Chapter III: Part 3

But a thought came rushing to me of a fairy that you know;
For she lived there in the valley and her name it was Echo.
So I laughed and called unto her just as loud as I could call,
But the voice that she threw back to me was not a child’s at all.

No; it was a woman’s voice; I awoke then with a start,
And I found the king beside me that dethroned you in my heart.
Then a tear fell on the pillow, not a briny, bitter tear,
Why? you ask--because the dream was gone that I have copied here.

Those Soft Airs She Played.

TO M. B. S.

Those soft airs she played--through my mem’ry they glide
Like a cloud-shadow crossing the plain;
The sun follows often, the wind at his side,
Then a whisper that never the roses denied,
And a sound like a light fall of rain.

Grander music she plays--music weird and sublime,
Thunder toned, like the sound of the sea,
That rolleth away like the surges of time;
But, to quicken my thoughts and to sweeten my rhyme,
She always played soft airs for me.

Faint whispers that blend with the deep forest’s sound,
From which a wild fawn would not flee,
And sweet as the brook that the summer has found,
When singing its song soft and glad underground,
And carrying its heart to the sea....

A movement then mingles like those that are heard
When the trees toss their shade to the eaves;
A pause and a tremble, as of a sweet word,
Or the dream-haunted wing of a night-hidden bird
That is shaking the dew from the leaves.

Then silence, that even a word would profane--
Silence, holding some thoughts heaven-born,
That only her fingers a moment can chain;
Up, up to the skies they have wandered again,
Like a prayer holy spoken at morn.

Those soft airs she played in the dim lighted room,
With her heart in the past far away--
Ah, what would I give if to-night, through the gloom,
Along with the budding and bursting of bloom,
They now past my window would stray.

Alas! vain the thought, and as vain sounds the sigh,
Long distance my wish has delayed;
But we sit in the twilight--my mem’ry and I--
And listen and linger, we scarcely know why,
Unless for those soft airs she played.

To Albert.

Thou art going from us, Albert,
Going far away from me,
Where I can not hear thy prattle,
And thy face I can not see.

Back into the Southern country,
Thou art going--there to roam,
Where my heart began its singing--
In the old Kentucky home.

Lonely all the days will linger,
When I miss your little face;
Shadows gray, from out the hours,
All the sunbeams soon will chase.

Dim will seem the sunny window,
Where the pansy blossom grows,
And no restless little fingers
Will disturb the opening rose.

Soon the playthings will be missing,
Soon they gathered up must be--
Thou art going from us, Albert,
Going far away from me.

Soon the little boy that vexed me,
When I tried to read and write,
Will be gone. No one will listen
When I sing my songs at night.

Soon the halls will lose their echo,
And the yard grow silent, too,
And the pretty face will vanish,
With those wondrous eyes of blue.

So good-bye, my little darling;
All these tears have been for thee--
Thou art going from us, Albert,
Going far away from me.

The Reunion of the Flowers.

A few of the springtime flowers,
And the summer blossoms sweet,
Agreed, at the early autumn,
In a locust grove to meet,

And there to hold communion,
By the light of the setting sun,
And each relate or mention
Some kind act they had done.

And he whose deed was noblest
Should, at the close of day,
Be colonel of the regiment,
And lead the ranks away.

So, one by one I watched them
Assemble where the trees
Had lowered their limbs to listen
And halted every breeze.

A Rose in the richest satin,
With a bud to her bonnet tied,
Was first to break the silence
That reigned on every side.

“I lived with a lovely lady,
In a handsome house of brick,
And went with her each morning,
To wait upon the sick.

“I’ve leaned beside the pillows,
Where wounded soldiers lay,
And I wept at the funeral service,
Of an orphan child to-day.”

“I bloomed in an humble garden,
Where an old man used to look,”
Said the Johnquil, “ere the snow-drift
His window-sill forsook.”

“A poor bee shivered homeward
One night,” the Tulip said,
“Fell through my scarlet curtains,
And died upon my bed.”

“I looked in at a window,
And made two lovers kiss,”
The Pansy owned, and laughing
Said it was not amiss.

“I went into a palace,”
The Lily then replied,
“And held the veil that evening
Of a happy-hearted bride.”

“I sweetened the room of a poet,
And o’er his coffin wept,”
The Heliotrope low whispered,
And back in the shadows crept.

“O, that was very noble,”
Exclaimed the Golden-rod,
“I tried to gather the sunshine
And hold it up to God.

“To make the world less sober,
To make the heart less sad,
Was all the mission, brethren,
Your humble servant had.”

* * * * *

In the ranks of that floral army
That marched at the close of day,
That sunny-featured blossom
Was the one that led the way.

Children of the Brain.

Our thoughts--the children of the brain--
Are born for us some good to gain,
And if we rear them just and right,
They’ll seek the day instead of night.
Long in the harvest field they’ll work--
Brave laborers that do not shirk,
And they will reap just what we sow,
As written you will find below.

* * * * *

I sent them forth into the world,
Some thoughts that long my heart impearled.
Their countenance was of a light
That beamed upon me through the night.
The features were like mine, perchance,
With part of heaven hid in the glance;
And the apparel that they wore
My fingers long had labored o’er.

A vine ran through the tunic’s hem
That wilted not though broke the stem,
And all the undergarments showed
The time and care on them bestowed.
Some of the moonbeams took a place
Within the frill about the face;
And, stars that bright as Lyra glowed,
The overdress and mantle showed.

The sandals that encased the feet
Were fashioned for a journey fleet,
And pinions, like a sail unfurled,
I saw outspread before the world,
With promises to come again
And glorify the parent pen.
I tore apart the silken skein
And let them drift from out my brain.

Where are they tarrying to-night?
I see, around a fireside bright,
One looking in a friendly face.
How tender seems the warm embrace!
Now close, close to this loved one’s lip
’Tis held, and for companionship
Is nestling down into the heart,
And of the same becomes a part.

Some beckon me across the seas,
Are favored by a foreign breeze,
Are traveling where I can not go,
Are learning what I ne’er shall know,
Are praised, perhaps, with offered funds,
While with them glad the newsboy runs;
Are welcomed in some palace home,
And ne’er allowed henceforth to roam.

The one that I had loved the best
A journey took into the West,
And by a friend it chanced to meet
Sent home a prairie flower sweet.
Two stronger ones, the North that sought,
Some words of love back home have brought;
They brighten up the lonesome hearth,
And praise the pen that gave them birth.

And one crept down in Cupid’s coat
To read a dainty perfumed note,
And afterward came back to tell
How sweetly rang the wedding bell.
Another, with as brave a face,
Had with a rival run a race;
It did its best, to gain had tried,
But came back home, alas! and died.

The tenderest one, perhaps, of all,
Upon a critic chanced to call;
He hooted at the homespun gown,
And bent his bitter, blackest frown
Upon the waif, and read its fate
Where winter winds could congregate.
I thought I heard its funeral bell,
But where the grave is I’ll not tell.

I do not know the others’ fate,
A pauper’s grave may them await.
The fabric that my hands embossed,
While Fancy figured high the cost,
May trail, to-night, some filthy street
Where sin and shame together meet,
And the loved strains from my heart’s lyre
Be sung around an outcast’s fire.

They may attain a higher sphere,
Where flows the penitential tear,
And point the wanderers they find
Upon the paths that heavenward wind.
God grant their mission may be such!
That all sad hearts they’ll lightly touch,
And spread upon the ugly wound
A balm to make them whole and sound.

A Lily of the Valley.

Just a breath of fragrance
On the breeze--alas!
A lily of the valley
Dying in the grass.

Just a recollection
Followed with a sigh;
Just a teardrop dripping
Down the cheek, and why?

MAY 16, 1887.

Lines to the Old Year.

Farewell, Old Year, the shades are growing deep,
Thou art dethroned and vanishes your power;
I sit alone with folded hands and weep,
While close the minutes chase our parting hour.

Your lips are dumb, and with a feeble hand
You turn the pages of the year’s great book,
While my wet cheeks are with an odor fanned,
Like that the summer breeze from violets shook.

I gaze into the volume. Undiscerned
Some scenes advance, like phantoms hurry by,
And thoughts look from the leaves now swifter turned
As meaningless as would a stranger’s eye.

I meet familiar names in Death’s long list,
I pass new graves where tears have thawed the snows,
I search my heart lest something I have missed,
But in its garden find no dying rose.

Thou hast been kind to me; no marble urn
Chills the warm pulses of my heart to night,
And from the thought my pen doth gladly turn
To offer homage ere you take your flight.

Bright recollections thou hast left instead,
That twinkle in the firmament of thought,
And lover-like I sit and gaze o’erhead
Upon the starry gems thy hand has wrought.

Far down the by-path of a summer dream,
Glad voices call and fingers beckon me--
An oar dips music from a moonlit stream,
Where in thy prime I sailed, Old Year, with thee

And now, e’en in the shadow of thy hearse,
Ungarland save with fated mistletoe,
While midnight fiends the hours call like a curse,
You clasp my hand and smiling on me--go.

Farewell! A friend thou’st been to me, and I
Shall wander through the burial ground of years,
And often with an introspective eye
Search out thy grave and water it with tears.

Why I Smile.

I smile because the world is fair;
Because the sky is blue.
Because I find, no matter where
I go, a friend that’s true.

I smile because the earth is green,
The sun so near and bright,
Because the days that o’er us lean
Are full of warmth and light.

I smile as past the yards I go,
Though strange and new the place,
The violets seem my step to know,
And look up in my face.

I smile to hear the robin’s note.
He comes so newly dressed,
A love song throbbing in his throat,
A rose pinned on his breast.

And so the truth I’ll not disown,
Because the spring is nigh;
My heart has somewhat better grown,
And I forget to sigh.

MT. VERNON, ILL.

My Phantom Ships.

I heard the plunging of the sea
Like a wild steed pursuing me,
And dark and frothy was the main;
But suddenly a checking rein
Seemed drawn, and panting on the shore,
I heard the billows’ frightful roar.

My dream betook a different hue,
Caught from the ocean’s changeful blue.
A door was opened in my heart,
From which I saw each fear depart,
And there from some far, happy isle,
The sea breeze came as would a smile

Oh! it was sweet to wander there,
The sky o’erhanging still and bare.
A cloud, in some soft raiment dressed,
Leaned like a bride upon the west;
The sea-gulls floated on the breeze
Like blossoms blown from April trees.

The wind just kissed by summer’s mouth
Walked like a lover from the South;
And jewels from a sunbeam’s hand
Were sprinkled on the snowy sand;
The breakers ran along the beach,
And scattered shells within my reach.

I stooped and held one to my ear,
And listened as to voices dear;
And then methought far, far away,
Where purple mists made dim the day,
I saw the motion of a ship
That from the heavens seemed to slip.

On, on it came with fluttering sail,
Strong blew the steady ocean gale.
The waves were running thick and high,
And kept the ship close to the sky;
It seemed a picture on the sea,
“A picture,” thought I, “can it be?”

But from the waves the wind withdrew
And brought the sailors close to view.
The pilot pointed to the shore,
And then to gems and shining ore
Piled up against the good ship’s side
That leaned so brave upon the tide.

Oh! there were silks of colors soft,
And plumes that proudly waved aloft;
And there were jewels, bags of gold,
From caves o’er which the water rolled,
And coral crowns--gifts of the sea--
And all of this for whom? _For me._

With open arms to meet the ship
I ran, and proudly curled my lip.
No one should know from whence it came,
And none should share my wealth and fame.
My gowns of silk with me should roam,
My gold I’d closet at my home.

Ah, me! I knew not what I thought.
The ship was by a whirlwind caught.
It staggered out upon the sea--
I heard the sailors cursing me;
A flash fell from the lowering night,
And down the brave ship sank from sight.

* * * * *

I walk again upon the sands
With aching heart and empty hands.
Sometimes a piece of broken mast
Upon the tide goes sailing past;
And, where the sun so friendly shone,
A shadow on the sand has grown.

A strange and half-distracted dream
Comes just behind the sea-gull’s scream.
The sinking ship again I see,
The sailors hurl their oaths at me,
And like an echo from the grave
Is the sad song of wind and wave.

But somewhere, under bluer skies,
Another ship in harbor lies.
Its flags are flying free and fast,
The sails are white, and strong the mast.
’Tis loaded, too, with precious freight,
And for the same I stand and wait.

When it comes home I’ll happy be,
And all share my joy with me.
My wines at other feasts I’ll pour,
The sorrowful shall smile--yea, more,
The poor shall not be turned away,
And one and all shall bless the day.

PABLO BEACH, FLA., January, 1887.

The Weight of a Word.

Have you ever thought of the weight of a word
That falls in the heart like the song of a bird,
That gladdens the springtime of memory and youth
And garlands with cedar the banner of Truth,
That moistens the harvesting spot of the brain
Like dew-drops that fall on the meadow of grain
Or that shrivels the germ and destroys the fruit
And lies like a worm at the lifeless root?

I saw a farmer at break of day
Hoeing his corn in a careful way;
An enemy came with a drouth in his eye,
Discouraged the worker and hurried by.
The keen-edged blade of the faithful hoe
Dulled on the earth in the long corn row;
The weeds sprung up and their feathers tossed
Over the field and the crop was--_lost_.

A sailor launched on an angry bay
When the heavens entombed the face of day
The wind arose like a beast in pain,
And shook on the billows his yellow name,
The storm beat down as if cursed the cloud,
And the waves held up a dripping shroud--
But, hark! o’er the waters that wildly raved
Came a word of cheer and he was--_saved_.

A poet passed with a song of God
Hid in his heart like a gem in a clod.
His lips were framed to pronounce the thought,
And the music of rhythm its magic wrought;
Feeble at first was the happy trill,
Low was the echo that answered the hill,
But a jealous friend spoke near his side,
And on his lips the sweet song--_died_.

A woman paused where a chandelier
Threw in the darkness its poisoned spear;
Weary and footsore from journeying long,
She had strayed unawares from the right to the wrong.
Angels were beck’ning her back from the den,
Hell and its demons were beck’ning her in;
The tone of an urchin, like one who forgives,
Drew her back and in heaven _that_ sweet word--_lives_.

Words! Words! They are little, yet mighty and brave;
They rescue a nation, an empire save;
They close up the gaps in a fresh bleeding heart
That sickness and sorrow have severed apart,
They fall on the path, like a ray of the sun,
Where the shadows of death lay so heavy upon;
They lighten the earth over our blessed dead,
A word that will comfort, oh! leave not unsaid.

An Apology.

TO J. D. N.

My pen is mournful--you ask why
When all the time my face is glad,
And though contentment lights my eye,
You say my verse is strangely sad;
So serious that e’en the strain
You can detect, as on the pane
You know the patter in the night,
Although the cloud is hid from sight.

You asked me once to change my tone,
“To trim my pen for gayer verse,”
And, laughing, said ’twas like a moan
That followed close behind a hearse.
My muse was saddened at the stroke,
And in my heart new chords awoke,
Chords that vibrate like the bell
That tolled one day a funeral knell.

I would not have them otherwise;
I claim my caged bird’s song more sweet
Because ’tis sad, than one which tries
The echo merrier to repeat.
How quickly I would turn aside,
And soon forget a boist’rous tide,
To hear the brooklet, sad and low,
Sing in a minor key I know.

I’ll not attempt Hood’s humorous style,
I do not crave John Gilpin’s ride.
It was my custom, when a child,
To linger at my mother’s side
When she would sing “The Old Church Yard,”
That told how soft and green its sward.
“The angels that watched ’round the tomb”
Crept, as she sang, into our room.

’Tis said the clown will never jest
When folded is the showman’s tent;
That she who pathos renders best
Has loudest laugh in merriment.
Thus, _vice versa_ is the theme,
Or, “all things are not what they seem.”
Sadness to Joy is as a twin,
One rules without, one rules within.

My life is full of love and joy,
My heart-strings, though, with sadness tuned.
Then do not ask me to destroy
The mournful measures; it would wound
My Muse--the playmate of my youth--
Who taught me early many a truth
From others’ woes, and bid me think
While she supplied the pen and ink.

Speak Kindly.

Speak kindly in the morning,
When you are leaving home,
And give the day a lighter heart
Into the week to roam.
Leave kind words as mementoes
To be handled and caressed,
And watch the noon-time hour arrive
In gold and tinsel dressed.

Speak kindly in the evening!
When on the walk is heard
A tired footstep that you know,
Speak one refreshing word,
And see the glad light springing
From the heart into the eye,
As sometimes from behind a cloud
A star leaps to the sky.

Speak kindly to the children
That crowd around your chair,
The tender lips that lean on yours
Kiss, smooth the flaxen hair;
Some day a room that’s lonesome
The little ones may own,
And home be empty as the nest
From which the birds have flown.

Speak kindly to the stranger
Who passes through the town,
A loving word is light of weight--
Not so would prove a frown.
One is a precious jewel
The heart would grasp in sleep,
The other like a demon’s gift
The memory loathes to keep.

Speak kindly to the sorrowful
Who stand beside the dead,
The heart can lean against a word
Though thorny seems the bed.
And oh, to those discouraged
Who faint upon the way,
Stop, stop--if just a moment--
And something kindly say.

Speak kindly to the fallen ones,
Your voice may help them rise;
A word right-spoken oft unclasps
The gate beyond the skies.
Speak kindly, and the future
You’ll find God looking through!
Speak of another as you’d have
Him always speak of you.

Those Willing Hands

IN MEMORY OF MISS FANNIE STEVENS.

Those willing hands--they’re still to-night--
The life has from them fled;
They’re folded from the longing sight,
So cold and pale and dead.
The busy veins have idle grown,
Like a long famished rill,
That once in such an eager tone
Called soft from hill to hill.

Dear hands, I’ve felt their pressure oft,
In a sad time gone by;
They moved about the years as soft
As clouds move through the sky.
They screened the rainstorm from my heart,
And let the moonlight in,
And showed, while shadows fell athwart,
Tracks where the sun had been.

They were such willing, willing hands,
They stilled the mournful tear,
Unwound the pattern of God’s plans,
And made his problems clear.
They did not reach to high-grown bowers,
Where rarest blossoms bloom;
But culled the blessed, purer flowers,
And bore them to the tomb.

Poor hands--they are so still and white,
The rose that shared their rest
Is shrinking from the long, dark night,
And falling on her breast.
The wreath is wilted on the mound
Where long the sunshine stands,
But angels have the sleeper found,
And clasped those willing hands.

Look Into the Past.

Look into the past--there are pictures
Detaining the sunshine of May,
All aquiver with light they turn to the sight,
Like a flower that faces the day.
How restful the hillsides and shady!
The brook like a song passeth by,
And the trespassing moon floats about through noon,
Like a bubble blown up in the sky.

Look into the past! It is happy;
Its voices are voices of youth;
There is no idle jest to disturb the heart’s rest,
And its banners wear mottoes of truth;
Look back at the glad, happy faces
That walk with our childhood abreast,
And show me to-day, though it be miles away,
A spot that can offer such rest.

Say not that the years long escaping,
Show graves of a cankering joy.
Because we have found that new pleasures abound,
Must we cast off our first childish toy?
Because some old love has disturbed us,
And filled a lost hour full of gloom,
Are we never to go, when the sun lieth low,
And stand by the neglected tomb?

A Little Face.

TO “C.”

A little face to look at,
A little face to kiss;
Is there anything, I wonder,
That’s half so sweet as this?

A little cheek to dimple
When smiles begin to grow
A little mouth betraying
Which way the kisses go.

A slender little ringlet,
A rosy little ear;
A little chin to quiver
When falls the little tear.

A little face to look at,
A little face to kiss;
Is there anything, I wonder,
That’s half so sweet as this?

A little hand so fragile
All through the night to hold
Two little feet so tender
To tuck in from the cold.

Two eyes to watch the sunbeam
That with the shadow plays--
A darling little baby
To kiss and love always.

The Canary and Rose.

A lovely tea rose, in a new autumn gown,
Looked in at the window one day,
And said with a scorn:
“’Tis a beautiful morn;
But ugly enough is your lay.
Do you never grow weary of singing your songs
Shut up in that prison of brass?
_I_ do not admire
Your out of tune lyre,
And none seem to listen who pass.

“Last night as I beaded my bodice with dew,
And shook the perfume from the lace,
There came to the fence
Such a beautiful prince,
And said, looking into my face:
“Too lovely thou art to live here so obscure
To-morrow with me thou shalt roam.’
So he’s coming to-day,
And will bear me away
The queen of his heart and his home.”

Now, the dear little songster was pruning her wing
That had borrowed the sun’s yellow ray,
And shaking a note
In her quivering throat,
Replied in an indifferent way:
“My songs will not trouble you long. I discern
This breeze is forerunning a storm,
And should he delay
(This prince) on the way,
You must seek other quarters more warm.”

“Do you think,” said the rose, with a tremulous tone,
“The rain would disfigure my face?”
But e’en as she spoke
In the sky there awoke
A wind that demolished the vase.

With features all pale and distorted she cried,
Still clinging up close to the glass.
“Cry for help.” Said the bird,
“They will hear not a word,
For none seem to listen who pass.”

There’s a moral concealed in the little bird’s throat
That never her song will disclose;
But oft when the cloud
For the sun makes a shroud
She thinks of the beautiful rose,
Who died with a coronet touching her brow,
Crushed from sight by the hurrying throng,
And she smiles at a prince,
Who yet leans on the fence
And hears nothing else but her song.

A Sigh or a Tear.

A sigh or a tear
Is all you may fear,
As you watch the sweet-faced summer go,
And the throng of memories that you know.
A sigh for the star that stood in the West,
Now sinking down with the sun to rest,
For the smiles that live in an absent face
Like the blossoms of love in the heart’s clear vase.
A sigh or a tear
Is all you may fear.

A sigh or a tear
Is all you may fear
When you sit in the dusk with a new cigar,
And touch some chord on the old guitar.
A tear for the girl that was good and true,
For the songs of love--the letters, too,

And the ribbon around the roses tied
That long ago in the drawer died.
A sigh or a tear
Is all you may fear.

A sigh or a tear
Is all you may fear
When you raise the lid to the little chest
And find what a mother’s heart loves best,
A broken toy, a half-worn shoe,
Some little dresses of pink and blue,
The blocks that builded such marvelous towers,
A golden curl, and some withered flowers.
A sigh or a tear
Is all you may fear.

A sigh or a tear
Is all you may fear
When you gaze in the tomb of the dear dead past,
Where the shadows of sunshine yet are cast.
A sigh for the rose, though bleached and dried,
That close to the loved one lived and died,
For the voice that is still--once dear to thee--
For the face that is gone--ah me! ah me!
A sigh or a tear
Is all you may fear.

Snow-Flakes.

See the early snow-flakes!
Softly they descend,
Like an orchard blossom
Scattered by the wind.

Here and there they’re flying
Over all the trees,
High above them swarming
Like white-winged bees.

Faster still they’re whirling,
Dancing into sight,
Like a troop of fairies
When the moon is light.

Tripping down the highway
In a reckless gait,
Falling like a feather
Without sound or weight.

On the distant churchyard
Over graves unkept,
Where the leaves have drifted
And the clouds have wept.

Little band of angels
Doing only good,
Making white the meadow
And the lonely wood.

Greeting with light kisses
All they chance to meet,
Leaving shining footprints
All about the street.

Little winter children
Full of life and fun--
Oh! I love the snow-flakes,
Love them every one.

A Footprint.

A sweet song spoke to me one day,
Behind a prayer that passed my way,
Yet neither would for me delay
The upward flight.
I searched and found a footprint where
The song had tarried; but the prayer
Had left no trace on earth or air.

Straight from the heart it went to God
The song remained to smooth the clod,
And lay a flower upon the sod.
O, envied right!
If but one song of mine could chase
Some sorrow from the heart and face
I know in Heaven ’twould find a place.