Chapter I: Part 1

Mountain Idylls and Other Poems

BY ALFRED CASTNER KING

CHICAGO: NEW YORK: TORONTO Fleming H. Revell Company LONDON _and_ EDINBURGH

1901 FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY MAY

New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave. London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 75 Princes Street

TO THE MANY FRIENDS WHO HAVE SO KINDLY ASSISTED IN THE ARRANGEMENT OF THE MANUSCRIPTS FOR PUBLICATION, AFTER THE SHADOWS OF HOPELESS BLINDNESS DESCENDED UPON ME FOREVER, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

Table of Contents.

Preface Grandeur Nature's Child To the Pines Reflections Life's Mystery The Fallen Tree There is an Air of Majesty Think Not That the Heart Is Devoid of Emotion Humanity's Stream Nature's Lullaby The Spirit of Freedom Is Born of the Mountains The Valley of the San Miguel To Mother Huberta Suggested by a Mountain Eagle The Silvery San Juan As the Shifting Sands of the Desert Missed If I Have Lived Before The Darker Side The Miner Life's Undercurrent They Cannot See the Wreaths We Place Mother--Alpha and Omega Empty Are the Mother's Arms In Deo Fides Shall Love, as the Bridal Wreath, Wither and Die Shall Our Memories Live When the Sod Rolls Above Us A Reverie Love's Plea Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust Despair Hidden Sorrows Oh, a Beautiful Thing Is the Flower That Fadeth Smiles A Request Battle Hymn The Nation's Peril Echoes From Galilee Go, and Sin No More Gently Lead Me, Star Divine Dying Hymn In Mortem Meditare Deprive This Strange and Complex World The Legend of St. Regimund As the Indian The Fragrant Perfume of the Flowers An Answer Fame The First Storm Thoughts From a Saxon Legend Christmas Chimes The Unknowable The Suicide I Think When I Stand in the Presence of Death Hope Metabole

List of Illustrations.

Portrait of Author "Grandeur" Mount Wilson Mountain View in San Juan Scene in Ouray Uncompahgre Cañon Mountain Scene in San Juan Emerald Lake Scene near Telluride Bridal Veil Falls Lizard Head Trout Lake Box Cañon Looking Inward Ouray, Colorado Box Cañon Looking Outward Ironton Park Bear Creek Falls

PREFACE

_"Of making many books there is no end."--Eccles. 12:12._

When the above words were written by Solomon, King of Israel, about three thousand years ago, they were possibly inspired by the existence even at that early period of an extensive and probably overweighted literature.

The same literary conditions are as true to-day as when the above truism emanated from that most wonderful of all human intellects. Every age and generation, as well as every changing religious or political condition, has brought with it its own peculiar and essentially differing current literature, which, as a rule, continued a brief season, and then vanished, perishing with the age and conditions which called it into being; leaving, however, an occasional volume, masterpiece, or even quotation, to become classic, and in the form of standard literature survive for generations, and in many instances for ages.

Poetry has always occupied a unique position in literature; and though from a pecuniary stand-point usually unprofitable, it enjoys the decided advantage of longevity.

The mysterious ages of antiquity have bequeathed to all succeeding time several of earth's noblest epics, while the contemporaneous prose, if any existed, has long lain buried in the inscrutable archives of the remote past.

The two most notable of these, the Iliad and the Odyssey, are believed to have been transmitted from generation to generation, orally, by the minstrels and minnisingers, until the introduction or inception of the Greek alphabet, when they were reduced to parchment, and, surviving all the vicissitudes of time and sequent political and religious change, still occupy a prominent place in literature.

The Book of Job, generally accepted as the most ancient of writings, now extant, whether sacred or secular, was doubtless originally a primitive though sublime poetical effusion.

The prose works contemporaneous with Chaucer, Spencer, and even with that most wonderful of literary epochs, the Elizabethan age, are now practically obsolete, while the poetical efforts remain in some instances with increased prominence.

Someone, (although just who is difficult to determine,--though it savors of the Greek School of Philosophy,--)has delivered the following injunction: "Do right because it is right, not from fear of punishment or hope of reward." Waiving the question as to whether it is right or not to compose poetry, he who aspires in that direction can reasonably expect no material recompense, though the experience of Dante, Cervantes, Leigh Hunt, and others, proves conclusively that poets do not always escape punishment. In fact, about the only emolument to be expected is the gratification of an inherent and indefinable impulse, which impels one to the task with equal force, whether the ultimate result be affluence or a dungeon.

The author of this unpretentious volume has long questioned the advisability of adding a book to our already inflated and overloaded literature, unless it should contain something in the nature of a deviation from beaten literary paths.

Whether the reading public will regard this as such or not is a question for the future to determine, as every book is a creature of circumstance, and at the date of its publication an algebraic unknown quantity.

It was not the original intention of the author to publish any of his effusions in collective form until more mature years and riper judgment should better qualify him for the task of composition, and should enable him to still further pursue the important studies of etymology, rhetoric, Latin and Greek, and complete the education which youthful environment denied.

On the 17th of March, A.D. 1900, occurred an accident in the form of a premature mining explosion which banished the light of the Colorado sun from his eyes forever, adding the almost insurmountable barrier of total and hopeless blindness to those of limited means and insufficient education. At first further effort seemed useless, but as time meliorates in some degree even the most deplorable and distressing physical conditions, ambition slowly rallied, and while lying for several months a patient in various hospitals in an ineffectual attempt to regain even partial sight, the following ideas and efforts of past years were gradually recalled from the recesses of memory, and reduced to their present form, in which, with no small hesitation and misgiving, they are presented to the consideration of the reading public, which in the humble opinion of the author has frequently failed to receive and appreciate productions of vastly superior merit.

_Ouray, Colorado, March 15, 1901._

MOUNT WILSON, SAN MIGUEL COUNTY, COLORADO.]

Mountain Idylls and Other Poems

Grandeur.

Dedicated to the mountains of the San Juan district, Colorado, as seen from the summit of Mt. Wilson.

I stood at sunrise, on the topmost part Of lofty mountain, massively sublime; A pinnacle of trachyte, seamed and scarred By countless generations' ceaseless war And struggle with the restless elements; A rugged point, which shot into the air, As by ambition or desire impelled To pierce the eternal precincts of the sky.

Below, outspread, A scene of such terrific grandeur lay That reeled the brain at what the eyes beheld; The hands would clench involuntarily And clutch from intuition for support; The eyes by instinct closed, nor dared to gaze On such an awful and inspiring sight.

The sun arose with bright transcendent ray, Up from behind a bleak and barren reef; His face resplendent with beatitude, Solar effulgence and combustive gleam; Bathing the scene in such a wealth of light That none could marvel that primeval man, Rude and untaught, whene'er the sun appeared, Fell down and worshiped.

A wilderness of weird, fantastic shapes, Of precipice and stern declivity; Of dizzy heights, and towering minarets; Colossal columns and basaltic spires Which pointing heavenward, appeared to wave In benediction o'er the depths beneath.

Uneven crags and cliffs of various form; Abysmal depths, and dire profundities; Chasms so deep and awful that the eye Of soaring eagle dare not gaze below, Lest, dizzied, he should lose his aerial poise, And headlong falling, reach the gulf beneath.

Majestic turrets, and the stately dome Which, ovaled by the slow but tireless hand Of eons of disintegrating time, Still with impressive aspect rears its brow Defiant of mutation and decay.

MOUNTAIN VIEW, SAN JUAN, COLORADO.]

The crevice deep and inaccessible; Fissure and rent, where the intrusive dike's Creative and destructive agency Leaves many an enduring monument Of metamorphic and eruptive power; Of molten deluge, and volcanic flood; Fracture and break, the silent stories tell Of dire convulsion in the ages past; Of subterranean catastrophe, And cataclysm of internal force.

The trachyte wall, beseamed and battle scarred; The porphyritic tower and citadel; The granite ramparts and embattlements Of nature's fort, impregnable and wild, Stand as a symbol of eternal strength, And hurl a challenge to the elements!

Cañons of startling and appalling depths, With caverns, vast and gloomy, which would seem Meet for the haunt of centaur or of gnome; The gorgon and the labyrinthodon; The clumsy mammoth and the dinosaur; Or all gigantic and unwieldy shapes Which earth has seen in the mysterious past, Would seem in more accord and harmony With such surroundings than the puny form Of insignificant, conceited man.

And interspersed amid these solemn peaks Lie many a pleasant vale and grassy slope, Besprinkled with the drooping columbine, And fragrant growths of all harmonious tints, Whose variegated colors punctuate Grandeur with beauty, and fearless, bloom In the forbidding shadow of the cliffs, And to the margin of the snowy combs Which still resist the sun's persuasive ray.

A lakelet, cool, pellucid and serene, Fed by the drippings from eternal snows, Lies like a mirror 'neath a frowning cliff, Or as a gem, majestically ensconced In diadem of crag and pinnacle.

Down towards the distant valley's sultry clime, Both solitary, and in straggling groups; In solid phalanx, rigid and compact; In labyrinth of branches interspread, Impervious to the rain and midday sun; In form spontaneous, without regard To law of uniformity, there stand In silent awe, or whispering to the breeze, The sombre fir and melancholy pine. And many a denuded avenue Of varying and considerable width, Cut through the growth of balsam, spruce and pine, Which stands erect and proud on either hand, Attests the swift and desolating force Of fearful, devastating avalanche.

SCENE IN OURAY COUNTY, COLORADO.]

The mountain rill its pleasant music makes, As the descendant waters roll along, In rhythmic flow and dulcet cantabile, In various concord and harmonious pitch, Pursuant of its journey to the sea; The murmuring treble of the rivulet, Uniting with the deep and ponderous bass Of torrent wild and foaming cataract; The thunderous, reverberating tones And seething ebullition of the falls Are blended in one grand euphonious chord.

Far in the hazy distance, as the eye With vague perceptive vision penetrates, Lie the vast mesas of ethereal hue, Stretched in a calm and sleepy quietude, Dreamy repose and blue tranquillity; The eye which rests upon the drowsy scene Beholds a dim horizon, which presents No line of demarcation or of bounds; A merging union, blurred and indistinct; Fuliginous confusion, that the eye In viewing gazes, but no more discerns Which is the earth, and which the azure sky.

But mark the change! A cloud, which floated in the atmosphere, An inconsiderable and feathery speck Of no proportions, now augmented, wears A threatening aspect, ominously dark; Enveloping the heaven's canopy In lowering shadow and portentous gloom; In pall of ambient obscurity. The fork-ed lightnings ramify and play Upon a background of sepulchral black; The growling thunders rumble a reply Of detonation awful and profound, To every corruscation's vivid gleam; In deep crescendo and fortissimo, In quavering tremolo and stately fugue Echoes, reverberates and dies away!

But soon the sun, with smiling radiance, Through orifice, through rift and aperture, Invades the storm, and dissipates the clouds, Which scatter, cowering and ephemeral, Hugging the cliffs, and o'er the dire abyss Hover, in fleecy, ever changing form, And in a transient season disappear; Vanish, as man must vanish, and are gone.

The moist precipitation of the storm Revives, refreshes and invigorates The various vegetation, and bedews Each blade of grass and floweret with a tear; As nature, weeping o'er the faults of man.

UNCOMPAHGRE CAÑON, NEAR OURAY, COLORADO.]

The day recedes, and twilight's neutral shade Succeeds in turn, and ushers in the night, Whose wings, outstretched and shadowy, descend, And in nocturnal mantle robes the scene.

A hush prevails! Oppressive and profound; A silence, broken only by the breeze; A dormant quiet-essence and repose; Pervading calm and sweet oblivion,-- As nature wrapt in soft refreshing sleep.

Far in the east a solitary star Peeps through the sombre curtain of the night-- In hesitating dubitation burns; In lonely splendor, flashes for a time, Till scattering celestial lights appear,-- The vanguard of an astral multitude Of constellations, jewelled and serene, Which fill the lofty dome of space, until The heavens sparkle with the myriad Of spectra, nebulae and satellite; With stellar scintillation, and the orbs Of less refulgence, which, reflective shine; With falling star and trailing meteor; In one grand culmination, glittering To their Creator's glory!

A burst of mellow lunar radiance Inundates and illuminates the scene; The waxing moon, in her meridian full, Her beam vicarious disseminates, And shining, hides with her superior light, The twinkling beauty of the firmament!

At the stupendous and inspiring sight Of cosmic grandeur of the universe, A sense of vague and overwhelming awe; Of inconceivable immensity, The being's inmost recess permeates; And man, the atom in comparison, In spellbound admiration, mutely stands; With speculative meditation, dwells On that most solemn of impressive thoughts, The goodness of the Deity to man![A]

MOUNTAIN SCENE, SAN JUAN COUNTY, COLORADO.]

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Composed at St. Anthony's hospital, Denver, Colo., from whence the author was led hopelessly blind.

Nature's Child.

I love to tread the solitudes, The forests and the trackless woods, Where nature, undisturbed by man, Pursues her voluntary plan.

Where nature's chemistry distills The fountains and the laughing rills, I love to quaff her sparkling wine, And breathe the fragrance of the pine.

I love to dash the crystal dews From floral shapes of varied hues, And interweave the modest white Of columbine in garlands bright.

I love to lie within the shade, On grassy couch, by nature made, And listen to the warbling notes From her fair songsters' feathered throats.

And freed from artificial wants, I love to dwell in nature's haunts, And by the mountain's crystal lake A rustic habitation make.

I love to scale the mountain height And watch the eagle in his flight, Or gaze upon the azure sea Of aerial immensity.

I love the busy marts of trade, I love the things which men have made, Though man has charms, none such as these, In him the child of nature sees.

To the Pines.

Ye sad musicians of the wood, Whose dirges fill the solitude, Whose minor strains and melodies Are wafted on the whispering breeze, Whose plaintive chants and listless sighs, Ascend as incense to the skies; Do solemn tones afford relief, With you, as men, a vent for grief?

EMERALD LAKE, SAN MIGUEL COUNTY, COLORADO.]

Reflections.

On the margin of a lakelet,
In a rugged mountain clime,
Where precipice and pinnacle
Of countenance sublime,
Cast their weird, austere reflections
In the water's glistening sheen,
I strolled in contemplative mood,
Both pensive and serene.

As in a crystal mirror,
In that lakelet's placid face,
I saw the mountains upside down,
With all their pristine grace;
I saw each cliff and point of rocks,
I saw the stately pine,
Inverted in fantastic form
Below the water line.

I paused in admiration;
And with calm complacency
I marveled at this photograph
From nature's gallery;
And as my eyes surveyed the scene
With solemn grandeur fraught,
This simile flashed through my mind
As instantly as thought:

As the stern, majestic mountains,
Without error or mistake,
Were reflected in the bosom
Of that cool, pellucid lake,
So our every thought and action,
Be it deed of hate or love,
May be photographed in record
In that gallery above.

Life's Mystery

I live, I move, I know not how, nor why,
Float as a transient bubble on the air,
As fades the eventide I, too, must die;
I came, I know not whence; I journey, where?

The Fallen Tree.

I passed along a mountain road,
Which led me through a wooded glen,
Remote from dwelling or abode
And ordinary haunts of men;
And wearied from the dust and heat.
Beneath a tree, I found a seat.

The tree, a tall majestic spruce,
Which had, perhaps for centuries,
Withstood, without a moment's truce,
The wing-ed warfare of the breeze;
A monarch of the solitude,
Which well might grace the noblest wood.

Beneath its cool and welcome shade,
Protected from the noontide rays,
The birds amid its branches played
And caroled forth their twittering praise;
A squirrel perched upon a limb
And chattered with loquacious vim.

E'er yet that selfsame week had sped,
On my return, I sought its shade;
But where it reared its form, instead;
A fallen monarch I surveyed,
Prostrate and broken on the ground,
Nor longer cast its shade around.

Uprooted and disheveled, there
The monarch of the forest lay;
As if in desolate despair
Its last resistance fell away,
And overwhelmed, in evil hour
Went down before the tempest's power.

Such are the final works of fate;
The birds to other branches flew;
And man, whatever his estate,
Must face that same mutation, too!
To-day, I stand erect and tall,
The morrow--may record my fall.

There is an Air of Majesty.

There is an air of majesty, A bearing dignified and free, About the mountain peaks; Each crag of weather-beaten stone Presents a grandeur of its own To him who seeks.

There is a proud, defiant mein, Expressive, stern, and yet serene, About the precipice; Whose rugged form looks grimly down, And answers, with an austere frown The sunlight's kiss.

The mountain, with the snow bank crowned; The gorge, abysmal and profound; Impress with aspect grand: With unfeigned reverence I see In canon and declivity The All-Wise Hand.

Think Not that the Heart is Devoid of Emotion.

Think not that the heart is devoid of emotion,
Because of a countenance rugged and stern,
The bosom may hide the most fervent devotion,
As shadowy forests hide floweret and fern;
As the pearls which are down in the depths of the ocean,
The heart may have treasures which few can discern.

Think not the heart barren, because no reflection
Is flashed from the depths of its secret embrace;
External appearance may baffle detection,
And yet the heart beat with an ethical grace:
The breast may be charged with the truest affection
And never betray it by action or face.

SCENE NEAR TELLURIDE, SAN MIGUEL COUNTY, COLORADO.]

Humanity's Stream.

I stood upon a crowded thoroughfare, Within a city's confines, where were met All classes and conditions, and surveyed, From a secluded niche or aperture, The various, ever-changing multitude Which passed along in restless turbulence, And, as a human river, ebbed and flowed Within its banks of brick and masonry.

Within this vast and heterogeneous throng, One might discern all stages and degrees, From wealth and power to helpless indigence; Extravagance to trenchant penury, And all extremes of want and misery. Some blest by wealth, some cursed by poverty; Some in positions neutral to them both; Some wore a gaunt and ill-conditioned look Which told its tale of lack of nourishment; While others showed that irritated air Which speaks of gout and pampered appetite; Some following vocations quite reverse From those which nature had endowed them for; Some passed with face self-satisfied and calm, As if the world bore nothing else but joy; And some there were who, from the cradle's mouth, As they pursued their journey to the grave, Had felt no throb save that of misery; The man of large affairs passed by in haste, With mind preoccupied, nor thought of else Save undertakings which concerned himself; The shallow son of misplaced opulence Came strutting by with self-important air, With head erect in a contemptuous poise, As if the stars were subject to his will, And e'en the golden sun was something base, Which had offended with its wholesome light In shining on so great a personage, A being more than ordinary clay, And much superior to the vulgar herd! Some faces passed which knew no kindly look, And felt no friendly pressure of the hand; And if the face depict the character, Some passed so steeped in crime and villainy That Judas' vile, ill-favored countenance Would seem in contrast quite respectable; Some features glowed with unfeigned honesty, Some grimaced in dissimulating craft, Some smiled benignantly and passed along; Some faces meek, some stern and resolute; Some the embodiment of gentleness; Some whose specific aspects plainly told Their fondest dreams were not of earth, but heaven; A newly wedded couple passed that way, In the sweet zenith of their honeymoon, But little dreaming what the future held. The light and trivial fool, the brainless fop; The staid and sober priest and minister; And she who worshiped at proud fashion's shrine; The mental giant, serious and sad; The thoughtful student and philosopher; And some of intellect diminutive; The man of letters, with abstracted mien, And he whose every thought was on the toil Which made his bare existence possible; The blushing maiden, pure and innocent; The stately grandam, dignified and gray; The matron, with the babe upon her breast; The silly superannuated flirt, Who nursed her waning beauty day by day, And still essayed to act the role of youth; The gay coquette and belle of other days, Who in life's morning, with disdainful laugh, Had quaffed the cup of pleasure to its dregs, And now, grown old, must pay the penalty In wrinkles and uncourted loneliness; The widow, who, but newly desolate, Would grasp a hand, then start to find it gone; The spendthrift and the sordid usurer, Who knew no sentiment save lust for gold; The bloated drunkard, sinking 'neath the weight Of wassail inclination dissolute; The youth, who, following his baleful steps, Reeled for the first time from intemperance; And she who had forgot her covenant, In brazen infamy and unwept shame;-- The good, the bad, the impious and unjust, The energetic and the indolent, The adolescent and the venerable, Passed by, pursuant of their various ways.

* * * * *

The aged and decrepit plodded by, Whom one would think were ripe for any tomb, Yet quailed at dissolution's very thought; The crippled and deformed, with cane and crutch, Came limping by, as eddies in the stream; The mendicant, whose eyes might never see The golden sunlight, felt his way along, And though the world was dark, still shrank from death. Some faces showed the trace of recent tears, And some revealed the impress of despair; Others endeavored with a careless smile To hide a breast surcharged with hopelessness, As one afflicted with a foul disease Strives to avoid the scrutinizing gaze By the assumption of indifference; Some whose misfortunes and adversities And oft repeated disappointments, dried The fountain heads of kindness, and had turned Life's sweetest joys to gall and bitterness. Each face betrayed some sort or form of woe; In more than one I read a tragedy.

* * * * *

How complex is existence! What a maze Of complication and entanglement! Each thread combining with the other threads Fulfills its office in the labyrinth; Each link concatenates the other links Which constitute the vast and endless chain Of human life, and human destiny,-- The strange phantasmagoria of fate.

* * * * *

So we, in life's procession, pass along To the accompaniment of secret dirge, Or laughter interspersed with tear and groan; Nor pause a moment, nor retrace a step, But march in Fate's spectacular review In pageant to our common goal-- The Grave.

Nature's Lullaby.

A MOUNTAIN NOCTURNE

In forest shade my couch is made.
And there I calmly lie,
With thought confined in pensive mind,
And contemplate the sky;
I wonder if the frowning cliff,
The valley and the wood,
Or rugged freaks of mountain peaks,
Enjoy their solitude.

The heavens hold a sphere of gold,
A full and placid moon,
Suspended high, in cloudless sky,
With constellations strewn;
Its mellow beam, on rill and stream,
In silvery sheen I see;
Before its light, the shades of night
As evil spirits, flee.

In space afar, a shooting star,
With swift, uncertain course,
In dazzling sparks its passage marks,
As it expends its force;
The mountains bare reflect its glare
Of weird, unearthly light,
And e'en the skies, in glad surprise,
Behold its gorgeous flight.

The spruce and pine, at timber-line,
In straggling patches strewn,
Surcharge the breeze with melodies,
The forests' plaintive tune;
As they descend, the waters blend
In babbling harmony,
And soothe to rest my tranquil breast,
With Nature's lullaby.

BRIDAL VEIL FALLS, NEAR TELLURIDE, SAN MIGUEL COUNTY, COLORADO.]

The Spirit of freedom is Born of the Mountains.

The spirit of freedom is born of the mountains, In gorge and in cañon it hovers and dwells; Pervading the torrents and crystalline fountains, Which dash through the valleys and forest clad dells.

The spirit of freedom, so firm and impliant,
Is borne on the breeze, whose invisible waves
Descend from the mountain peaks, stern and defiant--
Created for freemen, but never for slaves.

The Valley of the San Miguel.

In the golden West, by fond Nature blest,
Lies a vale which my heart holds dear;
Where the zephyr blows from eternal snows
And tempers the atmosphere;
Where the torrent falls o'er the mountain walls,
As its thunderous echoes thrill,
Where the sparkling mist, by the rainbow kissed,
Decks the Valley of San Miguel[B].

Where the birds of spring, in their season sing,
Their spontaneous melodies;
Where the columbine and the stately pine
Stand quivering in the breeze;
Where the aspen tall hugs the trachyte wall,
And the wild rose bedecks the hill;
Where the willows weep, and their vigils keep,
On the banks of the San Miguel.

Where the mountains high, cleave the azure sky,
With their turrets so bleak and gray;
Where the morning light crowns the dizzy height,
At the break of the summer's day;
Where the crags look down with an austere frown,
O'er the valley so calm and still;
Where the mesas blue, blend their dreamy hue
With the skies of the San Miguel.

Where the mountains hold a vast wealth of gold,
In the quartz ledge and placer bar;
Where the hills resound with the constant sound
Of the stamp mill's battering jar;
Where the waters dash with the rhythmic splash
Of the cascade and mountain rill,
As they laugh and flow to the lands below,
Through the turbulent San Miguel.

Where the shadows glide, in the eventide,
As the sun, to nocturnal rest,
With the dazzling rays of a world ablaze,
Sinks into the distant west;
When the yellow leaf of existence brief,
Brings the hour when the pulse is still,
May my ashes rest in the golden West,
On the banks of the San Miguel.

LIZARD HEAD, SAN MIGUEL COUNTY, COLORADO.]

FOOTNOTES:

[B] San Miguel, pronounced "Magill," the Spanish form of St. Michael.

To Mother Huberta.

_As repeated in chorus on the anniversary of her Names-day by the Sisters of St. Hubert at St. Anthony's Hospital, Denver, Col., Oct. 29, 1900._

Mother, our greetings be to thee, On the glad anniversary Of this, thy festive day; Thy daughters, daughters not of earth, But bound by cords of Heavenly birth, Their love and greetings pay.

We thank thee, Mother, for thy care, Thy watchfulness, and fervent prayer; And if 'tis Heaven's will, May many a returning year And namesday find our Mother here, Constant and watchful still.

Blest be that autumn brown and sere! Bless-ed the day and blest the year, Of his[C] nativity! Blest be the hospitals, which rise, Resultant of thy enterprise, Thy zeal and fervency.

Blest be that hunter[D] saint of thine! Bless-ed the deer, and blest the sign Between its antlers broad! To us, thy daughters, is it given To bless thee, in the name of Heaven, And blessing thee, bless God.

FOOTNOTES:

[C] St. Hubert.

[D] St. Hubert, the apostle of Ardennes, a saint of the Roman Catholic Church, the patron of huntsmen. He was of a noble family of Acquitaine. While hunting in the forests of Ardennes he had a vision of a stag with a shining crucifix between its antlers, and heard a warning voice. He was converted, entered the church, and eventually became Bishop of Maestricht and Liege. He worked many miracles, and is said to have died in 727 or 729. Spofford's Cyclopædia, Vol. 4, page 470.

Suggested by a Mountain Eagle.

I gazed at the azure-hued mantle of heaven,
The measureless depths of ethereal space;
I gazed at the clouds, so invisibly driven,
And an eagle, which wheeled with symmetrical grace.

I gazed at that eagle, majestically wheeling,
With dignity, born of the free mountain air;
I envied that bird, with an envious feeling
Which springs from a heart that is shackled with care.

I envied that eagle, which bowed to no master,
But soared at his will, through the ambient skies,
Defiant of danger, and scorning disaster,
He screamed at the cliffs, which re-echoed his cries.

I envied that bird, on that fair summer morning,
When nature lay decked with spontaneous art,
As he circled, with aspect defiant and scorning,
And perched on a pinnacle's loftiest part.

TROUT LAKE, SAN MIGUEL COUNTY, COLORADO.]

And scanning the scene with a stern indecision, He spread his dark wings, with intuitive cries, And sped, till acute and inquisitive vision Discerned but a movable speck in the skies.

When the shades of the evening, so listless and dreary,
Descend on the valley, his wing never flags,
As through the dark shadows he soars to his eyerie,
Which nestles among the impregnable crags.

Ah! fain would I rise on thy feathery pinions,
Above the material cares of the day,
And float over earth's most enchanting dominions,
As clouds, by the zephyrs, are wafted away!

The Silvery San Juan.

Wherever I wander, my spirit still dwells, In the silvery San Juan[E] with its streamlet and dells; Whose mountainous summits, so rugged and high, With their pinnacles pierce the ethereal sky; Where the daisy, the rose, and the sweet columbine Blend their colors with those of the sober hued pine; Where the ceaseless erosions of measureless time, Have chiseled the grotto and canon sublime; Have sculptured the cliff, and the stern mountain wall; Have formed the bold turret, impressive and tall; Have cut the deep gorge with its wonderful caves, Sepulchral and gloomy; whose vast architraves Support the stalactites, both pendant and white, Which with the stalagmites beneath them unite; Where nestles a valley, sequestered and grand, Worn out of the rock by the same tireless hand, Surrounded by mountains, majestic and gray, Which smile from their heights on the Town of Ouray.

BOX CAÑON, LOOKING INWARD, OURAY, COLORADO.]

* * * * *

Wherever I wander, my ears hear the sound Of thy waters, which plunge with a turbulent bound O'er the precipice, seething and laden with foam; My ears hear their music wherever I roam; Where the cataract's rhapsody, joyous and light, Enchants in the morning and soothes in the night; Where blend the loud thunders, sonorous and deep, With the sobs of the rain as the black heavens weep; Where the whispering zephyr, and murmuring breeze, Unite with the soft, listless sigh of the trees; And where to the fancy, the voices of air Wail in tones of distress, or in shrieks of despair; Where mourneth the night wind, with desolate breath, In accents suggestive of sorrow and death; As falls from the heavens, so fleecy and light, The winter's immaculate mantle of white; Wherever I wander, these sounds greet my ears, And the silvery San Juan to my fancy appears.

FOOTNOTES:

[E] Pronounced San Wan. Spanish form of St. John.

As the Shifting Sands of the Desert.

As the shifting sands of the desert
Are born by the simoon's wrath,
And in wanton and fleet confusion,
Are strewn on its trackless path;
So our lives with resistless fury,
Insensibly and unknown,
With a restless vacillation
By the winds of fate are blown;
But an All-Wise Hand
May have changed the sand,
For a purpose of His own.

As the troubled and turbulent waters,
As the waves of the angry main,
Respond with their undulations
To the breath of the hurricane;
So our lives on Time's boundless ocean
Unwittingly toss and roll,
And unconsciously drift with the current
Which evades our assumed control;
But a Hand of love,
From the skies above,
May have guided us past a shoal.

Ephemeral, mobile, and fleeting,
Our delible paths we tread;
And fade as the crimson sunset,
When the heavens are tinged with red;
As the gorgeously tinted rainbow
Retains not its varied dyes,
We change, with the constant mutation,
Of desert, of sea, and skies;
But the Hand which made,
Knows each transient shade,
Which passes before the eyes.

OURAY, COLORADO.]

Missed.

Pity the child who never feels
A mother's fond caress;
That childish smile a void conceals
Of aching loneliness.

Pity the heart which loves in vain,
What balm or mystic spell
Can soothe that bosom's secret pain,
The pain it may not tell?

Pity those missed by Cupid's darts,
For 'twas ordained for such,
Who love at random, but whose hearts
Feel no responsive touch.

If I Have Lived Before.

If I have lived before, some evidence Should that existence to the present bind; Some innate inkling of experience Should still imbue and permeate the mind, If we, progressing, pass from state to state, Or retrograde, as turns the wheel of fate.

If I have lived before, and could my eyes But view the scenes wherein that life was spent, Or even for an instant recognize The climes, conditions and environment Beloved by them in that pre-natal span, Though past and future both be sealed to man;

Or, if perchance, kind memory should ope' Her floodgates, with fond recollection fraught, 'Twould then renew the dormant fires of hope, Now smothered out by speculative thought; 'Twould then rekindle faith within a breast, Where doubt is now the sole remaining guest.

The Darker Side.

They say that all nature is smiling and gay,
And the birds the most happy of all,
But the sparrow, pursued by the sparrowhawk,
Savors more of the wormwood and gall.

They say that all nature is smiling and gay,
But the groan may dissemble the laugh;
E'en now from the meadow is wafted the sound
Of a bovine bewailing her calf.

They say that all nature is smiling and gay,
But the moss often covers the rock;
Every animal form is beset by a foe,
For the wolf always follows the flock.

For the animal holds all inferior flesh
As its just and legitimate prey;
Every scream of the eagle a panic creates
As the weaker things scamper away.

They say that all nature is smiling and gay,
But the smiles are all needed to sweeten
The struggle we see so incessantly waged
To eat, and avoid being eaten.

And men, with their genial competitive ways
Present no decided improvements,
For their personal gain they will sacrifice all
Who may stand in the way of their movements.

The Miner.

Clink! Clink! Clink!
The song of the hammer and drill!
At the sound of the whistle so shrill and clear,
He must leave the wife and the children dear,
In his cabin upon the hill.
Clink! Clink! Clink!
But the arms that deliver the sturdy stroke,
Ere the shift is done, may be crushed or broke,
Or the life may succumb to the gas and smoke,
Which the underground caverns fill.

Clink! Clink! Clink!
The song of the hammer and drill!
As he toils in the shaft, in the stope or raise,
'Mid dangers which lurk, but elude the gaze,
His nerves with no terrors thrill.
Clink! Clink! Clink!
For the heart of the miner is strong and brave;
Though the rocks may fall, and the shaft may cave
And become his dungeon, if not his grave,
He braves every thought of ill.

Clink! Clink! Clink!
The song of the hammer and drill!
But the heart which is beating in unison
With the steady stroke, e'er the shift is done,
May be cold and forever still.
Clink! Clink! Clink!
He may reap the harvest of danger sowed,
The hole which he drills he may never load,
For the powder may e'en in his hand explode,
To mangle, if not to kill.

Clink! Clink! Clink!
The song of the hammer and drill!
Facing dangers more grim than the cannon's mouth;
Breathing poisons more foul than the swamps of the south
In their tropical fens distill.
Clink! Clink! Clink!
Thus the battle he fights for his daily bread;
Thus our gold and our silver, our iron and lead,
Cost us lives, as true as our blood is red,
And probably always will.

Life's Undercurrent.

Within the precincts of a hospital, I wandered in a sympathetic mood; Where face to face with wormwood and with gall, With wrecks of pain and stern vicissitude, The eye unused to human misery Might view life's undercurrent vividly.

My gaze soon rested on the stricken form Of one succumbing to the fever's drouth, With throbbing brow intolerably warm, With wasted lips and mute appealing mouth; And when I watched that prostrate figure there I thought that fate must be the worst to bear.

I next beheld a thin but patient face, Aged by the constant twinge of hopeless pain, Wheeled in an easy chair from place to place, A form which ne'er might stand erect again; I viewed that human shipwreck in his chair, And thought a fate like that was worst to bear.

Within her room a beauteous maiden lay, Moaning in agony no words express, A cancer eating rapidly away Her vital force,--so foul and pitiless; And when I saw that face, so young and fair, I thought such anguish was the worst to bear.

BOX CAÑON, LOOKING INWARD, OURAY, COLORADO.]

A helpless paralytic met my eyes, Whose hands might never grasp a friendly hand, But hung distorted and of shrunken size, Insensible to muscular command; His face an abject picture of despair; I thought a fate like that was worst to bear.

With wasted form, emaciate and wan, A pale consumptive coughed with labored breath, His sunken eyes and hectic flush upon His cheek, foretold a sure but lingering death; I thought, whene'er I met his hollow stare, A wasting death like that was worst to bear.

That day with fetters obdurate and fast, With chain of summer, winter, spring and fall, Is bounden to the dim receding past; Time o'er my life has spread a somber pall, With sightless eyes I grope and clutch the air, My lot is now the hardest lot to bear.

They Cannot See the Wreaths We Place.

They cannot see the wreaths we place Upon the silent bier, They cannot see the tear-stained face, Nor feel the scalding tear, And now can flowers or graven stone, For wrongs done them in life atone?

Better the flower that smooths the thorns On earthly pathway found, Than that which uselessly adorns The bier or silent mound. And neither tear nor floral token Retracts the hasty word, when spoken.

Then strew the flowers ere life has fled, While yet their eyes discern; Why waste their fragrance on the dead Who no fond smile return? The heaving breast with sorrow aches, Comfort the throbbing heart which breaks.

Mother.--Alpha and Omega.

Mother! Mother!
The startled cry of childish fright
Rang through the silence of the night,
As but the mother's fond caress
Could soothe its infantile distress;
And the mother answered, with loving stroke
Of her gentle hand, as she softly spoke:
"Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;
What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"

Mother! Mother!
Long years have passed, and the fevered brow
Of a bearded man, she is stroking now,
As through delirium and pain
He cries as a little child, again.
And the mother answered, with loving stroke
Of her careworn hand, as she softly spoke:
"Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;
What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"

Mother! Mother!
Still time rolls on, and an old man stands
Trembling on life's declining sands;
As memory bridges the flood of years
He cries as a child, with childish tears;
And memory answers, with loving stroke
Of a vanished hand, and an echo spoke:
"Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;
What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"

Empty are the Mother's Arms.

Ah, empty are the mother's arms
Which clasp a vanished form;
A darling spared from life's alarms,
And safe from earthly storm.

In absent reverie, she hears
That voice, nor can forget;
The fond illusion disappears,--
Her arms are empty, yet.

In Deo Fides.

Almighty God! Supreme! Most High! Before Thy throne, in reverence, we kneel; We cannot realize Thine infinity; Beholding not, we can Thy presence feel; Though veiled impenetrably, Thou dost reveal Such evidence as clouds cannot conceal!

Acknowledged, though unseen, Almighty Power! Within its secret depths, the bosom pays In pleasure's or affliction's calmer hour, The heart's sincerest offering of praise; Intuitive, unuttered prayers arise Without the outstretched arms, or reverently clos-ed eyes.

Down deep within the soul's mysterious seat, The voice of reason, and inherent sense, Admits Thy Sovereign Power, and doth entreat The guidance of a Just Omnipotence; Thus doth the human essence e'er depend On that Supreme. Eternal. Without End.

Supreme, Mysterious Power! Whate'er Thou be, Can e'er our mortal natures comprehend, This side the veil which shrouds futurity, Thy Wisdom, Power, and Love? The end Of all conclusions, reasoned o'er and o'er, We know Thou dost exist! Can we know more?

Shall Love, as the Bridal Wreath, Whither and Die?

Shall love as the bridal wreath, wither and die? Or remain ever constant and sure, As the years of the future pass rapidly by, And the waves of adversity's tempest roll high, Ever changeless and fervent endure?

Mistake not the fancy, that lasts but a day, For the love which eternally thrives; That sentiment false, is as prone to decay As the wreath is to fade and to wither away; And like it, it never revives.

Shall Our Memories Live When the Sod Rolls Above Us?

Shall our memories live, when the sod rolls above us
And marks our last home with a mouldering heap?
Shall the voices of those who profess that they love us
E'er mention our names, as we dreamlessly sleep?

Will their eyes ever dim at some fond recollection,
Or their hands ever plant a small flower o'er the breast,
Or will they gaze with a sad circumspection
At the tablets, which tell of our last solemn rest?

Ah! soon shall the hearts which our memories cherish
Forget, as they strive with the cares of their own;
And even the last dim remembrance shall perish
As we peacefully slumber, unwept and unknown.

But if our lives, though of transient duration,
Are filled with some work in humanity's name,
Some uplifting effort, or self-immolation,
Our memories shall live in the temples of Fame.

A Reverie.

O, tomb of the past Where buried hopes lie, In my visions I see Thy phantoms pass by! A form, long departed, Before me appears; A sweet voice, long silent, Again greets my ears.

Fond memory dwells
On the things that have been;
And my eyes calmly gaze
On a long vanished scene;
A scene such as memory
Stores deep in the breast,
Which only appears
In a season of rest.

Once more we wander,
Her fair hand in mine;
Once more her promise,
"I'll ever be thine";
Once more the parting,
The shroud, and the pall,
The sods' hollow thump
As they coffinward fall.

The reverie ends--
All the fancies have flown;
And my sad, lonely heart,
Now seems doubly alone;
As the Ivy, whose tendrils
Reach longingly out,
Yet finds not an oak
To entwine them about.

Love's Plea.

I love thee, my darling, both now and forever,
My heart feels the thralldom of love's mystic spell,
'Tis fettered with shackles which nothing can sever,
To the heart which responds to its passionate swell.

I love thee, my darling, with love that is stronger,
Than all the fond ties which the heart holds enshrined;
Adversity, sorrow or pain can no longer
Detract from this heart, if with thine intertwined.

I love thee, my darling, with sacred affection,
Which death, nor the cycles of time shall efface;
Nor from my heart's mirror, erase thy reflection,
Nor tear thy fond heart from its fervent embrace.

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.

Is there a Death? The light of day At eventide shall fade away; From out the sod's eternal gloom The flowers, in their season, bloom; Bud, bloom and fade, and soon the spot Whereon they flourished knows them not; Blighted by chill, autumnal frost; "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"

Is there a Death? Pale forms of men To formless clay resolve again; Sarcophagus of graven stone, Nor solitary grave, unknown, Mausoleum, or funeral urn, No answer to our cries return; Nor silent lips disclose their trust; "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"

Is there a Death? All forms of clay Successively shall pass away; But, as the joyous days of spring Witness the glad awakening Of nature's forces, may not men, In some due season, rise again? Then why this calm, inherent trust, "If ashes to ashes, dust to dust?"

Despair.

Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;
When vanishes each prospect fair,
When the last flickering ray has sped,
And naught remains but mute despair;
When inky blackness doth enshroud
The hopes the heart once held in store,
As some tall pine, by great winds bowed,
Doth snap, and when the tempest's o'er,
Its noble form, magnificent and proud,
Doth prostrate lie, nor ever riseth more;
Thus breaks the heart, which sees no hope before.

Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;
That heart is as some ruin old,
With ancient arch and wall, o'erspread
With moss, and desolating mold;
Whose banquet halls, where once the sound
Of revelry rang unconfined,
Now, with the hoot of owls resound,
Or echo back the mournful wind;
In whose foul nooks the gruesome bat is found.
The heart a ruin is, when unresigned;
No hope before, and but regret behind.

IRONTON PARK, OURAY COUNTY, COLORADO.]

Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;
That heart, to fate unreconciled,
Though throbbing, is as truly dead
As though by foul decay defiled;
That heart is as a grinning skull,
With smiling mockery, and stare
Of eyeless sockets, or the hull
Of shipwrecked vessel, bleached and bare,
Derelict, morbid, apathetic, dull,
As drowning men, who clutch the empty air,
The heart goes down, which feels but blind despair.

Hidden Sorrows.

For some the river of life would seem Free from the shallow, the reef, or bar, As they gently glide down the silvery stream With scarcely a ripple, a lurch, or jar; But under the surface, calm and fair, Lurk the hidden snags, and the secret care; The waters are deepest where still, and clear, And the sternest anguish forbids a tear.

For others, the pathway of life is strewn With many a thorn, for each rose or bud; And their journey o'er mountain, o'er moor, and dune, Can be plainly tracked by footprints of blood; But deeper still lies the hidden smart Of some secret sorrow, which gnaws the heart, And rankles under a surface clear; For the sternest anguish forbids a tear.

But, when the journey's end we see, At the bar of the Judge of quick and dead, The cross, which the one bore silently May outweigh his of the bloodstained tread. The cross unseen, and the cross of light, May balance in that Judge's sight; O'er the heart that is breaking a smile may appear, For the sternest anguish forbids a tear.

O, a Beautiful Thing Is the Flower That Fadeth!

O, a beautiful thing is the flower that fadeth,
And perishing, smiles on the chill autumn wind;
A sweet desolation its ruin pervadeth,
A fragrant remembrance still lingers behind.

O, a beautiful thing is the glad consummation
Of a life that is upright, untarnished and pure;
That spirit, when freed from this earth's animation,
Shall live, as the heavens eternal endure!

Smiles.

There is the warm, congenial smile,
Benign, and honest, too,
Free from deception, fraud, and guile;
The smile of friendship true.

There is the smile most fair to see, Which wreathes the modest glance Of spotless maiden purity; The smile of innocence.

There is the smile of woman's love,
That potent, siren spell,
Which uplifts men to heaven above,
Or lures them down to hell!

There is the vain, derisive smile,
Of cynical conceit;
The drunken leer, the grimace vile,
Of lives with crime replete.

There is the smile of vacancy,
Expressionless, we find
On idiot physiognomy,
The vacuum of a mind.

There is a smile, which more than tears
Or language can express;
The grim disguise which anguish wears,
The mask of dire distress

There is a smile of practiced art,
More false than treason's kiss;
But penetrate that dual heart,
And hear the serpent's hiss.

A smile, the visage shall embrace,
When nature's cup is full;
Behind the stern and frowning face
There lies a grinning skull.

A Request.

When close by my bed the Death Angel shall stand
And deliver his summons, at last;
When my brow feels the chill of his cold, clammy hand,
And mortality's struggles are past;
When my pain throbbing temples, with death sweat are cold,
And the spirit its strivings shall cease,
As with muscular shrug, it relaxes its hold,
And the suffering clay is at peace;

E'er my spirit shall plunge through the shadowy vale,
My lips shall this wish have expressed,
That all which remains of mortality frail,
In some fair enclosure may rest;
Where disorganized, this pale form shall sustain
The fragrant and beautiful flowers,
And reproduce beauty, again and again,
Through nature's grand organic powers.

Battle Hymn.

Almighty Power! Who through the past
Our Nation's course has safely led;
Behold again the sky o'ercast,
Again is heard the martial tread!
Our stay in each contingency,
Our Father's God, we turn to thee!

For lo! The bugle note of war
Is wafted from a southern strand!
O Lord of Battles! we implore
The guidance of Thy mighty hand,
While as of yore, the hero draws
His sword in Freedom's sacred cause!

And when at last the oaken wreath
Shall crown afresh the victor's brow;
And Peace the conquering sword resheath,
Be with us then, as well as now!
Our stay in each contingency,
In peace or war, we turn to Thee!

The Nations Peril.

_Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay. --Goldsmith._

I fear the palace of the rich,
I fear the hovel of the poor;
Though fortified by moat and ditch,
The castle strong could not endure;
Nor can the squalid hovel be
A source of strength, and those who cause
This widening discrepancy
Infringe on God's eternal laws.

The heritage of man, the earth,
Was framed for homes, not vast estates;
A lowering scale of human worth
Each generation demonstrates,
Which feels the landlord's iron hand,
And hopeless, plod with effort brave;
Who love no home can love no land;
These own no home, until the grave.

The nation's strongest safeguards lie In free and unencumbered homes; Not in its hordes of vagrancy, Nor in its proud, palatial domes; Nor can the mercenary sword E'er cross with that the freeman draws. Nor oil upon the waters poured Perpetuate an unjust cause.

Eternal Justice, still prevail
And stay this menace ere too late!
Ere sturdy manhood droop and fail,
The law, immutable, of fate;
No foe can daunt the stalwart heart
Of him who guards that sacred ground
Where every hero owns a part,
Where each an ample home has found.

No more shall battle's lurid gleam
The cloudless sky of peace obscure;
Nor blood becrimson field, or stream,
Nor avarice grind down the poor;
But onward let thy progress be
A pageant, beautiful and grand;
May He who e'er has guided thee
Protect thee still, my native land!

Echoes from Galilee.

What means this gathering multitude,
Upon thy shores, O, Galilee,
As various as the billows rude
That sweep thy ever restless sea?
Can but the mandate of a King
So varied an assemblage bring?

Behold the noble, rich, and great,
From Levite, Pharisee and Priest,
Down to the lowest dregs of fate,
From mightiest even to the least;
Yes, in this motley throng we find
The palsied, sick, mute, halt, and blind.

Is this some grand affair of state,
A coronation, or display,
By some vainglorious potentate,--
Or can this concourse mark the day
Of some victorious hero's march
Homeward, through triumphal arch?

Or, have they come to celebrate
Some sacred sacerdotal rite;
By civic feast, to emulate
Some deed, on history's pages bright?
Or can this grand occasion be
Some battle's anniversary?

But wherefore come the halt and blind?
What comfort can the pain-distressed
In such a tumult hope to find?
What is there here, to offer rest
To those, whom adverse fate has hurled,
Dismantled, on a hostile world?