed about ; The cock his lusty greeting said. And forth his speckled harem led ; The oxen lashed their tails, and hooke<i, And mild reproach of hunger looked ; The horned patriarch of the sheep. Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep. Shook his sage head with gesture unite, And emphasized with stamp of foot.

All day the gusty north-wind bore The loosening drift its breath before ; Low circling round its southern zone. The sun through dazzling snow-mist

shone. No church-bell lent its Christian toue To the savage air, no social sn^oke Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. A solitude made more intense By dreary-voiced elements, The shrieking of the mindless wind. The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, And on the glass the unmeaiiing beat Of ghostly flnger-tips of sleet. Beyond the circle of our hearth No welcome sound of toil or mirth Unljound the spell, and testified Of human life and thought outside. We minded that the sharpest ear The buried brooklet could not hear, The music of whose liquid lip Had been to us companionship, And, in our lonely life, had grown To have an almost human tone.

As night drew on, and, from the crest Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank From sight beneath the smothering

bank. We piled, with care, our nightly stack Of wood against the chimney-back, — The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, And on its top the stout back-stick ; The knotty forestick laid apart. And filled between with curious art The ragged brush ; then, hovering near, We watched the first red blaze ajipear. Heard the sharp crackle, caught the

gleam On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, Until the old, rude-furnished room \ Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom ;

288

SNOW-BOUXD.

Wliile radiant with a mimic flame Outside the .sparkling drilt became, And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree Uur own warm hearth seemed blazing

free. The crane and pendent trammels showed, The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed ; While childish fanc}% prompt to tell The meaning of the mii'acle, Whispered the old rhyme : " Under the

tree. When fire outdoors hums merrily. There the witches are making tea."

The moon above the eastern wood Shone at its full ; the hill-range stood Transfigured in the silver Hood, Its blown snows flashing cold and keen, Dead white, save where some sharp

ravine Took shadow, or the sombre green Of hemlocks turned to ]>itchy black Against the whiteness at their back. For such a world and such a night Most fitting that unwarming light. Which only seemed where'er it fell To make the coldness visible.

Shut in from all the world without, AVe sat the clean-winged hearth about. Content to let the north-wind roar In baflled rage at ])ane and door. While the red logs before us beat Tlie frost-line back with tropic heat ; And ever, wlien a louder blast Shook beam and rafter as it passed, The memer up its roaring draught The great throat of the chimney laughed, The house-dog on his paws outspread Laid to the lire his drowsy head. The cat's dark silhouette on the wall A couchant tiger's seemed to fall ; And, for the winter fireside meet, Between the andirons' straddling feet, The mug of cider simmered slow. The apples sputtered in a row. And, close et hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood.

What matter how the night behaved ? What matter how the north-wind raved? Blow high, blow low, not Jill its snow Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy

glow. 0 Time and Change ! — with hair as

gray A.S was my sire's that winter day,

How strange it seems, with so much

gone Of life and love, to still live on 1 Ah, brother ! only 1 and thou Are left of all that circle now, — The dear home faces whereupon That fitful firelight paled and shone. Henceforward, listen as we will, The voices of that hearth are still ; Look where we may, the wide earth o'er Those lighted faces smile no more. We tread the paths their feet have worn,

We sit beneath their orchard trees,

W^e hear, like them, the hum of bees And rustle of the bladed corn ; We turn the pages that they read.

Their written words we linger o'er, But in the sun they cast no shade. No voice is lieard, no sign is made,

No step is on the con.scious floor ! Yet Love will dream, and Faith will

tnist, (Since He who knows our need is just,) That somehow, somewhere, meet we

must. Alas for him who never sees The stars shine through liis cypress- trees ! Who, hopeless;, lays his dead away. Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play ! Who hath not learned, in liours of faith,

The tiuth to flesh and sense unknown. That Life is ever lord of Death,

And Love can never lose its own !

We sped the time with stories old, Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told. Or stammered from our school-book lore " The Chief of Gambia's golden shore." How often since, when all the land AVas clay in Slavery's shaping hand. As if a tniniiiet called, I 've heard Dnme Mercy AVarren's rousing word : ' ' Docs not tlie voice of reason cry,

Claim the first right which Nature gave, From the red scourge of bondage fly,

Xor deign to live a burdened slave I " Our fixther rode again his ride On Memi>hreniagog's wooded side ; Sat down again to moose and samp In trapper's hut and Indian camp ; Lived o'er the old idyllic ease Beneath St. Francois' hemlock-trees; Again for him the moonlight shone On Norman cap and bodiced zone ; Again he heard the violin pl/iy

SNOW-BOUND.

28?

Which led the village dance away, And mingled in its merry wliirl The grandam and the laughing girl. Or, nearer home, our steps he led Where Salisbury's level marshes spread

Mile-wide as tlies the laden bee ; Where meiTy mowers, hale and strong, Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths

along The low green prairies of the sea. We shared the fishing off Boar's Head, And round the rocky Isles of Shoals The hake-broil on the drift-wood

coals ; The chowder on the sand-beach made, Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot, With spoons of clam-shell from the

pot. We heard the tales of witchcraft old. And dream and sign and marvel told To sleepy listeners as they lay Stretched idly on the salted hay, Adrift along the winding shores, VV^hen favoring breezes deigned to blow The square sail of the gundelow And idle lay the useless oars.

Our mother, while she turned her wheel Or run the new-knit stocking-heel, Told how the Indian hordes came dowai At midnight on Cochecho town. And how her own great-nncle bore His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore. Recalling, in her fitting phrase. So rich and picturesque and free, (The common unrhymed poetry Of simple life and country ways,) The story of her early days, — She made us welcome to her home ; Old hearths grew wide to give us room ; AVe stole with her a frightened look At the gray wizard's conjuring-book, Tlie fame whereof went far and wide Tlirough all the simple country side ; We heard the hawks at twilight play, The boat-horn on Piscataqua, The loon's weird laugliter far away ; We fislied her little trout-brook, knew What flowers in wood and meadow grew. What sunny hillsides autumn-brown 6hQ climbed to shake the ripe nuts

down, Saw wliere in sheltered cove and bay The ducks' black squadron anchored

lay, And heard the wild-geese calling loud Beneath the gray November cloud. 19

' Then, haply, with a look more grave. And soberer tone, some tale she gave From painful Sewell's ancient tome, Beloved in every Quaker home. Of faith fire-winged by martyrdom, Or Chalkley's Journal, old and quaint, — Gentlest of skijjpers, rare sea-saint ! — Who, when the dreary calms prevailed. And water-butt and bread-cask failed. And cruel, hungry eyes pursued His portly presence mad for food, With dark hints muttered under breath Of casting lots for life or death, Offered, if Heaven withheld supplies. To be himself tlie sacrifice. Tlien, suddenly, as if to save The good man from his living grave, A rijaple on the water grew, A school of porpoise flashed in \iew. " Take, eat," he said, " and be content; These fishes in my stead are sent By Him who gave the tangled ram To spare the child of Abraham."

Our uncle, innocent of books.

Was rich in lore of fields and brooks,

Tlie ancient teachers never dumb

Of Nature's unhoused lyceum.

In moons and tides and weather wise,

He read the clouds as prophecies.

And foul or fair could well divine,

By many an occult hint and sign,

Holding the cunning-warded keys

To all the woodcraft mysteries ;

Himself to Nature's heart so near

That all her voices in his ear

Of beast or bird had meanings clear,

Like Apollouius of old,

Who knew the tales the sparrows told,

Or Hermes who interpreted

What the sage cranes of Nilus said ;

A simple, guileless, childlike man,

Content to live where life began ;

Strong only on his native grounds.

The little world of sights and sounds

Whose girdle was the parish bounds,

Whereof his fondly partial pride

The common features magnified,

As Surrey hills to mountains grew

In White of Selborne's loving view, — =

He told how teal and loon he shot.

And how the eagle's eggs he got,

The feats on pond and river done,

The prodigies of rod and gun ;

Till, wanning with the tales he told.

Forgotten was th(^ outside cold,

The bitter wind unheeded blew.

290

SNOW-BOUND.

From ripening corn the pigeons flew, The partridge drummed i' the wood, the

mink Went fishing down the river-brink. I n fields with beau or clover gay, The woodchuck, like a hermit giay.

Peered from the doorway of his cell ; The nniskrat plied the mason's trade, And tier by tier his mud-walls laid ; And from the shagbark o\'erhead

The grizzled sq^uirrel drojjjjed his shell.

Next, the dear aunt, whose smile of

cheer And voice in dreams I see and hear, — The sweetest woman evei- Kate Perverse denied a household mate, Who, lonely, homeless, not the less Found peacfi in love's unselfislmess, And welcome wheresoe'er she went, A calm and gi'acious element, Whose jiresence seemed the sweet in- come And womanly atmosphere of home, — Called up her girlhood memories. The hustings and the apple-bees, The sleigh-rides and the summer sails, Weaving through all the poor details Ami homespun warp of circumstance A golden woof-thread of romance. For well she kept her genial mood And simple faith of maidenhood ; Before her still a cloud-land lay, The mirage loomed across her way ; Tlie morning dew, that dries so soon With others, glistened at her noon ; Through years of toil and soil and care, P'roni glossy tress to thin gray hair, All unpi'ofaned she held apait The virgin fancies of the heart. Be shame to him of woman born Who hath for such but thought of scorn.

There, too, our elder sister plied

Her evening task the stand beside ; .

A lull, ri('h nature, free to trust, ^

I'rutliful and almost sternly just,

lni]iulsive, earnest, prompt to act.

And make her generous thought a

fact, K(!eping with many a light disguise The secret of self-saciifice. 0 heart sore-tried ! thou hast the best That Heaven itself could give thee, —

rest, Rest from all bitter thoughts and things ! liow many a poor one's blessing went

With thee beneath the low gi-een tent Whose curtain never outward swings !

As one who held herself a part Of all she saw, and let her heart

Against the household bosom lean. Upon the motley-braided mat Our youngest and our dearest sat. Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes,

Now bathed within the fadeless gre*n And holy peace of Paradise. 0, looking from some heavenly hill,

Or from the shade of saintly ])alms,

Or silver reach of river calms. Do those large eyes behold me still ? With me one little year ago : — The chill weight of the winter snow

For months upon her grave has lain ; And now, when summer soutli-winds blow

And brier and harebell bloom again, I tread the pleasant paths we trod, I see the violet-sjuinkled sod AVhereon she leaned, too frail and weak The hillside flowers she loved to seek, Yet following me where'er 1 went With dark eyes full of love's content. Tlu' birds are glad ; the bricr-ro.se fills 1'he air with sweetness ; all the hills Stretch gi"een to June's unclouded

sky; But still 1 wait ■with ear and eye For something gone which should bo

nigh, A loss in all familiar things. In flower that blooms, and bird that

sings. And yet, dear heart ! remembering thee, '

Am I not richer than of old ? /

Safe in thy immortality, 1

What change can reach the wealth I > hold? I

What chance can mar the pearl and ' gold /

Thy love hath left in trust with me ? j And while in life's late afternoon.

Where cool and long the shadow* grow, I walk to meet the night that soon

Shall shape and shadow overflow, I cannot feel that thou art far. Since near at need the angels are ; And when the sunset gates unbar.

Shall I not see thee waiting stand, And, white against the evening star.

The welcome of thy beckoning hand ',

SNOW-BOUND.

291

Bris!« wielder of the hircli and nile, The iHHster of the district school Hekl at the iire his favored place, Its warm glow lit a laughing face Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce ap- peared The uncertain prophecy of beard. He teased the mitten-blinded cat, Played cross-pins on my uncle's hat, Sang songs, and told ns what befalls In classic Dartmouth's college halls. Born the wild Northern hills among. From whence his yeoman father wrung By patient toil subsistence scant, Not competence and yet not want. He early gained the power to pay His cheerful, self-reliant way ; Could doff at ease his scholar's gown To peddle wares from town to town ; Or through the long vacation's reach In lonely lowland districts teach. Where all the droll experience found At stranger hearths in boarding round, The moonlit skater's keen delight. The sleigh - drive through the frosty

night, The I'ustic party, witli its rough Accom[)anini('nt of blind-man's-buff. And whirling plate, and forfeits paid. His winter task a pastime made. Happy the snow-locked homes wherein He tuned his merry violin. Or played the athlete in the barn. Or held the good dame's winding-yarn. Or mirth-provoking versions told Of classic legends rare and old, Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome Had all the commonplace of home, And little seemed at best the odds 'Twixt Yankee pedlers and old gods ; Where Pindus-born Araxes took The guise of any gi-ist-mill brook, And dread Olympus at his will Became a huckleberry hill.

A careless boy tliat night he seemed ;

But at his desk he had the look And air of one who wisely schemed, And hostag(3 from the future took In trained thought and lore of book. Large-brained, clear-eyed, — of suqh as

he Shall Freedom's young apostles be, Who, following in War's bloody trail. Shall every lingering wrong assail ; All cliains from limb and spirit strike, Uplift the black and white alike ;

Scatter before tlieir swift advance The darkness and the ignorance, The pride, the lust, the squalid sloth. Which nurtured Treason's monstrouf

growth. Made murder pastime, and the hell Of prison-torture possible ; The cruel lie of caste refute, Old forms remould, and substitute For Slavery's lash the freeman's will, For blind routine, wise-handed skill ; A school-house plant on every hill. Stretching in radiate nerve-lines thenc^ The quick ^\'ires of intelligence ; Till North and South together brought Shall own the same electric thought, In peace a common flag salute. And, side by side in labor's free And unresentful rivalry. Harvest the fields wherein they fought.

Another guest that winter night Flashed back from lustrous eyes the

light. Unmarked by time, and yet not young, The honeyed music of her tongue And words of meekness scarcely told A nature passionate and bold. Strong, self-concentred, spurning guide, Its milder features dwarfed beside Her unbent will's majestic pride. She sat among us, at the best, A not unfeared, half-welcome guest, Rebuking with her cultured phrase Our homeliness of words and ways. A certain pard-like, treacherous grace

Swayed the lithe limbs and dropped the lash,

Lent the white teeth their dazzling flash;

And under low brows, black with night.

Rayed out at times a dangerous light; The sharp heat-lightnings of lier face Presaging ill to him whom Fate Condemned to share her love or liate. A woman tropical, intense In thought and act, in soiil and sense, SIk; lilended in a like degree Tlie vixen and the devotee, Revealing with each fnuik or feint

The temper of Petrucliio's Kate, Th(! raptures of Siena's saint. Her taj)ering luind and rounded wrist Had facile powi>r to form a fist ; The warm, dark languish of her eyes Was never safe from wratli's surprise.

292

SNOW-BOUND.

Rrows saintly calm and lips devout Knew every change of scowl and pout ; And the sveet voice had notes more

high And shrill for social battle-cry. Since then what old cathedral town Has missed her pilgiim staff and go\\Ti, What convent-gate has held its lock Against the challenge of her knock ! Through Smyrna's plague-hushed thor- oughfares, Up soa-set Malta's rocky stairs. Gray olive slopes of hills that hem Thy tombs and shrines, Jerusalem, Or startling on her desert throne The crazy Queen of Lebanon With claims fantastic as her own, Her tireless feet have held their way ; And still, unrestful, bowed, and giay. She watches under Eastern skies.

With hope each day renewed and

fresh, The Lord's quick coming in the flesh. Whereof she dreams and proj)hesies !

Where'er her troubled path may be.

The Lord's sweet pity with her go \ Tlie outward wayward life we see,

The hidden springs we may not know. Nor is it given us to discern

What threads the fatal sisters spun,

Tlirough what ancestral years has run The sorrow with the woman bom, What forged her cruel chain of moods, What set her feet in solitudes.

And held the love within her mute. What mingled madness in the blood,

A life-long discord and annoy.

Water of tears with oil of jo}% And hid within the folded bud

Perversities of flower and fniit. It is not ours to .separate The tangled skein of will and fate. To show what metes and bounds should

stand \Ipon the .soul's debatable land. And b(!tween choice and Providence Divide the circle of events ;

But He who knows our frame is just, Merciful and compassionate. And full of sweet a.ssurances And hope for all the language is.

That He remembereth we are dust ! ;

At la.st the gi-eat logs, crumbling low, I Sent out a dull and duller glow,

The bull's-eye watch that hung in view Tii^king its weary circuit through. Pointed with mutely warning sign Its black hand to the hour of nine. That sign the pleasant circle broke : My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke. Knocked from its bowd the refuse gray And laid it tenderly away. Then roused himself to safely covet The dull red brands Mith ashes over. And while, with care, our mother laid The work aside, her steps she stayed One moment, seeking to express Her gi-ateful sense of happiness For food and shelter, warmth and

health. And love's contentment more than

wealth. With simple Mishes (not the weak. Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek. But such as warm the generous heart, O'er-prompt to do with Heaven its part) That none might lack, that bitter night, For bread and clothing, warmth and

light.

Within our beds awhile we heard The wind that round the gables roared. With now and then a ruder shock. Which made our very bedsteads rock. AVe heard the loosened clapboards tost. The board-nails sna]>ping in the fiost ; And on us, through the unplastercd

wall. Felt the light sifted snow-flakes fall. But sleep stole on, as sleep will do When hearts are light and life is new ; Faint and more faint the murmurs grew, Till in the .sununer-land of dreams They softened to the sound of .streams. Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars. And lapsing waves on quiet shores.

Next morn we wakened with the shout Of merry voices high and clear ; And saw the teamsters drawing near To break the drifted highways out. Down the long hillside treading slow We saw tlie half-burird oxen go, Shaking tlie snow from heads uj)tost. Their straining nostrils white with frost. Before our door the straggling train Drew up, an added team to gain. The elders threshed their hands a-cold.

Passed, with the cider-mug, their jokes

From lip to Hp ; the j-ounger folks

SNOW-BOUND.

293

Down the loose snoi;\'-bank,s, wrestling,

rolled, Then toiled again the cavalcade O'er windy hill, through clogged ra- vine. And woodland paths that wound be- tween Low drooping pine - boughs winter- weighed. From every barn a team afoot, At every house a new recruit, Where, drawn by Nature's subtlest law Haply the watchful young men saw Sweet doorway pictures of the curls And curious eyes of merry girls. Lifting their hands in mock defence Against the snow-ball's compliments, And reading in each missive tost The charm with Eden never lost.

We heard once more the sleigh-bells' sound ;

And, following where the teamsters led. The wise old Doctor went his round. Just pausing at our door to saj% In the brief autocratic way Of one who, prompt at Duty's call. Was free to urge her claim on all,

That some poor neighbor sick abed At night our mother's aid would need. For, one in generous thought and deed,

Wliat mattered in the sufterer's sight

The Quaker matron's inward light. The Doctor's mail of Calvin's creed ? All hearts confess the saints elect

Who, twain in faith, in love agree, And melt not in an acid sect

The Christian pearl of charity !

So days went on : a week had passed Since the great world was heard from

last. The Almanac we studied o'er, liead and reread our little store, Of books and pamphlets, scarce a score ; One harmless novel, mostly hid From younger eyes, a book forbid, And poetry, (or good or bad, A single book was all we had, ) Wliere Ellwood's meek, drab-skirted Muse, A stranger to the heathen Nine, Sang, with a somewhat nasal whine, The wars of David and the Jews. At last the floundering carrier bore The village paper to our door.

Lo ! broadening outward as we read, To warmer zones the horizon spread ; In j^anoramic length nnrolled We saw the marvels that it told. Before us passed the painted Creeks,

And daft McGregor on his raids

In Costa Rica's everglades. And up Taygetos winding slow Rode Ypsilanti's Mainote Greeks, A Turk's head at each saddle-bow ! Welcome to us its week-old news. Its corner for the rustic Muse,

Its monthly gauge of snow and rain, Its record, mingling in a breath The wedding knell and dirge of death ; Jest, anecdote, and love-lorn tale, The latest culprit sent to jail ; Its hue and cry of stolen and lost. Its vendue sales and goods at cosi,

And traffic calluig loud for gain. We felt the stir of hall and street, The pulse of life that round us beat ; The chill embargo of the snow Was melted in the genial glow ; Wide .swung again our ice-locked door, And all the world was ours once more !

Clasp, Angel of the backward look And folded wings of ashen gi'ay And voice of echoes far awaj'. The brazen covers of thy book ; The weird palimpsest old and vast. Wherein thou hid'st the spectral past ; Where, closely mingling, jiale and glow The characters of joy and woe ; The monographs of outlived years, Or smile-illumed or dim with tears.

Green hills of life that slope to death, And haunts of home, whose vistaed trees Shade off to mournful cj7)resses

With the white amaranths underneath. Even while I look, I can but heed The restless sands' incessant fall. Importunate hours that hours succeed, Each clamorous with its own sharp need. And duty keeping pace with all. Shut down and clasp the heavy lids ; I hear again the voice that bids The dreamer leave his dream midway For larger hopes and graver fears : Life gi'eatens in these later years. The century's aloe flowers to-day !

Yet, haply, in some lull of life. Some Truce of God which breaks its strife,

294

THE TENT ON THE BEACH.

The worldling's eyes shall gather dew,

Dreaming in throngfnl city ways Of winter joys his boyhood knew ; And dear and early friends — the few Who yet remain — shall pause to view These Flemish pictures of old days ; Sit with me by the homestead hearth, And stretch the hands of memory forth To warm them at the wood-fii-e's blaze !

And thanks untraced to lips unknown Shall greet me like the odors blown From unseen meadows newly mown. Or lilies floating in some pond. Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond ; The traveller owns the grateful sense Of sweetness near, he knows not whence, And, pausing, takes with forehead bare The benediction of the air.

THE TE:N^T 0^ THE BEACH,

AND OTHER POEMS.

I WOULD not sin, in this half-playful

strain, — Too light perhaps for serious years,

though bom Of the enforced leisure of slow pain, — Against the pure ideal which has

drawn My feet to follow its far-shining gleam. A simple plot is mine : legends and

runes Of credulous days, old fancies that have

lain Silent from boyhood taking voice again, Wanned into life once more, even as tlie

tunes That, frozen in tlie fabled hunting-horn. Thawed into sound : — a winter fireside

dream Of dawns and sunsets by the summer

sea. Whose sands are traversed by a silent

throng Of voyagei-s from that va-ster mystery Of which it is an emblem ; — and the

dear Memory of one who might have tuned

my song To sweeter music by her delicate ear. 1st mo.,lBffl.

THE TENT ON THE BEACH.

Whkk heats as of a tropic clime Burned all our inland valleys through,

Tliree friends, the guests of summer time. Pitched their white tent where sea- winds blew. Behind them, marshes, seamed and

crossed With narrow creeks, and flower-em- bossed, Stretclu'd to the dark oak wood, whose

leafy arms Screened from the stormy East the pleasant inland farms.

At full of tide their bolder shore Of sun-bleached .sand the waters beat ; At ebb, a smooth and glistening floor Thev touched with light, receding feet. Northward a green bluff" broke the

chain Of sand-hills ; southward stretched a plain Of salt grass, with a river winding

down. Sail-whitened, and beyond the steepl&s of the town,

"WTience sometimes, when the wind was light And dull the thunder of the beach, They heard the bells of morn and night Swing, miles away, their silver speech.

THE TENT ON THE BEACH.

295

Above low scai-p .and turf-grown

wall They saw the fort-flag rise and fall ; And, the first star to signal twilight's

hour, The lamp-fire glimmer down from the tall lighthouse tower.

They rested there, escaped awhile

From cares that wear the life away, To eat the lotus of the Nile

And drink the floppies of Cathay, — To fling their loads of custom down, Like drift-weed, on the sand-slopes brown. And in the sea waves drown the restless

pack Of duties, claims, and needs that barked upon their track.

One, with his beard scarce silvered, bore A ready credence in his looks, A lettered magnate, lording o'er

An ever-widening realm of books. In him brain - currents, near and

far, Converged as in a Leyden jar ; The old, dead authors thronged him

round about. And Elzevir's gray ghosts from leathern graves looked out.

He knew each living pundit well. Could weigh the gifts of him or her. And well the market value tell

Of poet and philosopher. But if he lost, the scenes behind. Somewhat of reverence vague and blind, Fin<ling the actors human at the best. No readier lips than his the good he saw confessed.

His boyhood fancies not outgrown,

H(! loved liimsclf the singer's art ; Tenderly, gently, by his own

He knew and judged an author's heart. No Rliadamanthine brow of doom Bowed the dazed pedant from his room ; And bards, whose name is legion, if

denied. Bore off alike intact their verses and their pride.

Pleasant it was to roam about

The lettered world as he had done, And see the lords of song without Their singing robes and garlands on. With "Wordsworth paddle Rydal

mere. Taste rugged Elliott's home-brewed beer. And vnth the ears of Rogers, at four- score. Hear Garrick's buskined tread and Walpole's wit once more.

And one there was, a dreamer born,

Wlio, with a mission to fulfil. Had left the Muses' haunts to turn

The crank of an opinion -mill. Making his rustic reed of song A weapon in the war with wrong, Yoking his fancy to the breaking-plough That beam-deep turned the soil for truth to spring and grow.

Too ijuiet seemed the man to ride The winged Hippogriff" Reform ; Was his a voice from side to side

To pierce the tumult of the storm ? A silent, shy, peace-loving man, He seemed no fiery pai-tisan To hold his way against the public

fro\\-n, The ban of Church and State, the fierce mob's hounding down.

For while he wrought with strenuous will The work his hands had found to do, He heard the fitful music still

Of winds that out of dream-land blew. The din about him could not drown What the strange voices whispered down ; Along his task-field weird processions

swept. The visionary pomp of stately phantoms stepped.

The common air was thick witli dreams, —

He told them to the toiling crowd ; Such music as the woods and streams

Sang in his ear he sang aloud ; In still, shut bays, on windy capes, He heard the call of beckoning shapes,

296

THE TENT ON THE BEACH.

And, as the gray old shadows prompted

liim, To homely moulds of rhyme he shaped

their legends grim.

He rested now his weary hands,

And lightly moralized and laughed. As, tracing on the shitting sands A burlesque of his paper-craft. He saw the careless waves o'ernm His words, as time before had done, Each day's tide-water washing clean

away. Like letters from the sand, the work of yesterday.

And one, whose Arab face was tanned

By tropic sun and boreal frost, So travelled there was scarce a land

Or people left him to exhaust, In idling mood had from him hurled The poor squeezed orange of the world. And in the tent-shade, as beneath a

palm, Bsmoked, cross-legged like a Turk, in Oriental calm.

The very waves that washed the sand Below him, he had seen before Whitening the Scandinavian strand

And sultiy ilauritanian shore. From ice-rimmed isles, from summer

seas Palm-fringed, they bore him messages ; He heard the plaintive Nubian songs

again, And mule-bells tinkling down the moun- tain-paths of Spain.

His memory round the ransacked earth On Puck's long girdle slid at ease ; And, instant, to the valley's girtli Of mountains, spice isles of the seas. Faith flowered in minster stones,

Art's guess At truth and boatity, found access ; Vet loved the while, that free cosmopo- lite. Old friends, old ways, and kept his boy- hood's dreams in sight.

Untouched as yet by wealth and pride, That virgin innocence of beach :

No shingly monster, hundred-eyed, Stared its gray sand-birds out of reach ; Unhoused, save Avhere, at intervals. The white tents showed their canvaa walls. WTiere brief sojourners, in the cool,

soft air, Forgot their inland heats, hard toil, and year-long care.

Sometimes along the wheel-deep sand A one-horse wagon slowl}^ crawled. Deep laden with a youtliful band. Whose look some homestead old recalled ; Brother perchance, and sisters t^^•ain, And one whose blue eyes told, more plain Than the free language of her rosy lip. Of the still dearer claim of love's rela- tionship.

With cheeks of russet-orchard tint.

The light laugh of their native rills. The perfume of their garden's mint.

The breezy freedom of the hills, They bore, in unrestrained delight, The motto of the Garter's knight. Careless as if from every gazing thing Hid by their innocence, as Gyges by his ring.

The clanging sea-fowl came and went.

The hunter's gun in the marshe.*

rang ;

At nightfall from a neighboring tent

A llute- voiced woman sweetly sang.

Loose-haired, barefooted, hand-in^

hand. Young girls went tripping down the sand ; And youths and maidens, sitting in the

moon, Dreamed o'er the old fond dream fnni which we wake too soon.

At times their fishing-lines they plied, With an old Triton at the oar.

Salt as the sea-wind, tough and drii d As a lean cusk from Labrador.

Strange tales he told of wreck and

StOlTO, —

Had seen the sea-snake's awful form. And heard the ghosts on Haley's Isle

complain, Speak liim off shore, and beg a j^assage to old Spain !

THE WRECK OF KIVEEMOUTF.

297

And there, on lireezy morns, tliey saw The fishing-schooners outward run,

Then" low-bent sails in tack and flaw Turned white or dark to shade and sun.

Sometimes, in calms of closing day,

They watched the specti'al mirage

Saw low, far islands looming tall and

nigh, And ships, with upturned keels, sail like

a sea the sky.

Sometimes a cloud, with thunder black. Stooped low upon the darkening main. Piercing the waves along its track With the slant javelins of rain. And when west-wind and sunshine

warm Chased out to sea its wi-ecks of storm. They saw the prismy hues in thin spray

showers Where the green buds of waves burst into white froth flowers.

And when along the line of shore The mists crept upward chill and damp. Stretched, careless, on their sandy floor Beneath the flaring lantern lamp, They talked of all things old and

new, Read, slept, and dreamed as idlers do ; And in the unquestioned freedom of the

tent, Body and o'er-taxed mind to healthful ease unbent.

Once, when the sunset splendors died. And, trampling up the sloping sand, In lines outreaching far and wide. The white-nianed billows swept to land. Dim seen across the gathering shade, A vast and ghostly cavalcade. They sat around tlieir lighted kerosene. Hearing the deep bass roar their every pause between.

Then, urged thereto, the Editor Within his full ]iortfolio dipped.

Feigning excuse wbilo searching for (With secret pride) his manuscript.

His pale face flushed from eye to

beard, With nervous cough his throat he cleared, And, in a voice so tremulous it betrayed The anxious fondness of an author's heart, he read :

THE WRECK OF RIVERMOUTH

RivERMOUTH Rocks are fair to see, By daivn or sunset shone across, AVlien the ebb of the sea has left them

free, To dry their fringes of gold-green

moss : For there the river comes -winding down From salt sea-meadows and uplands

brown. And waves on the outer rocks afoam Shout to its waters, ' ' Welcome home ! "

And fair are the sunny isles in view East of the grisly Head of the Boar,

And Agamenticus lifts its blue

Disk of a cloud the woodlands o'er ;

And southerly, when the tide is down,

'Twixt white sea-waves and sand-hills brown.

The beach-birds dance and the gray gulls wheel

Over a floor of burnished steel.

Once, in the old Colonial days,

Two hundred years ago and more, A boat sailed down through the wind- ing ways Of Hampton River to that low shore, Full of a goodly company Sailing out on the sunnuer sea, Veering to catch the land-breeze light, With the Boar to left and the Rocks to right.

In Hampton meadows, where mowers

laid Their scythes to the swaths of salted

grass, "Ah, well-a-day ! our hay must be

made ! " A young man sighed, who saw them

pass. Loud laughed his fellows to see him

stand Whetting his scythe with a listless hand, Hearing a voice in a far-off song, Watching a white hand beckoning long.

298

THE TENT OX THE BEACH.

"Fie on the witch!" cried a merry

gill, As they rounded the point where

Goody Cole Sat by her door with her wheel atwirl, A hent and blear-eyed poor old soul. "Oho!" she muttered, "ye 're brave

to-day ! But I hear the little waves laugh and

say, 'The broth will be cold that waits at

home ; For it 's one to go, but another to

come ! ' "

"She's cursed," said the skipper;

"speak her fair : I 'm scary always to see her shake Her wicked head, with its wild gray

hair, And nose like a hawk, and eyes like a

snake." But nienily still, with laugh and shout, From Hampton River the boat sailed

out, Till the huts and the flakes on Star

seemed nigh. And they lost the scent of the pines of

Rye.

They dropped their lines in the lazv

tide. Drawing up haddock and mottled

cod ; Tlipy saw not the Shadow- that walked

beside, They heard not the feet with silence

shod. But thicker and thicker a liot mist

grew. Shot by the lightnings through and

through ; And muffled growls, like the giowl of a

boast, Kan along the sky from west to east.

Then the skipper looked from the dark- ening sea Fp to the dimmed and wading sun ; But he spake like a brave man cheer-

^iiy,

" Yet there is time for our homeward

run." Veering aiid tacking, they backward

wore ; And just as a breath from the woods

ashore

' Blew out to whispsr of danger past. The wrath of the storm came down at last !

The skii)per hauled at the heavy sail : " God be our help ! " he only cried. As the roaring gale, like the stroke of a flail, Smote the boat on its starboard side. The Slioalsmen looked, but saw alone Dark films of rain-cloud slant wise blown. Wild rocks lit up by tlie lightning's

glare. The strife and torment of sea and air.

Goody Cole looked out from her door : The Isles of Shoals were drowned and gone. Scarcely she saw the Head of the Boar

Toss the foam fiom tusks of stone. She clasped her hands with a grip of

pain. The tear on her cheek was not of rain : "They are lost," she muttered, "boat

and crew ! Lord, forgive me ! my words were true ! "

Suddenly seaward swept the squall ; The low sun smote through cloudy

rack ; The Shoals stood clear in the light, and

all The trend of the coast lay hard and

black. But far and wide as eye could rcacli, No life was seen ujion wave or beach ; The boat that went out at morning

never Sailed back again into Hampton River.

0 mower, lean on thy bended snath, Look from the meadows giecn and low : Tlie wind of the sea is a waft of death,

Tlie waves are singing a song of woe ! ]\v silcut river, by moaning sea, Long and vain shall thy watching be ■ Never again sliall the sweet voice call, Never the white hand rise and fall !

0 Rivermouth Rocks, how sad a sight Ye saw in the light of breaking day ! Dead faces looking up cold and wliite From sand and sea-weed where they lay.

THE GRAVE BY THE LAKE,

299

The mad old witch-wife wailed and wept,

And cursed tlie tide as it backward crept :

"Crawl back, crawl back, blue water- snake !

Leave your dead for the hearts that break ! "

Solemn it was in that old day

In Hampton town and its log-built

church, Where side by side the coffins lay And the mourners stood in aisle and

porch. In the singing-seats young ej'^es were

dim, The voices faltered that raised tlie

liymn. And Father Dalton, grave and stern, Sobbed through liis prayer and wept in

turn.

But his ancient colleague did not pray, Because of liis sin at fourscore years :

lie stood apart, witli tlie iron-gray Of his strong brows knitted to hide his tears.

And a wretched woman, holding her breath

In the awful presence of sin and death.

Cowered and shrank, while her neigh- bors thronged

To look on the dead her shame had wronged.

Apart with them, like them forbid, Old Goody Cole looked drearily round. As, two by two, with their faces hid, i?he mourners walked to the burying- ground. She let the staff from her clasped hands

fall : " Lord, forgive us ! we 're sinners all ! " And the voice of the old man answered

her : 'Amen ! " said Father Bachiler.

So, as I sat upon A]iphMlore

In the calm of a closing summer day. And the broken lines of ILampton shore

In purple mist of cloudhmd lay, The Rivermouth Kocks their stoiy told ; And waves aglow with sunset gold, Hising and breaking in steady chime, Beat tlie rhythm and kept the time.

And the sunset paled, and warmed once

more With a softer, tenderer after-glow ; In the east was moon-rise, with boat?

off-shore And sails in the distance drifting

slow. The beacon glimmered from Port.s-

mouth bar. The White Isle kindled its great red

star ; And life and death in my old-time lay Mingled in peace like the night and

day!

"Well!" said the Man of Books, "your story Is really not ill told in verse. As the Celt said of purgatory.

One might go farther and fare worse." The Reader smiled ; and once again With steadier voice took up his strain. While the fair singer from the neighbor- ing tent Drew near, and at his side a graceful listener bent.

THE GRAVE BY THE LAKE.

W^iiERE the Great Lake's sunny smiles Dimple round its hundred isles, And the mountain's granite ledge Cleaves the water like a wedge, Ringed about with smooth, gray stones, Rest the giant's mighty bones.

Close beside, in shade and gleam, Laughs and ripples Melvin stream ; Melvin water, mountain-born. All fair flowers its banks adorn ; All the woodland's voices meet. Mingling with its murmurs sw«et.

Over lowlands forest-gi'own, Over waters island-strown. Over silver-sanded beach. Leaf-locked bay and misty reach, Melvin stream and burial-heap. Watch and ward the mountains keep.

Who that Titan cromlech fills ? Forest-kaiser, lord o' tlie hills ? Knight who on the bin^hen tree Carved his savage heraldry i

300

THE TENT ON THE BEACH.

Priest d the piue-wood temples dim, Prophet, sage, or wizard grim ?

Rugged type of primal man, Grim utilitarian.

Loving woods for hunt and prowl, Lake and hill for fish and fowl, As tlic brown bear blind and dull To the grand and beautiful :

Not for him the lesson drawn From the mountains smit with dawn. Star-rise, moon-rise, flowers of May, Sunset's purple bloom of day, — Took liis life no hue from thence, Poor amid such ahluence ?

Ha])ly unto hill and tree All too near akin was he : Unto him who stands afar Nature's marvels greatest are ; Who tlie mountain purple seeks Must not climb the higher peaks.

Yet who knows in winter tramp, Or the midnight of the camp. What reveal ings faint and far. Stealing down from moon and star, Kindled in that human clod Thought of destiny and God ?

Stateliest forest patriarch.

Grand in robes of skin and bark.

What sepulchral mysteries.

What weird funeral-rites, were his ?

What sharp wail, wliat drear lament,

Back scared wolf and eagle sent ?

Now, whate'er he may have been. Low he lies as other men ; On his mound the partridge drums, There the noisj- blue-jay comes ; Pank nor name nor pomp has he In the gi'ave's democracy.

Part thy blue lips, Northern lake ! Moss-grown rocks, your silence break ! Tell the tale, thou ancient tree ! Thou, too, slide-worn Ossipee ! Sjieak, and tell us how and when Lived and died this king of men !

Wordless moans the ancient pine ; Lake and mountain give no sign ; Vain to trace this ring of stones ; Vain the search of crumbling bones : Deepest of all mysterie.s, And the saddest, silence is.

Nameless, noteless, clay with clay Mingles slowly day by day ; But somewhere, for good or ill. That dark soul is living still ; Somewhere yet that atom's force Moves the light-poised universe.

Strange that on his burial-sod Harebells bloom, and golden-iod. While the soul's dark horoscope Holds no starry sign of hope ! Is the Unseen with sight at odds ? Nature's pity more than God's ?

Thus I mused by Melvin's side. While the summer eventide Made the woods and inland sea And the mountains mystery ; And the hu.sh of eaith and air Seemed the jiause before a prayer, —

Prayer for him, for all who rest, Mother Earth, upon thy breast, — Lapped on Christian turf, or hid In rock-cave or pyramid : All who sleep, as all who live, Well may need the prayer, "Forgive 1

Desert-smot hered caravan. Knee-deep dust that once was man. Battle-trenches ghastly jiiled. Ocean-floors with white bones tiled, Crowded tomb and mounded sod. Dumbly crave that prayer to God.

O the generations old

Over whom no church-bells tolled,

Christless, lifting up blind eyes

To the silence of the skies !

For the innumerable dead

Is my soul disquieted.

Where be now these silent hosts ? Where the camping-ground of ghosts ? AVhere the spectral conscripts led To the white tents of the dead ? What strange shore or chartless sea Holds the awful mystery ?

Tlien the warm sky stooped to make Double sunset in the lake ; While above I saw with it. Range on range, the moiintains lit ; And the calm and splendor stole Like an answer to my soul.

Hear'st thou, 0 of little faith. What to thee the mountain saith,

THE TENT ON THE BEACH.

301

What is whispered by the trees ? — "Cast on God thy care for these ; Trust him, if thy sight be dim : Doubt for them is doubt of Him.

" Blind must be their close-shut eyes Where like night tlie sunshine lies, Fiery-linked the self-forged chain Binding ever sin to jiain, Strong their pi-ison-liouse of will. But without He waiteth still.

" Not with hatred's undertow Doth the Love Eternal flow ; Every chain that spirits wear Crumbles in the breath of prayer ; And the penitent's desire Opens every gate of fire.

" Still Thy love, 0 Christ arisen, Yearns to reach these souls in prison ! Through all depths of sin and loss Drops the plummet of Thy cross ! Never yet abyss was found Deeper than that cross could sound !"

Therefore well may Nature keep Equal faith with all who sleep. Set her watch of hills around Christian grave and heathen mound. And to cairn and kirkyard send Summer's flowery dividend.

Keep, 0 pleasant Melvin stream, Thy sweet laugh in shade and gleam ! On the Indian's grassy tomb Swing, 0 flowers, your bells of bloom ! Deep below, as high above. Sweeps the circle of God's love.

He paused and questioned with his eye The hearers' verdict on his song. A low voice asked ; Is 't well to pry

Into the secrets which belong Only to God ? — The life to be Is still the unguessed mystery : Unsealed, unpierced the cloudy walls

remain, We beat with dream and wish the soundless doors in vain.

" But faith beyond our sight may go.' He said : ' ' The gracious Fatherhood

Can only know above, below, Eternal purposes of good.

From our free heritage of will, The bitter springs of pain and ill Flow only in all worlds. The perfect

day Of God is shadowless, and love is love alway."

"I know," she said, " the letter kills ;

That on our arid fields of strife And heat of clashing texts distils

The dew of spirit and of life. But, searching still the written Word, I fain would find. Thus saith the Lord, A voucher for the hope I also feel That sin can give no wound beyond love's power to heal."

" Pray," said the Man of Books, "give o'er A theme too vast for time and place. Go on. Sir Poet, ride once more

Your hobby at his old free pace. But let him keep, with step discreet. The solid earth beneath his feet. In the great mystery which around us

lies. The wisest is a fool, the fool Heaven- helped is wise."

The Traveller said : "If songs have creeds. Their choice of them let singers make ; But Art no other .sanction needs

Than beauty for its own fair sake. It grinds not in the mill of use, Nor asks for leave, nor begs excuse ; It makes the flexile laws it deigns to

0\\T1,

And gives its atmosphere its color and its tone.

' ' Confess, old friend, your austere school Has left your fancy little chance ; You square to reason's rigid rule

The flowing outlines of romance. With conscience keen from exercise, And chronic fear of compromise. You check the free play of your rhjTnes,

to clap A moral underneath, and spring it like a trap."

The sweet voice answered : " Better so Than bolder flights that know no check ;

302

THE TENT ON THE BEACH.

Better to use the bit, than throw

The reins all loose on fancy's neck. The liberal range of Ai-t should be The breadth of Christian liberty, Restrained alone by challenge and alarm WTiere its charmed footsteps tread the border land of harm.

" Beyond the poet's sweet dream lives

The eternal epic of the man. He wisest is who only gives.

True to himself, the best he can ; Who, drifting in the winds of praise. The inward monitor obeys ; And, with the boldness that confesses fe^r, Takes in the crowded sail, and lets his conscience steer.

" Thanksforthe iittingwordhespeaks. Nor less fordoubtful word unspoken ; For the false model that he breaks.

As for the moulded grace unbroken ; For what is missed and what remains. For losses which are truest gains. For reverence conscious of the Etcinal

eye, And truth too fair to need the gamish of a lie."

Laughing, the Critic bowed. " I yield The point without another word ; AVho ever yet a case appealed

Where b'iauty's judgment had been heard ? And you, my good friend, owe to me Your warmest thanks for such a plea, As true withal as «weet. For my offence Of cavil, let her words be ample recom- pense."

Across the sea one lighthouse star, With crimson ray that came and went. Revolving on its tower afar,

Looked through the doorway of the tent. ^Vhile outward, over sand-slopes wet, The lamp flashed down its yellow jet On the long wash of waves, with red and

green Tangles of weltering weed through the white foam-wreaths seen.

" ' Sing while we may, — another day May bring enough of son-ow ' ; — thus

Our Traveller in his own sweet lay,

His Crimean camp-song, hints tons," The lady sjiid. "So let it be ; Sing us a song," exclaimed all three. She smiled : " I can but marvel at your

choice To hear om- poet's words through my poor borrowed voice."

Her window opens to the bay, On glistening light or misty graj', And there at dawn and set of day

In prayer she kneels : " Dear Lord ! " she saith, " to many a

home From wind and wave the wanderers

come ; I only see the tossing foam Of stranger keels.

" Blown out and in by summer gales, The stately shijis, with crowded sails, And sailors leaning o'er their rails,

Before me glide ; They come, they go, but nevermore, Spice-laden from the Indian shore, I see his swift-winged Isidore

The waves di^nde.

" 0 Thou ! with whom the night is day And one the near and far away. Look out on yon gray waste, and say

Where lingei-s he. Alive, perchance, on some lone beach Or thirsty isle beyond the reach Of man, he hears the mocking speech

Of wind and sea.

' ' 0 dread and cruel deep, reveal The secret which thy waves conceal, And, ye wild sea-biids, hither wheel

And tell your tale. Let winds that tossed his raven hair A message from my lost one bear, — Some thought of me, a last fond prayer

Or dying wail !

"Come, with your dreariest truth shut

out The fears that haunt me round about ; 0 God I I cannot bear this doubt

That stifles breath. The worst is better than the dread ; Give me but leave to mourn my dead Asleep in trust and hope, instead

Of Ufe in death 1 '''

THE BEOTHEE OF MEECY.

303

It might have been the evening breeze That whispered in the garden trees, It might have been the sound of seas

That rose and fell ; But, with her hearty if not her ear, The old loved voice she seemed to hear ; " I wait to meet thee : be of cheer,

For all is well ! "

The sweet voice into silence went,

A silence which was almost pain

As through it rolled the long lament,

The cadence of the mournful main.

Glancing his written pages o'er.

The Reader tried his part once more ;

Leaving the land of hackmatack and

pine For Tuscan valleys glad with olive and with vine.

THE BROTHER OF MERCY.

PiERo LucA, known of all the town As the gray porter by the Pitti wall Where the noou shadows of the gardens

fall, Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down His last sad burden, and beside his mat The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat.

Unseen, in square and blossoming

garden drifted. Soft sunset lights througli green Val

d' Arno sifted ; (Jnheard, below the living shuttles

shifted Backward and forth, and wove, in love

or strife, In mirth or pain, the mottled web of

life : But when at last came upward from the

street Tinkle of bell and tiead of measured feet. The sick man startcnl, sti-ove to rise in

vain. Sinking back heavily with a moan of

pain. And the monk said, " 'T is but the

Brotherhood Of Mercy going on some errand good : Their black masks by the palace-wall I

see." Piero answered faintly, " Woe is me ! This day for the fust time in forty

years

In vain the bell hath sounded in my

ears, Calling me with my brethren of the

mask. Beggar and prince alike, to some new

task Of love or pity, — • haply from the street To bear a wretch plague-stricken, or,

with feet Hushed to the quickened ear and feve

ish brain. To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors, Down the long twilight of the corridors. Midst tossing arms and faces full of

pain. I loved the work : it was its own rewaid. I never counted on it to offset My sins, which are many, or make less

my debt To the free grace and mercy of our Lord ; But somehow, father, it has come to be In these long years so nmch a part of me, I should not know myself, if lacking

it. But with the work the worker too would

die. And in my place some other self would

.sit Joyful or sad, — what matters, if not I ? And now all 's over. Woe is me ! " —

"My son," The monk said soothingly, " thy work

is done ; And no more; as a servant, but the guest Of God thou enterest thy eternal rest. No toil, no tears, no sorrow for the lost, Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt

sit down Clad in white robes, and wear a golden

crown Forever and forever." — Piei'o tossed On his sick-pillow : " Miserable me ! I am too poor for such grand company ; The crown would be too heavy for this

Old head ; and God forgive me if I say It would be hard to sit there night and

Like an image in the Tribune, doing

naught Witli these hard hands, tliat all my life

have wrought. Not for bread only, but for pity's sake. I 'm dull at prayers : I could not keep

awake. Counting my beads. Mine 's but a crazy

head,

304

THE TENT ON THE BEACH.

Scarce worth the saving, if all else be

dead. And if one goes to heaven without a

heart, God knows he leaves behind his better

part. I love my fellow-men : the worst I know I would clo good to. Will death change

me so That I shall sit among the lazy saints. Turning a deaf ear to the sore complaints Of souls that suffer ? Why, I never yet Left a poor dog in the strada hard beset, Or ass o'erladen ! Mixst 1 rate man less Than dog or ass, in holy selfishness ? Methinks (Lord, pardon, if the thought

be sin ! ) The world of i)ain were better, if therein One's lieart might still be human, and

desires Of natural pity drop upon its fires Some cooling tears."

Thereat the pale monk crossed His brow, and, muttering, "Madman!

thou art lost ! " Took up his i>yx and fled ; and, left alone. The sick man closed his eyes with a

great gi'oan That sank into a praj'er, "Thy will be

done ! "

Tlien was lie made aware, by soul or

ear. Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er

him, And of a voice like that of her who bore

him, Tender and most compassionate : "Never

fear ! For heaven is love, as God himself is

love ; Thy work below shall be thy work

above." And when he looked, lo ! in the stern

monk's place He saw the shining of an angel's face !

The Traveller broke the pause. " I 've seen The Brothers down the long street steal, Black, silent, masked, the crowd be- tween, And fi'lt to doff my hat and kneel With Ill-art, if not with kn.-f, in j)rayer, For blessings on their pious care. '

The Reader wiped his glasses : ' ' Frienda of mine.

We'll try our home-brewed next, in- stead of foreign wine."

THE CHANGELING.

For the fairest maid in Hampton

They needed not to search. Who saw young Anna Favor

Come walking into church, —

Or bringing from the meadows.

At set of harvest-day, The frolic of the blackbirds,

The sweetness of the hay.

Now the weariest of all mothers, The .saddest two-years bride.

She scowls in tlie face of her liusband, And spunis her child aside.

" Rake out the red coals, goodman, — For there the child shall lie.

Till the black witch comes to fetch her And both up chimney fly.

" It 's never my own little daughter, It 's never my own," she said ;

"The witches have stolen my Anna, And left me an imp in.stead.

" 0, fair and sweet was my baby, Blue eyes, and hair of gold ;

But this is ugly and wrinkled, Cross, and cunning, and old.

' ' I hate the touch of her fingers,

I hate the feel of lier skin ; It's not the milk from my bosom.

But my blood, that she sucks in.

" Jiy face gi'ows sharp with the torment' Look 1 my arms are skin and bone ! —

Rake oi)en the red coals, goodman, And the witch shall have her own.

"She'll come when she hears it crying, In the .shape of an owl or bat,

And she '11 bring us our darling Anui* In place of her screeching brat.''

Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton, Laid his hand upon her head :

" Thy sorrow is great, O woman ! I sorrow with thee," he said.

'And tlie cloud of lier soul was lifted." Page 305.

THE MAIDS OF ATTITASH.

305

" The paths to trouble are many,

And never but one sure way- Leads out to the light beyond it : My poor wife, let us pray."

Tlien he said to the great All- Father, " Thy daughter is weak and blind ;

Let her sight come back, and clothe her Once more in her right mind.

" Lead her out of this evil shadow,

()ut of these fancies wild ; Let the holy love of the mother

Turn again to her child.

" Make her lips like the Ijps of Mary

Kissing her blessed Son ; Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus,

Rest on her little one.

" Comfort the soul of thy handmaid.

Open her prison-door, And thine shall be all the glory

And praise forevermore. "

Then into the face of its mother The baby looked up and smiled ;

And the cloud of her soul was lifted, And she knew her little child.

A beam of the .slant west sunshine Made the wan face almost fair,

Lit the blue eyes' patient wonder, And the rings of pale gold hair.

She kis.sed it on lip and forehead. She kissed it on cheek and chin.

And she bared her snow-white bosom To the li[)s .so pale and thin,

0, fair on her bi-idal morning

Was th(! maid who Ijlushed and smiled. But fairer to Ezra Dalton

Looked the mother of his child.

With more than a lover's fondness He stooped to her worn young face.

And the nursing child and the mother He folded in one embrace.

" Bl(\ssed be God ! " he murmured.

" Blessed be God ! " .she said ; '' For I see, who once was blindi'd, —

I live, who once was dead.

" Now mount and ride, my gooduian A3 thou lovest thy own soul ! 20

Woe 's me, if my wicked fancies Be the death of Goody Cole ! '

His horse he saddled and bridled. And into the night rode he, —

Now through the great black woodland. Now by the white-beached sea.

He rode through the silent clearings,

He came to the ferry wide. And thrice he called to the boatman

Asleep on the other side.

He set his horse to the river, He swam to Newbury town,

And he called up Justice Sewall In his nightcap and his gown.

And the grave and worshipful justice (Upon whose soul be peace !)

Set his name to the jailer's warrant For Goodwife Cole's release.

Then through the night the hoof-beats Went sounding like a flail ;

And Goody Cole at cockcrow Came forth from Ipswich jail.

" Here is a rhyme : — I hardly dare To venture on its theme M'orn out j What seems . so sweet by Doon ami Ayr Sounds simply silly hereabout ; And jiipes by lips Arcadian blown Are only tin horns at our own. Yet still the muse of pastoral walks

with us-, Wliile Hosea Biglow sings, our new Theocritus."

THE MAIDS OF ATTITASH.

Ix sky and wave the white clouds swam, Ami the blue hills of Nottingham Through gaps of leafy green Across the lake were seen, —

When, in the shadow of the a.sh That dreams its dream in Attita.sh,

In the warm summer weather,

Two maidens sat together.

They sat and watched in idle mood The gleam and shade of lake and wood, —

306

THE TENT ON THE BEACH.

The beach the keen light smote, The white sail of a boat, —

Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying, In sweetness, not in music, dying, — Hardback, and virgin's-bower. And white-spiked clethra-flower.

With careless ears they heard the plash And breezy wash of Attitash,

The wood-bird's plaintive cry,

The locust's sliarp reply.

And teased the while, with plaj'ful hand. The shaggy dog of Newfoundland,

Whose uncouth frolic spilled

Their baskets berry-Med.

Then one, the beauty of whose eyes Was evermore a great surprise, Tossed back her queenly head, And, lightly laughing, said, —

" No bridegroom's hand be mine to hold That is not lined with yellow gold ;

I tread no cottage-floor ;

I own no lover poor.

" My love must come on silken wings. With bridal lights of diamond rings, —

Not foul with kitchen smirch.

With taUow-di]) for torch."

The otlier, on whose modest head Was lesser dower of beauty shed,

AA'ith look for home-hearths meet,

And voice exceeding sweet,

Answered, — ''We will not rivals be ;

Take thou the gold, leave love to me ; Mine be the cottage small, And thine the rich man's hall.

" I know, indeed, that wealth is good ;

But lowly roof and simple food, AVith love that liath no doubt, Are more than gold without."

Hard by a farmer hale and young His cradle in tlie r)'e-field swung. Tracking the yellow ])lain With windrows of ripe grain.

And still, whene'er he paused to whet His scji:he, the sidelong glance he met

Of large dark eyes, where .strove

False pride and secret love.

Be strong, young mower of the gi-ain ; That love shall overmatch disdain.

Its instincts soon or late

The heart shall vindicate.

In blouse of gray, with fishing-rod, Half screened by leaves, a stranger trod The margin of the pond, Watching the group beyond.

The supreme hours unnoted come ', Unfelt the turning tides of doom ; And so the maids laughed on, Nor dreamed what Fate had done, —

Nor knew the step was Destiny's That rustled in the birchen trees.

As, with their lives forecast,

Fisher and mower passed.

Erelong by lake and ri\Tilet side The summer roses paled and died.

And Autumn's fingers shed

The maple's leaves of red.

Through the long gold-hazed afternoon, Alone, but for the diving loOn, The ])artridge in the brake, The black thick on the lake.

Beneath the shadow of the ash Sat man and maid by Attitash ; And earth and air made room For human hearts to bloom.

Soft spread the carjiets of the sod. And .scarlet-oak and golden-rod

With blushes and with smiles

Lit up the forest aisles.

The mellow light the lake aslant. The jjrbblfd margin's ripple-chant

Attempered and low-toned.

The tender mystery owned.

And through the dream the lovers

dreamed Sweet sounds stole in and soft lights streamed ; The sunshine seemed to bless. The air was a caress.

Not she who lightly laughed is there. With scoriiful toss of midnight hair. Her dark, disdainful eyes. And proud lip worldly-wise.

KALLUNDBORG CHURCH.

30'i

Her haughty vow is still unsaid,

But all she dreamed and coveted

Wears, half to her surprise.

The youthful farmer's guise !

With more than all her old-time pride She walks the rye-field at his side,

Careless of cot or hall,

Since love transfigures all.

Rich beyond dreams, the vantage- ground Of life is gained ; her hands have found

The talisman of old

That changes all to gold.

While she who could for love dispense With all its glittering accidents, And trust her heart alone. Finds love and gold her own.

What wealth can buy or art can build Awaits her ; but her cup is filled

Even now unto the brim ;

Her world is love and him !

The while he heard, the Book-man drew A length of make-believing face. With smothered mischief laughing through : "Why, you shall sit in Ramsay's place, And, with his Gentle Shepherd, keep On Yankee hills immortal sheep, While lovelorn swains and maids the

seas beyond Hold dreamy tryst around your huckle- berry-pond."

The Traveller laughed ; " Sir Gala- had Singing of love the Trouvere's lay ! How should he know the blindfold lad From one of Vulcan's forge-boys ? " — " Nay, He better sees wlio stands outside Than they who in procession ride," The Reader answered : ' ' selectmen and

squire Miss, while they make, the show that wayside folks admire.

'* Here is a wild tale of the North, Our travelled friend will own as one

Fit for a Norland Christmas hearth

And lips of Christian Andersen. They tell it in the valleys green Of the fair island he has seen, Low lying off the pleasant Swedish

shore. Washed by the Baltic Sea, and watched by Elsiuore."

KALLUNDBORG CHURCH.

"Tie stille, barn niin ! Iniorgen kommer Fin , Fa'er din, Og gi'er dig Esbern Snares oine og hjerte at lege med ! "

Zealand Rhyme.

" Build at Kallundborg by the sea A church as stately as church may be, And there shalt thou wed my daughter

fair," Said the Lord of Nesvek to Esbern

Snare.

And the Baron laughed. But Esbern

said, "Though I lose my soul, I will Helva

wed ! " And oft" he strode, in his pride of will, To the Troll who dwelt in Ulshoi hill.

" Build, 0 Troll, a church for me At Kallundborg by the mighty sea ; Build it stately, and build it fair. Build it quickly," said Esbern Snare.

But the sly Dwarf said, "No work is

wrought By Trolls of the Hills, O man, for

naught. What wilt thou give for thy church so

fair ? " "Set thy owni price," quoth Esbern

Snare.

"When Kallundborg church is builded

well, Tliou must "the name of its builder tell, Or thy heart and thy eyes must be my

boon." "Build," said E.sbern, "and build it

soon."

By night and by day the Troll wrought

on ; He hewed the timbers, he piled the

stone ;

308 THE TENT ON THE BEACH.

But day by day, as the wvills rose fair, I But fast as she prayed, and faster still, Darker and sadder grew Esbern Snare. Hammered the Troll in Ulshol hill.

grew

He listened by night, he watched by day. He sought and thought, but he dared

not pray ; In vain he called on the Elle-maids shy, And the Neck and the Nis gave no

reply.

Of his evil bargain f;ir and wide A rumor ran through the country-side ; And Helva of Nesvek, young and lair. Prayed for the soul of Esbern Snare.

And now the church was wellnigh done ; One pillar it lacked, and one alone ; And the giim Troll muttered, ' ' Fool

thou art ! To-morrow gives me thy ey^^s and

heart ! "

By Kallundborg in lilack despair, Tlirough wood and meadow, walked

Esbern Snare, Till, worn and weary, the strong man

sank Under the birches ou Ulshoi bank.

At his last day's work he heard the

Troll Hammer and delve in the quarry's hole ; Before him the church stood large and

fair : " I have builded my tomb," said Esbern

Snare.

And he closed his eyes the sight to hide, WTien he heard a light .step at his side : "O Esbern Snare ! " a sweet voice said, •' Would I might die now in thy stead ! "

With a grasp by love and by fear made

strong, He held her fast, and he held her long ; With the beating heart of a bird afcard, She hid her face in his flame-red beard.

" 0 love ! " he cried, " let me look to- day

In thine eyes ere mine are plucked away ;

Let me hold thee close, let me feel thy heart

Ere mine by the Troll is torn apart !

" I sinned, O Hnlva, for love of thee \ Pray that the Lord Christ pardon me ! "

He knew, as he wrought., that a loving

heart Was somehow baffling his evil art ; For more than spell of Elf or Troll Is a maiden's prayer for her lover's soul.

And Esbern listened, and caught the

sound Of a Troll-wife singing underground : "To-morrow comes Fine, father thine : Lie still and hush thee, baby mine !

" Lie still, my darling ! next sunrise Thou 'It play with Esbern Snare's heart

and eyes ! " "Ho! ho!" quoth Esbern, "is that

your game ? Thanks to the Troll-wife, I know his

name ! "

The Troll he heard him, and hurried on

To Kallundborg church with the lack- ing stone.

" Too late, Gaifer Fine ! " cried Esbern Snare ;

AthI Troll and jiiilar vanished iu uir !

That night the harvesters heard the

sound Of a woman sobbing underground. And the voice of the Hill-Troll loud

with blame Of the careless singer who told his

name.

Of the Troll of the Church they sing the

rune By the Northern Sea in the harvest

moon ; And the fi.ihers of Zealand hear him

still Scalding his wife in Ulshoi hill.

And seaward over its gi-oves of binh Still looks the tower of Kallundborg

church, Where, first at its altar, a wedded pair. Stood Helva of Nesvek and Esbern

Snare !

" What," asked the Traveller, "would our sires, The old Norse story-tellers, say

THE DEAD SHIP OF HAEPSWELL.

309

Of sun-graved pictures, ocean -wires,

And smoking steamboats of to-day ? And this, O lady, by your leave, Recalls your song of yester eve : 'ray, let us have that Cable-hymn once

more." " Hear, hear ! " the Book-man cried, " the lady has the floor.

" These noisy waves below perhaps

To such a strain will lend their ear. With softer voice and lighter lapse

Come stealing up the sands to hear, And what tliey once refused to do For old King Kmit accord to you. Nay, even the iishes shall your listeners

be. As once, the legend runs, they heard St. Anthony."

0 lonely bay of Trinity,

0 dreai"y shores, give ear ! Lean down unto the white-lipped sea

The voice of God to hear !

From world to world his couriers fly, Thought-winged and shod with lire ;

Tlifi angel of His stonny sky Kides down the sunken wire.

What saith the herald of the Lord ?

" The world's long strife is done ; fjlose wedded by that mystic cord,

Its continents are one.

"And one in heart, as one in blood,

Shall all her peoples be ; The hands of human brotherhood

Are clasped beneath the sea.

"Through Orient seas, o'er Afric's plain And Asian mountains borne.

The vigor of the Northern brain Shall nerve the world outworn.

" From clime to clime, from shore to shore,

Shall thrill the magic thread ; Tlie new Prometheus steals once more

The tire that wakes the dead."

Throb on, strong pulse of thunder ! beat

From answering beach to beach ; fuse nations in thy kindly heat.

And melt the chains of each !

AVild terror of the sky above, Glide tamed and dumb below !

Bear gently. Ocean's carrier-dove. Thy errands to and fro.

Weave on, swift shuttle of the Lord,

Beneath the deep so far, The bridal robe of earth's accord.

The funeral shroud of war !

For lo ! the fall of Ocean's wall Space mocked and time outrun ;

And round the world the thought of all Ls as the thought of one !

The poles unite, the zones agree, The tongues of striving cease ;

As on the Sea of Galilee

The Christ is whispering. Peace !

" Glad prophecy ! to this at last," The Keader said, ' ' shall all things come. Forgotten be the bugle's blast.

And battle-music of the drum. A little while the world may run Its old mad way, with needle-gun And iron-clad, but truth, at last, shall

reign : The cradle-song of Christ was never sung in vain ! "

Shifting his scattered papers, "Here," He said, as died the faint applause, "Is something that I found last year Down on the island known as Orr's. I had it from a fair-haired girl Who, oddly, bore the name of Pearl, (As if by some droll freak of circum- stance,) Classic, or wellnigh so, in Harriet Stowe's romance."

THE DEAD SHIP OF HARPS- WELL.

What flecks the outer gi-ay beyond

The sundown's golden trail ? The white flash of a sea-bird's wing,

Or gleam of slanting sail ? Let young eyes watch from Neck and Point,

And sea-worn ciders pray, — Tlie ghost of what was once a ship

Is sailing up the bay !

310

THE TENT ON THE BEACH.

From gray sea-fog, from icy drift.,

From peril and from pain, The honie-hoiind fisher greets thy lights,

0 hundred-harbored Maine ! But many a keel shall seaward turn,

And many a sail outstand, When, tall and white, the Dead Ship looms

Against the dusk of land.

She rounds the headland's bristling pines ;

She threads the isle-set bay ; No spur of breeze can speed her on.

Nor ebb of tide delay. Old men still walk the Isle of Orr

Who tell her date and name, Old shipwTights sit in Freeport yards

Who hewed her oaken frame.

What weary doom of baffled quest,

Thou sad sea-ghost, is thine ? What makes thee in the haunts of home

A wonder and a sign ? No foot is on thy silent deck,

Upon thy helm no hand ; No ripple hath the soundless wind

Tliat smites thee from the land !

For never comes the ship to port,

Howe'cr the breeze may be ; Just when she nears the waiting shore

She drifts again to sea. No tack of .sail, nor turn of helm.

Nor sheer of veering side ; Stern-fore she drives to sea and night,

Against the wind and tide.

In vain o'er Harpswell Neck the star

Of eveniTig guides her in ; In vain for her the lamps are lit

Within thy tower, Segiiin ! In vain the harbor-boat shall hail.

In vain tlie pilot call ; No hand shall reef her .spectral sail.

Or let her anchor fall.

Shake, brown old wives, with dreary

.I'oy.

Your gray -head hints of ill ; And, over sick-beds whispering low.

Your prophecies fulfil. Some home amid yon birchen trees

Shall drape its door with woe ; And slowly wliere the Dead Ship sails,

The burial boat shall row !

From Wolf Neck and from Flying Point-

From island and from main, From sheltered cove and tided creek,

Shall glide the funeral train. The dead-boat with the bearers four.

The mourners at her stem, — And one shall go the silent way

Who shall no more return !

And men shall sigh, and women weep,

Whose dear ones pale and pine. And sadly over sunset seas

Await the ghostly sign. They know not that its sails are filled

By pity's tender breath. Nor see the Angel at the helm

Who steers the Ship of Death !

"Chill as a down-east breeze should be," The Book -man .said. "A gho.stly touch The legend has. I 'm glad to see

Your flying Yankee beat theDutch." " Well, here is something of the

.sort "\Miich one midsummci- day I caught In Narragansett Bay, for lack of fi.sh." " We wait," the Traveller said ; " serve hot or cold your dish."

THE PALATINE.

Leagues north, as fly the gull and

iiuk. Point .Tudith watches with eye of hawk ; Leagues .south, thy beacon flames, Mon-

tauk !

Lonely and wind-.shorn, wood-forsaken, With never a tree for Spring to waken. For tryst of lovers or farewells taken.

Circled by waters that never freeze. Beaten by billow and swept by breeze, Lieth the island of Manisees,

Set at the mouth of the Sound to hold The coast lights up on its turret old. Yellow Avith moss and sea-fog mould.

Dreary the land when gust and sleet At its doors and windows howl and

beat, And Winter laughs at its fires of pejit !

THE PALATINE.

311

But in summer time, when pool and

pond, Held in the laps of valleys fond, Are blue as the glimpses of sea beyond ;

When the hills are sweet with the brier- rose, And, hid in the warm, soft dells, unclose Flowers the mainland rarely knows ;

When boats to their morning fishing go, And, held to the wind and slanting low. Whitening and darkening the small sails show, —

Then is that lonely island fair ;

And the pale health-seeker findeth there

The wine of life in its pleasant air.

No gi-eener valleys the sun invite, On smoother beaches no sea-birds light. No blue waves shatter to foam more white !

There, circling ever their narrow range. Quaint tradition and legend strange Live on unchallenged, and know no change.

Old wives spinning their webs of tow,

Or rocking weirdly to and fro

In and out of the peat's dull glow,

And old men mending their nets of

twine. Talk together of dream and sign. Talk of the lost ship Palatine, —

The ship that, a hundred years before, Freighted deep with its goodly store, In the gales of the equinox went ashore.

The eager islanders one by one Counted the shots of her signal gun. And heard the crash when slie drove right on !

Into the teeth of death she sped : (May God forgive the liands that fed The false liglits over the rocky Head !)

0 men and brothers ! what sights were

there ! White upturned faces, liands stretched

in prayer ! Where waves had pity, coa'd ye not

spare ?

Down swooped the ^\^•eckers, like bird.s

of prey Tearing the heart of the ship away, And the dead had never a word to .'vay.

And then, with ghastly sldmmer and

shine Over the rocks and the seething brine, They burned the wreck of the Palatine.

In their cruel hearts, as they homeward

sped, "The sea and the rocks are dumb,"

they said : "There'll be no reckoning with the

dead. "

P)Ut the year went round, ami when

once more Along their foam-white curves of shore They heard tlie line-storm rave and roar,

Behold ! again, with shimmer and shine. Over the rocks and the seething brine. The flaming wreck of the Palatine !

So, haply in fitter words than these. Mending their nets on their patient

knees They tell the legend of Manisees.

Nor looks nor tones a doubt betray ; "It is known to us all," they quietly

say ; " We too have seen it in our day."

Is there, then, no death for a word once

spoken ? Was never a deed but left its token Written on tables never broken ?

Do the elements subtle reflections give ? Do pictures of all the ages live On Nature's infinite negative.

Which, half in sport, in malice half, She shows at times, with slunlder or

hiugh, Pliantom and shadow in photograpli ?

For still, on many a moonless night. From Kingston Head and from ilontauk

light _

The spectre kindles and burns iirsight.

Now low and dim, now clear and higher, Leaps up the terrible Ghost of Fire, Then, slowly sinking, the flames expire.

312

THE TENT ON THE BEACH.

And the wise Sound skippers, tliough ^ Stainford sent up to the councils of the

skies be fine, Reef their sails when they see the sign Of the blazing wreck of the Palatine !

" A fitter tale to scream than sing," The Book-man said. "Well, fan- cy, then," The Reader answered, " on the wing The sea-birds shriek it, not for men, But in the ear of wave and breeze ! " The Traveller mused : ' ' Your Mani- sees Is fairy -land : off JTarragansett shore Who ever saw the isle or heard its name before ?

" 'T is some strange land of Flyaway, Whose dreamy shore the sliip be- guiles, St. Brandan's in its sea-mist gray,

Or sunset loom of Fortunate Isles ! " " No ghost, but solid turf and rock Is the good island known as Block," The Reader said. " For beauty and for

ease I chose its Indian name, soft -flowing Manisees !

" But let it pass ; here is a bit

Of unrhymed story, with a hint Of the old preaching mood in it,

The sort of sidelong moral squint Our friend objects to, which has

grown, I fear, a habit of my own. 'T was written when the Asian plague

drew near. And the land held its breath and paled with sudden fear."

ABRAHAM DAVENPORT.

In the old days (a custom laid aside With breeches and cocked hats) the peo- ple sent Their wisest men to make the public laws.

State

Wisdom and grace in Abraham Daven- port.

'T was on a May-day of the far old year

Seventeen hundred eightv, that there fell

Over the bloom and sweet life of the Spring,

Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon,

A horror of gi-eat darkness, like the night

In dav of which the Norland sagas tell, —

The Twilight of the Gods. The low- hung sky

AVas black with ominous clouds, save where its rim

Was fringed with a dull glow, like that which climbs

The crater's sides from tliu red hell be- low.

Birds ceased to sing, and all the barn- yard fowls

Roosted ; the cattle at the pasture bars

Lowed, and looked homeward ; bats on leathern wings

Flitted abroad ; the sounds of labor died ;

Men prayed, and women wept ; all eara gi'cw sharp

To hear the doom-blast of the truuijict shatter

The black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ

Might look from the rent clouds, not as he looked

A loving guest at Bethany, but stern

As Justice and inexorable Law.

I\Ieanwhile in the old State Hou.se,

dim as ghosts. Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut, Trembling beneath their legislative

rolies. " It is the Lord's Great Day ! Let us

adjourn,"

Aiul .so, from a brown homestead, where Some said ; and then, as if with one

.so,

the Sound Drinks the small tribute of the Mianas, Waved over by the woods of Rippowams, And hallowed by pure lives and tranquil

deaths,

accord,

All eyes were turned to Abraham Daven- port.

He rose, slow cleaving with his stead} voice *

THE TENT ON THE BEACH.

313

Die intolerable liush. " Tliis well may

be The Day of Jiulgiiient which the world

awaits ; But be it so or not, 1 only know My present duty, and my Lord's com- mand To occupy till he come. So at the post Where he hath set me in his providence, I choose, for one, to meet him face to

face, — No faithless servant frightejied from my

task, But ready when the Lord of the harvest

calls ; And therefore, with all reverence, I

would say. Let God do his work, we will see to

ours. Bring in the candles." And they

brought them in.

Tlien by the flaring lights the Speaker read,

Albeit with husky voice and shaking hands,

An act to amend an act to regulate

The shad andalewive fisheries. Where- upon

Wisely and well spake Abraham Daven- port,

Straight to the question, with no figures of speech

Save the ten Arab signs, yet not without

The shrewd dry humor natural to the man :

His awe-struck colleagues listening all the while.

Between the pauses of his argument,

To hear the thunder of the wrath of God

Break from the hollow trumpet of the cloud.

And there lie stands in memory to

this day. Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half

seen Against the background of unnatural

dark, A witness to the ages as they pass, That simple duty hath no place for fear.

lie ceased : just then the ocean seemed To lift a half-faced moon in sight ;

And, shore-ward, o'er the waters gleamed. From crest to crest, a line of light. Such as of old, with solemn awe. The fishers by Gennesaret saw. When dry-shod o'er it walked the Sor,

of God, Tracking the waves with light where' ej his sandals trod.

Silently for a ppace each eye

Upon that sudden glory turned : Cool from the land the breeze blew

Tlie tent-ropes flapped, the long beach churned Its waves to loam ; on either hand Stretched, far as sight, the hills of sand ; With bays of marsh, and capes of bush

and tree. The wood's black shore-line loomed be- yond the meadowy sea.

The lady rose to leave. " One song, Or hymn," they urged, "before we part." And she, with lips to whi<'li belong

Sweet intuitions of all art. Gave to the winds of night a strain Which they who heard would hear again ; And to her voice the solemn ocean lent, Touching its harp of sand, a deep ac- companiment.

Tlie harp at Nature's advent strung

Has never ceased to play ; The song the stars of morning sung

Has never died away.

And prayer is made, and praise is given,

By all things near and far ; The ocean looketh up to heaven,

And mirrors every star.

Its waves are kneeling on the strand,

As kneels the human knee, Tlieir white locks bowing to the sand.

The priesthood of the sea !

They pour their glittering treasures forth,

Tlicir gifts of pearl they bring. And all tlie listening hills of earth.

Take up, tih<? son^^ they sing.

314

NATIONAL LYEICS,

The green earth sends her incense \ip From many a mountain shrine ;

From folded leaf and dewy cup She pours her sacred wine.

The mists above the morning rills Rise white as wings of prayer ;

The altar-curtains of the hills Are sunset's purple air.

The wmds with hjTnns of praise are loud, Or low w'ith sobs of pain, —

The thunder-organ of the cloud, The dropping tears of rain.

"With droopinghead and branches crossed

The twilight forest grieves, Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost

From all its sunlit leaves.

The blue sky is the temple's arch,

Its transept earth and air, The music of its stan-y march

The chorus of a prayer.

Ho Nature keeps the reverent frame With which her years began.

And all her signs and voices shame The prayerless heart of man.

The singer ceased. The moon's white rays Fell on the rapt, still face of her. " Allah il Allah/ He hath praise

From all things," said the Traveller,

" Oft from the desert's silent nights.

And mountain hymns of sunset lights.

My heart has felt rebuke, as in his tent

The Moslem's prayer has shamed my

Christian knee unbent."

He paused, and lo ! far, faint, and slow The bells in Newbury's steeples tolled The twelve dead hours; the lamp burned low ; The singer sought her canvas fold. One sadly said, " At break of day We strike our tent and go our wa)'." But one made answer cheerily, "Never

fear, "We '11 pitch this tent of ours in typt another yeai."

NATIONAL LYRICS.

THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA.

A LEGEND OF "THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE," A. D. 1154-1864.

A STRONG and mighty Angel,

Calm, terrible, and bright. The >^ross in blended red and blue

Upon his mantle white !

Two captives by him kneeling,

Each on his broken chain, Sanp praise to God who raiseth

The dead to life again !

Dropping his cross-wrought mantle,

" Wear this," the Angel said ; 'Take thou, 0 Freedom's priest, its sign, — The white, the blue, and red."

Tlien rose up John de !^^atha

In the strengtli the Lord Christ gave, And begged through all the land of France

The ransom of the slave.

The gates of tower and castle

Before him open flew, Tlie drawbiidgc at his coming fell.

The door-bolt backward drew.

For all men owned his errand, And paid his righteous tax ;

And the hearts of lord and peasant "Were in his hands as wax.

At last, outbound from Tunis, His bark her anchor weighed,

Freighted with seven-score Christian souls "Whose ransom he had paid.

WHAT THE BIRDS SAID.

315

Bat, torn by Paynim hatred,

Her sails in tatters hung ; And on the wild waves, rudderless,

A shattered hulk she swung.

" God save us !" cried the captain, ' ' For naught can man avail ;

0, woe betide the ship that lacks Her rudder and her sail !

" Behind us are the Moormen ;

At sea we sink or strand : There 's death upon the water,

There's death upon the land ! "

Then up spake John de j\Iatha : " God's errands never fail !

Take thou the mantle which I wear, And make of it a sail."

They raised the cross-wrought mantle. The blue, the white, the red ;

And straight before the wind otf-shore The ship of Freedom sped.

"God help us ! " cried the seamen, " For vain is mortal skill :

The good ship on a stormy sea Is drifting at its will."

Then up spake John de Matha : " My mariners, never fear !

The Lord whose breath has filled her May well our vessel steer ! "

;ail

So on through storm and darkiiess They drove for weary hours ;

And lo ! the third gray morning shone On Ostia's friendly towers,

And on the walls the watchers The ship of mercy knew, —

They knew far off its holy cross, The red, the white, and blue.

And the beDs in all the steeples

Rang out in glad accord. To welcome home to Christian soil

The ransomed of the Lord.

So nms the ancient legend

By bard and jmiuter told ; And lo ! the cycle rounds again,

The new is as the old !

With riulder foully broken, And sails by traitors torn,

Our country on a midnight sea Is waiting for the morn.

Before her, nameless terror ;

Behind, the pirate foe ; The clouds are black above her.

The sea is white below.

The hope of all who suffer. The dread of all who wrong.

She tbifts in darkness and in storm, How long, 0 Lord ! how long ?

But courage, 0 my mariners !

Ye shall not suffer wreck. While up to God the freedman's prayers

Are rising from your deck.

Is not your sail the banner Which God hath blest anew.

The mantle that De Matha wore, The red, the white, the blue ?

Its hues are all of heaven, — The red of sunset's dye,

The whiteness of the moon-lit The blue of morning's sky.

•loud,

Wait cheeiily, then, 0 mariners, For daylight and for land ;

The breath of God is in your sail. Your rudder is His hand.

Sail on, sail on, deep-freighted With blessings and with hopes ;

The saints of old with shadowy hands Are pulling at your ropes.

Behind ye holy martyrs

Uplift the palm and crown ;

Before j'e unborn ages send Their benedictions down.

Take heart from John de Matha ! —

God's errands never fail ! Sweep on through storm and darkness.

The tluinder and the hail !

Sail on ! The morning cometh.

The ))ort ye yet shall win ; And all the bells of God sliall ring

The good ship bravely in !

AVUAT THE BIRDS SAID.

TiiK birds against the A\)V\\ wind

Flew northward, singing as they flevT j

316

NATIONAL LYKICS.

They sang, " The land we leave behind Has swords for corn-blades, blood for dew. "

" 0 wild-birds, fljdug from the South, What saw and heard ye, gazing down ?"

" We saw the mortar's upturned mouth, The sickened camp, the blazing town !

" Beneath the bivouac's starry lamps. We saw your march- worn children die ;

In shrouds of moss, in cypress swamps. We saw your dead uncoffined lie.

" We lieard the starving prisoner's sighs. And saw, from line and trench, your sons Follow our flight with home-sick eyes B(!yond the battery's smoking guns."

" And heard and saw ye only wrong And pain," I cried, "0 wing-worn ilocks?" "We heard," they sang, "the freed- man's song. The crash of Slavery's broken locks !

"We saw from new, uprising States The treason-nursing mischief spurned,

As, crowding Freedom's ample gates, The long-estranged and lost returned.

" O'er du.sky faces, seamed and old, And hands horn-hard with unpaid toil,

With hope in every rustling fold. We .saw your star-dropt Hag uncoil.

" And struggling up through sounds accui"sed, A gi-ateful murmur clomb the air; A wlusjjer scarcely lieard at iirst,

It fdit'd the listening lieavens with prayer.

" And sweet and far, as from a star, Rejilied a voice which .shall not cea.se.

Till, drowning all the noise of war. It sings the blessed song of peace !"

So to mo, in a doubtful day

Of cliill and .slowly gieening spring. Low .stooping from tiie cloudy gniy,

Tlie wild-birds sang or beemed to sing.

They vanished in the misty air.

The song went with them in their flight ;

But lo ! they left the sunset fair, And in the evening there was light.

LAUS DEO!

ox HEARING THE BELLS KING ON THE PASSAGE OF THE CON.STITUTIONAL AMENDMENT ABOLISHING SLAVEKY.

It is done!

Clang of bell and roar of gun Send the tidings up and down.

How the bellVies rock and reel !

How the great guns, ])eal on peal, Fling the joy from town to town !

Ring, O bells ! Ev('ry stroke exulting tells

Of the burial hour of crime.

Loud and long, that all may hear, King for every listening ear

Of Eternity and Time !

Let us kneel : God's own voice is in that ])eal,

And this spot is holy ground.

Lord, forgive us ! What are we. That our eyes this glory see,

Tliat our ears have lieaid tlie sound !

For the Lord

On the whirlwind is abroad ; In tiie eartlupiaki^ he has .sjioken ;

He has smitten with his thunder

Tiie iron walls asunder, And the gates of bra.ss are broken !

Loud and long Lift the old exulting song ;

Sing witli Miriam by the sea lie has cast the mighty down ; Horse and rider sink and drown ;

" lie liath triumphed gloriou.sly !"

Did we dare,

In our agony of prayer. Ask for more than He has done ?

Wlieii was ever his right hand

Over any time or land Stretched as now beneath the sun ?

How tlicy li.'de. Ancient mytli and son^ wni tale,

TO THE THIRTY-XINTH CONGRESS.

317

T:Ti this wonder of our days, When the cruel rod of war Blossoms white with righteous law,

And the wrath of man is praise !

Blotted out !

All within and all about Shall a fresher life begin ;

Freer ])reatlie the imiverse

As it rolls its heavy curse On the dead and buried sin !

It is done ! In the circuit of the sun

Shall the sound thereof go forth. It shall bid the sad rejoice, It shall give the dumb a voice,

It shall belt with joy the earth !

Ring and swing, Bells of joy ! On morning's wing

Send the song of jjraise abroad ! With a sound of broken chains Tell the nations that He reigns,

Who alone is Lord and God !

THE PEACE AUTUMIT.

WRITTEN FOR THE ESSEX COUNTY AGRICULTURAL FESTIVAL, 1865.

Thank God for rest, where none molest. And none can make afraid, —

For Peace that sits as Plenty's guest Beneath the homestead shade !

Bring pike and gun, the sword's red scourge, The negro's broken chains, And beat them at the blacksmith's forge To ploughshares for our plains.

Alike henceforth our hills of snow, And vales where cotton (lowers ;

All streams that flow, all winds that blow. Are Freedom's motive-powers.

Henceforth to Labor's chivalry

Be knightly honors paid ; For nobler than the sword's shall be

The sickle's accolade.

Build up an altar to the Lord, 0 grateful hearts of oura 1

And shape it of the greenest sward That ever drank the showers.

Lay all the bloom of gardens there. And there the orchard fruits ;

Bring golden grain from sun and air, From earth her goodly roots.

There let our banners droop and flow.

The stars uprise and fall ; Our roll of martyrs, sad and slow,

Let sighing breezes call.

Their names let hands of horn and tau And rough-shod feet applaud.

Who died to make the slave a man. And link with toil reward.

There let the common heart keep time

To such an anthem sung As never swelled on poet's rhyme,

Or thrilled on singer's tongue.

Song of our burden and relief.

Of peace and long annoy ; The passion of our mighty grief

And our exceeding joy !

A song of praise to Him who filled The harvests sown in tears,

And gave each field a double yield To feed our battle-years !

A song of faith that trusts the end

To match the good begun. Nor doubts the power of Love to blend

The hearts of men as one !

TO THE THIRTY-NINTH CONGRESS.

0 PEorLE-CHOSEN ! are ye not Likewise the chosen of the Lord, To do his will and speak his word ?

From the loud thunder-storm of war Not man alone hath called ye forth, But he, the God of all the earth !

The torch of vengeance in your hands He (pienches ; unto Him belongs The solemn recompense of wrongs.

Enough of blood the land has seen, And not by cell or gallows-stair Shall ye tlie way of God prepare.

318

OCCASIONAL POEMS.

Say to the pardon-seekers, — Keep Youi- manhood, bend no suppliant

knees, Nor jialter with unworthy pleas.

Above your voices sounds the wail Of starving men ; we shut in vain Our eyes to Pillow's ghastly stain.

What words can drown that bitter

cry ? What tears wash out that stain of

death ? Wliat oaths confirm your broken faith ?

From you alone the guaranty

Of union, freedom, peace, we claim ; We urge no conqueror's tenns of shame.

Alas ! no victor's pride is ours ; Vfit bend above our triumphs won Like David o'er his rebel son.

Be men, not beggars. Cancel all By one brave, generous action ; trust Your better instincts, and be just !

Make all men peers before the law. Take hands from oflFthe negro's throat, Give black and white an equal vote.

Keep all your forfeit lives and lands, But give the common law's redress To labor's utter nakedness.

Revive the old heroic will ;

Be in the right as brave and strong As ye have proved yourselves in wrong

Defeat shall then be victory,

Your loss the wealtli of full amends. And hate be love, and loes be frienda

Then buried be the dreadful past.

Its common slain be mourned, and let All memories soften to regret.

Then shall the LTnion's mother-heart Her lost and wandering ones recall, Forgiving and restoring all, —

And Freedom break lier marble trance Above tile Capitolian dome. Stretch hands, and bid ye welcome home 1

OCCASIONAL POEMS.

^

THE ETERNAL GOODNESS.

0 FRIENDS ! with whom my feet have

trod The quiet aisles of prayer, Glad witness to your zeal for God And love of man I bear.

1 trace your lines of argument ; Your logic linked and strong

I weigh as one Avho dreads dissent, And fears a doubt as wrong.

But still my human hands are weak

To hold your iron creeds : Against the words ye bid me speak

My heart within me pleads.

Who fathoms the Eternal Tnought ? Who talks of scheme and plan ?

The Lord is God ! He needeth not The poor device of man.

I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground ■Ye tread with boldness shod ;

I dare not lix witli mete and bound The love and power of God.

Ye praise His justice ; even such

His pityiiig love I deem : Ye seek a king ; I fain would touch

The robe that hath no seam.

Ye .see the curse which overbroods

A world of pain and loss ; I hear our Lord's beatitudes

And prayer upon tlie cross.

More than your .schoolmen teach, within Myself, alas ! I know :

OUK MASTER.

319

't'oo dark ye cannot paint the sin, Too small the meril show.

i bow my forehead to the dust,

I veil mine eyes for shame, And urge, in trembling self-distrust,

A prayer without a claim.

I see the wrong that round me lies,

1 feel the guilt within ; I hear, with groan and travail-cries,

The world confess its sin.

Yet, in the maddening maze of things. And tossed by storm and flood,

To one fixed trust my spirit clings ; I know that (>od is good !

Not mine to look where cherubim

And seraphs may not see, But notliing can be good in Him

Which evil is in me.

Tiie wrong that pains my soul below

I dare not throne abo\'c, : 1 know not of His hate, — 1 know

His goodness and His love.

I dimly guess from blessings known

Of greater out of sight, And, with the chastened Psalmist, own

His judgments too are right.

I long for household voices gone.

For vanished smiles I long. But God hath led my dear ones on,

And He can do no wrong.

I know not what the future hatli

Of marvel or suri)iise, Assured alone that life and death

His mercy underlies.

And if my heart and flesh are weak

To bear an untried pain, The bruised reed He will not break.

But strengthen and sustain.

No off"ering of my own I have. Nor works my faith to prove ;

I can but give the gifts He gave, And plead His love for love.

And so beside the Silent Sea

1 wait the nuittled oar ; No harm from Him can come to me

On o(;ean or on shore.

I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air ;

I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.

0 brothers ! if my faith 5s vain,

If hopes like these betray, Pray for me that my feet may gain

Tlie sure and .safer way.

And Thou, 0 Lord ! by whom are seen

Thy creatures as they be, Forgive me if too close I lean

My human heart on Thee !

'^' OUR MASTER.

Immortal Love, forever full.

Forever flowing free, Forever shared, lorever whole,

A never-ebbing sea !

Our outward lips confess the name

All other names above ; Love only knoweth whence it came.

And comprehendeth love.

Blow, winds of God, awake and blo-w

The mists of earth away ! Shine out, 0 Light Divine, and show

How wide and far we stray !

Hush every lip, close eveiy book, The strife of tongues forbear ;

Why forward reach, or backward look, For love that clasps like air ?

We may not climl) the heavenly steeps To bring the Lord C'hri-st down :

In vain we search the lowest deep.s, For him no depths can drown.

Nor holy bread, nor blood of grape,

The lineaments restore Of him we know in outward shape

And in the flesh no more.

He cometh not a king to reign ;

The world's long hope is dim ; The weary centuries watch in vain

The clouds of heaven for him.

Death comes, life goes ; the asking eye

And ear are answerless ; I'he grave is dumb, the hollow sky

Is sad with silentuess.

320

OCCASIONAL POEMS.

The letter fails, and sj'stems fall,

And every symbol wanes ; The Spirit over-brooding all

Eternal Love remains.

And not for signs in heaven above

Or earth below they look. Who know with John his smile o> love.

With Peter his rebuke.

In joy of inward peace, or sense Of sorrow over sin, } fie is his own best evidence, • His witness is within.

No fable old, nor mj^hic lore. Nor dream of bards and seers.

No dead fact stranded on the shoro Of the oblivious years ; —

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet

A jresent help is he ; And faith has still its Olivet,

And love its Galilee.

The healing of his seamless dress

Is by our beds of pain ; We touch him in life's throng and press,

And we are whole again.

Tlirough him the first fond prayers are said

Our lips of childliood frame. The last low whispers of our dead

Are burdened with his name.

0 Lord and Master of us all !

Whate'cr our name or sign, We own thy sway, we hear thy call,

We test our lives by thine.

Thou judgest us ; thy purity Doth all our lusts condemn ;

The love that draws us nearer thee Is hot with wrath to them.

Our thoughts lie ojien to thy sight ;

And, naked to thy glance, Our secret sins arc in the light

Of thy pure countenance.

Thy healing pains, a keen distress Thy tender light .shines in ;

Thy sweetness is the bitterness, "thy grace the i^aug of sin.

Yet, weak and blinded though we be,

Thou dost our service own ; We bring our varying gifts to thee,

And thou rejectest none.

To thee our full humanity.

Its joys and pains, belong ; The wrong of man to man on thee

Inflicts a deeper wrong.

Who hates, hates thee, who loves be- comes

Therein to thee allied ; All sweet accords of hearts and homes

In thee are multiplied.

Deep strike thy roots, 0 heavenly Vine,

Within our earthly sod, Most human and yet most divine,

Tlie flower of man and God !

O Love ! 0 Life ! Our faith and sight Thy presence maketh one : As through transfigured clouds of white We trace the noon-day sim.

So, to our mortal eyes subdued. Flesh-veiled, but not concealed.

We know in thee the fixtherhood And heart of God revealed.

We faintly hear, we dimly see, I n difleiing jihrase wc pray ;

Piut, dim or clear, we own in thee The Light, the Truth, the Way !

The liomage that we render thee

Is still our Father's own ; Nor jealous claim or rivalry

Divides the Cross and Throne.

To do thy will is more than praise, As words are less than deeds.

And simple trust can find thy ways We miss with chart of creeds.

No pride of self thy service hath.

No place for me and mine ; Our human strength is weakness, death

Our life, apart from thine.

Apart from thee all gain is loss,

All labor vainly done ; Tlie solemn .sliadow of thy Cross

Is better than the sun.

REVISITED.

'621

Alone, 0 Love ineffable !

Thy saving name is given ; To turn aside from thee is hell,

To walk with thee is heaven \

How vain, secure iu all thou art. Our noisy championship ! —

The sighing of the contrite heart Is more than flattering lip.

Not thine the bigot's partial plea,

Nor thine the zealot's ban ; Tiiou well canst spare a love of thee

Wliich ends in hate of man.

Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord, What may thy service be ? —

Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word, But simply following thee.

We bring no ghastly holocaust,

We jiile no graven stone ; He serves thee best who loveth most

His brothers and thy own.

Thy litanies, sweet offices

Of love and gratitude ; Thy sacramental liturgies.

The joy of doing good.

In vain shall waves of incense drift

The vaulted nave around, In vain the minster turret lift

Its brazen weights of sound.

The heart must ring thy Christmas bells,

Thy inward altars raise ; Its faith and hope thy canticles,

And its obedience praise !

THE VANISHERS.

Sweetest of all childlike dreams In the simple Indian lore

Still to me the legend seems Of the shapes who flit before.

Flitting, passing, seen and gone. Never reached nor found at rest,

Baliling search, but beckoning ou To the Sunset of the Blest.

From th(! clefts of mountain rocks, TIn-ough the dark of lowland iirs,

flash the eyes and flow the locks Of the mystic Vanishers ! 81

And the fisher in his skiff. And the hunter on the moss,

Hear their call from cape and cliff, See their hands the birch-leaves tosa.

Wistful, longing, through the green Twilight of the clustered pines,

In their faces rarely seen

Beauty moi'e than mortal sliines.

Fringed with gold their mantles flow On the slopes of westering knolls ;

In the wind they whisjier low Of the Sunset Land of Souls.

Doubt who may, 0 friend of mine !

Thou and I have seen them too ; On before with beck and sign

Still they glide, and we pursue.

More than clouds of purple trail In the gold of setting day ;

More than gleams of wing or sail Beckon from the sea-mist gray.

Glimpses of immortal youth.

Gleams and glories seen and flown,

Far-heard voices sweet with truth. Airs from viewless Eden blown, —

Beauty that ebub's our grasp,

Sweetness that transcends our taste.

Loving hands we may not clasp,

Shining feet that mock our haste, —

Gentle eyes we closed below, Tender voices heard once more,

Smile and call us, as they go On and onward, still before.

Guided thus, 0 friend of mine !

Let us walk our little way, Knowing by each beckoning sign

That we are not quite astray.

Chase we still, with baffled feet. Smiling eye and waving hand.

Sought and seeker soon shall meet, Lost and found, in Sunset Land !

REVISITED,

KEAD AT THE " LAURELS," ON THK MERRIMACK, 6tH MONTH, 1865.

The roll of drums and the bugie g wau- in^ Vex the air of our vales no more ;

d'1'2

OCCASIONAL POEMS.

The spear is beaten to hooks of pnin-

The share is the sword the soldier wore !

Sing soft, sing low, our lowl;in<l river, Under tliy l)iiiiks of laurel hlomii ;

Softly and sweet, as tlie hour besieraeth, Sing us the songs of peace aud liome.

Let all the tenderer voices of nature Temper the triumph and chasten mirth. Full of the infinite love and pity

For fallen martyr and darkened hearth.

But to Him who gives us beauty for ashes, And tlie oil of joy for mourning long, Let tiiy hills give thanks, autl all thy waters Break into jubilant waves of song!

Bring us tlie airs of liiils aud forests. The sweet aroma of birch and pine,

Give us a waft of tiie north-wind laden With sweetbrier odors and breatli of kine !

Bring us the purple of mountain sunsets, Shadows of clouds that rake the hills.

The green repose of tliy Plymouth meadows, The gleam aud ripple of Campton rills.

Lead us away in shadow and sunshine, Slaves of fancy, through all thy miles,

The winding ways of Temigcwasset, And Winnipesaukee's hundred isles.

Shatter in sunshine over thy ledges. Laugh in tiiy plunges from fall to fall;

Play with thy fringes of elms, and darken Under the shade of the mountain wall.

The cradle-song of thy hillside fountains Here in thy glory and strength repeat;

Give us a taste of thy upland music, Sliow us the dance of thy silver feet.

Into thy dutiful life of uses

I'our the music and weave the flowers; With I lie song of birds and bloom of meadows Lighten and gladden thy heart and ours.

Sing on ! bring down, O lowland river, Tbe joy of the hills to the waiting sea ; Tlie wealth of the vales, the pomp of mountains, The breath of the •woodlands, bea* ■with thee.

Here, in the calm of thy seaward A'al-

Mirth and labor shall hold their truce ; Dance of water and mill of grinding. Both are beauty and both are use.

Type of the Northland's strength and glory, Pride and hope; of our home ant,' race, — Freedom lending to nigged labor Tints of beauty and lines of gi-ace.

Once again, 0 beautiful river.

Hear our gi-eetings and take our thanks ; Hither we come, as Ea.stern pilgrims

Throng to the Jordan's siicred banks.

For though by the Master's feet nn. trodden, Though never his word has stilled tliy waves, Wi'll for us may thy shores be holy, With Christian altars and saintly graves.

And well may we own thy hint and token Of fairer valleys and streams than these, Where the rivers of God are full of water, And full of sap are bis healing trees !

THE COMMON QUESTION.

BF.iriND us at our evening meal

The gray bird ate his fill, Swung downward by a single claw,

And wiped his hooked bill.

He shook his wings and crimson tail,

And set his head aslant, And, in his sharp, impatient way.

Asked, " What does Charlie want ? '

"Fie, silly bird ! " I answered, " tuck Your head beneath your wing.

HYMN.

323

And go to sleep " ; — but o'er and o'er He asked the self-same thing.

Then, smiling, to myself I said : — How like are men and birds !

A\'e all ai'e saying what he says, In action or in words.

The boy with whip and top and drum,

The girl with hoop and doll. And men with lands and houses, ask

The question of Poor Poll.

However full, ^\^th something more We fain the bag would cram ;

We sigli above our crowded nets For fish that never swam.

No bounty of indulgent Heaven

The vague desire can stay ; Self-love is still a Tartar mill

For grinding prayers alway.

The dear God hears and pities all ;

He knoweth all our wants ; And what we blindly ask of him

His love withholds or gi-ants.

And so I sometimes think our prayers Might well be merged in one ;

And nest and perch and hearth and church Repeat, "Thy will be done."

BRYANT ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

We praise not now the ])oet's art. The rounded beauty of his song ;

Who weiglis him from his life apart Must do his nobler nature wrong.

Not for the eye, familiar gi-owai

With charms to common sight de- nied, —

The marvellous gift he shares alone AVitli him who walked on Rydal-side ;

Not for rapt hymn nor woodland lay, Too grave for smiles, too swec^t for tears ;

We sjieak Ins praise who wears to-day The glory of his .seventy years.

When Peace brings Freedom in her train, Let happy lips his songs i-eliearse ;

His life is now his noblest strain, His manhood better than his verse !

Thank God ! his hand on Nature's keys Its cunning keeps at life's full span ; But, dinmied and dwarfed, in times like these. The poet seems be-side the man !

So be it ! let the garlands die,

The singer's wreath, the painter's meed, Let our names perish, if thereby

Our country may be saved ami freed !

HYMN

for the opening of thomas .'^tarr king's house of worship, 1864.

Amid.st these glorious works of thine. The solemn minarets of the pine, And awful Shasta's icy shrine, —

Where swell thy hymns from wave and

gale, And organ -thunders never fail. Behind the cataract's silver veil, —

Our puny walls to Thee we raise.

Our poor reed-music sounds thy praise :

Forgive, O Lord, our childish ways !

For, kneeling on these altar-stairs, We urge Thee not with selfish prayers, Nor murnmr at our daily cares.

Before Thee, in an evil day.

Our country's bleeding heart we laj',

And dare not ask tliy hand to stay ;

But, tlirough the war-cloud, jiray tc

thee' For union, but a union free, With peace that comes of purity !

That Thou wilt bare thy arm to

save And, smiting through this Red Sea

wave, JIake broad a pathway for the slave !

324

OCCASIONAL POEMS.

For us, confessing all oiu- need,

We trust nor rite nor word nor deed,

Nor yet the broken staB' of creed.

Assured alone that Thou art good To each, as to the multitude. Eternal Love and Fatherhood, —

"Weak, sinful, blind, to Thee we kneel, Stretch dumbly forth our hands, and feel Our weakness is our strong appeal.

So, by these Western gates of Even We wait to see \vith thy forgiven The opening Golden Gate of Heaven !

SiiiEce it now. In time to be Shall holier altars rise to thee, — Thy Church our broad humanity !

"VVTiite flowers of love its walls shall

climb, Soft bells of peace shall ring its chime, Its days shall all be holy time.

A sweeter song shall then be heard, — The music of the world's accord Confessing Christ, the Inward Word !

That song shall swell from shore to

shore. One hope, one faith, one love, restore The seamless robe that Jesus wore.

THOMAS STARR KING.

The gi-eat work laid upon his twoscore

years Is done, and well done. If we drop our

tears. Who loved him as few men were ever

loved, We mourn no blighted hope nor bro- ken plan AVith him whose life stands roundei •

and approved In the full growth and stature of a man. Mingle, 0 bells, along the Westerr

slope, With your deep toll a sound of faith an/

hope ! Wave clieerily still, 0 banner, half-wa;

dowTi, From thousand-masted bay and .stee

pled town ! Let the strong organ with its lofties'

swell Lift the proud sorrow of the land, and

tell That the brave sower saw his rii>oned

grain. O East and West ! 0 morn and sunset

twain No more forever! — has he lived in

vain Who, priest of Freedom, made ye one^

and told Your bridal service from his lips of

gold?

AMONG THE HILLS.

'6-^0

AMONG THE HILLS,

AND OTHER POEMS.

TO ANNIE FIELDS

THIS LITTLE VOLUME,

DESCRIPTIVE OF SCENES WITH WHICH SHE IS FAMILIAR, IS GRATEFULLY OFFERED.

PRELUDE.

Along the roadside, like the flowers of gold

That tawny Incas for their gardens wrought,

Heavy with sunshine di-oops the golden- rod,

And the red pennons of the cardinal- flowers

Hang motionless upon their upright staves.

The sky is hot and hazy, and the wind.

Wing-weary \vith its long flight from the south,

(Jnfelt ; yet, closely scanned, yon maple leaf

With faintest motion, as one stirs in dreams,

Confesses it. The locust by the wall

Stabs the noon-silence with his sharp alarm.

A single hay-cart down the dusty road

Creaks slowly, with its driver fast asleep

On the load's top. Against the neigh- boring hill,

Huddled along the stone wall's shady side,

The sheep show white, as if a snowdrift still

Defied the dog-star. Through the open door

A drowsy smell of flowers — gray helio- trope.

And white sweet clover, and shy migno- nette —

Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lends To the pervading symphony of peace.

No time is this for hands long over- worn To task their strength : and (unto Hun

be praise Who giveth quietness !) the stress and

strain Of years that did the work of centuries Have ceased, and we can draw our

breath once more Freely and full. So, as yon harvesters Make glad their nooning underneath the

elms With tale and riddle and old snatch of

song, I lay aside grave themes, and idly turn The leaves of memory's sketch-book,

di-eaming o'er Old summer pictures of the quiet hills, And human life, as quiet, at their feet.

And yet not idly all. A farmer's son. Proud of field-lore and harvest craft, and

feeling All their fine possibilities, how rich And restful even poverty and toil Become when beauty, hannony, and love Sit at their humble hearth as angels sat At evening in the patriarch's tent, when

man Makes labor noble, and his farmer's

frock Tlie symbol of a Christian chivalry Tender and just and generous to her

326

AMONG THE HILLS.

Who clothes with grace all duty ; still, I know

Too well the picture has another side, —

How wearily the grind of toil goes on

"Where love is wanting, how the eye and ear

And heart are starved amidst the plen- itude

Of nature, and how hard and colorless

Is life without an atmosphere. I look

Across the lapse of half a centurj',

And call to mind old homesteads, where no flower

Told that the spring had come, hut evil weeds,

Nightshade and rough-leaved burdock in the place

Of the sweet doorway greeting of the rose

And honeysuckle, where the house walls seemed

Blistering in sun, without a tree or vine

To cast the tremulous shadow of its leaves

Across the curtainless ■windows from whose panes

Fluttered the signal rags of shiftlessness ;

Within, the cluttered kitchen-floor, un- washed

(Broom -clean I think they called it) ; the liest room

Stifling with cellar damp, shut from the air

In hot midsummer, bookless, pictureless

Save the inevitable sampler hung

Over the in-ei)lace, or a mouniing piece,

A green-liaired woman, peony-cheeked, beneath

Impossible \nllows ; the wide-throated hearth

Bristling with faded pine-boughs half concealing

The piled-up rubbish at the chimney's back ;

And, in sad keeping with all things about them,

Slirill, (juerulous women, sour and .sullen men.

Untidy, loveless, old before their time,

With S'-arce a human interest save their own

Monotonous round of .small economies.

Or the poor scandal of the neighborhood ;

Blind to the beauty everywhere re- vealed.

Treading the May-flowers with regard- less feet ;

For them the song-sparrow and thp

bobolink Sang not, nor winds made music in the

leaves ; For them in vain October's holocaust Bunied, gold and crimson, over all the

lulls. The sacramental mystery of the woods. Church-goers, fearful of the unseen

Powers, But gnimbling over pulpit-tax and pew- rent, SaAnng, as shrewd economist.s, their souls And winter pork with the least possible

outlay Of salt and .sanctity ; in daily life Showing as little actual comprehension Of Cliristian chai ity and love and duty. As if the Sermon on the Jlount had been Outdated like a last year's almanac : Rich in broad woodlands and in half- tilled fields. And yet .so ])inched and bare and com- fortless. The veriest straggler limping on his

rounds, The sun and air his sole inheritance. Laughed at a jioveity that paid its taxes, And hugged his rags in self-compla- cency !

Not such should be the homesteads of

a land Where whoso wisely wills and acts may

dwell As king iind lawgiver, in broad-acred

state. With beauty, art, taste, culture, book.s,

to make His hour of leisure richer than a life Of fourscore to the barons of old time. Our yeoman .should be equal to his home Set in the fair, gieen valleys, purple

walled, A man to match his mountains, not Id

creep Dwarfed and abased below them. 1

would fain In this light way (of which I needs must

own With the knife-grinder of whom Can- ning sings, " Story, God ble.ss you I I have none to

tell you ! ") Invite the eye to see and heart to feel The beauty and the joy within tlieir

reach, —

AMONG THE HILLS.

327

Home, and homo loves, and the beati- tudes 9f nature free to alL Hapiy m years That wait to take the places of our

own, Heard where some breezy balcony looks

down On liappy homes, or where the lake in

the moon Sleeps dreaming of the mountains, fair

as Ruth, lu the old Hebrew pastoral, at the feet Of Boaz, even this simple lay of mine May seem the burden of a prophecy. Poinding its late fulfilment in a change Slow as the oak's growth, lifting man- hood up Tlirougli broader culture, liner manners,

love. And reverence, to the level of the hills.

0 Golden Age, whose light is of the

dawn, And not of sunset, forward, not behind, Flood the new heavens and earth, and

with thee bring All the old virtues, whatsoever things Are pure and honest and of good repute, But add thereto whatever bard has sung Or seer has told of when in trance and

dream They saw the Happy Isles of prophecy ! Let Justice hold her scale, and Truth

divide Between the right and wrong ; but give

the heart The freedom of its fair inheritance ; Let the poor prisoner, cramped and

starved so long. At Nature's table feast his ear and eye With joy and wonder ; let all harmonies Of sound, form, color, motion, wait

upon The princely guest, whether in soft attire Of leisure clad, or the coarse frock of

toil. And, hmding life to the dead form of

faith, Give human nature reverence for the

sake Of One who bore it, making it divine With the ineffable tenderness of God ; Let common need, tlie brotherhood of

])rayer. The heirship of an unknown destiny, The unsolved mystery round about us,

make

A man more precious thair the gold of

Ophir. Saci-ed, inviolate, unto whom all things Should minister, as outward types and

signs Of tlie eternal beauty which fulfils The one great purpose of creation, Love, The sole necessity of Earth and Heaven !

AMONG THE HILLS.

For weeks the clouds liad raked the hills

And vexed the vales with raining. And all the woods were sad with mist,

And all the brooks complaining.

At last, a sudden night-storm tor The mountain veils asunder.

And swept the valleys clean before The besom of the thunder.

Through Sandwich notcL the west-wind sang

Good morrow to thfe cotter; And once again Clivjconia's horn

Of shadow jiierced the water.

Aliove his broad lake Ossipee, Once more the sunshine wearing.

Stooped, tracing on that silver shield His grim armorial bearing.

Clear drawn against the hard blue sky The peaks had winter's keenness;

And, close on autumn's frost, the vales Had more than June's fresh green

ness.

Again the sodden forest floors

With golden lights were checkered.

Once more rejoicing leaves in wind And sunshine danced and flickered.

It was as if the summer's late

Atoning for its sadness Had borrowed every season's charm

To end its days in gladness.

I call to mind those banded vales

Of shadow and of .shining. Through which, my hostess at my side,

I drove in day's declining.

We held our sideling way above The river's whitening shallows.

328

AMONG THE HILLS.

By liomesteads old, barns Swept through and throiigh by swal lows, • — •

with wide-fliing ' On either hand we saw the signs Of fancy and of shj-ewflness, "N^'here taste liad wound its arms of vinai Eouud thrift's uncomely rudeness.

By maple orchards, belts of pine And larches climbing darkly

The mountain slopes, and, over all, Tlie great peaks rising starkly.

You should have seen that long hill- range With gaps of brightness riven, — How through each pass and hollow streamed The purpling lights of heaven, —

Rivers of gold-mist flowing down From far celestial fountains, —

The great sun flaming through rifts Beyond the wall of mountains !

the

"We paused at last where home-bound cows

Brought down the pasture's treasure. And in the barn the rhythmic flails

Beat out a harvest measure.

"We heard the night-hawk's sullen plunge, The crow his tree-mates calling : The shadows lengthening down the slopes About our feet were falling.

And through them smote the level sun

In broken lines of splendor. Touched the gi"ay rocks and made the green

Of the shorn grass more tender.

The maples bending o'er the gate, Their arch of leaves just tinted

"With yellow warmth, the golden glow Of coming autumn hinted.

Keen wliite between the farm-house showed.

And smiled on porch and trellis, The fair democracy of flowers

That equals cot and palace.

And weaving garlands for her dog, 'Twixt chidings and caresses,

A human flower of childhood shook The sunshine from her tresses.

The sun-broT^Ti farmer in his frock Shook bands, and called to Mary :

Bare-armed, as Juno might, she came. White-aproned from her dairy. »

Her air, her smile, her motions, told

Of womanly completeness ; A music as of household songs

AVas in her voice of sweetness.

Not fair alone in curve and line, But something more and better,

The secret charm eluding art, Its .spirit, not its letter ; —

An inborn gi'ace that nothing lacked

Of culture or apjiliance, — The warmth of genial courtesy,

The calm of self-reliance.

Before her queenly womanhood How dared our hostess utter

The paltry eiTand of her need To buy her fresh-chunied butter?

She led the waj- with housewife pride.

Her goodly store disclosing. Full tenderly the golden balls

With practised hands disposing.

Then, while along the western hills We watched the changeful glory

Of sunset, on our homeward way, 1 heard her simple story.

The early crickets .sang ; the stream Plashed through my friend's nai-i»' tion :

H"r nistic patois of the hills Lost in my free translation.

" Jlore wise," she said, "than those who swarm

Our hills in middle summer. She came, when June's first roses blow,

To greet the early comer.

"From school and ball and rout she came.

The city's fair, pale daughter. To drink the wine of mountain air

Beside the Bearcamp Water.

AMONG THE HILLS.

329

* Her step grew firmer on the hills That watch our homesteads over ; v>n cheek and lip, from sunmier fields, She caught the bloom of clover.

■' For health comes sparkling in the streams

From cool Chocorua stealing : There 's ii'on in our Northern winds ;

Our pines are trees of healing.

'' She sat beneath the broad - armed elms That skirt the mowing-meadow, And watched the gentle west-wind weave The grass with shine and shadow.

" Beside her, from the summer heat To share her grateful screening,

With forehead bared, the farmer stood. Upon his pitchfork leaning.

" Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face

Had nothing mean or common, — iStrong, manly, true, the tenderness

And pride beloved of woman.

" She looked up, glowing with the health The country air had brought her. And, laughing, said : ' You lack a wife. Your mother lacks a daughter.

" ' To mend your frock and bake your bread

You do not need a lady : Be sure among these brown old homes

Is some one waiting ready, —

" ' Some fair, sweet girl with skilful hand

And cheerful heart for treasure, Who never played with ivory keys,

Or danced the polka's measure.'

" He bent his black brows to a frown, He set his white teeth tightly.

* 'T is well,' he said, ' for one like you To choose for me so lightly.

" ' You think, because my life is rude

I take no note of sweetness : I tell you love has naught to do

With meetness or unmeetness.

" ' Itself its best excuse, it asks No leave of pride or fashion

When silken zone or homespun frock It stirs with throbs of passion.

" 'You think me deaf and blind : you bring _

Your winning graces hither •

As free as if from cradle-time

We two had played together.

" 'You tempt me with your laughing eyes.

Your cheek of sundown's blushes, A motion as of waving grain,

A music as of thrushes.

' ' ' The jilaything of your summer sport, The spells you weave around me

You cannot at your will undo. Nor leave me as you found me.

" ' You go as lightly as yon came, Your life is well without me ;

Wliat care you that these hills will close Like prison-walls about me ?

" ' No mood is mine to seek a wife, Or daughter for my mother :

Who loves you loses in that love All power to love another !

" ' I dare your pity or your scorn. With pride your own exceeding ;

1 fling my heart into j'our lap Without a word^f pleading.'

" She looked up in his face of pain

So archly, yet so tender : ' And if 1 lend you mine,' she said,

' Will you forgive the lender ?

"'Nor frock nor tan can hide the man ;

And see you not, my fanner. How weak and fond a woman waits

Behind this silken armor ?

" ' I love you : on that love alone, And not my worth, presuming.

Will you not trust for summer fruit The tree in May-day blooming ? '

" Alone the hangbird overhead, His hair-swung cradle straining.

Looked down to see love's miracle, — The giving that is gaining.

330

AMONG THE HILLS.

"And so the farmer found a wife, His mother found a daughter :

Tliere looks no happier home than hers On pleasant Bearcamp Water.

" Flowers spring to blossom where she walks

The careful ways of duty ; Our hard, stiff lines of life with her

Are flowing curves of beauty.

"Our homes are cheerier for her sake, Our door-yards brighter blooming.

And all about the social air Is sweeter for her coming.

" Unspoken homilies of peace

Her daily life is preaching ; The still refreshment of the dew

Is her unconscious teaching.

" And never tenderer hand than hers Unknits the brow of ailing ;

Her gannents to the sick man's ear Have music in their trailing.

" And when, in pleasant harvest moons, The youthful buskers gathei'.

Or sleigh-drives on the mountain ways Defy the winter weather, —

"In sugar-camps, when south and warm

The winds of March are blowing. And sweetly from its tliawing veins

Tlie maple's blood is flowing, —

" In summer, where some lilied i)ond

Its virgin zone is bearing. Or where the ruddy autumn fire

Lights up the apple-paring, —

" The coarseness of a ruder time

Her finer mirth displaces, A subtler sense of ])leasure fills

P^ach rustic sport she graces.

" Her presence lends its warmth and health

To all who coTue before it. If woTuan lost us Eden, such

As she alone restore it.

" For larger life and wiser aims

The fanner is her debtor ; VVho holds to his another's heart

Must needs be worse or better.

"Througli her his civic service shows

A purer-toned ambition ; No double consciousness divides

The man and politician.

" In party's doubtful ways he trusts

Her instincts to determine ; At the loud polls, the thought of her

Eecalls Christ's Mountain Sermon.

" He owns her logic of the heart,

And wisdom of unreason. Supplying, while he doubts and weighs.

The needed word in season.

" He sees with pride her richer thought,

Her fancy's freer ranges ; And love thus deepened to respect

Is proof against all changes.

" And if she walks at ease in ways

His feet are slow to travel. And if she reads with cultured eyes

"What his may scarce unravel,

"Still clearer, for her keener sight

Of beauty and of wonder. He learns the meaning of the hills

He dwelt from childhood under.

"And higher, warmed with summer lights.

Or winter-crowned and hoary. The ridged horizon lifts for him

Its inner veils of glory.

"He has his own free, bookless lore, The lessons nature taught him.

The wisdom which the woods ami hills And toiling men have brought him :

" The steady force of will whereby Her flexile grace seems .sweeter ;

The sturdy counterpoise which makes Her woman's life completer :

"A latent fire of soul which lacks No lireath of love to fan it ;

And wit, that, like his native brooks, Plays over solid gi'anite.

" How dwarfed against his manliness She .sees the jioor jiretension,

The wants, the aims, the follies, born Of fashion and convention I

THE CLEAR VISION.

331

"How litV'. beliiml its accidents Stands strong and self-sustaining,

The human fact transcending all The losing and the gaining.

"And so, in grateful interchange

Of teacher and of hearer, Their lives their true distinctness keep

While daily drawing nearer.

" And if tlie husband or the wife In home's strong light discovers

Such slight defaults as failed to meet The blinded eyes of lovers,

"Why need we care to ask? — who dreams

Without their thorns of roses. Or wonders that the truest steel

The readiest spark discloses ?

" For still in mutual sufferance lies

The secret of true living : Love scarce is love that never knows

The sweetness of forgiving.

" We send the Squire to General Court, He takes his young wife thither ;

No prouder man election day

Rides through the sweet June weather.

" He sees with eyes of manly trust

All hearts to her inclining ; Not less f(ir liiui his household light

That others share its shining."

Thus, while my hostess spake, there grew

Before me, warmer tinted And outlined with a tenderei gi'ace,

The picture that she hinted.

The sunset smouldered as we drove Beneath the deep hill-shadows.

Below us wreaths of white fog walked Like ghosts the haunted meadows.

Sounding the summer night, the stars Dropped down their golden plum- mets ;

The pale arc of the Northern lights Rose o'er the mountain summits, — ■

Until, at last, beneath its bridge. We heard the Bearcamp Howing,

And saw across tlu; mapled lawn

The welcome home-lights glowing ; — •

And, nuising on the tale I heard, 'T were well, thought 1, if often

To rugged farm-life came the gift To liarmonize and soften ; —

If more and more we found the troth

Of fact and fancy plighted, And culture's charm and labor's strength

In rural homes united, —

The simple life, the homely hearth, With beauty's sphere surrounding,

And blessing toil where toil abounds With graces more abounding.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE CLEAR VLSION.

I DID but dream. I never knew What charms our sternest seasor wore. Was never yet the sky so blue.

Was never earth so white before. Till now I never saw the glow Of sunset on yon hills of snow. And iu!ver learned the bough's designs Of beauty in its leafless lines.

Did ever such a morning break As that my eastern windows see ?

Did ever such a moonlight take

Weird photographs of shrub and tree ? Rang ever bells so wild and fleet The music of the wintca- street ? Was ever yet a sound by half So meny as yon school-boy's laugh ?

0 Earth ! with gladness overfraught, IN o added charm thy fiice hath found ;

Within my heart the change is wrought. My footsteps make enchanted ground.

From couch of pain and curtained room

Forth to tliy light and air 1 couie.

332

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

To find in all that meets my eyes The freshness of a glad surprise.

Fair seem these winter days, and soon Shall blow the warm west-winds of spring To set the unlionnd rills in tune,

And hither urge the bluebird's wing. The vales shall laugh in flowers, tlie

woods Grow misty green with leafing buds, And violets and w-ind-flowers sway, Against the throbbing heart of May.

Break forth, my lips, in praise, and own

The wiser love sevei-ely kind ; Since, richer for its chastening grown,

I see, whereas I once was hUnd. The world, 0 Father ! hath not wronged With loss the life by thee prolonged ; But still, with every added year, More beautiful thy works appear !

As thou hast made thy world without, Make thou more fair my world with- in ; Shine through its lingering clouds of doubt ; Rebuke its haunting shapes of .sin ; Fill, brief or long, my granted span Of life with love to thee and man ; Strike when thou wilt the liour of rest. But let my last days be my best ! 2d mo. , 1868.

THE DOLE OF JARL THORKELL.

The land was pale with famine And racked with fever-pain ;

The frozen fiords were fishleas, The earth withheld her gi-ain.

Men saw the boding Fylgja

Before them come and go, And, through their dreams, the Urdar- moon

From west to east .sailed slow !

Jarl Thorkell of Thevera

At Yule-time made his vow ;

On Rykdal's holy Doom-stone He slew to Frey his cow.

To bounteous Frey he .slew her ; To Skuld, the younger Nom,

AVho watches over birth and death, He gave her calf unborn.

And his little gold-haired daughter

Took up the .sprinkling-rod, And smeared with blood the temple

And the wide lips of the god.

Hoarse below, the winter water

Ground its ice-blocks o'er and o'er ■,

Jets of foam, like ghosts of dead waves, Rose and fell along the shore.

The red torch of the Jokul,

Aloft in icy space. Shone down on the bloody Horg-stone^

And the statue's carven face.

And closer round and grimmer

Beneath its baleful light The Jotun .shapes of mountains

Came crowding through the night.

The gray-haired Hersir trembled As a flame by wind is blown ;

A weird power moved his whiti- lips, And their voice was not his own !

"The ^sir thir.^t ! " he muttered ;

" The gods must have more blood Before the tun shall blossom

Or iish shall fill the flood.

" The yEsir thirst and hunger, And hence our blight and ban ;

I'he mouths of the strong gods water For the flesh and blood of man !

" Whom shall we give the strong ones ' Not warriors, sword on thigh ;

But let the nursling infant And bedrid old man die."

" So be it !" cried the young men, " There needs nor doubt nor jiarle" ;

But, knitting hard his red brows, In silemce stood the Jarl.

A sound of woman's weeping At the temple door was heard.

But the old men bowed their white heads, And answered not a word.

Then the Dream-wife of Thiugvalla,

A Vala young and fair, Sang softly, stirring with her breath

The veil of he: loose hair.

THE TWO RABBIS.

533

She sang : "The winds from Alfheim Bring never sound of strife ;

The gifts for Frey the nieetest Are not of death, hut life.

*' Ke loves the grass-green meadows, The grazing kine's sweet breath ;

He loathes your bloody Horg-stoues, Your gifts that smell of death.

' ' No wrong by wrong is lighted,

No pain is cured by pain ; The blood that smokes from Doom-rings

Falls back in redder rain.

" The gods are what you make them, As earth shall Asgard j)rove ;

And hate will come of hating, And love will come of love.

" Make dole of skyr and black bread That old and young may live ;

And look to Frey for favor When first like Frey you give.

*' Even now o'er Njord's sea-meadows

The summer dawn begins : The tun shall have its harvest,

The fiord its glancing fins."

Then up and swore Jarl Thorkell :

" By Gimli and by Hel, O Vala of Thingvalla,

Thou singcst wise and well !

" Too dear the ^Esir's favors

Bought with our children's lives ;

Better die than shame in living Our mothers and our wives.

" The full shall give his portion To him who hath most need ;

Of curdled skyr and black bread, Be daily dole decreed."

He broke from off his neck -chain

Three links of beaten gold ; And each man, at his bidding.

Brought gifts for young and old.

Then mothers nursed their children. And daughters fed their sires,

And Health sat down with Plenty Before the next Yule fires.

Tlie Horg-stoncs stand in Rykdal ; The Doom-ring still remains ;

But the snows of a thousand winters Have washed away the stains.

Christ ruleth now ; the ^sir Have found their twilight dim ;

And, wiser than she dreamed, of old The Vala sang of Him !

THE TWO RABBIS.

The Rabbi Nathan, twoscore years and

ten, Walked blameless through the evil

world, and then, Just as the almond blossomed in his

hair, Met a temptation all too strong to bear. And miserably sinned. So, adding not Falsehood to guilt, he left his seat, and

taught No nioi'e among the elders, but went out From the great congregation girt about With sackcloth, and with ashes on his

head, Making his gray locks grayer. Long he

prayed, Smiting his breast ; then, as the Book

he laid Open before him for the Bath -Col's

choice. Pausing to hear that Daughter of a

Voice, Behold the royal preacher's words : "A

friend Loveth at all times, yea, unto the end ; And for the evil day thy brother lives." Marvelling, he said : " It is the Lord

who gives Counsel in need. At Ecbatana dv'slls Rabbi Ben Isaac, who all men excels In righteousness and wisdom, as the

trees Of Lebanon the small weeds that the

bees Bow with their weight. I will arise,

and lay My sins before him."

And he went his way Barefooted, fasting long, with many

pray(!rs ; But even as one who, followed una- wares. Suddenly in the darkness feels a hand Thrill with its touch his own, and his cheek fanned

334

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

By odors subtly sweet, and whispers near Of words he loathes, yet cannot choose

but hear, So, while the RaLbi journeyed, chanting

low The wail of David's penitential woe. Before him still the old temptation came. And mocked him with the motion and

the shame Of such desires that, shuddering, he ab- horred Himself ; and, I'rying mightily to the

Lord To free his soul and cast the demon out, Smote with his staff the blaukness round about.

At length, in the low light of a spent

The towers of Ecbatana far away

Hose on the desert's rim ; and Nathan,

faint And footsore, pausing where for some

dead saint The faith of Islam reai'ed a domed tomb, Saw some one kneeling in the shadow,

whom He greeted kindly: "May the Holy

One Answer thy prayers, 0 stranger ! "

Wher('U])on The shape stood up with a loud cry, and

then, Clasped in each other's arms, the two

gray men Wept, praising Him whose gracious prov- idence Made their paths one. But straightway,

as the sense Of his transgression smote him, Nathan

tore Himself away : "0 friend beloved, no

more Worthy am I to touch thee, for I came, Foul from my sins, to tell thee all my

shame. Haply thy prayers, since naught availeth

mine. May purge my soul, and make it white

like thine. Pity me, 0 Ben Isaac, I have sinned ! "

Awestrack Ben Isaac stood. The des- ert wind

Blew his long mantle backward, laying bare

The mournful secret of his shirt of hair.

" I too, 0 friend, if not in act," he said,

" In thought have verily sinned. Hast thou not read,

' Better the eye should see than that de- sire

Should wander ' ? Burning with a hid- den fire

That tears and prayers quench not, 1 come to thee

For pity and for help, as thou to me.

Pray f(ir mc, 0 my friend ! " But Na- than cried,

' ' Pray thou for me, Ben Lsaac ! "

Side by side In the low sunshine by the turban stone Tlu^y knelt ; each made his brother's woe

his own, Forgetting, in the agony and stress Of pitying love, his claim of selfishness ; Peace, i'or his friend besought, his own

became ; His praycas weie answered in another's

name ; And, when at last they rose up to em- brace. Each saw God's pardon in his brothei's face !

Long after, when his headstone gathered moss,

Traced on the tai'gum-marge of Onkelos

In Kabbi Nathan's hand these words were read :

" Hope not the cure of sin till Self is dead ;

Forget it in love's service, and the debt

Thou canst not pay the aiigels shall for- get;

Heaven's gate is shnt to him u-ho comes alone ;

Save thou a soul, and it sluill save thy otvn J "

-/ THE MEETING.

The elder folks shook hands at last, Down seat by seat the signal passed. To .sim})le ways like ours unused, Half solemnized and half amused. With long-drawn breath and shrug, mj

guest His .sense of glad relief expressed. Outside the hills lay warm in sun ; The cattle in the meadow-run Stood half-leg deep ; a single bird

THE MEETING.

335

The green repose above us stirred.

" What part or lot have you," he said,

" In these dull rites of drowsy-head ?

Is silence worshij) ? Seek it where

it soothes with dreams the summer

air, Not in this close and rude-benched hall, But where soft lights and shadows

fall, And all the slow^, sleep-walking hours Glide soundless over grass and flowers ! From time and place and form apart, Its holy ground the human heart. Nor ritual-bound nor templeward Walks the free spirit of the Lord ! Our common Master did not pen His followers up from other men ; His service liberty indeed, He built no church, he framed no creed ; But while the saintly Pharisee Made broader his phylactery, As from the synagogue was seen The dusty-sandalled Nazarene Through ripening cornhelds lead the way Upon the awful Sabbath day. His sermons were the healthful talk That shorter made the mountain-walk, His wayside texts were flowers and birds. Where mingled with His gracious words Tiie rustle of the tamarisk-tree And ripple-wash of Galilee."

" Thy words are well, 0 friend," I said ;

" Unmeasured and unlimited.

With noiseless slide of stone to stone,

Tiie mystic Church of God has grown.

Invisible and silent stands

The temple never made with hands.

Unheard the voices still and small

Of its unseen confessional.

He needs no special place of prayer

Whose hearing ear is everywhere ;

He brings not back the childish days

That ringed the eartli with stones of

praise. Roofed Karnak's hall of gods, and laid The i)linths of I'liihe's colonnade. Still less He owns the selfish good And sickly growth of solitude, — • The worthless grace that, out of sight, Flowers in the desert anchorite ; Di.ssevered from the su(f(;riiig wliole, Love hath no power to save a soul. Not out of Self, the origin And native air and soil of sin, Tlu! living w'afcrs spring and flow. The trees with leaves of healing grow.

" Dream not, 0 friend, because I seek This cpiiet shelter twice a week, 1 better deem its pine-laid floor Thau breezy hill or sea-sung shore ; But nature is not solitude : She crowds us with her thronging wood ; Her many hands reach out to us, Her many tongues are garrulous ; Perpetual riddles of surprise Siie ofiers to our ears and eyes ; She will not leave our .senses still, But drags them cajitive at her will : And, making earth too great for heaven. She liides the Giver in the given.

" And so, I find it well to come For deeper rest to this still room, For here the habit of the soul P^eels less the outer world's control ; The strength of mutual purpose pleads More earnestly our common needs ; And from the silence multiplied By these still forms on either side. The world that time and sense have

know'n Falls off and leaves us God alone.

" Yet rarely through the channed repo.se Unmi.xed the stream of motive flows, A flavor of its many springs. The tints of earth and sky it brings ; In the still waters needs must be Some shade of human sympiithy ; And here, in its accustomed place, I look on memory's dearest face ; The blind by-.sitter guesseth not What shadow haunts that vacant spot; No eyes save mine alone can see Tlie love wherewith it welcomes me ! And still, with those alone my kin. In doubt and weakness, want and sin, I bow my head, my heart I bare As when that face was living there, And strive (too oft, alas ! in vain) The peace of simple trust to gain. Fold fancy's restless wings, and lay The idols of my heart away.

" Welcome the silence all unbroken, Nor less the words of fitness spoken, — Such golden words as hers for whom Our autumn flowers have just made

room ; Whose hopeful utterance through and

through The freshness of the morning blew ; Who loved not less the eartli that liglit

336

MISCELLANEOUS TOEMS.

Fell on it from the heavens in sight, But saw in all fair forms more fair The Eternal beauty mirrored there. Whose eighty years but added grace And saintlier meaning to her face, — The look of one who bore away niad tidings from the hills of day, While all our hearts went forth to meet The coming of her beautiful feet ! Or haply hers, whose pilgrim tread Is in the paths where Jesus led ; Who dreams her childhood's sabbath

dream By Jordan's villow-shaded stream, And, of the hjiniis of hope and faith. Sung by the monks of Xazareth, Hears pious echoes, in the call To prayer, from Moslem minarets fall. Repeating where His works were wrought The lesson that her llaster taught. Of whom an elder Sibyl gave, The prophecies of Cuma;'s cave !

" I ask no organ's soulless breath

To drone the themes of life and death.

No altar candle-lit by day,

No ornate wordsman's rhetoric-play,

No cool philosophy to teach

Its bland audacities of speech

To double-tasked idolators

Themselves their gods and woi"shippers.

No pulpit hammered by the fist

Of loud-asserting dogmatist.

Who borrows from the hand of love

The smoking thunderbolts of Jove.

I know how well the fathers taught,

What work the later schoolmen

wrought ; ' reverence old-time faith and men, out God is near us now as then ;

His force of love is s;iU unspent.

His hate of sin as im ninent ;

And still the measure of our needs

Outgrows the cramping bounds of creeds ;

The manna gathered yesterday

Already savors of decay ;

Doubts to the world's child-heart un- known I

Question us now from star a\ud stone ;

Too little or too much we kiitow,

And sight is swift and faith is slow ;

Tlie power is lost to self-deceive

With sliallow forms of make-believe.

We Malk at high noon, and the bells

Call to a thousand oracles,

But the sound deafens, and the light

Is stronger than our dazzled sight ; The letters of the sacred Book Glimmer and swim beneath our look ; Still struggles in the Age's breast AVith deepening agony of quest The old enti'eaty : ' Art thou He, Or look we for the Christ to be ? '

' ' God should be most where man is

least : So, where is neither church nor priest, And never rag of form or creed To clothe the nakedness of need, — "Wliere farmer-folk in silence meet, — 1 turn my bell-uusummoned feet ; I lay the critic's glass aside, I tread upon my lettered pride. And, lowest-seated, testify To the oneness of humanit}- ; Confess the universal want. And share whatever Heaven may grant. Tie lindeth not who seeks his own, The soul is lost that 's saved alone. Not on one favored forehead fell Of old the fire-tongued miracle. But flamed o'er all the thronging host Tlie baptism of the Holy Ghost ; Heart answers heart : in one desue The blending lines of prayer aspire ; ' Where, in my name, meet two ot

three,' Our Lord hath said, ' I there will be I '

"So sometimes comes to soul and

sense The feeling Avhich is evidence That A-ery near about us lies The realm of spiritual mysteries. The sphere of the supernal jjowers Impinges on this world of ours. The low and dark horizon lifts. To light the scenic terror shifts ; The breath of a diviner air Blows down tlie answer of a prayer: That all our sorrow, pain, and doubt A great compassion clasps about. And hnv and goodness, love and force, Are wedded fast beyond divorce. Then duty leaves to love its task, The beggar Self forgets to ask ; With smile of tnist and folded hands. The passive soul in waiting stands To feel, as flowers the sun and dew. The One true Life its own renew.

" So, to the calmly gathered thought The innennost of tnith is taught.

THE ANSWEIi.

337

The mystery dimly imderstood,

That love of God is love of good,

And, chiefly, its divinest trace

111 Him of Nazareth's holy face ;

That to be saved is only this, —

Salvation from our selfishness,

From more than elemental fire,

The sonl's unsanctified desire.

From sin itself, and not the pain

That warns us of its chafing chain ;

That worship's deeper meaning lies

In mercy, and not sacrifice,

Not proud humilities of sense

And posturing of penitence.

But love's unforced obedience ;

That Book and Church and Day are

given For man, not God, — for earth, not

heaven, — The blessed means to holiest ends. Not masters, but benignant friends ; That the dear Christ dwells not afar. The king of some remoter star. Listening, at times, with flattered ear To homage wrung from selfish fear, But here, amidst the poor and blind, The bound and suffering of our kind, 'In works we do, in prayers we pray. Life of our life, he lives to-day."

THE ANSWER.

Sfare me, dread angel of reproof. And let the sunshine weave to-day

Its gold-threads in the warp and woof Of life so poor and gray.

Spare me awhile ; the flesh is weak.

These lingering feet, that fain would stray Among the flowers, shall some day seek

The strait and narrow way.

Take off thy ever-watchful eye. The awe of tliy rebuking frown ;

The dullest slave at times must sigh To fling his burdens down ;

To drop his galley's straining oar,

And press, in summer warmth and calm,

Tlie lap of some enchanted .shore Of blossom and of balm.

Grudge not my life its hour of bloom. My heart its taste of long desire ; 22

This day be mine : be those to come As duty shall require.

The deep voice answered to my own, Smiting my selfish prayers away ;

" To-morrow is with God alone, And man hath but to-day.

' ' Say not, thy fond, vain heart within, The Father's arm shall still be wide.

When from these jileasant ways of sin Thou tum'st at eventide.

' ' ' Cast thyself down, ' the tempter saith, ' And angels shall thy feet upbear. '

He bids thee make a lie of faith. And blasphemy of prayer.

' ' Though God be good and free be Heaven,

No force divine can love compel ; And, though the song of sins forgiven

May sound through lowest hell,

' ' The sweet persuasion of His voice Respects thy sanctity of will.

He giveth day : thou hast thy choice To walk in darkness still ;

" As one who, turning from the light, Watches his own gray shadow fall,

Doubting, upon his path of night. If there be day at all !

" No word of doom may shut thee out, No wind of wrath may downward whirl. No swords of fire keep watch about The open gates of pearl ;

" A tenderer light than moon or sun, Than song of earth a sweeter hymn.

May shine and sound forever on, And thou be deaf and dim.

"Forever round the Mercy-seat The guiding lights of Love shall burn ;

But what if, habit-bound, thy feet Shall lack the will to turn ?

" What if thine eye refuse to see, Tiiine ear of Heaven's free welcome fail.

And thou a willing captive be, Thyself thy own dark jail?

538

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

" 0 doom beyond the saddest guess, As the long years of God unroll

To make thy dreary selfishness The prison of a soul !

' ' To doubt the love that fain would break

The fetters from thy self- bound limb ; And dream that God can thee forsake

As thou forsakest him ! "

G. L. S.

He has done the work of a true man, — Crown him, honor him, love him.

Weejj over him, tears of woman, Stoop manliest brows above him !

0 dusky mothers and daughters, Vigils of mourning keep for him !

Up in the mountains, and down by the waters. Lift up your voices and weep for him !

For the warmest of hearts is frozen,

The freest of hands is still ; And the gap in our picked and chosen

The long years may not fill.

No duty could overtask him,

No need his will outran ; Or ever our lips could ask him.

His hands the work had done.

He forgot his own soul for others. Himself to his neighbor lending ;

He found the Lord in his suffering brothei-s. And not in the clouds descending.

So the bed was sweet to die on.

Whence he saw the doors wide swung

Against whose bolted iron

The strength of his life was flung.

And he saw ere his eye was darkened The sheaves of the harvest-bringing.

And knew while his ear yet hearkened The voice of the reapers singing.

Ah, well ! — The world is discreet;

There are ])lenty to pause and wait ; But here was a man who set his feet

Sometimes in advance of fate, —

riuckeil oH'the old bark when the inner Was slow to renew it.

And put to the Lord's work the sinner When saints failed to do it.

Never rode to the wrong's redressing

A worthier paladin. Shall he not hear the blessing,

" Good and faithful, enter in ! "

FREEDOM IN BRAZIL.

WiTU clearer light. Gross of the South, shine forth In blue Brazilian skies ; And thou, O river, cleaving half llie earth From sunset to sunrise. From the great mountains to the At- lantic waves Thy joy's long anthem pour. Yet a few days (t!od make them less !) and slaves Shall shame thy pride no more. No lettered feet tliy shaded margins press ; But all men .shall walk free Where thou, the high-priest of the wil- derness, Hast wedded sea to sea.

And thou, great-hearted ruler, through whose mouth The word of God is said. Once more, "Let theie be light!" — Son of the South, Lift up thy honored head. Wear unashamed a crown by thy desert

More than by birth thy own, Careless of watch and ward ; thou art begirt By grateful hearts alone. The moated wall and battle-shiji may fail. But safe shall justice prove ; Stronger than greaves of brass or iron mail The panoply of love.

Crowned doubly by man's blessing and God's grace, Thy future is secure ; Who frees a people makes his statue's ]ilace In TiTne's Vallialla sure. Lo ! from his Neva's banks the Scythiaa Czar Stretches to thee his hand.

LINES ON A FLY-LEAF.

139

Who, witli the pencil of the Northern st:ir. Wrote freedom on his land. And he whose gi'ave is holy by our calm And prairied Sangamon, From his gaunt hand shall drop the martyr's jialm To greet thee with " Well done ! "

And thou, 0 Earth, with smiles thy face make sweet. And let thy wail be stilled. To hear the Muse of prophecy repeat

Her promise half fulfilled. The Voice that spake at Nazareth speaks still, No sound thereof hath died ; Alike thy hope and Heaven's eternal will Shall yet be satisfied. The years are slow, the vision tarrieth long. And far the end may be ; But, one by one, the fiends of ancient wrong Go out and leave thee free.

DIVINE COMPASSION.

Long since, a dream of heaven I had. And still the vision haunts me oft ;

I see the saints iu white i-obes clad, The martyrs with their fjalnis ah^ft ;

But hearing still, in middle song. The ceaseless dissonance of wrong ;

And shrinking, with hid faces, from the strain

Of sad, lieseeching eyes, full of remorse and pain.

The glad song falters to a wail, The harping sinks to low lament ;

Before tlie still upliftcid veil

I see the crowned foreheads bent.

Making more sweet the heavenly air. With breathings of unselfisli prayer ;

And a Voice saith : "0 Pity which is pain,

0 Love that weeps, fill up my sufferings which remain !

** Shall souls redeemed by me refuse To share my sorrow in their turn ?

Or, sin-forgiven, my gift abus(; Of peace witli selfisb uncouceru ?

Has saintly ease no pitying care ?

Has faith no work, and love no prayer 1

Wliile .sin remains, and souls in dark- ness dwell.

Can heaven itself be heaven, and look unmoved on hell ? "

Then through the Gates of Pain, I dream,

A wind of heaven blows coolly in ; Fainter the awful discords seem,

The .smoke of torment gi'ows more thin,

Tears quench the burning soil, and

thence

Spring sweet, jiale flowers of penitence ;

And through the dreary realm of man's

despair. Star-crowned an angel walks, and Ic ! God's hope is there !

Is it a dream ? Is heaven so high That pity cannot breathe its air ?

Its happy eyes forever dry,

Its holy lips without .t prayer !

My God ! my God ! if thither led By thy free grace unmerited.

No crown nor palm be mine, but let me keep

A heart that still can feel, and eyes that still can weep.

LINES ON A FLY-LEAF.

I NEED not ask thee, for my sake.

To read a book which well may make

its way by native force of wit

Without my manual sign to it.

Its pi([uant writer needs from me

No gravel}' masculine guaranty,

And well might laugh her merriest laugh

At broken spears in her behalf ;

Yet, spite of all the critics tell,

1 frankly own I like her well.

It may be that she wields a pen

Too sharply nibbed for thin-skinned

men, That her keen arrows search and tiy The armor joints of dignity. And, though alone for error meant, Sing through tiui air irreverent. I l)lamc her not, the young athlete Who plants her woman's tiny feet. And (lares the chances of dcliate Where bearded men might hesitate, Wlio, deeply earnest, seeing well 'i'h(' hidicrous and laughable. Mingling in eloquent excess

340

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Her anger and her tenderness, And, chiding with a half-caress. Strives, less for her own sex than ours. With principalities and powers. And points us upward to the clear Sunned heights of her new atmosphere.

Heaven mend her faults ! — I will not

pause To weigh and doubt and peck at flaws, Or waste my pity when some fool Provokes her measureless ridicule. Strong-minded is she ? Better so Than dulness set for sale or show, A household folly, capped and helled In ftishion's dance of puppets held. Or poor pretence of womanhood, Whose formal, flavorless platitude Is warranted from all off'ence Of robust meaning's violence. Give me the wine of thought whose

bead Sparkles along the page I read. Electric words in which I find The tonic of the northwest wind, — The wisdom which itself allies To sweet and pure himianities. Where scorn of meanness, hate of

wrong. Are underlaid by love as strong ; The genial play of mirth that lights Giave themes of thought, as, ^vhen on

nights Of summer-time, the harmless blaze Of thunderless heat-lightning plays. And tree and hill-top resting dim And doubtful on the sky's vague rim. Touched by that soft and lambent gleam, Start sharply outlined from their dream.

Talk not to me of woman's sphere. Nor point with Scripture texts a sneer. Nor wrong the manliest saint of all By doubt, if he were here, that Paul Would own the heroines who have lent Grace to truth's stern arbitrament. Foregone the praise to woman sweet. And cast their crowns at Duty's feet; Like her, who by her strong Appeal Made Fashion weep and Mammon feel. Who, earliest summoned to withstand The color-madness of the land, Counted her life-long losses gain. And made her own her sisters' pain ; Or her who, in her greenwood shade, Heard the shai-p call that Freedom mude,

And, answering, struck from Sappho's

lyre Of love the Tyrtsean carmen's fire : Or that young girl, — Domremy's maid llevived a nobler cause to aid, — Shaking from warning finger-tips The doom of her apocalypse ; Or her, who world-wide entrance gave To the log-cabin of the slave. Made all his want and sorrow known, And all earth's languages his own.

HYMN

FOR THE HOUSE OF WOR.SHIP AT GEORGETOWN.

ERECTED IN MEMORY OF A MOTHER.

Thou dwellest not, 0 Lord of all !

In temples which thy children raise ; Our work to thine is mean and small,

And brief to thy eternal days.

Forgive the weakness and the pride, If marred thereby our gift may be,

For love, at least, has sanctified The altar that we rear to thee.

The heart and not the hand has wrought From sunken base to tower above

The image of a tender thought. The mcmorj' of a deathless love !

And though should never .sound of speech

Or oi-gan echo from its wall. Its stones would pious lessons teach,

Its shade in benedictions fall.

Here should the dove of peace be found.

And blessings and not curses given ; Nor strife profane, nor hatred wound,

The mingled loves of earth and heaven.

Thou, who didst soothe with dying breath

The dear one watching by thy cros.?. Forgetful of the pains of death

In sorrow for her mighty loss.

In memory of that tender claim, 0 ^!other-born, the offering take.

And niak(! it worthy of thy name, And bless it for a mother's sake 1

MIRIAM.

341

MIRIAM,

AND OTHER POEMS.

TO FREDERICK A. P. BARNARD.

The years are many since, in youth and hope,

Under the Charter Oak, our horoscope

We drew thick-studded with all favor- ing stars.

Now, with gi'ay beards, and faces seamed with scars

From life's hard battle, meeting once again,

"VVe smile, half sadly, over dreams so vain ;

Knowing, at last, that it is not in man

Who walketh to direct his steps, or plan

His pern^anent house of life. Alike we loved

The muses' haunts, and all our fancies moved

To measures of old song. How since that day

Our feet have parted from the path that lay

So fair before us ! Rich, from lifelong search

Of truth, within thy Academic porch

Thou sittest now, lord of a realm of fact.

Thy servitors the sciences exact ;

Still listening with tliy hand on Na- ture's keys.

To hear the Saniian's spheral harmonies

And rhythm of law. I called from dream and song.

Thank God ! so early to a strife so long,

That, ere it closed, the black, abundant hair

Of boyhood rested silver-sown and spare

On manhood's temples, now at sunset- chime

Tread with fond feet the path of morn- ing time.

And if perchance too late I linger where

The flowers have ceased to blow, and trees are bare.

Thou, wiser in thy choice, wilt scarcely blame

The friend who shields his folly with thy name. &MESDURT, 10th mo., 1870.

MIRIAM.

One Sabbath day my friend and I After the meeting, ([uietly Passed from the crowded ■village larics. White with drj' dust for lack of rains, And climbed the neighboring slope,

with feet Slackened and heavy from the heat, Although the day was wellnigh done, And the low angle of the .sun Along the naked liillside cast Our shadows as of giants vast. We reached, at length, the topmost

swell, Whence, either way, the green turf

fell In terraces of nature down To fruit-hung orchards, and the towa AVith white, pretenceless houses, tall Church-steeples, and, o'ershadowing all, Huge mills whose windows had the

look Of eager eyes that ill could brook The Sabbath rest. We traced the track Of the sea-seeking river back Glistening for miles above its mouth, Througli the long valley to the south. And, looking eastward, cool to view, Stretched the illimitable blue Of ocean, from its curved coast-line ; Sonibred and still, the warm sunshine Filled with pale gold-dust all the reach Of slumberous woods from hill to

beach, — ■ Slanted on walls of thronged retreats From city toil and dusty streets, On gi'assy bluff', and dune of sand, And rocky islands miles from land ; Touched the far-glancing sails, and

showed AVhite lines of foam where long waves

flowed Duud) in the distance. In tlie north, Dim tlirough their misty hair, looketl

forth Tlie sj)ac(!-dwarfed mountains t/i tlie

sea. From mystery to mystery !

342

MIRIAM.

So, sitting on that green hill-slope, We talked of human life, its hoi>e And fear, and unsolv^ed doubts, and

what It might have been, and yet was not. And, when at last the evening air Grew sweeter for the bells of prayer Einging in steeples far below. We watched the people churchward go. Each to his jilace, as if thereon The true shekinah only shone ; And my friend queried how it came To pass that they who owned the same Great Master still could not agree To worship Him in company. Then, broadening in his thought, he

ran Over the whole vast field of man, — The varjang forms of faith and creed That somehow served the holders'

need ; 'n which, unquestioned, undenied, Uncounted millions lived and died ; The bibles of the ancient folk. Through which the heart of nations

spoke ; The old moralities which lent To home its sweetness and content, And rendered possible to bear The life of peo])les everywhere : And asked if we, who boast of light. Claim not a too exclusive right To truths wliich must for all be meaTit, Like rain and sunshine freely sent. In bondage to the letter still, AVe give it power to cramp and kill, - — To ta.\ God's fulness witli a scheme Niirrower than Teter's house-top dream, His wisdom and his love with plans Poor and inadeciuate as man's. It must be that He witnesses Somehow to all men that He is : That something of His saving grace Reaches the lowest of the race. Who, through strange creed and rite,

may draw The hints of a divaner law. We walk in clearer light ; — but then, Is He not God ? — are they not men ? Are His responsibilities For us alone and not for these ?

And I made answer : "Truth is one ; And, in all lands beneath the sun, Whoso hath eyes to see may see The tokens of its unity. No scroll of creed 'ts fulness wraps,

We trace it not b}' school-boy maps,

Free as the sun and air it is

Of latitudes and boundaries.

In Vedic verse, in dull Koran,

Are messages of good to man ;

The angels to onr Aryan sires

Talked by the earliest household fires ;

The jirophets of the elder day.

The slant-eyed sages of Cathay,

Read not the riddle all amiss

Of higher life evolved from this.

" Nor doth it lessen what He taught^ Or make the go.spel Jesus brought Less preciou.s, that His li])s retold Some portion of that truth of old ; Denying not the proven seers. The tested wisdom of the years ; Confirming with his own impress The common law of righteou.sness. We search the \\orld for truth ; we cull The good, the pute, the beautiful. From giaven stone and written scroll, From all old flower-fields of the soul ; And, weary seekers of the best. We come back laden from our quest, To find that all the sages said Is in the Book our mothers read, And all our treasure of old thought In His harmonious fulness wrought Who gathers in one sheaf complete The scattered blades of God's sown

wheat. The common gi'owth that maketh good His all-embracing Fatherhood.

"Wherever through the ages rise The altiirs of .self-sac'rifice, Where love its arms has opened wide. Or man for man has calmly died, I see tiie same white wings outspread That hovered o'er the ]\laster's head ! Up from undated time they come. The martyr souls of heathendom. And to His cross and passion bring Their fellowship of sulfering. I tnice His presence in the blind Pathetic gropings of my kind, — In prayers from sin and sorrow wrung. In cradle-hymns of lif(! tliey sung. Each, in its measures, but a part Of the unmeasured Over- Heart ; And with a stronger faith confess The greater that it owns the less. Good cause it is for thankfulness That the world-blessing of His life With the long past is not at strife ;

MIRIAM.

343

That the great marvel of His death

To the one order witnesseth,

No doubt of changeless goodness wakes,

No link of cause and sequence breaks,

But, one with nature, rooted is

In the eternal verities ;

Whereby, while differing in degree

As finite from infinity,

The pain and loss for others borne,

Love's crown of suffering meekly worn.

The life man giveth for his friend

Become vicarious in the end ;

Their healing place in nature take.

And make life sweeter for their sake.

"So welcome I from every source The tokens of tliat primal Force, Older than heaven itself, yet new As the young heart it reaches to, Beneath whose steady impulse rolls The tidal wave of human souls ; Guide, comforter, and inward word. The eternal spirit of the Lord ! Nor fear 1 aught that science brings From searching through material

things ; Content to let its glasses prove, Not by the letter's oldness move. The myriad worlds on worlds that

course The spaces of the universe ; Since everywhere tlie Spirit walks The garden of the heart, and talks With man, as under Eden's trees, In all his varied languages. Why mourn above some liopeless flaw In the stone tables of the law. When scripture every day afresh Is traced on tablets of the flesh ? By inward sense, by outward signs, God's presence still the heart divines ; Through deepest joy of Him we learn. In sorest grief to Him we turn. And reason stoops its pride to share The child-like instinct of a prayer."

And then, as is my wont, I told A story of the days of old. Not found in printed books, — in

sooth, A fancy, with slight hint of truth. Showing how differing faitlis agree In on(! sw(H't law of charity. Mcanwliih; the sky lind golden grown, Oiir faces in its glory shone ; P)Ut sliadows down the valley swept. And gray below the ocean slept,

As time and space I wandered o'er To tread the Mogul's marble floor. And see a fairer sunset fall On Jumna's wave and Agra's wall.

The good Shah Akbar (peace be his alway ! )

Came forth from the Divan at close of day

Bowed with the burden of his many cares,

Worn with the hearing of unnumbered prayers, —

Wild cries for justice, the importunate

Appeals of greed and jealousy and hate,

And all the strife of sect and creed and rite,

Santon and Gouroo waging lioly fight :

For the wise monarch, claiming not to be

Allah's avenger, left his people free.

With a faint hope, his Book scarce justified,

That all the paths of faith, though sev- ered mde.

O'er which the feet of prayerful rever- ence passed,

Met at the gate of Paradise at last.

He sought an alcove of his cool hareem.

Where, far beneath, he heard the Jumna's stream

Lapse soft and low along his palace wall.

And all about the cool sound of the fall

Of fountains, and of water circling free

Through marble ducts along the bal- cony ;

The voice of women in the distance sweet,

And, sweeter still, of one who, at his feet,

Soothed his tired ear with songs of a far land

Where Tagus shatters on the salt sea- sand

The mirror of its cork-grown hills of drouth

And vales of vine, at Lisbon's harbor- mouth.

The dat(?-palms rustled not ; the peepul laid Its topmost boughs against the balus- trade,

344

MIRIAM.

Motionless as the mimic leaves and vines

That, light and graceful as the shawl- designs

Of Delhi or Umritsir, twined in stone ;

And the tired monarch, who aside had thrown

The day's hard burden, sat from care apart.

And let the quiet steal into his heart

From the still hour. Below him Agi'a slept.

By the long light of sunset overswept :

The river flowing through a level land,

By mango-groves and banks of yellow sand,

Skirted with lime and orange, gay kiosks.

Fountains at play, tall minarets of mosques.

Fair pleasure-gardens, with their flow- ering trees

Relieved against the mournful cypresses ;

And, air-poised lightly as the blown sea-foam,

'i'lie mar]>]e wonder of some holy dome

Hung a white moonrise over the still wood,

(Classing its beauty in a stiller flood.

Silent the monarch gazed, until the

night Swift-faliing hid the citv from his

sight, Then to the woman at his feet he said : "Tell me, 0 Miriam, something thou

hast read 111 childhood of the Master of thy faith. Whom Islam also owns. Our Prophet

saith : ' He was a true apostle, yea, a Word And Sj)irit sent before me from the

Lord." Thus the Book witnesseth ; and well I

know By what thou art, O dearest, it is so. As the lute's tone the maker's hand be- trays, The sweet disciple speaks her Master's

praise."

Then Miriam, glad of heart, (for in

some sort She cherislitd in the Moslem's liberal

court The sweet traditions of a Christian

child J

And, through her life of sense, the un.

defiled And chaste ideal of the sinless One Gazed on her with an eye she might not

shun, — The sad, reproachful look of pity, born Of love that hath no part in wrath oi

scorn,) Began, with low voice and moist eyes,

to tell Of the all-loving Christ, and what befell When the fierce zealots, thirsting foi

her blood, Dragged to his feet a shame of woman- hood. How, when his searching answer pierced

within Each heart, and touched the secret of

its sin. And her accusers fled his face before, lie bade the poor one go and sin no

more. And Akbar said, after a moment's

thought, "Wise is the lesson by thy prophet

taught ; Woe tinto him who judges and forgets What hidden evil his own heart besets ! Something of this large charity 1 find In all the sects that sever human kind ; I would to Allah that their lives agreed More nearly with the lesson of their

creed ! Those yellow Lamas who at Meerut pray By wind and water power, and love to

say : ' He who forgivcth not shall, unfor-

giveii, Fail of the rest of Buddha,' and who

even Spare the black gnat tliat stinga them,

vex my ears With the poor hates and jealousies and

fears Xursed in their human hives. Tliat

lean, fierce priest Of thy own people, (be his heart in- creased By Allah's love ! ) his black robes

smelling yet Of Goa's roasted Jews, have I not met Meek-faced, barefooted, crying in the

street The saying of his jirophet true and

sweet, — 'He who is merciful shall mercy

meet ! ' "

MIRIAM.

345

But, next day, so it chanced, as night

began To fall, a murmur through the harcem

ran That one, recalling in her dusky face The full-lipped, mild-eyed beauty of a

race Known as the blameless Ethiops of

Greek song, Plotting to do her royal master wrong. Watching, reproachful of the lingering

light, The evening shadows deepen for her

flight. Love-guided, to her home in a far land. Now waited death at the great Shah's

command.

Shapely as that dark princess for whose smile

A world was bartered, daugliter of the Nile

Herself, and veiling in her large, soft eyes

The passion and the languor of her skies.

The Abyssinian knelt low at the feet

Of her stern lord: "0 king, if it be meet,

And for thy honor's sake," she said, "that I,

Who am the humblest of thy slaves, should die,

I will not tax thy mercy to forgive.

Easier it is to die than to outlive

All that life gave me, — him whose wrong of thee

Was but the outcome of his love for me,

Cherished from childhood, when, be- neath the shade

Of templed Axum, side by side we played.

Stolen from his arms, my lover followed me

Tlnoiigh weary .seasons over land and sea ;

And two days since, sitting disconso- late

Within the shadow of the hareem gate.

Suddenly, as if dropping from the sky,

1 )own from the lattice of the balcony

Fell the sweet .song by Tigre's cow- herds sung In the old nnisic of Ills native tongue. He knew my voice, for love is quick of

ear, Answering in song.

This night he waited neat To fly with me. The fault was mine

alone : He knew thee not, he did but seek his

own ; Who, in the very shadow of thy throne. Sharing thy bounty, knowing all thou

art, Greatest and best of men, and in her

heart Grateful to tears for favor undeserved, Turned ever homeward, nor one mo- ment swerved From her young love. He looked into

my eyes, He heard my voice, and could not

otherwise Than he hath done ; yet, save one wild

embrace AVhen first we stood together face to

face, And all that fate had done since last we

met Seemed but a dream that left us chil- dren yet. He hath not wronged thee nor thy royal

bed ; Spare him, 0 king ! and slay me in his

stead ! "

But over Akbar's brows the frown hung black.

And, turning to the eunuch at his back,

"Take them," he said, "and let the Jumna's waves

Hide both my shame and these accursed slaves !"

His loathly length the unsexed bond- man bowed :

' ' On my head be it ! "

Straightway from a cloud

Of dainty shawls and veils of woven mist

The Christian Miriam rose, and, stoop- ing, kissed

Tlic, monarch's hand. Loose down her shoulders haw

Swept all the rippled darkness of li<-r hair.

Veiling the bo.som that, with high, quick swell

Of fear and pity, through it rose and fell.

"Alas!" she cried, "lia.st thou for- gotten quite The words of Him we spake of yester- night ?

346

MIRIAM.

Or thy own piophet's, — ' 'Wlioso doth endure

And pardon, of eternal life is sure ' ?

O gi-eat and good ! be thy revenge alone

Felt in thy mercy to the erring shown ;

Let thwarted love and youth their par- don plead,

Who sinned but in intent, and not in deed ! "

One moment the strong frame of Akbar

shook With the great storm of passion. Then

his look Softened to lier uplifted face, that still Pleaded more strongly than all words,

until Its pride and anger seemed like over- blown. Spent clouds of thunder left to tell

alone Of strife and overcoming. With bowed

head. And smiting on his bosom : "God," he

said, " Alone is great, and let His holy name Be honored, even to His servant's

shame ! Well spake thy prophet, Miriam, — he

alone Who hath not sinned is meet to cast a

.stone At such as these, who here their doom

await, Held like myself in the strong grasp of

fate. Tliey sinned through love, as I through

love forgive ; Take tliem beyond my realm, but let

them live ! "

And, like a chorus to the wonls of

grace, The ancient Fakir, sitting in his place. Motionless as an idol and as grim, In the pavilion Akbar built for him Under the court-yard trees, (for he was

wise. Knew Menu's laws, and through his

close-.sliut eyes Saw things far olf, and as an open book Into the thoughts of other men could

look,) I'egan, half chant, half howling, to re-

heai.se The fragment of a holy Vedic verse ;

And thus it ran: "He who all things

forgives Conquers lumself and all things else,

and lives Above the reach of wrong or hate or

fear, Calm as the gods, to whom he is most

dear."

Two leagues from Agra still the trav- eller sees

The tomb of Akbar through its cypress- trees ;

And, near at hand, the marble walls that hide

The Christian Begum sleeping at liis side.

And o'er her vault of burial (who shall tell

If it be chance alone or miracle ?)

The Slission 'iress with tireless hand unrolL

The words of Jesus on its lettered scrolls, —

Tells, in all tongues, the tale of mercy o'er.

And bids the guilty, " Go and sin no more ! "

It now was dew-fall ; very still The night lay on the lonely hill, Down which our homeward steps we

bent, And, silent, through great silence

went. Save that the tireless crickets played Their long, monotonous serenade. A young moon, at its narrowest. Curved sharp against the darkening

west ; And, momently, the beacon's star, Slow wheeling o'er its rock afar, From out the level darkness shot One in.stant and again was not. And then my friend spake quietly The thought of both : " Yon crescent

see ! Lik(! Islam's symbol-moon it gives Hints of the light whereby it lives : Somewhat of goodness, something true From sun and .spirit shining thiough All faiths, all worlds, as through the

dark Of ocean shines the lighthouse sj)ark, Attests the presence everywhere Of love and providential care.

NOREiMBEGA.

347

The faitli the ohl Norse heart confessed In one dear name, — the liopefulest And tendiivest heard t'roin mortal lips In pangs of birth or death, from slups

[ce-l)itten in the winter sea, ()r lisjted beside a mother's knee, — Tlie wiser world hath not outgrown, And the All-Father is our own I

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

NOREMBEGA.

[Norembega, or Norimbegue, is the name given by early French fishermen and explorei's to a fabulous country south of Cape Breton, first dis- covered by Verrazzani in 1524. It was supposed to have a magnificent city of the same name on a great river, probably the Penobscot. The site of this barbaric city is laid down on a map pub- lished at Antwerp in 1570. In 1604 Ohamplain .sailed in .search of the Northern Eldorado, twen- ty-two leagues up the Penobscot from the Isle Haute. He supposed the river to be that of Norembega, but wisely came to the conclusion that those travellers who told of the great city had never seen it. He saw no evidences of any- thing like civilization, but mentions the finding of a cross, very old and mossy, in the woods.]

The winding way the serpent takes

The mystic water took, From where, to count its beaded lakes,

The forest sped its brook.

A narrow space 'twixt shore and shore.

For sun or star.s to fall. While evermore, behind, before,

Closed in the forest wall.

The dim wood hiding underneath Wan flowers without a name ;

Life tangled with decay and death, League after league the same.

Unbroken over swamp and hill

The rounding shadow lay, Save where the river cut at will

A pathway to the day.

B(!.si(le that track of air and light.

Weak as a child nnvveaned. At shut of day a Christian knight

Upon his henchman leaned.

The embers of the sunset's fires Along the clouds burned down ;

" I see," he said, " the domes and spires Of Norembega town."

" Alack ! the domes, 0 mastc^r mine. Are golden clouds on high ;

Yon spire is but the Iranchless pine That cnts the evening sky."

" 0 hush and hark ! "WHiat jounds are these But chants and h.il}' hymns ? " ' ' Thou hear'st the breeze that stirs the trees Through all their leafy limbs."

•' Is it a chapel bell that fills

The air with its low tone ? " " Thou liear'st the tinkle of the rills,

The insect's vesper drone."

" The Christ be praised ! — He sets for me

A blessed cross in sight ! " ' ' Now, nay, 't is but yon blasted tree

With two gannt arms outright ! "

" Be it wind so sad or tree so stark. It niattereth not, my knave ;

Methinks to funeral hymns I hark. The cross is for my grave !

" My life is sped ; I shall not see

My home-set sails again ; The sweetest eyes of Normandie

Shall watch for me in vain.

" Yet onwai'd still to car and eye

The baffling marvel calls ; I fain would look before I die

On Norembega's walls.

" So, haply, it .shall be thy jiart

At Christian feet to lay The my.stery of the desert's heart

My dead hand jducked away.

" Leave me an hour of rest ; go thoii And look from yonder heights ;

Perchance the valley even now Is starred with city lights."

The henchman climbed the nearest hill. He saw nor tower nor town,

348

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

But, through the drear woods, loue and still, The river rolling down.

He heard the stealthy feet of things Whose shapes he could not see,

A flutter as of e-\dl wings. The fall of a dead tree.

The pines stood black against the moon,

A sword of fire beyond ; H(! heard the wolf howl, and the loon

Laugh from his reedy pond.

He turned him back : " 0 master dear,

We are but men misled ; And thou hast sought a city here

To find a grave instead.

"As God shall will ! what matters where A true man's cross may stand,

So Heaven be o'(!r it here as there In pleasant Norman land ?

" These woods, perchance, no secret hide

Of lordly tower and hall ; Yon river in its wanderings wide

Has wa.shed no city wall ;

" Yet mirrored in the sullen stream

The holy stars are given : Ls Norembega, tlieii, a dream

Whose waking is in Heaven ?

" No builded wonder of these lands

My weaiy eyes shall see ; A city never made with hands

Alone awaiteth me —

" ' Urbs Syon mystica ' ; I see

Its mansions passing fair, ' Oondita ccelo ' ; let me be.

Dear Lord, a dweller there ! "

Above the dying exile hung

Tlie vision of thi^ bard, As faltered on his failing tongue

The song of good Bernard.

The henchman dug at dawn a grave Beneath the hemlocks brown,

And to the desert's keeping gave The lord of fief and town.

Years after, when the Sieur Champlain Sailed up the unknown stream.

And Norembega proved again A shadow and a dream.

He found the Norman's nameless grave AVithin the hemlo<!k's shade.

And, stretching wide its arms to save. The sign that God had made,

The cross-boughed tree that marked the spot

And made it holy ground : He needs tlie earthly city not

Who hath the heavenly found.

NAUHAUGHT, THE DEACON.

Natjhaught, the Indian deacon, who

of old Dwelt, poor but blameless, where his

narrowing Cape Stretches its shrunk arm out to all the

winds And the relentless smiting of the waves, Awoke one morning from a pleasant

dream Of a good angel dropping iu his hand A fair, broad gold-piece, in the name of

God.

He rose and went forth with the early

day Far inland, where the voices of the

waves Mellowed and mingled witli the wliis-

pering leaves. As, through the tangle of the low, thick

woods, He searched his traps. Theiein nor

beast nor bird He found ; though meanwhile in the

reedy pools The otter plashed, and underneath tha

pines The partridge drummed : and as liij

thouglits went back To the sick wife and little child a>

liome, What marvel that the poor man felt lii.*

faith Too weak to bear its burden, — like a

1-0 1 )e That, strand by strand uncoiling, break.«

above; The hand tliat grasps it. " Even now,

O Lord !

NAUHAUGHT, THE DEACON.

349

Send me," he prayed, " the angel of my

dream ! Nauhaught is very poor; he cannot

■wait."

Even as he spake he heard at his bare feet

A low, metallic clink, and, looking down.

He saw a dainty purse with disks of gold

Crowding its silken net. Awhile he held

The treasure up before his eyes, alone

With his great need, feeling the won- drous coins

Slide through his eager fingers, one by one.

So then the dream was true. The angel brought

One broad piece only; should he take all these ?

Who would be wiser, in the blind, dumb woods ?

Tlie loser, doubtless rich, would scarcely miss

This dropped crumb from a table always full.

Still, while he mused, he seemed to hear the cry

Of a starved child ; the sick face of his wife

Tempted him. Heart and flesh in fierce revolt

Urged the wild license of his savage youth

Against his later scruples. Bitter toil.

Prayer, fasting, dread of blame, and pit- iless eyes

To watch his halting, — had he lost for these

The freedom of the woods ; — the hunt- ing-grounds

Of hapj)y spirits for a walled-in heaven

Of everlasting psalms ? One healed the sick

Very far off thousands of moons ago :

Had he not prayed him night and day to come

And cure his bed-bound wife? Was there a hell ?

Were all his fathers' people writhing there —

Like the poor shell-fish set to boil alive —

Forever, dying never? If he ke])t

This gold, so needed, would the dread- ful God

Torment him like a Mohawk's captive

stuck With slow-consuming splinters ? Would

the saints And the white angels dance and laugh

to see him Burn like a pitch-pine torch ? His

Christian garb Seemed falling from him ; with the fear

and shame Of Adam naked at the cool of day. He gazed around. A black snake lay in

coil On the hot sand, a crow with sidelong

eye Watched from a dead bough. All his

Indian lore Of evil blending with a convert's faith In the supernal terrors of the Book, He saw the Tempter in the coiling

snake And ominous, black-winged bird ; and

all the while The low rebuking of the distant waves Stole in upon him like the voice of

God Among the trees of Eden. Girding

up His soul's loins with a resolute hand, he

thrust The base thought from him : " Nau-

haught, be a man ! Starve, if need be ; but, while you live,

look out From honest eyes on all men, un- ashamed. God help me ! I am deacon of the

church, A baptized, praying Indian ! Should I

do This secret meanness, even the barken

knots Of the old trees would turn to e3'es to

see it. The birds would tell of it, and all tlic

leaves Whisper above me : ' Nauliauglit is a

thief ! ' The sun would know it, and the stars

that hide Behind liis light would watch me, and

at night Follow me with tlieir sharp, accusing

eyes. Yea, thou, God, scest me ! " Then

Nauhaught drew Closer his belt of leather, dulling thus

350

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

The pain of liuuger, and walked bravely

hack To the brown fishing- hamlet by the

sea ; And, pausing at the inn-door, cheerily

asked : " Who hath lost aught to-day ?"

"I," said a voice ; •'Ten golden pieces, in a silken purse, My daughter's handiwork. " He looked,

and lo ! One stood before him in a coat of frieze, And the glazed hat of a seafaring man, Shrewd-faced, broad-shouldeued, with

no trace of wings. Marvelling, he dropped within the

stranger's hand The silken web, and turned to go his

way. But the man said : "A tithe at least is

yours ; Takft it in God's name as an honest

man." And as the deacon's dusky fingers closed Over the golden gift, "Yea, in God's

name I take it, with a poor man's thanks,"

he said.

So down the street that, like a river of sand.

Ran, white in sunshine, to the summer sea.

He sought his home, singing and prais- ing God ;

And when his neighbors in their careless way

Spoke of the owner of the silken purse —

A Welltteet skipper, known in every port

That the Cape opens in its sandy wall —

He answered, with a wise smile, to him- self:

*' I saw the angel where they see a man. "

IN SCHOOI^DAYS.

Still sits the school-house by the road,

A ragged Ix'ggar sunning; Around it still the sumachs grow.

And blackberry-vines are running.

Within, the master's desk is seen, Deoj) scarred by raps official ;

The warping floor, the battered seats. The jack-knife's carved initial;

Tlie charcoal frescos on its wall ;

Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school,

Went storming out to playing !

Long years ago a winter sun

Shone over it at setting ; Lit up its western window-] lanes.

And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving.

Of one who still her stejjs delayed When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boj'^

Her childish favor singled : His cap pulled low upon a face

Where pride and shame were mingled

Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered ; —

As restlessly her tiny hands

The blue-checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt The soft hand's light caressing,

And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing.

' ' I 'm sorrj' that I spelt the word :

I liate to go above you. Because," — the brown eyes lower fell, —

" Because, you see, I love you ! "

Still memory to a gray -haired man That sweet child-face is showing.

Dear girl ! the grasses on lun- grave Have forty years been growing !

He lives to learn, in life's hard school, How few who pass above him

Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her, — because they love him.

GARIBALDI.

In trance and dream of old, God's pro])lu't saw The casting down of thrones. Thou,

watching lone The hot Sardinian coast-line, hazy- hilled.

" On woods that dream of bloom" Page JSI.

MY TRIUMPH.

351

Where, fringing round Caprera's rocky zone (Vith foam, the slow waves gatlier and withdraw, Behold'st the vision of the seer ful- filled. And hear'st the sea-winds burdened

with a sound Of falling chains, as, one by one, un- bound, The nations lift their light hands up and swear Their oath of freedom. From the chalk-wliite wall Of England, from the })laek Carpathian range. Along the Danube and the Tiieiss,

through all The passes of the Spanish Pyrenees, And from the Seine's thronged banks, a murmur strange And glad floats to thee o'er thy sum- mer seas On the salt wind that stirs thy whiten- ing hair, — Tlie song of freedom's bloodless victories ! Rejoice, 0 Garibaldi ! Though thy

sword Failed at Rome's gates, and blood

seemed vainly ])oured Where, in Christ's name, the crowned

infidel Of Fiance wrouglit murder with the arms of hell On that sad mountain slope whose ghostly dead. Unmindful of the gray exorcist's ban, Walk, unappeased, the chambered Vat- ican, And draw the curtains of Napoleon's bed! God's providcnci; is not blind, but, full

of eyes, It searches all the refuges of lies', And in His time and way, the accursed things Before whose evil feet thy battle- gage Haj clashed defiance from hot youth to age cihall perish. All men shall be priests and kings, — - One royal brotlierhood, one church

made free; By love, which is the law of liberty* 1809.

AFTER ELECTION.

The day's sharp strife is ended now, Our work is done, God knoweth how ! As on the thronged, unrestful town The patience of the moon looks down, I wait to hear, beside the wire. The voices of its tongues of fire.

Slow, doubtful, faint, they seem at first: Be strong, my heart, to know the worst! Hark ! — there the Alleghanies spoke ; That sound from lake and prairie broke, That sunset-gun of triumph rent The silence of a continent !

That signal from Nebraska sprung, This, from Nevada's mountain tongue ! Is that thy answer, strong and free, 0 loyal heart of Tennessee ? Wliat strange, glad voice is that which

calls From Wagner's grave and Sumter's

walls ?

From Mississippi's fountain-head A sound as of the bison's tread ! There rustled freedom's Charter Oak ! In that wild burst the Ozarks spoke! Cheer answers cheer from rise to set Of sun. We have a country yet !

The praise, 0 God, be thine alone i Thou givest not for bread a stone ; Thou hast not led us 1 hrougli the night To blind us with returning light ; Not through the furnace liave we passed, To perish at its mouth at last.

0 night of peace, thy flight restrain ! November's moon, be slow to wane ! Shine on the freed man's cabin floor, On brows of prayer a Ijlessing pour ; And give, with full assurance blest. The weary heart of Freedom rest ! 1868.

MY TRIUMPH.

The autumn-time has come ; On woods that dream of bloom, And over purpling vines. The low sun fainter shines.

Tlic aster-flower is failing. The hazel's gold is paling;

352

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Yet overhead more near The eternal stars appear !

And present gratitude Insures the future's good, And for the things I see I trust the things to be ;

That in the paths unti'od, And the long days of God, My feet shall stiU be led. My heart be comforted.

0 linng friends who love me !

0 dear ones gone above uie ! Careless of otlier fame,

1 leave to you my name.

Hide it from idle praises,

Save it from e\al phrases :

Why, when dear lips that spake it

Are dumb, should strangers wake it ?

Let the thick curtain fall ; I better know than all How little I have gained, How vast the unattained.

Not by the page word-painted Let life be banned or sainted : Deeper than written scroll The colors of the soul.

Sweeter than any sung

My songs that found no tongue ;

Is obler than any fact

My wish that failed of act.

Others shall sing the song. Others shall right the ^^Tong, — Finish what I begin. And all 1 fail of win.

What matter, I or they ? Mine or another's day. So the right word be said And life the sweeter made ?

Hail to the coming singers ! Hail to the brave light-bringers ! Forward 1 reach and share All that they sing and dare.

The airs of heaven blow o'er me ; \ glory shines before me Of what mankind shall be, — Pure, generous, brave, and free.

A dream of man and woman Di^dner but still human, Solving the riddle old. Shaping the Age of Gold !

The love of God and neighbor ; An equal-handed labor ; The richer life, where beauty Walks hand in hand with duty.

Ring, bells in unreared steeples. The joy of unborn peoples ! Sound, ti"umpets far off blown, Your triumph is my own !

Parcel and part of all, I keep the festival. Fore-reach the good to be. And share the victory.

I feel the earth move sunward, I join the gi'eat march onward, And take, by faith, while living, Mv freehold of thanksgiving.

THE HIVE AT GETTYSBURG.

In the old Hebrew myth the lion's frame, So terrible alive, Bleached by the desert's sun and wind, became The wandering wild bees' hive ; And he who, lone and naked-handed, tore Those jaws of death apart, In after time drew forth their honeyed store To strengthen his strong heart.

Dead seemed the legend : but it only slept To wake beneath our sky ; Just on the spot whence ravening Trea- son crept Back to its lair to die, Bleeding and torn from Freedom's mountain bounds, A stained and shattered drum Is now the liive where, on their flowery rouTids, The wild bees go and come.

Unchallenged by a ghostly sentinel, They wander wide and far.

TO LYDIA MARIA CHILD.

353

Along gi'een hillsides, sown with shot and shell, Through vales once choked with war. The low reveille of their battle-drum

Disturbs no morning prayer ; With deeper peace in summer noons their hum Fills all the drowsy air.

And Samson's riddle is our own to- day. Of sweetness from the strong. Of union, peace, and freedom plucked away From the rent jaws of wrong. From Treason's death we draw a purer life. As, from the beast he slew, A sweetness sweeter for his bitter strife The old-time athlete drew !

HOWARD AT ATLANTA.

Right in the ti-ack where Sherman

Ploughed his red furrow, Out of the narrow cabin.

Up from the cellar's buiTow, Gathered the little black people.

With freedom newly dowered. Where, beside their Northern teacher.

Stood the soldier, Howard.

He listened and heard the children

Of the poor and long-enslaved Reading the words of .Jesus,

Singing the songs of David. Behold ! — the dumb lips speaking,

The blind eyes seeing ! Bones of the Prophet's vision

Warmed into being !

Transformed he saw them passing

Their new life's portal ! Almost it seemed the mortal

Put on the immortal. No 7nore with the beasts of burden,

No more with stone and clod, But crowned with glory and honor

In the image of God !

Tiiere was the human chattel

Its manhood taking; Tlicre, in each dark, brown statue

A soul wius waking ! The man of many battles.

With tears his eyelids pressing,

Stretched over those dusky foreheads His one-armed blessing.

And he said : " AVho hears can never

Fear for or doubt you ; What shall I tell the children

Up North about you ? " Then ran round a whisper, a murmui^

Some answer de\asing ; And a little boy stood up : " Massa,

Tell 'em we 're rising ! "

0 black boy of Atlanta !

But half was spoken : The slave's chain and the master's

Alike are broken. The one curse of the races

Held both in tether: They are rising, — all are rising,

The black and white together !

0 brave men and fair women !

Ill comes of hate and scorning ,• Shall the dark faces only

Be turned to morning ? — Make Time your sole avenger.

All-healing, all-redressing ; Meet Fate half-way, and make it

A joy and blessing !

TO LYDIA MARIA CHILD,

ON READING HER POEM IN " THii STANDARD."

The sweet spring day is glad with music, But through it sounds a sadder strain ;

The worthiest of our narrowing circle Sings Loring's dirges o'er again.

0 woman greatly loved ! I join thee In tender memories of our friend ;

With thee across the awful spaces The greeting of a soul I send !

What cheer hath he ? How is it with him ?

\Vliere lingers lie this weary while ? Over what pleasant fields of Heaven

Dawns the sweet sunrise of his smile ?

Does he not know our feet are treading The earth hard down on Slavery's grave ?

That, in our crowning exultations. We miss the charm his presence gave ?

354

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Why on this spiing air comes no whis- per

From hira to tell us all is well ? Why to our flower-time comes no tokeji

Of lily and of asphodel ?

I feel the unutterable longing. Thy hunger of the heart is mine ;

I reach and grope for hauds in darkneiss, My ear grows sharp for voice or sign.

Still on the lii)S of all we question The tinger of God's silence hes;

Will the lost liands in ours be folded? Will the shut eyelids ever rise ?

0 friend ! no proof beyond this yearning, This outi'each of our hearts, we need ;

God will not mock the hope He giveth, No love He prompts shall vainly plead.

Then let us stretch our hands in dark- ness, And call our loved ones o'er and o'er ; Some day their arms shall close about us, And the old voices speak once more.

No dreary splendors wait our coming \Vliere rapt ghost sits from ghost ajiart ; Homeward we go to Heaven's thanks- giving, The harvest-gathering of the lieart.

THE PRAYER-SEEKER.

Along tlie aisle where prayer was made A woman, all in black arrayed. Close-veiled, between the kneeling host, \\'ith gliding motion of a ghost, I'itssed to the desk, and laid thereon A scroll which bore these words alone, Pray for me I

Hack from the place of worshipi)ing She glided like a guilty thing: Tlic rustle of lier draperies, stirred r.y hurrying feet, alone was heard ; Wliilc, full of awe, the jireachcr read, As out into tlie dark she sjied :

^^ Fray fur ine /"

Back to the night from whence she

came, To inumagined gi-ief or shame ! Across tlie threshold of that door None knew the burden that she bore ; Alone she left the written scroll. The legend of a troubled soul, — Fray for me !

Glide on, poor ghost of woe or sin ! Thou leav'st a common need within ; Each bears, like thee, some nameless

weight, Some misery inarticulate. Some secret sin, some shrouded dread, Some household sorrow all unsaid. Fray for tis !

Pass on ! The type of all thou art, Sad witness to the common heart ! AVitli lace in veil and seal on lijt. In mute and strange companionship, Like thee we wander to and fro, Dumbly imploring as we go : Fray for us I

Ah, who shall pray, since he who

])leads Our want ])erchance hath gi-eater needs? Yet they who make their loss tlie gain Of others shall not ask in vain, • And Heaven bends low to hear the

prayer Of love from lips of self-despair : Fray for us 1

In vain remorse and fe.ar and hate Beat with bruised hands against a fate Who.se walls of iron only move And oi)en to the touch of love. He only feels his burdens fall Who, taught by sullVring, pities all. Fray for us I

He prayeth best who leaves iinguessed

The mystery of another's breast.

Why dieeks grow pale, why eyes o'er-

flow, Ox heads are white, thou need'st not

know. Enough to note by many a sign That every heart hath neetls like thine. Fray for us I

A SPIRITUAL MANIFESTATION.

355

POEMS FOR PUBLIC OCCASIONS.

A SPIRITUAL MANIFESTATION.

A.T THE president's LEVEE, BROWN UNIVERSITY, 29th 6TH MONTH, 1870.

To-day the plant by Williams set Its summer bloom discloses ;

The wilding sweetbrier of his prayers Is crowned with cultured roses.

Once more the Island State repeats The lesson that he taught her,

And binds his pearl of charity Upon her brown-locked daughter.

Is 't fancy that he watches still His Providence plantations ?

That still the careful Founder takes A part on these occasions ?

Methinks I see that reverend f<^rm. Which all of us so well know :

He rises up to speak ; he jogs The presidential elbow

"Good friends," he says, "yt>u reap a field

I sowed in self-denial, For toleration had its griefs

And charity its trial.

" Great grace, as saith Sit Thomas More,

To him must needs be giv^n Who heareth heresy and leaves

The heretic to Heaven !

"I hear again the snuffled tones,

I see in drcarj- vision Dyspeptic dreamers, spiritual bores.

And prophets witli a missioi:.

' Each zealot thrust before my eyes

His Scripture-garbled label ; All creeds were shouted in my ears As with the tongues of Babel.

"Scourged at one cart-tail, each nied

The hope of every other ; Each martyr shook his branded fist

At the conscience of his brother !

de-

" How cleft the dreary drone of man

The shriller pipe of woman, As Gorton led his saints elect,

Who held all tilings in common !

"Their gay robes trailed in ditch ano swamp,

And torn by thorn and thicket, The dancing-girls of jVIerry Mount

Came dragging to my wicket.

" Shrill Anabaptists, shorn of ears ;

Gray witch-wives, hobbling slowly ; And Antinomians, free of law.

Whose very sins were holy.

' ' Hoarse ranters, crazed Fifth Mon- archists, Of stripes and bondage braggarts. Pale Churchmen, with singed rubric- snatched From Puritanic fagots.

" And last, not least, the Quakei>scanie, With tongues still sore from burning.

The Bay State's dust from off theii feet Before my threshold spurning ;

' ' A motley host, the Lord's debris, Faith's odds and ends together ;

Well might I shrink from guests with lungs Tough as their breeches leather :

"If, when the hangman at their heeb Came, rope in hand to catch them,

I took the hunted outcasts in, I never sent to fetch them.

" I fed, but spared them not a whit;

I gave to all who walked in. Not clams and succotash alone.

But stronger meat of doctrine.

" I jiroved the pi'oplu'ts false, I pricked

The bubble of perfection. And ckpped upon their inner light

The snuffers of election.

" And looking backward on my times, This credit I am takini: ;

356

POEMS FOR PUBLIC OCCASIONS.

I kept ea^-li sectary's dish apart, No spiritual chowder making.

" Where now the Wending signs oi sect

Would puzzle their assorter, The dry-shod Quaker kept the land,

The Baptist held the water.

•' A common coat now serves for both, The hat 's no more a fixture ;

.Vnd which was wet and which was dry, Who knows in such a mixture ?

''Well ! lie who fiushioned Peter's dream

To bless them all is able ; und bird and beast and creeping thing

Make clean upon His table !

■ 1 walked by my own light ; but when

The ways of faith divided. Was I to force unwilling feet

To tread the path that I did ?

" I touched the garment-hem of truth, Yet saw not all its splendor ;

I knew enough of doubt to feel For every conscience tender.

" God left men free of choice, as when His Eden-trees were planted ;

Because they chose amiss, should I Deny the gift He gi-anted ?

" So, with a common sense of need, Our common weakness feeling,

I left them with myself to God And His all-gracious dealing !

" I kept His plan whose rain and sun To tare and wheat are given ;

And if the ways to hell were free, J left them free to heaven ! "

Take heart with us, 0 man of old. Soul-freedom's brave confessor,

So love of God and man wax strong, Let sect and creed be lesser.

The jarring discords of thy day In ours one hymn are swelling ;

The wandering feet, the severed paths. All seek our Father's dwelling.

A.nd slowly learns the world the truth That makes us all thy debtor, —

That lioly life is more than rite, And spirit more than letter ;

That they who differ pole-wide serve Perchance the common Master,

And other sheep He hath than they Who gi-aze one narrow pasture !

For truth's worst foe is he who claims

To act as God's avenger. And deems, beyond his sentry -lieat.

The crystal walls in danger !

Who sets for heresy his traps Of verbal quirk and quibble.

And weeds the garden of the Lord With Satan's borrowed dibble.

To-day our hearts like organ keys One Master's touch are feeling ;

The branches of a conmion Vine Have only leaves of healing.

Co-workers, yet from varied fields. We share this restful nooning ;

The Quaker with the Baptist here Believes in close communing.

Forgive, dear saint, the playful tone, Too light for thj- deserving ;

Thanks for thy generous faith in man, Thy trust in God unswerving.

Still echo in the hearts of men The words that thou hast spoken ;

No forge of hell can weld again The fetters thou hast broken.

The pilgrim needs a pass no more

From Roman or Genevan ; Thought-free, no ghostly tolhrian keeps

Henceforth the road to Heaven !

"THE LAURELS."

AT THE TWENTIETH AND LAST ANNI- VKKSARY.

From these wild rocks I look to-day O'er leagues of dancing waves, and see

The far, low coa.st-line stretch away To where our river meets the sea.

The light wind blowing off the land Is burdened with old voices , through

HYMN.

357

Shut eyes I see how lip and hand The greeting of old days renew.

0 friends whose hearts still Iceep tlioir

prime, Whose bright example warms and

cheers, Ye teach us how to smile at Time, And set to music all his years !

1 thank you for sweet summer days, For pleasant memories lingering long.

For joyful meetings, fond delays, And ties of friendship woven strong.

As for the last time, side by side. You tread the paths familiar grown,

I reach across the severing tide.

And blend my farewells with your

Make room, 0 river of our home !

For other feet in place of ours, And in the summers jet to come,

Make glad another Feast of Flowers !

Hold in thy mirror, calm and deep, Tlie pleasant pictures thou hast seen ;

Forget thy lovers not, but keep Our memory like thy laurels green.

Isles op Shoals, 7th mo., 1870.

HYMN

FOR THE CELEBRATION OF EMANCIPA- TION AT NEWBURYPORT.

Not unto us who did but seek

The word that burned within to speak,

Not unto lis this day belong

The triumph and e.\ultant song.

Upon us fell in early youth The burden of unwelcome tnith. And left us, weak and frail and few, The censor's painful work to do.

Thenceforth our life a fight became, The air wo breathed was hot with blame j

For not with gauged and softened tone We made the bondman's cause our

AVe bore, as Freedom's hope forlorn, The private hate, the public scorn ; Yet held through all the paths we trod Our faith in man and trust in God.

We prayed and hoped ; but still, with

awe. The coming of the sword we saw ; We heard the nearing steps of doom, We saw the shade of things to come

In grief which they alone can feel Wlio from a mother's wrong appeal, With blended lines of fear and hope We cast our countrj-'s horoscope.

For still within her house of life We marked the lurid sign of strife. And, poisoning and imbitteriug all, We saw the star of Wormwood fall.

Deep as our love for her became Our hate of all that wrought her shame, And if, thereby, with tongue and pen We erred, — we were but mortal men.

We hoped for peace ; our ej'es survey The blood-red dawn of Freedom's day : We prayed for love to loose the chain ; 'T is shorn by battle's axe in twain !

Nor skill nor strength nor zeal of ours Has mined and heaved the hostile

towers ; Not by our hands is turned the key That sets the sighing cajitives free.

A redder sea than Egypt's wave Is piled and parted for the slave ; A darker cloud moves on in light ; A fiercer fire is guide by night !

The praise, 0 Lord ! is Thine alone. In Thy own way Thy work is done ! Our poor gifts at Thy feet we cast, To whom be glory, first and last 1 1865-

•6bS

THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGEDI.

THE PE:N":NrSYLYA]^IA PILGRIM,

AND OTHER POEMS.

FRANCIS DANIEL PASTOEIUS.

The beginning of German emigration to Amer- ca may be traced to the j)ersonal iiitinence of William Penn, who in 1677 Tisited the Continent, and made the acquaintance of an intelligent and highly cultivated circle of Pietists, or Mystics, who, reviving in the seventeenth century the spiritual Ciith and worship of Tauler and the " Friends of God "" in the fourt«!nth, gathered about the pastor Spener, and the young and beautiful Eleonora Johanna Von Merlau. In this circle originated the Frankfort Land Com- pany, which bought of William Penn, the Gov- ernor of Pennsylvania, a tract of land near the new city of Philadelphia.

The company's agent in the New World was a ris- ing young lawyer, Francis Daniel Pastorius, son of Judge Pa.<torius, of Windsheim , who, at the age of seventeen, entered the University of Altorf. He studied law at Stnusburg, BiLsle, and .Teua, and at Ratisbon, the seat of the Imperial Government, obtained a practical knowledge of international polity. Successful in all his examinations and dis- putations, he receiveil the degree of Doctor of Law at Nuremberg in 1676. In 1679 he was a law-lectur- er at Frankfort, where he becnme deeply interested in the teaj-hings of Dr. Spener. In 1680 -SI he travelled in France, Kngland, Ireland, and Italy with his friend Ilerr Von Rodeck. '' I w:is," he says, " glad to enjoy again the company of my Christian friends, rather than b-- with Voli Rodeck feji.'^ting and dancing." In 16S3. in com- pany with a small number of Gennan Friends, he emigrated to .\merica, settling upon the Frank- fort Company's tract between the Schuylkill and the Delaware Rivers. The township wa.« di- vided into four hamlets, namely, Germantown, Krisheini, Crefield, and Sommerhausen. Soon after his arrival he united himself with the Soci- ety of Frien<is, and became one of it* most able and devoted members, h.s well as the recognized head and lawgiver of the settlement. Fie mar- ried, two years after his arrival, Anneke (Anna), daughter of Dr. Klosterman, of Muhlheim.

In the year 1688 he drew up a memorial against slavcholding, which was adopted by the Gemiantown Friemls and sent up to the Monthly Meeting, and thence to the Yearly Me<'ting at Phila-leljihia. It is noteworthy as the first pro- test made by a religious body against Negro Slavery. The original document wjls discovered In 1844 by the Philadelphia antiijuarian, Nathan Kite, and published in "The Friend "" (Vol. XVIII No. 16). It is a bold am', direct appeal to the best instincts of the heart. " Have not,"' h" a«ks, " these negroes as much right to fight lor their freedom as you have to keen them ilaves? "

Under the wise direction of P.-ustorius, the fiermantown settlement gr«>w and prospere<l. The inhabitants planted orchanls and vineyanls, and surrounded themselves with .sonven'rs of their old home. A large number of them were

linen- weavers, as well as small fanners Thf Quakers were the principal sect, but men of all religions were tolerated, and lived together in harmony. In 1692 Richard Frame published, in what he called verse, a " Description of Pennsyl- vania,'" in which he alludes to the settlement" —

" The German town of which I spoke before. Which is at least in length one mile or more. Where lives High German people and Low Dutch, Whose trade in weaving linen cloth is much, — There grows the fax, as also you may know 'I'hat from the same they do divide the tow. Their trade suits well tricir habitation, — We find ronvenience for their occupation,"

Pastorius seems to have been on intimat« terms with William Penn, Thomas Lloyd, Chief Justice Logan, Thomas Storj', and other leading men in the Province Ix-longing to his own re- ligious society, as al.so with Kelpius, the learned Jlystic of the Wi.s.sahickon, with the pastor of the Swedes" church, and the leaders of the Mennonitei!. He wrote a description of Penn- sylvania, which was published at Frankfort and Leipsic in 1700 and 1701. His " Lives of the Saints,'" etc., written in German and dedicated to Prof. Schurmberg, his old teacher, was pub- lished in 1690. He left behind him many un- IiuMished manuscripts covering a very wide range of subjects, most of which are now lost. One liuge nianuscript folio, entitled '" Hive Beestock, j Melliotropheum Alucar, or Kusca .\pium,'" still I remains, containing one thousand pages with I about one hundred lines to a p;ige. It is a nied- I ley of knowledge and fancy, history, philosophy, I and poetry, written in seven languages. A large portion of his poetr)' is devoted to the pleasures of gardening, the description of flowers, and the care of bees. The following sjtecimen of his punning Latin is addressed to an orchard-pil- ferer : —

" Quisquis in liiec furtim reptas viridaria nostra Tangere fallaci poina caveto maim, Si non obseqiieris faxit Deus omiie guod opto. Cum malis nostril- ut mala cuncta (eras."

Professor Oswald Seidensticker, to whose pa- pers in Dfr D'Htschf Fioneer and that able peri- odical the " Penn Monthly,"' of Philadelphia, 1 am indebted for many of the foregoing facts in regard to the (iemian pilgrims of the New World, thus clo.ses his notice of Pastorius : —

" No tombstone, not even a record of burial, indicates w here his remains have found their last resting-place, and the |ianlonable desire to a.sso- ciate the homage due to this distinguisheti mai with some visible memento cannot be gratified. There is im> re;uson to supi>ose that he was in- terred in an}' other pl.ice than the Friends' ol4 burying-ground in Gcrmantown, though the fact is not attesto<i by any definite source of in formation. After all, this obliteration of th« last trace of his earthly existence is but typica, of what ha" overtaken the times which he repre- sents ; thai Germantown wliich he fo'Jnded, whic'i

PKELUDE.

559

saw him live and move, is at present but a quaint idyl of the past, almost a myth, barely remem- bered and little cared for by the keener race that has succeeded."

The Pilgrims of Plymouth have not lacked historian and pcet. Justice has been done to their faith, courage, and self-sacrifice, and to the mighty influence of their endeavors to estab- lish righteousness on the earth. The Quaker pilgrims of Pennsylvania, seeking the same ob- ject by different means, have not been equally fortunate. The power of their testimony for truth and holiness, peace and freedom, enforced )iily hy what Milton calls " theunresistible might nf meekness," has been felt through two centu- ries in the amelioration of penal severities, the abohtion of slavery, the reform of the erring, the relief of the poor and suffering, — felt, in brief, in every step of human progress. But of the men them.selves, with the single exception of WiUiam Penn, scarcely anything is known. Contrasted , from the outset, with the stern, ag- gressive Puritans of New England, they have come to be regarded as " a feeble folk," with a personaUty as doubtful as their unrecorded graves. They were not soldiers, like Miles Stand- ish ; they had no figure so picturesque as Vane, no leader so rashly brave and haughty as Endi- cott. No Cotton Mather wrote their Magnalia ; they had no awful drama of supernaturalism in which Satan and his angels were actors ; and the only witch mentioned in their simple annals was a poor old Swedish woman, who, on complaint of her countrywomen, was tried and acquitted of everything but imbecility and folly. Nothing but commonplace offices of civility came to pass be- tween them and the Indians ; indeed, their ene- mies taunted tliem with the fact that the savages did not regard them as Christians, but just such men as themselves. Yet it must be apparent to every careful observer of the progress of Ameri- can civilization that its two principal currents had their sources in the entirely opposite direc- tions of the Puritan and Quaker colonies. To use the words of a late writer: * " The historical forces, with which no others may be compared in their influence on the people, have been those of the Puritan and the Quaker. The strength of the one was in the confession of an invisible Presence, a righteous, eternal Will, which would establish righteousness on earth ; and thence arose the conviction of a direct personal respon- sibility, which could be tempted by no external splendor and could be shaken by no internal agitatiiiii.and cciiild not be evaded or transferred. The stivii;j;tli of the other was the witness in the human spirit to an eternal Word, an Inner Voice which spoke to each alone, while yet it spoke to every man ; a Light which each was to follow, nnd which yc't was the light of the world ; and all other voices were silent before this, and the solitary path whither it led was more sacred than the worn ways of cathedral-aisles."

It will 1)1' sufruiciitly apparent to the reader that, ill the poem which follows, I have attempted nothiiijj: beyond a study of the life and times of the Pennsylvania colonist, — a simple picture of a niitewniiliy man and his locality. The colors of my sketch arc all very sober, toned down to the quiet and dreamy atmosphere through which its subject is visible. Whether, in the glare and tumult of the present time, such a picture

MiiUbrd's Nation, pp. 2fl7, 268.

will find favor may well be questioned. I only know that it has beguiled for me some hours of weariness, and that, whatever may be its meas- ure of public appreciation, it has been to me its own reward.

J. G. W. Amesbury, 5lh mo., ISTt.

Hail to posterity ! Hail, future men of Germanopolis !

Let the young generations yet to bo Look kindly upon this. Think how your fathers left their native land, — Dear German-land ! 0 sacred

hearths and homes ! — And, where the wild beast roams, In patience planned New forest-homes beyond the mighty sea, There undisturbed and free To live as brothers of one family. What pains and cares befell, What trials and what fears. Remember, and wherein we have done well Follow our footsteps, men of coming years ! Where we have failed to do Aright, or wisely live, Be warned by us, the better way pur- sue, And, knowing we were human, even as .you, Pity us and forgive ! Farewell, Posterity ! Farewell, dear Germany ! Forevermore farewell !

From the Latin of Fr.\ncis Damel Pastorius in the Gennantoum Records. 1688.

PRELUDE.

I SING the Pilgrim of a softer clime And milder sjH'ech than those brave men's who brought To the ice and iron of our winter time A will as firm, a creed as stern, and

wrought With one mailed hand, and with the other fought. Simply, as fits my liieme, in homely rhyme I sing the blue-eyed German Spener taught,

360

THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM.

Through whose veiled, mystic faith the Inward Light, Stead}' and still, an easy hrightness, shone, Transfiguring all things in its radiance

white. The garland which his meekness never sought I bring him ; over fields of harvest

sown With seeds of blessing, now to ripe- ness gi'own, I bid the sower pass before the reapers' sight.

THE PENNSYLVAXIA TILGRDL

Never in tenderer quiet lapsed the day

From Pennsylvania's vales of spring away.

Where, forest-walled, the scattered ham- lets lay

Along the wedded rivers. One long

bar Of purjjle cloud, on which the evening

star Shone like a jewel on a scimitar,

Held the sky's golden gateway. Through

the deep Hush of the woods a murmur seemed to

creep. The Schuylkill whispering in a voice of

sleep.

All else was still. The oxen from their ploughs

Rested at last, and from their long day's browse

Came the dun files of Krisheini's home- bound cows.

And the young city, round whose virgin

zone The rivers like two mighty arms were

thrown. Marked by the smoke of evening fires

alone.

Lay in the distance, lovely even tlif^n With its fair women and its stately

men Gracing the forest court of William

Penn,

Urban yet sylvan ; in its lough-hewn frames

Of oak and pine the dryads held their claims.

And lent its streets theu- pleasant wood- land names.

Anna Pastorius down the leafy lane Looked city-ward, then stooped to prune

again Hervines and simples, with asigh of pain.

For fast the streaks of ruddy sunset paled In the oak clearing, and, as diiylight

failed. Slow, overhead, the dusky night-birds

sailed.

Again she looked: between gi'een walls

of shade. With low-bent head as if with sorrow

weighed, Daniel Pastorius slowly came and said,

' ' God's peace be with thee, Anna ! "

Then he stood Silent before her, wrestling witli the mood Of one who sees the evil and not good.

What is it, my Pastorius ? " As she

spoke, A slow, faint smile across his features

broke. Sadder than tears. "Dear heart," he

said, " our folk

' ' Are even as others. Yea, our good- liest Friends Are frail ; our elders have their selfish

ends, And few dare trust the Lord to make

amends

" For duty's loss. So even our feeble word For the dumb slaves the startled meet- ing heard As if a stone its quiet watere stirred ;

" And, as the clerk ceased reading, there

began A ripple of dissent which downward ran In widening circles, as from man to man.

"Somewhat was said of running before sent.

Of tender fear that some their guide out- went,

Troublers of Israel. I was scarce intent

THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM 'On hearing, for behind the reverend

361

Of gallery Friends, in dumb and piteous

show, I saw, metliought, dark faces full of woe.

" And, in the spirit, I was taken where 'riiey toiled and suffered ; I was made

aware Of shame and wrath and anguish and

despair !

"And while the meeting smothered our

poor plea With cautious phrase, a Voice there

seemed to be, ' As ye have done to these ye do to me ! "

"So it all passed ; and the old tithe

went on «

Of anise, mint, and cumin, till the sun Set, leaving still the weightier work

undone.

" Help, for the good man faileth ! Who

is strong. If these be weak? Who shall rebuke

the wrong, If these consent ? How long, 0 Lord !

how long ! "

He ceased ; and, bound in spirit with

the bound, With folded arms, and eyes that sought

the ground. Walked musingly his little garden round.

About him, beaded with the falling dew, Kare plants of power and herbs of healing

grew. Such as Van Helmont and Agrippa knew.

For, by the lore of Gorlitz' gentle sage, With the mild mystics of his dreamy age He read the herbal signs of nature's page.

As once he heard in sweet Von Merlau's"^

bowers Fair as herself, in boyhood's happy hours. The pious Spener read his creed in

flowers.

" The dear Lord give us patience ! " said

his wife, Touching with finger-tip an aloe, rife With leaves sharp-pointed like an Aztec

knife

Or Carib speai', a gift to William Penn From the rare gardens of John Evelyn, Brought IVom the Spanish Main by merchantmen.

' ' See this strange plant its steady pur- pose hold,

And, year by year, its patient leaves unfold,

Till the young eyes that watched it tir:s1 are old.

" But some time, thou hast told me,

there shall come A sudden beauty, brightness, and j^er-

fume. The century-moulded bud siiall burst in

bloom.

" So may the seed which hath been sows

to-day Grow with the years, and, after long

delay, Break into bloom, and God's eternal Yea

" Answer at last the patient prayers of

them Who now, by faith alone, behold its

stem Crowned with the flowers of Freedom's

diadem.

" Meanwhile, to feel and suff"er, work

and wait. Remains for us. The wrong indeed i^

great, But love and patience conquer soon or

late."

' ' Well hast thou said, my Anna ! "

Tenderer Than youth's caress upon the head of

her Pastorius laid his hand. "Shall we demur

"Because the vision tarrieth ? In an

hour We dream not of the slow-grown bud

may flower. And what was sown in weakness rise in

power ! "

Then through the vine-draped door whose

legend read, " Piiocui, ESTR piiopnANi ! " Anna led To where theiv child upon his little

bed

562

THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM.

Looked up and smiled. " Dear heart,"

she said, "if we Must bearers of a heavy burden be, Our boy, God willing, yet the day shall see

" When, from the gallery to the farthest

seat. Slave and slave-owner shall no longer

meet. But all sit equal at the Master's feet."

On the stone hearth the blazing walnut

block Si't the low walls a-glimmer, showed the

cock llebuking Peter on the Van Wyck clock,

Shone on old tomes of law and physic, side

By side with Fox and Behnien, played at hide

And seek with Anna, midst her house- hold pride

Of flaxen webs, and on the table, bare Of costly cloth or silver cu]>, but where, Tasting the fat sliads of the Delaware,

The courtly Penn had praised the good-

wafe's cheer, And quoted Horace o'er her home-brewed

beer, Till even grave Pastorius smiled to hear.

In such a home, beside the Schuylkill's

wave. He dwelt in j)eace with God and man,

and gave Food to the poor and shelter to the slave.

For all too soon the New World's scan- dal .shamed

The righteous code by Penn and Sidney framed,

And mea withheld the human riglits they claimed.

And slowly wealth and station sanction lent.

And hardened avarice, on its gains in- tent,

Stifled the inward whisper of dissent.

Yet iill the while the burden rested sore On tender hearts. At last Pastorius bore Their warning message to the Church's door

In God's name ; and the leaven of the word

Wrought ever after in the souls who heard,

And a dead conscience in its grave- clothes stirred

To troubled life, and urged the vain

excuse Of Hebrew custom, patriarchal use, Good in itself if eWl in abuse.

Gravely Pastorius listened, not the less Discerning through the decent lig-leaf

dress Of the poor plea its shame of selfishness.

One Scripture rule, at least, was unfor-

. got; He hid th^outcast, and bewrayed him

not; And, when his prey the human hunter

sought.

He scrupled not, while Anna's wise delay And prott'ered cheer prolonged tlic nias-

ti'r's stay. To speed the black guest safely on his way.

Y^et, who .shall guess his bitter grief who

lends His life to some great cause, and finds

his friends Shame or betray it for their private ends?

How felt tlie Master when his eliosen

strove In childish folly for tlieir seats above ; And that fond mother, blinded by her

love.

Besought him that lier sons, beside his

throne. Might sit on either hand ? Amidst his

own A stranger oft, companionless and lone,

God's prie-st and prophet stands. Tlie

martyr's jmin Is not alone from scourge and cell and

chain ; Sharper the pang wlien, shouting in his

train,

His weak disciples by tlieir lives deny Tlic lond hosannas of their daily cry. And make their echo of his truth a lie.

THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM

363

His forest home no hermit's cell he found, Guests, motlej'-minded, drew his hearth

around, And held armed truce upon its neutral

ground.

Their Indian chiefs with battle-bows un- strung,

Strong, hero-limbed, like those whom Homer sung,

Pastorius fancied, when the world was young.

Came with their tawny women, lithe and

tall. Like bronzes in his friend Von Rodeck's

hall. Comely, if black, and not unpleasingall.

There hungry folk in homespun drab and

gi-ay

Drew round his board on Monthly Meet- ing day. Genial, half merry in their friendly way.

Or, haply, pilgrims from the Fatherland, Weak, timid, homesick, slow to under- stand The New World's promise, sought his helping hand.

Or painful Kelpius ""^ from his herniit den By Wissahickon, maddest of good men, Dreamed o'er the Chiliast dreams of Petersen.

Deep in the woods, where the small

river slid Snake-like in shade, the HelmstaJt

Mystic hid. Weird as a wizard over arts forbid,

Reading the books of Daniel and of John, And Behmen's Morning-Redness, through

the Stone Of Wisdom, vouchsafed to his eyes alone.

Whereby he read what man ne'er read

before. And saw the visions man shall see no

more, Till the great angel, striding sea and

shor(!,

Shall l)id all flesh await, on land or ships, Tlie warning trump of the Apocalypse, Shattering the heavens before the dread eclipse.

Or meek-eyed Mennonist his bearded chin Leaned o'er the gate ; or Ranter, pure

within. Aired his perfection in a world of sin.

Or, talking of old home scenes, Op dei

Graaf Teased the low back-log with his shod

den staff. Till the red embers broke into a laugh

And dance of flame, as if they fain would

cheer Tiie rugged face, half tender, half au.s-

tere, Touched with the pathos of a homesick

tear !

Or Sluyter,"'^ saintly familist, wliose word As law the Brethren of the Manor heard, Announced the speedy terrors of the Lord,

And turned, like Lot at Sodom, from

his race. Above a wrecked world with complacent

face Riding secure upon his plank of grace !

Haply, from Finland's birchen groves

exiled, Manly in thought, in simple ways a

child. His white hair floating round his visage

mild,

The Swedish pastor sought the Quaker's

door, I'leased from his neighbor's lips to hear

once more His long-disused and half-forgotten lore

For both could baffle Babel's lingual

curse, And speak in Bion's Doric, and rehearse Cleanthes' hymn or Virgil's sounding

verse.

And oft Pastorius and the meek old man Argued as Quaker and as Lutlu>ran, Ending in Christian love, as they began.

With lettered Lloyd on pleasant morns

he strayed Where Sominerhausen over vales of shade Looked miles away, by every flower

delayed.

,364

THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM,

Or song of bird, happy and free witli one "Who loved, like him, tolethismemoiynm Over old fields of learning, and to sun

Himself in Plato's wise pliilosopliies. And dream ^v•ith Philo over mysteries Whereof the dieamer never finds the keys ;

To touch all themes of thought, nor

weakly stop For doubt of truth, but let the buckets

drop Deep down and bring the hidden watei-s

up J*

For there was freedom in that wakening

time Of tender souls ; to differ was not crime ; The varying bells made up the perfect

chime.

On lips unlike was laid the altar's coal. The white, clear light, tradition-colored,

stole Through the stained oriel of each human

soul.

Gathered from many sects, the Quaker

brought His old beliefs, adjusting to the thought That moved Ms soul the creed his fathers

taught.

One faith alone, so broad that all man- kind Within themselves its secret witness find, The soul's communion with the Eternal Mind,

The Spirit's law, the Inward Rule and

Guide, Scholar and peasant, lord and serf, allied, The polished Penu and Cromwell's Iron- side.

As still in Homskerck's Quaker Meet- ing,'^ face By face in Flemish detail, we may trace How loose-mouthed boor and fine ancestral grace

Sat in close contrast, — the clipt-headed churl.

Broad market-dame, and simple serving- girl

By skirt of silk and periwig in curl !

For soul touched soul; the spiritual

treasure-trove Made all men equal, none could rise

above Nor sink below that level of God's love.

So, with his rustic neighbors sitting

down, The homespun frock beside the scholar's

gowni, Pastorius to the manners of the town

Added the freedom of the woods, and

sought The bookless wisdom by experience

taught. And learned to love his new-found home,

while not

Forgetful of the old ; the seasons went Their rounds, and somewhat to his spirit

lent Of their own calm and measureless con- tent.

Glad even to tears, he heard the robin

sing His song of welcome to the Western

spring, And bluebird borrowing from the sky

his wing.

And when the miracle of autumn came, And all the woods with many-colored

flame Of splendor, making summer's greenness

tame.

Burned, unconsumed, a voice without a

sound Spake to him from each kindled bush

around. And made the strange, new landscajje

holy ground !

And when the bitter north-wind, keen and

swift, Swept the white street and piled the

dooryard drift. He exercised, as Friends might say, his

gift

Of vei-se, Dutch, English, Latin, like

the hash Of corn and Ijeans in Indian succotiish ; Dull, doubtless, but with here and there

a flash

THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM.

365

Of wit and fine conceit, — the good Pastorius answered all : while seed and

man's play Of quiet fancies, meet to while away The slow hours measuring off an idle day.

root Sent from his new home grew to flower

and fruit Along the Rhine and at the Spessarx's

foot;

At evening, while his wife put on her

look Of love's endurance, from its niche he And, in return, the flowers his boyhood

took The written pages of his ponderous Look.

And read, in half the languages of man, His " Rusca Apium," which with bees

And through the gamut of creation ran.

Or, now and then, the missive of some

friend In gi-ay Altorf or storied Niirnberg

penned Dropped in upon him like a guest to

spend

The night beneath his roof-tree.

Mystical The fair Von Merlau spake as waters

fall And voices sound in dreams, and yet

withal

Human and sweet, as if each far, low

tone. Over the roses of her gardens blown Brought the warm sense of beauty all

her own.

Wise Spener questioned what his friend

could trace Of spiritual influx or of saving grace In the wild natures of the Indian race.

And learned Schurmberg, fain, at times, to look

From Talmud, Koran, Veds, and Penta- teuch,

Sought out his 2)upil in his far-off" nook.

To query with him of climatic change, Of bird, licast, rcjitilc, in his forest range, Of flowers and fruits and simples new and strange.

And thus the Old and New World

reached their hands Across the water, and the friendly lands

knew Smiled at his door, the same in form

and hue. And on his vines the Rhenish clustecs

grew.

No idler he ; whoever else might shirk, He set his hand to every honest work, — Farmer and teacher, court and meeting clerk.

Still on the town seal his device is found. Grapes, flax, and thread-spool on a tre- foil ground. With " ViNUM, LiNUM etTextpjnum" wound.

One house sufficed for gospel and for law, Where Paul and Grotius, Scripture text

and saw, Assured the good, and neld the rest in awe.

Whatever lega^ maze he wandered

through, He kept the Sermon on the Mount in

view. And justice always into mercy grew.

No whipping-post he needed, stocks, nor

jail, Nor ducking-stool ; the orchard-thief

gi-ew pale At his rebuke, the vixen ceased to raU,

The usurer's grasp released the forfeit land ;

The slanderer faltered at the witness- stand.

And all men took his counsel for com- mand.

Was it caressing air, the brooding love Of tenderer skies than German land

knew of. Green calm below, blue <iuictness abovCf

Still flow of wat(!r, deep rej)ose of wood

Talked with eacli other from their ! That, with a sense of loving Fatherhood severed strands. [ And childlike trust in the Eternal Good.

3G6

THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM.

Softened all hearts, and dulled tlie edge

of hate, Hushed strife, and taught impatient zeal

to wait The slow assurance of the better state ?

Who knows what goadings in their

sterner way O'er jagged ice, relieved by granite gray, Blew round tlie men of Massachusetts

Bay?

What hate of heresy the east-wind v,'r>ke ? What hints of pitiless power and terroi

spoke In waves that on their iron coast-line

broke /

Be it as it may : within the Land of I'enn The sectary yielded to the citizen. And peaceful dwelt the many-creeded men.

Peace brooded over all. No trumpet

stung The air to madness, and no steejjle flung Alarums down from bells at midnight

rung.

The land slept well. The Indian from

his face Washed all his war-paint off, and in the

place Of battle - nmrches sped the peaceful

chase,

Or Wiwught for wages at the white man's

side, — Oiving to kindness what his native pnde And lazy freedom to all else denied.

And well the curious scholar loved the old

Tra<litions that his swarthy neighbors told

By wig\vam-fires when nights were grow- ing cold.

Discerned the fact round which their

fancy drew Its dreams, and held their cliildish faith

more true To God and man than half the creeds he

knew.^

The desert blossomed round him ; wheat- fields rolled

Beneath the warm wind waves of green and gold ;

The planted ear returned its hundred- fold.

Great clusters ripened in a warmer sun Than that whicli by the Rhine stream

shines upon The purpling hillsides with low vines

o'errun.

About each rustic porch the humming- bird

Tried with light bill, that scarce a petal stirred,

The Old World flowers to virgin soil transferred ;

And the first-fruits of pear and ai)]ile, bending

The young boughs down, their gold and rvisset blending.

Made glad his heart, familiar odors lend- ing

To the fresh fragrance of the birch and

pine, Life-everlasting, bay, and eglantine. And all the subtle .scents the woods com- bine.

Fair First-Day mornings, steeped in summer calm

Wami, tender, restful, sweet with wood- land balm.

Came to him, like some mother-hallowed psalm

To the tired grinder at the noisy wheel Of labor, winding olf from memory's reel A golden thread of music. With no peal

Of bells to call them to the house of

praise. The scattered settlers through green for-

e.st-ways Walked meeting - Avard. In reverent

amaze

The Indian trapper saw them, from the

dim Shade of tlie alders on the rivulet's rim, Seek the Great Spirit's house to talk

with Him.

THE PENNSYLVANIA PILGRIM.

367

There, througli the gathered stiUuess

multiplied And made intense by sympathy, outside The sparrows sang, and the gold-rohin

cried,

A-swing upon his elm. A faint per- fume

Breathed through the open windows of the room

From locust-trees, heavy with clustered bloom.

Thither, perchance, sore-tried confessors

came. Whose fervor jail nor pillory could tame. Proud of the cropped ears meant to be

their shame.

Men who had eaten slavery's bitter

bread In Indian isles ; pale women who had

bled Under the hangman's lash, and bravely

said

God's message through their prison's iron

bars ; And gray old soldier-converts, seamed

with scars From every stricken field of England's

wars

Lowly before the Unseen Presence knelt Each waiting heart, till haply some one

felt On his moved lips the seal of silence

melt.

Or, without spoken words, low breath- ings stole Of a diviner life from soul to soul. Baptizing in one tender thought the

whole.

When shaken hands announced the

meeting o'er. The friendly group still lingered at the

door. Greeting, inquiring, sharing all the store

Of weekly tidings. Meanwhile youth

and maid Pown the green vistas of tlm woodland

strayed, Whispered and smiled and oft their feet

delayed.

Did the boy's whistle answer back the

thrushes ? Did light girl laughter ripj)le through

the bushes, As brooks make merry over roots and

rushes ?

Unvexed the sweet air seemed. ^Without

a wound The ear of silence heard, and every

sound Its place in nature's fine accordanc

found.

And solemn meeting, summer sky and

wood. Old kindly faces, youth and maidenhood Seemed, like God's new creation, very

good !

And, greeting all with quiet smile and

word, Pastorius went his way. The unscared

bird Sang at his side ; scarcely the squirrel

stirred

At his hushed footstep on the mossy sod ; And, wheresoe'er the good man looked

or trod. He felt the peace of nature and of God.

His social life wore no ascetic form, He loved all beauty, without fear of

harm. And in his veins his Teuton blood ran

warm.

Strict to himself, of other men no spy. He made his own no circuit-judge to try The freer conscience of his neighbors by.

With love rebuking, by his life alone. Gracious and sweet, the better way was

shown. The joy of one, who, seeking not his own.

And faithful to all scruples, finds at last The thorns and shards of duty overpast. And daily life, beyond his hope's forecast,

Pleasant and beautiful with sight and

sound, .And fiowers upspringing in its narrow

round, And all his days with quiet gladness

crowned.

368

THE PENNSYLVANIA riLGKIM.

He sang not ; but, if sometimes tempted

strong, He hummed what seemed like Altorf's

Burselien-song, His good wife smiled, and did not count

it wrong.

For well he loved his boyhood's brother

band ; His Memory, while he trod the New

"World's strand, A double-ganger walked the Fatherland !

If, when on frosty Christmas eves the

light Shone on his quiet hearth, he missed

the siglit Of Yule-log, Tree, and Clirist-child all

in white ;

And closed his eyes, and listened to the

sweet Old wait-songs sounding down his native

street. And watched again the dancers' min-

gling feet ;

Yet not the less, when once the vision

passed, He held the ]ilain andsol>cr maxims fast Of the dear Friends with whom his lot

was cast.

Still all attuned to nature's melodies. He loved the bii'd's song in his dooryard

ti'ees. And the low hum of home-returning

bees ;

The blossomed flax, the tulip-trees in

bloom Down the long street, the beauty and

perfume Of ap2)le-boughs, the mingling light and

gloom

Of Sommerhausen's woodlands, woven through

With suii-tlireads; and the music the wind drew.

Mournful and sweet, from leaves it over- blew.

And evermore, beneath this outward

sense, And through the common sequence of

events. He felt the guiding hand of Providence

Reach out of space. A Voice spake in

his ear. And lo ! all other voices far and near Died at that whisper, full of meanings

clear.

The Light of Life shone round him ; one by one

The wandering lights, that all-mislead- ing run,

"Went out like candles paling in the sun.

That Light he followed, step by step,

where'er It led, as in the vision of the seer The wheels moved as the spirit in the

clear

And terrible crystal moved, witli all

tlu'ir eyes Watching the li\nng splendor sink orrise, Its will their will, knowing no otherwise.

"Within himself he found the law of

right. He walked by faith and not the letter's

sight, And read his Bible by the Inward Light.

And if sometimes the slaves of form and nile.

Frozen in their creeds like fish in win- ter's pool.

Tried th(> large tolerance of his liberal school.

His door was free to men of every name, He welcomed all the seeking souls who

came, And no man's faith he made a cause of

blame.

But best he loved in leisure hours to see His own deal Friends sit by him knee

to knee. In social converse, genial, frank, and free.

There sometimes silence (it were hard to

tell Who owned it first) upon the circle fell, Hushed Anna's busy wheel, and laid its

spell

On the black boy who grimaced by the

hearth, To solemnize his shiuiiig fnce of mirtli ; Only tlie old clock ticked amidst the

dearth

" A jewelled elm-tree avenue." Page 369.

THE PAGEANT.

369

Of sound ; nor eye was raised nor hand

was stirred In that soul-sabbath, till at last some

word Of tender counsel or low prayer was

heard.

Then guests, who lingered but farewell

to say And take love's message, went their

homeward way ; So passed in peace the guileless Quaker's

day.

His was the Christian's iinsung Age of

Gold, A tnier idyl tlian the bards have told Of Arno's banks or Arcady of old.

Where still the Friends their place of

burial keep. And century-rooted mosses o'er it creep. The Nilrnberg scholar and his helpmeet

sleep.

And Anna's aloe ? If it flowered at last In Bartram's garden, did John Wool- man cast A glance upon it as he meekly passed ?

And did a secret sympathy possess That tender soul, and for the slave's

redress Lend hope,^trength, patience ? It were

vain to guess.

Nay, were the plant itself but mythical, Set in the fresco of tradition's wall Like Jotham's bramble, mattereth not at all.

Enough to know that, through the

winter's frost And summer's heat, no seed of truth is

lost. And everj'^ duty pays at last its cost.

For, ere Pastorius left the sun and air, God sent the answer to his life-long

jirayer ; The child was born beside the Delaware,

Who, in the power a holy puifiose

lends. Guided his people unto nobler ends, And left them worthier of the name of

Friends.

And lo ! the fulness of the time has

come, And over all the exile's Western home, From sea to sea the flowers of freedom

bloom !

And joy-bells ring, and silver trumpets

blow ; But not for thee, Pastorius ! Even

so The world forgets, but the wise angels

know.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE PAGEANT.

A SOUND as if from bells of silver, Or elfin cymbals smitten clear, Through the frost-pictured jiancs 1 hear.

A brightness which outshines the morn- ing, A splendor brooking no delay, Beckons and tempts my feet away.

I lP4ive the trodden village highway

For virgin snow-paths glimmering

througli A jewelled elm-tree avenue ; 24

Where, keen against the walls of sap- phire.

The gleaming tree-bolls, ice-em- bossed.

Hold up their chandeliers of frost.

I tread in Orient halls enchanted,

I dream the Saga's dream of caves Gem-lit beneath the North Sea waves !

I walk the land of Eldorado,

1 touch its mimic gaiden bowers, Its silver leaves and diamond flow- ers 1

370

mSCELLANEOUS.

The flora of the mystic mine-world Arouud me lifts on crystal stems The petals of its clustered gems !

What miracle of weird transforming

In this wild work of frost and

light, This glimpse of glory infinite !

This foregleam of the Holy City

Like that to him of Patmos given, The white bride coming down from heaven !

How flash the ranked and mail-clad al- ders.

Through what sharp-glancing spears of reeds

The brook its muffled water leads !

iTon maple, like the bush of Horeb,

Burns unconsumed : a white, cold

fire Rays out from every grassy spire.

Each slender i-usli and spike of mullein, Low laurel shrab and drooping fern. Transfigured, blaze where'er I turn.

How yonder Ethiopian hemlock

Crowned with his glistening circlet

stands ! "What jewels light his swarthy hands !

Here, where the forest opens southward, Between its liospitable pines, As tlirough a door, the warm sun shines.

The jewels loosen on the branches,

And lightly, as the soft winds

blow. Fall, tinkling, on the ice below.

And through the clashing of their cym- bals , I hear the old familiar fall Of water down the rocky wall.

Where, from its wintry prison breaking, In dark and silence hidden long. The brook repeats its summer song.

One instant flashing in the sunshine. Keen as a sabre from its slieath. Then lost again the ice beneath.

I hear the rabbit lightly leaping.

The foolish screaming of the jay, The chopper's axe-stroke far away ;

The clamor of some neighboring barn- yard, The lazy cock's belated crow. Or cattle-tramp in crispy snow.

And, as in some enchanted forest

The lost knight hears his comrades

sing. And, near at hand, tlieir bridles

ring.

So welcome I these sounds and voices. These airs from lar-ott' summer

blowH, Tliis life that leaves me not alone.

For the white glory overawes me ; The crystal tenor of the seer Of Chebar's vision blinds me here.

Rebuke me not, 0 sapphire heaven ! Tliou stainless earth, lay not on

me. Thy keen reproach of purity.

If, in this august presence-chamber,

I sigh for sunmier's leaf-green

gloom And wann airs thiik wifcli odorous bloom !

Let the strange frost-work sink and

crumble, And let the loosened tree-boughs

swing, Till all their bells of silver ring.

Shine warmly down, thou sun of noon- time, On this chill pageant, melt and

move The winter's frozen heart witli love.

And, soft and low, thou wind south- blowing, Breathe through a veil of tenderest

haze Thy prophecy of summer days.

Come A\nth thy green relief of promise, And to this dead, cold splendor

bring The living jewels of the spring I

THE SINGEK.

371

THE SINGER.

Years since (hut names to me before), Two sisters sought at eve my door ; Two soug-hirds wandering from tlieir

nest, A gray old farnidiouse in the West.

How fresh of life the younger one, Half smiles, half tears, like rain in

sun ! Her gravest mood could scarce displace The dimples of her nut-brown face.

Wit sparkled on her lips not less For quick and tremulous tenderness ; And, following close her merriest glance. Dreamed through her eyes the heart's romance.

Timid and still, the elder had Even then a smile too sweetly sad ; The crown of pain that all must wear Too early pressed her midnight liair.

Yet ere the summer eve gi'ew long, Her modest lips were sweet with song ; A memory haunted all lier words Of clover-fields and singing birds.

Her dark, dilating eyes expressed

The broad horizons of the west ;

Her speech dropped prairie flowers ; the

gold Of harvest wheat about her rolled.

Fore-doomed to song she seemed to

me : I queried not with destiny: I knew the trial and the need, iTet, all the more, I said, God speed !

What could I other than I did ? f!ould I a singing-bird forbid ? Deny the wind-stirred leaf ? Rcibuke Tlie music of the forest brook ?

She went witli morning from my door, I)Ut left me richer tlian before ; Thenceforth 1 knew her voice of cheer, The welcome of her partial car.

Vears passed : through all the laml her

name A ])leasant household word became: All felt beliind tlu; singer stood X sweet and gracious womanhood.

Her life was earnest work, not play ; Her tired feet climbed a weary way ; And even through her lightest strain We heai'd an undertone of pain.

Unseen of her her fiiir fame grew, The good she did she rarely knew. Unguessed of her in life the love That rained its tears her gi-ave above.

When last I saw her, full of peace, She waited for her great release ; And that old friend so sage and bland. Our later Franklin, held her hand.

For all that patriot bosoms stirs

Had moved that woman's heart of

hers, And men who toiled in storm and sun Found her their meet companion.

Our converse, from her suffering bed To healthful themes of life she led : The out-door world of bud and bloom And light and sweetness filled hei

Yet evermore an underthought Of loss to come within us wTought, And all the while we felt the strain Of the strong will that conquered pain.

God giveth quietness at last ! The common way that all have passed She went, with mortal yearnings fond, To fuller life and love beyond.

Fold the rapt soul in your embrace. My dear ones ! Give the singer place To you, to her, — I know not where, — I lift the silence of a prayer.

For only thus our own we find ; The gone before, the left behind, All mortal voices die between ; The unheard reaches the unseen.

Again the blackbirds sing ; the streams Wake, laughing, from their wintei

dreams. And tremble in the April showers The tassels of the mai)lc llowers.

Rut not for her has spring renewed The sweet surprises of i]w wood ; Anil l)ird and llowiM- nre lost to her Who was their best interpreter 1

372

MISCELLANEOUS.

WTiat to shut eyes has God revealed ? What hear the ears that death has seak^d ? VVliat uudreamed beauty passing show Kequites the loss of all we know ?

0 silent land, to which we move, Enough if there alone be love, And mortal need can ne'er outgrow "What it is waiting to bestow !

O white soul ! from that far-off shore Float some sweet song the waters o'er, Our faith confirm, our fears dispel, "With the old voice we loved se well !

CHICAGO.

Men said at vespei-s : " All is well ! " In one wild night the city fell ; Eell slirines of prayer and marts of gain Before the liery hunicane.

On threescore spires had sunset shone, "NVliere ghastly sunrise looked on none. 5Ien cliusped each other's hands,and said : " The City of the West is dead ! "

Brave hearts who fought, in slow retreat. The fiends of fire from street to sti'eet. Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare, The dumb defiance of despair.

A sudden impulse thrilled each wiie That signalled round that sea of fire ; Swift words of cheer, wami heart-throbs

came ; In tears of pity died the fiame !

From Ea-st, from "West, from South and

North, Tlic messages of hope shot forth, x\nd, undenieath the severing wave. The world, full-handed, reached to save.

Fair .seemed the old ; but fairer still The new, tlie dreary void shall fill Witli dearer homes than those o'erthrown. For love shall lay each corner-stone.

Rise, stricken city ! — from thee throw The ashen sackcloth of thy woe ; And build, as to Ampliion's strain. To songs of cheer thy walls again !

ITow shrivelled in thy hot distress The primal sin of selfishness 1

How instant rose, to take thy part. The angel in the human heart .'

Ah ! not in vam the ilames that tossed

Above thj- dreadful holocaust ;

The Christ again has preached through

thee The Gospel of Humanity !

Then lift once more thy towers (m

high, And fret with spires the western sky. To tell that God is yet with us, And love is still mu-aculous !

MY BIRTHDAY.

Beneath the moonlight and the snot:ff

Lies dead my latest year ; The winter winds are wailing low

Its dirges in my ear.

I grieve not ^vith the moaning wind

As if a loss befell ; Before me, even as behind,

God is, and all is well !

His light shines on me from above, His low voice speaks within, —

The patience of immortal love Outwearying mortal sin.

Not mindless of the growing years

Of care and loss and pain. My eyes are wet with thankful tears

For blessings which remain.

If dim the gold of life has grown,

1 will not count it dross. Nor turn from treasures still my own

To sigh for lack and loss.

The yea is no charm from Nature take |

As sweet her voices call. As beautiful her mornings break,

As fair her evenings fall.

Love watches o'er my quiet ways. Kind voices speak my name.

And lijis that find it hard to praise Are slow, at least, to blame.

How softly ebb the tides of will !

How fields, once lost or won, Now lie behind me green and still

Beneath a level sun I

THE BKEWING OF SOMA.

373

How hushed the lilss of party hate,

The chimor of the throng ! How okl, harsli voices of debate

Flow into rhythmic song !

Methinks the spirit's temper grows

Too soft in this still air ; Somewhat the restful heart foregoes

Of needed watch and prayer.

The bark by tempest vainly tossed

May founder in the cahn, And he who braved the polar frost

Faint by the isles of balm.

Better than self-indulgent years The outfhing heart of youth,

Than pleasant songs in idle ears The tumult of the truth.

Rest for the weary hands is good, And love for hearts that pine,

But let the manly habitude Of upright souls be mine.

Let winds that blow from heaven refresh,

Dear Lord, the languid air ; And let the weakness of the flesh

Thy strength of spirit share.

And, if the eye must foil of light,

The ear forget to hear, Make clearer still the spirit's sight,

More fine the inward ear !

Be near me in mine hours of need To soothe, or cheer, or warn.

And down these slopes of sunset lead As up the hills of morn !

THE BREWING OF SOMA.

"These libations mixed with milk have been prepared for Iiidra : offer Soma to the drinker of Soma." — Vashista, Trans, by Max Muller.

TiiK fagots blazed, the caldron's smoke

Up through the green wood curled ; " Bring honey from the hollow oak, I'riiig milky sap," the brewers spoke. In the childhood of the world.

And brewed they well or brewcil they ill.

The pi-iests thrust in their rods, First tasted, and tlien drank tlieir fill, And shouted, with one voice and will, " Behold the drink of gods ! "

They drank, and lo ! in heart and brain

A new, glad life began ; The gray of hair grew young again. The sick man laughed away his pain,

The cripple leaped and ran.

" Drink, mortals, what the gods have sent,

Forget your long annoy." So sang the priests. From tent to tent The Soma's sacred madness went,

A storm of drunken joy.

Then knew each rapt inebriate A winged and glorious birth. Soared upward, with strange joy elate, Beat, with dazed head, Varuna's gate. And, sobered, sank to earth.

The land with Soma's praises rang ;

On Gihon's banks of shade Its hymns the dusky maidens sang; In joy of life or mortal pang

All men to Soma prayed.

The morning twilight of the race

Sends down these matin psalms ; And still with wondering eyes we trace The simple pi-ayers to Soma's grace. That Vedic verse embalms.

As in that child-world's early year.

Each after age has striven By music, incense, vigils drear, And trance, to bring the skies more neai,

Or lift men up to heaven ! —

Some fever of the blood and brain.

Some self-exalting spell. The scourger's keen delight of pain, The Dervish dance, the Orphic strain,

The wild-haired Bacchant's yell, —

The desert's hair-gi-own hermit sunk

The saner brute below ; The naked Santon, hashish-drunk. The cloist(!r madness of the monk,

The fakir's torture-show !

And yet the past comes round again,

And new doth old fulfil ; In sensual transports wild as vain We brew in many a Christian fane

The heathen Soma still !

Dear Lord and Father of mankind. Forgive our foolish ways !

374

MISCELLANEOUS.

Reclothe us in our rightful mind. In purer lives thy service find, In deeper reverence, praise.

In simple trust like theirs who heard

Beside the Syrian sea The gi-acious calling of the Lord, Let us, like them, without a word,

Rise up and follow thee.

0 Sabbath re^t by Galilee !

0 calm of hills above, Where Jesus knelt to share with thee The silence of eternity

Interpreted by love !

With tliat deep hush subduing all

Our words and works that drown The tender whisper of thy call. As noiseless let thy blessing fall As fell thy manna down.

Drop thy still dews of quietness,

Till all our strivings cease ; Take from our souls the sti-ain and stress, And let our ordered lives confess

The beauty of thy peace.

Breathe through the heats of our desire Thy coolness and thy balm ;

Let sense be dumli, let flesh retire ;

Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire, 0 still, small voice of calm !

A "WOMAN.

O, DWARFED and wronged, and stained

with ill. Behold ! thou art a woman still ! And, by that sacred name and dear, I l)id thy better self appear. Still, through thy foul disguise, I .sec The rudiriiental purity. That, spite of change and loss, makes

good Thy birthright-claim of womanhood ; An inward loathing, deep, intense; A shame that is half innocence. Ca.st off the grave-clothes of thy sin ! Rise from the dnst thou liest in. As Mary rose at Jesus' word. Redeemed and white before the Lord ! Reclaim thy lost soul ! In His name. Rise up, and break thy bonds of

shame.

Art weak ? He 's strong. Art fearful 1

Hear The world's O'ercomer : " Be of cheer !" What lip shall judge when He approves ? Who dare to scorn the child he loves ?

DISARMAMENT.

' ' Put up the sword ! " The voice of

Christ once more Speaks, in the pauses of the cannon's

roar. O'er fields of com by fiery sickles reaped And left dry ashes ; over trenches heaped With nameless dead ; o'er cities starving

slow Under a rain of fire ; tlirough wards of

woe Down which a gi'oaning diapason runs From tortured brothers, husbands,

lovers, sons Of desolate women in their far-off" homes, Waiting to hear the step that never

comes ! 0 men and brothers ! let that voice be

heard. War foils, try peace ; put up the useless

sword !

Fear not the end. There is a stoi-y told In Eastern tents, when autumn nights

grow cold. And round the fire the Mongol shepherds

sit With grave responses listening unto it : Once, on the eiTands of his mercy bent, Buddha, the holy and benevolent. Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of

look, Whose awful voice the hills and forests

shook. "0 son of peace!" the giant ciied,

" thj' fate Is sealed at last, and love shall yield (o

hate." The unarmed Buddha looking, with no

trace Of fear or anger, in the monster's face. In pity said : "Poor fiend, even thee I

love." Lo ! as he spake the .sky-tall terror sank To hand-breadth size ; the huge abhor- rence shrank Into the form and fashion of a dove ; And where the thunder of its rage was

heard.

THE SISTERS.

375

Circling above him sweetly sang the

bird : "Hate hath no harm for love," so ran

the song ; " And peace nnweaponed conquers every

wrong ! "

THE ROBIN.

My old Welch neighbor over the way Crept slowly out in the sun of spring,

Pushed from her ears the locks of gi'ay, And listened to hear the robin sing.

Her grandson, playing at marbles, stopped.

And, cruel in sport as boys will be, Tossed a stone at the bird, who hopped

From bough to bough in the apple-tree.

" Nay ! " said the grandmother ; " have

you not heard,

IVIy poor, bad boy ! of the fiery pit.

And how, drop by drop, this merciful

bird

Carries the water that quenches it ?

" He brings cool dew in his little bill, And lets it fall on the souls of sin :

You can see the mark on his red breast stiU Of fires that scorch as he drops it in.

" My poor Bron rhuddyn ! my breast- burned bird.

Singing so sweetly from limb to limb. Very dear to the heart of Our Lord

Is he who pities the lost like Him ! "

" Amen ! " I said to the beautiful myth ;

"Sing, bird of God, in my heart as well : Each good thought is a drop wher(!with

To cool and lessen the fires of hell.

" Prayers of love like rain-drops fall, Tears of pity are cooling dcnv.

And dear to the heart of Our Lord are all Who suffer like Him in the good they do !"

THE SISTERS.

Annih and Ilhoda, .sisters twain, Woke in the night to the sound of raui,

The rush of wind, the ramp and roar Of great waves climbing a rocky shore.

Annie rose up in her bed-gown white. And looked out into the storm and night.

" Hush, and hearken ! " she cried in fear, " Hearest thou nothing, sister dear ? "

" I hear the sea, and the plash oi'rain, And roar of the northeast hurricane.

" Get thee back to the bed so warm, No good comes of watching a storm.

"What is it to thee, I fain would know, That waves are roaring and wild wind."? blow?

" No lover of thine 's afloat to miss The harbor-lights on a night like this."

" But I heard a voice cry out my name L^p from the sea on the wind it came !

"Twice and thrice have I heard it call. And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall ! "

On her pillow the sister tossed her liead. "Hall of the Heron is safe," she said.

"In the tautest schooner that ever swam He rides at anchor in Anisquam.

"And, if in peril fi'om swamping sea Or lee shore rocks, would he call on thee ? "

But the girl heard only the wind and

tide. And wringing her small white hands she

cried :

"0 sister Rhoda, there's .something

wrong ; 1 hear it again, .so loud and long.

" ' ATinic ! Annie ! ' I hear it call, And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall ! "

Up sprang the elder, with eyes aflame, " Thou liest ! He never would call thy name !

"If he did, I would ]iray the wind ami

.sea To keep him forever from thee and me ! "

376

MISCELLANEOUS.

Then out of the sea blew a dreadful blast ; Like the cry of a dying man it passed.

The young girl hushed on her li])6 a

groan, But through her tears a strange light

shone, —

The solemn joy of her heart's release To own and cherish its love in peace.

"Dearest ! " she whispered, underbreath, " Life was a lie, but true is death.

"The love I hid from myself away Shall crown me now in the light of day.

" My ears shall never to wooer list. Never by lover my lips be kissed.

"Sacred to thee am I henceforth, Thou in heaven and I on earth ! "

She came and stood by her sister's bed : " Hall of the Heron is dead ! " she said.

"The wind and the waves their work

have done, We shall see him no more beneath the sun.

" Little will reck that heart of thine, It loved him not with a love like mine.

" I, for his sake, were he but here. Could hem and 'broidcr thy bridal gear,

" Though hands should tremble and eyes

be w.-t. And stitch for stitch in my heart be set.

" But now my soul with his soul I wed ; Thine the living, and mine the dead ! "

MARGUERITE.

MASSACHUSETTS RAY, 1760.

TilK robins sang in the orchard, the buds

into blossoms grew ; Little of human sorrow the biuls and the

robins knew !

Sick, in an alien household, the poor

French neutral lay ; Into her lonesome garret fell the light of

the April day.

Through the dusty window, curtained by the spider's warp and woof,

On the loose-laid floor of hemlock, on oaken ribs of roof.

The bedquilt's faded patchwork, the tea- cups on the stand.

The wheel with flaxen tangle, as it di-opped from her sick hand !

What to her was the song of the robin,

or warm morning light, As she lay in the trance of the dying,

heedless of sound or sight ?

Done was the work of her hands, she had eaten lier bitter bread ;

The world of the alien people lay bcliind her dim and dead.

But her soul went back to its child-time ;

she saw the sun o'crflow With gold the basin of Minas, and set

over Gasperau ;

The low, bare flats at ebb-tide, the rush

of the sea at flood. Through inlet and creek and river, from

dike to upland wood ;

The gulls in the red of morning, the fish-hawk"s rise and fall.

The drift of the fog in moonshine, over the dark coast-wall.

She saw the face of hn mother, she heard the song -she sang ;

And far oil", faintly, slowlj, the bell for vespers rang !

By her bed the hard-faced mistress sat, smoothing the wrinkled .sheet,

Peering into the face, so helpless, and feeling the ice-cold feet.

With a vague remorse atoning for lier

greed and long abuse. By care no longer heeded and pity too

late for use.

Up the stairs of the garret softly the son

of the mi.stress stepped. Leaned over the head-board, covering

liis face with his liands, and wej)t.

Outspake the mother, who watched liiin .shaqily, with l)iow a-frown :

"What! love you the Papist, the beg- gar, the charge of the town ? "

KING VOLMER AND ELSIE.

377

Be she Papist oi beggar who lies here, In merrj' mood King Volnier sat, for>

I know and God knows I love her, and fain would go with her wherever she goes !

" 0 mother ! that sweet face came plead- ing, for love so athirst.

You saw but the tomi-charge ; I knew her God's augel at first."

Shaking her gray head, the Uiistress hushed down a bitter cry ;

And awed by the silence and shadow of death drawing nigh,

She murmured a psalm of the Bible ; but closer the young girl pressed.

With the last of her life in her lingers, the cross to her breast.

"My son, come away," cried the mother,

her voice cruel grown. " She is joined to her idols, like Eph-

raim ; let her alone ! "

But he knelt with his hand on her fore- head, his lips to her ear,

And he called back the soul that was pass- ing : "Marguerite, do you hear ? "

She paused on the threshold of Heaven ;

love, pity, surprise, Wistful, tender, lit up for an instant the

cloud of her eyes.

With his heart on his lips he kissed her, but never her cheek gi-ew red.

And the words the living long for he spake in the ear of the dead.

And the robins sang in the orchard, where buds to blossoms gi-ew ;

Of the folded hands and the stiU face never the robins knew !

KING VOLMER AND ELSIE.

AFTER THE

DANISH WINTEIi.

OF CHRISTIAN

Where, over heathen doom-rings and gray stones of the Horg,

In its little Cliristian city stands the church of Vordingborg,

getful of his power, As idle as the Goose of Gold that brooded on his tower.

Out spake the King to Henrik, liis yoxmg

and faithful squire : " Dar'st trust thy little Elsie, the maid

of thy desire ? " " Of all the men in Denmark she lovetb

only me : As true to me is Elsie as thy Lily is to

thee."

Loud laughed the king: "To-morrow

shall bring another day, * When I myself will test her ; she wiU

not say me nay." Thereat the lords and gallants, that

round about him stood, Wagged all their heads in concert and

smiled as courtiers should.

The gray lark sings o'er Vordingborg, and on the ancient town

From the tall tower of Valdemar the Golden Goose looks down :

The yellow grain is waving in the pleas- ant wind of morn.

The wood resounds with cry of hounds and blare of hunter's horn.

In the garden of her father little Elsie

sits and spins, And, singing with the early birds, her

daily task begins. Gay tulips bloom and sweet mint curls

around her garden-bower. But she is sweeter than the mint and

fairer than the flower.

About her form her kirtle blue clings

lovingly, and, white As snow, her loose sleeves only leave

her small, round wrists in sight ; Below the modest petticoat can only half

conceal The motion of the lightest foot that ever

turned a wheel.

The cat sits pumng at her side, bees hum in sunshine warm ;

But, look ! she starts, she lifts her face, she shades it with her arm.

* A common siiving of ViiKlemar; hence his eobrit^uet Atterdai/,

378

MISCELLANEOUS.

And, hark ! a train of horsemen, with

sound of dog and horn. Come leaping o'er the ditches, come

trampling down the corn !

Merrily rang the bridle-reins, and scarf

and plume streamed gay, As fast beside her father's gate the riders

held their way ; And one was brave in scarlet cloak, with

golden spur on heel. And, as he checked his foaming steed,

the maiden checked her wheel.

"All hail among thy roses, the fairest

rose to me ! For weary months in secret my heart

has longed for thee ! " What noble knight was this? What

words for modest maiden's ear ? She dropped a lowly courtesy of bashful-

ness and fear.

She lifted up her spinning-wheel ; she

fain would seek the door, Trembling in every limb, her cheek with

blushes crimsoned o'er. " Nay, fear me not," the rider said, " I

offer heart and hand. Bear witness these good Danish knights

who round about me stand.

" I grant you time to think of this, to answer as you may,

For to-mon-ow, little Elsie, shall bring another day."

He spake the old phrase slyly as, glan- cing round his train.

He saw his merry followers seek to hide their smiles in vain.

" The snow of pearls I '11 scatter in your

curls of golden hair, I '11 line with furs the velvet of the kirtle

that you wear ; All precious gems .shall twine your neck ;

and in a chariot gay You shall ride, my little Elsie, behind

four steeds of gray.

" And harps shall sound, and flutes shall

play, and brazen lamps shall glow ; On marble lloors j'our feet shall weave

the dances to and fro. At frosty eventide for us the blazing

hearth .shall shine. While, at our ease, we play at draughts,

and drink the blood-red wine."

Then Elsie raised her head and met her

wooer face to face ; A roguish smile shone in her eye and on

her lip found place. Back from her low white forehead the

curls of gold she threw, And lil'ted up her eyes to his steady and

clear and blue.

' ' I am a lowly peasant, and you a gal- lant knight ;

I wall not trust a love that soon may cool and turn to slight.

If you would wed me henceforth be ?. peasant, not a lord ;

1 bid j'ou hang upon the wall your tried and trusty sword."

"To please you, Elsie, I ^vill lay keen

Dynadel away, And in its place will swing the scythe

and mow )-our father's hay." "Nay, but your gallant scarlet cloak

my eyes can never bear; A Yadmal coat, so plain and gi'ay, is all

that you must wear."

" Well, Yadmal will I wear for you,"

the rider gayly spoke, " And on the Lord's high altar I '11 lay

my scarlet cloak." " But mark," she said, " no stately horse

my peasant love must ride, A yoke of steers before the plough is all

that he must guide."

The knight looked down upon his steed :

" Well, let him wander free : No other man must ride the horse that

has been backed by nie. Henceforth I '11 tread the fuiTow and to

my oxen talk, I f only liltle Elsie beside my plough will

walk."

"You must take from out your cellai'

cask of wine and ilask and can ; The homely mead I brew you may serve

a pea.sant-man." "Most willingly, fair Elsie, I'll drink

that mead of thine, And leave my minstrel's thirsty throat

to drain my generous wine. "

" Now break your shield asunder, and

shatter sign and boss. Unmeet for peasant-wedded arms, your

knightly knee across.

THE THREE BELLS.

37I>

flud pull me down your castle from top

to bdsenient wall, tiud let your plough trace furrows in the

ruins of your hall ! "

Then smiled he with a lofty pride;

right well at last he knew The maiden of the spiimiug-wheel was

to her troth-plight true. ' Ah, roguish little Elsie ! you act your

part full well : Von know that I must bear my shield

and in my castle dwell !

'* The lions ramping on that shield be- tween the hearts aflauie

Keep watch o'er Denmark's honor, and guard her ancient name.

For know that I am Voluier ; I dwell in yonder towers.

Who ploughs them ploughs up Dtiumark, this goodly home of ours !

" I tempt no more, fair Elsie ! your heart

1 know is true ; Would God that all our maidens were

good and pure as you ! Well have you pleased your monarch,

and he shall well repay ; Bod's peace ! Farewell ! To-morrow will

bring another day ! "

lie lifted up his bridle hand, he spun-ed

his good steed then, And like a whirl-blast swept away with

all his gallant men. The steel hoofs beat the rocky path;

again on winds of morn The wood resounds with cry of hounds

and blare of hunter's horn.

•* Thou _ true and ever faithful I " the

listening Henrik cried ; And, leaping o'er the green hedge, he

stood by Elsie's side. None saw the fond embracing, save,

shining from afar, The Golden Goose that watched them

from the tower of Valdemar.

0 darling girls of Denmark ! of all the

flowers that throng H^r vales of s[)iing the fairest I sing for

you niy song

No praise as yours so bravely njwanis

the singer's skill ; Thank God ! of maids like Elsie the luud

has plenty still !

THE THREE BELLS.

Beneath the low-hung night cLvk?

That raked her splintering mast The good ship settled slowly.

The cruel leak gained fast.

Over the aw4"ul ocean

Her signal guns pealed out.

Dear God ! was that thy answer From the horror round about ?

A voice came down the wild wind, " Ho ! ship ahoy ! " its cry :

" Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow Shall lay till daylight by I "

Hour after hour crept slowly, Yet on the heaving swells

Tossed up and down the ship-lights, The lights of the Three Bells !

And ship to ship made signals, Man answered back to man.

While oft, to cheer and hearten. The Tlu-ee Bells nearer ran ;

And the captain from her taffrail Sent down his hopeful cry.

" Take heart ! Hold on ! " lie shouttd " The Three Bells shall lay by ! '

All night across the waters

The tossing lights shone ^lear j

All night from reeling taffrail The Three Bells sent her cheer.

And when the dreary watches Of storm and darkness passed.

Just as the wreck lurched under, All souls were saved at last.

Sail on. Three Bells, forever,

In grateful memory sail ! Ring on. Three Bells of rescue,

Above the wave and gale 1

Type of the Love eternal.

Repeat the ^Master's cry. As tossing tlirougli our darkness

The lights of God draw ni^A f

580

HAZEL BLOSSOMS.

HAZEL BLOSSOMS.

Note. — I liave ventured, in compliance with the desire of dear friends of my beloved sister Elizabeth H. Whittier, to add to this little volume the few jjoetical pieces whicli she left behind her. As she was very distrustful of lier own powers, and altogether with out aiiibitidu for literary distinction, she shunned everything like publicity, and found far greater happiness in generous appreciation of the gifts of her friends than in the cultivation of her own. Yet it has always seemed to me, that had her health, sense of duty and fitness, and her extreme self-distrust permitted, she might have taken a high place among lyrical singers. These poems, with perhaps two or tliree exceptions, aftord but slight indications of the inward life of the writer, who had an almost morbid dread of spiritual and intellectual egotism, or of lier tenderness of sympathy, chastened mirthfulness, and pleasant play of thought and fancy, when her shy, beautiful sonl opened like a flower in the warmtli of social communion. In the lines on Dr. Kane her friends will see something of her fine individuality, — the rare mingling of delicacy and intensity of feeling which made her dear to them. This little poem reached Cuba while the great exjdorer lay on his death- bed, and we are told that he listened with grateful tears while it was reail to him l)y his mother.

I am tempted to sav more, but I write as under the eye of her who, while with us, shrank with painful tieprecation from the praise or mention of performances which seemed so far below her ideal of excellence. To tliose wlio best knew her, the beloved circle of her intimate friends, I dedicate this slight memorial.

J. G. W.

Amesbl'RY, 9th mo., 1S74.

The summer warmth has left the sky, Tlie summer songs have died away ; And, withered, in tlie footiiaths lie The fallen leaves, but yesterday With ruby ami with topaz gay.

The grass is browning on the hills ; No pale, belated flowers recall The astral fringes of the rills. And drearily the dead vines fall, Frost-blackened, from the roadside wall.

Yet through the gray and sombre wood. Against the dusk of fir and jiine, Last of their floral sisterhood. The hazel's yellow blossoms shine, The tawny gold of Afric's mine !

Small beauty hath my unsung flower. For spring to own or summer hail ; But, in the sea.son's saddest hour, To .skies that weep and winds that wail Its glad surprisals never fail. ^

0 days gi-own cold ! 0 life grown old ! No ro.se of .lune may bloom again ; But, like the hazel's twisted gold,

Through early frost and latter rain Shall liints of summer-time remain.

And as within the hazel's bough

A gift of mystic virtue dwells,

That ])oints to golden ores below,

And in dry desert ])laces tells

Where flow unseen the cool, sweet wells,

So, in the wise Diviner's hand. Be mine the hazel's grateful part To feel, beneatii a thirsty land, The living waters thrill and start, The beating of the rivulet's heart !

Snfficeth me the gift to light With latest bloom the dark, cold days ; To call some hidden spring to sight That, in these dry and dusty ways. Shall sing its pleasant song of prai.se.

O I^ove ! the hazel-wand may fail, F.ut thou canst lend the surer spell, That, jiassing over Baca's vale, l!c])eats the old-time miracle, And makes the desert-land a well.

SUMNER.

381

SUMNER.

not one who has disgraced beauty of sentiment by deformity of conduct, or the maxims nan by the actions of a slave ; but, by the grace of God, I have liept my life uusullied."

" I am

of a freeman by i,iie iii:i,iuuo vi a oi<n <= , uui/, — Milton's Defence of the People of England

0 MOTHER State ! — the winds of March Blew chill o'er Auburn's Field of God,

Where, slow, beneath a leaden arch Of sky, thy mourning children trod.

And now, with all thy woods in leaf. Thy fields in flower, beside thy dead

rhou sittest, in thy robes of grief, A Rachid yet unconiforted !

And once again the organ swells, Once more the flag is half-way hung,

And yet again the mournful bells In all thy steeple-towers are rung.

And I, obedient to thy will, Have come a simple wreath to lay, uperfiuous, on a gi'ave that still Is sweet with all the flowers of May.

1 take, with awe, the task assigned ;

It may be that my friend might miss, In his new .sphere of heart and mind, Some token from my hand in this.

By many a tender memory moved, Along the past my thought I send ;

The record of the cause lie loved Is the best record of its friend.

No trumpet sounded in his ear,

He saw not Sinai's cloud and flame.

But never yet to Hebrew seer A clearer voice of duty came.

Cod said : "Break thou these yokes ; undo These lieavy burdens. I ordain

A work to last thy whole life through, A ministry of strife and pain.

" Forego thy dreams of lettered ea.se, Put thou the scholar's promise by.

The rights of man are more than these." Hehcard, and answered : "Here ami ! "

He set his face; against the blast. His feet against the flinty shard,

Till the hard service grew, at last. Its own exceeding great reward.

Lifted like Saul's above the crowd. Upon his kingly forehead fell

The first, shar}) bolt of Slavery's cloud, Launched at the truth he urged soweU.

Ah ! never yet, at rack or stake.

Was sorer lo.ss made Freedom's gain.

Than his, who suii"ered for her sake The beak-torn Titan's lingering pain !

The fixed star of his faith, through all Loss, doubt, and peril, shone the same ;

As through a night of storm, some tall. Strong lighthouse lifts its steady flame.

Beyond the dust and smoke he saw The sheaves of freedom's large in- crease.

The holy fanes of equal law, The New Jerusalem of peace.

The weak might fear, the M'orldling mock.

The faint and blind of heart regret ; All knew at last tli' eternal rock

On which his forward feet were set.

The subtlest scheme of compromise Was folly to his purpose bold ;

The strongest mesh of party lies Weak to the simplest truth he told.

One language held his heart and lip. Straight onward to his goal he trod,

And proved the highest statesmanship Obedience to the voice of God.

No wail was in his voice, — none heard. When treason's storm-cloud blackest grew.

The weakness of a doubtful word ; His duty, and the end, he knew.

The first to smite, the first to spare ; When once the hostile ensigns fell.

382

HAZEL BLOSSOMS.

He stretched out hands of generous care To lift the foe he fought so well.

For there was nothing base or small Or craven in his soul's broad plan ;

Forgiving all things personal, He hated only wrong to man.

The old tradition.s of his State,

The memories of her great and good,

Took from liis life a fresher date, And in himself embodied stood.

How felt the greed of gold and place, The venal crew that schemed and planned,

The fine scorn of that haughty face, The spurning of tliat bribeless hand !

1 f than Rome's tribunes statelier He wore his senatorial robe.

His lofty port was all for her,

The one dear spot on all the globe.

I f to the master's plea he gave The vast contempt his manhood felt,

He saw a brotlua- in the slave, — With man as e([ual man he dealt.

Proud was he ? if ids presence kept Its grandeur wheresoe'er he trod.

As if from Plutarch's gallery stepped The hero and the demigod.

None failed, at least, to reach his ear, Nor want nor woe appealed in vain ;

The homesick soldier knew his cheer. And blessed him from his ward of pain.

Safely his dearest friends may own The slight defects he never liid,

The surface-blemish in the stone Of the tall, stately pyramid.

Suffice it that he never brought His conscience to the public mart ;

But lived himself the truth he taught, White-souled, clean-handed, pure of heart.

What if he felt the natural pride Of power in noble use, too true

With thin humilities to hide

Tlie work he did, the lore lie knew ?

Was he not just ? Was any wronged By that assured self-estimate ?

He took but what to him belonged, Unenvious of another's state.

Well might he heed the words he spake, And scan with care the written page

Through which he still shall warm and wake The hearts of men from age to age.

Ah ! who shall blame him now because He solaced thus his houis of pain !

Should not the o'crworn thresher pause, And liold to light his golden grain?

No sense of humor dropped its oil On the hard ways his purpose went ;

Small play of fancy lightened toil ; He spake alone the thing he meant.

He loved his books, the Art that hints A beauty veiled Isehind its own.

The graver's line, the pencil's tints, The chisel's shape evoked from stone.

He cherished, void of selfish ends. The social courtesies that bless

And sweeten life, and loved his friends With most unworldly tenderness.

But still his tired ej-es rarely learned The glad relief by Nature brought ;

Her mountain ranges never turned His current of persistent thought.

The sea rolled chorus to his speech Three-banked like Latium's tall tri- reme. With laboring oars ; the grove and beach Were Forum and the Academe.

The sensuous joy from all things fair His strenuous bent of soul repressed.

And left from youth to silvered hair Few hours for pleasure, none for rest.

For all his life was poor without.

0 Nature, make the last amends ! Train all thy llowers his grave about,

And make thy singing-birds his friends !

Revive again, thou summer rain, The broken turf upon his bed !

Breatlie, summer wind, tliy tenderest strain Of low, sweet music overhead !

THE PRAYER OF AGASSIZ.

383

With calm and beauty symbolize The peace which follows long annoy,

And lend our earth-bent, mourning eyes Some hint of his diviner joy.

For safe with right and truth he is, As God lives he must live alway ;

There is no end for souls like his, No night for children of the day !

Nor cant nor poor solicitudes

Made weak his life's great argument ; Small leisure his for frames and moods

Who followed Duty where she went.

The broad, fair fields of God he saw Beyond the bigot's narrow bound ;

The truths he moulded into law In Christ's beatitudes he found.

His State-craft was the Golden Rule, His right of vote a sacred trust;

Clear, over threat and ridicule,

All heard his challenge : "Is it just ?"

And when the hour supreme had come. Not for himself a thought he gave ;

In that last pang of martyrdom,

His care was for the half-freed slave.

Not vainly dusky hands upbore.

In prayer, the passing soul to heaven

AVhose mercy to His suffering poor Was service to the blaster given.

Long sliall the good State's annals tell. Her children's children long be taiight,

How, praised or blamed, he guarded well The trust he neither shunned nor sought.

If for one moment turned thy face, 0 Mothe]-, from thy son, not long

He waited calmly in his place

The sure remorse which follows wrong.

Forgiven be the State he loved

The one brief lapse, the single blot ;

Forgotten be the stain removed. Her righted record shows it not !

The lifted sword above her shield

With jealous care shall guard his fame >

The pine-tree on her ancient field To all the winds shall speak his name.

The marble image of her son

Her loving hands shall yearly ci'own. And from her pictured Pantheon

His grand, majestic face look down.

0 State so passing rich before.

Who now shall doubt thy highest claim ?

The world that counts thy jewels o'er Shall longest pause at Sumner's name !

HAZEL BLOSSOMS.

THE PRAYER OF AGASSIZ.

On the isle of Pcnikcse,

Ringed almut bj' sapphire seas,

Fanned by breezes salt and cool,

Stood tlie Master with his school.

Over sails that not in vain

Wooed the west-wind's steady strain,

Line of coast that low and far

Stretched its undulating bar,

Wings aslant along the rim

Of tlie waves tlu-y stooped to skim,

Rock and isle ami glistening bay.

Fell tlie beautiful wliite <lay.

Said the Master to the youth :

" We have come in search of truth,

Trying with uncertain key

Door by door of jnystery ;

Wt> are reaching, through His laws,

To the garment-hem of Cause,

Him, the endless, unbegun.

The Unnamable, tlu' One

Light of ail our light the Source,

Life of life, and Force of force.

As with fingers of the blind,

We are groping heie to find

What the hieroglyphics mean

Of the Unseen in the seen,

What the Tliought w'hich underlies.

Nature's masking and disguise.

What it is that hides beneath

Blight and bloom and birth and death.

384

HAZEL BLOSSOMS.

By past ettbrts unavailing, Doubt and error, loss and failing. Of our weakness made aware. On the threshold of our task Let us light and guidance ask, Let us pause in silent prayer ! "

Then the Master in his place Bowed his head a little space. And the leaves by soft airs stirred. Lapse of wave and cry of bird Left the solemn hush unbroken Of that wordless prayer unspoken, While its wish, on earth unsaid, Rose to heaven interpreted. As, in life's best hours, we hear By the spirit's finer ear His low voice within us, thus The All-Father heareth us ; And his holy ear we pain With our noisy words and vain. Not for Him our violence Storming at the gates of sense. His the piimal language, his The eternal silences !

Even the careless heart was moved. And the doubting gave assent. With a gesture reverent. To the M;ister well-beloved. As thin mists are glorified By the light they cannot hide. All who gazed upon him saw. Through its veil of tender awe, How his face was still uplit By the old sweet look of it, Hoi)eful, trustful, full of cheer. And the love that casts out fear. Who the secret may declare Of that brief, unuttered prayer? Did the shade before him come Of til' inevitable doom. Of the end of earth so near, And Eternity's new year ?

In the lap of sheltering seas Rests the isle of Penikese ; But the lord of the domain Comes not to his own again : Where the eyes that follow fail, On a vaster sea his sail Drifts beyond our beck and liaih Other lips within its bound Shall the laws of life expound ; Other eyes from rock and shell Read the woild's old riddles well : But when breezes light and bland

Blow from Summer's blossomed land, When the air is glad with wings, And the bhthe song-sparrow sings, Wany an eye with his still face Shall the living ones displace. Many an ear the word shall seek He alone could fitly speak. And one name forevermore Shall be uttered o'er and o'er By the waves that kiss the shore, By the curlew's whistle sent Down the cool, sea-scented air; In all voices known to her, Kature owns her worshipper. Half iu triumph, half lament. Thither Love shall tearful turn. Friendship pause uncovered there. And the wisest reverence learn From the Master's silent prayer.

THE FRIEND'S BURIAL.

My thoughts are all in yonder town, Where, wept by many tears.

To-day my mother's friend lays down The burden of her years.

True as in life, no poor disguise

Of death with her is seen, And on her simple casket lies

No wreath of bloom and green.

0, not for her the florist's art. The mocking weeds of woe,

Dear memories in each mourner's heart Like heaven's white lilies blow.

And all about the softening air Of new-])orn sweetness tells,

And the ungathered May-flowers wear The tints of ocean shells.

The old, assuring miracle

Is fresh as heretofore ; And earth takes up its parable

Of life from death once more.

Here organ-swell and cliurch-bell toll Methinks but discord were, —

The prayerful silence of the soul Is best befitting her.

No sound sliould break the quietude

Alike of earth and sky ; — O wandering wind in S<'iibitK)k wood,

Breathe liut a half-heard sij^h !

JOHN UNDEKHILL.

585

Sing softly, spring-bird, for her sake ;

And thou not distant sea, Lapse lightly as if Jesus spake,

Aud thou wert Galilee !

For all her quiet life llowed on As meadow streamlets flow.

Where fresher green reveals alone The noiseless ways they go.

From her loved place of prayer I see The plain-robed mourners pass,

With slow feet treading reverently The graveyard's springing grass.

Make room, 0 mourning ones, for me. Where, like the friends of Paul,

That you no more her face shall see You sorrow most of all.

Her path shall brighten more and more

Unto the perfect day ; She cannot fail of peace who bore

Such peace with her away.

0 sweet, calm face that seemed to wear

The look of sins forgiven ! 0 voice of prayer that seemed to bear

Our own needs up to heaven !

How reverent in our midst she stood. Or knelt in grateful praise !

Wliat grace of Christian womanhood Was in her household ways !

For still lier holy living meant

No duty left undone ; Tlie lieavenly and the liuman blent

Their kindred loves in one.

And if her life small leisure found

For feasting ear and eye. And Pleasure, on her daily round,

Slie ])assed uupausing by.

Vet with her went a secret sense (M' all things sweet and fair.

And Ilcauty's gracious providence Kefreshed her unaware.

She ke])t her line of rectitude Wilh love's unconscious ease;

Ilt'r kindly instincts understood All gentle courtesies.

An inborn charm of gi'aeioiisness Made sweet her smile and to'\e, 25

And gloiified her farm-wife dress With beauty not its own.

The dear Lord's best interpreters

Are humble human souls ; The Gospel of a life like hers

Is more than books or scrolls.

From scheme and creed the light goes out,

The saintly fact survives ; The blessed Master none can doubt

Revealed in holy lives.

JOHN UNDERHILL.

A SCORE of years had come and gone Since the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth

stone. When Captain Underbill, bearing scars From Indian ambush and Flemisli wars, Left three-hilled Boston and wandered

down. East by north, to Cocheco town.

With Vane the younger, in counsel

sweet He had sat at Anna Hutchinson's feet. And, when the bolt of banishment fell On the head of his .saintly oracle. He had shared her ill as her good report, And braved the wrath of the General

Court.

He shook from his feet as he rode away The dust of the Massachusetts Bay. The world might bless and the world

might ban. What did it matter the perfect man, To whom the freedom of earth was

given. Proof against sin, and sure of heaven ?

He cheered his heart as he rode along With screed of Scripture and holy song, Or thought how he rode with his lances

free By the Lower Rhine and the Zuyder-

Zee, Till his wood-palli grew to a trodileii

road. And Hilton Point in the distance

showed.

386

HAZEL BLOSSOMS.

He saw the church with the block- house uigh,

The two fair rivers, the flakes thereby,

And, tacking to wiudward, low and crank.

The little shallop from Strawberry Bank ;

And he rose in his stirrups and looked abroad

Over land and water, and praised the Lord.

Goodly and stately and grave to see, Into the clearing's space rode he, AVith the sun on the hilt of his sword

in sheath, And his silver buckles and spurs be- neath. And the settlers welcomed him, one and

all, From swift Quampeagan to Gonic Fall.

And he said to the elders : " Lo, I come As the way seemed open to seek a home. Somewhat the Lord hath wiought by

my hands In the Narragansett and Netherlands, And if here- ye have work for a Chris- tian man, I will tarry, and serve ye as best I can.

"I boast not of gifts, but fain would

own Tiie wonderful favor God hath shown, Tlie special mercy vouchsafed one day On the shore of Narragansett Bay, As I sat, with my pipe, from the camp

aside, And mused like Isaac at eventide.

' ' A sudden sweetness of peace I found, A garment of gladness wrapped me

round ; I felt from the law of works released, "'lie stiife of the flesh and .spirit ceased. My faith to a full assurance grew, And all 1 had hoj)ed for myself I knew.

"Now, as God appointeth, I keep my

way, I shall not stumble, I shall not .stray ; He hath taken away my fig-leaf dre.ss, I wear the rol* of his righteousness; And tlie shafts of Satan no more avail Than Pequot arrows on Christian mail."

"Tarry with us," the settlers cried, "Thou man of God, as our ruler and

guide." And Captain Underbill bowed his head. ' ' The will of the Lord be done ! " he said. And the morrow beheld him sitting down In the ruler's seat in Cocheco town.

And he judged therein as a just man

should ; His words were wise and his rule was

good ; He coveted not his neighbor's land. From the holding of bribes he shook his

hand ; And through the camps of the heathen

ran A wholesome fear of the valiant man.

But the heart is deceitful, the good Book

.saith, And life hath ever a savor of death. Through hymns of triumph the tempter

calls. And whoso thinketh he standeth falls. Alas ! ert; their round the seasons ran. There was grief in the soul of the saintly

man.

The temjiter's arrows that rarely fail Hadfound the joints of his spiritual mail ; And men took note of his gloomy air. The shame in his eye, the halt in his

prayer. The signs of a battle lost within, The jiain of a soul in the coils of sin.

Then a whisper of scandal linked his

name With broken vows and a life of blame; And the ]M'(i])h' looked askance on him As h(! walked among tlicm sullen and

grim, 111 at ease, and bitter of word. And jirompt of (juarrel with luind or

sword.

None knew how, with prayer and fasting

still, He strove? in the bonds of his evil will ; But he shook himself like Samson at

length. And girded anew his loins of .strength. And bade the crier go up and down And call together the wondering town.

IN QUEST.

387

Jeer and murmur and shaking of head Ceased as he rose in his ])la(e and said : "Men, biethren, and tathei's, well ye

know How I came among you a year ago, Strong in the faith that my soul was

freed From sin of feeling, or thouglit, or deed.

" I have sinned, I own it with grief and

shame, But not witli a lie on my lips I came. In my blindness I veiily thought my

heart Swept and garnished in every part. He chargeth His angels with folly; He

sees The heavens unclean. Was I more than

these ?

" I urge no plea. At your feet I lay The trust you gave me, and go my way. Hate me or pity me, as you will. The Lord will have mercy on sinners

.still ; And I, who am chiefest, say to all, Watch and pray, lest ye also fall."

No voice made answer : a sob so low That only his (juickened ear could know Smote his heart with a bitter pain. As into the foiest he rode again. And the veil of its oaken leaves .shut

down On his latest glimpse of C'ocheco town.

rry.stal-clear on the man of .sin

The streams flasheil uj), and the .sky

shone in ; On his cheek of fever the cool wind blew. The leaves dropped on him their tears

of dew. And angels of God, in the pure, sweet

guise Of flowers, looked on him with sad sur- prise.

Was his ear at fault that brook and

breeze Sang in their saddest of minor keys? What was it the mournful wood-lhru.sh

said ? Whatwhispered the pine-trees overhead Did he hear the Voice on his lonely way That Adam heard in the cool of day ?

Into the desert alone rode lie, Alone with the Infinite Purity ;

And, bowing his soul to its tender rebuke,

As Peter did to the Master's look.

He measured Ins palh with prayers of

pain For peace with God and nature again.

And in after years to Cocheco came The bruit of a once familiar name ; How among the Dutch of New Nether- lands, From wild Danskamer to Haarlem sands, A p)enitent soldier preached the Word, And smote the heathen with Gideon'.s sword !

And the heart of Boston was glad to hear How he harried the foe on the long

frontier. And hea})ed on the land against him

baried Thecoals of his generous watch and ward. Frailest and biavest ! the Bay State still Counts with hcrworthies John Underhill.

IN QUEST.

Have I not voyaged, friend beloved, with thee

On the great waters of the unsounded sea.

Momently listening with suspended oar

For the low rote of waves upon a shore

Changeless as heaven, where never fog- cloud drifts

Over its windless woods, nor mirage lifts

The steadfa.st hills; where never birds of doubt

Sing to mislead, and every dream dies out.

And the dark riddles which perplex us here

In the sharp solvent of its light are clear?

Thou knowest how vain our quest ; how, soon or late.

The baffling tides and circles of debate

Swept back our bark unto its starting- place,

Where, looking forth upon the blaidc, gray space,

And roundabout usseeing, with sad eyes.

The .same old difficult hills and cloud- cold skies.

We said : "This outward search availeth not

388

HAZEL BLOSSOMS.

To find Him. He is farther than we

thought, Or, haply, nearer. To this very .spot AVhereon we wait, this commonplace of

home. As to the well of Jacob, He may come And tell us all things." As I listened

there. Through the expectant silences of prayer. Somewhat I seemed to hear, which liath

to me Been hope, .strength, comfort, and I give

it thee.

"The riddle of the world is understood Only by him who feels that God is good. As only he can feel who makes his love The ladder of his faith, and climbs above On th' rounds of his best instincts ;

draws no line Between mere human goodne.ss and di- vine, But, judging God by what in him is best, With a child's trust leans on a Father's

breast. And hears unmoved the old creeds bab- ble still Of kinglv power and dread caprice of

will, Chary of blessing, prodigal of curse, The pitiless doonisman of the universe. Can Hatred ask for love? Can Srlti.sh-

ness Invite to .self-denial ? Is He less Than man in kindly dealing? Can He

break His own great law of fatherhood, forsake Andcur.se His children? Not for e.irth

and heaven Can separate tables of the law be given. No rule can bind which He himself de- nies ; The truths of time are not eternal lies."

So heard I ; and the chaos round me

spread To light and order grew; and, "Lord,"

I said, "Our sins are our tonnentor.s, worst of

all Felt in distrustful shame that dares not

call Upon Thee as our Father. We have set A strange god up, but Thou reinain''«t

yet.

All that I feel of pity Thou hast known Before I was ; my best is all Thy ov"i.

From Thy great heart of goodness mine

]>ut drew Wishes and prayers; but Thou, 0 Lord,

wilt do, In Thy own time, by ways 1 cannot see. All that I feel when I am nearest Thee ! "

A SEA DREAM.

Wk saw the slow tides go and come, The curving surf-lines lightly drawn,

The graj- rocks touched with tender bloom Beneath the fresh-blown rose of dawn.

We saw in richer sunsets lost

The sombre pomp of showery noons ;

And signalled spectral sails that crossed The weird, low light of rising moons.

On stormy eves from clift' and head We saw the white spray tossed and spumed ;

While over all, in gold and red,

Its face of fire the lighthouse turned.

The rail-car brought its daily crowds, Half curious, half indifferent.

Like passing sails or floating clouds, We saw them as they came and went.

But, one calm morning, as we lay And watched the mii-age-lifted wall

Of coast, acro.ss the dreamy bay. And heard afar the curlew call,

And nearer voices, wild or tame. Of airy flock and childish throng,

Up from the water's edge there came Faint snatches of familiar song.

Careless we heard the singer's choice Of old and common airs ; at last

The tender pathos of his voice In one low chanson held us fast.

A song that mingled joy and pain. And memories old and sadly sweet ;

While, timing to its minor strain. The waves in lapsing cadence beat.

The waves are glad in breeze and sun ; The rocks are fringed with foam ;

A MYSTERY.

389

I walk once more a haunted shore, A stranger, yet at home, — A land of dreams I roam.

Is this the wind, the soft sea-wind That stirred thy locks of brown ?

Are these the rocks whose mosses knew The trail of thy light gown, Where boy and girl sat down ?

I see the gray fort's broken wall. The boats that rock below ;

And, out at sea, the passing sails We saw so long ago Rose-red in morning's glow.

The freshness of the early time

On every breeze is blown ; As glad the sea, as blue the sky, —

The change is ours alone ;

The saddest is my own.

A stranger now, a world-worn man.

Is he who bears my name ; But thou, methinks, whose mortal life

Immortal youth became,

Art evermore the same.

Thou art not here, thou art not there. Thy place I cannot see ;

I only know that where thou art The blessed angels be. And heaven is glad for thee.

Forgive me if the evil years

Have left on me their sign ; Wash out, 0 soul so beautiful,

The many stains of mine

In tears of love divine !

I could not look on thee and live,

If thou wert by my side ; The vision of a shining one,

The white and heavenly bride.

Is well to me denied.

But tuni to me thy dear girl-face

Without the angel's crown. The wedded roses of thy lips, , Thy loose hair rippling down

In waves of golden brown.

Look forth once more through space and time, And let thy sweet shade fall In tcndeiest grace of soul and form

On memory's frescoed wall. A shadow, and yet all !

Draw near, more near, forever dear ! AVhere'er I rest or roam.

Or in the city's crowded streets, Or by the blown sea foam. The thought of thee is home !

At breakfast hour the singer read The city news, with comment wise,

Like one who felt the pulse of trade Beneath his finger fall and rise.

His look, his air, his curt speech, told The man of action, not of books.

To whom the corners made in gold And stocks were more than seaside nooks.

Of life beneath the life confessed His song had hinted unawares ;

Of (lowers in traffic's ledgers pres.sed, Of human hearts in bulls and bears.

But eyes in vain were turned to watch That face so hard and shrewd and strong ;

And ears in vain gi-ew sharp to catch The meaning of that morning song.

In vain some sweet-voiced querist sought To sound him, leaving as she came ;

Her baited album only caught A common, unromantic name.

No word betrayed the mystery fine. That trembled on the singer's tongue ;

He came and went, and left no sign Behind him save the song he sung.

A MYSTERY.

The river hemme<:l with leaning trses Wound through its meadows given ;

A low, blue line of mountains showed The open pines between.

One sharp, tall peak above them all Clear into sunlight sprang :

I saw the river of my dreams, The mountains that I sang !

390

HAZEL BLOSSOMS.

No clew of memory led me on,

But well the ways I knew ; A feeling of familiar things

Witli every footstep grew.

Not otlierwise above its crag Could lean the blasted pine ;

Not otherwise the maple hold Aloft its red ensign.

So up the long and shorn foot-hills The mountain road should creep;

So, green and low, the meadow fold Its red-haired kine asleep.

The river wound as it should wind ;

Tlieir place the mountains took ; The white torn fringes of their clouds

Wore no unwonted look.

Yet ne'er before that river's rim Was pressed liy feet of mine.

Never before mine eyes had crossed That broken mountain line.

A presence, stmnge at once and known, Walked witli me as my guide ;

The skirts of some forgotten life Trailed noiseless at my side.

Was it a dim-rememliered dream?

Or glimpse through a»ons old ? The secret which the mountains kept

The river never told.

But from the vision ere it pa.ssed

A tender hoj)e I drew, And, pleasant as a dawn of spiing,

The thought within me grew.

That love would temper every change.

And soften all surprise. And, misty with the dreams of earth.

The hills of Heaven arise.

CONDUCTOR BRADLEY.

CoNDUCTon Bradley, (always may his

name Be said with reverence !) as the swift

doom came. Smitten to death, a crushed and mangled

frame,

Sank, with the hrake he grasped just

where he stood To do the utmost that a brave man

could, And die, if needful, as a true man should.

Men stooped above him ; women dropped

their tears On that poor w reck beyond all hopes or

fears, Lost in the strength aud glory of his

years.

What heard they ? Lo ! the ghastly lips

of pain, Dead to all thought .save duty's, moved

again : " Put out the signals for the other

train ! "

No nobler utterance since the world

begaii From lips of saint or martyr ever ran. Electric, through the sympathies of man.

Ah me ! how poor and noteless seem lo this

The sick-bed dramas of self-conscious- ness.

Our sensual fears of pain and hopes of bliss !

0, grand, supreme endeavor ! Not in vain

That last brave act of failing tongue and brain !

Freighted with life the downward rush- ing train,

Following the wrecked one, as wave fol- lows wave.

Obeyed the w-arning which the dead lips gave.

Others he saved, himself he could not save.

Nay, the lost life was .saved. He is not

dead Who in his record still the earth shall

tread With God's clear aureole shining round

his head.

We bow as in the dust, with all our ]uide Of virtue dwarfed the noble deed beside. God give us grace to live as Bradley died !

THE GOLDEN WEDDING OF LONGWOOD.

S91

CHILD-SONGS.

Still linger in our noon of time

And on our Saxon tongue The echoes of the home-born hymns

The Aryan mothers sung.

And childhood had its litanies

In every age and clime ; ;The earliest cradles of the race

Were rocked to poet's rhyme.

Nor sky, nor wave, nor tree, nor flower, Nor green earth's virgin sod,

So moved the singer's heart of old As these small ones of God.

The mystery of unfolding life Was more than dawning morn,

Tlian opening flower or crescent moon The human soul new-born 1

And still to childhood's sweet appeal

The heart of genius turns, And more than all the sages teach

From lisping voices learns, —

The voices loved of him who sang. Where Tweed and Teviot glide.

That sound to-day on all the winds That blow from IJydal-side, —

Heard in the Teuton's household songs,

And folk-lore of the Finn, Where'er to holy Christmas hearths

The Christ-child enters in !

Before life's sweetest mysteiy still The heart in reverence kneels ;

Tlie wonder of the primal birth The latest mother feels.

We need love's tender lessons taught

As only weakness can ; God hath his .small interpreters ;

The child must teach the man.

W(! wander wide through evil years, Our eyes of faith grow dim ;

Rut he is freshest from His hands And nearest unto Him !

And haply, ]ileading long with Him For sin-sick hearts and cold,

The angels of our childhood still The Fatiier's face behold.

Of such the kingdom ! — Teach thou us,

O Master most divine. To feel the deep signiflcance

Of these wise words of thine !

The haughty eye shall seek in vain

What innocence beholds ; No cunning flnds the key of heaven,

No strength its gate unfolds.

Alone to guilelessne.ss and love

That gate shall open fall ; Tlie mind of pride is nothingness,

The childlike heart is all !

THE GOLDEN WEDDING LONGWOOD.

OF

With fifty years between you and your well-kept wedding vow.

The Golden Age, old friends of mine, is not a fable now.

And, sweet as has life's vintage been tiirough all your jileasant past.

Still, as at Cana's marriage-feast, the best wine is the last !

Again before me, with your names, fair Chester's landscape comes.

Its meadow.s, woods, and ample barns, and quaint, stone-builded homes.

The smooth-shorn vales, the wheaten slopes, the boscage green and soft,

Of which their poet sings so well from towered Cedarcroft.

And lo ! from all the country-side come neighliors, kith and kin ;

From city, hamlet, farm-house old, the wedding guests come in.

And they who, without scrip or purse, mob-hunted, travel-worn.

In Freedom's age of martyrs came, as victors now return.

Older and slower, yet the same, files in

the long array. And hearts are light and e5'es are glad,

though heads are badger-gray.

The fire-tried men of Thirty-eight who

saw with me the fall. Midst roaring flames and shouting mob,

of Pennsylvania Hall ;

392

HAZEL BLOSSOMS.

And they of Lancaster who turned the

cliiicks of tjTants pale, Singing of freedom through the grates

of Moyamensing jail !

And haply with them, all unseen, old

comrades, gone before. Pass, silently as shadows pass, within

your open door, —

The eagle face of Lindley Coates, brave

(Jarrett's daring zeal, The Christian grace of Pennock, the

steadfast heart of Neal.

Ah me ! beyond all power to name, the worthies tried and true,

Grave men, fair women, youth and maid, pass by in hushed review.

Of varying faiths, a conmion cause fused

all their hearts in one. God give them now, whate'er their

names, the peace of duty done !

How gladly would I tread again the old-

remenibcred places, Sit down beside your hearth once more

and look in the dear old faces !

And thank you for the lessons your fifty

yeai-s are teaching. For honest lives that louder speak than

half our noisy preaching ;

For your steady faith and courage in that dark and evil time.

When the < Jolden Rule was treason, and to feed the hungry, crime ;

For the poor slave's house of refuge when the hounds were on his track,

And saint and sinner, church and state, joined hands to send him back.

Blessings upon you ! — 'What you did for each sad, suffering one.

So homeless, faint, and naked, unto our Lord was done !

Fair fall on Kennett's pleasant vales and Longwood's boweiy ways

The mellow sunset of your lives, friends of my early days.

May many more of quiet years be added

to your sum, And, late at last, in tenderest love, the

beckoning angel come.

Dear hearts are here, dear hearts are there, alike below, above ;

Our friends are now in either world, and love is sure of love.

KINSMAN.

DIED AT THE ISLAND OF PANAT (PHI- LIPPINE group), AGED 19 YEARS.

Where ceaseless Spring her garland twines,

As sweetly shall the loved one rest. As if beneath the whispering pines

And maple shadows of tlie West.

Ye mourn, 0 hearts of home ! for him. But, haply, mourn j'e not alone ;

For him shall far-off eyes be dim. And pity .speak in tongues unknown.

There needs no graven line to give The story of his blameless youth ;

All hearts shall throb intuitive. And nature guess the simple truth.

The very meaning of his name Shall many a tender tribute win ;

The stranger own his .sacred claim. And all the world shall be his kin.

And there, as here, on main and isle. The dews of holy peace shall fall.

The .same sweet heavens above hira smile. And God's dear love be over all !

VESTA.

0 Christ of God ! whose life and death

Our own have reconciled, Most quietly, most tenderly

Take home thy star-named child !

Thy grace is in her patient eyes, Thy words are on her tongue ;

The very silence round her ssems As if the angels sung.

A CHRISTMAS CAEMEN.

393

Her smile is as a listening child's Who hears its mother call ;

The lilies of Thy perfect peace About her pillow fall.

She leans from out our clinging arms

To rest herself in Thine ; Alone to Thee, dear Lord, can we

Our well-beloved resign !

0, less for her than for ourselves AVe bow our heads and pray ;

Her setting star, like Bethlehem's, To Thee shall point the way !

THE HEALER.

TO A YOFNG PHYSICIAN, WITH DORE's PICTURE OF CHRIST HEALING THE SICK.

So stood of old the holy Christ Amidst the suffering throng ;

With whom his lightest touch sufficed To make the weakest strong.

That healing gift he lends to them

Who use it in his name ; The power that filled his garment's hem

Is evermoi'e the same.

For lo ! in human hearts unseen

The Healer dwelleth still, And they who make his temples clean

The best subserve his will.

The holiest task by Heaven decreed,

An errand all divine. The Inirden of our common need

To render less is thine.

The paths of pain are thine. Go forth With patience, tru.st, and hope;

The sufferings of a sin-sick earth Shall give thee ample scope.

Beside the unveiled mysteries

Of life and death go stand. With guarded lips and reverent eyes

And pure of heart and hand.

So shalt thou be with power endued

From Him who went about The Syrian hillsides doing good,

And casting demons out.

That Good Physician liveth yet Thy friend and guide to be ;

The Healer by Gennesaret

Shall walk the rounds with thee.

A CHRISTMAS CARMEN.

Sound over all waters, reach out from

all lands, The chorus of voices, the clasping of

hands ; Sing hymns that were sung by the stars

of the morn, Sing songs of the angels when Jesus was

born ! With glad jubilations Bring hope to the nations ! The dark night is ending and dawn has

begun : Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun, All speech flow to music, all hearts

beat as one !

Sing the bridal of nations ! with chorals

of love Sing out the war- vulture and sing in the

dove. Till the hearts of the peoples keep time

in accord, And the voice of the world is the voice

of the Lord ! Clasp hands of the nations In strong gratulations : The dark night is ending and dawn has

begun ; Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun, All speech flow to music, all hearts

beat as one !

Pdow, bugles of battle, the marches of

peace ; East, west, north, and south let the long

quarrel cease : Sing the song of great joy that the

angels began, Sing of glory to God and of good-will to

man ! Hark ! joining in chorus The heavens bend o'er us ! The dark night is ending and dawn has

begun ;

394

HAZEL BLOSSOMS.

Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun, All speech How to music, all hearts beat as one !

HYMN

FOR THE OFEXIXG OF I'LYMOUTH CHURCH, ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA.

All things are Thine: no gift have we, Lord of all gifts ! to oH'er Thee ; Antl hence with grateful hearts to-day, Thy own before Thy feet we lay.

Thy will was in the builders' thought ; Thy hand unseen amidst us wrought;

Through mortal motive, scheme and plan, Thy wise eternal purpose ran.

No lack Thy perfect fulness knew ; For human needs and longings grew This house of prayer, this home of rest, In the fair garden of the West.

In weakness .ind in want we call On Thee for wlioni the heavens are small ; Thy glory is Thy children's good. Thy joy Thy tender Fatherhood.

O Father ! deign these walls to bless Fill with Thy love their emptiness And let their door a gateway be To lead us from ourselves to Thee !

POEIMS BY ELTZABP]TH H. WHITTIEE.

THK DKEAM OF ARGYLE.

Earthly amis no mon' uphold liim

On his jirison's stony lloor; Waiting death in his last slumber,

Lies the doomed MacL'allum More.

And he dreams a dream of boyhood ;

Rise again his heathery hills, Sound again the hound's long baying,

Cry of moor-fowl, laugh of rills.

Now he stands amidst his clansmen In the low, long banquet-liall,

Over grim, ancestral armor Sees the ruddy firelight fall.

Once again, with pulses beating, Hears the wandering minstrel tell

How Montrose on Inverary Thief-like from his mountains fell.

Down the glen, beyond the castle, Where the linn's swift waters shine,

Round the youthful heir of Argyle Shy feet glide and white amis twine.

Fairest of the rustic dancers,

Blue-eyed Effie smiles once more,

Bends to liim her snooded tresses, Treads with him the grassy floor.

Now he hears the pi])es lamenting, Har[/ers for liis mother mourn,

Slow, with sable plume and pennon. To her cairn of burial l>orne.

Then anon his dreams arc darker. Sounds of battle fdl his eai's,

And tlie pibroch's mournful wailing For his father's fall he hears.

Wild Lochaber's mountain echoes Wail in concert for the dead,

And Loch Awe's deep waters murmur For the Campbell's glory fled !

Fierce and strong the godless tyrants

Trample the apostate land, While her poor and faithful remnant

Wait for the Avenger's hand.

Once again at Inverary,

Years of weary exile o'er, Armed to lead his scattered clansmen.

Stands the bold MacCallum More.

Once again to battle calling

Sound the war-pipes through the glen ; And the court -yard of Dunstafl'nage

Rings with tread of armed men.

LINES.

jnn

All is lost ! The godless tiiumi'li. And the faithful ones and true

From the scaffold and the i)i-ison Covenant with God anew.

On the darkness of his dreaming Great and sudden glory shone ;

Over bonds and death victorious Stands he by the Father's throne !

From the radiant ranks of martyis Notes of joy and praise he hears,

Songs of his poor land's deliverance Sounding from the future years.

Lo, he wakes ! but airs celestial Bathe him in immortal rest,

And he sees with unsealed vision Scotland's cause with victory blest.

Shining hosts attend and guard him As he leaves his prison door ;

And to death as to a triumph Walks the great MacGallum More !

LINES

VI^RITTEN ON THE DEPARTURE OF JOSEPH STMRGE, AFTER HIS VISIT TO THE ABOLITIONISTS OF THE UNITED STATES.

Fair islands of the sunny sea ! midst

all rejoicing things. No more the wailing of the .slave a wild

discordance brings ; On the lifted brows of freemen the tropic

breezes blow, The mildew of the bondman's toil the

land no mure shall know.

How .swells from those green islands,

where bird and leal' and flower Are praising in their own sweet way the

dawn of fieedom's hour, Tiic gloi'ious resurrection song from

hearts rejoicing ])oured. Thanksgiving for the priceless gift, —

man's regal crown restored !

How beautiful through all the green and

trani|uil summer land, Ujtlifted, a-s by miracle, the solemn

churches stand !

The grass is trodden from the paths where waiting freemen thiong,

Athirst and fainting for the cup of life denied so long.

0, bleesed were the feet of him whose

generous errand here Was to unloose the captive's chain and

dry the mourner's tear ; To lift again the fallen ones a brother's

robber hand Had left in i)ain and wretchedness by the

waysides of the land.

The islands of the sea rejoice ; the har- vest anthems rise ;

The sower of the seed must own 't is marvellous in his eyes ;

The old waste places are rebuilt, — the broken walls i-estored, —

And the wilderness is blooming like the garden of the Lord !

Thanksgiving for the holy fruit ! should

not tlie laborer rest. His earnest faith and works of love have

been so richly blest ? The pride of all fair England shall her

ocean islands be. And their peasantry with joyful hearts

keep ceaseless jubilee.

Re.st, never ! while his countrymen have

trampled hearts to bleed. The stifled murmur of their wrongs his

listening ear shall heed, Where England's far dependencies her

might, not mercy, know. To all the crushed and sutfeiing there

his pitying love shall flow.

The friend of freedom everywhere, how

mourns he for our land, The l)rand of whose hypocrisy burns on

her guilty hand ! Her thrift a theft, the rob])er's greed and

cunning in her eye. Her glory sliame, her flaunt iug Hag on

all the winds a lie !

For us with steady sfrength of heart and

zeal forever true. The cham])ion of the island .slave the

conflict doth renew, His labor here hath been to point the

Pharisaic eye Away from empty creed and funu to

where the wounded lie.

396

HAZEL BLOSSOMS.

How beautiful to us should seem tlie coming feet of such !

Their garments of self-sacritice have heal- ing in their touch ;

Their gospel mission none may doubt, for they heed the Master's call,

"Who here walked with tlie multitude, and sat at meat with all !

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

He rests M-ith the immortals ; his jour- ney has been long :

For him no wail of sorrow, but a prean full and strong !

So well and bravely has he done the work he found to do.

To justice, freedom, duty, God, and man forever true.

Strong to the end, a man of men, from

out the strife lie ])assed ; The grandest hour of all his life was that

of earth the last. Now midst his snowy hills of lionie to

the grave they bear him down, The glory of his foui-score years resting

on him like a crown.

Tlie mourning of the many bell.s, the

drooping Hags, all seem Like some dim, unreal pageant passing

onward in a dream ; And following with the living to liis last

and narrow bed, Methinks I see a shadowy band, a train

of noble dead.

'T is a strange and weird procession that

is slowly moving on, Tlie phantom i)atriots gathered to the

funeral of their son ! In shadowy guise they move along, l)rave

(Jtis with hushed tread. And Warren walking reverently by the

father of the dead.

Gliding foremost in the misty hand a

gentle form is there, In the white robes of the angels and

their glory round her hair. She hovers near and bends above her

world-wide lionoicd child. And the joy that heaven alone can know

beams on her features mild.

And so they bear him to his grave in

the fulness of his years. True sage and projihet, leaving us in a

time of many fears. Nevermore amid the darkness of our

wild and evil day Shall his voice be heard to cheer us,

shall his fiuger point the way.

DR. KANE IN CUBA.

A NOBLE life is in thy care,

A sacred trust to thee is given ;

Bright Island ! let thy healing air Be to him as the breath of Heaven.

The marvel of his daring life — The self-forgetting leader bold —

Stirs, like the trumpet's call to strife, A million hearts of meaner mould.

Eyes that shall never meet his own Look dim with tears across the sea,

Where from the dark and icy zone. Sweet Isle of Flowers ! he comes to thee.

Fold him in rest, 0 pitying clime !

Give back his wasted strength again ; Soothe, with thy endless summer time.

His winter-wearied heart and brain.

Sing soft and low, thou tropic bird. From out the fragrant, flowery tree, —

Tlie ear that hears thee now has heard The ice-break of the winter sea.

Through his long watch of awful night, He .saw the Bear in Northern skies ;

Now, to the Southern Cross of light He lifts in hope his weary eyes.

Prayers from the hearts that watched in feni-.

When till! dark North no answer gave, Rise, treiiil)]ing, to the Father's ear,

Tliat still His love may help and .save.

LADY FRANKLIN.

Fold thy hands, thy work is over ;

Cool thy watching eyes with tears; Let thy jmxu' heart, over-wearied.

Rest alike from hopes and fear's, —

THE MEETING WATEES.

397

Hopes, that saw with sleepless vision One sad picture fading slow ;

Fears, that followed, vague and name- less, Lifting back the veils of snow.

For thy brave one, for thy lost one, Truest heart of woman, weep !

Owning still the love that granted Unto thy beloved sleep.

Not for him that hour of terror When, the long ice-battle o'er,

In the sunless day his comrades Deathward trod the Polar shore.

Spared the cruel cold and famine. Spared the fainting heart's despair,

"What but that could mercy grant him ? "What but that has been thy prayer ?

Dear to thee that last memorial From the cairn beside the sea ;

Evermore the month of roses Shall be sacred time to thee.

Sad it is the mournful yew-tree O'er his slumbers may not wave ;

Sad it is the Englisli daisy May not blossom on his grave.

But his tomb shall storm and winter Sliape and fashion year by year,

Pile his mighty mausoleum.

Block by block, and tier on tier.

Huardian of its gleaming portal Shall his stainless honor be,

While tliy love, a sweet immortal. Hovers o'er the winter sea.

NTOHT AND DEATH.

TiiK storm -wind is howling Through old pines afar ;

Tli(! drear niglit is falling Witliout uioon or star.

Tlie roused sea is lashing 'I'lie bold sliol'c bi-hind,

And tlie moan ol' its ebbing Keeps time with the wind.

On, on throTigli the darkness, A spectre, 1 pass

"Wliere, like moaning of broken hearts, Surges the grass !

I see her lone head-stone, —

'T is white as a shroud ; Like a pall, hangs above it

The low drooping cloud.

"Who speaks through the dark night

And lull of the wind ? 'T is the sound of the pine-leaves

And sea-waves behind.

The dead girl is silent, —

I stand by her now ; And her pulse beats no quicker,

Nor crimsons her brow.

The small hand that trembled,

When last in my own. Lies patient and folded.

And colder than stone.

Like the white blossoms falling

To-night in the gale, So she in her beauty

Sank mournful and pale.

Yet I loved her ! 1 utter

Such words by her grave. As 1 would not liave si)oken

Her last breath to save.

Of her love the angels

In heaven might tell. While mine would be whisjjei'cd

With shudders in hell !

'T was well that the white ones

Who bore her to bliss Shut out from her new life

The vision of this.

Else, sure as I stand here,

And speak of my love. She would leave for my darkness

Her glory above.

THE MEETING WATERS.

C'l.osK beside the meeting waters. Long I stood as in a dream,

Watching how the little river Fell into the broader stream.

398

HAZEL BLOSSOMS.

Calm and still the mingled current

Glided to the waiting sea ; On its breast serenel\- pictured

Floating cloud and skirting tree.

And I thought, " 0 human spirit !

Strong and deep and pure and blest, Let the stream of my existence

Blend with thine, and tind its rest ! "

I could die as dies the river. In that current deep and wide ;

I would live as live its waters, FliishinET from a stronger tide !

THE WEDDING VEIL.

De.\r Anna, when I brought her veil, Her white veil, on her wedding night,

Threw o'er my tliin brown liair its folds, And, laughing, turned me to the liglit.

"See, Be.s.sie, see ! you wear at last The bridal veil, forsworn for years ! "

She saw my face, — her laugh was hushed, Her happy eyes were fdled with teai-s.

Witli kindly haste and trembling hand She drew away the gauzy mist ;

" Forgive, dear heart ! " her sweet voice said : Her loving lips my forehead kissed.

We passed from out the searching light ;

The summer night was calm and tair : I did not see licr pitying eyes,

I felt her soft hand smooth my liair.

Her tender love unlocked my heart ;

Mid falling tears, at last I said, " Forsworn indeed to me that veil

Because I only love the dead ! "

She stood one moment statue-still, And, musing, spake in undertone,

" The living love may colder grow ; The dead is safe with God alone ! '

CHARITY.

The pilgrim and stranger who tlirough

the day Holds over tlie desert his trackless way. Where the terrible sands no shade have

known. No sound of life save his camel's moan, Heai-s, at last, through the mercy of

A Hall to all. From his tent-door at evening the Be- douin's call : " Wlioevcr (hou art whose need is great. In tlu name of God, the Compassionate And Merciful One, for lliec I icail I "

For gifts in His name of food and rest The tents of Islam of God are blest. Thou who hast faith in tlu; Clirist above, Shall tlie Koran teach thee the Law of

Love ? — 0 Christian ! — open thy heart and door, Cry east and west to the wandering poor : " Wlwever tlwu art tvlwsc n^ed is great.. In the name of Christ, the Compassionat^e. And Merciful One, for thee I wail ! "

THE VISION OF ECHAUD,

AND OTHER POEMS.

THE VISION OF ECHARD.

The Benedictine Ecliard

Sat, worn by wanderings far,

Where Marsberg sees the bridal Of the Moselle and Sarre.

Fair with its sloping vineyards And tawny chestnut bloom,

The happy vale Ausonius sung For holy Treves made room.

On the shrine Helena builded To keep the Christ coat well,

On minster tower and kloster cross, The westering sunshine fell.

There, where the rock-hewn circles O'erlooked the Roman's game.

The veil of sleep fell on him,

And his thought a dream became.

He felt the heart of silence Throb with a soundless word,

And by the inward ear alone A spirit's voice he heard.

And the spoken word seemed written

On air and wave and sod. And the bending walls of sapphire

Blazed with the thought of God :

" What lack I, 0 my children ?

All things are in my hand ; The vast earth and the awful stars

I hold as grains of sand.

" Need I your alms ? The silver

And gold are mine alone ; The gifts ye bring before me

Were evermore my own.

" Heed I the noise of viols. Your pomp of masque and show ?

Have I not dawns and sunsets ? Have I not winds that blow ?

" Do I smell your gums of incen.se ? Is my ear with chantings fed ?

" Taste I your wine of worship. Or eat your holy bread ?

' ' Of rank and name and honors Am I vain as ye are vain ?

What can Eternal Fullness From your lip-service gain ?

' ' Ye make me not your debtor Who serve yourselves alone ;

Ye boast to me of homage Whose gain is all your own.

' ' For you I gave the prophets. For you the Psalmist's lay :

For you the law's stone tables. And holy book and day.

" Ye change to weary burdens The helps that should uplift ;

Ye lose in form the spirit. The Giver in the gift.

"Who called ye to self- torment. To fast and penance vain ?

Dream ye Eternal Goodness Has joy in mortal pain ?

" For the death in life of Nitria, For your Chartreuse ever dumb.

What better is the neighbor. Or happier the home ?

" Who counts his brother's welfare

As sacred as his own, And loves, forgives, and pities.

He serveth me alone.

" I note each gracious purpose, P^acli kindly word and deed ;

Are ye not all my children ? Shall not the Father heed ?

" No prayer for light and guidance

Is lost upon mine ear : The chiUl's ciy in the darkness

Shall not the Father hear ?

400

THE VISION OF ECHAED.

' ' I loathe your wrangling councils, I tread upon your creeds ;

Who made ye mine avengers, Or told ye of my needs ;

" I bless men and ye curse them, I love them and ye hate ;

Ye bite and tear each other, 1 sutler long and wait.

"Ye bow to ghastly symbols, To cross and scourge and thorn ;

Ye seek his Syrian manger Who in the heart is born.

"For the dead Christ, not the li%inj Ye watch his empty grave

Whose life alone within j-ou Has power to bless and save.

" 0 blind ones, outward groping.

The idle quest forego ; Who listens to his inward voice

Alone of him shall know.

" His love all love exceeding The heart must needs recall,

Its self-surrendering freedom. Its loss that gaineth all.

"Climb not the holy mountains, Their eagles know not nie ;

Seek not the Blessed Islands, I dwell not in the sea.

"The gods are gone for ever From Zan.skar's glacier sides.

And in the Buddha's footjtrints The Ceylon serjient glides.

"No more from shaded Delphos The weird responses come ;

Dodona's oaks are silent. The Hebrew Bath-Col dumb !

" No more from rocky Horeb Tlie smitten waters gush ;

Fallen is Bethel's ladder.

Quenched is the buming bush.

" The jewels of the Urini And Thummim all are dim ;

The fire has left tlie alfcir, The sign the teraphim.

" No more in ark or hill grove The Holiest abides ;

' Not iu the scroll's dead letter The eternal secret hides.

"The eye shall fail that searches

For me the hollow sky ; The far is even as the near,

The low- is as the high.

' ' What if the earth is hiding Her old faiths, long outworn ?

What is it to the changeless truth That youi-s shall fail in turn ?

' ' What if the o'erturned altar Lays bare the ancient lie ?

What if the dreams and legends Of the world's childhood die ?

' ' Have ye not stOl my witness Within yourselves alway,

Jly hand that on the keys of life For bliss or bale 1 lay ?

"Still, in perpetual judgment,

1 hold assize within. With sure reward of holiness,

And dread rebuke of sin.

" A light, a guide, a warning,

A jtresence ever near, Through the deep silence of the flesh

1 reach the inward ear.

" My Oerizim and Ebal

Are in each liuman soul. The still, small voice of blessing.

And Sinai's thunder-roll.

"The stem lx;hest of duty, Tlie (loom-book open thrown.

The heaven ye seek, the hell ye fear, Are with yourselves alone."

A gold and purple sunset

Flowed down the broad Moselle ; On hills of vine and meadow lantls

The peace of twilight fell.

A slow, cool wind of evening Blew over leaf and bloom ;

And, faint and far, the Angelus Bang from Saint Matthew's tomh

Tlien up rose Master Echard, And marvelled : "Can it be

THE WITCH OF WENHAM.

401

"That here, in dreaui and vision, The Lord hath talked with me '( '

He went his way ; behind him The shrines of saintly dead,

The holy coat and nail of cross, He left unvisited.

He sought the vale of Eltzbach His burdened soul to free,

Where the foot-hills of the Eifel Are glassed in Laachersee.

And, in his Order's kloster, He sat, in night-long parle,

With Tauler of the Friends of God, And Nicolas of Basle.

And lo ! the twain made answer : "Yea, brother, even thus

Tlie Voice above all voices Hath spoken unto us.

"The world will have its idols. And flesh and sense their sign ;

But the blinded eyes shall open, And the gross ear be fine.

' ' What if the vision tarry ? God's time is always best ; Tlie true Light shall be witnessed, The Christ within confessed.

" In mercy or in judgment H(^ shall turn and overturn.

Till the lieart shall be his temple Where all of Him shall learn."

THE WITCH OF WENHAM.

Ai.oNO Crane River's sunny slopes, B1(!W warm tlie winds of May,

And over Naumkeag's ancient oaks The green outgrew the gray.

Tlie grass was green on Rial-side,

Tlie early birds at will Waked up the violet in its dell,

The wind-flower on its hill.

" Where go you, in your Sunday coat Son Andrew, tell me, pray."

" For striped perch in Wenham Lake I go to fish to-day."

" Unharmed of thee in AVenham Lake The mottled perch shall be :

A blue-eyed witch sits on the bank And weaves her net foi' thee.

' ' She weaves her golden hair ; she sings Her spell-song low and faint ;

The wickedest witch in Salem jail Is to that girl a saint."

" Nay, mother, hold thy cruel tongue ;

God knows," the young man cried, " He never made a whiter soul

Than hers by Wenham side.

" She tends her mother sick and blind,

And every want supplies ; To her above the blessed Book

She lends her soft blue eyes.

' ' Her voice is glad with holy songs. Her lips are sweet with jirayer ;

Go whei-e you will, in ten miles round Is none more good and fair."

' ' Son Andrew, for the love of God

And of thy mother, stay ! " She clasped her hands, she wept aloud.

But Andrew rode away.

" 0 reverend sir, my Andrew's soul Tlie Wenham witch has caught ;

She holds him with the curled gold Whereof her snare is wrought.

"She charms him with her great lilue eyes,

She binds him with her hair ; Oh, break the spell with holy wonls.

Unbind him with a prayer ! "

" Take heart," the painful preacher said, " This mischief sliall not be ;

The witch shall perish in her sins And Andrew shall go free.

" Our poor Ann Putnam testifies

She saw her weave a spell. Bare-armed, loose-liaired, at full of moon,

Around a dried-up well.

" ' Spring u\\ O well ! ' she softly sang The 1 lebrew's old refrain

402

THE WITCH OF WENHAM.

(For Satan uses Bible words). Till water flowed amain.

" And many a good wife heard her speak

By Wenham water words That made the buttercups take wmgs

And turn to yellow birds.

" They say that swarming wild bees seek

The hive at her command : And fishes swim to take their food

From out her dainty hand.

" Meek as she sits in meeting- time,

The godly minister Js^otes well the spell that doth compel

The young men's eyes to her.

" The mole upon her dimpled chin

Is Satan's seal and sign ; Her lips are red with evil bread

And stain of unblest wine.

**ForTituba, ray Indian, saith

At Quasycung she took The Black ilan's godless sacrament

And signed his dreadful book.

" Last night my sore-afflicted child Against the young witch cried.

To take her Marshal Herrick rides Even now to Wenham side."

The marshal in his saddle sat,

His daughter at his knee ; " I go to fetch that arrant witch,

Thy fair playmate," quoth he.

'* Her spectre walks the parsonage, And haunts both hall and stair ;

They know her by the great blue eyes And floating gold of hair."

" They lie, they lie, my father dear !

No foul old witch is she, But sweet and good and crystal-pure

As Wenham waters be."

" I tell thee, child, the Lord hath set

Before us good and ill, And woe to all whose carnal loves

Oppose his righteous will.

" Between Him and the powers of hell Choose thou, my child, to-day :

No sparing hand, no ]>itying eye. When God commands to slay ! "

He went his way ; the old wives shook

With fear as he drew nigh ; The children in the dooryards held

Theii- breath as he passed by.

Too well they knew the gaunt gray horse The grim witch-hunter rode — "

The pale Apocalyptic beast By grisly Death bestrode

Oh, fair the face of Wenham Lake Upon the young girl's shone.

Her tender mouth, her dreaming ey Her yellow hair outblown.

By happy youth and love attuned

To natural harmonies. The singing birds, the whispering wiiul.

She sat beneath the trees.

Sat shaping for her bridal dress Her mother's wedding gown,

When lo ! the marshal, writ in hand. From Alford hill rode down.

His face was hard with cruel fear, He grasped the maiden's hands :

" Come with me unto Salem town, For so the law commands ! "

" Oh, let me to my mother say

Farewell before I go ! " He closer tied her little hands

Unto his saddle bow.

" Unhand me," cried she piteously, " For thy sweet daughter's sake."

" I '11 keep my daughter safe," he said, "From the witch of Wenham Lake."

" Oh, leave me for my mother's sake.

She needs my eyes to see." "Those eyes, young witch, the crows shall peck

From off" the gallows-tree."

He bore her to a farm-house old.

And up its staii-way long. And closed on her the garret-door

With iron bolted strong.

The day died out, the niglit came down : Her evening prayer she said,

THE WITCH OF WENHAM.

403

While, through the dark, strange faces seemed To mock her as she prayed.

The present horror deepened all The fears her childhood knew ;

The awe wherewith the air was filled With every breath she drew.

And could it be, she trembling asked,

Some secret thought or sin Had shut good angels from her heart

And let the bad ones in ?

Had she in some forgotten dream

Let go her hold on Heaven, And sold herself unwittingly

To spirits unforgiven ?

Oh, weird and still the dark hours passed ;

No human sound she heard. But up and down the chimney stack

The swallows moaned and stirred.

And o'er her, with a dread surmise

Of evil sight and sound. The blind bats on their leathern wings

Went wheeling round and round.

Low hanging in the midnight sky Looked in a half-faced moon.

Was it a dream, or did she hear Her lover's whistled tune ?

She forced the oaken scuttle back ;

A whisper reached her ear : ** Slide down the roof to me," it said,

" So softly none may hear."

She slid along the sloping roof Till from its eaves she hung,

And felt the loosened shingles yield To which her fingers clung.

Hcdow, her lover stretched his hands And touched her feet so small ;

" Drop down to me, dear heart," he said, " My arms shall break the fall."

He set her on his pillion soft, Her arms about him twined ;

And, noiseless as if velvet-shod, They left the house behind.

But when they reached the open way Full free the rein he cast ;

Oh, never through the mirk midnight Rode man and maid more fast.

Along the wild wood-paths they sped. The bridgeless streams they swam ;

At set of moon they passed the Bass, At sunrise Agawara.

At high noon on the Merrimac

The ancient fenyman Forgot, at times, his idle oars,

So fair a freight to scan.

And when from off his grounded boat He saw them mount and ride,

" God kee[i her from the evil eye. And harm of witch ! " he cried.

The maiden laughed, as youth will laugh

At all its fears gone by ; " He does not know," she whispered low,

" A little witch am I."

All day he urged his weary horse,

And, in the red sundown, Drew rein before a friendly door

In distant Berwick town.

A fellow-feeling for the wronged

The Quaker people felt ; And safe beside their kindly hearths

The hunted maiden dwelt,

Until from off its breast the land

The haunting horror threw, And hatred, born of ghastly dreams,

To shame and pity grew.

Sad were the year's spring morns, and sad

Its golden summer day. But blithe and glad its withered fields,

And skies of ashen gray ;

For spell and charm had power no more, The spectres ceased to roam.

And scattered households knelt again Around the hearths of home.

And when once more by Beaver Dam

The meadow-lark outsang. And once again on all the hills

The early violets sprang.

And all the windy pasture slopes Lay green within the arms

404

SUNSET ON THE BEARCAMP.

Of creeks that bore the salted sea To pleasant inland farms,

The smith filed off the chains he forged, The jail-bolts backward fell ;

And yoiitli and hoary age came forth Like souls escaped from hell.

SUNSET ON THE BEARCAMP.

A GOLD fringe on the purpling hem

Of hills the river runs As down its long, green valley falls

The last of summer's suns. Along its tawny gravel-beil

Broad-flowing, swift, and stiD, As if its meadow levels felt

The hurry of the hill, Noiseless between its banks of green

From curve to curve it slips ; The drowsy maple-shadows rest

Like fingers on its li[>s. A waif from Carroll's wildest hills,

Unstoried and unknown ; The ursine legend of its name

Prowls on its banks alone, Yet llowers a.s fair its slo2)es adorn

As ever Yarrow knew, Or, under rainy I lish skies,

By Spenser's Mulla grew ; And through tiic gaps of leaning trees

Its mountain cradle shows : The gold against the amethyst,

Tlie green against the rose.

Touched by a light that hath no name,

A glory never sung. Aloft on sky and mountain wall

Are God's great jiietures hung. IIow changed the summits vast and old

No longer granite-browed, They melt in rosy mist ; the rock

Is softer than the cloud ; The valley holds its breath ; no leaf

Of all its elms is twirled : Tlie silence of eteniity

8eems falling on the world.

riie pause before the breaking seals

Of mystery is this ; V"on miracle-])lay of night and day

Makes dumb its witnesses. What unseen altar crowns tlie hills

That lench uj) stair on stair !

What eyes look through, what white wings fan These purple veils of air ? What Presence from the heavenly heights To those of earth stoops down '( Not vainly Hellas dreamed of gods On Ida's snowy crown !

Slow fades the vision of the sky,

The golden water pales. And over all the valley-land

A gray-winged vapor sails. I go the couunou way of all ;

The sunset fires will burn, The Howers will blow, the river How,

When I no more return. No whisper from the mountain pine

Nor lapsing stream sliall tell The stranger, treading where 1 tread,

Of him who loved them well. But beauty seen is never lost,

God's colors all are fast ; The glory of this sunset heaven

Into my soul has passed, — A sense of gladness unconfined

To mortal date or clime ; As the soul liveth, it shall live

Beyond the years of time. Beside the mystic asphodels

Shall bloom the honie-liorn flowers, And new horizons Hush and glow

With sunset hues of ours.

Farewell ! these smiling hills must wear

Too .soon their wintry liown, And snow-cold winds from oH'them shake

The maple's red leaves down. But I shall see a sununer sun

Still setting broad and low ; The mountain slopes shall blush and bloom,

The golden water flow. A lover's claim is mine on all

I see to have and hold, — The rose-light of perpetual hilla,

And sunsets never cold !

THE SEEKING OF THE WATER- FALL.

TiiKY left their home of summer ease Beneath the lowland's sheltering trees, To seek, by ways unknown to all. The jiromise of the waterfall.

"And still the water sang the sweet Glad song." Page 405-

THE SEEKING OF THE WATEKFALL.

405

Some vague, faint rumor to the vale Had crejit — percliance a hunter's tale — Of its wild mirth of waters lost On the dark woods through which it tossed.

Somewhere it laughed and sang ; some- where Whirled in mad dance its misty hair ; But who had raised its veil, or seen The rainbow skirts of that Undine ?

They sought itwhere the mountain brook Its swift way to the valley took ; Along the rugged slope they clomb, Their guide a thread of sound and foam.

Height after height they slowly won ; The fiery javelins of the sun Smote tire bare ledge ; the tangled shade With rock and vine their steps delayed.

But, through leaf-openings, now and

then They saw the cheerful homes of men, AtkI tlie great mountains with their wall Of misty purple girdling all.

The leaves through which the glad winds

blew Shared the wild dance the waters knew ; And where the shadows deepest fell The wood-thrush rang his silver bell.

fringing the stream, at every turn Swung low the waving fronds of fern ; From stony cleft and mossy sod Pale asters sprang, and golden-rod.

And still the water sang the sweet, Glad song that stirred its gliding feet. And found in rock and root the keys Of its beguiling melodies.

Beyond, above, its signals flew Of tossing foam the birch-trees through ; Now seen, now lost, but baffling still Tlie weary seekers' slackening will.

Each called to each : " Lo here ! Lo

there ! Its white scarf flutters in the air ! " They climbed anew ; the vision fled, To beckon higher overhead.

So toiled they up the mountain-slope With faiut and ever fainter hope ;

With faint and fiiinter voice the brook Still bade them listen, pause, and look- Meanwhile below the day was done ; Above the tall peaks saw the sun Sink, beam-shorn, to its misty set Behind the hills of violet.

" Here ends our quest ! " the seekers

cried, " The brook and rumor both have lied ! The phantom of a waterfall Has led us at its beck and call."

But one, with years grown wisfr, said : " So, always baffled, not misled, We follow where before us runs The vision of the shining ones.

' ' Not where they seem their signals fly, Their voices while we listen die ; AVe cannot keep, however fleet. The quick time of their winged feet.

" From youth to age unresting stray These kindly mockers in our way ; Vet lead they not, the baffling elves, To something better than themselves ?

' ' Here, though unreached the goal we

sought. Its own reward our toil has brought : The winding water's sounding rush, The long note of the hermit tlirush,

"The turquoise lakes, the glimpse of

pond And river track, and, vast, beyond Bi-oad meadows belted round with pines, The grand uplift of mountain lines !

" What matter though we seek with pain The garden of the gods in vain. If lured thereby we climb to greet Some wayside blossom Eden-sweet ?

" To seek is better than to gain. The fond hope dies as we attain ; Life's fairest things are those which seem^ The best is that of which we dream.

" Then let us trust our waterfall Still (lashes down its rocky wall, AVitli rainbow crescent curved across Its sunlit spray from moss to moss..

406

JUNE ON THE ME R RIM AC.

" And we, forgetful of our pain, I n tliought shall seek it oft again ; Shall see this aster-blossomed sod, This sunshine of the golden-rod,

"And haply gain, through parting

boughs, Grand glimpses of great mountain brows Cloud-turbaiied, and thesharp steel sheen Of lakes deep set in valleys green.

" So failure wins ; the consequence Of loss becomes its recompense ; And evermore the end shall tell The unreached ideal guided well.

" Our sweet illusions only die Ful lining love's sure prophecy ; And every wish for better things An undreamed beauty nearer brings.

" For fate is servitor of love ; Desire and hope and longing prove Tlie secret of immortal youth. And Nature cheats us into truth.

" 0 kind allurers, wisely sent. Beguiling with benign intent, Still move us, through divine unrest, To seek tlie loveliest and the best !

" Go witli us when our souls go free. And, ill the clear, wliite light to be, Add unto Heaven's lieatitude The old delight of seeking good ! "

JUNE OX THE MEKRIMAC.

0 nwELLRR.s in the stately towns.

What come ye out to see ? This common earth, this common sky,

Tliis water flowing free ?

As gayly as these kalmia flowers Your door-yard blossoms spring ;

As sweetly astliese wild wood birds Your caged minstrels sing.

You find but common bloom and gieen,

The rii)pling river's rune, The beauty which is everywhere

Beneath the skies of June ;

The Ilawkswood oaks, the stonn-torn plumes Of old pine-forest kings,

Beneath whose century-woven shade Deer Island's mistress sings.

And here are pictured Artichoke,

And Curson's bowerj^ mill ; And Pleasant Valley smiles between

The river and the hill.

You know full well these banks of bloom,

The upland's wavy line. And how the sunshine tips with fire

The needles of the pine.

Yet, like some old remembered psalm,

Or sweet, fiimiliar face, Not less because of commonness

You love the day and place.

And not in vain in this soft air Shall hard-strung nerves relax,

Not all in vain the o'erworn brain Forego its daily tax.

The lust of power, the greed of gain Have all the year their own ;

The haunting demons well may let Our one bright day alone.

Unheeded let the newsboy call.

Aside tlie ledger lay : The world will kec]) its tread-mill step

Though we fall out to-day.

The truants of life's weary .school.

Without excuse from thrift We change for once the gains of toil

For God's unpurchased gift.

From ceiled rooms, from silent books, From crowded car and town.

Dear Mother Earth, upon thy lap, We lay our tired heads down.

Cool, summer wind, our heated brows ;

Blue river, through the green Of clustering pines, refresh the eyes

Which all too much have seen.

For us these ]ileasant woodland \vay.s Are thronged with memories old,

Have felt the gnisp of friendly hands And heard love's story told.

A sacred presence overbroods The eartli whereon we meet ;

These winding forcst-jiaths are trod By more llian mortal feet

HYMN OF THE DUNKERS.

407

Old friends called from us by the voice Which they alone coald hear,

From mystery to mystery, From lii'e to life, draw near.

More closely for the sake of them Each other's hands we press ;

Our voices take from them a tone Of deeper tenderness.

Our joy is theirs, their trust is ours,

Alike below, above, Or here or there, about us fold

The arms of one great love !

We ask to-day no countersign,

No party names we own ; Unlabelled, individual.

We bring ourselves alone.

What cares the unconventioned wood For pass-words of the town ?

The sound of fashion's shibboleth The laughing waters drown.

Here cant forgets his dreary tone,

And cai'e his face forlorn ; The liberal air and sunshine laugh

The bigot's zeal to scorn.

From manhood's weary shoulder falls

His load of selfish cares ; And woman takes her rights as flowers

And brooks and birds take theirs.

The license of the happy woods, The brook's release are ours ;

The freedom of the unshamed wind Among the glad-eyed flowers.

Yet here no evil thought finds place, Nor foot profane comes in ;

Our grove, like that of Samothrace, Is set apart from sin.

We walk on holy ground ; above

A sky more holy smiles ; The chant of the beatitudes

Swells down these leafy aisles.

Thanks to the gracious Providence That brings us here once more ;

For memories of the good behind And liopes of good before !

.\nd if, unknown to us, sweet days Of June like this must come,

Unseen of us these laurels clothe The river-banks, with bloom ;

And these green paths must soon be trod

By other feet than ours, Full long may annual pilgrims come

To keep the Feast of Flowers ;

The matron be a girl once more,

The bearded man a boy, And we, in heaven's eternal June,

Be glad for eartlily joy !

HYMN OF THE DUNKERS.

KLOSTER KEDAJl, EPHR.ITA, PENNSYL- VAKIA (1738).

SISTER MARIA CHRISTIANA singS.

Wake, sisters, wake ! the day-star shine Above Ephrata's eastern pines The dawn is breaking, cool and calm. Wake, sisters, wake to prayer and psalm

Praised be the Lord for shade and light For toil by day, for rest by night ! Praised be His name who tleigns to bless Our Kedar of the wilderness ! —

Our refuge when the spoiler's hand Was heavy on our native land ; And freedom, to her cliildren due. The wolf and vulture only knew.

We praised Him when to prison led, We owned Him when the stake blazed

red ; We knew, whatever might befall. His love and power were over all.

He heard our prayers ; with outstretchei)

arm He led us forth from cruel harm ; Still, wheresoe'er ovir .steps were bent, His cloud and fire before us went !

The watch of fiiith and prayer He set. We kept it tlien, we keep it yet. At midnight, crow of cock, or noon, He cometh sure, He cometh soon.

He comes to chasten, not destroy, To purge the earth from sin's alloy. At last, at last shall all confess His mercy as His righteousness.

408

IN THE " OLD SOUTH.'

The dead shall live, the sick be whole, Tlie scarlet sin be white as wool ; No discord mar below, above. The music of eternal love !

Sound, welcome tramp, the last alarm ! Lord God of hosts, make Imre thine arm, FuUil this da}' our long desire, Make sweet and clean the world with fire !

Sweep, flaming besom, sweep from sight The lies of time ; be swift to smite. Sharp sword of God, all idols down, Genevan creed and lloman crown.

Quake, earth, through all thy zones, till

all The fiines of pride and priestcraft fall ; And lift thou up in place of them Thy gates of pearl, Jerusalem !

T.O ! rising from baptismal flame, Tnuis figured, glorious, j'ut the same, Witliin the heavenly city's bound Our Kloster Kedar shall be foimd.

lie Cometh soon ! at dawn or noon Or set of sun. He cometh soon. Our prayers shall meet Him on his way ; Wake, sisters, wake ! arise and pray !

IN" THE "OLD SOUTH."

1677.

She came and stood in the Old South Church,

A wonder and a sign, Witli a look the old-time sibyls wore.

Half-crazed and half-divine.

Bave the mournful sackcloth about her wound Unclothed as the primal mother, With limbs that trembled and eyes tb.at blazed With a fire she dared not smother.

Loose on her .shoulders fell her hair

With sj)rinkled ashes gray. She stood in the broad aisle strange and weird

As a soul at the j[udgment day.

And the minister paused in his sermon's midst. And the people held their breath, For these were the words the maiden spoke Through lips as pale as death :

" Thus saith the Lord, with equal feet All men my courts shall tread.

And priest and ruler no more shall eat ]\ly people up like bread !

" Repent ! repent ! ere the Lord shall speak

In thunder and breaking seals ! Let all souls worship Him in the way

His light within reveals."

She shook the dust from her naked feet. And hor sackcloth closer drtnv,

.iVnd into the porch of the awe-hushed church She p;issed like a ghost from view.

They whipped her away at the tail o' the (•art Tlirough half the streets of the town. But the words she uttered that day nor fire Could bm'u nor water drown.

And now the aisles of the ancient church

By equal feet are trod. And the bell that swings in its belfry rings

Freedom to worship God !

And now whenever a wrong is done It tiirills the conscious walls ;

The stone from the basement cries aloud And the beam from the timber calls.

There are steeple-houses on every hand.

And i)ulpits that bless and ban. And thi! Lord will not grudge the single church

That is set ajiart for man.

For in two commandments are all the law And the prophets under the sun,

And the first is last and the last is first. And the twain are verily one.

So, long as Boston shall Boston be. And her bay-tides rise and fall,

Shall freedom stand in the Old Soutk Church And plead for the rights of all !

LEXINGTON. — CENTENNIAL HYMN.

409

LEXINGTON. 1775.

No Berseik thirst of blood had they, No battle-joy was theirs, who set Against tlie alien bayonet

Their homespun breasts in that old day.

Their feet had trodden peaceful ways ; They loved not strife, they dreaded

pain ; They saw not, what to us is plain. That God would make man's wrath his praise.

No seers were they, but simple men ; Its vast results the future hid : The meaning of the work they did

Was strange and dark and doubtful then.

Swift as their summons came they left The i>lo\v mid-furrow standing still. The half-ground corn grist in the mill,

The spade in earth, the axe in cleft.

They went where duty seemed to call. They scarcely asked the reason why ; They only knew they could but die.

And death was not the worst of all !

Of man for man the sacrifice.

All that was theirs to give, they gave.

The flowers that blossomed from their grave Have sown themselves beneath all skies.

Their death-shot shook the feudal tower. And shattered slavery's chain as well ; On the sky's dome, as on a bell.

Us echo struck the world's great hour.

That fateful eclio is not dumb : The nations listening to its sound Wait, from a century's vantage-ground.

The holier triumphs yet to come, —

Tlie l)ridal time of Law and Love, The gladness of the world's release. When, war-sick, at the feet of Peace

The hawk siiall nestle with the dove 5 —

The golden age of brotherhood Unknown to other rivalries Than of tlu" mild luniianities,

And ffracious interclianae of good.

When closer strand shall lean to strand Till meet, beneath saluting flags. The eagle of our mountain-crags.

The lion of our Motherland !

CENTENNIAL HYMN.

Our fathers' God ! from out whose lian Tlie centuries fall like grains of sand, We meet to-day, united, free, And loyal to our land and Thee, To thank Thee for the era done, And trust Thee for the opening one.

Here, where of old, by Thy design, Tlie fathers spake that word of Thine Whose echo is the glad refrain Of reiuled bolt and falling chain, To grace our festal time, from all The zones of earth our guests we call.

Re with us while the New World greets The <.)ld World thronging all its streets, Unveiling all the triumiihs won By art or toil beneath the sun ; And unto common good ordain This rivalship of hand and brain.

Thou, who hast heie in concord furled The war Hags of a gathered world. Beneath our Western skies fulfil The Orient's mission of good-will. And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece, Send back its Argonauts of peace.

For art and labor met in truce. For beauty made the bride of use. We thank Thee ; but, withal, we crave Th(' austei-e virtues stiong to save, The Iionor proof to place or gold. The manhood never bought nor sold !

Oh make Thou us, through centuries

long, In ]>eace .secure, in justice strong ; Around our gift of freedom draw Tlie safeguards of TIi y righteous law : And, cast in some diviner mould. Let the new cycle shaiiK; the old !

410

THIERS. — FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

THIERS.

Fate summoned, in gra}T-bearded age,

to iict A liistoi y stranger than his written fact, Him wlio jiortrayed tlie splendor and

the gloom Of that great honr when throne and altar

fell With long death-groan which still is

audilile. He, when around the walls of Paris

rung The Prussian bugle like the blast of

doom. And every ill which follows unblest war Maddened all France from Finistere to

Var, The weight of fourscore from his

shoulders flung. And guided Freedom in the path he saw Lead out of chaos into light and law, Peace, not imperial, but republican. And order pledged to aU the Rights of

Man.

II.

Death called him from a need as immi- nent As that from which the Silent William

went When powers of evil, like the smiting

seas On Holland's dikes, assailed her liberties. Sadly, while yet in doubtful balance hung Tlie weal and woe of France, the bells

were rung For her lost leader. Paralyzed of will, Above his bier the hearts of men stood

still. Then, as if set to his dead lips, the horn Of Roland wound once more to rouse and

warn. The old voice filled the air ! His last

brave word Not vainly France to all her boundaries

stineil. Strong a.s in life, he still for Freedom

wrought, As the dead Cid at red Toloso fought.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

AT THE UNVEILING OF HIS STATUE.

Among their graven shapes to whom

Thy civic wreaths belong, 0 city of his love, make room

For one whose gift was song.

Not his the soldier's sword 1o wield.

Nor his the helm of state, Nor glory of the stricken field,

Nor triumph of debate.

In common ways, with common men. He served his lace and time

As well as if his clerkly pen Had never danced to rhyme.

If, in the thronged and noisy mart,

The i\luses found their son, Could any say his tuneful art

A duty left undone ?

He toiled and sang; and yenr 1\y year Men found tlicir homes more sweet,

And through a tenilerer atmosphere Looked down the brick-walled street.

The Greek's wild onset Wall Street knew ;

The Red King walked Broadway ; And Alnwick Castle's roses blew

From Pali.sades to Bay.

Fair City by tlie Sea ! upraise His veil with reverent hands ;

And mingle with thy own the praise And pride of other lands.

Let Gieece his fiery lyric breathe

Above her hero-urns ; And Scotland, witli her holly, wn^athe

The flower he (;ulled for Burns.

0, stately stand thy palace walls, Thy tall ships ride the seas ;

To-day thy poet's name recalls A prouder thought than these.

Not less thy pulse of trade siiall beat, Nor less thy tall lleets swim.

That shaded scpiare ;ind dusty street Are classic ground through him.

WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT. — THE TWO ANGELS.

411

Alive, he loved, like all who sing,

The echoes of his soug ; Too late the tardy meed we bring,

The praise delayed so long.

Too late, alas ! Of all who knew

The living man, to-day Before his unveiled face, how few

Make bare their locks of gray !

Our lips of praise must soon be dumb,

Our grateful eyes be dim ; 0 brothers of the days to come,

Take tender charge of him !

New hands the wires of song may sweep, New voices challenge fame ;

But let no moss of years o'ercreep The lines of Halleck's name.

WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT.

O, WELL may Essex sit forlorn Beside her sea-blown shore ;

Her well beloved, her noblest born, Is hers in life no more !

No lapse of years can render less Her memory's sacred claim ;

No fountain of forgetfulness Can wet the lips of Fame.

A grief alike to wound and heal, A thought to soothe and pain,

The sad, sweet pride that mothers feel To her must still remain.

Good men and true she has not lacked, And brave men yet shall be ;

The perfect flower, the crowning fact. Of all her years was he !

As Galahad pure, as Merlin sage, What worthier knight was found

To grace in Arthur's golden age The fabled Table Round 'i.

A voice, the battle's trumpet-note,

To welcome and restore ; A hand, that all unwilling smote,

To heal and build once more !

A soul of fire, a tt^nder heart Too warm for hato, he knew

The generous victor's graceful part To sheathe the sword he drew.

When Earth, as if on evil dreams,

Looks back upon her wars, And the white light of Christ outstreams

From the red disk of Mars,

His fiime who led the stormy van

Of battle well may cease, But never that which crowns the man

Whose victory was Peace.

Mourn, Essex, on thy sea-blown shore

Thy beautiful and brave, Whose failing hand the olive bore.

Whose dying lips forgave !

Let age lament the youthful chief.

And tender eyes be din) ; The tears are more of joy than grief

That fall for one like him !

THE TWO ANGELS.

God called the nearest angels who dwell

with Him above : The tenderest one was Pity, the dearest

one was Love.

" Arise," He said, " my angels ! a wail

of woe and sin Steals through the gates of heaven, and

saddens all within.

"My harps take up the mournful strain that from a lost world swells.

The smoke of torment clouds the light and blights the asphodels.

" Fly downward to that under world,

and on its souls of pain Let Love drop smiles like sunshine, and

Pity tears like rain ! "

Two faces bowed before the Tlu'one, veiled

in their golden hair ; Four white wings lessened swiftly down

the dark abyss of air.

The way was strange, the flight waa long ; at last the angels came

Where swung the lost and nether world, red-wrapped in rayless flame.

412

THE LIBRARY. — THE HENCHMAN.

There Pity, shuddering, wept ; but Love, with faith too strong for fear,

Took heart from God's ahuightiness and smiled a smile of cheer.

And lo ! that tear of Pity quenched the

flame whereon it fell, Aud, with the sunshine of that smile,

hope entered into hell !

Two unveiled faces full of joy looked up- ward to the Throne,

Four white wings folded at the feet of Him who sat thereon !

And deeper than the sound of seas, more

soft than falling flake. Amidst the hush of wing aud song the

Voice Eternal spaie :

"Welcome, my angels ! ye have brought

a holier joy to heaven ; Henceforth its sweetest song shall be the

song of sin forgiven ! "

THE LIBRARY.

SUNG AT THE OPENING OF THE HAVER- HILL LIBRAKY.

" Let THEiiE BE LIGHT ! " God spake of

old, And over chaos dark and cold, And, through the dead and formless

frame Of nature, life and order came.

Faint was the light at first that shone On giant fern and mastodon. On lialf-fonned plant and beast of prey, And man as rude and wild as they.

Age after age, like waves, o'erran The earth, uplifting brute and man ; And mind, at lengtii, in symbols dark Its meanings traced on stone and bark.

On leaf of palm, on sedge-wrought roll. On plastic clay and leathern scroll, Man wrote his thoughts ; the ages passed, Aud lo ! the Press was found at last !

Then dead souls woke ; the thoughts of

men Whose bones were dust revived again ;

The cloister's silence found a tongue. Old prophets spake, old poets sung.

And here, to-day, the dead look down. The kings of mind again we crown ; We hear the voices lost so long. The sage's word, the sibyl's song.

Here Greek and Roman find themselves Alive along these crowded shelves ; And Shakesjjeare treads again his stage. And Chaucer paints anew his age.

As if some Pantheon's marbles broke Their .stony trance, and lived and spoke. Life thrills along the alcoved hall. The lords of thought await oui- call !

THE HENCHIIAN.

My lady walks her morning round. My lady's page iier ik'ct greyhound My lady's hair the fond winds stir, And all the birds make songs for her.

Her thrushes sing in Rathburn bowers. And Rathburn side is gay with flowers ; But ne'er like hers, in flower or bird. Was beauty seen or music heard.

The distance of the stai-s is hers ; The least of all her worshippers, The dust beneath her dainty heel, She knows not that I see or feel.

0 proud and calm ! — she cannot know Where'er she goes with her 1 go ;

0 cold and fair ! — she cannot guess

1 kneel to share her hound's caress !

Gay knights beside her hunt and hawk, 1 rob their ears of her sweet talk ; Her suitors come from east and west, I steal her smiles from every guest.

Unheard of her, in loving words, I greet lier with the song of birds ; 1 reacli licr with her green-armed bowers, I kiss her with the lips of flowers.

The hound and I are on her trail, The wind and I ujdift her veil ; As if the cabn, cold moon she were, Aud I the tide, 1 loUow her.

KING SOLOMON AND THE ANTS. — RED RIDING-HOOD. 413

As unrebuked as they, I share The license of the sun and air, And in a common homage hide My worsliip from her scorn and pride.

World-wide apart, and yet so near, I breathe her charmed atmosphere, Wherein to her my service brings The reverence due to lioly things.

VVer maiden pride, her haughty name, ily dumb devotion shall not shame ; Tlie love that no return doth crave To knightly levels lifts the slave.

No lance have I, in joust or fight, To splinter in my lady's sight ; But, at her feet, how blest were I For any need of hers to die !

KING SOLOMON AND THE ANTS.

Out from Jerusalem

The king rode with his great War chiefs and lords of state.

And Sheba's rpieen with tliem.

Comely, but black witlial.

To whom, perchance, belongs That wondrous Song of songs.

Sensuous and mystical,

Whereto devout souls turn In fond, ecstatic dream. And through its earth-born theme

The Love of loves discern.

Proud in the Syrian sun. In gold and purple sheen, The dusky Ethiop ipieen

Smiled on King Solomon.

Wisest of men, he knew The languages of all The creatures great or small

That trod the earth or flew.

Across an ant-hill led

The king's path, and he heard Its small folk, and their word

He thus interpreted :

" Here comes the king men greet As wise and good and just,

To crush us in the dust Under his heedless feet."

The great king bowed his head, And saw the wide surprise Of the Queen of Sheba's eyes

As he told her what they said.

"0 king ! " she whispered sweet, " Too happy fate have they Who perish in thy way

Beneath thy gracious feet !

" Thou of the God-lent crown. Shall these vile creatures dare Murmur against thee where

The knees of kings kneel down ? "

" Nay," Solomon replied, .

" The wise and strong should seek The welfare of the weak,"

And turned his horse aside.

His train, with quick alarm. Curved with their leader round The ant-hill's peopled mound,

And left it free from hanu.

Tlie jewelled head bent low ;

" 0 king ! " she said, "henceforth

The secret of thy worth And wisdom well I know.

" Happy must be the State Whose ruler heedeth more The murmurs of the poor

Than flatteries of the great."

RED RIDINCt-HOOD.

On the wide la^v^l the snow lay deep, Ridged o'er with many a drifted heap ; The wind that through the pine-trees

sung The naked elm-boughs tossed and

swung ; While, through the window, frosty- starred. Against the sunset purple barred. We saw the sombre crow flap by. The hawk's gray fleck along the sky, Tlie crested blue-jay flitting swift, The s(|uirrel poising on tlu; drift, Krert, alert, his broad gray tail St;t to the north wind like a sail.

414

THE PRESSED GENTIAN. — OVERRULED.

It f<anie to pass, our little lass, With flattened face against the glass. And eyes in which the tender dew Of pity shone, stood gazing through The narrow space her rosy li[)s Had melted from the frost's eclipse : "Oh, see," she cried, "the poor blue- jays ! What is it that the black crow says ? The squirrel lifts his little legs Because he has no hands, and begs ; He 's asking for my nuts, I know : May I not feed them on the snow ? "

Half lost within her boots, her head Warm-sheltered in her hood of red, Her plaid skirt close about her drawn. She floundeied down the wintry lawn ; Now struggling through the misty veil Blown round her by the shrieking gale ; Now sinking in a drift so low Her scarlet hood could scarcely show Its dash of color on the snow.

She dropped for bird and beast forlorn Her little store of nuts and corn. And thus her timid guests bespoke : "Come, squirrel, from your hollow

oak, — Come, black old crow, — come, poor

blue-jay, Before your supper 's blown away ! Don't be afraid, we all are goo<l ; And I 'm mamma's Red Riding- Hood ! "

0 Thou whose care is over all, Who heedest even the sparrow's fall, Keep in the little maiden's breast The pity which is now its guest ! Let not her cultured years make less The childhood diann of tenderness. But let her feel as well as know, Nor harder with her ]>olish grow ! Unmoved by sentinu'utal grief That wails ahmg some printed leaf, Rut, proinjtt with kindly word and deed To own the claims of all who need. Let tlie grown woman's self make good The promise of Red Riding- Hood !

THE PRESSED GENTIAN.

The time of gifts has come again. And, on my northern window-pane, Outlined against the day's brief liglit,

A Christmas token hangs in sight. The wayside travellers, as they pass, Mark the gray disk of clouded glass ; And the dull blankness seems, perchance, Folly to their wise ignorance.

They cannot from their outlook see

The perfect grace it hath for me ;

For there the flower, whose fiingec

through The frosty breath of autumn blew. Turns from without its face of bloom To the warm tro])ic of my room, As fair as when beside its brook The hue of bending skies it took.

So from the trodden ways of earth. Seem some sweet souls who veil their

worth, And ofl"er to the careless glance The clouiling gray of circumstance. They blossom best where hearth-fires

burn. To loving eyes alone they turn The flowers of inward grace, that hide Their beauty from the world outside.

But decker meanings come to me. My haif-immortal flower, from thee ! Man judges from a partial view, None ever yet his brotlier knew ; The Eternal Eye that sees the whole May better read the darkened soul, And find, to outward sense denied. The flower upon its inmost side !

OVERRULED

The threads our hands in 1>lindness spin No self-deteiiiiined plan weaves in ; The shuttle of the un.seen powers Works out a pattern not as ours.

Ah ! small the choice of him who sings What sound shall leave the smitten

strings ; Fate holds and guides the hand of art ; The singer's is the .servant's part.

The wind-harp chooses not the tone That through its trembling threads ii

blown ; The patient organ cannot guess What hand its passive keys shall pres.s.

"I WAS A STKANGER, AND YE TOOK ME IN."

415

Through wish, resolve, and act, our will Is moved by undreamed forces still ; And no man measures in advance His strength with untried circumstance.

As streams take hue from shade and sun, As runs the life the song must run ; But, glad or sad, to his good end God grant the varying notes may tend !

HYMN.

KUNC4 AT THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE children's mission, BOSTON (1878).

Thine are all the gifts, O God !

Thine the broken bread ; Let the naked feet be shod,

And the starving fed.

Let Thy children, by Thy grace,

Give as they abound, Till the poor have breathing-space,

And the lost are found.

Wiser than the miser's hoards

Is the giver's choice ; Sweeter than the song of birds

Is the thankful voice.

Welcome smiles on faces sad

As the flowers of spring ; Let the tender hearts be glad

With the joy they bring.

Ha]ipier for their pity's .sake Make their sports and i)lays,

And from lij)s of childhood take Thy 2)erfected praise !

GIVING AND TAKING.!

Who gives and hides the giving hand, Nor counts on favor, fame, or praise, Sliall find his smallest gift outweighs

riie burden of the sea and land.

Who gives to whom hath naught been given, His gift in need, thougli small indeed

' I liave atU'lnlitciI to put in KiiL;lisli verse .1 priisi; translation of ;i |iiiciii by Tinnev.ilina, a HiuJoo poet of the third century of our eiu.

As is the grass-blade's wind-blown seed, Is large as earth and rich as heaven.

Forget it not, 0 man, to whom

A gift shall fall, wliile yet on earth ; Yea, even to thy seven-fold birth

Recall it in the lives to come.

Who broods above a wrong in thought Sins nmch ; but greater sin is his WIio, fed and clotlied with kindnesses,

Shall count the holy alms as nought.

Who dares to curse the hands that bless Shall know of sin the deadliest cost ; The patience of the heavens is lost

Beholding man's unthank fulness.

For he who breaks all laws may still In Sivam's mercy be forgiven ; But none can save, in earth or heaven,

The wretch who answers good with ill.

"I WAS A STRANGER, AND YE TOOK ME IN."

'Neath skies that winter never knew The air was full of light and balm.

And warm and soft the Gulf wind blew Through orange bloom and groves of palm.

A stranger from the frozen North, Who sought the fount of health in vain, Sank homeless on the alien earth.

And breathed the languid air with pain.

God's angel came ! The tender shade Of pity made her blue eye dim ;

Against her woman's breast slie laid The drooping, fainting head of hirn.

She bore him to a pleasaivt room,

Klowttr-sweet and cool with salt sea aii,

And watched beside his bed, for whom His far-oH' sisters might not care.

She fanned his feverish brow and smoothed

Its lines of pain with tenderest touch. With holj' hymn and prayer shes(5otIied

Tlie trembling soul that feared so much.

416

AT SCHOOL-CLOSK

Through her the peace that passeth siglit Came to him, as he lapsed away

As one whose troubled dreams of night Slide slowly into tranquil day.

The sweetness of the Land of Flowers Upon his lonely grave she laid :

The jasmine dropped its golden showers, Tlie orange lent its bloom and shade.

And something whispered in her thought, More sweet than mortal voices be :

" The service thou for liim liast wrought O dauf'hter ! hath been done for me."

AT SCHOOL-CLOSE.

BOWDOIN STREET (1877).

The end has come, as come it must To all things ; in these sweet June days

The teacher and tlie scholar trust Their parting feet to sej^arate vvaj's.

They part : but in the years to be Sliall pleasant memories cling to each,

As shells bear inland from the sea The murmur of the rhythmic beach.

One knew the joy tlie sculptor knows When, plastic "to his lightest touch.

His clay-wrought model sk)wly grows To that fine grace desired so nnicli.

So daily grew before lier eyes The " living shapes whereon she wrought, Strong, tender, innocently wise,

The child's heart with the woman's thought.

And one shall never quite forget The voice that called from dream and

Tlie firm but kindly hand that set Her feet in learning's pleasant way, —

Tlie joy of Undine soul-possessed,

The "wakening sense, the strange de- light

That swelled the fabled statue's breast And fdled its clouded eyes with sight !

0 Youth and I'eauty, loved of all ! Ye pass from girlhood's gate of dreams ;

In broader ways your footsteps fall, Ye test the truth of all that seems.

Her little realm the teacher leaves. She breaks her wand of power apart,

Wliile, for your love and trust, she givt-« The warm thanks of a grateful lieart.

Hers is the sober summer noon

Contrasted witli your morn of spring ,

The waning with the waxing moon. The folded with the outspread wing.

Across the distance of the years

She sends her God-speed back to you ;

She has no thought of doubts or fears : Be but yourselves, be pure, be true.

And prompt in duty ; heed the deep, Low voice of conscience ; through the ill

And discoid round about you, keep Your faith in human nature still.

Be gentle : unto griefs and needs, Be jiitiful as woman should,

And, spite of all the lies of creeds, Hold fast the truth that God is good.

Give and receive ; go forth and bless The world that needs the hand and heart

Of Martha's helpful carefulness No less than Mary's better jjart.

So shall the stream of time How by And leave each year a richer good.

And matron loveliness outvie

The nameless charm of maidenhoiK!,

And, when the world shall link yoiit names "With ijratious lives and manners line, The teacher shall assert her claims. And ])nnidly whisper, "These were mine ! "

AT EVENTIDE.

Poor and inadequate the shadow-play Of gain and loss, of waking and of

dream. Against life's solemn background needs must seem At this late liour. Yet, not unthank- fully.

THE PROBLEM. — EESPONSE.

417

I call to mind the fountains by the way,

The breath of flowers, the bird-song on the spray.

Dear friends, sweet human loves, the joy of giving

And of receiving, the great boon of living In grand historic years when Liberty

Had need of word and work, quick sym- patliies

For all who fail and sntTer, song's relief.

Nature's uncloying loveliness ; and chief. The kind restraining hand of Provi- dence, The inward witness, the assuring sense

Of an Eternal Good which overlies

The sorrow of the world, Love which out- lives

All sin and wrong. Compassion which forgives

To the uttermost, and Justice whose clear eyes

Through lapse and failure look to the intent.

And judge our frailty by the life we meant.

THE PROBLEM.

Not without envy Wealth at times must

look On their brown strength who wield the reaping-hook And scythe, or at the forge-fire shape the plow Or the steel harness of the steeds of steam ; — All who, by skill and patience, anyhow Make service noble, and the earth redeem From savageness. By kingly accolade Than theirs was never worthier knight- hood made. Well for them, if, while demagogues

their vain And evil counsels proffer, they maintain Their honest manliood unseduced, and wage No war with Labor's right to Labor's gain Of sweet home-comfort, rest of hand and brain. And softer pillow for the head of Age.

And well for Gain if it ungrudging yields Labor its just demand ; and well ior

Ease If in the uses of its own, it sees No wrong to liim who tills its pleasant

fields And spreads the table of its luxuries. The interests of the rich man and the

poor Are one and same, inseparable evermore ; And, when scant wage or labor fail to

give Food, shelter, raiment, wherewithal to

live. Need has its rights, necessity its claim. Yea, even self- wrought misery and shame Test well the charity suflering long and

kind. The home-pressed question of the age can

find No answer in the catch-words of the blind Leaders of blind. Solution there is none Save in the Golden Rule of Christ alone.

RESPONSE. 1877.

Beside that milestone where the level

sun, Nigh unto setting, sheds his last, low

rays On word and work irrevocably done, Life's blending threads of good and ill

outspun, I hear, 0 friends ! your words of cheer

and praise. Half doubtful if nryself or otherwise. Like him who, in the old Arabian joke, A beggar slept and crowned Calipli

woke. Thanks not the less. With not unglad

surprise I see my life-work through your partial

eyes; Assured, in giving to my home-taught

songs A higher value than of right belongs, You do but read between the written

lines The finer gi-ace of unfulfilled designs.

THE KING'S MISSIVE,

AND OTHER POEMS.

THE PRELUDE.

I SPREAD a scauty board too late ; The old-time guests for whom I wait

Come few and slow, methinks, to-day. Ah ! who coiild hear my messages Across the dim unsounded seas

On which so many have sailed away !

Come, then, old friends, who linger yet, And let us meet, as we have met,

Once more beneath this low sunshine ; And grateful for the good we 've known. The riddles solved, the ills outgrown.

Shake hands upon the border line.

The favor, asked too oft before. From your iudulgent ears, once more

I crave, and, if belated lays To slower, feei)ler measures move, The silent sympathy of love

To me is dearer now than praise.

And ye, 0 youuger friends, for whom My hearth "and heart keep ojjen room.

Come smiling through the shadows long, Be with me whde the sun goes down, And with your cheerful voices drown

The minor of my even-song.

For, equal through the day and night, The wise Eternal oversight

And love and power and righteous will Remain : the law of destiny The best for e.ich and all must be,

Aud life its promise shall fulfil.

THE KING'S MISSIVE.81

1661.

Under the great hill sloping bare To cove and meadow and Common lot.

In his council chamber and oaken chair, Sat the worshipful Governor Endi-

cott. A grave, strong man, who knew no peer In the pilgrim land, where he ruled in

fear Of God, not man, and for good or ill Held his trust with an iron will.

He had shorn with his sword the cross

from out The flag, and cloven the May-pole

down, Harried the heathen round about, And whipped the Quakers from town

to town. Earnest and houest, a man at need To burn like a torch for his own harsh

creed. He kept with the flaming brand of his

zeal The gate of the holy common weal.

His brow was clouded, his eye was

stern. With a look of nu'ngled sorrow and

wrath ; " Woe 's me ! " he murmured : " at every

turn The jiestilent Quakers are in my path ! Some we have scourged, and banished

some. Some hanged, more doomed, and still

they come. Fast as the tide of yon bay sets in, Sowing their here.sy's seed of sin.

" Did we count on this ? Did we leave

behind The graves of our kin, the comfort

and ea.sc Of our English heart lis and homes, to

find Troublers of Israel such as these ? Shall I spare ? Shall I pity them ? God

forbid! I will do aa the prophet to Agag did :

THE KING S MISSIVE.

419

They come to poison the wells of the

Word, I will hew them in pieces before the

Lord ! "

The door swung open, and Eawson the

clerk Entered, and whispered under breath, "There waits below for the hangman's

work A fellow banished on pain of death — Shattuck, of Salem, unhealed of the

whip, Brought over in Master Goldsmith's

ship At anchor here in a t'hri.stian port, With freight of the devil and all his

sort ! "

Twice and thrice on the chamber floor Striding fiercely from wall to wall,

" The Lord do so to me and more," The Governor cried, " if I hang not all!

Bring hither tlie Quaker." Calm, se- date.

With the look of a man at ease with fate.

Into that presence grim and dread

Came Samuel Shattuck, with hat on head.

" Off with the knave's hat ! " An angry hand Smote down the offence ; but the wearer said.

With a quiet smile, " By the king's com- mand I bear In's message and stand in his stead."

In the Governor's hand a missive he laid

With the royal arms on its seal dis- played.

And the proud man spake a.s he gazed thereat.

Uncovering, " Give Mr. Shattuck his hat."

He turned to the, Quaker, bowing low, — " The king commandeth your friends' release. Doubt not he shall be obeyed, although To his subjects' sorrow and sin's in- crease. What he here enjoineth, John Eudi-

cott. His loyal servant, questioneth not.

You are free ! God grant the spirit you own

May take you from us to parts un- known."

So the door of the jail was open cast. And, like Daniel, out of the lion's den Tender youth and girlhood passed. With age-bowed women and gray- locked men. And the voice of one appointed to die Was lifted in ]iraise and thanks on highr And the little maid from New Nether- lands Kissed, in her joy, the doomed man's hands.

And one, whose call was to minister To the souls in prison, beside him went.

An ancient woman, bearing with her The linen shroud for his burial meant.

For she, not counting her own life dear,

In the strength of a love that cast out fear,

Had watched and served where her brethren died,

liike those who waited the cross be- side.

One moment they paused on their way

to look On the martyr graves by the Common

side. And much scourged Wharton of Salem

took His burden of prophecy uj) and cried : " Rest, souls of the valiant ! Not in

vain Have ye borne the Master's cross of

])ain ; Ye have fought the fight, ye are victors

crowned, With a fourfold chain ye have Satan

bound ! "

The autumn haze lay soft and still On wood and meadow and upland farms ; On the brow of Snow Hill the great windmill Slowly and lazily swung its arms ; Broad in the sunshine stretched away, With its capes and islands, the turquoise bay ;

420

ST. MAETm'S SUMMER.

And over water and dusk of pines Blue hills lifted their faint outlines.

The topaz leaves of the walnut glowed.

The sumach added its crimson fleck, And double in air and water showed The tinted maples along the Neck ; Through frost flower clusters of pale

star-mist. And gentian fringes of amethyst, And royal jtlumes of golden-rod, The grazing cattle on Centry trod.

But as they who see not, the Quakers

saw The world about them; they only

thought With deep thanksgiving and pious awe On the great deliverance God hud

wrought. Through lane and alley the gazing town Noisily folKnved them up and down; Some with scoffing and brutal jeer, Some with pity and words of cheer.

One brave voice rose above the din.

Upsall, gray with his length of days, Cried from the door of his lied Lion Inn :

" Men of Boston, give God the praise ! No more shall innocent blood call down Tlie bolts of wrath on your guilty town. The freedom of worship, dear to you. Is dear to all, aud to all is due.

" I see the vision of days to come,

When your beautiful City of the Bay Shall be Christian lil)erty's chosen home, And none shall his neighbor's rights gainsay. The varying notes of worship shall blond And as one great jtrayer to God ascen<l, And liands of mutual charity raise Walls of salvation and gates of ])raise."

So passed the Quakers through Boston

town, Whose ))ainful ministers sighed to sec The walls of their sheep-fold falling

down, And wolves of heresy prowling free. But the years went on, and brought no

wrong ; With milder counsels the State grew

strong, As outward Letter and inward Light Kept the balance of truth aright.

The Puritan spirit perishing not.

To Concord's yeomen the signal sent,

Aud spake in the voice of the cannon- shot That severed the chains of a conti- nent.

With its gentler mission of peace and good-will

The thought of the Quaker is living still, _ ..

And the freedom of soul he prophesied

Is gospel aud law where the martyrs died.

ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.82

Though flowers have perished at the touch

Of Frost, the early comer, I hail the season loved so much,

The good St. Martin's summer.

O gracious morn, with rose-red dawn, And thin moon curving o'er it !

The old year's darling, latest l)orn, More loved than all before it !

How flamed the sunrise through the ])ines !

How stretched the birchen shadows. Braiding in long, wind-wavered lines

The westward sloping meadows !

The sweet day, opening as a flower

Unfolds its petals tender, Renews for us at noontide's hour

The summer's tempered splendor.

The birds are hushed ; alone the wind, That through the woodland searches,

The red-oak's lingering leaves can find, And yellow ])lumes of larches.

But still the baksam-breathing pine Invites no thought of sorrow.

No liint of loss from air like wine The earth's content can borrow.

The summer and the winter here Midway a truce are holding,

A soft, consenting atmosphere Their tents of peace enfolding.

The silent woods, the lonely hills, Rise solemn in their gladness ;

THE DEAD FEAST OF THE KOL-FOLK.

421

flie quiet that the valley fills Is scarcely joy or sadness.

dow strange ! The autumn yesterday In winter's grasp seemed dying;

On whirling winds from skies of gray The early snow was flying.

And now, while over Nature's mood There steals a soft relenting,

[ will not mar the present good. Forecasting or lamenting.

My autumn time and Nature's hold

A dreamy tryst together, And, both grown old, about us fold

The golden-tissued weather.

I lean my heart against the day

To feel its bland caressing ; I will not let it pass away

Before it leaves its blessing.

God's angels come not as of old The Syrian shepherds knew them ;

In reddening dawns, in sunset gold, And warm noon lights I view them.

Nor need there is, in times like this When heaven to earth draws nearer,

Of wing or song as witnesses To make their presence clearer.

O stream of life, whose swifter flow

Is of the end forewarning, Methiuks thy sundown afterglow

Seems less of night than morning !

Old cares grow light ; aside I lay The doubts and fears that troubled ;

The quiet of the happy day Within my soul is doubled.

That clouds must veil this fair sunshine

Not less a joy I find it ; Nor less yon warm hori/.on line

That winter lurks behind it.

The mystery of the untried days I close my eyes from reading ;

flis will be done whose darkest ways To light and life are leading !

Less drear the winter night shall be, If memory cheer and hearten

Its heavy hours witli thoughts of thee. Sweet summer of St. Martin !

THE DEAD FEAST OF THE KOL- FOLK.83

CHOTA NAGPOOR.

We have opened the door,

Once, twice, thrice ! We have swept the floor.

We have boiled the rice. Come hither, come hither ! Come from the far lands, Come from the star lands, '

Come as before ! We lived long together, We loved one another ;

Come back to our life. Come father, come mother, Come sister and brother,

Child, husband, and wife, For you we are sighing. Come take your old places. Come look in our faces. The dead on the dying, Come home !

We have opened the door,

Once, twice, thrice ! We have kindled the coals.

And we boil the rice For the feast of souls.

Come luther, come hither ! Think not we fear you. Whose hearts are so near you. Come tenderly thought on, Come all unforgotten. Come from the shadow-lands, From the dim meadow-lands Where the pale grasses bend

Low to our sighing. Come father, come mother, Come sister and brother. Come husband and friend,

The dead to the dying. Come home !

We have opened the door

You entered so oft ; For the feast of souls We have kindled the coals.

And we boil the rice soft. Come you who are dearest To us who are nt^aresS, Come hither, come hither. From out the wild weather ; The storm clouds are flying, The peepul is sighing;

Come in from the rain.

422

THE LOST OCCASION.

Come father, come mother, Come sister and brother. Come husband and lover, Beneath our roof-cover.

Look on us attain,

The dead on the dying,

Come home !

We have opened the door ! For the feast of souls We have kindled the coals

We may kindle no more ! Snake, fever, and famine, The curse of the Brahmin,

The sun and the dew. They burn us, they bite us. They waste us and smite us ;

Our days are but few ! In stranjre lands far yonder To wonder and wanilcr

We hasten to you. List then to our sighinj;:,

While yet we are here : Nor seeing nor hearing, We wait without fearing.

To feel you draw near. O dead to the dying Come home !

THE LOST OCCASION.

Some die too late and some too soon, At early morning, heat of noon, Or the chill evening twiliirht. Tliou, Whom the rich heavens did so endow With eyes of power and Jove's own

brow, With all the massive strength that tills Thy hume-horizon's granite hills. With rarest gifts of heart and heail From manliest stock inherited, New Kngland's stateliest type of man. In port and s]>eech 01yni|)ian ; AVliom no one met, at tirst, but took A secDiid awed and wondering look ( As turned, nercliance, the eyes of (ireece V^u Phidias unveiled master[)iere) ; Whose words in simplest home-spun clad. The Saxon strength of C'a?dtnou's had, With fiower reserved at need to reach The Roman forum's loftiest speech, Sweet \vith persuasion, eloquent In passion, cool in argument, 'Jr, ponderous, falling on thy foes As fell the Norse god's liammer blows, Crushing as if with Talus' flail

Through Error's logic-woven mail, And failing only when they tried The adamant of the righteous side, — Thou, foiled in aim and hope, bereaved Of old friends, by the new deceived. Too soon for us, too soon for thee, Beside thy lonely Northern sea, Where long and low the marsh-lands

spread, Laid wearily down thy august head.

Thou shouldst have lived to feel below Thy feet Disimioii's fierce upthrow, — The late-sprung mine that underlaid Thy sad concessions vainly made. Thou shouldst have seen from Sumter's

wall *

The star-tlag of the Union fall. And armed rebellion pressing on The broken lines of Washington ! No stronger voice than thine had then Called out the utmost might of men. To nnike the Union's charter free And strengthen law by liberty. How had that siern arbitrament To thy gray age youth's vigor lent, Shaming ambition's paltry prize Before thy disillusioned eyes ; Breaking the spell about thee wound Like the green withes that Samson

bound ; Redeeming in one cflfort grand, Thy.self and thy imjierilled laud ! Ah, cruel fate, that closed to thee, () sleeper by the Northern sea. The gates of opportunity ! God fills the gaps of human need. Each crisis lirings its word and deed. Wise nii'n and strong we did not lack ; But still, with memory turning back. In the dark hours we thought of thee, And thy lone grave beside the sea.

Above that grave the east winds blow.

And from the marsh-lands drifting slow

The sea-fog comes, with evermore

The wave-wash of a lonely shore.

And sea-iiird's melancholy cry,

As Nature fain would typify

The sadness of a closing scene.

The lo.ss of that which should have been

But, where thy native mountains bare

Their foreheads to diviner air.

Fit emblem of enduring fame,

One lofty summit keeps thy name.

For thee the cosmic forces did

The rearing of that pyramid,

WITHIN IHE GATE.

423

The prescient ages shaping with

Fire, flood, and frost thy monolith.

Sunrise and sunset lay thereon

With hands of light their benison,

The stars of midnight pause to set

Their jewels in its coronet.

And evermore that mountain mass

Seems climbing from the shadowy pass

To light, as if to manifest

Thy nobler self, thy life at hest !

THE EMANCIPATION GROUP.

BOSTON, 1879.

Amidst thy sacred effigies Of old renown give jilace,

O city, Freedom-loved ! to his Whose hand unchained a race.

Take the worn frame, that rested not Save in a martyr's grave —

The care-lined face, that none forgot, Bent to the kneeling slave.

Let man be free ! The mighty word He spake was not his own ;

An impulse from the Highest stirred These chiselled lips alone.

The cloudy sign, the fiery guide,

Along his pathway ran, And Nature, through his voice, denied

The ownership of man.

We rest in peace where these sad eyes Saw peril, strife, and pain ;

His was the nation's sacrifice. And ours the priceless gain.

O symbol of God's will on earth

As it is done above ! Bear witness to the cost and worth

Of justice and of love.

Stand in thy place and testify

To coming ages long, That truth is stronger than a lie,

And righteousness than wrong.

thp: jubilee singers.

Voice of a people suffering long. The pathos of theii' mournful .song. The sorrow of their night of wrong !

[ Their cry like that which Israel gave, A prayer for one to guide and save. Like Moses by the Red Sea's wave !

The stern accord her timbrel lent To Miriam's note of triumph sent O'er Egypt's sunken armanieut !

The tramp that startled camp and town. And shook the walls of slavery down. The spectral march of old John Brown !

The storm that swept through battle- days. The triumph after long delays. The bondmen giving God the praise !

Voice of a ransomed race, sing on Till Freedom's every right is won. And Slavery's every wrong undone !

WITHIN THE GATE.

L. M. C.

We sat together, last May-day, and talked

Of the dear friends who walked Beside us, sharers of the hopes and fears

Of five and forty years

Since first we met in Freedom's hope forlorn. And heard her battle-horn Sound through the valleys of the sleep- ing North, Calling her children forth.

And youth pressed forward with hope- lighted eyes.

And age, with forecast wise Of the long strife before the triumph won,

Girded his armor on.

Sadly, as name bv name we called the roll. We heard the dead-bells toll For the unauswering many, and wc knew The living were the few.

And we, who waited our own call before

The inevitable door. Listened and looked, as all have done, to win

Some token from within.

424

THE KHAN'S DEVIL.

No sign we saw, we heard no voices call; The impenetrable wall Cast down its shadow, like an awful doubt, On all who sat without.

Of many a hint of life beyond the veil.

And many a ghostly tale Wherewith the ages spanned the gulf between

The seen and the unseen.

Seeking from omen, trance, and dream to gain Solace to doubtful pain, And touch, with groping hands, the gar- ment hem Of truth sufBcing them.

We talked ; and, turning from the sore unrest Of an all-baffling quest, We thought of holy lives that from us j)assed Hopeful unto the last.

As if they saw beyond the river of death,

Like him of Nazareth, The many mansions of the Eternal days

Lift up their gates of praise.

And, hushed to silence by a reverent awe. Met bought, O friend, I saw In thy true life of Avord, and work, and thought The proof of all we sought.

Did we not witness in the life of thee

Immortal prophecy ? And feel, when with thee, that thy foot- steps trod

An everlasting road ?

Not for brief days thy generous sympa- thies. Thy scorn of selHsh ease ; Not for the poor prize of an earthly goal Thy strong uplift of soul.

"Leave feast and wine, go forth and drink Than thine was never turned a fonder Water of healing on the brink

Yet, loving beauty, thou couldst pass it by, And for the poor deny Thyself, and see thy fresh, sweet flower of fame Wither in blight and blame.

Sharing His love who holds in His em- brace

The lowliest of our race. Sure the Divine economy must be

Conservative of thee !

For truth must live with truth, self-sac- rifice Seek out its great allies ; Good must find good by gravitation sure, And love with love endure.

And so, since thou hast passed within the gate Whereby awhile I wait, I give blind grief and blinder sense the lie: Thou hast not lived to die !

THE KHAN'S DEVIL.

The Khan came from Bokhara town To Hamza, santon of renown.

" My head is sick, my hands are weak; Thy help, () holy man, I seek."

In silence marking for a .space

The Khan's red eyes and purple face.

Thick voice, and loose, uncertain tread, " Thou hast a devil ! " Ilamza said.

" Allah forbid ! " exclaimed the Khan. " Rid me of him at once, O man ! "

" Nay," Hamza said, " no spell of

mine Can slay that cursed thing of thine.

heart To nature and to nrt In fair-formed Hellas in her golden prime, Thy Philothea's time.

" Where clear and cold from mountain

snows. The Nahr el Zeben downward flows.

ABRAM MORRISON.

425

* Six moons remain, then come to me ; May Allah's pity go with thee ! "

Awe-struck, from feast and wine, the

Khan Went forth where Nahr el Zeben ran.

Roots were his food, the desert dust His bed, the water quenched his thirst,

And when the sixth moon's scimetar Curved sharp above the evening star,

He sought again the santon's door, Not weak and trembling as before,

But strong of limb and clear of brain ; " Behold," he said, " the tiend is slain."

" Nay," Hamza answered, " starved and

drowned, The curst one lies in death-like swound.

" But evil breaks the strongest gyves. And jins like him have charmed lives.

"One beaker of the juice of grape May call him up in living shape.

" When the red wine of Badakshan Sparkles for thee, beware, O Khan !

" With water quench the fire within. And drown each day thy devilkin ! "

Thenceforth tlie great Khan shunned the

cup As Shitan's own, though offered up.

With laughing eyes and jewelled liands, By Yarkand's maids and Samarcaud's.

And, in the lofty vestibule

Of the niedrcss of Kaush Kodul,

The .students of the lioly law A golden-lettered tablet saw.

With these words, by a cnnniug hand, Graved on it at the Khan's command :

" In Allah's name, to him who hath A devil, Khan el Hamed saith,

" Wisely our Prophet cursed the vine : The tiend that loves the breath of wine

" No prayer can slay, no marabout Nor Meccan dervis can drive out.

" I, Khan el Hamed, know the charm That robs him of his power to harm.

" Drown him, O Islam's child ! the spell To save thee lies in tank and well ! "

ABRAM MORRISON.

'Midst the men and things which will Haunt an old man's memory still. Drollest, quaintest of them all, With a boy's laugh I recall

Good old Abram Morrison.

When the Grist and Rolling Mill Ground and rumbled by Po Hill, And the old red school-house stood Midway in the Powow's flood,

Here dwelt Abram Morrison.

From the Beach to far beyond Bear-Hill, Lion's Mouth and Pond, Marvellous to our tough old stock, Chips o' the Anglo-Saxon block.

Seemed the Celtic Morrison.

Mudknock, Balniawhistle, all Only knew the Yankee drawl, Never brogue was heard till when, Foremost of his countrymen,

Hither came Friend Morrison ;

Yankee born, of alien blood. Kin of his had well w'ithstood Po]ie and King with pike and ball Under Dcrry's leaguered wall, As became the Morrisons.

Wandering down from Nutfield woods With his household and his goods. Never was it clearly told How within our quiet fold

Came to be a Morri.son.

Once a soldier, blame him not That the Quaker ho forgot, When, to think of battles won, And the red-coats on the run.

Laughed aloud Friend Morrison.

From gray Lewis over sea Bore bis pi res their family tree.

426

VOYAGE OF THE JETTIE.

On the rufrffed boughs of it Grafting Irish mirth and wit,

And the brogue of Morrison.

Half a genius, quick to plan, Blundering like an Irishman, But with canny shrewdness lent Bv his far-otf Scotch descent.

Such was Abram Morrison.

Back and forth to daily meals, Uode bis cherished pig on wheels, And to all who came to see : " Aisier for the pig an' me.

Sure it is," said Morrison.

Simple-hearted, boy o'er-grown. With a humor quite his own, Of our sober-stepping ways, Speech and look and cautious phrase. Slow to learn was Morrison.

Much we loved his stories told Of a country strange and old, Wliere the fairies danced till dawn, And the goblin Leprecaun

Looked, we thought, like Morrison.

Or wild tales of feud and fight. Witch and troll and second sight Whispered still where Storuoway Looks across its stormy bay,

Once the home of Morrisons.

First was he to sing the praise Of the Powow's winding ways ; And our straggling village took City grandeur to the look

Of its poet Morrison.

All his words have perished. Shame On the saddle-bags of Fame, That they bring not to our time One ]ioor couplet of the rhyme

Made by Abram Morrison !

When, on calm and fair First Days, Kattk-d down our one-horse chaise ibrough the Ido.ssomed apple-boughs I'o the old, brown meeting-house. There was Abram Morrison.

Underneath his hat's broad brim I'eered the queer old face of him ; And with Irish jauntiness Bwung the coat-tails of the dress Worn by Abram Morrison.

Still, in memory, on his feet, Leaning o'er the elders' seat, Mingling with a solemn drone, Celtic accents all his own.

Rises Abram Morrison.

" Don't," he 's pleading, " don't ye go. Dear young friends, to sight and show Don't run after elephants. Learned pigs and presidents

And the likes ! " said IMorrison

On his well-worn theme intent. Simple, child-like, iuuocent. Heaven forgive the half-checked smile Of our careless boyhood, while

Listening to Friend Morrison !

We have learned in later days Truth may speak in simplest phrase ; That the man is not the less For quaint ways and home-spun dress. Thanks to Abram MoiTison !

Not to pander nor to please Come the needed homilies. With no lofty argument Is the tilting message sent

Through such lips as Morrison s

Dead and gone ! But while its track Powow keeps to Merriinaik, While Po Hill is still on guard, Looking land and ocean ward.

They sliall tell of Morrison!

After half a century's lapse. We are wiser now, perhaps. But we miss onr stnn'ts amid Somethiug which the past has hid. Lost with Abram Morrison.

Gone forever with the queer Charact(!rs of that old year ! Now the many are as one; Broken is tlie mould that run

Men like Abram Morrison.

VOYAGE OF THE JETTIE."

A sn.vLi.ow- stream, from fountains Deep in the Sandwich mountains,

Ran lakeward Bearcamp River ; And, between its flood-torn shores, Sped by sail or urged by oars

No keel had vexed it ever.

VOYAGE OF THE JETTIE.

427

Alone the dead trees yielding To the dull axe Time is wielding,

The shy mink and the utter, And golden leaves and red, By countless autumns shed,

Had floated down its water.

From the gray rocks of Cape Ann, Came a skilled sea-faring man,

With his dory, to the right place ; Over hill and plain he brought her, Where the boatless Bearcamp water

Comes winding down from White- Face.

Quoth the skipper : " Ere she floats foivth, I'm sure my pretty boat 's worth,

At least, a name as pretty." On her painted side he wrote it, And the flag that o'er her floated

Boi"e aloft the name of Jettie.

On a radiant morn of summer, Klder guest and latest comer

Saw her wed the Bearcamp water ; Heard the name the skipper gave her. And the answer to the favor

From the Bay State's graceful daugh- ter.

Then, a singer, richly gifted. Her charmed voice uplifted ;

And the wood-tlirush and !.oug-S])arrovv Listened, duitib with en\'ioiis pain, To the clear and sweet refrain

Whose notes they could not borrow.

Then tlie skipper plied his oar. And from off' the shelving shore,

Glided out the strange exj)lorer ; Floating on, she knew ni)t whither, — 'llie tawny sands beneath her.

The great hills watchiug o'er her.

On, where the stream flows quiet As the meadows' margins by it.

Or widens out to l)orrow a New life from that wild water, 'I'he mountain giant's daughter,

The piue-besung Chocorua

Or, mid the tangling cumi)er And pack of mountain lumber

That spring floods downward force, Over sunken snag, and bar Where the grating sballows are,

The good boat held her course.

Under the pine-dark highlands, Around the vine-hung islands,

She ploughed her crooked furrow ; And her rippling and her lurches Scared the river eels and perches.

And the musk-rat in his burrow.

Every sober clam below her, Every sage and grave pearl-grower,

Shut his rusty valves the tighter ; Crow called to crow complaining. And old tortoises sat craning

Their leathern necks to sight hei.

So, to where the still lake glasses The misty mountain masses

Kising dim and distant northward. And, with faint-drawn shadow pictures. Low shores, and dead pine spectres.

Blends the skyward and the earth- ward,

On she glided, overladen, With merry man and maiden

Sending back their song and laugh ter, — While, perchance, a phantom crew, In a ghostly birch cnnoe,

Paddled dumb and swiftly after !

And the bear on Ossipee Climbed the topmost crag to see

The strange thing drifting under; And, through the haze of August, Passaconaway and Paugus

Looked down in sleepy wonder.

All the pines that o'er her hung In mimic sea-tones sung

The song familiar to her ; And the maples leaned to screen her. And the meadow-grass seemed greener,

And the breeze more soft to woo her

The lone stream mystery-haunted. To her the freedom granted

To scan its every feature, Till new aiui old were blended, And round thc'ui both extended

The loving arms of Nature.

Of these hills the little vessel Henceforth is part and j)arcel ;

And on Bearcamp shall her log Be kept, as if by (leorge's Or Grand Menitn, the surges

Tossed her skipper through the fog.

428

OUR AUTOCRAT.

And I, who, half in sadness, liecall the morning gladness

Of life, at evening time, Hy chance, onlooking idly, Ajjart from all so widely,

Have set her voyage to rhyme.

Dies now the gay persistence Of song ami langh, in distance;

Alone with me remaining The stream, the quiet meadow. The hills in shine and shadow.

The sombre pines complaining.

And, musing here, I dream Of voyagers on a stream

From whence is no returning, Under sealed orders going, Looking forward little knowing,

Looking back with idle yearning.

And I pray that every venture Tlie port of peace nv.iy enter,

That, safe from snag and fall And siren-haunted islet, And rock, the Unseen Pilot

May guide us one and all.

OUR AUTOCRAT.

READ AT DR. IIOLMES' HKKAKFAST.

IIi.s laurels fresh from song and lay, Itomance, art, science, ricli in all,

And young of lieart, how dare vvc say We keep his sevcntietli festival ?

No sense is here of loss or lack ;

Before Ills sweetness and his light Tlie dial holds its shadow hack,

The charmed hours delay their flight.

His still the keen analysis Of men and moods, electric wit,

I'lci- play of mirth, and tenderness To Ileal the sliglitest wound from it.

And his the pathos touching all

I.iife's sins and sorrows and regrets,

Its hopes and fears, its final call And rest beneath tlie violets.

What shapes and fancie.?, grave or gay. Before us at his bidding come !

The Treadmill tramp, the One-Horse Shay, The dumb despair of Elsie's doom )

The tale of Avis and the Maid,

The ]>lea for lips that cannot speak.

The iioly kiss that Ins laid On Little Boston's pallid cheek !

Long may he live to sing for us

His sweetest songs at evening time.

And, like his Chanibeved Nautilus, To holier heights ot beauty climb !

Though now unnumbered guests sur round

The table that he rules at will. Its Autocrat, however crowned.

Is but our friend and comrade still.

The world may keep his honored name

The wealth of all his varied powers ; A stronger ehiim has love than fame. And he himself is only ours !

GARRISON.

The storm and peril overpa.st,

The hounding hatred shamed and still, Go, soul of freedom ! take at last The place which thou alone canst fill.

Confirm the lesson taught of old — Lif(^ .saved for self is lost, while they

Who lose it in His service hold The lease of God's eternal day.

Not for thyself, but for the slave

Thy words of thnii(l(!r shook the world;

No selfish griefs or hatred gave

The strength wherewith thy bolts wer« hurled.

From lips that Sinai's trumpet blew We heard a tender undersong ;

Thy very wrath from ])ity grew.

From love of man thy hate of wrong

His sparkling surface scarce betrays ] Now past and present are as one ;

The thoughtful tide beneath it rolled, The life below is life above ; The wisdom of the latter days, I Thy mortal years have but begun

And tender memories of the old. The immortality of love.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

429

With somewhat of thy lofty faith We lay thy outworn garment by,

&ive death but what belongs to death. And life the life that cannot die !

Not for a soul like thine the calm Of selfish ease and joys of sense ;

But duty, more than crown or palm, Its own exceeding recompense.

Go up and on ! thy day well done, Its morning promise well fulfilled.

Arise to triumphs yet uuwon. To holier tasks that God has wiUed.

Go, leave behind thee all that mars The work below of man for man ;

With the white legions of the stars Do service such as angels can.

Wherever wrong shall right deny Or suffering spirits urge their plea.

Be thine a voice to smite the lie, A hand to set the captive free !

BAYARD TAYLOR.

"And where now, Bayard, will thy foot- steps tend ? " My sister asked our guest one winter's

day. Smiling he answered in the Friends' sweet way Common to both : " Wherever thou shalt

send ! What wouldst thou have me see for thee ? " She laughed, Her dark eyes dancing in the wood- fire's glow : " Loffoden isles, the Kilpis, and the low, Unsetting sun on Finmark's fishiug-

craft." " All these and more I soon shall see for thee ! " He answered cheerily : and he kept

his pledge On Lapland snows, the North Cape's windy wedge, Jind Tromso freezing in its winter sea. He went and came. But no man knows

the track Of his last journey, and ht comes not backl

He brought us wonders of the new and old; We shared all climes with him. The

Arab's tent To him its story-telling secret lent. And, pleased, welistened to the tales he

told. His task, beguiled with songs that shall endure. In manly, honest thoroughness he

Avrought ; From humble home-lays to the heights of thought Slowly he climbed, but every step wa.s

sure. How, with the generous pride that friend- ship hath. We, who so loved him, saw at la.st the

crown Of civic honor on his brows pressed down, Rejoiced, and knew not that the gift was death. And now for him, whose praise in

deafened ears Two nations speak, we answer but with tears !

O Vale of Chester! trod by him so oft. Green as thy June turf keep his mem- ory. Let Nor wood, nor dell, nor storied stream forget. Nor winds that blow round lonely Cedar

croft ; Let the home voices greet him in the far. Strange land that holds him ; let the

messages Of love pursue him o'er the chartless seas And unmapped vastness of his unknown

star ! Love's language, heard beyond the loud discour>e Of perislialile fame, in every sphere Itself interprets ; and its utterance here Somewhere in God's unfolding uni- verse Shall reach our traveller, softening the surprise [ Of his rapt gaze on unfamiliar skies i

430

A NAME.

A NAME.

TO G. W. P.

The name tlie Gallic exile bore, St. Malo ! from thy ancient mart,

Became upon our Western shore Greenleaf for Feuillevert.

A name to hear in soft accord Of leaves by light winds overrun,

Or read, upon the greening sward Of May, iu shade and sun.

The name my infant ear first heard Breathed softly with a mother's kiss ;

His mother's own, no tenderer word My father spake than this.

No child have I to bear it on ;

Be thou its keeper ; let it take From gifts well used and duty done

New beauty for thy sake.

The fair ideals that outran

My halting footsteps seek and find — The flawless symmetry of man,

The poise of heart and mind.

Stand firmly where I felt the sway Of every wing that fancy flew.

See clearly wliere I groped my way, Nor real from seeming knew.

And wisely choose, and bravely hold Thy faith unswerved by cross or crown,

Like the stout Huguenot of old Whose name to thee comes down.

As Marot's songs made glad the heart Of that lone exile, haply mine

May in life's heavy hours impart Some strength and hope to tiiine.

Yet when did Age tran'^fer to Youth Tiie hard-gained it-ssons of its day ?

Each lip must learn the taste of truth, Kach foot must feel its way.

We cannot hold the hands of choice That touch or shun life's fateful keys;

The whisper of the inward voice Is more than homilies.

Dear boy ! for whom the flowers are born, Stars shine, and happy song-birds sing,

What can my evening give to mom, My winter to thy spring !

A life not void of pure intent.

With small desert of praise or blame.

The love I felt, the good I meant, I leave thee with my name.

THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER.

In the minister's morning sermon He had told of the primal fall,

And how thenceforth the wrath of God Rested on each and all.

And how, of His will and pleasure, All souls, save a chosen few.

Were doomed to the quencliless burn ing, And held in the way thereto.

Yet never by faith's unreason

A saintlier soul was tried, And never the harsh old lesson

A tenderer heart belied.

And, after the painful service On that pleasant Sabbath day.

He walked with his little daughter Through the apple-bloom of May.

Sweet in the fresh green meadows Sparrow ami blackbird sung;

Above him their tinted petals The blossoming orchards hung.

Around on the wonderful glory The minister looked and smiled ;

" How good is the Lord who gives us The.se gifts from His hand, my child

" Behold in the bloom of apples And the violets in the sward

A hint of the old, lost beauty Of the Garden of the Lord ! "

Then up spake the little maiden, Treading on snow and pink :

"O father! these pretty blossoms Are very wicked, I think.

" Had there been no Garden of Eden There never had been a fall ;

And if never a tree had blossomed God would have loved us all."

THE TRAILING ARBUTUS.

431

" Hush, child ! " the father answered,

" By His decree man fell ; His ways are in clouds and darkness,

But He doeth all things well.

" And whether by His ordaining

To us cometh good or ill, Joy or pain, or light or sliadow,

We must fear aud love Him still."

" Oh, I fear Him ! " said the daugh- ter,

" And I try to love Him, too ; But I wish He was good and gentle.

Kind and loving as you."

The minister groaned in spirit As the tremulous lips of pain

And wide, wet eyes uplifted Questioned his own in vain.

Bowing his head he pondered

The words of the little one ; Had he erred in his life-long teach- ing?

Had he wrong to his Master done ^

To what grim and dreadful idol Had he lent the holiest name 1

Did his own heart, loving aud human. The God of his worship shame ?

And lo ! from the bloom and green- ness,

From the tender skies above, And the face of his little daughter,

He read a lesson of love.

No more as the cloudy terror

Of Sinai's mount of law, But as Christ in the Syrian lilies

The vision of God he saw.

Aud, as when, in the clefts of Horeb, Of old was His presence known.

The dread Ineffable Glory Was Infinite Goodness alone.

Thereafter his hearers noted In his prayers a tenderer strain.

And never the gospel of hatred Burned on his lips again.

And the scoffing tongue was prayerful. And the blinded eyes found sight,

i\ui\ hearts, as Hint aforetime, Grew soft in his warmth aud light.

MY TRUST.

A PICTURE memory brings to me : I look across the years aud see Myself beside my mother's knee.

I feel her gentle hand restrain

My selfish moods, and know again

A child's blind sense of wrong and pain

But wiser now, a man gray grown. My cliihl hood's needs are better known. My mother's chastening love I own.

Gray grown, but in our Father's sight A chihi still groping for the light To read His works and ways aright.

I wait, in His good time to see That as my mother dealt with me So with His children dealeth He.

I bow myself beneath His hand : That pain itself was wisely planned I feel, and partly understand.

The joy that comes in sorrow's guise. The sweet pains of self-sacrifice, I would not have them otherwise.

And what were life and death if sin Knew not the dread rebuke within. The pang of merciful discipline ?

Not with thy proud despair of old, Crowned stoic of Rome's noblest mould ! Pleasure and pain alike I hold.

I suffer with no vain pretence Of tiiumph over flesh and sense, Yet trust the grievous providence,

How dark soe'er it seems, may tend, By ways I cannot comprehend, To some unguessed benignant end ;

That every loss and lapse may gain The clear-aired heights by steps of ]uiiu, Aud never cross is borne in vain.

THE TRAILING ARBUTUS.

j)iue.

I WANDERED louely where the

trees made Against the bitter East their barricaile, Aud, guided by its sweet

432

BY THEIR WORKS.

Perfume, I found, within a narrow dell, The trailing spring flower tinted like a

shell Amid dry leaves and mosses at my

feet.

From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines

Moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossom- ing: vines Lifted their glad surprise,

While yet the bluebird smoothed in leaf- less trees

His feathers ruffled by the chill sea- breeze,

' And snow-drifts lingered under April skies.

As, pausing, o'er the lonely flower I

bent, I thought of lives thus lowly, clogged

and pent, Which yet find room, Througli care and cumber, coldness and

decay, To lend a sweetness to the ungeuial day And make the sad earth happier for

their bloom.

BY TIIEIU WORKS.

Call him not heretic who.se works at- test

Ilis faitli in goodness by no creed con- fessed.

Whatever in love's name is truly done

To free the bound and lift the fallen one

Is done to Christ. Whoso in deed and word

Is not against Him labors for our Lord.

When He, who, sad and weary, longing sore

For love's sweet service, sought the sis- ters' door.

One saw the heavenly, one the human guest,

But who shall say which loved the Mas- ter best .-'

THE WORD.

Voice of the Holy Spirit, making known Man to iiimseif, a witness swift and sure.

Warning, approving, true and wise and pure. Counsel and guidance that misleadeth

none ! By thee the mystery of life is read ; The picture-writing of the world's gray

seers. The myths and parables of the primal years. Whose letter kills, by thee interpreted Take healthful meanings fitted to our needs. And in the soul's vernacular express The common law of simple righteous- ness. Hatred of cant and doubt of human

creeds May well be felt : tha unpardonable sin Is to deny the Word of God within !

THE BOOK.

Gallery of sacred pictures manifold, A minster rich in holy effigies, And bearing on eutabhiture and frieze The hieroglyphic oracles of old. Along its transept aureoled martyrs sit ; And the low chancel side-lights half

acquaint The eye with shrines of prophet, bard, and saint. Their age-dimmed tablets traced in

doubtful writ ! But only whou ou form and word obscure Falls from above the wiiite supernal

light We read the mystic characters aright, And life informs the silent portraiture. Until we pause at last, awe-held, before The One ineffable Face, love, wonder, and adore.

REQUIREMENT.

We live by Faith ; but Faith is not the slave Of text and legend. Reason's voice

and God's, Nature's and Duty's, never are at odds. What asks our Father of His children,

save Justice and mercy and humility, A reasonable service of good deeds, Pure living, tenderness to humav needs.

THE INWARD JUDGE.

433

Reverence and trust, and prayer for light

to see The Master's footprints in our daily

ways ? No knotted scourge nor sacrificial knife, But the calm heauty of an ordered life Whose very breathing is unworded

praise ! — A life that stands as all true lives have

stood, Finn-rooted in the faith that God is Good.

HELP.

Drkam not, O Soul, that easy is the task Thus set before thee. If it proves at

length. As well it may, beyond thy natural strength. Faint not, despair not. As a child may

ask A father, pray the Everlasting Good For light and guidance midst the subtle

snares Of sin thick planted in life's tliorough- fares, For spiritual strength and moral hardi- hood ; Still listening, through the noise of time and sense, To the still whisper of the Inward

Word ; Bitter in blame, sweet in approval heard. Itself its own confirming evidence : To health of soul a voice to cheer and

please. To guilt the wrath of the Eumenides.

UTTERANCE.

But what avail inadequate words to reach The innermost of Truth ? Who shall

essa}',

Blinded and weak, to point and lead

the way.

Or solve its mystery in familiar speech ?

Yet, if it be that something not thy own.

Some shadow of the Thought to which

our sclicme^, Creeds, cult, and ritual are at best but dreams, Is even to thy unworthiness made known, 27

Thou mayst not hide what yet thou

shouldst not dare To utter lightly, lest on lips of thine The real seem false, the beauty un-

divine. So, weighing duty in the scale of prayer, Give what seems given thee. It may

prove a seed Of goodness dropped in fallow-grounds

of need.

INSCRIPTIONS.

ON A SUN-DIAL.

FOR DR. HENRY I. BOWDITCH.

With warning hand I mark Time's

rapid flight From life's glad morning to its solemn

night ; Yet, through the dear God's love, I also

show There 's Light above me by the Shade

below.

ON A FOUNTAIN.

FOR DOROTHEA E. DIX.

Straxger and traveller

Drink freely, and bestow A kindly thought on her

Who bade this fountain flow, Yet hath no other claim

Than as the minister Of blessing in God's name.

Drink, and in His peace go!

ORIENTAL MAXIMS.

PARAPHRASE OF SANSCRIT TRANSLA- TIONS.

THE INWARD JUDGE.

FROM " INSTITUTES OF MANU."

The soul itself its awful witness is. Say not in evil doing, " No one sees," And so offend the conscious One within, Whose ear can hear the silences oi' siu

434

THE BAY OF SEVEN ISLANDS. .

Ere they find voice, whose eyes unsleep- ing see The secret motions of iniquity.

Nor in thy folly say, " I am alone." For, seated io thy heart, as on a throne, The ancient Judge and Witness liveth

still, To note thy act and thought ; and as thy

ill Or good goes from thee, far beyond thy

reach. The solemn Doorasman's seal is set on

each.

LAYING UP TREASURE.

FROM THE "MAHXbHARATA."

Bkfoke the Ender comes, whose char- ioteer

Is swift or slow Disease, lay up each year

Thy harvests of well-doing, wealth that kings

Nor thieves can take away. When all the things

Thou callest thine, goods, pleasures, hon- ors fall.

Thou in thy virtue shall survive them all.

CONDUCT.

FROM THE " MAHXbIiArATA."

Heed how thou livest. Do no act by

day Which from the night shall drive thy

peace away. In months of sun so live that months of

rain iSliall still be happy. Evermore restrain Evil and cherish good, so shall there

be Another and a happier life for thee.

THE BAY OF SEVEN ISLANDS,

AND OTHER POEMS.

TO EDWIN P. WHIPPLE,

ONE OF THE FmST TO WELCOME MY EARLIEST VOLUME, I OFFER THE

LATEST, AS A TOKEN OP FRIENDSHIP NEVER INTERRUPTED,

AND WHICH YEARS HAVE ONLY STRENGTHENED.

TO H. P. S.

FuOM the ^reen Amesbury hill which

bears the name Of that half mythic ancestor of mine Who trod its slopes two Imndred years

ago. Down the long valley of the Merrimac Midway between nie and the river's

mouth, I see thy home, set like an eagle's nest Among Deer Island's immemorial pines, Crowning the crag ou which the sunset

breaks

Its last red arrow. Many a tale and

song, Which thou hast told or sung, I call to

mind. Softening with silvery mist the woods

and hills, The out-thrust headlands and inreach-

ing bays Of our northeastern coast-line, trending

where The Gulf, midsummer, feels the chill

blockade Of icebergs stranded at its northers

gate.

EDWIN P. WHIPPLE^ Page 434.

THE BAY OF SEVEN ISLANDS.

435

To thee the echoes of the Island Sound Answer not vainly, uor in vain the

moan Of the South Breaker prophesying

storm. And thou hast listened, like myself, to

men Sea-periled oft where Anticosti lies Like a fell spider in its web of fog. Or where the Grand Bank shallows with

the wrecks Of sunken fishers ; and to whom strange

isles And frost-rimmed bays and trading sta- tions seem Familiar as Great Neck and Kettle

Cove, Nubble and Boon, the common names of

home.

So let me offer thee this lay of mine. Simple and homely, lacking much thy

play Of color and of fancy. If its theme And treatment seem to thee befitting

youth Rather than age, let this be my ex- cuse : It has beguiled some heavy hours and

called Some pleasant memories up; and, better

still. Occasion lent me for a kindly word To one who is my neighbor and my friend.

THE BAY OF SEVEN ISLANDS-

The skipper sailed out of the harbor month,

Leaving the apple-bloom of the South For the ice of the Eastern aeas, In his fishing schooner Breeze.

Handsome and brave and young was

he, And the maids of Newbury sighed to see His lessening white sail fall Under the sea's blue wall.

Through the Northern Gtilf and the misty screen

Of the i.sles of Miiigan and Madeleine, St, Paul's and Blanc Sablon, The little Breeze sailed on,

Backward and forward, along the shore Of lorn and desolate Labrador, And found at last her way To the Seven Islands Bay.

The little hamlet, nestling below Great hills white with lingering snow, With its tin-roofed chapel stood Half hid in the dwarf spruce wood :

Green-turfed, flower-sown, the last out- post Of summer upon the dreary -coast.

With its gardens small and spare,

Sad in the frosty air.

Hard by where the skipper's schooner lay,

A fisherman's cottage looked away Over isle and bay, and behind On mountains dim-defined.

And there twin sisters, fair and young. Laughed with their stranger guest, and sung In their native tongue the lays Of the old Provencal days.

Alike were they, save the faint out- line

Of a scar on Suzette's forehead fine ; And both, it so befell. Loved the heretic stranger well.

Both were pleasant to look upon, But the heart of the skipper clave to one ; Though less by his eye than heart He knew the twain apart.

Despite of alien race and creed. Well did his wooing of Marguerite speed ; And the mother's wrath was vain As the sister's jealous i)ain.

The shrill-tongued mistress her house

forbade. And solemn warning was sternly said By the black-robed priest, whose

word As law the hamlet heard.

But half by voice and half by signs The skipper said, " A warm sun shines

On the green-banked Merrimac ;

Wait, watch, till I come back.

436

THE BAY OF SEVEN ISLANDS.

" And when jou see, from my mast I But when she saw through the niistj

head, pane,

The signal fly of a kerchief red, The morning break on a sea of rain.

My boat on the shore shall wait ; Come, when the night is late."

Ah ! weighed with childhood's haunts and friends.

And all that the home sky overbends, Did ever young love "fail To turn the trembling scale ?

Under the night, on the wet sea sands, Slowly unclasped their plighted hands : One to the cottage hearth, And one to his sailor's berth.

What was it the parting lovers heard ?

Nor leaf, nor ripple, nor wing of bird. But a listener's stealthy tread On the rock-moss, crisp and dead.

He weighed his anchor, and fished once

more By the black coast-line of Labrador ; And by love and the north wind

driven. Sailed back to the Islands Seven.

In the sunset's glow the sisters twain Saw the Breeze come sailing in again ; Said Suzette, " Mother dear, The heretic's sail is here."

" Go, Marguerite, to your room, and

hide ; Your door shall be bolted ! " the mother cried : While Suzette, ill at ease, Watched the red sign of the Breeze.

At midnight, down to the waiting skiff She stole in the shadow of the cliff; And out of the Bay's mouth ran The schooner with maid and man.

And all night long, on a restless bed. Her prayers to the Virgin Marguerite said ;

And thought of her lover's pain

Waiting for her in vain.

Did he pace the sands ? Did he pause to hear

The sound of her light ."step drawing near? And, as the slow hours ])assed, Would he doubt her faith at la.st ?

Could even her love avail To follow his vanished sail 1

Meantime the Breeze, with favoring wind,

Left the rugged Moisic hills behind. And heard from an unseen shore The falls of Man i ton roar.

On the morrow's morn, in the thick

gray weather They sat on the reeling deck together,

Lover and counterfeit,

Of hapless Marguerite.

With a lover's hand, from her forehead

fair He smoothed away her jet-black hair.

What was it his fond eyes met ?

The scar of the false Suzette !

Fiercely he shouted : " Bear away East by north for Seven Isles Bay ! " The maiden wept and prayed. But the ship her helm obeyed.

Once more the Bay of the Isles they

found : They heard the bell of the chapel sound. And the chant of the dying sung In the harsh, wild Indian tongue.

A feeling of mystery, change, and awe Was in all they heard and all they saw : Spell-bdunil the hamlet lay In the hush of its lonely bay.

And when they came to the cottage

door, The mother rose uj) from her weeping sore, And with angry gestures met The scared lock of Suzette.

" Here is your daughter," the skipper

said ; " Give me the one I love instead."

But the woman sternly spake ;

" Go, see if the dead will wake ! "

He looked. Her sweet face still ana

white And strange in the noonday taper light,

HOW THE WOMEN WENT FROJI DOVER.

437

She lay on her little bed,

With the cross at her feet and head.

In a passion of grief the strong man bent Down to her face, and, kissing it, went Back to the waiting Breeze, Back to the mournful seas.

Never again to the Merrimac

And Newbury's homes that bark came back. Whether her fate she met On the shores of Carraquette,

Miscou, or Tracadie, who can say ?

But even yet at Seven Isles Bay Is tela the ghostly tale Of a weird, unspoken sail.

In the pale, sad light of the Northern day

Seen by the blanketed Montagnais, Or squaw, in her small kyack, Crossing the spectre's track.

On the deck a maiden wrings her hands ;

Her likeness kneels on the gray coast sands ; One in her wild despair, And one in the trance of prayer.

She flits before no earthly blast.

The red sign fluttering from her mast,

Over the solemn seas,

The ghost of the schooner Breeze !

HOW THE WOMEN WENT FROM DOVER.

1662.

TnK tossing spray of Cocheco's fall

Hardened to ice on its rocky wall.

As through Dover town in tlie chill,

gray dawn, Three women passed, at the cart-tail

driiwn ! i

• The following is a copy of the warrant iiiRUud by Major Waulron, of Dover, in 1662. Tlie Qualcers, a.s was their wont, prophe.sied against him, anil saw, as they .supposed, the fulfillment of their prophecy when, many years after, he was killed by the Indians.

To the constables of Dover, Hampton, Salis- bury, Newburij, Kowlei/, Tpsioich, Wen/in?)i Lynn, Boston, Ho.rbury, Dedkam, and until

Bared to the waist, for the north wind's

grip And keener sting of the constable's

whip, The blood that followed each hissing

blow Froze as it sprinkled the winter snow.

Priest and ruler, boy and maid Followed the dismal cavalcade ; And from door and window, open

thrown. Looked and wondered gaffer and crone.

" God is our witness," the victims cried,

" We suffer for Him who for all men died ;

The wrong ye do has been done be- fore.

We bear the stripes that the Master bore !

" And thou, 0 Richard Waldron, for

whom We hear the feet of a coming doom, On thy cruel heart and thy hand of

wrong Vengeance is sure, though it tarry long.

" In the light of the Lord, a flame we

see Climb and kindle a proud roof-tree ; And beneath it an old man lying dead. With stains of blood on his hoary head."

these vagabond Quakers are carried out nf this jurisdiction.

You, and every one of you, are required, in the King's Majesty "s name, to take these vaga- bond Quakers, Anne Colman, Mary Tonikin?, and Alice Ambrose, and make them fast to the cart's tail, and driving the cart through your several towns, to whip them upon their naked backs not exceeding ten stripes apiece on each of them, in each town ; and so to convey them from constable to constable till they are out of this jurisdiction, as you will answer it at your peril ; and this shall be your warrant.

Richard VTaldron.

Dated at Dover, December 22, 1662.

This warrant was executed only in Dover and Hampton. At Salisbury the constable re- fused to obey it. He was sustained by the town's people, who were under the intluence of -Major Robert Pike, the leading man in the lower Valley of the Merrimac, who stood far in advance of his time, as an advocate of religious freedom, and an opponent of ecclesiastical au- thority. He had the moral courage to address .in able and manly letter to the court at Salem, remonstrating against the witchcraft trials.

438

HOW THE WOMEN WENT FROM DOVER.

" Smite, Soodman Hate-Evil ! — harder still ! "

The magistrate cried, "lay on with a will!

Drive out of their bodies the Father of Lies,

Who through them preaches and proph- esies ! "'

So into the forest they held their way, By winding river and frost - rimmed

'oay. Over wiud-swept hills that felt the beat Of the winter sea at their icy feet.

The Indian hunter, searching his traps, Peered stealthily through the forest

gaps; And the outlying settler shook his

head, — " They 're witches going to jail," he said.

At last a meeting-house came in \new ; A blast on his horn the constable blew ; And the boys of Hampton cried up and

down, " The Quakers have come ! " to the

wondering town.

From barn and woodpile the goodman came ;

The good wife quitted her quilting frame,

With her child at her breast ; and, hob- bling slow,

The grandam followed to see the show.

Once more the torturing whip was swung,

Once more keen lashes the bare flesh stung.

" Oh, spare ! they are bleeding ! " a lit- tle maid cried.

And covered her face the sight to hide.

A nnirmur ran rourd the crowd : " Good

folks," Quoth the constable, busy counting the

strokes, " No pity to wretches like these is due. They have beaten the gospel black and

blue ! "

Tlien a pallid woman, in wild - eyed

fear, With her wooden noggin of milk drew

neax.

" Drink, poor hearts ! " a rude hand

smote Her draught away from a parching

throat.

" Take heed," one whispered, " they '11

take your cow For fines, as they took your horse and

plow. And the bed from under you." " Even

so," She said. " They are cruel as death, I

know."

Then on they passed, in the waning

day, Through Seabrook woods, a weariful

wa}- ; By great salt meadows and sand-hills

bare, And glimpses of blue sea here and there.

By the meeting-house in Salisbury

town. The sufferer.s stood, iu the red sun- down. Bare for the lash ! O pitying Night, Drop swift thy curtain and hide the sight !

With shame in his eye and wrath on his

lip The Salisbury constable dropped his

whip. " This warrant means murder foul and

red ; Cursed is he who serves it," he said.

" Show me the order, and meanwhile

strike A blow at vour peril ! " said Justice

Pike. ' Of all the rulers the land possessed. Wisest and boldest was he aud best.

He scoffed at witchcraft; the priest he met

As man meets man ; his feet he set

Beyond his dark age, standing up- right.

Soul-free, with his face to the morning light.

He read the warrant : "These convpy From our precincts ; at every town on tfn wav

A SUMMER PILGRIMAGE.

439

Give each (en lashes." " God judge the

brute ! I tread his order under ni}' foot !

" Cut loose these poor ones and let them

go; Come what will of it, all men shall know No warrant is good, though backed by

the Crown, For whipping women in Salisbury

town ! "

The hearts of the villagers, half re- leased From creed of terror and rule of priest. By a primal instinct owned the right Of human pity in law.'s despite.

For ruth and chivalry only slept. His Saxon manhood the yeoman kept ; Quicker or slower, the same blood ran In the Cavalier and the Puritan.

The Quakers sank ou their knees in

praise And thanks. A last, low sunset blaze Flashed out from under a cloud, and

shed A golden glory on each bowed head.

The tale is one of an evil time,

When souls were fettered and thought

was crime, And heresy's whisper above its breath Meant shameful scourging and bonds

and death !

What marvel, that hunted and sorely

tried. Even woman rebuked and prophesied. And soft words rarely answered back The grim persuasion of whip and rack.'

If her cry from tlie svhipping-post and

jail Pierced sharp as the Kenite's driven

nail, O woman, at ease in these happier days. Forbear to judge of thy sister's ways !

How much thy beautiful life may owe

To her faith and courage thou canst not know.

Nor how from the paths of thy calm re- treat

She smoothed the thorns with her bleed- ing feet.

A SUMMER PILGRIMAGE.

To kneel before some saintly shrine, To breathe the health of airs divine, Or bathe where sacred rivers flow. The cowled and turbaned pilgrims go. I too, a palmer, take, as they With staff and scallop-shell, my way To feel, from burdening cares and ills, The strong uplifting of the hills.

The years are many since, at first, For dreamed-of wonders all athirst, I saw on Winuepesaukee fall The shadow of the moimtain wall. Ah ! where are they who sailed with me The beautiful island-studded sea? And am I he whose keen surprise Flashed out from such unclouded eyes ?

Still, when the sun of .summer burns. My longing for the hills returns ; And northward, leaving at my back The warm vale of the Merrimac, I go to meet the winds of morn. Blown down the hill - gapis, niountaia-

born. Breathe scent of pines, and satisfy The hunger of a lowland eye.

Again I see the day decline Along a ridged horizon line ; Touching the hill-tops, as a nun Her beaded rosary, sinks the sun. One lake lies golden, which shall soon Be silver in the rising moon ; And one, the crimson of the skies And mountain purple multiplies.

With the untroubled quiet blends The distance-softened voice of friends ; The girl's light laugh no discord bringj: To the low song the pine-tree sings ; And, not unwelcome, comes the hail Of boyhood from his nearing sail. The human presence breaks no spell. And sunset still is miracle !

Calm as the hour, methinks I feel A sense of worship o'er me steal ; Not that of satyr-charming Pan, No cult of Nature shaming man. Not Beauty's self, hut that which lives And shines through all the veils it

weaves, — Soul of the mountain, lake, and wood, Their witness to the Eternal Good 1

440

THE ROCK-TOiMB OF BRADORE.

And if, by fond illusion, here

The earth to heaven seems drawing

near, And yon outlying range invites To other and sereiier heights, Scarce hid behind its topmost swell, The shining Mounts Delectable ! A dream may hint of truth no less Than the sharp light of wakefulness.

As through her veil of incense smoke Of old the spell-rapt priestess spoke. More than her heathen oracle, May not this trance of sunset tell That Nature's forms of loveliness Their heavenly archetypes confess, Fashioned like Israel's ark alone From patterns in the Mount made known ?

A holier beauty overbroods

These fair and faint similitudes ;

Yet not unblest is he who sees

Shadows of God's realities.

And knows beyond this masquerade

( )f shape and color, light and shade.

And dawn and set, and wax and

wane, Eternal verities remain.

O gems of sapphire, granite set !

0 hills that charmed iiorizoiis fret !

1 know how fair your morns can break. In rosy light on isle and lake ;

How over wooded slopes can run The noonday play of cloud and sun. And evening droop her oriflamme Of gold and red in still Asquam.

The summer moons may round again, And careless feet these hills profane ; These sunsets waste on vacant eyes The lavish splendor of the skies ; Fashion and folly, misplaced here. Sigh for their natural atmosphere, -Viid traveled pride the outlook scorn ( 'f lesser heights than Matterhorn :

Hut let me dream that hill and sky Of unseen beauty prophesy ; And in these tinted lakes behold The trailing of the raiment fold Of that which, still eluding gaze, Allures to upward -tentling ways, Whose footprints make, wherever found, Our common earth a holy ground.

THE ROCK-TOMB OF BRADORE

A DREAR and desolate shore ! Where no tree unfolds its leaves, And never the spring wind weaves Green grass for the hunter's tread A land forsaken and dead, Where the ghostly icebergs go And come with the ebb and flow

Of the waters of Bradore !

A wanderer, from a land

By Slimmer breezes fanned,

Looked round him, awed, subdued,

By the dreadful solitude,

Hearing alone the cry

Of sea-birds clanging by,

The crash and grind of the floe.

Wail of wind and Wiish of tide.

" 0 wretched land ! " he cried,

" L \nd of all lands the worst,

God forsaken and curst !

Thy gates of rock should show

"The words the Tuscan seer Read in the Realm of Woe :

Hope entereth not here ! "

Lo ! at his feet there stood A block of smooth larch wood. Waif of some wandering wave, Beside a rock-closed cave By Nature fashioned for a grave. Safe from the ravening bear And fierce fowl of the air. Wherein to rest was laid A twenty summers' maid, Whose blood had equal share Of the lands of vine and snow. Half French, half Eskimo. In letters uneffaced, Upon the block were traced The grief and hope of man, And thus the legend ran :

" We loved her ! Words cannot tell how well !

We loved her!

God loved her ! And called her home to jieace and rest

We love her ! "

The stranger paused and read.

" O winter land ! " he said,

" Thy right to be I own ;

God leaves thee not alone.

And if thy fierce winds blow

Over drear wastes of rock and snow,

THE WISHING BRIDGE.

441

And at thy iron gates The ghostly iceberg waits,

Thy homes aud hearts are dear. Thy sorrow o'er thy sacred dust Is sanctified by hope aud trust ;

God's love aud man's are here. And love where'er it goes Makes its own atmosphere ; Its flowers of Paradise Take root in the eternal ice,

And bloom through Polar snows ! "

STORM ON LAKE ASQUAM.

A CLOUD, like that the old-time Hebrew saw On Carmel prophesying rain, be- gan To lift itself o'er wooded Cardigan, Growing and blackening. Suddenly, a flaw

Of chill wind menaced ; then a strong blast beat Down the long valley's murmuring

pines, and woke The noon-dream of the sleeping lake, and broke Its smooth steel mirror at the moun- tains' feet.

Thunderous and vast, a fire -veined darkness swept Over the rough pine-bearded Asquam

range ; A wraith of tempest, wonderful and strange. From peak to peak the cloudy giant stepped.

One moment, as if cliallenging the storm, Chocorua's tall, defiant sentinel Looked from his watcli- tower ; then the shadow fell, And the wild rain-drift blotted out his form.

And over all the still unhidden sun. Weaving its light through slant- blown veils of rain. Smiled on tlie trouble, as hope smiles on ])ain ; And, when the tumult and the strife were done.

With one foot on the lake and one on laud. Framing within his crescent's tinted

streak A far-off picture of the Melvin peak, Spent broken clouds the rainbow's an- gel spanned.

THE WISHING BRIDGE.

Among the legends sung or said

Along our rocky shore. The Wishing Bridge of Marblehead

May well be sung once more.

An hundred years ago (so ran

The old-time story) all Good wishes said above its span

Would, soon or late, befall.

If pure and earnest, never failed The prayers of man or maid

For him who on the deep sea sailed, For her at home who stayed.

Once thither came two girls from school, And wished in childish glee :

And one would be a queen and rule, And one the world would see.

Time passed ; with change of hopes and fears.

And in the self-same place. Two women, gray with middle years,

Stood, wondering, face to face.

With wakened memories, as they met, They queried what had been :

" A poor man's wife am I, and yet," Said one, " I am a queen.

" My realm a little homestead is. Where, lacking crown and throne,

I rule by loving services And patient toil alone."

The other said : " The great world lies

Beyond me as it laid ; O'er love's and duty's boundaries

My feet have never strayed.

" I see but common sights of liome.

Its common sounds I hear, My widowed mother's siek-bed room

SulBceth for my sphere.

442

THE MYSTIC S CHRISTMAS.

" I read to her some pleasant page

Of travel far aud wide, And in a dreamy pilgrimage

We wander side by side.

" And when, at last, she falls asleep,

My book becomes to me A magic glass : my watch I keep,

But all the world I see.

" A farm-wife queen your place you fill,

While fancy's privilege Is mine to walk the earth at will,

Thanks to the Wishing Bridge."

" Nay, leave the legend for the truth,"

The otlier cried, '" and say God gives the wishes of our youth

But in His own best way ! "

THE MYSTIC'S CHRISTMAS.

" All hail ! " the bells of Christmas

rang, " All hail ! " the monks at Christmas

sang, The merry monks vrho kept with cheer The gladdest day of all their year.

But still apart, unmoved thereat, A ])ious elder brother sat Silent, in his accustomed place. With God's sweet peace upon his face.

■'Why sitt'st thou thus ? " his brethren

cried. " It is the blessed Christmas-tide ; The Christmas lights .ire all aglow. The sacred lilies bud and blow.

" Above our heads the joy-bells ring, Without the happy children sing, And all God's creatures hail the morn On which the holy Christ was bom !

" Rejoice with us ; no more rebuke Our gladness with thy quiet look." The gray monk answered : " Keep, I

pray. Even as ye list, the Lord's birthday.

" Let heathen Yule fires flicker red Where thronged refectory feasts are

spread ; With mystery.play and ma.sque and mime And wait-songs speed the holy time 1

" The blindest faith may haply save ; The Lord accepts the things we have; Aud reverence, howsoe'er it strays, May find at last the shining waj-s.

" They needs must grope who cannot

see. The blade before the ear must be ; As ye are feeling I have felt, And where ye dwell I too have dwelt.

" But now, beyond the things of sense, Beyond occasions and events, I know, through God's exceeding grace, Release from form and time and place.

" I listen, from no mortal tongue. To hear the song the angels sung ; And wait within myself to know The Christmas lilies bud and blow.

" The outward symbols disappear From him whose inward sight is clear; Aud small mu.st be the choice of days To him who fills them all with praise 1

" Kcej) while you need it, brothers mine, With honest zeal your Christmas sign, But judge not him who every morn Feels in his heart the Lord Christ born ! "

WHAT THE TRAVELER SAID AT SUNSET.

The shadows grow and deepen round me,

I feel the dew-fall in the air ; The muezzin of the darkening thicket

I hear the night-thrush call to prayer.

The evening wind is sad with farewells, Aud loving hands unclasp from mine ;

Alone I go to meet the darkness Across an awful boundary -line.

As from the lighted hearths behind me

I pass with slow, reluctant feet, What waits me in the land of strange- ness ? What face shall smile, what voice sh<"?ll greet ?

What sp xce. shall .awe, what brightness blind me ? What thunder-roll of music stun ?

A GREETING.

443

Whi-.; vast processions sweep before me ()£ shapes unknown beneath the sun ?

1 shrink from unaccustomed glory, I dread the myriad-voiced strain ;

Give me tlie unforgotten faces, And let my lost ones speak again.

Pie will not chide my mortal yearning Who is our Brother and our Friend ;

In whose full life, divine and human. The heavenly and the earthly blend.

Mine be the joy of soul-comnnuiion, The sense of spiritual strengih re- newed,

The reverence for the pure and holy, The dear delight of doing good.

No fitting ear is mine to listen An endless anthem's rise and fall;

No curious eye is mine to measure The pearl gate and the jasper wall.

For love must needs be more than knowl- edge :

What matter if I never know Why Aldebaran's star is ruddy.

Or warmer Sirius white as snow !

Forgive my human words, O Father !

I go Thy larger truth to prove ; Thy mercy shall transcend my longing :

1 seek but love, and Thou art Love !

I go to find my lost and mourned for Safe in Thy sheltering goodness still,

And all that hope and faith foreshadow Made perfect in Thy holy will '.

A GREETING.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE'S SEVENTI- ETH ANNIVERSARY, 1882.

TiiRicE welcome from the Land of

Flowers And golden-fruited orange bowers To this sweet, green - turfed June of

ours ! To lier who, in our evil time, Dragged into light the nation's crime With strength beyond the strength of

nuui, j

And, mightier than their swords, her [

pen ! I

To her who world-wide entrance gave To the loy-cabin of the slave ; Made all his wrongs and sorrows known, And all eartli's languages his own, — North, South, and East and West, made

all The common air electrical, Until the o'ercharged bolts of heaven Blazed down, and every chain was

riven !

Welcome from each and all to her Whose Wooing of the Minister Revealed the warm heart of the man Beneath the creed-bound Puritan, And taught the kinship of the love Of man below and God above ; To her whose vigorous pencil-strokes Sketched into life her Oldtown Folks, — Whose fireside stories, grave or gay, In quaint Sam Lawson's vagrant way, With old New England's flavor rife, Waifs from her rude idyllic life. Are racy as the legends old By Chaucer or Boccaccio told ; To her who keeps, through change of

place And time, her native strength and grace, Alike where warm Sorrento smiles, Or where, by birchen-shaded isles. Whose summer winds have shivered

o'er The icy drift of Labrador, She lifts to light the priceless Pearl Of Harpsweli's angel-beckoned girl ! To her at threescore years and ten Be tributes of the tongue and pen ; Be honor, praise, and heart-thanks given, The loves of earth, the hopes of heaven !

Ah, dearer than the praise that stirs The air to-day, our love is hers ! She needs no guaranty of fame Whose own is linked with Freedom's

name. Long ages after ours shall keep Her memory living while we sleep ; The waves that wash our gray coast

lines. The winds that rock the Southern pines. Shall sing of her ; the unending years Shall tell her tale in unborn ears. And when, with sins and follies past, Are numbered color-hate and caste, White, black, and red shall own as

one The noblest work by woman done.

444

WILSON.

WILSON.i

The lowliest born of all the land, He wrung from Fate's reluctant hand

The sifts which happier boyhood claims ; And, tasting on a thankless soil The bitter bread of unpaid toil,

He fed his soul with noble aims.

And Nature, kindly provident. To him the future's promise lent ;

The powers that shape man's destinies, Patience and faith and toil, he knew. The close horizon round him grew,

Broad with great possibilities.

By the low hearth-fire's fitful blaze He read of old heroic days,

The sage's thought, the patriot's speech ; Unhelped, alone, himself he taught. His school the craft at which he wrought.

His lore the book within his reach.

He felt his country's need ; he knew The work her children had to do ;

And when, at last, lie heard the call In her behalf to serve and dare, Beside his senatorial chair

He stood the unquestioned peer of all.

Beyond the accident of birth

He proved his simple manhood's worth;

Ancestral pride and classic grace Confessed the large-brained artisan, So clear of sight, so wise in plan

And counsel, equal to his place.

With glance intuitive he saw Through all disguise of form and law,

And read men like an open book ; Fearless and tirm, he never quailed Nor turned aside for threats, nor failed

To do the thing he undertook.

How wise, how brave, he was, how well lie bore himself, let history tell

While waves our Hag o'er land and sea. No black thread in its warp or weft ; He found dissevered States, he left

A grateful Nation, strong and free !

' Read at the Massachusetts Club on the SCT- entietb anniversary of the birthday of Vice- President Wilson.

IN MEMORY.

As a guest who may not stay Long and sad farewells to say Glides with smiling face away.

Of the sweetness and the zest Of thy happy life possessed Thou hast left us at thy best.

Warm of heart and clear of brain,

Of thy sun-bright spirit's wane Thou hast spared us all the pain.

Now that thou hast gone away. What is left of one to say Who was open as the day 1

What is there to gloss or shun ? Save with kindly voices none Speak thy name beneath the sun.

Safe thou art on every side. Friendship nothing finds to hide, Love's demand is satisfied.

Over manly strength and worth, At thy desk of toil, or hearth. Played the lambent light of mirth, —

Mirth that lit, but never burned ; All thy blame to pity turned ; Hatred thou hadst never learned.

Every harsh and vexing thing At thy home-fire lost its sting ; Where thou wast was always spring.

And thy perfect trust in good, Faith in man and womanhood, Chance and change and time with stood.

Small respect for cant and whine, j Bigot's zeal and hate malign. Had that sunny soul of thine.

But to thee was duty's claim Sacred, and thy lips became Reverent with one holy Name.

Therefore, on thy unknown way, Go in (jod's peace ! We who stay But a little wiiile delay.

RABBI ISHMAEL.

445

Keep for us, 0 friend, where'er Thou art waitiug, all that here Made thy earthly presence dear ;

Something of thy pleasant past On a ground of wonder cast, In the stiller waters glassed !

Keep the human heart of thee ; Let the mortal only be Clothed in immortality.

And when fall our feet as fell

Tliiue upon the asphodel,

Let thy old smile greet us well ;

Proving in a world of bliss What we fondly dream in this, — Love is one with holiness !

THE POET AND THE CHIL- DREN.

With a glory of winter sunshine

Over his locks of gray, In the old historic mansion

He sat on his last birthday ;

With his books and his pleasant jiic- tures.

And his household and liis kin. While a sound as of myriads singing

From far and near stole in.

It came from his own fair city,

From the prairie's boundless jilain.

From the Golden Gate of sunset. And the cedarn woods of Maine.

And his heart grew warm within him. And his moistening eyes grew dim.

For he knew that his country's chil- dren Were singing the songs of him :

The lays of his life's glad morning. The psalms of his evening time,

Whose echoes shall float forever On tiie winds of every clime.

All their beautiful consolations. Sent forth like birds of cheer,

Canii" flocking back to iiis windows, And sang in the Poet's ear.

Grateful, but solemn and tender,

The music rose and fell With a joy akin to sadness

And a greeting like farewell.

With a sense of awe he listened To the voices sweet and young ;

The last of earth and the first of heaven Seemed in the songs they sung.

And waiting a little longer

For the Avonderful change to come, He heard the Summoning Angel,

Who calls God's children home !

And to him in a holier welcome Was the n)ystical meaning given

Of the words of the blessed Master : " Of such is the kingdom of heaven ! "

RABBI ISHMAEL.

The Rabbi Ishmael,with the woe and sin Of the world heavy upon him, entering

in The Holy of Holies, saw an awful Face With terrible splendor filling all the

place. " O Ishmael Ben Eli.sha ! " said a voice, " What seekest thou 1 What blessing

is thy choice "? " And, knowing that he stood before the

Lord, Within the shadow of the cherubim, Wide-winged between the blinding light

and him. He bowed liiniself, and uttered not a

word, But in the silence of his soul was prayer : " O Thou Eternal ! I am one of all. And nothing ask that others may not

share. Thou art almighty ; we are weak and

small, And yet thy children : let thy mercy

spare ! " Trembling, he raised his eyes, and in the

place Of the insufferable glory, lo ! a face Of more than mortal tenderness, that

bent Graciously down in token of assent. And, smiling, vanished ! Witli strange

joy elate. The wondering Rabbi sought the tem- ple's gate.

446

VALUATION.

Radiant as Moses from the Mount, he stood

And cried aloud unto the multitude :

" O Israel, liear ! The Lord our God is good!

Mine eyes have seen his glory and his grace ;

Beyond his judgments shall liis love en- dure ;

The mercy of the All Merciful is sure ! "

VALUATION.

The old Squire said, as he stood by his gate, And his neighbor, the Deacon, went by, "In spite of my bank stock and real estate. You are better off, Deacon, than I.

" We 're both growing old, and the end 's drawing near, You have less of this world to resign. But in Heaven's appraisal your assets, I fear, Will reckon up greater than mine.

" They say I am rich, but I 'm feeling so poor, I wish I could swap with you even : The pounds I have lived for and laid up in store For the shillings and pence you have given."

" Well, Sfjuire," said the Deacon, with

shrewd common sense,

While his eye had a twinkle of fnn,

" Let your })ounds take the way of my

shilliny:s and pence.

And the thing can be easily done I "

WINTER ROSES.i

My garden roses long ago

Have ]ierished from the leaf-stvown walks ; Their pale, fair sisters smile no more

Upon the sweet-brier stalks.

' Tn i-pply to a flower gift from !Mrs. I'utiianr: I'liiii^i :it .hitiiuica I'laiD.

Gone with the flower-time of my life, Spring's violets, summer's blooming jjride,

And Nature's winter and my own Stand, flowerless, side by side.

So might I yesterday have sung ;

To-day, in bleak December's noon. Come sweetest fragrance, shapes, and hues.

The rosy wealth of June !

Bless the young hands that culled the gift,

And bless the hearts that prompted it ; If undeserved it comes, at least

It ^eems not all unlit.

Of old my Quaker ancestors

Had gifts of forty stripes save one ;

To-day as many roses crown The gray head of their son.

And with llieni, to my fancy's eye. The fresli-fuced gi\'ers smilin;; come.

And nine ami thirty happy girls Make glad a lonely room.

They bring the atmosjihere of youth ;

The light and warmth of long ago Are in my heart, and on my cheek

The airs of morning blow.

O buds of girlhood, yet unblown, And fairer than the gift ye chose,

For you may years like leaves unfold The heart of Sharon's rose !

HYMN.

(for Tin; AMKUICAN HORTICin/niRAl SOCIETV.)

1882.

O Paintku of the fruits and flowers,

We own Thy wise design, Whereby these human hands of ours

May share the work of Thine !

Apart from Thee we plant in vain

The root and sow the sce<l ; Thy early and Thy later rain,

'riiy sua and dew wc need.

Our toil is sweet with thankfulness, Our burden is our boon ;

AT LAST.

441

The curse of Earth's gray morning is The blessing of its noon.

Why search the wide workl everywhere For Eden's unknown ground 1 —

That garden of the primal pair May nevermore be found.

But, blest by Thee, our patient toil May right the ancient wrong,

And give to every clime and soil The beauty lost so long.

Our homestead flowers and fruited trees May Eden's orchard shame ;

We taste the tempting sweets of these Like Eve, without her blame.

And, North and South and East and West

The pride of every zone, The fairest, rarest, and the best

May all be made our own.

Its earliest shrines the young world sought

In hill-groves and in bowers. The fittest offerings thither brought

Were Thy own fruits and flowers.

And still with reverent hands we cull Thy gifts each year renewed ;

The good is always beautiful. The beautiful is good.

GODSPEED.

Outbound, your bark awaits you. Were I one Whose prayer availeth much, my

wish should be Your favoring trade-wind and con- senting sea. By sail or steed was never love outrun. And, here or there, love follows her in whom All graces and sweet charities unite. The old Greek beauty set in holier light ; And her for whom New P^ngland's by- ways bloom. Who walks among us welcome as the Spring, ('ailing up blossoms where her light

feet stray. God ket'p you both, make beautiful your way.

Comfort, console, and bless ; and safely

bring, Ere yet I make upon a vaster sea The unreturning voyage, my friends to

me.

AT LAST.

When on my day of life the night is falling, And, in the winds from unsunneil spaces blown, I hear far voices out of darkness calling My feet to paths unknown,

Thou who hast made my home of life so pleasant. Leave not its tenant when its walls decay ;

0 Love Divine, 0 Helper ever present. Be Thou my strength and stay !

Be near me when all else is from me drifting : Earth, sky, home's pictures, days of shade and shine. And kindly faces to my own uplifting The love which answers mine.

1 have but Thee, my Father ! let Thy

spirit

Be with me then to comfort and up- hold ; No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit.

Nor street of shining gold.

Suffice it if — my good and ill unreck- oned. And both forgiven through Thy aboun- ding grace — I find myself by hands familiar beck- oned Unto my fitting place.

Some humble door among Thy many mansions. Some sheltering shade where sin and striving cease. And flows forever through heaven's green expansions The river of Thy peace.

There, from the music round about me stealing, ' I fain would learn the new and holy song,

448

OUR COUNTRY.

And find at last, beneath Thy trees of healing, The life for wliich I long.

OUR COUNTRY.

RBAD AT WOODSTOCK, CONN., JULY

4, 1883.

We give thy natal day to hope, O Country of our love and prayer !

Thy way i.s down no fatal slope, But up to freer sun and air.

Tried as by furnace-fires, and yet Ey God's grace only stronger made,

In future task before thee set

Thou shalt not lack the old-time aid.

The fathers sleep, but men remain As wise, as true, and brave as they ;

Wily count the loss and not the gain ? — The best is that we have to-day.

Whate'er of folly, shame, or crime, Within thy mighty bounds transpires,

With speed defying sj)ace and time Comes to us on the accusing wires ;

While of thy wealth of noble deeds. Thy homes of peace, thy votes un- .sold, The love that i)leads for human needs, Tlie wrong redressed, but half is told!

We read each felon's chronicle.

His acts, Ills words, his gnllows-mood ;

We know the single sinner well And not the nine and ninety good.

Yet if, on daily scandals fed.

We seem at times to doubt thy worth. We know thee still, when all is said.

The best and dearest spot on earth.

From the warm Mexic Gulf, or where Belted with flowers Los Angeles

Basks in the semi tropic air,

To where Katahdiu's cedar trees

Are dwarfed and bent by Northern winds.

Thy j)lenty's horn is yearly filled ; Alone, the rounding century linds

Thy liberal soil by free bauds tilled.

A refuge for the wronged and poor, Thy generous heart has borne tin; blame That, with them, through thy open door. The old world's evil outcasts came.

But, with thy just and equal rule. And labor's need and breadth of lands, Free press and rostrum, church and school, Thy sure, if slow, transforming hands.

Shall mould even them to thy design, Making a blessing of the ban ;

And Freedom's chemistry combine The alien elements of man.

The power that broke their prison bar i\}id set the dusky millions free.

And welded in the flame of war The Union fast to Liberty,

Shall it not deal with other ills.

Redress the red man's grievance, break The Circean cup which shames and kills, And Labor full requital make ?

■Alone to such as fitly bear

Thy civic honors bid them fall ?

And call ihy daughters forth to share The rights and duties ])ledged to all /

Give every child his right of school. Merge jjrivate greed in public good,

And spare a treasury overfull The tax upon a jioor man's food ?

No lack was in thy primal stock. No weakling founders builded here ;

Thin(! were the men of I'lymouth Rock, The Huguenot and Cavalier;

And they whose firm endurance gained

The freedom of the souls of men, Whose hands, unstained with blood, maintained. The swordless commonwealth of Penn.

And thine -shall be the power of all To do the work which duty bids.

And mak(! ihe pc()])le's council liall As lasting as the Pyramids !

AN AUTOGRAPH.

4i9

Well have thy later years made good Thy brave-said word a century back,

The pledge of human brotherhood, The equal claim of white and black.

That word still echoes round the world, And all who hear it turn to thee,

And read upon thy flag unfurled The prophecies of destiny.

Thy great world-lesson all .shall learn, The nations in thy school shall sit,

Earth's farthest mountain - tops shall burn With watch-fires from thy own uplit.

Great witliout seeking to be great By fraud or conquest, rich in gold,

But richer in the large estate

Of virtue which thy children hold,

With peace that comes of purity And strength to simple justice due,

So runs our loyul dream of thee ; God of our fatiiers ! — make it true.

O Laud of lauds ! to thee we give

Our prayers, our hopes, our service free ;

For thee thy sons shall nobly live. And at tliy need shall die for thee !

THE " STORY OF IDA."

Weaky of jangling noises never stilled, The skeptic's sneer, the bigot's hate,

the din Of clashing texts, the webs of creed men spin Round simple truth, the children grown

who build Witli gilded cards their new Jerusa- lem, Busy, with sacerdotal tailorings And tinsel gauds, bedizening holy things I turn, with glad and gratefid heart,

from them To the sweet story of the Florentine Immortal in her blameless maiden- hood, Beautiful as God's angels and as good ; Feeling that life, even now, may be di- vine

With love no wrong can ever change to hate.

No sin make less than all-compassion- ate !

AN AUTOGRAPH.

I WRITE my name as one. On sands by waves o'errun Or winter's frosted pane. Traces a record vain.

Oblivion's blankness claims Wiser and better names, And well my own may pass As from the strand or glass.

Wash on, 0 waves of time ! Melt, noons, the frosty rime ! Welcome the shadow vast. The silence that shall last !

When I and all who know And love me vanish so. What harm to them or me Will the lost memory be ?

If any words of mine, Through right of life divine. Remain, what matters it Whose hand the message writ ?

Why should the " crowner's quest " Sit on my worst or best ? Wh}" should the showman claim The poor ghost of my name '!

Yet, as when dies a sound Its spectre lingers round. Haply my spent life will Leave some faint echo still.

A whisper giving breath Of praise or blame to death, Soothing or saddening such As loved the living much.

Therefore with yearnings vain And fond I still would fain A kindly judgment seek, A tender thought bespeak.

And, while my words are read.

Let this at least be said : ' Whate'er his life's defeatures, He loved his fuUow-creaturea.

450

SAINT GREGORY S GUEST.

' If, of the Law's stone table, To hold he scarce was able The first great precept fast. He kept for man the last.

' Through mortal lapse and dullness What lacks the Eternal Fullness, If still our weakness can Love Him in loving man ?

' Age brought him no despairing Of the world's future faring ; In human nature still He found more good than ill.

" To all who dumbly suffered, His tongue and pen he offered ; His life was not his own, Nor lived for self alone.

" Hater of din and riot He lived in days unquiet ; And, lover of all beauty, Trod the hard ways of duty.

" He meant no wrong to any He sought the good of many, Yet knew both sin and folly, — May God forgive him wholly ! "

SAINT GREGOKY'S GUEST,

AND RECENT POEMS.

TO GEN. S. C. ARMSTRONG, OF HAMPTON, VA.,

WHOSE GENEROCS AND SELF-DESTIXG LABORS FOR THE ELEVATION OP TWO RACES HAVE

ENLISTED MT SYMPATHIES AND COMMANDED MY ADMIRATION,

I OFFER THIS VOLUME.

SAINT GREGORY'S GUEST.

A TALE for Roman guides to tell

Tucareloss, sitrht-worn travellers still.

Who pause l>oside the narrow cell Of Gregory on the Caelian Hill.

One day before the monk's door came A beggar, stretching empty palms,

Fainting and fast-sick, in the name Of the Moet Holy asking alms.

And the moijk answered, " All I have In this poG< cell of mine I give,

Tiie silver cu»- my mother gave ;

In Christ's name take thou it, and live."

Years passed ; jind, called at last to bear I'astoral err ok and keys of Rome,

riie poor muirc, in Saint Peter's chair, Sat the crov yicd lord of Chrisiendoin.

" Prepare a feast," Saint Gregory cried, " And let twelve beggars sit thereat." The beggars came, and one beside. An unknown stranger, with them sat.

" I asked thee not," the Pontiff spake, " O stranger ; but if need be thine,

I bid thee welcome, for the sake

Of Him who is thy Lord and mine.'

A grave, calm face the stranger raised, Like His who on Gennesaret trod.

Or Ilis on whom the Chaldeans gazed. Whose form was as the Son of God.

"Know'st thou," he said, " thy gift of old ? "

And in the hand he lifted up The Pontiff marvelled to behold

Once more his mother's silver cup

REVELATION.

451

"Thy prayers ami alms have'risen,and bloom

Sweetly amonr^ tlie flowers of heaven. I am The Wonderful, through whom

Whate'er thou askest shall be given."

He spake and vanished. Gregory fell With his twelve guests in mute accord

Prone on their faces, knowing well Their eyes of fliesh had seen the Lord.

The old-time legend is not vain;

Nor vain thy art, Verona's Paul, Telling it o'er and o'er again

On gray Vicenza's frescoed wall.

Still wheresoever pity shares

Its bread with sorrow, want, and sin, And love the beggar's feast prepares.

The uninvited Guest comes in.

Unheard, because our ears are dull, Unseen, because our eyes are dim.

He walks our earth. The Wonderful, And all good deeds are done to Him.

REVELATION.

" And I went inti the Vale of Beavor, and a.s I went I preachtd repentance to the peo- ple. And one morning, sitting by the fire, a great cloud came over me, and a temptation be.set me. And it was said : All things name hy Nature ; and the Elements and the Stars came over me. And as 1 sat still and let it alone, a living hope arose in me, and a true Voice which said : There is a living God who made all things. And immediately the cloud and the temptation vanished, and Life rose over all, and my heart was glad and I praised the Living God.'' — Journal of George Fox, 1690.

Still as of old, in Beavor's Vale, 0 man of God ! our hope and faith

The Elements and Stars assail,

And the awed spirit holds its breath, Blown over by a wind of death.

Takes Nature thought for such as we, What place her human atom fills,

The weed-drift of her careless sea, The mist on her unheeding hills? What recks she of our helpless wills ?

Strange god of Force, with fear, nof love. Its trembling worshipper ! Can prayer

Reach the shut ear of Fate, or move Unpitying Energy to spare ? What doth the cosmic Vastuess care 1

In vain to this dread Unconcern For the All-Father's love we look ;

In vain, in quest of it, we turn

The storied leaves of Nature's book, The prints her rocky tablets took.

I pray for faith, I long to trust ; I listen with my heart, and hear

A voice without a sound : " Be just, Be true, be merciful, revere The Word within thee : God is near !

" A light to sky and earth unknown Pales all their lights : a mightier force

Than theirs the powers of Nature own, And, to its goal as at its source His Spirit moves the Universe.

" Believe and trust. Through stars and suns. Through life and death, through soul and sense. His wise, paternal purpose runs ; The darkness of His providence Is star-lit with benign intents."

0 joy supreme ! I know the Voice, Like none beside on earth or sea ;

Yea, more, O soul of mine, rejoice, By all that He requires of me, I know what God himself must be.

No picture to my aid I call,

I shape no image in my prayer ;

1 only know in Him is all

Of life, light, beauty, everywhere, Eternal Goodness here and there!

I know He is, and what He is,

Whose one great purpose is the good

Of all. I rest my soul on His Immortal Love and Fatherhood ; And trust Him, as His children should.

I fear no more. The clouded face Of Nature smiles ; through all her things

Of time and space and sense I trace The moving of the Spirit's wings, And hear the song of hope she sings.

i52

THE WOOD GIANT.

ADJUSTMENT.

THE WOOD GIANT.

The tree of Faith its bare, dry boughs ! must shed That nearer heaven the living ones

may climb ; The false must fail, though from our shores of time The old lament be heard, — " Great

Pan is dead ! " That wail is Error's, from his high place hurled ; This sharp recoil is Evil undertrod ; Our time's uurest, an angel sent of God Troubling with life the waters of the

world. Even as they list the winds of the Spirit blow To turn or break our ceutury -rusted

vanes ; Sands shift and waste ; the rock alone remains Where, led of Heaven, the strong tides

come and go. And storm-clouds, rent by thunderbolt

and wind, Leave, free of mist, the permanent stars behind.

Therefore I trust, although to outward .sense Both true and false seem shaken ; I

will hold With uewer light my reverence for the old, And calmly wait the births of Provi- dence. No gain is lost ; the clear-eyed saints look down Untroubled on the wreck of schemes

and creeds ; Love yet remains, its rosary of good deeds Counting in task-field and o'er peopled

town ; Truth lias charmed life ; the Inward Word survives. And, day by day, its revelation

brings ; Faith, hope, and charity, whatsoever things Which c;innot be shaken, stand. Still

holy lives Reveal the Christ of whom the letter

told. And the new gospel verifies the old.

From Alton Bay to Sandwich Dome,

From Mad to Saco river. For patriarchs of the primal wood

We sought with vain endeavor.

And then we said : " The giants old

Are lost beyond retrieval ; This pigmy growth the axe has spared

Is not the wood primeval.

" Look where we will o'er vale and hill,

How idle are our searches For broad-girthed maples, wide-limbed oaks.

Centennial pines and birches !

" Their tortured limbs the axe and saw

Have changed to beams and trestles ; They rest in walls, they float on seas,

They rot in sunken vessels.

" This shorn and wasted mountain land Of underbrush and boulder, —

Who thinks to see its full-grown tree JIust live a century older."

At last to us a woodland path,

To open sunset leading, Revealed the Auiikim of pines

Our wildest wish exceeding.

Alone, the level sun before ;

Below, the lake's green islands ; Beyond, in misty distance dim,

'The rugged Northern Highlands.

Dark Titan on his Sunset Hill Of time and change defiant!

How dwarfed the common woodland seemed. Before the old-time giant!

What marvel that, in simpler days Of the world's early childhood,

Men crowned with garlands, gifts, and praise Such monarchs of the wild-wood ?

That Tyrian maids with flower and song Danced through the hill grove's spaces. And hoary-bearded Druids found In woods their holy places t

THE HOMESTEAD.

453

With somewhat of that Pagan awe With Cliristian reverence blending,

We saw our pine-tree's mighty arms Above our heads extending.

We heard his needles' mystic rune, Now rising, and now dying,

A.S erst Dodona's priestess heard The oak leaves prophesying.

Was it the lialf-unconscious moan

Of one apart and mateless. The weariness of unshared power.

The loneliness of greatness 1

O dawns and sunsets, lend to him Your beauty and your wonder !

Blithe sparrow, slug thy summer song His solemn shadow under !

Play lightly on his slender keys, O wind of summer, waking

For hills like these the sound of seas On far-off beaches breaking !

And let the eagle and the crow Find shelter in his branches,

When winds shake down his winter snow In silver avalanches.

The brave are braver for their cheer, The strongest need assurance.

The sigh of longing makes not less The lesson of endurance.

THE HOMESTEAD.

Against the wooded hills it stands. Ghosts of a dead home, staring through

lis broken lights on wasted lands Where old-lime harvests grew.

Unploughed, unsown, by scythe un- shorn.

The poor, forsaken farm-fields lie, Once rich and rife with golden corn

And pale green breadths of rye.

Of healthful herb and flower bereft, The garden plot no housewife keeps;

Through weeds and tangle only left. The snake, its tenant, creepa

A lilac spray, once blossoiTi-cIad,

Sways bare before the empty rooms ;

Beside the roofless porch a sad Pathetic red rose blooms.

His track, in mould and dust of drouth. On floor and hearth the squirrel leaves.

And in the fireless chimney's mouth His web the spider weaves.

The leaning barn, about to fall.

Resounds no more on husking eves ;

No cattle low in yard or stall. No thresher beats his sheaves.

So sad, so drear ! It seems almost Some haunting Presence makes its sign; That down yon shadowy lane some ghost Might drive his spectral kine !

0 home so desolate and lorn !

Did all thy memories die with thee ? Were any wed, were any born,

Beneal;h this low roof-tree 1

Whose axe the wall of forest broke, And let the waiting sunshine through ■?

What good-wife sent the earliest smoke Up the great chimney flue f

Did rustic lovers hither come ?

Did maidens, swaying back and forth In rhythmic grace, at wheel and loom,

Make light their toil with mirth ?

Did child feet patter on the stair ?

Did boyhood frolic in the snow ? Did gray age, in her elbow chair.

Knit, rocking to and fro ?

The nmrmuring brook, the sighing breeze. The pine's slow whisper, cannot tell ; Low mounds beneath the hemlock-trees Keep the home secrets well.

Cease, mother-land, to fondly boast Of sons far ofl' who strive and thrive,

Forgetful that each swarming host Must leave an emptier hive !

454

BIRCHBROOK MILL.

0 wanderers from ancestral soil,

Leave noisome mill and chaffering store :

Gird up your loins for sturdier toil, And build the home once more !

Come back to ba}i)erry-scented slopes, And fragrant fern, and ground-mat vine ;

Breathe airs blown over holt and copse Sweet with black birch and pine.

What matter if the gains are small That life's essential wants supply >.

Your homestead's title gives you all That idle wealth can buy.

All that the many-doUared crave, The brick-walled slaves of Change and mart, Lawns, trees, fresh air, and flowers, you have. More dear for lack of art.

Your own sole masters, freedom-willed, With none to bid you go or stay.

Till the old fields your fathers tilled. As manly men as they !

With skill that spares your toiling hands.

And chemic aid that science brings. Reclaim the wa.-ite and outworn lands,

And reign thereon as kings !

BIRCHBROOK MILL.

A NOTELESS stream, the Birchbrook

runs Beneath its leaning trees ; That low, soft ripple is its own. That dull roar is the sea's.

Of human signs it sees alone Tlie distant church spire's tip,

And, ghost-like, on a blank of gray, The white sail of a ship.

No more a toiler at the wheel,

It wanders at its will ; Nor dam nor pond is left to tell

Where once was Birchbrook mill.

The timbers of that mill have fed Long since a farmer's tires ;

His doorsteps are the stores that ground The harvest of his sires.

Man trespassed here ; but Nature lost

No right of her domain ; She waited, and she brought the old

Wild beauty back again.

By day the sunlight through the leaves Falls on its moist, green sod,

And wakes the violet bloom of spring And autumn's golden rod.

Its birches whisper to the wind. The swallow dips her wings

In the cool spray, and on its banks The gray song-sparrow sings.

But from it, when the dark night falls. The school-girl shrinks with dread ;

The farmer, home-bound from his fields. Goes by with quickened tread.

They dare not pause to hear the grind Of shadowy stone on stone ;

The plashing of a water-wheel Where wheel there now is none.

Has not a cry of pain been heard

Above the clattering mill ? The pawing of an unseen horse,

Who waits his mistress still ?

Yet never to the listener's eye Has sight confirmed the sound ;

A wavering birch line marks alone The vacant pasture ground.

No ghostly arms fling up to heaven

The agony of prayer ; No spectral steed impatient shakes

His white mane on the air.

The meaning of that common dread

No tongue has fitly told ; The secret of the dark surmise

The brook and birches hold.

What nameless horror of the past

Broods here forever more ? What ghost his unforgiven sin

Is grinding o'er and o'er ?

Does, then, immortal memory play The actor's tragic part.

SWEET FERN.

455

Rehearsals of a mortal life Auci unveiled human heart '?

God's pity spare a guilty soul

That drama of its ill, And let the scenic curtain fall

On Birchbrook's haunted mill !

HOW THE ROBIN CAME.

AN ALGONQUIN LEGEND.

Happy young friends, sit by me. Under May's blown apple-tree. While these home-birds in and out Through the blossoms flit about. Hear a story, strange and old. By the wild red Indians told, How the robin came to be :

Once a great chief left his son, — Well-beloved, his only one, — When the boy was well-nigh grown, In the trial-lodge alone. Left for tortures long and slow Youths like him must undergo, Who their ])ride of manhood test. Lacking water, food, and rest. Seven days the fast he kept. Seven nights he never slept. Then the youug boy, wrung with pain, Weak from nature's overstrain, Faltering, moaned a low complaint : " Spare me, father, for I faint ! " But the chieftain, haught3--eyed, Hid his pity in his pride. " You shall be a hunter good. Knowing never lack of food ; You shall be a warrior great, Wise as fox and strong as bear; Many scalps your belt shall wear. If with patient heart you wait Bravely till your task is done. Better you should starving die Than tliat boy and squaw should cry Shame upon your father's son ! "

When next morn the sun's first rays Glistened on the hemlock s])rays. Straight that lodge the old chief sought. And boiled samp and tnoose meat

brought. " Rise and eat, my son ! " he said. Lo, he found the poor boy dead !

As with grief his grave they made. And his bow beside iiim laid, Pipe, and knife, and wam])um-braid, On the lodge-top overhead. Preening smooth its breast of red And the brown coat that it wore, Sat a bird, unknown before. And as if with human tongue, " Mourn me not," it said, or sung; " I, a bird, am still your son. Happier than if hunter fleet. Or a brave, before your feet Laying scalps in battle won. Friend of man, my song shall cheer Lodge and corn-land ; hovering near. To each wigwam I shall biing Tidings of the coming spring ; Every child my voice shall know In the moon of melting snow, When the maple's red bud swells, And the wind-flower lifts its bells. As their fond companion Men shall henceforth own your son. And my song shall testify That of human kin am I."

Thus the Indian legend saith How, at first, the robin came With a sweeter life from death. Bird for boy, and still the same. If my young friends doubt that this Is the robin's genesis. Not in vain is still the myth If a truth be found therewith : Unto gentleness belong Gifts unknown to pride and wrong ; Happier far than hate is praise, — He who sings than he who slays.

SWEET FERN.

The subtle power in perfume found Nor priest nor sibyl vainly learned :

On Grecian shrine or Aztec mound No censer idly burned.

That power the old-time worships knew, The Corybantes' frenzied dance.

The Pythian priestess swooniug through The wonderland of trance.

And Nature holds, in wood and field. Tier thousand sunlit censers still ;

To spells of flower and shrub we yield Against or with our will.

456

BANISHED FRO.M MASSACHUSETTS.

I climbed a hill path stiauge and new With slow feet, pausing at each turn;

A sudden waft of west wind blew The breath of the sweet fern.

That fragrance from my vision swept The alien landscape ; in its stead,

Up fairer hills of youth I stepped, As light of heart as tread.

I saw my boyhood's lakelet shine Once more through rifts of woodland shade ;

I knew my river's winding line By morning mist betrayed.

With me June's freshness, lapsing brook,

Murmurs of leaf and bee, the call Of birds, and one in voice and look

In keeping with them all.

A fern beside the way we went

She plucked, and, smiling, held it up,

While from her hand the wild, sweet scent I drank as from a cup.

O potent witchery of smell !

The dust-dry-leaves to life return. And she who plucked them owns the spell

And lifts her ghostly fern.

Or .sense or spirit 1 Who shall say What touch the chord of memory thrills ?

It passed, and left the August day Ablaze on lonely hills.

BANISHED FROM MASSACHU- SETTS.

1660.

ON A PAINTING BY E. A. ABBEY.

Over the threshold of his pleasant home Set in green clearings passed the ex- iled Friend, In simple trust, misdoubting not the end. " Dear heart of mine ! " he said, " the time has come

To trust the Lord for shelter." One long gaze The good wife turned on each famil- iar thing, — The lowing kine, the orchard blos- soming, The open door that showed the hearth- tire's blaze, — And calmly answered, " Yes, He will provide." Silent and slow they crossed the

homestead's bound, Liugeriug the longest by their child's grave-mound. " Move on, or stay and hang ! " the

sheriff cried. They left behind them more than home

or land, Aud set sad faces to an alien strand.

Safer with winds and waves than hu- man wrath, With ravening wolves than those

whose zeal for God Was cruelty to man, the exiles trod Drear leagues of forest without guide

or ])ath, Or launching frail boats on the un- charted sea, Round storm-vexed capes, whose

teeth of granite ground The waves to foam, their perilous way ihcy wound, Enduring all things so their souls were

free. Oh, true confessors, shaming them who did Anew the wrong their Pilgrim Fa- thers bore ! For you the Mayflower spread her sail once more, Freighted with souls, to all that duty bid Faithful as they who sought an un- known land. O'er wintrv seas, from Holland's Hook of Sand !

So from his lost home to the darkening

main. Bodeful of storm, stout Macey held

liis way, And, when the green shore blended

with the gray. His poor wife moaned : " Let us turn

back again." "Nay, woman, weak of faith, kneel

down," said he,

i

THE TWO ELIZABETHS.

457

" And say thy prayers : the Lord

himself will steer ; And led bv Him, nor man nor devils I fear!"'^^ 3o the gray Southwicks, from a rainy

sea, Saw, far and faint, the loom of land, and gave With feeble voices thanks for friend- ly ground Whereon to rest their weary feet, and found A peaceful death-bed and a quiet grave Where, ocean-walled, and wiser than

his age. The lord of Shelter scorned the bigot's rage.

Aquidneck's isle, Nantucket's lonely shores, And Indian-haunted Narragansett

saw The way-worn travellers round their camp-tire draw, Or heard the plashing of their weary

oars. And every place whereon they rested grew Happier for pure and gracious wom- anhood, And men whose names for stainless honor stood, Founders of States and rulers wise and

true. The Muse of history yet shall make amends To those wlio freedom, peace, and

justice taught, Beyond their dark age led the van of thought, And left uuforfeited the name of

Friends. Oh mother State, how foiled was thy

design ! The gain was theirs, the loss alone was thine.

THE TWO ELIZABETHS.

Read at the unveiling of the bust of Kliza- beth Fry at the Friends' School, Providence, R. I.

A. D. 1209.

Amidst Thuringia's wooded hills she dwelt,

A high-born princess, servant of the

])uor. Sweetening with gracious words the

food she dealt To starving throngs at Wartburg's

blazoned door.

A blinded zealot held her soul in chains Cramped the sweet nature that ht could not kill. Scarred her fair body witli his penance pains, And gauged her conscience by his narrow will.

God gave her gifts of beauty and of grace. With fast and vigil she denied them all; Unquestioning, with sad, pathetic face. She followed meekly at her stern guide's call.

So drooped and died her home-blown rose of bliss In the chill rigor of a discipline That turned lier fond lips from her children's kiss, And made her joy of motherhood a sin.

To their sad level by compassion led, One with the low and vile herself she made, While thankless misery mocked the hand that fed, And laughed to scorn her piteous masquerade.

But still, with patience that outwearied hate She gave her all while yet slie had to give ; And then her empty hands, importu- nate, In prayer she lifted that the poor might live.

Sore pressed by grief, and wrongs more hard to bear. And dwarfed and stifled by a harsh control, She kept life fragrant with good deeds and prayer. And fresii and pure the white flower

458

THE TWO ELIZABETHS.

Death found her busy at her task : one word Alone she uttered as she paused to die, " Silence ! " — then listened even as one who heard With song and wing the angels draw- ing nigh !

Now Fra Angelico's roses fill her hands, And, on Murillo's canvas, Want and Pain Kneel at her feet. Her marble image stantis Worshipj)ed and crowned in Mar- burg's holy fane.

Yea, wheresoe'er her Church its cross uprears. Wide as the world her story still is told ; In manhood's reverence, woman's pray- ers and tears She lives again whose grave is cen- turies old.

And still, despite the weakness or the blame Of blind submission to the blind, she hath A tender place in hearts of every name. And more than Rome owns Saint Elizabeth !

A. D. 1780.

Slow age.s passed : and lo ! another came, An English matron, in whose simple faith Nor priestly rule nor ritual had claim,

A plain, uncanonized Elizabeth- No sackcloth robe, nor ashen-sprinkled hair, Nor wasting fast, nor scourge, nor vigil long, Marred her calm presence. God had made her fair, And she could do His goodly work no wrong.

Their yoke is easy and their burden light Whose sole confessor is the Christ of God;

Her quiet trust and faith transcending sight Smoothed to her feet the difficult paths she trod.

And there she walked, as duty bade her go, Safe and unsullied as a cloistered nun. Shamed with her plainness Fashion's gaudy show. And overcame the world she did not shun.

In Earlham's bowers, in Plashet's lib- eral hall. In the great city's restless crowd and din, Her ear was open to the Master's call. And knew the summons of His voice within.

Tender as mother, beautiful as wife. Amidst the throngs of prisoned crime she stood, In modest raiment faultless as her life. The type of England's worthiest womanhood !

To melt the hearts that harshness turned to stone The sweet persuasion of her lips suf- ficed. And guilt, which only hate and fear had known, Saw in her own the pitying love of Christ.

So wheresoe'er the guiding Spirit went She followed, finding ever}' prison cell

It opened for her sacred as a tent Pitched by Gennesaret or by Jacob's well.

And Pride and Fashion felt her strong appeal, And priest and ruler marvelled as they saw How hand in hand went wisdom with her zeal. And woman's pity kept the bounds of law.

She rests in God's peace; but her mem- ory stirs The air of earth as with an angel's wings,

REQUITAL.

459

And warms and moves the hearts of men like hers, The sainted daughter of Hungarian kings.

United now, the Briton and the Hun,

Each, in her own time, faithful unto

death.

Live sister souls ! in name and spirit

one,

Thuriujiia's saint and our Elizabeth !

THE REUNION.

Read September 10, 1885, to the surviving Students of Haverhill Academy in 1827-28.

The gulf of seven and fifty years We stretch our welcoming hands

across ; The distance but a pebble's toss

Between us and our youth appears.

For in life's school we linger on The remnant of a once full list ; Conning our lessons, undismissed,

With faces to the setting sun.

And some have gone the unknown way.

And some await the call to rest ;

Who knoweth whether it is best For those who went or those who stay ?

And yet despite of loss and ill, If faith and love and hope remain, Our length of days is not in vain.

And life is well worth living still.

Still to a gracious Providence

The thanks of grateful hearts are

due, For blessings when our lives were new, For all the good vouchsafed us since.

The pain that spared us sorer hurt. The wish denied, the purpose cros.sed. And pleasure's fond occasions lost.

Were mercies to our small desert.

'T is something that we wander back. Gray pilgrims, to our ancient ways, And tender memories of old days

Walk with us by the Merrimac ;

That even in life's afternoon

A sense of youth comes back again. As through this cool September rain

The still green woodlands dream of June.

The eyes grown dim to present things Have keener sight for by-gone years, And sweet and clear, in deafening ears,

The bird that sang at morning sings.

Dear comrades, scattered wide and far. Send from their homes their kindly

word, And dearer ones, unseen, unheard,

Smile on us from some heavenly star.

For Hfe and death with God are one. Unchanged by seeming change His

care And love are round us here and there ; He breaks no thread His hand has spun.

Soul touches soul, the muster roll Of life eternal has no gaps ; And after half a century's lapse

Our school-day ranks are closed and whole.

Hail and farewell ! We go our way ;

Where shadows end, we trust in light ;

The star that ushers in the night Is herald also of the day !

REQUITAL.

As Islam's Prophet, when his last day drew Nigh to its close, besought all men to

say Whom he had wronged, to whom he then should pay A debt forgotten, or for pardon sue. And, through the silence of his weeping friends, A strange voice cried : " Thou owest

me a debt," " Allah be praised ! " he answered. " Even yet He gives me power to make to thee amends.

460

MULFORD.

Oh, friend ! I thank thee for thy timely

word." So runs the tale. Its lesson all may

heed, For all have sinned in thought, or

word, or deed, Or, like the I'rophet, through neglect

have erred. All need forgiveness, all have debts to

pay Ere the night cometh, while it still is

day.

THE LIGHT THAT IS FELT.

A TENDER child of summets three,

Seeking her little bed at night, Paused on the dark stair timidly. " Oh, mother ! Take my hand," said she, "And then the dark will all bj light."

We older diiidren grope our way

From dark behind to dark before ; And only when our hands we lay, Dear Lord, in Thine, the night is day, And there is darkness nevermore.

Reach downward to the sunless days Wherein our guides are blind as we.

And faith is small and hope delays ;

Take Thou tlie liaiuls uf prayer we raise, And let us feel the li":ht of Thee !

THE TWO LOVES.

Smoothing soft tlie nestling head

Of a imuden fancy -led.

Thus a grave-eyed woman said :

" Richest gifts are those we make, Dearer than the love we take That we give for love's own sake.

" Well I know the heart's unrest ; Mine has been the common quest To be loved and therefore blest.

" Favors undeserved were mine ; At my feet as on a shrine Love has laid its gifts divine.

" Sweet the offerings seemed, and yet With their sweetness came regret, And a sense of unpaid debt.

" Heart of mine un.satisfied. Was it vanity or pride That a deeper joy denied ?

" Hands that ope but to receive Empty close ; they only live Richly who can richly give.

" Still," she sighed, with moistenin^

eyes, " Love is svvret in any guise ; But its best is sacrifice !

" He who, gi^^ng, does not crave Likest is to Him who gave Life itself the loved to save.

"Love, that self-forgetful gives. Sows surprise of ripened sheaves. Late or soon its own receives."

AN EASTER FLOWER GIFT.

O DEAREST bloom the seasons know. Flowers of tlie Resurrection blow,

(^ur hojie and faith restore; And through the bitterness of death Aiul loss and sorrow, breathe a breatii

Of life foreverniore !

The thouglit of Love Immortal blends With fond remembrances of friends;

111 you, () sacred Howers, By human love made doubly sweet, The heavenly and the earthly meet.

The heart of Christ and ours !

MULFORD.

AUTHOR OF " THE NATION " AND " THE REPUBLIC OF GOD."

Unnoted as the setting of a star lie passed ; and sect and party

scarcely knew When from their midst a sage and seer witlidrew To fitter audience, where the great

dead are In God's republic of the lieart and mind Leaving no purer, nobler soul behind.

HYMNS OF THE BRAHMO SOMAJ.

461

AN ARTIST OF THE BEAUTI- FUL.

Haunted of Beauty, like the marvel- lous youth

Who saug Saiut Agnes' Eve ! How passing fair

Her shapes took color iu tliy home- stead air !

How ou thy canvas even her dreams were truth !

Magician ! wlio fi-om commonest ele- ments

Called up divine ideals, clothed upon

By mystic lights soft blending into one

Womanly grace and child-like inno- cence.

Teacher ! thy lesson was not given in vain.

Beauty is goodness ; ugliness is sin ;

A^'s place is sacred : nothing foul therein

May crawl or tread with bestial feet profane.

If rightly choosing is the painter's test,

Thy choice, O master, ever was the best.

HYMNS OF THE BRAHMO SOMAJ.S'^

The mercy, O Eternal One !

By man unmeasured yet, In joy or grief, in shade or siin,

I never will forget. I give tlie whole, and not a part,

Of all Thou gavest me ;

My goods, my life, my soul and hoart, I yield them all to Thee !

We fast and plead, we weep and ])vay,

From morning until even ; We feel to find the holy way.

We knock at the gate of heaven ! And when in silent awe we wait,

And word and sign forbear, The hinges of the golden gate

Move, soundless, to our prayer ! Who hears the eternal harmonies

Can heed no outward word ; Blind to all else is he who sees

The vision of the Lord !

O soul, be patient, restrain thy tears,

Have hope, and not despair; As a tender mother heareth her child

God hears the ]ieuitent prayer. And not forever shall grief be thine ;

On the Heavenly Mother's breast, Washed clean and white in the waters of joy

Shall liis seeking child find rest. Console thyself with His word of grace.

And cease thy wail of woe. For His mercy never an equal hath.

And His love no bounds can know. Lean close imto Him in faith and hope ;

How mnny like thee have found In Him a shelter and home of jjcace.

By His mercy compassed round ! There, safe from sin and the sorrow it brings,

They sing their grateful psalms. And rest, at noon, by the wells of God,

In the shade of His holy palms!

NOTES.

j*vm i, page 1. ^lOGO MBGOiJB, or Hegone, was a leader jiaioiig the Saco Indians, in the bloody war of 1677. He attacked and captured the garrison at Black Point, October 12th of that year ; and cut off, at the same time, a party of Englishmen near Saco River. From a deed signed by this Indian in 1664, and from other circumstances, it seems that, previous to the wai', he had mingled much with the colonists. On tliis account, he was probably selected by the principal Bachems as their agent in the treaty signed in November, 1676.

Note 2, page 1. Baron de St. Castine came to Canada in 1644. Leaving his civUized companions, he plunged into the great wilderness and settled among the Penobscot Indians, near the mouth of their noble river. He here took for his wives the daughters of the great Modocawando, — the most powerful Bachem of the East. His castle was plun- dered by Governor Audros, dru'ing his reckless administration ; and the enraged Baron is supposed to have excited the In- dians into open hostility to the English.

Note 3, page 2. Tlie owner and commander of the garrison at Black Point, which Mogg attacked and plundered. He was an old man at the period to which the tale relates.

Note 4, page 2. Major Plullips, one of the principal men »f the Colony. His garrison sustained a long and terrible siege by the savages. As a magistrate and a gentleman, he exacted of his plebeian neighbors a remarkable de- pree of deference. The Court Records of the settlement inform us that an individual was fined for the heinous offence of saying that " Major Phillips's mare was cis lean as in luiliaii dos;"

Note 5, page 2. Captain Harmon, of Georgeana, now York, was, for many years, the terror of th-j Eastern Indians. In one of hisexiieditions up the Kennebec River, at the head of a party of rangers, he discovered twenty of the savages asleep by a large fire. Cau- tiously creep)ing towards them untU he was certain of his aim, he ordered his men to smgle out their objects. The first dis- cliarge killed or mortally wounded the whole number of the unconscious sleepers.

Note 6, page 2. Wood Island, near the mouth of the Saco. It was visited by the Sieur de Monts and Champlain, in 1603. The fol- lowing extract, from the journal of the latter, relates to it : " Having left the Kennebec, we ran along the coast to the westward, and cast anchor imder a small island, near the mainland, where we saw twenty or more natives. I here visited an island, beautifully clothed with a fine growth of forest trees, particularly of the oak and walnut ; and overspread with vines, that, m their season, produce excel- lent grapes. We named it the island of Bacchus." — Les Voyages de Sieur Ciuim- plain, Liv. 2, c. 8.

Note 7, page 2. John Bonytlion was the son of Richard Bonj'thon, Gent., one of the most efficient and able magisti'ates of the Colony. John proved to be "a degenerate plant. ' In 16.35, we find, by the Court Records, that, for some offence, he was fined 40 s. In 1(540, he was fined for abuse toward R. Gibson, the minister, and Mary his wife. Soon after he was fined for disorderly eon- duct in the house of his father. In 1645, the " Great and General Court" adjudged John Bonytlion outlawed, and incapable of any of his Majesty's laws, and pn)claiDie<J hini a rebeL" (Couit Records of the Prov-

464

NOTES.

nice, 1645.) In 1651, be bade defiance to

llie laws of Massachusetts, ^ud was again )utlawed. He acted independently of all law and autliority ; and hence, doubtless. Ills burlesque title of " The Sagamore ,if Saco," which has come down to the present generation in the following epi- taph ; —

' ' Here lief Bony thon ; the Sagamore of Saco, He lived a rogue, and died a knave, and went to Hobomoko."

[ij some means or other, he obtained a large estate. In this poem, I have taken ,ome liberties v/ith him, noi strictly war- ranted by historical facts, although the conduct imputed to him is in keeping with his general character. Over the last years of Ms life lingers a deep obscurity. Even the maimer of his death is uncertain. He \v;is supposed to have been killed by the Indians ; but this is doubted by the able wid indefatigable author of the History of Saco and Biddeford- — Part I. p. 115.

Note 8, page 2.

Poxwell's Brook flows from a marsh or bog, called the " Heath," in Saco, contain- ing thirteen hundred acres. On this brook, and surrounded by wild and romantic fjcenery, is a beautiful waterfall, of more tlion sixty feet

Note 9, page 3.

Hiacoomes, the first Chiistian preacher on Martlia's Vineyard ; for a biography of whom the reader is referred to Increase Mayhew's account of the Praying Indians, 172(5. The following is rela*,ed of him : " One Lord's day, after meeting, where Hiacoomes liad been preaching, there came in a Pow^vaw verj' angry, and said, ' I know all the meeting Indians are liars. You say you don't care for the Powwaws ' ; — then calling two or three of them by name, he railed at them, and told them they were deceived, for the Pow^vaws could kill all the meeting Indians, if they set about it. But Hiacoomes told him that he would be In tiie miilst of all tlie Pow^vaws in the inland, and they .should do the utmost they could against him ; and when they should do their woi-st by their witchcraft to kill him, he would without fear set himself against them, by remembering Jehovah, tie told them also he tUd put all the Pow- waws under his heel. Such was the faith of this good man. Nor were these Pow- waws ever able to do these Christian In- dians any hurt, thou<zh others were fre- inently hurt and killed by them." — \iayfu:ic, pp. 6, 7, c I.

Nope 10, p^e 4.

" The tooth-ache," says Koger Williams in Ids observations upon the language and customs of the New England tribes, " is the only paine which will force their stoute hearts to cry." He afterwards remarks that even the Indian women never cry tis he has heard "some of their men in t\m paine."

Note 11, page 5. Wuitamuitata, "Let us drink." Wee kan, " It is sweet." Vide Roger Wil- liams's Key to the Indian Language, " in that parte of America called Kew Eug land." London, 1643, p. 35.

Note 12, page 6. Wetuo'inanit, — a house god, or demon. " Tliey — the Indians — have given me ths names of thirty-seven gods which I have, all which in their solemne Wor-ships they invocate!" R. WilUams's Briefa Observations of the Customs, Jlannei's, Worships, &c., of the Natives, in Peace and Warre, in Life and Death : on all which is added Spiritual Observations, General and Particular, of Chiefe and Special use — upon all occasions — to all the English in- habiting these parts ; yet Pleasant and Profitable to the view of all Mene. — p, 110, c. 21.

Note 13, page 7

Mt. Desert Island, the Bald Moimtain upon which overb oks Frenchman's and Penobscot Bay. Ii was upon this Lsland tliat the Jesuits made their earliest settle- ment.

Note 14, page 8.

Father Hennepin, a missionary among the Iroquois, mentions that the Indians believed him to be a conjurer, and that tJiey were particularly afraid of a bright silver chalice which lie had in his i)09session. " The Indians," says Pere Jerome Lalla- niant, " fear us as the greatest sorcerers ou earth."

Note 1& page 8. Bomazeen is spoken of by Penhallow, a« '•' the famous warrior and chieftain of Nur- ridgewock." He was killed in the attack of the English upon Nonidgewock, in 1724.

Note 16, page 9. Pke Ralle, or Rasles, was one of thf most zealous and indefatigable of that band of Jesuit missionaries who, at the begin- ning of the seventeenth century, penetrated the forests of Amiiica, with the avowad object of converting the heatlien. Thf

NOTES.

465

first religious mission of the Jesuits, to the savages in North America, was in IGll. The zeal of the fathers for tlie conversion of the Indians to the Catholic faith knew no Lomids. For this, they ijlunged into tlie depths of the wilderness ; habituated themselves to all the hardships and priva- tions of the natives ; suffered cold, hmiger, and some of them death itself, by the ex- tremest tortures. Pure Brebeuf, after laboring in the cause of his mission for twenty years, together with his companion, Pere Lallamant, was burned alive. To these might be added the names of those Jesuits who were put to death by the Iroquois, — Daniel, Garnier, Buteaux, La Riborerde, Goupil, Constantin, and Lie- geouis. " For bed," says Father Lalla- mant, in his Relation de ce qui s'est dans le pays des Hurotis, 1640, c. 3, "we have nothing but a miserable piece of bark of a tree ; for nourishment, a handful or two of corn, either roasted or soaked in water, which seldom satisfies our Inmger ; and after all, not venturing to perform even the ceremonies of our religion, without being considered as sorcerers." Their success among the natives, however, by no means equalled their exertions. Pere Lallamant says : " With respect to adult persons, in good health, there is little apjiarent suc- cess ; on the contrary, there have been noth- ing but storms and whirlwinds from that quarter."

Sebastian Ralle established himself, some time about tlie year 1670, at Nor- ridgewock, where he continued more than forty years. He was accused, and perliaps not without justice, of exciting his praying Indians against the English, whom he looked upon as the enemies not only of his king, but also of the Catliolic religion. He was killed by the English, in 1724, at the foot of the cross which his own hands had l)lanted. This Indian church was broken up, and its members either killed outright or dispersed.

In a letter written by Ralle to his nephew he gives the following account of his church, and his own labors: "All my converts repair to the church regularly twice evei-y day ; first, very early in the morning, to attend mass, and again in the evening, to assist in the prayers at sunset. As it is necessary to fix the imagination of savages, whose attention is easily dis- tracted, I have com])osed prayers, calcu- lated to inspire them with just sentiments of the august sacrifice of our altars : they chant, or at least recite tliem aloud, durhig mass. Besides preaching to them on Sun- days an<l saints' days, I seldmii let a work- ing-day pass, witliout making a concise

exhortation, for the purpose of inspiring them with horror at those, vices to which they are most addicted, or to confirm them in the practice of some particular virtue." Vide Lettres Edifiajites et Cur., Vol. VI. p. 127.

Note 17, page 12.

The character of Ralle lias probably never been correctly delineated. By his brethren of the Romish Church, lie has been nearly apotheosized. On the other hand, our Puritan historians have repre- sented him as a demon in human form. He was undoubtedly sincere in his devotion to the interests of his church, and not over- scrupulous as to the means of advancing those interests. " The French," says the author of the History of Saco and Bidde- ford, "after the peace of 1713, secretly promised to supply the Indians with amis and ammunition, if they would renew hos- tilities. Their principal agent was the celebrated Ralle, the French Jesuit." — p. 215.

Note 18, page 13.

Hertel de Rouville was an active and iinsparing enemy of the Englisli. He was the leader of the combined French and Indian forces wliich destroyed Deerfield and massacred its inhal)itants, in 1703. He was afterwards killed in the attack upon Haverhill. Tradition says tliat, on examining his dead body, his head and face were found to be perfectly smooth, without the slightest appearance of hair or beaid.

Note 19, page 13.

Cowesass i — tawhich ^oessaseen ? Are you afraid ? — why fear you ?

Note 20, page 15. Winnepurkit, otherwise called George, Sachem of Saugiis, married a daugliter of Passaconaway, the great Pennacook chief- tain, in 1662. The wedding took place at Pennacook (now Concord, N. H.), and the ceremonies closed with a great feast. Ac- cording to the usages of the chiefs, Passa- conaway ordered a select niiniber of his men to accompany the newly-married coujle to the dwelling of the husband, where in turn there was another great feast. Some time after, the wife of Winnepurkit ex- pressing a desire to visit her father's house, was permitted to go, accomi)anied by a brave escort of her husband's chief men. But when she wished to return, lier father sent a messenger to Sangus, informing her huslxmd, and asking him to conu" and lake her away. He returned for answer that

466

NOTES.

ne had escorted his wife to her father's

house iu a style that became a cliief, and that now if she wished to return, her father must send her back in the same way. This Passaconaway refused to do, and it is said that here terminated the connection of his daughter with the Saugua Bhief, — Vide Morton's New Cancuin.

Note 21, page 18.

This was the name which the Indians of New England gave to two or three of tlieir principal chiefs, to whom all their inferior eagamores acknowledged allegiance. Pas- saconaway seems to have been one of these chiefs. His residence was at Penna- cook. (Mass. Hist. Coll., Vol. III. pp. 21, 22.) "He was regarded," says Hubbard, " as a great sorcerer, and liis fame was widely spread. It was said of him that he could cause a green leaf to grow iu winter, trees to dance, water to bum, &c . He was, undoubtedly, one of those shi'ewd and pow- erful men whose achievements are always regarded by a barbarous people as the re- Kidt of supernatural aid. The Indians gave to such the names of Powahs or Panisees."

" The Panisees are men of great courage and wisdom, and to these the De\in ap- reareth more familiarly than to others. " — Winslow's Relation.

Note 22, ps^e 20. "Tlie Indians," says Roger Williams, ■" have a god whom they call Wetuomanit, wno presides over the household."

Note 23, page 22. There are rocks in the river at the Falls of Amoskeag, in the cavities of which, tradition says, tlie Indians foimerly stored »nd concealed their com.

Note 24, page 23. The Spring God. — See Roger Williams's Key, &c.

Note 25, page 25. "Mat wonck kunna-raonee." We shall «ee thee or her no more. — Vide Rogrr Williams's Key to the Indian Language.

Note 26, page 26. "The Great South West God."— See Hoger Williams's Observations, &c.

Note 27, page 26. The celebrated Captain Smith, after re- ligning the government of the Colo7iy in V'irgiiiia, in his capacity of "Admiral of N'uw England," made a careful survey of Jlio coast from Penobscot to Cape Cod. iu thu summer ^fl614.

Note 28, page 26. Lake Wimiipiseogee, — The Smile oftht Great Spirit, — clie source of one of th« branches of the Merrimack,

Note 29, page 26. Captain Smith gave to the promontory, now called Cape Ann, the name of Traga- bizanda, in memory of his yoiuig and beautifiil mistress of that name, wlio, wliile he was a captive at Constantinople, like Desdemona, "loved him for the dan- gers he had passed."

Note 30, page 27. Some three or four years since, a frag^ meiit of a statue, rudely chiselled from dark gray stone, was foxmd in the town of Brad- ford, on tlie Merrimack. Its origin must be left entirely to conjecture. The fact that the ancient Northmen visited New England, some centuries before the dis- coveries of Columbus, is now very generally ailmitted.

Note 31, page 36. De Soto, in the sixteenth century, pene- trated into the wUds of the new world in search of gold and the fountain of perpetual youth.

Note 32, page 41.

ToussAiNT L'Ouverture, the black chieftain of Hayti, was a slave on the plan- tation " de Libertas," belonging to M B.VTOU. Wlien the rising of the negroei» took place, in 1791, Toussaint refused to join them until lie liad aided M. Bayou and his fanuly to escape to Baltimore. Tlie white man had discovered in Toussaint many noble qualities, and had instructed him in some of the first branches of educa- tion ; and the preservation of his life was owing to the negro's gratitude for this kindness.

In 1797, Toussaint L'Ouverture was ap- pointed, by the French government, Gen- eral-in-Cliief of the armies of St. Domingo, and, as sucli, signed the Convention with General Maitland for the evacuation of tha island by the British. From this perioil, until 1801, the island, under the govern- ment of Toussaint, was happy, tranquil, and jirosperons. The miserable attempt ol' N:i])olcon to re-establish slavery in St. Domingo, altliougli it faiUnl of its intended oliject, proved fatal to the negro cliieftain. Treacherously seized by Leclerc, lie wan hurried on board a \essel by night, and conveyed to France, where he was confined in a cold subterranean dungeon, at Besan- qon, where, in April, 1803, he died. Th< treatnierit of. Toussaint linds a paralltV

NOTES.

467

only tn tTie mnrcVer of the Duke D'Engliien. It was the remark of Godwin, in his Lec- tures, that the West India Islands, since their first discovery by Columbus, could not boast of a single name which deserves comparison with tliat of Toussaint L'Ouver- ture.

Note 33, page 43. .The reader may, perhaps, call to mind the beautiful sonnet of William Words- worth, addi-essedto Toussaint L'Ouverture, during his confinement in France.

'' Toussaint I — thou most unhappy man of men !

Whether the whisthng rustic tends his plough

Within thy hearing, or thou liest now Buried in some deep dungeon's earless den ; 0 miserable chieftain ! — where and when

Wilt thou find patience? — Yet, die not, do thou

Wearrather in thy bonds a cheerful brow ; Though fixllen thyself, never to rise again, Live and take comfort. Tljou hast left behind

Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies, — There 's not a breathing of the common wind

That will forget thee : thou hast gi-cat allies Thy friends are exultations, agonies,

And love, and man's unconquerable -mind."

Note 34, page 43. The French sliip Le Rodeur, -R'itli a crew of twenty-two men, and with one himdred and sixty negi-o slaves, sailed from Bonny, in Africa, April, 1819. On ap- proachuig the line, a terrible malady broke out, — an obstinate disease of the eyes, — contagious, and altogether beyond the resources of medicine. It was aggravated by the scarcity of water among the slaves (only half a wineglass per day being al- lowed to an individual), and by the extreme Impurity of the air in which they breathed. By the advice of the physician , they were brought upon deck occasionally ; but some of the poor wretches, locking themselves m each other's arms, leaped overboard, in the hope, which so universally prevails among them, of being swiftly transported to their own homes in Africa. To check this, the captain ordered several who were stopped in the attempt to be shot, or hanged, before their companions. The disease extended to the crew ; and one after another were smitten with it, until oidy one remained unaffected. Yet even * this dreadful condition did not preclude calculation : to save the expense of sup- porting slaves rendered unsalable, and to obtain grounds for a claim against the imder- writers, thirty-six of the negroes, haring \ecome blind, were thrown into the sea and irowned I

In the midst of their dreadful fears lest }» solitary individual, whose sight re-

mained unaffected, should also be seized with the malady, a sail was tliscovered. It was the Spanish slaver, Leon. The sama disease had been there ; and, horrible to tell, all the crew had become blind ! Un- al)le to assist each other, the vessels parted. The Spanish shii^ has never since beer) heard of. The Rodeur reached Guada^ loupe on the 21st of June ; the only man who had escaped the disease, and had thus been enabled to steer the slaver into por*. caught it in three days after its arrival.— Speech of M. Benjamin Constant, in tki French Chamber of Deputies, June 17 1820.

Note 35, page 61. The Northern autliorof the Congression- al rule against receiving petitions of thci peojjle on the subject of Slavery.

Note 36, page 70. Dr. Thacher, surgeon in Scammel's regi- ment, in his description of the siege of Yorktow7i, says : " The labor on the Vir- ginia jilantations is performed altogether by a species of the human race cruelly wrested from their native coimtry, and doomed to peiiietual bondage, while their masters are manl'ully contending for free- dom and the natural rights of man. Such is the inconsistency of human nature." Eighteen himdred slaves were found at Yorktown, after its surrender, and restored to their masters. Well was it said liy Dr. Barnes, in his late work on Slavery : " No slave was any nearer his freedom after the surrender of Yorktown than when Patrick Henry first taught the notes of liberty to echo among the hills and vales of Virginia."

Note 37, page 76. The rights and liberties affirmed by Magna Charta were deemed of such im- portance, in the thirteenth century, that the Bishops, twice a year, with tapers Ijurning, and in their pontifical robes, pro- nounced, in the presence of the king :u.cl the representatives of the estates of Eng- land, the greater excommunication against the hifringer of that instrument. The im- posing ceremony took place in the great Hall of Westminster. A copy of the curse, as])ronou)iced hi 1253, declares that, "by the authority of Almighty God, and the blessed Apostles and MaitjTS, and all the saints in heaven, all those who violate the English liberties, and secretly or openly, by deed, word, or coiinsel, do make stat- utes, (YT observe them being iivade, against said liberties, are accursed and sequesterec* from the comjiany of heaven and the sacra m«nt8 of the Holv CKurcli."

468

NOTES.

WiLiJAM Penn, in his admirahle politi- cal pamphlet, '* England's Present Interest consiilered." alluding to the cui-se of the Cliarter-breakers, says : "I am no Roman Catholic, and little value their other curses ; yet I declare I would not for the world in- cur this curse, as every man deservedly doth, who offers violence to the funda- mental freedom thereby repeated and con- firmed."

Note 38, page 91.

"The manner in which the Waldenses and heretics disseminated their principles among the Catholic gentry, was by caiTy- ing with them a bo.x of trinkets, or articles of dress. Ha\ing entered the houses of the gentry and disposed of some of their goods, they cautiously intimated that they had commodities far more valuable than these, — inestimable jewels, which they would show if they could be protected from the clergy. They would then give their purchasers a Bible or Testament ; and thereby many were deluded into heresy." — R. Saccho.

Note 39, page 107.

Clialkley Hall, near Frankford, Pa., the residence of Thomas Chalkley, an eminent minister of the Friends' denomi- nation. He was one of the early settlers of the Colony, ami liis Journal, wliich wa.s published in 1749, i)resents a quaint but beautiful picture of a life of imostentatious and simple goodness. He wa.s the master of a merchant vessel, and, in his visits to the West Indies and Great Britain, omitted no opportunity to labor for the highest in- terests of liis fellow-men. During a tem- porary' residence in Philadeliihia, in the summer of ISJiS, tlie quiet ami beautiful scenery around tlie ancient village of Frankford freipiently attracted me from the heat and bustle of the city.

Note 40, page 110.

August. Solilo(|. cap. xxsi. " Interrogavi ferram," &c.

Note 41, page 112. For the iilea of this line, I am indebted to Emerson, in his inimitable sonnet to the Rhodora, —

" If eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being."

Note 42, page 121. Among the e^arliest converts to the doctrines of Friends in Scotland was Barclay of Ury, an old and distinguished soldier, who had fought under Gustavus Adolphus, in Germany. As a Quaker, he

became the object of persecution and abuse at the hands of the magistrates and tin; populace. None bore the indignities of the mob with greater patience and noble- ness of soul than this once proud gentle- man and soldier. One of his friends, on an occasion of imcommon rudeness, lament- ed that he should be treated so harshly in his old age who had been so honored be- fore. " I find more satisfaction," said Barclay, " as well as honor, in being thus insulted for my religious principles, than when, a few years ago, it was usual for the magistrates, as I passed the city of Al)er- deen, to meet me on the road and conduct me to public entertainment in their hall, and then escort me out again, to gain my favor."

Note 43, page 131. Lucy Hooper died at BrookljTi, L. I., on the 1st of Sth mo., 1841, aged 24 years.

Note 44, page 132.

The last time I saw Dr. Channing was in the summer of 1841, when, in company with my English friend, Joseph Sturge, so well known for his philanthropic laboi-s and liberal political opinions. I visite<l him in his summer residence in Rhode Island. In recalling the impressions of that visit, it can scarcely be necessary to say, that I have no reference to the peculiar religious opinions of a man whose life, Iieautifully and truly manifested above the atmos- phere of sect, is now the world's common legacy.

Note 45, page 135.

" 0 vine of Sibmah ! I will weep for thee with the weeping of Jazer ! " — Jere- miah xhiii. 32.

Note 46, page 138. Sophia Sturge, sister of Joseph Sturge, of Birmingham, the President of the British Complete Suffrage Association, ilicd in the 6th month, 1845. She was the col- league, counsellor, and ever-ready l:elpmate of her brother in all his va.st designs of lieneficence. The Birmingham Pilot say.'; other : "Never, perhaps, were the active-, and passive virtues of the human character more liarnioniously and beautifully blended than in this excellent woman. "

Note 47, page 139.

Winnipiseogee : " Smile of the Great Spirit."

Note 48, page 142.

This legend is the subject of a celebrated picture by Tintoretto, of which Mr. Rogers possesses the original sketch. The slave

NOTES.

4u9

lies on the. grniind, amid a crowd of spec- tators, who look on, animated by all the various emotions of sympathy, rage, terror; a woman, in front, with a child in her arms, has always been admired for the lifelike vivacity of her attitude and expres- sion. The executioner holds up the broken implements ; St. Mark, with a headlong movement, seems to rush down from heaven in haste to save his worshipper. The dramatic grouping in this picture is wonderful ; the coloring, in its gorgeous depth and harmony, is, in Mr. Rogers's sketch, finer than in the jaicture. — Mrs. Jamison's Poetry of Sacred and Legen- dary Art, Vol. I. p. 121.

Note 49, page 143. Pennant, in his "Voyage to the Heb- rides," describes the holy well of Loch Maree, the waters of which were supposed to effect a miraculous cure of melancholy, trouble, and insanity.

Note 50, page 145. The writer of these lines is no enemy of Catholics. He has, on more than one occa- sion, exposed himself to the censures of his Protestant brethren, by his strenuous endeavors to procure indemnification for the owners of the convent destroyed near Boston. He defended the cause of the Irish patriots long before it had become popular in this country ; and he was one of the first to urge the most liberal aid to the suffering and starving poj^ulation of the Catholic island. The severity of his language finds its ample apology in the reluctant confession of one of the most eminent Romish priests, the eloquent and devoted Father Ventura.

Note 51, page 146. Ebenezer Elliott, the intelligence of whose deatli has recently reached us, was, to the ai'tisans of England, what Bums was to the ]H'as:nitrv of Scotland. His "Corn-law Rliynies " contributed not a little to that overwhelming tide of popular opinion and feeling which resulted in the repeal of the tax on bread. Well has the eloquent author of " The Reforms and Reformers of Great Britain " said of him, " Not corn- law rei)ealers alone, but all Britons who moisten their scanty l)read with the sweat of the brow, are largely indebted to his inspiring lay, for the mighty bound which tlie laboring mind of England has taken in our day."

Note 52, page 147. 'Wv reader of the Biography ot the 1 vte William Allen, the philanthropic associate

of Clarkson and Romilly, cannot fail to admire his simjjle and beaixtiful record of a to\ir through Europe^ in the years 1818 and 1819, in the company of his American friend, Stephen Grellett.

Note 53, page 154.

" Thou 'iiiind'st me of a story told In rare Bernardin's leaves of gold."

The incident here referred to is related in a note to Beniardin Henri Saint Pierre's Etudes de la Nature.

" We arrived at the habitation of the Hermits a little before they sat down to their table, and while they were still at church. J. J. Rousseau proposed to me to offer up our devotions. The heiTnits were reciting the Litanies of Providence, which are remarkably beautiful. After we had addressed our jirayers to God, and the hermits were proceeding to the refectory, Rousseau said to me, with his heart over- flowing, ' At this moment I experience what is said in the gospel : Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them. There is here a feeling of fieace and happiness which pene- trates the soul. ' I said, ' If Fenelon had lived, you would have been a Catholic' He exclaimed, with tears in his eyes, ' 0, if Fenelon were alive, I would struggle to get into his service, even as a lackey ! ' "

In my sketch of Saint Pierre, it will be seen that I have somewhat antedated the period of his old age. At that time he was not probably more than fifty. In describ- ing him, I have by no means exaggerated his own history of his mental condition at the period of the story. In the fragmen- tary Sequel to his Studies of Nature, he thus speaks of himself : " The ingratitude of those of whom I had deserved kind- ness, unexpected family misfortunes, the total loss of my small patrimony through enterprises solely undertaken for the benefit of my country, the debts under which I lay oppressed, the blasting of all my hopes, — these combined calamities made dread- fiil inroads upon my health and reason. .... I found it impossible to continue in a room where there was company, espe- cially if the doors were shut. I could not even cross an alley in a public garden, if several j)crsons had got together in it. Wlien alone, my malady subsided. I felt myself likewise at ease in places where I saw children only. At the sight of any one walking up to the place where I was, I felt my whole frame agitated, and retired. I often said to myself, ' My sole study has Ijeen to merit well of mankind ; why do I fear them ? ' "

He attribtiices his improved health of

470

NOTES.

mind and body to the counsels of his friend, J. J. Rousseau. " I renounced," says he, " my books. I threw my eyes upon the works of nature, which spake to all my senses a language which neither time nor nations have it in their power to alter. Thenceforth my histories and my Journals were the herbage of the fields and meadows. My thoughts did not go forth painfully after them, as in the case of human systems ; but their thoughts, under a thousand engaging forms, quietly sought me. In these I studied, without effort, the laws of that Universal Wisdom which had surrounded me from the cradle, but on which heretofore I had bestowed little attention."

Speaking of Rousseau, he says : " I de- rived inexpressible satisfaction from his society. Wliat I prized still more than his genius, was his probity. He was one of the few literary characters, tried in the furnace of affliction, to whom you could, with perfect security, confide your most secret tlioughts Even when he de- viated, and became tiie victim of himself or of others, he could forget his own misery in devotion to the welfare of mankind. He was uniformly the advocate of the miserable. There might be inscribed on his tomb these affecting words from that Book of which he carried always about liim some select passages, during the last years of his life : His sins, which are many, are forgiven, for he loved much."

Note 54, page 155. " Like that the graj'-haired sea-king passed."

Dr. Hooker, wlio accompanied Sir James Ross in his expedition of 1841, thus de- scribes the appearance of that unkno^\^l land of frost and fire which was seen in latitude 77° south, — a stupendous chain of mountains, the whole mass of ■ ..hich, irom its highest point to the ocean, was covered with everlasting snow and ice : —

" The water and the sky were both as blue, or rather more intensely blue, than I have ever seen them in the tropics, and all the coast was one mass of dazzlingly beau- tiful peaks of snow, which, when the sun approached the horizon, reflected the most brilliant tints of golden yellow and scarlet ; Hnd then, to see the dark cloud of smoke, tinged with flame, rising from the volcano in a perfect unbroken cohimn, one side jet- black, the other giving back the colors of the sun, sometimes turning off at a right angle by some current of wind, and stretching many miles to leeward ! This was a sight so surpassing everything that can be imagined, and so heightened l)y the consciousness that we had penetrated, im-

der the guidance of our commander, into regions far beyond what was ever deemed practicable, that it caused a feeling of awo to steal over us at the consideration of onr owni comparative insignificance and helj)- lessness, and at the same time an indescrib- able feeling of the greatness of the Creator in the works of his hand. "

Note 55, page 161. The election of Charles Sumner to the U. S. Senate "followed hard upon" thf rendition of the fugitive Sims by the U. S. officials and the armed police of Boston.

Note 56, page 164. The storming of the city of Derne, in 1805, by General Eaton, at the head of nme Americans, forty Greeks, and a motley array of Turks and Arabs, was one of those feats of hardihood and daring which have in all ages attracted the admiration of the multitude. The higher and holier heroism of Christian self-denial and sacrifice, in the humble walks of private duty, is seldom so well appreciated.

Note 57, page 167. It is proper to say that these lines are the joint impromptus of my sister and my- self. They are inserted here as an expres- sion of our admiration of the gifted stranger whom we have since learned to love as a friend.

Note 58, page 171.

Tliis ballad was originally published in a prose work of the author's, as the song of a wandering Milesian schoolmaster.

In the seventeenth centiiry, slavery in the New World was by no means confined to the natives of Africa. Political offenders and crinunals were transported by the British government to the plantations of Barbadoes and Virginia, where they were sold like cattle in the market. Kidnap- ping of free and innocent white persons was practised to a consideralile extent in the seaports of the United Kingdom.

Note 59, page 172.

It can scarcely be necessary to say that there are elements in the character and passages in the history of the great Hun- garian statesman and orator, which neces- sarily command the admiration of those, even, who believe that no political revolu- tion was ever worth the price of human blood.

Note 60, page 175. " Ilomilies from Oldbug hear."

Dr. W , author of "The Puritan,"

under the name of Jonathan Oldbug.

NOTES.

471

l^OTE 61, page 187. William Forster, of Norwich, England, died in East Tennessee, in the 1st month, 1854, while engaged in presenting to the governors of the States of this Union the address of his religious society on the evUs »f slavery. He was the relative and coad- jutor of "the Buxtons, Gumeys, and Frys ; jtnd his whole life, extending alniost to threescore and ten years, was a pure and beautiful example of Christian benevolence. He had travelled over Europe, and visited most of its sovereigns, to plead against the slave-trade and slavery ; and had twice before made visits to this coimtry, under impressions of religious duty.

Note 62, page 188. No more fitting inscription could be placed on the tombstone of Robert Rantoul than this : " He died at his post in Con- gress, and his last words were a protest in the name of Democracy against the Fugi- tive-Slave Law."

Note 6-3, page 200.

"Sebah, Oasis of Fezzan, 10th March, 1846. — This evening the female slaves were imusually excited in singing, and I had the curiosity to ask my negro servant. Said, what they were singing about. As many of them wee natives of his own country, he had no Aifficulty in translating the Mandara or Boruou language. I had often asked the Moors to translate their songs for me, but got no satisfactory ac- count from them. Said at first said, ' 0, they sing of Rvbee ' (God). ' What do \o\\ mean ? ' I replied, impatiently. ' O, don't you know ? ' he continued, ' they asked God to give them their Atka ?' (certificate of freedom. ) I inquired, ' Is that all ? Said : 'No; they say, "Where are we going? Tlie world is large. 0 God ! Where are ■ive going ? 0 God ! " ' I inquired, ' What else ? ' Said : ' They remember their coun- try, Bomou, and say, "Bornou was a pieascmt country, full of all good things ; hut this is a had country, and we are miser- able !"' ' Do they say anything else ? ' Said : ' No ; they repeat these words over and over again, and add, " 0 God ! give us our Atka. and let us return again to our dear hoine." '

" I am not surprised I got little satisfac- tion when I asked the Moors about the songs of their slaves. Who will say that the above words are not a very appropriate song ? Wliat could have been more conge- nially adapted to their then woful condi- tion '! It is not to be wondered at that these \00T bondwomen cheer up their hearts, in

their long, lonely, and painful wanderings over the desert, with words and sentiments like these ; but I have often observed that theii- fatigue and sufteriugs were too great for them to strike up this melancholy dii-ge, and many days their plaintive strain.s never broke over the silence of the desert." — Richardson's Journal.

Note 64, page 201. One of the latest and most interesting items of Eastern news is the statement that Slavery has been formally and totally- abolished in Egypt.

Note 65, page 213.

A letter from England, in the Friends' Review, says : " Joseph Sturge, with a companion, Thomas Harvey, has been visiting the shores of Finland, to ascertain the amount of mischief and loss to poor and peaceable sufferers, occasioned by the gunboats of the Allied squadrons in the late war, with a xiew to obtaining relief for them."

Note 66, page 226.

A remarkable custom, brought from tlifc Old Country, formerly prevailed in the rural districts of New England. On the death of a member of the family, the bees were at once infoiined of the event, and their hives dressed in mourning. This ceremonial was supposed to be necessary to prevent the swamis from leaving their hives and seeking a new home.

Note 67, page 2-35. "Too late I loved Thee, 0 Beauty oi ancient days, yet ever new ! And lo ! Thou wert i^ithin, and I abroad searching for'thee. Thou wert with me, but I was not with Thee." — August. Soliloq., Book X.

Note 68, page 235.

" And I saw that there was an Ocean of Darkness and Death : but an infinite Ocean of Light and Love flowed over the Ocean of Darkness : And in that I saw the infinite Love of God." — George Fox's Journal.

Note 69, page 243.

The massacre of unarmed and mioffend- ing men, in Southern Kansas, took placo near the Marais du Cygne of the French voyageurs.

Note 70, page 254.

Read at the Friends' School Anni\ersarv, Providence, R. I., 6th mo., 1860.

Note 71, page 264. See English caricatures of America:

472

NOTES.

Slaveholder and cowhide, with the motto, '•' Haven't I a right to wallop my nigger ? "

Note 72, page 266.

It is recorded that the Chians, when subjugatecl by Mithridates of Cappadocia, were delivered up to their own slaves, to be carried away captive to Colchis. A.thenjeus considere this a just punishment for their wickedness in first introduciiig the slave-trade into Greece. Froin this ancient villany of the Chians the proverb arose, " The Chian hath bought himself a master."

Note 73, page 270.

This ballad was ^v^itten on the occasion of a Horticultural Festival. Cobbler Kee- zar was a noted character among the firet settlers in the valley of the Merrimack.

Note 74, page 2S3. Lieutenant Herndon's Report of the Exploration of the Amazon has a striking description of the peculiar and melancholy notes of a bird heard by night on the shores of the river. The Indian guides called it " The Cry of a Lost Soul " !

Note 75, page 361. Eleonora Johanna Von Merlau, or, as Sewall the Quaker Historian gives it. Von Merlane, a noble young lady of Frankfort, seems to have held among the Mystics of that city very much such a position as Annia Maria Schunnaus did among the Labailists of Hollan.l. William Penn appears to have shared the admiration of her owTi immediate circle for this accom- plished ami gifteil lady.

Note 76, page 363. Magister Johann Kelpius, a graduate of the University of Helmstadt, came to Pennsylvania in 1694, with a company of German Mystics. Tliey made their home in the woods ou the Wissahickon, a little west of the Quaker settlement of German- town. Kelpius was a believer in the near approach of the Millennium, and was a devout student of the Book of Revelation, ami the Morgen-Iiothc of Jacob Behmcii. He called his settlement "The Woman in the Wilderness" (Das Wcib in drr \Viws/r). He was only twenty-four years of age when he came to America, but his gravity, learning, and devotion ]ilaccd him at the head of the settlement. He disliked the Quakers, because he thought they were too exclusive in the matter of ministers. He was, like most of the Mystics, opposed to the severe doctrinal \'iews of Calvin and even Liither, declaring "that he could as little agree with the Damnamus of the

Augsburg Confession as with the ATintliemn of the Comicil of Trent."

He died in 1704, sitting in his little garden surrounded by his grieving disciples. Pre- vious to his death it is said that he cast his famous " Stone of Wisdom" into the river, where that mystic souvenir of the times of Van Helmont, Paracelsus, and Agrippa has lain ever since, undisturbed.

Note 77, page 363.

Peter Sluyter, or Schluter, a native of Wesel, united himself with the sect of Labadists, who beUeved in the Divine com- mission of John De Labadie, a Roman Catholic priest converted to Protestantism, enthusiastic, eloquent, and evidently sin- cere in his special calling and election to separate the true and living members of the Church of Christ from the formalism and hypocrisy of the ruling sects. George Keith and llobcrt Barclay visited him at Amsterdam anil afterward at the communi- ties of Herford and Wieward ; and, accord- ing to Gerard Croes, found him so near to them on some i)oiuts, that they ottered to take him into the Society of Friends. This offer, if it was really made, which is cer- tainly doubtful, was, hajipily for the Friends at least, declined. Invited to Herford in Westphalia by IClizabeth, daughter of the Elector Palatine, De Labadie and his followers preacheil inces- santly, and succeeded in arousing a wild enthusiiusm among the people, wlio neg- lected their business iind gave way to ex- citements and strange practices. Men and women, it was said, at the Communion drank and danced together, and private marriages, or spiritual unions, were formed. Labadie died in 1674 at Altona, in Den- mark, maintaining his testimonies to the last. " Nothing remains for me," he said, " e.xcept to go to my God. Death is merely ascending from a lower and nar- rower chamber to one higher and holier."

In 1679, Peter Sluyter and Jasper Dan- kers were sent to America liy the commu- nity at the Castle of Wieward. Tlieir jinuMial, translated from the Dutch an<l edited by Henry C. Murphy, luus been recently published by the Long Island Historical Society. They made some con- verts, and among them was the eldest son of Hermanns, the proprietor of a rich tract of land at the head of Chesapeake Bay, known as Bohemia Manor. Sluj^ter ob- tained a grant of this tract, and established upon it a community numbering at one tune a hundred souls. Very contradictory statements are on recorrl regarding his headship of this spiritual family, the disci- pline of which seems to have been of morf

NOTES.

473

than monastic severity. Certain it is that lie Ijouglit and sold slaves, and manifested more interest in the world's goods than became a believer in the near Millennium. He evinces in his journal an o\'erweening spiritual pride, and speaks contemptuously if other professors, especially the Quakers vhom he met in his travels. The latter, on the contrary, seem to have looked favorably upon the Labadists, and uni- formly speak of them courteously and kindly. His journal shows him to have been destitute of common gratitude and Christian charity. He threw himself upon the generous hospitality of the Friends wherever he went, and repaid their kind- ness by the coarsest abuse and misrepre- sentation.

Note 78, page 364. Among the pioneer Friends were many men of learning and broad and liberal views. Perm was conversant with every department of literature and jjhilosophy. Thomas Lloyd was a ripe and rare scholar. The great Logauian Library of Philadel- phia bears wtuess to the varied learning and classical taste of its donor, James Logan. Thomas Story, member of the Coimcil of State, Master of the Rolls, and Commissioner of Claims under William Penn, and an able minister of his Society, took a deep interest in scientific (piestions, and in a letter to his friend Logan, written while on a religious visit to Great Britain, seems to have anticipated the conclusion of modern geologists. " I spent," he says, " some months, especially at Scarborough, during the season attendmg meetings, at whose high cliffs and the variety of strata therein and their several positions I further learned and was confirmed in some things, — that the earth is of much older date as to the beginning of it than the time assigned in the Holy Scriptures as commonly im- derstood, which is suited to the conmion capacities of mankind, as to six days of progressive work, by which I understand certain long and competent periods of time, and not natural days." It was sometimes made a matter of reproach by the Anabap- tists and other sects, that the Quakers read jirofane writings and philo.sophies, and that they quoted heathen moralists in support of their views. Sluyter and Ban- kers, in their journal of American travels, visiting a Quaker preacher's house at Burlington, on the Delaware, foimd " a volume of Virgil lying on the window, as if it were a common hand-book ; also Hel- mont's book on Medicine {Ortus Medicinm, id est hiilia Physica inmwLila progressus medecinfe novus in morborum ultionam ad

vitam longam), whom, in an introduction they have made' to it, they make to pass for one of their own sect, although in his lifetime he did not know an_\1;hing about Quakers." It would appear from this that the half -mystical, half-scientific writings of the alchenust and philosopher of Yilverde had not escaped the notice of Friends, and that they had included him in their broad eclecticism.

Note 79, page 364.

" The Quaker's Meeting," a painting by E. Hemskerck (supposed to be Egbert Hemskerck the younger, son of Egbert Hemskerck the old), in which William Penn and others — among them Oiarles II. , or the Duke of York — are represented along with the rudest and most stolid class of the British mral popxdation at that period. Hemskerck came to London from Holland with King William in 1689. He delighted in wild, grotesque subjects, such as the nocttmial intercourse of witches and the temptation of St. Anthony. What- ever was strange and imcommon attracted his free pencil. Jiulguig from the portrait of Penn, he must have drawii his faces, figures, and costumes from life, although there may be something of caricature in the convulsed attitudes of two or three of the figm-es.

Note 80, page 366.

In one of his letters addressed to his friends in Germany he says : " These wild men, who never in their life heard Christ's teachings about temperance and content- ment, herein far surjiass the Cliristians. They live far more contented and uncon- cerned for the morrow. They do not over- reach in trade. They know nothing of our everlasting pomp and stylislmess. They neither curse nor swear, are temper- ate in food and drink, and if any of them get drmik, the mouth-Christians are at fault, who, for the sake of accursed lucre, sell them strong drink. "

Again he wrote in 1698 to hi.s father that he finds the Indians reasonable people, willing to accept good teaching and man- ners, evincing an inward piety toward God, and more eager, in fact, to understand things divine than many among you who in the pulpit teach Clirist in word, but by ungodly life deny him.

" It is evident," says Professor Seideu- stecker, " Pastorius holds up the Indian as Nature's rmspoiled child to the eyes of the ' European Babel,' somewliat after the same manner in which Tacitus used the barbarian Germani to shame his degenerate countrymen."

474

NOTES.

As believers in the universality of the Saving Light, the outlook of early Friends upon the heathen was a very cheerful and hopeful one. God was as near to them as to Jew or Anglo-Saxon ; as accessible at Timbuctoo as at Kome or Geneva. Not the letter of Scripture, but the spirit which dictated it, was of saving efficacy. Robert Barclay is nowhere more powerful than in his argument for the salvation of the heathen, who live according to theu- light, without knowing even the name of Christ. William Peim thought Socrates as good a (;hristian as Richard Baxter. Early Fa- thers of the Church, as Origen and Justin Martj'r, held broader views on this point than "modern Evangelicals. Even Augus- tine, from whom Calvin borrowed his theol- ogy, admits that he has no controversy with the admirable philosophers, Plato and Plotinus. "Nor do I think," he says in De Civ. Dei., lib. xviii., cap. 47, " that the Jews dare affirm that none belonged unto God but the Israelites."

Note 81. page 418.

This ballad, originally written for J. R. Osgood & Co.'s Memorinl History of Bos- ton, describes, with pardonable poetic li- cen.se, a memorable incident in the annals of the city. The interview between Shat- tuck and the Governor took place, I har* .since learned, in the residence of the latter, and not in the Council Chamber.

Note 82, page 420.

This name in some parts of Europe is given to the season we call Indian .Sum- mer, in honor of the good St. Martin. The title of the poem was suggested by the fact that the day it refers to was the exact date iif the Saint"s birih, the 11th of November.

Note 83, page 421.

See TS'lor's Pnmitive Culture, vol. iL pp. 32, 33. Also Journal of Asiatic Society, vol. iv. p. 795.

Note 84, page 426.

The picturesquely situated Wayside Inn at West Ossipee, N. H., is now in ashes; and to its former guests these somewhat careless rhvmes may be a not unwelcome reminder of pleasant summers and autumns on the banks of the Bearcamp and Clio- corua. To the author himself they have a special interest from the fact that they were written, or improvised, under the eye, and for the amusement of a beloved inva- lid friend whose last earthly sunsets fadecf from the mountain ranges of Ossipee and Sandwich.

Note 85, page 457.

"He [Macey] shook the dust from off his feet, and dejiartt'd with all his wnrldly goods and his family. He encountered a severe storm, and his wife, influenced by some omens of disaster, besought him to put back. He told her nut to fear, for his faith was perfect. But she entreated him again. Then the spirit that impelled him broke forth: ' ^Voman, go below and seek thy God. I fear not the witches on earth, or the devils in hell I ' " — Life of Robert Pike page 55.

Note 86, page 461.

I have attempted this paraphrase of the Hymns of the Brahmo Somaj of Iiulia, as I find them in Mozoomdar's account of the devotional exercises of that remark- able religious development which has at- tracted far less attention and sympathy from the Christian world than it deserves, as afresh revehuion of the direct action of the Divine Spirit upon the human heart*

INDEX

iibrahani Davenport, 312.

Abraiu Morrison, 425.

Adjustment, 452.

A bream of Summer, 109.

After Election, 361.

A Lament, 135.

A Lay of Old Time, 214.

All "s well, 151.

A Memorial, M. A. C, 284.

A Memory, 199.

Among the Hills, 325, 327.

Amy Wentworth, 273.

A Name, 430.

An Autograph, 449.

Andrew Rykmans Prayer, 281.

Angel of Patience, The, 96.

Angels of Bueua Vista, The, 119.

Anniversary Poem, 267.

Answer, The, 337.

April, 167.

Artist of the Beautiful, An, 461

A Sabbath Scene, 168.

A Spiritual Manifestation, 356.

Astraea, 165.

Astrtea at the Capitol, 266.

At Eventide, 416.

At Last, 447.

At Port Royal, 268.

At School-Close, 416.

Autumn Festival, For an, 260.

Autumn Thoughts, 144.

A Woman, 374.

A Word for the Hour, 261.

Banished from Massachusetts, 456.

Barbara Frietchie, 269.

Barclay of Ury, 121.

Barefoot Boy, The, 195.

Battle Autumn of 1862, The, 265.

Bayard Tajlor, 429.

Bay of Seven Islands, The, 435.

Benedicite, 163.

Birchbrook Mill, 454.

Branded Hand, The, 6.").

Brewing of Soma, The, 373.

Brid.il of I'e.nnacook, The, 16.

Brook, The, 4.32.

Brother of Mercy, The, 303.

Brown of Ossavvatomie, 2.58.

Bryant on his Birthday, 323.

Burial of Barbour, 211.

Burns, 136.

By their Works, 432.

Calef in Boston, 1692,144. Call of the Christian, The, 92. Cassanilra Southwick, 28.

Centennial llvmn, 409. Chalkley Hall, 107. Changeling, The, 304. C banning, 132.

(3HAPEL OP THE HERMITS, 153.

Charity, 398.

Chicago, 372.

Child-songs, 391.

Christian Slave, The, 50.

Christian Tourist, The, 147.

Christmas Carmen, A, 393.

Cities of the Plain, The, 86.

Clear Vision, The, 331.

Clerical Oppressors, 49.

Cobbler Keezar's Vision, 270.

Common Question, The, 322.

Conduct, 434.

Conductor Bradley, 390.

Conquest of Finland, The, 213.

Corn-song, The, 117.

Countess, The, 275.

Crisis, The, 79.

Cross, The, 166.

Crucifixion, The, 86.

Cry of a Lost Soul, The, 283.

Curse of the Charter-Breakers, The, 76.

Cypress-Tree of Ceylon, The, 108.

Daniel Neall, 137.

Daniel Wheeler, 136.

Dead Feast of the Kol-Folk, The, 421.

Dead Ship of Harpswell, 309.

Dedication (to Songs of Labor), 112.

Democracy, 105.

Demon of the Study, The, 124.

Derne, 164.

Disarmament, 374.

Divine Compassion, 339.

Dole of Jarl Thorkell, The, 3.32

Double-headed Snake of Newbury, The, 228.

Dream of Argyle, The, 394.

Dream of Pio Nono, The, 189.

Dream of Summer, A, 109.

Dr. Kane in (.Juba, 396.

Drovers, The, 114.

Easter Flower Gift, An, 460.

" Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott,'' 262.

Elliott, 146.

Emancipation Group, The, 423.

Eternal Goodness, The, 318.

Eva, 166.

Eve of Election, The, 236.

Exiles, The, .37.

Extract from "A New England Legend,'

127. Ezekiel, 83.

476

INDEX.

Familisfs Hymn. The, .3r>.

Farewell of a Virginia Slave Mother to her

Daughters sold iuto Southern Bondage, The,

56. Female Martyr. The, 90. First-Day Thoughts, 172. First Flowers, The, 215. Fishermen, The, 115. Fitz-Greene Halleck, 410. Flowers in Winter, 196. Follen, 96.

For an Autumn Festival, 260. Forgiveness, 121. Fountain, The, 36. Freedom in Brazil, 338. Friends Burial, The, 384. From Perugia, 258. Frost Spirit, The, 91. Fruit Gift, The, 198. Funeral Tree of the Sokokis, 31.

Garibaldi, 350. Garrison. 428.

Garrison of Cape Ann, The, 221. Gift of Tritemius, The, 235. Giving and Taking, 415. G. L. S., :338. Godspeed, 447.

Golden Wedding of Longwood, The, 391. Gone, 139.

Grave by the Lake, The, 299. Greeting, A. Harriet Beecher Stowe's Seven- tieth Anniversary, 1882, 443.

Hampton Beach, 127.

Haschi.*h, The, 201.

Hazel Blossoms, 380, 383.

Healer, The, 393.

Help, 433.

Henchman, The, 412.

Hermit of the Thebaid. The, 186.

Hero, The, 193.

Hill-Top, The, 140.

Hive at Gettv.sburg, The, 352.

Holv Land, The, 81.

Home Uallaps, 218.

Homestead, The, 453.

Howard at Atlanta, ;i53.

How the Kobin camp. 4,55.

How the Women went from Dover, 437.

Human Sacrifice, The, 102.

Hunters of Men, The, 48.

Huskers, The, 116.

Hymn, 415.

Hymn for the .\merican Horticultural Society,

446. Hymn for the Celebration of Emancipation at

Newburyport, .357. Hymn for the House of Worship at Georgetown,

340. Hymn for the Openinc of Plymouth Church,

St. Paul, Minnesot;i, 394. Hymn for the Opening of Thomas Starr King's

House of Worship, IStVt, 323. Hymn of the Dunkers, 407. Hymn sung at Christmas, 285. Hymns, 88. Hymns of the Brabmo Somaj, 46L

Ichabod, 116. In Memory, 144. In Pe.'ice, 162. In Quest, ;J87.

In Remembrance of Joseph Sturge 238

In School-Days, 350. '

In the "Old South," 408.

Invocation, 166.

Inward Judge, The, 433.

Italy, 283.

" I was a stranger and ye took me in," 416

John Quincy Adams, 396. John Underbill, 385. Jubilee Singers, The, 42-3. June on the Merrimac, 406.

Kallundborg Church, 307. Kansas Emigrants, The, 200. Kathleen, 171. Kenoza Lake, 248. Khans Devil, The, 424. Kings Missivk, The, 418. King Solomon and the Ants, 413, King Volmer and Elsie, 377. Kinsman, 392.

Knight of St. John, The, 81. Kossuth, 172.

Lady Franklin, 396

Lake-side, The, 139.

Lament, A, 135.

Last Walk in Autumn, The, 208.

Ljius Deo, 316.

Lay of Old Time, A, 214.

Laying up Treasure, 431.

Legend of St Mark, The, 142.

Leggetfs Monument, 111.

Le .Marais du Cygne, 243.

Lexington, 409.

Library, The, 412.

Light that is felt, The, 460.

Lines, 198.

Lines accompanying Manuscripts presented to a Friend, 129.

Lines for an Agricultural Exhibition, 249.

Lines for the Burns Festival, 247.

Lines from a Letter to a Young Clerical Friend, 70.

Lines (inscribed to Friends, etc.), 200.

Lines on a Fly-I.,eaf, 339.

Lines on the Adoption of Pinckney's Resolu- tions, 75.

Lines on the Death of S. O. Torrey, 134.

Lines suggested by reading a State Paper, 192.

Lines suggested by a visit to the City of Wash- ington in the 12th month of 1845, 68.

Lines written for the Anniversary of the First of August, at Milton, 1846. 55.

Lines written for the Celebration of the Third Anniversary of British Emancipation, 1837, 55.

Lines written for the Meeting of the Antislav- ery Society at Chatham Street Chapel, New York, 1834, 54.

Linos written in the Book of a Friend, 71.

Lines written on hearing of the Death of Silas Wright, of New York, 128.

Lines written on reading Pamphlets published by Clergymen against the Abolition of the Gallows, 100.

Lines written on reading the Message of Gov- ernor Ritner of Penn.sylvania, 1836, 52.

Lines written on the Departure of Joseph Sturire, 395.

Lost Occ:,si<,n, The, 422 Lucy Hooper, 131.

INDEX.

477

Lumbermen, The, 118.

Maids of Attitash, The, 305.

Mantle of St. .lohn de Matha, The, 314.

Marguerite, 376.

Mary Garvin, 202.

Massachusetts to Virginia, 62.

MaudMuUer, 204

Mayflowers, The, 211.

Meeting, The, 831.

Meeting Waters, The, 397.

Memorial, A, 284.

Memories, 141.

Memory, A, 199.

Men of Old, The, 148.

Merrimack, The, 26.

Minister's Daughter, The, 430.

Miriam, 341.

Mithridates at Chios, 266.

MoGio Megone (Parts 1., II., III.), 1.

Moloch in State Street, 100.

Moral Warfare, The, 57

Mountain Pictures (Parts I., II.), 278.

Mulford, 460.

My Birthday, 372.

My Dream, li)b.

My Namesake, 215.

My Playmate, 233.

My Psaim, 242.

My Soul and I, 92.

Mystery, A, 389.

Mystic's Christmas, The, 442

My Triumph, 351.

My Trust, 431.

Naples, 1860, 277.

Nauhaught, The Deacon, 348.

New Exodus, The, 201.

New Hampshire, 59.

New Wife and the Old, The, 40.

New Year : addressed to the Patrons of the

Pennsylvania Freemau, GO. Night and Death, 397. Norembega, 347. Norsemen, 27. Notes, 451.

Old Burying-Qround, The, 240.

On a Fountain, 433.

On a Prayer-Book, 244.

On a Sun-Dial, 433.

On receiving an Eagle's Quill from Lake Supe- rior, 141.

Our Autocrat, 428.

Our Country. Read at Woodstock, Conn., July 4, 1883, 448,

Our Master, 319.

Our River, 280.

Our State, 150.

Over-Heart, The, 237.

Overruled, 414.

Paean, 73.

Pageant, The, 369.

Palatine, The, 310.

Palestine, 82.

Palm-Tree, The, 246.

Panorama, The, 175.

Pas.s of the Sierra, The, 212.

Pastoral Letter, The, 53.

Peace Autumn, The, 317.

Peace Convention at Brussels, The, 149.

Peace of Kurope, The, 101.

Pennsylvania Pilgrim, The. 358, 360.

Peutucket, 34.

Pictures, 163.

Pine-Tree, The, 68.

Pipes at Lucklow, The, 241.

Poet and the Children, The, 446.

Poor Voter on Election Dav, The, 170.

Prayer of Agassiz, The, 383.

Prayer-Seeker, The, 354.

Preacher, The, 249.

Prelude (Among the Hills), 325.

Prelude (King's Missive), 418.

Prelude (Pennsylvania Pilgrim), 359

Pressed Gentian, The, 414.

Prisoner for Debt, The, 99.

Prisoners of Naples, The, 159.

Problem, The, 417.

Proclamation, The, 266.

Proem, iv.

Prophecy of Samuel Sewall, 223.

Pumpkin, The, 126.

Quaker Alumni, The, 254. Quaker of the Olden Time, The, 98. Questions of Life, 167.

Rabbi Ishmael, 445

Randolph of Roanoke, 104.

Ranger, The, 206.

Rantoul, 188.

Raphael, 130.

Red Riding Hood, 413.

Red River Voyageur, The, 247.

Reformer, The, 98.

Relic, The, 64.

Remembrance, 170.

Rendition, The, 197.

Requirement, 432.

Requital, 4.^.9.

Response, 417.

Reunion, The, 459.

Revelation, 451.

Revisited, 321.

Reward, The, 130.

River Path, The, 284.

Robin, The, 375.

Rock Tomb of Bradore, The, 440

Sabbath Scene, A, 168.

Saint Gregory's Guest, 450.

St. John, 32."

St. Martin's Summer, 420.

Sea Dream, \, 388.

Seed-time and Harvest, 151.

Seeking of the Waterfall, The, 404.

Shadow and the Light, The, 234.

Ship-Builders, The, 112.

Shoemakers, The, 113.

Singer, The, 371.

Sisters, The, 249, 375.

Skipper Ireson's Ride, 225.

Slave-Ships, The, 43.

Slaves of .Martinique, The, 77.

Snow-Bound, 286.

Song of Slaves in the Desert, 200.

Song of the Free, 47.

Song of the Negro Boatmen, 269.

Spiritual Manifestation, A, 355.

Stanzas for the Times, 51.

Stanzas for the Times. — 1850, 168.

Stanzas —Our Countrymen in Chains, 45.

Star of Bethlehem, The, 87.

Storm on Lake Asquam, 441.

478

'' Story of Ida," The, 449

fciunmer by the Lakeside,' 1S3

Summer Pilgrimage, A, 439

summons, The, 278

Sumner, 381.

Sunset on the Bearcamp, 404

tewan Song of Parson Avery, The 229

Sweet Fern, 455. J'. ^"C -^».

Sycamores, The, 227.

Tauler, 190. Telling the Bees, 226 ffSs,''66™'^"^«''T='''294. " The Laurels,'' 356

Thomas Starr King, 324

Three Bells, The, 379

Thy Will be done, 26L

To ^^'riend on her Return from Europe, 95.

ToC.^|."''m'^'^''''°^°''^-

To Delaware, Wi.

To Englishmen, 264.

To Faueuil Uall, 67.

To Frederick A. V. Barnard. 341

To Fredrika Bremer 167

To G. B. C, 248.

To II. P. s., 434.

To John C. Fremont. 263

To J. P., 108. '

To J. T. F.. 245.

To Lydia Maria Child, 353.

To Mas.sachu?etts, 67.

To my Friend on the Death of his Sister nq

To my old Schoolmaster, 173 '

To my Sister, 144.

"^"lOgT"*"'*^ * *^'°P^ °^ Woolman-s Journal;,

?o i^niwvrnir*"l^" ''"" ""^ ^— ion). 162

To Pius IX., 145.'

To Ronge. 106.

To Samuel E. and Harriet W. Sewall ''61

-r lu Jl^n'ory of Charles B. Storr- ih '

To ft l^T'^- "^ '"""""a" Ship?ev;74 10 the Reformers of Enelacd 97 To the Thirty-Xinth ConS iii7.

INDEX.

Toussaint L'OuTerture 41 To W. L. G., 47. Trailing Arbutus, 431 Ti-initas, 239.

Tru:r,l70^^'^'^'J"'''The,331. Tavo Angeis, The, 411. J;"o Elizabeths, The, 457 Two Loves, The, 460. Two Rabbis, The, 33:3.

Utterance, 432.

Valuation, 446. Vani.^hers, The, 321. Vaudois, Teacher, The, 91 Vesta, 392.

Vision of Echard, The, 399 Voices The, 192. Voyage of the Jettie, 426.

Waiting, The, 278.

Watchers, The, 263.

"'edding Veil, The,' 398.

H ell of Loch Maree, 143.

H'hat of the Day, 214.

\niat the Birds "said 315

Wh'^l lu^ ^rareler said at Sunset, 442

n hat the \ oice said, 122

wlffi °* ^1"""^^ '"her Il'usband, The, ; Hilliam Forster, 1S7. '

JVilliam Francis Bartlett, 411

Wilson, 444.

Winter Roses, 446.

Wish of To-day, The, 150.

Wishing Bridge, The, 441.

Witch of Wenham. The, 401

H Itch s Daughter, The, 218.

» ithin the Gate, 423

Woman, A, 374. Wood (iiant. The, 452 Word for the Hour, A, 261 Word, The, .432. Wordsworth, 162. World's Convenrion, The 57 Worship, 123. '

Wreck of Rivermouth, 297.

Yankee Girl, The, 46. Yorktown, 70.

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