Chapter I: Part 1

Katydid’s Poems

WITH A LETTER BY

Jno. Aug. Williams.

ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1887, BY

MRS. J. I. McKINNEY (“KATYDID”)

IN THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN AT WASHINGTON.

PRINTED BY THE COURIER-JOURNAL JOB PRINTING COMPANY.

Dedicated

TO

J. I. McKINNEY.

To him whose every word is one of praise,
Who loves to linger where my thoughts have been,
And who delights in all my rhyming ways,
I offer first these efforts of my pen.

LETTER TO KATYDID.

DEAR KATYDID:

I am more pleased with your lines than when I first read them; they are intensely womanly, natural, musical and sweet--they are absolutely free from affectation, only the restraint of rhyme and measure seem to deprive your muse of perfect freedom and grace. There is also a delicacy of thought and fancy, and of purity of sentiment that pervades the whole like the sweetest perfume.

No one can listen to your “Chirpings” and feel like touching the bough from which you sing with a rude, critical hand; he would rather listen through the live-long night to the end of your song.

I remember well your first attempt at rhyme while a girl here at school; even then, there was a pleasing promise of a beautiful and useful pen; and I am glad that you have found time and opportunity to improve your early gift. I am glad, too, that you have been persuaded to give some of your sweet little poems to the press; the tender, the true, and the pure of heart will read them with delight.

Affectionately your friend,

JNO. AUG. WILLIAMS.

DAUGHTER’S COLLEGE,
Harrodsburg, Ky.

CONTENTS

PAGE.
To A Katydid 7
A Day Dream 9
The Old Ravine (Illustrated.) 11
Some Day You’ll Wish For Me 12
To Hallie 13
I’ve Asked You to Forget Me 14
Little Blanche 15
The Little Front Gate 16
Drifting 16
Looking Back 17
Scotta 18
The Lover and Flower 20
My Cloud 22
The Decision 23
Autumn 25
A Sister’s Love 26
In Memory of Nannie Johnson White 26
The Heliotrope’s Soliloquy 27
A Problem 28
My Palace (Illustrated.) 29
Death of Summer 33
Spring and Summer 34
Under the Snow 35
The Prettiest Girl in Town 36
I Am Musing To-night 37
A Curl 38
Somebody’s Face 39
Good-bye, Maggie 40
The Hermit’s Farewell (Illustrated.) 41
A Window I Love 43
Thistle Down 44
Bitter Memories 45
An Acrostic 46
My Angel Visitor 47
Keep a Bright Face, Darling 48
My Neighbor’s Mill 49
Dripping Springs 51
In Memoriam 53
The Old Orchard Trees 54
On the Hill-top Grow the Daisies 55
Ella Lee 56
What is the West Wind Saying 58
To a Mountain Stream 59
Pen Pictures 60
To Mother 62
The Broken Heart 63
A Year Ago 65
A Christmas Peep 66
Winnie’s Christmas Eve 68
My Heart’s Little Room 69
The Three Muses 71
A Recollection 72
Don’t Question Him Why 73
Why? 74
A Sunset Longing 74
Journeys 76
The Lost Poem 78
A Maple Leaf 80
A Gallop With Santa Claus 81
Home Memories 83
Sunshine and Shadow (Illustrated.) 85
Only a Fern Leaf 87
A Dream 88
Those Soft Airs She Played 89
To Albert 91
The Reunion of the Flowers 92
Children of the Brain 94
A Lily of the Valley 96
Lines to the Old Year 97
Why I Smile 98
My Phantom Ships 99
The Weight of a Word 101
An Apology 103
Speak Kindly 104
Those Willing Hands 106
Look Into the Past 107
A Little Face 108
The Canary and Rose 109
A Sigh or a Tear 110
Snow-flakes 112
A Foot-print 113

KATYDID’S POEMS.

To a Katydid.

Little friend among the tree-tops,
Chanting low your vesper hymns,
Never tiring,
Me inspiring,
Seated ’neath the swaying limbs,
Do you know your plaintive calling,
When the summer dew is falling,
Echoes sweeter through my brain
Than any soft, harmonic strain?

Others call you an intruder,
Say discordant notes you know;
Or that sadness,
More than gladness,
From your little heart doth flow;
And that you awake from sleeping
Thoughts in quiet they were keeping,
Faithless love, or ill-laid schemes,
Hopes unanchored--broken dreams.

No such phantoms to my vision
Doth your lullaby impart,
But sweet faces,
No tear traces,
Smile as joyous in my heart,
As when first at mother’s knee
Learned I your sweet mystery.
I defend you with my praises,
For your song my soul upraises.

Do you wonder that at twilight
Always by my cottage door
I am seated?
You’ve repeated
Oft’ner still those tunes of yore;
And I love them, love your scanning
And your noisy tree-top planning;
Though you struggle with a rhyme,
In due season comes the chime.

Oft I fancy when your neighbors,
In some secret thicket hid,
Are debating,
Underrating
What that little maiden did,
That above their clam’rous singing
I can hear your accents ringing,
Like a voice that must defend
From abuse some time-loved friend.

Though the nightingale and swallow
Through the poet’s measures sing,
No reflection
Of dejection
Petrifies or palls your wing.
In the calm and holy moonlight,
On and on with hours of midnight,
In the darkness, in the rain,
Still you whisper your refrain.

Dream I not of fame or fortune,
Only this I inward crave,
Sweet assurance,
Long endurance,
Of a love beyond the grave.
Should my songs die out and perish,
You’ll my name repeat and cherish;
Though all trace is lost of me,
Still you’ll call from tree to tree,

KATYDID.

A Day-Dream.

I’m looking in a mirror, Belle,
The mirror of our past;
And many a bright reflection, Belle,
Into its depth is cast;
Reflections that are calm and clear,
And O! to us so very dear.

I see a village--old Kirksville--
Its long and narrow street,
And as it climbs upon the hill,
How many friends I meet!
And, Belle, your face smiles out to me--
The sweetest face that I can see.

There is my home hid ’mong the trees
Back of the village street,
A welcome rushes on the breeze,
And restless grow my feet;
My heart leaps forward, and I view
The dearest spot I ever knew.

Home! home again! and, children, we
Skip through the pastures green;
Your eyes of blue I plainly see--
“The sweetest ever seen;”
And on your cheek the rosy tinge;
And curls of gold your temples fringe.

And see the dogs we used to pet;
Down through the lawn they run;
Not many passing by, forget
Their bark, or fail to shun
Old Carlo of the greyhound race,
And Lion with his vicious face.

Yet us they follow to the hedge,
Where hours with them we’ve played;
And to the pond, along whose edge,
Barefooted, we would wade.
Decorum could not cramp the brain,
And Love unlocked his golden chain.

We climb upon my father’s barn,
Hide in the straw and hay;
We watch aunt “Silvy” spinning yarn
In the old-fashioned way.
She tells us tales by candle light,
That fill our hearts with wild delight.

A shadow falls; I lose your face;
Lost is the fairy-tale;
And just before my eyes I trace
A kind of airy veil;
A network that is strangely planned,
Held by the Present’s cunning hand.

The shadow now has passed away;
I glance the meshes through,
And find strange children there at play
Beside your knee; one, two--
The little faces both foretell
A happy future for you, Belle.

Long, long I gaze. That pretty view
Dissolves away in air,
And still I’m looking, Belle, for you,
And still I’m standing there;
I strive your image to retrace--
All, all has vanished but my face.

And closing ’round me as before,
I see a figured wall,
A carpet blue upon the floor,
And sunlight over all.
Bewildered, yet entranced I seem,
And ’waken from a sweet day-dream.

The Old Ravine.

Just back of my dear old home it rolled,
With many a crumpled and rocky fold,
Hedged ’round with cherry and locust trees
Their strong arms toyed with the breeze--
Like knights arrayed for march or fight
They stood with waving plumes of white.

And O! that valley’s inmost room
Was a mass of ivy and violet bloom;
The larkspur shook from its purple crest
A dew-drop down on the lily’s breast;
The blue-bell dozed on the rivulet’s brink,
And the myrtle leaned o’er the edge to drink.

Even now, as I write, through the open door
I catch a sound of the cataract’s roar,
And see the girls just out from school
Knee-deep in the ravine’s limpid pool;
And the boys, ah, me! how plain can I see
Them stealing the bark from the slippery tree.

The door slams back, it is scarce apart;
With steady eye and fluttering heart,
I watch the girls up the valley turn,
In search of peppermint and fern;
And the boys are waving their caps to me,
As they stand in that ragged and torn old tree.

In some wild way, I never knew how,
I climbed to the swing on that elm tree’s bough;
Was twitt’ring a song as I used to do,
And counting the clouds in the sky’s soft blue,
When the girls came out from the valley’s shade,
And earth into heaven seemed then to fade.

’Twas the Eden of old, and I was a child
(I have thought of it since and often have smiled);
Sitting there in the swing, with the girls at my feet,
And the boys overhead--my joy was complete;
What a mockery, then, to awaken and part
With the happy illusion--how hollow my heart!

Some Day You’ll Wish for Me.

FOR ---- ----

Some day, my darling, when the rose has died,
That on your pathway throws its petals sweet,
When the sharp thorn is springing near your side
And nettles pierce the mould beneath your feet,
You’ll wish for me.

Some day, my darling, when the crystal cup
Of Beauty shattered lies, and spilled its wine;
When Pleasure’s urn denies your lips one sup,
And you drink deep of Disappointment’s brine,
You’ll wish for me.

Some day the wreath will wilt upon your head;
You’ll smell the bud and find a worm within.
Some day, my darling, when your friends have fled,
And strangers mock your frequent tears, ah! then
You’ll wish for me.

Some day, my darling, when Death’s dews fall cold
Upon your brow, you’ll gladly let me come--
When dreams present the shroud that must enfold
Your limbs, and your sweet lips grow chill and dumb,
You’ll wish for me.

You’ll long for him whose hands were oft denied
To pluck a rose lest they the bush pollute--
Yet he would come and stand a slave aside.
To grasp the bramble and the thorn uproot,
If you but wished for him.

He’d kiss your limbs the hidden briar had torn,
And bathe the wounds with Pity’s saddest tear;
He’d close your eyes that ne’er till death had worn
For him one look of love, and at your bier
He’d kneel and pray

For strength to watch you hidden from his sight,
For strength to turn aside and leave you there
Clasped in the arms of everlasting night;
And yet, my darling, not as great despair
He’d feel than now.

To Hallie.

WRITTEN FOR ----

Sad and cheerless stands the homestead
In its grandeur as of old;
’Tis a casket--lost, the jewel;
’Tis a mine without its gold.

Once a sunbeam at the doorway
Gilded room and gladdened hall;
Making life a golden summer,
Full of joy for each and all.

But the sunshine that has vanished
Ne’er can brighten o’er us more,
Though I bow in meek submission
Yet my heart is sad and sore.

I have lost my life’s sweet treasure,
Earth holds nothing dear for me;
“Upward, onward,” be my motto,
Onward, upward, still to thee.

Hallie! be my guarding angel,
Teach my footsteps not to stray;
Spread your sainted wings above me,
Lead me in “the narrow way,”

So that you can come and meet me--
Waft me heavenward on your breast,
“Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.”

I’ve Asked You to Forget Me.

I’ve asked you to forget me,
To let our happy past
Ne’er be recalled; for ah! it was
Too sweet, too bright! to last.

But yet you say that you’re my friend,
And still as fond and true;
While I ne’er care to see thy face,
Or have one thought of you.

Then ne’er again recall those days
When roguish Cupid played
At twining garlands ’round our hearts
Only to wilt and fade;

For I have with a steady hand,
Not heeding Love’s sweet art,
Unwound them from their resting place
And freed your faithless heart.

Little Blanche.

Gather up the broken playthings,
Scattered on the nursery floor;
Blanche is gone!--her little fingers
Ne’er will fondle with them more.

Hide away the dolls, the dishes--
Precious treasures! O! so dear!
Lay aside the little dresses--
In each fold a mother’s tear.

God hath given--God hath taken,
Though it rends the heart in twain,
He but sends his frowns upon us,
To give back his smiles again.

She hath gone to ’wait your coming,
Smiling where the angels stand;
Lingering there at heaven’s gateway,
That she first may clasp your hand.

The Little Front Gate.

Away from the world and its bustle,
When the daylight grows pleasant and late;
In our own cosy cot, I am waiting
For the slam of the little front gate.

The birds at the doorway are singing,
The roses their beauty debate;
But I sit here alone, and I listen
For the slam of the little front gate.

Sometimes, ere the shadows of twilight
Send the roving bird home to its mate,
I list for a hurrying footstep,
And the slam of the little front gate.

O! you who are burdened with sorrow,
And believe that life is but fate,
Learn from me there is joy in waiting
For the slam of the little front gate.

Drifting.

Scotta, you are drifting from me,
O’er the billows of life’s tide;
You and I have sailed together,
With our frail barks side by side.

You are drifting with the current,
But my feeble oar is light,
Too light to follow; and, in anguish,
I must watch you drift from sight.

Drifting, gliding, moving onward,
Tide and sky seem one deep blue;
All in vain my eyes are yearning,
You have drifted from my view.

But there’s yet a broader current,
Where our meeting barks will land;
You and I still bound together,
Heart to heart, and hand to hand.

Looking Back.

She opened a little worn package,
Scarred yellow by Time’s ruthless hand;
Disclosing a bundle of letters
Tied up with a pale ribbon band.

“These,” she said, “are like leaves from a fernery,
Long pressed in a book with a flower;
And the memories wafted up from them,
Like perfume that follows a shower.

“With no wormwood or gall in the essence,
Few tares in life’s garden were sown;
The clouds partly hiding the sunshine,
Some weeds with the blossoms have grown.

“But we loved”--here she held out a picture;
A tear-drop was dimming her eye,
As a cloud will o’ershadow the landscape,
Or shut out a star in the sky.

I took up a ring and a locket,
Set deep with a ruby and pearl;
The clasp was all tarnished and broken,
And tear-stained the face of the girl,

Whose eyes were awake in Hope’s morning,
Love kindled their depths with his spark--
Even then, from the red velvet lining,
They glowed like a gem in the dark.

I turned to the sad little figure,
’Round the package the faded cord tied;
Pressed my lips to her cheek--ah, how sadly
The roses had bloomed there and died.

Long we sat in the lingering twilight,
Looking back o’er the vanishing years;
She sobbed out her grief on my bosom,
And moistened my brow with her tears.

What comfort in words could I offer?
There was more in a soul-telling glance;
For each heart hath its season of springtime,
Each heart hath a buried romance.

Scotta.

I Saw her last night in a vision
(How often she comes when I dream!)
Through the garden of Heaven she loitered,
Then stood by a clear, placid stream.

And out of the heart of the river
A bunch of white lilies she drew,
I scarce could discern from the blossoms
Her fingers, so waxen their hue.

But her face wore the same quiet features,
And her smile was enhancing the light
That fell on this friend of my bosom,
This angel robed softly in white.

I longed to reach upward and touch her,
To ask why the flowers she twined;
Wondered often for whom was the garland,
And the crown with the lily buds lined.

So I cried and my voice soared onward
Farther than sight could extend--
“For whom are you weaving this chaplet?
Speak, Scotta! sweet spirit and friend.”

“O! tell me just why from the portals
Of Heaven you’ve wandered away,
And sit here alone by the river
Wreathing these lilies to-day.”

Her lips parted, as if for an answer--
Then a cluster of cherubim, came--
They hovered about this sweet seraph,
And whispered in concert _a name_.

It resounded along Heaven’s archway,
But soft on my ear that word fell,
Soft as her accents of friendship,
Soft as a Sabbath eve bell.

And the dewdrops and spray of the river
On the garlands to crystals had turned,
The crown she embedded with snow-drops,
One jewel there glittered and burned.

Its luster was brilliant and sunlike,
As burnished as those in the throne,
But the name that her own gentle fingers
Had carved there, ah! me, was--_my own_.

And what if Life’s thorns pressed my temples
Or sorrow to midnight turns day,
I will press on alone through the darkness,
Believing her hand leads the way.

I will traverse the chill “Swamp of Cypress”
Where the “Rivers of Death” slowly wind;
For she’ll beckon me over with garlands,
And the crown with the lily buds lined.

The Lover and Flower.

I found it, one day, in a pretty shade
Which a vine and a maple together made;
’Twas blooming away in a dress of white,
With eyes of a blue transparent light.
I knelt at its shrine,
And this heart of mine
Drank in the fragrance as one drinks wine.

Then I said, “Sweet flower, this cooling shade
With the summer weather will dim and fade,
There’s a place in my heart--a cozy room--
Where you may nestle and grow and bloom.”
Thus I wooed the flower,
In this shady bower,
And lovers we were that self-same hour.

I carried it home, I pruned it with care,
I gave it the sun and the morning air.
The honey bees came its dew to sip,
But I drove them away with pouting lip;
For I loved my flower,
And with jealous power
I banished the bees from our curtained bower.

A butterfly came on wings of lace,
And tried to fan my blossom’s face;
But I brushed it away with cruel hands,
And tore from its wings the velvet bands;
Then I kissed my flower;
But a summer shower
Burst from the clouds with mesmeric power.

Then the pale little blossom heaved a sigh,
And opened a blue and timid eye
To thank the cloud as it did in the shade,
Which the vine and the maple together made;
But my heart would rebel;
I could not quell
Its raging fire--it seemed from hell.

I slammed the shutters with curses of doom;
I made it dark as a dungeon room,
Then I hurried away like a thief in the night;
But I strolled again in the warm sunlight,
And another flower
From Fashion’s own bower
I culled, and nursed it only an hour.

It proved but a weed with a gaudy bloom,
And a poisonous odor filled my room.
So I turned once more to my wildwood flower,
That I locked in my heart that sinful hour,
When the angel of love,
To its mansion above,
Had fluttered away like a wounded dove.

How softly I turned the key in my heart;
One moment I faltered--the door swung apart--
A faint, sweet essence, like heliotrope bloom,
Was sick’ning my senses; I moved through the room
With a staggering tread,
With a brain reeling head,
And swooned there--_a murd’rer_--my flower was--_dead_.

My Cloud--To Scotta.

There’s a cloud on my life’s horizon
Of wonderful shape and hue,
Like the feathery down of a snow-drift
’Tis dimpled with changeful blue.
I gaze on its shadowy outline
And drink in the calm of the skies,
Till I fancy it floats out of heaven,
As an angel in disguise.

No slumbering storm in its bosom,
No hint of the lightning’s glare,
Only a feast for the heart and soul
Is this treasure of the air;
For I know from its silvery edges,
And glimpses of hidden gold,
That a picture of rare tranquility
Its tender depths enfold.

Else whence is this mystic feeling
Of peace that’s stealing o’er me?
Like the magic of summer moonlight
Enchanting a restless sea.
O! heavenly cloud! why are you
So calm? so angelic you seem,
My spirit escapes in its longing--
I am lost in a beautiful dream.

Up, up on the wings of a swallow
Piercing the heaven’s deep blue,
O’er meadow and mount I am rising,
And floating, sweet spirit, to you;
Onward, in trance I am wafted,
Now into the cloudlet above;
And a face smiles out from its drapery,
And ah! ’tis a face that I love.

The Decision.

A dispute once arose in a bee-hive
As to which of the little brown bees
Could gather the sweetest nectar
From blossoms or budding trees.

The queen tried in vain to discover
Some method the riot to quell;
But a challenge for war had been sounded,
And threatened was each honey cell.

So she spoke in a voice most persuasive--
“He shall sit on my throne for an hour,
Who brings from the store-house of nature,
The juice of the sweetest-lipped flower.”

Away flew the brown little workers,
Away out of sight o’er the hill;
Then backward and forward they flitted,
The honey-cups eager to fill.

One famished the heart of a lily,
And drank from its milky bud;
One opened the vein of a rose leaf,
And licked up the crimson blood.

To a poppy-bed still one hurried,
On a downy cot he crept,
But all-day in the silken blankets,
Unconscious there he slept.

Another flew off to the meadow,
And punctured the daisy’s cap;
A swarm had encompassed a fountain,
Where gurgled the sugar-tree sap.

A fourth and a fifth to a mansion
Had followed a bridal pair;
One strangled the bud on her bosom,
One mangled the wreath on her hair.

But the sixth one paused at a cottage,
Where a sick girl sleeping lay;
And there by the open window,
Blossomed a hyacinth spray.

A youth stood near in the shadows,
And watching the dreamer’s face,
A tear rolled down from his eyelid
And fell on the hyacinth vase.

It was only the work of a moment
For a busy bee to do,
To flavor affections tear-drop
With the extract, “flower-dew.”

So he gathered this precious honey,
And, polishing up his sting,
He flitted out of the window,
With gold dust under his wing.

Such a night in the little bee-hive
Before was never known;
For the hyacinth’s rich moist pollen
Had paved the way to the throne.

Autumn.

Who is it that paints the woodlands
Like a gorgeous gown of gold;
Dropping, here and there, a ripple
Of vermilion in each fold?
Who is it that calls the robins
And the blackbirds into bands;
Pointing them with flaming fingers,
To the sunny, Southern lands?

What has scorched the tender blossoms?
In our yards they’re dying now.
Do you know who kissed the apple
Till it reddened on the bough?
Why so mute the little streamlet?
Down the hill it used to leap;
Now I faintly hear it sobbing--
Sobbing out like one in sleep.

Leaden clouds lay on the heavens,
Like a burden on the heart;
And the winds together whisper,
Sad as loved ones ere they part.
Then anon a dreamy dullness
Hovers over sky and earth;
Ah! my soul reflects the sadness,
And I seek my friendly hearth.

You who love the Indian summer,
So renowned by pen and art,
Go, and revel in the gloaming,
While so sadly pants my heart.
But I can not watch the leaflets,
On the whirlwind as they ride,
For just so a hectic river
Bore my darling from my side.

A Sister’s Love.

TO IDA.

She knelt beside her brother’s grave,
The day was near its close;
And where the cool, tall grasses wave,
She lay a fresh-cut rose.
Then, from a silver waiter near,
She drew a wreath of white,
Besprinkled with the twilight’s tear,
O’ershaded with the night,
And placed them on the green-kept mound.
I watched her kneeling there,
Her face bent on the sacred ground,
In attitude of prayer;
And while a bird sang soft his hymn,
Down-looking from above,
We saw unveiled a picture dim--
A statue true of love.

In Memory of Fannie Johnson White.

If I could blend into my verse
That soft and slumb’rous haze,
So faintly resting on the rose
Before the autumn days
Have chilled its heart, and numbed the leaves,
And drunk the precious dew,
Then could I melodize in song,
Her life so pure and true.

Or could I weave into this song
Her smile, so rich and rare,
That found its way to every heart,
And left its halo there--
Then earth would not seem desolate,
Or days be lone or long,
Since she would sweetly live again
In verse, and smile in song.

All this is vain! both pen and voice,
Too weak to speak her worth;
Though memory writes in words of gold,
Her beauteous deeds on earth.
Heaven claimed our flower--there we may bloom,
If we the watchword keep:
“Whatsoever thou shall sow,
That also thou shall reap.”

The Heliotrope’s Soliloquy.

TO MRS. T. R. WALTON.

Let others bring from foreign shore
The glittering gem, the shining ore,
Rare trophies from the coral caves,
And hidden wealth of ocean waves,
To grace the bridal hall.

You floral queens! You roses white!
Bathed in the moonbeam’s yellow light,
You’ll smile in many a quaint design,
And help the banquet room to line--
But not the diadem.

My starry flowers--this purple heath--
She’ll gather for that trailing wreath;
For my faint breath of rare perfume
Is only for the bridal room--
The bride--the bridal crown.

To watch with me her trembling sigh,
The golden pansy’s modest eye
Shall only glance from out my bower,
With me proclaim the nuptial hour,
And seal the holy bond.

A Problem.

My heart is perplexed, though I’ve tried to discover
An answer to solve what it is that I miss,
Though I’ve questioned myself more that twenty times over,
There seems no reply to a question like this.
My friends meet me gladly with words kindly spoken,
Salutations of praises and sometimes a kiss,
And looks sent along with a sweet flower token.
I find in my room--there is something I miss.

The blaze up the chimney this evening is talking,
The wind and the shutter hum sad an old tune,
A cloud o’er the heavens is leisurely walking,
A few early snowflakes are vexing the moon.
Pale Luna! your countenance seemeth too sober,
But why should I murmur or wonder at this?
The flame of the woodland died out with October,
The birds, too, are gone--there is something I miss.

I stir down the embers, and here in the firelight
I read the home paper a late train has brought,
And into the lives of the absent an insight
I take; do they ever of me have a thought?
How strange the words sound when no answer is given,
Ah! the tone of a friend would to-night insure bliss,
And the faces of loved ones would seem like a heaven
Of angels, alas! there is something I miss.

Will it always be thus? Is this one missing measure
To cripple my verse and sadden my song?
What a joy it is to regain a lost treasure
And in the heart’s casket the setting make strong.
But I have grown weary these figures of trying;
I wonder if others make failures like this?
A smile? Ah, you solved then the truth underlying
This problem, and _know_ what it is that I miss.

MADISONVILLE, KY.

My Palace.

I built me a little palace,
Somewhere in the ether land,
Wherein my soul might revel
And rest at my command.
The spot, a royal summit,
I let my will select,
And Fancy came inspecting
With Thought, the architect.

We went down to the quarry
For the foundation rock,
And purchased hewn and polished
Love’s marble corner block.
For years we toiled together,
And one day warm and sweet
I woke and found my palace
Before me and complete.

It was a gorgeous building--
The window lights of red
Came from the sunset’s furnace,
Or Northern light instead.
Each peak, each tower and turret
The sunlight’s love had won,
And straight there came a voice
From heaven and said “well done.”

I planted a grove beyond it,
And hedged up the terraced yard,
And I dug a groove so a brooklet
Could play on the level sward.
I wanted a flower to cheer me,
And off on a breezy slope
I scattered the seed of roses
And the purple heliotrope.

I peopled the rooms with volumes
Of men with talents rare,
Who climbed upon Fame’s spire
And waved their banners there.
I purchased the costliest paintings,
And swung them from the walls;
And music, like harps of heaven,
Resounded throughout the halls.

I gave a royal banquet,
The nuptial feast was spread,
And then, when all was ready,
There Love and I were wed.
But when the guests departed,
A rap came on the door,
And a gaunt figure faced me
I ne’er had seen before.

“My name,” she said, “is Envy;
I wish to stop with you;
Your dwelling just completed,
The inmates must be few.”
Her breath, like fumes of sulphur,
Into my face was blown,
And like a demon’s curses
Was her departing tone.

The night came on, and fingers
Tapped on the beveled glass,
A face looked in the window
With eyes that shone like brass;
But Love beheld the visage,
And o’er the window drew
A shade that shut Suspicion
Forever from my view.

And then a pond’rous knocking
Bombarded at the door,
And like an earthquake’s tremor
Upheaved the palace floor.
I glanced into the key-hole,
And, like the brand of Cain,
I saw on Slander’s forehead
A dark and bloody stain.

I barred the palace entrance,
And turning in the hall
We faced another figure
More dreadful than them all;
He said: “My name is Ruin--
Unbidden here I stand,
To curse your happy homestead
And desolate your land.

“The lichen I have sprinkled
Upon your crumbling tower,
The ivy and the myrtle
Shall choke each blooming flower.”
And then he smote the castle,
It trembled to its base,
And fell? No, no--I shouted
And laughed out in his face:

“You can not wreck our palace,
Love is the corner stone,
And we are master workmen,”
I said, in jocund tone.
He seized his trailing garments,
Departed with a groan,
And love and I together
Were once more left alone.

Next day as they debated
What course to next pursue,
I heard a sweet voice calling--
Love said the tone he knew.
The step, low as a mother’s
Upon the nursery floor,
Was like advancing music
That halted at our door.

As when a fairy’s castle
Yields to a magic key,
Our door swung on the hinges
The guest was--_Sympathy_.
“Come in, our worthy sister,”
I heard Love then repeat;
“For happiness without you
Could never be complete.”

And while we sat together,
Weaving our garland sweet,
For many a bridal altar,
For many a burial sheet,
We heard another footstep;
And, like an angel sent,
There came and smiled upon us
The face we loved--_Content_.

The circle was completed--
My palace stands sublime
Still on that cloudland summit,
And laughs at threats of Time.
No curses thunder o’er us,
No heavy rains can fall;
For heaven’s open window
Slants sunshine over all.

Death of Summer.

Summer’s dying, close the shutters,
Make the light subdued and sweet,
The last accent that she utters
I’ll record here at her feet.
See, the pulses quiver faintly,
But her heart, alas! ’tis still;
See how pale she lies and saintly,
Feel her hands, they’re white and chill.

Close the eyes made sad from weeping,
Smooth the tangles from her head,
Leave her like an angel sleeping,
Friends are here to view the dead.
See, the rose a tear is dropping
As she leans above her face,
At the door the lily stopping,
Finds her handkerchief of lace.

There the two like sisters sorrow,
As above the corse they bend,
Planning for the sad to-morrow--
For the burial of a friend.
Then the daisy from the mountain,
That in mourning shawl was dressed,
Brought a snowdrow from the fountain,
Lay it on the summer’s breast.

To the pillow crept the lilacs,
But the flowers at her throat
Were the heliotrope and smilax--
This was gained by casting vote--
And the jasmine sought her fingers,
While the fuschias kissed her hair;
At her lip a violet lingers
To deny them, who would dare?

Then the autumn’s sunny treasure
Came the sturdy golden rod,
For the coffin took the measure,
For the grave removed the sod.
Long and mournful the procession
That I watched across the hill,
For to you I’ll make confession,
Autumn doth my spirit kill.

Drives me from the scene of sadness
While on poison nature feeds;
Decks her out in robes of gladness
To conceal the heart that bleeds;
At the summer’s grave there lingers
None more sad to drop a tear
Than the friend whose trembling fingers
Write this in memoriam here.

Spring and Summer.

I heard a footstep on the hill,
The little brook began to trill,
I looked--a sweet and childlike face,
Reflected like a blooming vase,
Was smiling from the water clear,
With buttercups behind her ear.

A flock of swallows hove in sight,
On came the summer clad in white,
With sunshine falling from her hair
Upon her shoulders white and bare,
And pressing through the tangled grass,
A daisy rose to watch her pass.

Under the Snow.

What have you hidden down under the snow,
So dear that you weep when the northern blasts blow?
Why your face pressed to the cold window pane,
Longing to mingle your tears with the rain--
Is there something down under the snow?

Is it only a blossom, a summer’s delight,
That is freezing and dying this cold, bitter night?
That is only a fancy, the floweret is warm,
And the drift has enfolded it safe from the storm--
Is there something yet under the snow?

Something near to the heart down under the snow,
That has robbed the wan cheek of its once carmine glow,
That has stolen the beam of the eye--tears instead
Bespeak how in anguish the sore heart hath bled
For a little child under the snow.

For a dear little prattler that littered the floor,
And laughed as he tumbled your work o’er and o’er
For a little gold head that made sunny the room,
Now bright’ning the darkness and chill of the tomb,
That is dreaming out under the snow.

Only resting awhile in garments all white,
Away from the blackness and sin of to-night;
Away from the vice and the wrong of the street,
Not heeding the song of the rain or the sleet,
Still sleeping down under the snow.

How many a mother her darling would lay
In the last, narrow home--hide her treasure away--
If only to know its soul was at rest
With an innocent heart in an innocent breast,
Far, far down under the snow!

The Prettiest Girl in Town.

Have you e’er seen her, this beautiful girl
With that classical head and complexion of pearl?
So pale and enchanting that sometimes I deem
Her a sweet revelation as when in a dream,
Through wild variations of trouble and fear,
You suddenly feel that an angel is near.
Now guess, if you can, without half of that frown,
For to me she’s the prettiest girl in the town.

The poets all sing of these quaint Highland girls
With enchanting dimples and loose tangled curls;
Or they weave a love-tale from her budding lip’s glow
While chasing the reindeer o’er mountains of snow;
This is only the skill of a well tinctured pen,
Dipped in Romance’s cup for the praises of men,
Who value this maid in the coarse homespun gown
Something less than the prettiest girl in the town.

You must all have watched the calm light of her eyes,
And ethereal figure with heavy drawn sighs;
Pondered often in secret of some magic gift
To win you this face--so like a snowdrift--
I would whisper a secret: On Valentine’s day,
With Cupid commune in a sly, cunning way,
Else only in dreams she is thine; for a crown
Could not purchase the prettiest girl in the town.

I am Musing To-Night.

I am musing to-night in the fire-light’s glow,
And watching the pictures that come and go;
Like dissolving views on a magic screen
Is the witchery of this changing scene;
Though half I’m dreaming, though half awake,
I fear to move lest the spell I break,
Lest my fairy castles will break and fall,
And down will tumble each beautiful wall.

Thus still in a stupor I sit and gaze
At the glowing embers and wanton blaze;
I am smiling at Fancy; she tries in vain
To lure me along with the mad’ning train
That follow her footsteps--that to her cling,
As flowers that garland the steps of spring;
In moody silence I sit apart,
Till memory conquers my sullen heart.

Sweet Memory! sprite of my golden past!
Your tinseled veil o’er me is cast;
Subdued I yield like one enchained,
And yet my freedom is only feigned;
Back through the aisles of years that are gone,
A willing captive you lead me on,
Where I gleaned unbidden the joys of youth
While the world was blossoming with love and truth.

Before my heart could interpret a sigh,
Or a tear-drop’s shadow creep into my eye,
Ere I’d missed from the circle of friendship’s chain
The link once lost that we ne’er regain,
The future to me was a vast expanse,
Its depth I could solve at a single glance,
Knew not of the troubles that torture the soul
Hidden away in its sober fold.

Yet, to-night, as I dream in the gathering gloom,
Only friends that are dear softly enter my room,
Those who gladdened my life in its season of pain,
Like a gleam of the sunshine along with the rain;
These, _these_ are the guests that encircle my hearth,
Who come gliding like spirits back to the earth.
What communion we hold only those ever know
Who sit musing alone in the fire-light’s glow.

A Curl.

To-night, as I turned back the pages
Of a book Time had fingered before,
And whose leaves held the odor of ages,
And the imprints of much usage wore,
A little brown curl I discovered,
That fell from the book to the floor.

Had I sinned? Heaven grant me its pardon.
Did a lover’s sad tear the page spot?
Who pressed there that gem of the garden--
The sweet flower, “forget-me-not?”
It lay as if carved on a grave-stone,
And all of its sweetness forgot.

I held the curl up to the lamplight,
And watching the gleam of its gold,
There I heard with the rush of the midnight,
A sad little story it told;
But I promised the sacred old volume
Its secret I would not unfold.

But I would that the world knew its sorrow,
The story I must not reveal;
But go to your book case to-morrow.
And each to your own heart appeal;
And you’ll know why the tattered old volume
The little curl tries to conceal.

Somebody’s Face.

TO M. A. B.

The blossoms are gone from the garden,
But ’tis not of them I would speak;
I want a sweet rose for my verses
Like one that’s in somebody’s cheek.
A red rose to kiss and to fondle,
Whose leaves will not wither or die--
To gladden each moment and banish
The winter thoughts out of the sky.

I want a low ripple of music
To flow through these lines of my choice,
Like a zephyr that moved through the summer,
Now dwelling in somebody’s voice;
A song that will be full of fragrance
So sweet that its magic of words
Will bring back the balm of the June time,
Its memories glad, and the birds.

The skies are so sunless and dreary,
Unless I can find a deep blue
To mix with the clouds of November
They’ll still wear the dark, sober hue;
But memory shows a bright heaven
Reflected in somebody’s eye,
And, thinking to-day of its beauty,
The grey becomes blue in the sky.

My dear little friend of the summer,
Did you think in the meshes of song
Your sweet, rosy face would be tangled
By a memory cunning and strong?
That the eyes looking now on this pattern
Would find it so easy to trace?
And delight as I do in its beauty--
The beauty of somebody’s face?

Good-bye, Maggie.

Good-bye, Maggie, I must leave you,
Far away from you I roam,
Far away from friends and loved ones,
And your pretty cottage home.
O’er my soul a twilight gathers,
That is deep’ning into night,
But from out the shadowy distance
Shines a soft, familiar light.

It is memory’s beacon lantern,
O’er it arching is your name;
Round it recollections cluster,
As the moth about the flame.
Though the future tries to cheat us,
Throwing many miles between,
Brighter burns the little taper
As the distance intervenes.

Good-bye, Maggie, will you miss me?
Absence conquers many a heart,
Plucks the roses from the garland,
Tears the evergreen apart;
Enters at the open lattice,
As a guest unbidden not,
Draws the curtain o’er the window,
Writes upon the door--“Forgot.”

Oh! what mean these idle sayings,
And whence come these idle fears?
As I fold you to my bosom
On my face I feel your tears;
Tears--they are a silent language
That interpret best the heart,
And I love you for them, darling--
Good-bye, Maggie, we must part.

The Hermit’s Farewell.

Farewell, that sad and bitter word
It stirs my soul to-night,
As I sit crouching in my cave
Above the faggot’s light;
Strange, ghostly figures dance and flit
Along the cold, damp walls;
The black snake glares his drowsy eyes,
And from his dungeon crawls.

The toad croaks near my humble fire,
Is loth to hop away,
And knows that ne’er again for him
Will I in ambush lay;
The bats flit idly to and fro,
The mice romp through my cell,
And e’en the wind that moans without
Repeats that word--farewell.

I move, and think ’tis some weird dream
Then mutter “’tis my brain;”
For here around my throbbing brow
Seems clamped a heavy chain,
And like a prisoner doomed to die
To-morrow at the stake,
I count the hours as they fly,
And dread the morning’s break.

For friends will come to lead me forth,
Through frescoed hall and room,
To homes where kindred ties await;
I fear the hermit’s doom.
They’ve tempted me--I fain would rest
Here on the dungeon mould,
Than dream on beds where curtains swing
With sunbeams in each fold.

For beasts and birds and creeping things
Have owned me as their guest,
When man would turn me from his door
With cruel word or jest;
And as I served my scanty meal,
In supplicating lays,
The cricket and the katydid
Would join my evening praise.

God pitied me, my loneliness
He made a sweet content;
I found companions in the stars
That from the heavens bent;
His flowers were friends, the golden rod
Smiled in its yellow hood,
A sentinel about my door
The purple thistle stood.

But look! the morning’s amber hue
Steals on the Easter skies,
Farewell! farewell! when Death has closed
These dim and longing eyes,
In peace to slumber here entombed,
Will be the boon I crave,
And those who spurned The Hermit’s home
Shall shun The Hermit’s grave.

A Window I Love.

There’s an old-fashioned building somewhere in the town
That looks on a noisy street,
And no matter how often I pass up and down,
At the window sweet faces I meet.
Little faces that lit’rally beam on the street,
Untutored in Life’s trying school,
That seem fashioned, my friends, as if just to repeat
For our lesson the sweet, golden rule.

Oft they give us a smile, when a frown we return
A kiss prompts the pout of their lip,
And though we go by with a step proud and stern,
How lightly beside us they trip!
Catching the leaves that drift in at the door,
Those pretty leaves rusted with rain,
That sigh with our hearts when the summer is o’er,
And that seem to wear traces of pain.

There is many a window with drapings of lace,
Where the clematis bloom is entwined,
Where the moss seems a part of the urn and the vase,
Where the awning with satin is lined,
Where Wealth sits aloof--garments dripping with pearls
Like a Mermaid’s--sole god of the sphere,
But the faces I love with their billows of curls
You must ne’er think of looking for here.

For the window I love has no hangings of plush,
Neither festooned as if for display,
And yet I have seen it at evening’s soft hush
Decked out in a wond’rous array
Of cambrics and calicoes, sashes and curls,
Little aprons and many a toy--
More plainly to speak--there are three little girls,
And the king of the house is a boy.

How I love to halt here! With a satisfied look,
I have watched Corinne smoothing a curl,
I have seen little Richard lean over his book,
I have heard Mary singing with Pearl.
And O! I have thanked them again and again
For the problems of patience and love
That they solve unawares for my less practiced brain
When I pause by the window I love.

RICHMOND, KY.

Thistle Down.

I saw a little child one day
Blowing some thistle down away.
How light they flew! The wings of thought
Grew weary as their course was sought,
And e’en the boy, with heart as light,
Sighed when he failed to trace their flight;
But as by chance, out of the air,
One fell upon his sunny hair.

I saw the tiny sail unfurl,
And faintly fan a slender curl.
A fairy’s boat it seemed to be,
And yet a pirate sailed the sea,
And anchored on a golden wave
That hid no evil deed--no grave.
That thought! Did Heaven foresee the doom?
From off his curl I shook the bloom.

I know not where it chanced to fall,
In garden, park, or castle wall;
A desert’s sand may scorch its root,
A crystal brook it may pollute;
A different course from mine it took,
And I the path at once forsook.
I only know that summer day,
Far from the child ’twas blown away.

Bitter Memories.

TO REV. H. T. WILSON.

A picture is haunting my memory to-night,
While I dose in the warmth of an early fire-light.
As we strive to remove from the soul an old strain,
Thus the outline I’ve tried to erase from my brain;
But a specter stands near with sepulchral face.
And over my hearthstone the same scene doth trace--
She colors the landscape and scoffs at my tears,
As I gaze on the wreck of scarce twenty-one years.

’Twas the home of my boyhood. In ruins it stood,
And autumn had saddened the meadow and wood;
The old locust grove, where the crows used to build,
The plowshare and harrow together had tilled.
Not a sprig of broomsedge did the hillside adorn,
But here and there stacked was the newly shocked corn.
Not a wild flower bloomed--through my heart ran a chill,
As I bowed by the spring at the foot of the hill.

No trickle of water fell soft on my ear--
Unless ’twas the sound of a swift falling tear--
For Time in his raving had paused here to drink,
And I found only dregs as I gasped on the brink.
Long I stood, and I gazed like one in a trance,
And I shuddered as toward me the specter advanced;
Did the chill of her hand then my heart penetrate?
Dead, it seemed, as I leaned on the old garden gate.

Where the sweet-william bloomed on the old fashioned walk,
Towered and flourished the rank mullein stalk,
Where the raspberry vines purpled over the fence,
The iron weed stood just as proud as a prince;
But where was the summer-house under whose shade
I had gathered the grapes and my sisters had played?
“Where, oh! where,” I exclaimed (too unnerved then to fear),
“Are the joys of my youth?” “Gone,” was hissed in my ear.

As the blind lead the blind it seemed I was lead
Over stubble and thorns till my feet ached and bled.
Then we stood by a door that had rotted apart--
Here the thistle had broken its soft, downy heart--
I glanced toward the mantel, an owl hooted there,
And a rat made its nest in my mother’s old chair,
“Oh! God,” I repeated, “’tis too hard to bear,”
And I knelt on the threshold in low, fervent prayer.

* * * * *

“Why, papa,” a little voice called soft and clear,
As she climbed on my knee and kissed off a tear,
“What a long nap you’ve had; why mamma’s at tea,
Now, papa, wake up and come on with me.”
“My darling!” I whispered, and pressed to my face
A cheek that was soft as a billow of lace.
“What if the old home can not weather the storms
When a foretaste of Heaven I hold in my arms.”

SEPTEMBER 7, 1885.

An Acrostic.

Daughters’ college! Muse, come nearer,
And assist my feeble rhyme.
Undertaking nothing dearer,
Greater, nothing showeth time.
Here’s the spot where you, awaking,
Taught my infant mind to think;
Even as the morning breaking,
Richer grows to red from pink.
Searched you with me for the treasures,
Culled the blossoms half unblown,
Opened them within my measures,
Letting each bloom as my own.
Lifted to my sight a heaven,
E’en while lying on your breast--
Graciously for it I’ve striven,
Ever hoping for the best.

My Angel Visitor.

TO J. T. C.

We talked together in the twilight gloom,
Her friend and mine of scenes and times long past;
And in the shadows of the quiet room,
It seemed to me an angel form was cast.

I saw, and yet my friend seemed not to see
The face familiar, with the gentle eyes,
Whose presence sanctified the past for me,
And made for him a glorious paradise.

I felt the pressure of a vanished hand
Upon my own, and heard a soft robe sweep--
The same has floated from the spirit-land,
And often trailed the chamber where I sleep.

I strove to break the spell that bound his heart,
That held his spirit as a bondsman tied,
When like a rose that shakes its leaves apart,
Her garments rustled close his chair beside.

And yet he knew it not. The angel face
Bent close above his own. So doth the moon
Sometimes, unseen, bend from her heavenly place,
To kiss a flower that falls asleep too soon.

“Awake, my friend,” I said, “too soon you sleep;
An angel figure stands beside your chair,
And I alone the sacred vigil keep.”
But as he woke, she vanished into air.

“O, friend of mine, and friend of hers,” I cried,
“A hallowed presence is so soon forgot.
She walked on earth an angel by your side,
The same as now, and yet you knew it not.”

Keep a Bright Face, Darling.

Keep a bright face, darling,
Though the task is hard,
Life holds up before you
Many a bright-faced card.

Though the clouds have gathered
And darkened all the way,
Rainbows o’er you arching
Tinge the skies of gray.

You have said what sunshine
Leaked in with the rain
Only brought new sorrow,
Brought but grief and pain.

Keep a bright face, darling,
Set your scales anew,
Weigh again the sunshine
And the raindrops, too.

And you’ll find your measure
Hitherto was wrong,
Keep a bright face, darling,
And on your lips a song.

Heaven decrees our burdens,
And our faith God tries;
But a broken spirit
He can not despise.

Keep a bright face, darling--
Even while I write,
In the fields of midnight
Blossom stars of light.

Though the morning cometh
With a streak of gray,
’Tis a hint of sunshine
And a perfect day.

Journey slow and patient
With a purpose strong.
Keep a bright face, darling,
On your lips a song.

My Neighbor’s Mill.

TO M. BARLOW.