Chapter II: Part 2

I love to sit here at the window-sill
When the sun falls asleep in the West,
And watch the gray Twilight walk over the hill
In garments of night partly dressed,
And see, through the rooms of my neighbor’s mill,
How she creeps like an unbidden guest.

I love the low hum of the numberless wheels--
They echo the heart-beats of time,
Each unto my pen its purpose reveals,
Like the magic of meter and rhyme;
Or, as to the soul that in penitence kneels,
Doth the sound of a slow vesper chime.

We have been friends together, this old mill and I,
Yes, friends that are true, tried, and strong;
If over us gather a gray winter sky
We faced it sometimes with a song,
Or braved it in silence, scarce knowing why,
As together we labored along.

I fancy sometimes as I sit here alone
With the calm of the night in my heart,
When from the low roof the pigeons have flown,
And the stars their sweet stories impart,
That this mill unto me in a strange undertone
Is speaking as heart unto heart.

That it bids me look into the granary room
Where the yellow wheat is packed;
And anon to glance in with the sundown’s bloom
Where the snowy flour is sacked,
So I look--and it seems in the deepening gloom
There clouds upon clouds are stacked.

What else do I scan through the moonlight’s lace
That scallops the window panes;
Why, the dear old miller’s honest face,
He’s counting his losses and gains,
And methinks on his visage I can trace
A look that my own heart pains.

Ah! think of the thousands his bounty feeds--
We beggars encircle his door,
While he scatters alike his bundle of seeds
To the humble, the rich, and the poor.
Sure there’s a reward for such generous deeds,
A reward that is brighter than ore!

But the lights have gone out of my neighbor’s mill,
And pale grows the red in the West;
The Night has crept up to my own window-sill
And pillowed my head on her breast,
While over the way--how peaceful and still!
The old mill’s asleep and at rest.

Dripping Springs.

TO MY BROTHER--D. G. SLAUGHTER.

Something moves my pen; its former chime
I fain would drop, and gladly lose the rhyme
That lights my verse as ore lights up a mine,
If on my canvas I could curve and line
These quiet hills, and for an hour could say
I’d caught the warmth that on the landscape lay,
And that I dreamed as artists sometimes dream
Who blend their smiles with meadow, mound, and stream;
I am indeed a child worn out at play,
And weary of my game I long to stray
To other haunts, to other heights unknown,
And claim that Raphael’s brush as half my own.
Alas! forsaken by my Muse I turn
And backward glance--she beckons my return--
She floods the old familiar fields with light,
She bids me pause, take up my pen and--write.

’Tis scarce yet dawn, the leaves awake,
And in my brow the raindrops shake
The only remnant of the cloud
That pealed last night with thunder loud;

The only hint that here with flowers
Come sometimes shadows, sometimes showers.
The morning is a dream of bliss,
The breeze not unlike Love’s first kiss.

My soul expands--I drink the dew,
It gives my veins a deeper hue,
I halt where like a singing rill
The spring comes dripping o’er the hill.

I fill my cup again, again,
I drink for all--good health to men--
I hear the rising bell’s faint sound,
The porter makes his usual round.

And black-eyed Easter trips along
The kitchen porch with smile and song,
We find a poem in her churn,
An essence in her coffee urn;

We note the pale dyspeptic’s cheek
Is growing rosy, round, and sleek;
His torpid stomach forced to fast,
Here soon partakes the rich repast.

Breakfast over, ’round the springs
The guests assemble--some in swings--
And those of a romantic turn
Stroll two and two in search of fern.

For them the woods have more than speech,
A calm that to the heart doth reach,
That perfect peace of mind and soul
The sacred Book to us hath told.

I deem that morning holds more charms
Than day hides elsewhere in her arms;
But when she folds her shadowy tent,
And stars laugh in the firmament,

A newer phase doth nature take,
And in the heart new joys awake.
Some love the ball-room’s din and glare
As soft they trip some favorite air,

Some love to lounge about the spring,
Some frequent spots where hammocks swing,
And others saunter to the pool
Their tired limbs to bathe and cool.

But give me just the shady rook
That o’er the dripping spring doth look,
And let me watch the bright lamps flash,
And let me listen to the splash

Of the old spring that drips and drips,
To cool and cure the fever lips.
Who could forget the landlord’s vim
Or cottage rooms so neat and trim?

Who would not leave the city’s glare,
The heat, the dust, and stifling air--
Who would not part with all his wealth
To gain at Dripping Springs his health?

In Memoriam.

They tell me she is dead, that we no more
Upon her quiet face can rest our eyes,
Yet long we for it, as a weary bird
Longs all in vain to rest upon a cloud
That heavenward floats. And yet there’s solace still
In musing on her faith so strong and pure,
That recognized, through pain, God’s every wish,
And dreaded not to taste death’s cup if so
By Him decreed.
I was not there to hold
Her hand; it chilled within the orphan’s palm
Until by angels clasp’d. I could not twine
The flowers she so much loved about her shroud,
Or speak a word of comfort to the friends
That sobbed, and kissed the lips grown strangely cold,
That never parted but to speak in praise
When others tried to censure; but my heart
Beats sad to-day the measures of my verse,
And tear-drops fall.
So falls the autumn rain
Upon her grave, and drifting are the leaves
Upon the mound that loving friends have raised
In memory of her, whose spirit rests
To-day with God.

The Old Orchard Trees.

Why cut them away? The dear old trees,
They never did aught of harm,
But scattered their perfume out to the breeze,
And sheltered the birds from the storm.

For an age they have stood on the town’s outer meads,
The skirmish and battle have braved;
Alike they have gazed on the war’s bloody deeds,
And the white flag of peace as it waved.

But you cut them away! my pleading is vain!
In their shade moves the carpenter’s hands,
I watched him to-day as he leveled his plane,
And he spoke of the architect’s plans.

Then a wave of distress in my heart flowed anew,
For dearly I love each old tree;
Ah me! many secrets are hidden from you
That the apple trees whispered to me.

I used to go by, and the sweet morning air,
Like incense, arose from the spot,
It would crowd from my heart some pain gnawing there,
While the world with its cares was forgot.

Here, I’ve heard the first news of the blue bird and dove,
And the round, silver note of the thrush,
A concert, with sweet variations of love,
Seemed pouring from tree and from bush.

I walked there to-day; as an accent profane
That falls on the heart and the ear,
I heard the harsh echo of hammer and plane,
And the pant of a mill in the rear.

So I muffled my face with the veil that I wore--
Time, that moment of pain can’t appease;
Unless like the birds from the scene I can soar,
And like them, forget the old trees.

On the Hill-top Grow the Daisies.

TO CARRIE ROGERS.

I chanced to stroll not long ago
To a green valley that you know;
For everything about the town
Was strange, and on me seemed to frown,
And so I wandered off alone,
To seek the friends from youth I’d known.
The brook came dashing down the hill,
The same old song to hum and trill;
With glances shy and kisses sweet,
It wound its ribbon at my feet,
And laughed aloud at my delight--
It was indeed a comic sight
To see me o’er the brooklet bend,
And greet again an old time friend.

So thus I sat, perhaps an hour,
Until I spied a human flower;
A little maid it seemed to be
With steps directed straight to me.
Her dress was pink, her bonnet white.
Her eyes were blue, and round, and bright,
Some daisies in her hand she held
But where they came from--would she tell?
Were questions that my eyes portrayed,
And she the answer quickly made.
“Upon the hill-top high they grow,
The path is there by which you go,
But if you get them you must climb,”
She said, unconscious of the rhyme.

I glanced along the rocky ledge;
The daisies nodded o’er the edge,
And just as far as I could see
They waved their ruffled caps to me.
Bright eyes that never had grown old
Their heart’s content to me foretold,
And I resolved the path to try
That seemed to end so near the sky;
And so I started up alone,
A way that seemed with mosses sown.
A pond’rous clod rolled on the track,
A briar reached and pulled me back,
A lizzard on the pathway played,
And half way up I paused--afraid.

“Keep on,” the little girl replied,
“A better path is near your side.”
She pulled the thorn from off my gown,
I heard the clod go plunging down,
And then she clasped with mine her hand,
And led me up to “daisy-land.”
The hours we spent together there
Were hallowed as the hours of prayer,
And when she left me in the vale
The sunlight suddenly grew pale;
But she had taught me this strange truth,
Forgot, or never learned in youth,
It seems a little song in rhyme,
“To reach the daisies, you must climb.”

BARDSTOWN, KY.

Ella Lee.

Where is Ella? Ella Lee?
How I’ve missed her childish glee.
Missed her step so light and airy,
Missed the darling little fairy.
She was nimble as a fawn,
Lovely as the blush of dawn,
And her voice sweet as the rill
Gliding down the grassy hill.
Where is she, I’ve missed her so,
Surely some one ought to know.

I have called her in the crowd,
Called her soft and called her loud,
Called her sad and called her sweet,
In the house and on the street.
Yet she does not seem to hear,
Though I’ve called her far and near.
Hark! I hear a blackbird’s note,
And he wears a brand new coat;
Surely some sweet word he brings,
On his iridescent wings.

Let me hail him by this tree.
Listen! now he sings to me,
Tells me, in his honest way,
That our darling’s gone away.
Far, so far away she roams,
Into other hearts and homes,
Ah! the budding little flower
Sweetens every empty hour,
Making earth a dream of bliss
By the magic of her kiss.

Though she fled like a sunbeam,
Still I hold a treasured dream,
And were she to skip to-day,
In her easy, childish way,
To the playground of my heart,
Childhood’s gate would fly apart,
And she’d find the violet’s face,
Smiling still in memory’s vase;
Green and fresh the springtime sod,
That her dainty feet had trod.

What is the West Wind Saying.

O! What is the west wind saying!
It whispers so strange in my ear,
As if some sad message delaying,
From friends who are absent and dear.
It laughs with the leaves on the tree-tops,
And bows as the cloudlets go by,
And plays with the flowers
For hours and hours,
Yet for me has only a sigh.

O! what is the west wind singing?
’Tis rocking the birds in the nest,
And over the world it is flinging
The emblems of quiet and rest.
New comfort it brings to the mother,
And hushes the babe on her knee,
Singing softly to her
And the tired laborer,
Yet sadly and strangely to me.

O! what is the west wind showing?
New faces look strangely in mine,
Stranger tints in the sunset are glowing,
Somber shadings of amber and wine.
Far away the blue hills seem to beckon
Me back to a sweet cottage home,
Where the rose and the vine
’Round the door-way entwine--
Alas! that from them I must roam!

O! what is the west wind asking?
Why question a stranger like me?
If a friend, why so perfect the masking?
Your counterpart glad would I see.
Ah, a friend in disguise! what is sweeter,
Come, let us together commune,
If you bring but a kiss
From the loved ones I miss,
I can ask of you no greater boon.

To a Mountain Stream.

Glad as childish laughter
From a childish throng,
Sweet as bird voice after
Daybreak is your song.

Racing down the mountain
On your shining feet,
Waltzing at the fountain
To its love song sweet.

On and on you travel,
Leaving me behind,
Like a silken ravel
With the weeds you wind.

Laughing at distresses;
Braving battles, too;
Who your trouble guesses,
And your sorrow--who?

Tell me as you hurry
Through the stubble field,
Why not stop to worry--
But no frown’s revealed.

Sometime you must weary
Of this constant strife;
When the clouds are dreary,
Tire you not of life?

Of the dead leaves drifted
On your saddened face,
And the snow flakes sifted
From the cloudland place?

Yet you ne’er repineth,
But alike content
With the sun that shineth,
And the rainstorm sent.

Teach me half the beauty
That your heart must know,
And through fields of duty
Like you, will I go.

Pen Pictures.

(WRITTEN DURING A SNOW-STORM.)

I love the snow flakes in the air,
When from the heavens they downward dart;
I love to watch them sailing there,
Like thoughts freed from a poet’s heart,
Uncertain which, the earth or sky,
Should claim their last abiding place;
And yet I watch them drifting by,
And strive to join the airy race.

The railway cars like spirits glide
Through many a mountain’s haunted tomb,
Above the river’s solemn tide,
Along the ravine’s chilly room;
On, on, through cedar groves we wind,
That yesterday a zephyr wooed;
To-day they stand with heads inclined,
A sad and stricken multitude.

The sky bends low with heavy clouds,
And from the long slope of a hill,
The pines look down in spotless shrouds
Upon a valley whiter still.
A tiny stream runs breathless by,
Affrighted at the ghostly sight;
The sun sleeps in the western sky,
And twilight deepens into night.

The train glides on. Each mountain scene
Is like a panoramic view,
Though oft I toward the window lean,
To scan some object that I knew.
I see a log hut in the vale,
And rustic children glad and warm;
A mother’s face, forlorn and pale,
Looks out upon the winter storm.

The little cascade down the glen
Is falling like a mourner’s tears;
The wind shrieks by, and from his den
Jack Frost hangs out his icy spears,
Defying e’en the piling drift;
And while the Winter King he warns,
Lo! through a cloud above the cliff,
The young moon shakes her silver horns.

Orion next his rage revealed,
As if he, too, the insult felt;
He raises high his club and shield,
And swings his bright sword from his belt;
And like a demon downward driven,
The howling wind his dungeon seeks;
For nature sees the hosts of heaven
Resent her cold and heartless freaks.

The storm grew still, and I could see
The clouds above the cliff disband,
E’en as the wave on Galilee
Grew docile at the Lord’s command;
And as I shake from off my pen
The ink that stamped these pictures chill,
I seem to hear those words again
Breathed softly o’er me, “Peace, be still.”

JANUARY, 1886.

To Mother.

I heard a song last night, mother,
A song you used to sing,
When like a little bird, mother,
With weak and unfledged wing,
I played about your flowing gown
Contented with your smile,
Though all the world should cast a frown
Upon your happy child.

The song I heard last night, mother,
Came floating through the door
As if some angel voice, mother,
Had sung it oft before;
But, O! I missed the patient pause,
The low accustomed tone,
I turned away heart-sick--because
The voice was not your own.

Those dear old songs you used to sing,
That made my heart-beats rhyme,
Have bubbled up from memory’s spring,
Ah! many and many a time.
When thirsty or with thought oppressed,
When tired of the sunshine,
When longing for the shade and rest,
I hear those songs of thine.

They’re just as low and sweet to-day
As when I heard them first;
And though I am so far away,
The field glass though reversed,
Holds still a picture that I love,
Three faces--four with mine--
Another looks from heaven above,
A little face--like thine.

The Broken Heart.

TO MISS F. B.

He brought me a heart one morning,
Brought me a heart to mend;
And he said (I shall never forget it)
“’Twas broken by your friend.”

“The wound will grow deeper and wider,”
He said in a sadder tone,
“Unless you devise some method
To place it against her own.”

Then I crept away to my chamber,
But a thought, like a silver stream,
Kept trickling along the wayside
That bordered my restless dream.

So I hid this heart in a lily,
When the dawn began to break--
In a beautiful water lily,
That grew on the rim of a lake.

Yes, down on a snowy pillow,
In a cradle warm and deep,
I laid the little foundling,
And a ripple rocked it to sleep.

The dawn came up with blushes,
And shook from her gown the dew;
And I heard the song of the skylark,
As into the clouds he flew.

But the heart dreamed on in the lily
And I went at the close of day,
And found that my little treasure
Was chilled by the foam and spray.

So I warmed it upon my bosom,
Then cradled it back on the wave;
But I feared that the lily’s offspring
Was doomed to a watery grave.

So I watched till the daylight vanished
Through the sunset’s purple bars,
Till the night climbed over the willows,
And lit up the moon and stars.

I thought I heard your footstep,
And low in the reeds and grass
I crouched, that there, unnoticed,
I might behold you pass.

You came in your regal beauty,
And, bright as the weird fire flies
That illumined the waving rushes,
I saw your glorious eyes.

You kneeled on the mossy margin--
I counted the lilies there;
Two buds and a creamy blossom
Were fastened in your hair.

Another was drawn from the water,
And, pushing the reeds apart,
I saw ’twas the very lily
Wherein I had hidden the heart.

You pinned it low down on your bodice,
Half hidden it lay in the lace,
And you passed by--“a two-fold existence,”
A new light enriching your face.

And though I am absent and distant,
Methinks I can still hear the tone
Of a heart that, with happy emotion,
Is beating, aye! close to your own.

A Year Ago.

IN MEMORY OF MY DEAR FRIEND, SCOTTA P. PROCTOR.

A year ago I held in mine her hand,
And felt the pulses quicken and dissolve,
While o’er her face a light from heaven’s own land
Seemed all the mystery of death to solve.

She raised her weary eyes to mine and sighed--
Sighed as a flow’r o’er which the storm clouds bend
When long the promised sunlight is denied,
And cold and heavy rains from heaven descend.

She tried to speak; I knelt beside her bed,
That one last wish she might to me impart;
A whisper came, and then the spirit fled
Like some sweet thought long prisoned in the heart.

A year ago I twined the lilies white
About her shroud, and with the coffin’s lace,
For she had loved them; all the long, long night
They press their waxen lips upon her face.

I heard the funeral bell toll sad and long--
My heart reverberates to-day the sound--
And then there came a prayer--a pause--a song,
And blossoms next were heaped upon a mound.

I turned aside and homeward bent my way;
Alas! the face I loved so long--not there--
Sweet memories arose to gild my day,
But sadder ones to mock my heart’s despair.

Where is she now? you think the grave can hide
A friend so true within its dungeon deep?
Ah! no; she walketh ever by my side,
And watches o’er me when I chance to sleep.

We stroll abroad oft at the twilight’s hour
To memory’s garden. Under memory’s tree
She pulls the silver mask from many a flower,
And reads its tender secrets all to me.

She guides my pen along uncertain heights,
Where unattended I could never go;
The candle of success she often lights
When the flame flickers and the wick burns low.

She leads me to the grave and says, “Not here,
But there,” and points me to the heavenly gate;
And when upon my cheek there falls a tear
(For sometimes yet my heart grows desolate),

I feel upon my face her own soft hand,
And glimpses of her robe sometimes have seen.
O, happy thought! how strong is friendship’s band,
When out of heaven an angel friend can lean.

A year ago! sad, sad that parting day,
And sadder still, the last, the long adieu.
Death called the angel of my heart away--
And now she opens heaven to my view.

MAY 16, 1886.

A Christmas Peep.

I passed a toy window,
And many pretty things
Old Santa Claus had labeled,
And tied with silken strings.

A kite was bought for Jimmie,
A little stove for Kate,
A doll for Capitola,
For Charlie a new slate.

A silver knife for father,
For mother, dear, a fan,
And the prettiest little fiddle
Was bought for baby Dan.

Hang up your little stockings,
And keep the fireside bright,
Old Santa Claus is coming,
His sleigh is out to-night.

Ten dollars worth of candy
Was emptied in his sleigh,
And peanuts by the barrel,
To be eaten Christmas day.

His lap was full of toys,
Little drums and little ships,
Little buggies, little ponies,
And little riding whips.

The baby dolls were sleeping
In their cradles snug,
But the others all were peeping
From underneath his rug.

Old Santa was so happy,
That as he drove along
He jingled ever sleigh bell,
And sang a Christmas song.

So don’t forget him, children,
He’s on the way to night,
Hang up your little stockings,
And keep the fireside bright.

Winnie’s Christmas Eve.

Poor little Winnie had plodded the street,
Up and down through the rain and sleet,
Singing her innocent songs all day,
In a sweet and merry childish way;
Asking sometimes for the night a bed,
A bowl of milk, or a crust of bread.

She had sung on the corners and city square,
But no one had time to remember her there;
Numbers had passed her who never before
Failed to toss in her basket a penny or more.
It is Christmas; their hearts are so happy and light--
But poor little Winnie’s forgotten to-night.

Chilly and rayless the sky seems to frown,
The clouds, too, are shaking the soft snow-flakes down;
Over her pretty face, waltzing they fall
Into her bonnet and folds of the shawl;
Think of it, fathers, with firesides warm,
Poor little Winnie is out in the storm.

Backward and forward the tired feet go,
From her lips little ripples of music still flow.
Homeless and hungry, still begging for bread,
Receiving a curse and reproaches instead;
Shiv’ring with fear in the pitiless light,
Poor little Winnie is starving to-night.

Alone in the street, yet the little lips move,
Trying to echo those accents of love.
Ah! think of that, mothers! those syllables sweet
Of your darlings, how fondly the same you repeat!
You are trying so faithful to lead them aright
When poor little Winnie is freezing to-night.

See her! How slowly she’s moving along--
Her lips are too icy to echo the song.
How changed are her features! How feeble! how weak!
A pallor creeps over her forehead and cheek--
Perhaps it is only the flickering light,
Ah! no; little Winnie is dying to-night.

The revel is over in parlor and park,
The bonfire vanished, the street is so dark;
The snow-flakes are falling in many a heap,
The city is quiet, at rest, and asleep;
But there in the shadows, scarce out of sight,
Little Winnie lies dead in a snow-drift to-night.

My Heart’s Little Room.

TO LIZZIE, DORA, AND GRACE.

There’s a dear little chamber somewhere in my heart
That opens to only you three;
Though many have tried to unfasten the door,
They picked at the lock till their fingers were sore,
For to file it apart
Vainly proved every art,
And in vain have they sought for the key.

Many times I go into this quaint little room,
The pictures to change or adjust;
I see your sweet faces grouped there with my own,
And I wonder that I feel so strangely alone;
But about through the room
I move briskly the broom,
And sweep from the corners the dust.

The windows I throw open wide to the air
To let in the breeze and the light;
I watch the sunbeams in their mischievous way
Creep into the curtains, like children at play,
And while I am there
I have no thought of care,
For the room is so warm and so bright.

And oft I look up from the balcony’s brink
To a sky that shows many a hue;
A vine clambers thickly the window above,
Where my birds sing together their rhythm of love;
My thoughts with them link
For I sit here and think
And all of my song is for you.

Ah! some day I know you will come back to me
To rest in this queer little room;
And that’s why so tidy and clean it is kept,
The air always fragrant, the floor always swept,
For I long here to see
My sweet roses three,
As from buds into blossoms they bloom.

Then come when you may, be the sky black or blue,
The lock will unclasp as of yore;
For (unless Death should come introspecting my heart,
And break down its barriers and wrench them apart),
A friend that is true
Will be watching for you,
Ever waiting to unbar the door.

The Three Muses.

Methought three muses in disguise
As angels tapped upon my door,
And a dim light from paradise
Fell on the instruments they bore.
One held a zithern in her hand
And lightly swept the throbbing strings;
And, O! it seemed a fairy land
Was stirred by unexpected wings.

I held my breath and prayed that night
Would be extended into day,
But with the thought came morning’s light,
And low the echo died away.
An artist’s canvas, pink with dawn,
The second angel turned to me,
Her brush strayed o’er a grassy lawn
And dotted here and there a tree.

All blooming in immortal dyes,
With streamlets winding clear and blue,
Where, looking from the far off skies,
The clouds were mirrored to my view.
But when the sun blazed from the sky,
And on the painted landscape shone,
I heard the artist angel sigh,
And when I looked she, too, had flown.

The scratching of a pen I heard
And saw a face demure and sweet
With inspiration. Every word
I begged the angel to repeat.
A thousand zephyrs fanned the air,
Tuned low with hum of birds and bees,
No need of zithern music where
Æolian harps were in the trees.

No need of artists to rehearse
Upon the canvas nature, when
I saw the world revolve in verse
Upon the axis of the pen.
“Be thou eternally my guide,
Teach me your mystic pen to use!
O! linger ever near,” I cried,
“Musician, artist, poet--muse!”

A Recollection.

In my heart there is a fragrance not of bursting buds or bloom,
But a faint delicious essence floats as out of memory’s room.

Like a zephyr blown from heaven some sweet message to impart,
Comes a fragile recollection down the by-path to my heart.

Fragile did I say? So fragile that the lace-wrought butterfly
Would not tilt its wings to bear it back from earth into the sky.

Yet perplexed as to its mission down the pathway I retreat,
Hark! an echo in the distance, as of silver-slippered feet.

Why should I evade its coming, when ’tis such a little thing?
Just a tiny recollection that my thoughts have given wing.

Soon, too soon, ’twill overtake me, see! ’tis gaining on me fast--
In my soul the rose leaves quiver--withered rose leaves of the past.

It is useless to dissemble, further fleeing is in vain,
’Round my heart I feel the tight’ning of a slender silken chain.

All the past spreads out around me, as if by the Hand above,
So I turn, and find I’m standing face to face with my first love.

Don’t Question Him Why.

Don’t question him why if at times you can trace
A sorrowful something that looks from his face;
Though it shadows his brow as a raincloud the sky,
Look on it and wonder--don’t question him why.

If he steal from your side when the twilight descends,
And wander away from old comrades and friends,
To rest unobserved in some shady retreat,
Where the past and the present seem always to meet,

Don’t follow him there; let the stars overhead
Their better and holier sympathy shed--
And should an old love-light illumine his eye,
Though you bask in its splendor--don’t question him why.

For, out of the past that is shrouded away,
Looks a face omnipresent, unseen by the day.
A face like no other--a face in the sky
To be looked at and worshipped, but not questioned why.

Should his lips meet your own with an indifferent grace
That hurries the bloom to your averted face,
Though Doubt is a sentinel stationed near by,
Beware of his bayonet--don’t question why.

You may ask if you choose as he moves through the dance,
If ’tis Beauty or Passion that cowers his glance,
But question him not, O! ask him not why
There awoke in his bosom that deep-seated sigh.

Should he turn from the ball-room sometime with disgust
And shake from his sandals its memory and dust,
To bare a sick heart with its fevers of sin,
Beg heaven to filter a dewdrop within,

But question him not, for a word like a spark
Would quicken the pulses reduced by the dark;
Leave, leave him alone with his sorrow and God,
And let Silence spread o’er his heart’s grave the sod.

Why?

Why is it that I keep her glove--
Poor little phantom of lost love--
Why was it that I wore her ring,
And love the songs she used to sing,
And treasure under lock and key,
The letters she has written me?
Why?

Why is it that where’er I go,
As footsteps follow in the snow,
As low and light, she seems to glide
Along the highway at my side?
Yet, when my arms seek to embrace
Her form, then vanishes her face.
Why?

Why is it that no other tone
Falls on my ear as did her own?
No other hand so soft and white,
No other eye so warm and bright--
Though other lips I since have pressed,
I something missed--the truth you’ve guessed.
Why?

A Sunset Longing.

TO F. S. H.

What meaneth this unrest within my heart,
And why do I sit here alone and sigh?
The sunset throws its garnished doors apart,
And palace halls are opened in the sky--
I gaze upon the gold strewn in the west,
A miser, of his jewels dispossessed.

I have played in the sunset’s crimson rain,
And felt its saffron torch wave o’er my brow,
That heated to excess my maddened brain,
And threw a halo ’round my heart--but now,
Like some poor bird far from its kindred sky,
I look into the sunset--look and sigh.

I have no friend to lean upon my heart,
Ah! how I miss the pressure of thy hand,
And thy dear voice seems of the past a part;
Thy figure like a shade from shadow-land.
I think I would be happy if you came
And touched my hand, or softly called my name.

If I could look into your face to-night,
And search the deep mines of your pensive eyes,
Sure, I would find there a responsive light,
To dissipate from out my heart the sighs;
And then I know my lips would lose their scorn,
And in my soul a new impulse be born.

If we could wander off far from the crowd
Among the hills--our voices there unheard--
Where once our hearts in unison beat loud,
To the sweet song of some wild mountain bird,
I think the twilight vail would lose its gloom,
That shrouds to-night the windows of my room.

Perhaps ’tis wrong that I should sadden you
With these rain-droppings that my heart-clouds shed;
Gladly would I distill a drop of dew
Down deep into your flower-like heart instead.
Some other night, if separation’s sky
Should clearer grow, dear absent one, I’ll try.

Journeys.

Oh! the many, many journeys
I have taken in a day!
Journeys short and journeys long,
Journeys right and journeys wrong;
Often pausing on the way,
Themes so grand my thoughts delay--
Themes suggesting instant song--
Lofty, good,
Scarce understood,
Dying ere I knew their worth,
As an infant dies at birth.

Oh! the melancholy journeys
That on earth my eyes have seen!
Over cemeteries vast,
Like a spirit I have passed,
Where the helmet and canteen
Cankered near a grave-stone lean,
Where the warrior’s sword was cast;
And the mould,
So shallow rolled,
That the eagle from on high
Dropped his penetrating eye.

Oh! the mad, exciting journey!
Floating down the sunset’s tide,
Where there is no sign of sail,
Neither any promised gale.
Flames about on every side,
Every hope from me denied.
Even the clouds I can not hail;
As they drift,
Their cinders sift
On the water where they float,
Like a freighted, burning boat.

Oh! the sweet, yet lonesome journey
That I always take alone!
Back into the vanished past,
Where the sunshine runneth fast.
There the rose is open blown,
There I hear a loving tone,
There no twilight shades are cast;
But complete
And very sweet
Is the dawn, when, like a child,
Love looked in my heart and smiled.

Oh! the happy, happy journey,
With my loved one near my side!
Open stands the prison room;
We forget its chilly tomb.
Over fields of grain we glide,
Over rivers broad we ride,
Drinking up the earth’s perfume;
Like a thought
The muses taught--
Onward o’er the world we fly,
Like twin clouds born of the sky.

Oh! the swift, inspiring journey,
Far away in unknown space!
Where my castles stand complete,
And the gardens full and sweet;
Where the moonlight weaves its lace,
And a friend’s is every face,
And this land, need I repeat,
Is of dreams?
Here crystal streams
Lose their way, as from the throne,
In this country all my own.

Oh! the elevating journey!
Toward the zenith now I bend,
Far above the mundane sphere,
Stars like mighty worlds appear.
Losing sight of home and friends,
Higher still the path ascends.
Heaven is dawning very near;
But I pause,
Alas! because
To a mortal such as I,
Heaven an entrance must deny.

The Lost Poem.

Long ago beside my window, with an open manuscript,
I sat looking on a forest that with gold and brown was tipped,
Heeding nothing save the sighing of my own heart and the trees,
When into the open lattice like a whisper came the breeze.

Lingered at my lips a moment, past my temple then it crept,
And from out of my listless fingers an unfinished poem swept:
“Stop!” I cried unto a footman that was passing on the street,
“I will give you thirty shillings if you’ll bring me back that
sheet.”

But he gazed into the heavens as he would upon a kite,
And I watched it sally upward, fading faster from my sight;
Then I said unto a swallow that flew by on rapid wing,
“Open wide I’ll throw the granary if my poem back you’ll bring.”

But he only flew the faster, and was soon beyond my sight;
And the daylight vanished from me, and to mock me sent the night.
O! there’s naught can daunt a spirit when the inner heart’s afire,
And the darkness sent upon me only did my aim inspire.

So I sought an humble dwelling, to a fortune-teller went,
And I tarried with the gipsy till the night was almost spent,
But I left her door disheartened; for she only said to me:
“Take this, search, and when you’ve found it, send or fetch again
the key.”

“But,” said I, “’tis lost in nature, in the sky or hills among,”
And the key back in her shanty with an angry word I flung;
For prophetic seemed her language, and my purposes were mocked,
If henceforth the heart of nature, Fate against my own had locked.

“Take it, search,” again she muttered, as I started to depart;
“And be careful how you use it; for it fits the human heart.”
In her hand I dropped a coin, and before the eye of day
Peeped from out the morning’s cradle I was far upon my way.

Like the breath of early roses, like the whisper of a bird,
From a little maiden passing, a sweet laugh methought I heard.
“She has found it,” I repeated, “there’s no use for any key.”
Said the pretty little damsel, “My heart’s open, don’t you see?”

Yes, I saw, and there were treasures such as kings would love to
own,
Who would sacrifice to gain them e’en a jeweled crown and throne--
Buds and blossoms, song and laughter, humming-birds and butterflies,
Singing brooks and sparkling fountains there, and peaceful were the
skies.

But the poem it was missing; so I journeyed slow along,
Till I heard a mother singing to her babe a cradle song;
And I tried to get permission in her heart to fit the key,
But the lullaby continued: “Do not interrupt,” said she.

Next I hailed a youth that passed me, and his face was wond’rous
fair,
And I searched long through his heart’s book, but the poem was not
there;
“It is lost!” I cried with sorrow, as Despair held out her cup,
And I quaffed the bitter liquid, and the idle search gave up.

* * * * *

Years have passed, and just this morning I was called beside a bed,
Where the sheet lay still and sober over an old lover spread;
Sad and pallid were his features, clever, too, Death’s new disguise,
But I read the old, old secret, even in his half-closed eyes.

Then a thought--“The key,” I whispered, lest I should be overheard,
And I sought the heart, unlocked it; found my poem--every word.
Oft revised it was, and polished, wore the features, too, of Fame;
And I read with strange emotion, just below inscribed my name.

O, it was a trying moment! If the poem I should claim,
I could mount upon the ladder to the topmost round of fame;
But my evil spirit yielded; for I could not rob the dead,
So I locked the sacred prison, and above it bowed my head.

* * * * *

Rather would I find engraven in a steadfast heart my name,
Than in shining words enroll it high upon the tower of fame.

A Maple Leaf.

TO M. B. S.

Glancing o’er a childish volume where sweet thoughts like blossoms
lay,
There between two oft read pages, a pressed wreath I found to-day.
Golden-rod and aster flowers lay with bloom all crushed and dead,
But a maple leaf among them still retained its gold and red.

In my hand I took the treasure, held it up before my face,
And the sunlight, then declining, solved its geometric grace.
Many a road and by-path meeting proved the interwoven veins;
And a forest rose before me, flaming like my window panes.

As a vision that is pictured by an angel in the night,
Soon a figure, sometime vanished, rose to my exultant sight.
Like a goddess of enchantment, there she stood beneath the trees,
And her face was like a lily, and her eyes like summer seas.

Then I thought, “For me she’s waiting”--so I glanced off to the
right,
For I feared it all a fancy, but I found my home in sight;
Heard the town-clock slowly striking, and the same familiar bells,
Saw the court-house and the churches, and “The Summit,” where she
dwells.

So I then no longer doubted, down a meadow path I strolled,
Leading off into the woodland that had stole the sunset’s gold.
Overhead the birds were flying, but a black winged happy throng
Paused; for we had been old comrades and they sang a farewell song.

But the thoughts that followed after, though the birds away had
flown,
Were so happy, for she met me, linked her arm within my own.
Up and down the path we wandered, gathering leaves and grasses
gray,
Until darkness drove the twilight o’er the hill where fled the day.

Darkness! and her face had vanished, all alone I seemed to stand,
But I heard her step departing, and I grasped again her hand.
Held it tight, and tighter pressing, in a happy strange belief,
Till I ’woke, and found that dreaming I had crushed my treasured
leaf.

A Gallop With Santa Claus.

I was thinking last night of the children
Far away in a home that I know,
Of the dear little girls at the window,
And the boys out at play in the snow;
Of the stockings hung up at the chimney,
Of the little hearts hopeful and glad;
And thus I kept thinking and thinking,
Until I grew homesick and sad.

So I turned my eyes out on the landscape,
As my thoughts were unwilling to go,
And I saw ’round the curve of a hillock
Three ponies come, white as the snow;
A sleigh next appeared and a driver,
Oh! my heart beat so fast then--because,
As he drew up the reins at the door-step,
I found it was old Santa Claus.

Such shaking of hands and such greetings
I fear I shall nevermore see;
For every big doll in his wagon
Was looking and laughing at me.
“No minutes to lose,” said old Santa,
“I’ve hundreds of miles yet to go.
Will you please to partake of my journey,
And gallop with me o’er the snow?”

No sooner than said I was seated,
All ’round me he folded the fur.
He made a loose rein for the ponies,
And urged them with whip and with spur.
Away and away o’er the country
We flew like the glances of light,
Down streets that were blazing with bonfires,
On, on through the snow and the night.

Then all of a sudden he halted
In front of a house old and dark.
There was no friendly ray at the window,
And on the hearth-stone not a spark.
But he entered, and, by a dim lantern
That swung from his new scarlet cap,
I saw the sad face of a woman
Asleep, and a babe on her lap.

And two pretty faces beside her,
A pillow of straw almost hid,
But the little hands looked as if frozen
That lay on the patched cover-lid.
A snow-cloud had sifted its samples,
Of eider-down over their feet,
And a star, looking in through the shingles,
Was spreading o’er them a bright sheet.

Old Santa had lost not a moment.
A cedar tree suddenly sprung
Into life just in front of the children,
With pop-corn and bright ribbons strung.
Some tiny wax candles were lighted,
To chase off the thoughts of the night;
And the dollies had met in the tree-top
To dance in their dresses of white.

A kite that could climb into cloud-land
Hung low, and a new picture-book;
A street-car “wound up” for its journey,
And a little boat built for the brook.
Oh! all kinds of candy he left them
That ever I tasted, or you;
And under the tree there were apples
And peanuts--a bucket or two.

He built them a fire, and dresses
Were left, made of flannel so warm;
And, with many nice greetings and wishes,
We galloped away through the storm.
Away, and away sped the ponies,
So fast that none could o’ertake--
So fast (it was told me this morning),
We looked like a winged snow-flake.

But soon at a homestead we halted,
Old Santa said I must alight,
To see if the children were sleeping,
And leave them whatever was right.
So I crept to the casement--it opened,
And I saw what I ne’er shall forget--
Those darlings there slumbering sweetly,
The thoughts of the night-fall had met.

We gave them all kinds of nice presents,
What they were, it is useless to say;
For they’ve found them and now are rejoicing,
And happy this glad holiday.
So children, be kind to each other,
Be gentle and loving--because
I may be invited next Christmas
To gallop with old Santa Claus.

Home Memories.

I am thinking of a cottage
Where the roses used to bloom,
How they talked beside the pavement
In low whispers of perfume,
Or climbed up beside the window
To look in my little room.

I am thinking of the door-way
Where the vine I used to train,
That snowed down its flaky petals
With a pleasant summer rain;
Where I used to sit and listen
To the old mill’s low refrain.

I’m thinking of the sunflower, too,
That towered above the gate;
Of the friends who called me hither
When the day was cool and late.
Ah! those hours seem so distant
And the year, an ancient date.

I am thinking of the grape-vine
Where the crippled robin fed,
How he lingered there each morning
’Till fresh crumbs for him were spread.
Is he feeding there this summer
From a stranger’s hand, instead?

I am thinking of the children
Who crept to the little yard,
Begging me to grant permission
That they play upon the sward.
Could I bar them from the entry?
Thus might Heaven me discard.

I am thinking of a morning
That wrung from my heart a sigh,
When I kissed warm lips that trembled,
With a tear-drop in my eye;
While I closed our cottage windows
And pronounced the word--good-bye.

Sunshine and Shadow.

I passed a pretty cottage place,
A rose looked from the door
And smiled so sweetly in my face
I paused the house before.
The honeysuckle from the wall
Threw down a welcome tear,
The breeze came rushing through the hall
And whispered, “Tarry here,

“For all within is peace and love;”
So through the curtain’s lace
I glanced the reckless words to prove,
And saw a lover’s face
Bent close above two eyes of blue.
Why should I dim their day?
Across the pane the blind I drew,
And softly crept away.

I went again, one summer eve;
The rose blushed at the door
But smiled as sweetly to receive
Me as it did before;
The breeze came out as joyously,
And lingered at my side,
And murmured: “Tarry now and see
Our happy groom and bride.”

“O, no!” I said, “some other day
I’ll call the pair to see.”
But as I turned to go away
They both looked out at me.
O! what a light of hope and love
Their features then o’erspread;
And a shekinah from above
Seemed on the cottage shed.

Years crept away. When next I came
Before that open door,
A little child pronounced my name
That golden tresses wore.
“Will you come in?” she gladly cried,
And opened wide the gate.
“My little one,” I slow replied,
“The day is low and late.

“To-morrow when the sun is bright,
I’ll come and play with you;
Too chilly now, the falling night,
Too damp the evening dew.”
And so I did. I often trod
Along the side yard there;
And found that fresher grew the sod,
The sky more bright and fair.

I once had said that every rose
Held just a briar or two,
And every river as it flows
A dark wave with the blue;
But ’twas not thus I found it here,
The world that night I’d tell
That I had found a sky so clear
That rain drops never fell.

Thus musing on that sweet child’s face
That night I could not sleep,
A shadow seemed the light to chase
As storms the ocean sweep;
And when the stars forsook the sky
And birds their matins sang
I strolled again the cottage by
And loud the door-bell rang.

The rose had dropped its leaves and died,
I heard within a sob.
What did it mean? The winds replied
“Crape hangs upon the knob.”
Softly I raised the window’s lace--
The little child was dead--
I threw a flower across her face,
And from the cottage fled.

I never will go back again
Or push the blinds apart--
I sought a sunshine for my pen,
Found shadows for my heart.

Only a Fern Leaf.

TO H. M.

Only a fern leaf, darling,
Yellow and dry with age,
Only a date recorded
Down at the ending page.

Only a breath from the mountain,
A song with the summer wed;
Only the voice of a fountain,
Only a dream that is dead.

Only a faded morning,
With a shadow falling through,
Only a hint of warning--
A cloud in the far off blue.

Only a word of parting
Under a starlit sky;
Only a tear that is starting,
A long and a last good bye.

Only a face of sorrow
Turned to a vanished year--
Only a fern leaf, darling,
Glued to the pages here.

A Dream.

TO MY FATHER.

Listen, father, while I tell you of a dream I had last night;
For it was so sweet my childhood home was painted in my sight.
’Twas the same old frame house, father, hidden by the same old
trees,
Apple, cherry, quince and locust, talking in the same old breeze.

On the walk I found the cowslip, stolen from “The Old Ravine,”
And the blue-bell, and the columbine--how near my heart they lean.
Roses, red as any furnace flame, about me seemed to grow.
Roses pink as maiden blushes, roses pure and white as snow.

All around the yard I wandered, oh! so long I can not tell,
Then I paused beneath the apple tree and drank from the old well.
Through my veins I felt the water coursing like a happy thought,
And a thousand recollections to my memory then it brought.

Recollections rushing to me swifter than an angel’s wing,
Recollections slipping from me as a pearl slips from a string.
Recollections that transfigured me into a little child,
And the halo shed around me was my father’s happy smile.

It was such a pretty picture Fancy held before my view,
I will turn the magic lantern so that you may see it, too.
It is springtime and the sugar trees have pitched their shady tent,
Tiny leaves like tiny parasols reach toward the firmament.

Restless swings a childish figure to and fro upon the gate,
Some one’s coming down the highway--’tis for him she there doth
wait.
Ah! you recognize the picture, I can tell it by your smile;
You have recognized the sugar trees, and recognized your child.

Through the pasture now we’re strolling, looking down the avenue,
See you not another picture? Yes; the figures there are two.
Mother sits upon the portico her knitting in her hand,
And my brother talks beside her of that wild and Western land

Where he raced his Indian ponies and lassoed the buffaloes
Oh, it is a perfect wonderland!--this country that he knows.
But we will not interrupt them; for they do so happy seem--
So we turn aside and leave them wandering on as in a dream.

Then I led you up the hillside and we sat upon the “mound.”
Oh! there never was before or since so pretty a view spread ’round.
Just below, the tranquil water of the clear pond seemed to win
Every cloud that floated over, and the heavens lay within.

Then the meadow, where the clover bloomed, and where you stacked the
hay,
Like a field within a picture book, before us there it lay;
Then beyond, the barn and orchard, and the valley that I love--
Oh! it all seemed like a painting let down by the Hand above.