Chapter II: Part 2

I fain would return in my dreaming
To years that proclaimed me a boy,
When gladness was happily beaming
And life was a musical toy;
My sorrow has never Nepenthe,
My woe in its bitterness throngs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old songs.

TWO LIVES.

Two infants in their cradles lie,
Where lullabies of peace
In gentle strains of tender music die.
And carols never cease.

Two urchins o'er the meadow lands
Are bounding in their plays,
Where sweet enjoyment with angelic hands
Winds gladness o'er the days.

Two boys, where golden fancies bless,
Repose in sunny beams,
And muse away the hours of happiness
On couches made of dreams.

Two men upon a summer sea
Are toiling, brave and strong,
Where pleasures roll their elfin harmony
And labor ends in song.

Two gray-haired sages, silvered o'er,
In life meet once again,
To name the wondrous happiness they bore
Among their fellow-men.

Two graves forever hide the twain
Who found, in all their years,
No secret shadows, where unbroken pain
Held fountains full of tears.

Two lives have passed from human reach,
And few have heard of them,
But joy had not been better served if each
Had worn a diadem.

Ah, bosoms here are strangely blest
With perfect bliss that glows,
And he above all others lives the best,
Who has the fewest woes!

"AWAY, AWAY, FROM THE SULTRY WAYS."

Away, away, from the sultry ways
Where the pleasures fall and fade,
To the bannered corn and the meadowed bloom
And the forest's cooling shade!

Afar, afar, from the rooms of care
With the toils of life distressed,
To the grassy hills and the fragrant slopes
And the quiet vales of rest!

Away from the weary, dusty town,
Where the sorrows dim the days,
To the sleeping lake and the silent stream
And the wildwood's tangled ways!

To margins wide of the woodland pools,
Where the wild birds troll their songs,
Where the lilies laugh and the willows wave,
And the pleasures dance in throngs!

The dark-eyed nymphs and the fairy elves
In their robes of laughing smiles,
In the forests romp 'neath the leafy trees,
Through the narrow long-drawn aisles.

The bannered corn and the golden wheat
In the ties of bliss are bound;
The sweetest joys and highest hopes
On the shady farms are found.

The raptures reign in the holy scenes,
And the old grow young once more,
To roam the meadows and live again
In the happy years of yore.

Then haste, O, haste, to the country downs,
Where the valleys are sweet with joys,
And the soul grows young, and the heart is light,
And the bosom is like a boy's!

SPINSTERHOOD.

Alone, alone, in the twilight gray,
In the shadows so dark and dim,
I watch through all of the weary hours,
And I wait with my heart for him;
For him who'll come, when he comes at all,
As my king and warrior bold;
Whose form so tall is my fortress wall
And whose heart is a chunk of gold.

Again, again, do I dream the dreams,
All the dreams that my young heart knew,
And through my soul do the yearnings thrill
As of old they were wont to do;
I know in truth when his face I see,
I shall fall at his shining feet,
Where'er it be and whoever is he,
In the light of his glances sweet.

I wait in vain for the sounds that rise
From the tread of his horse's hoof,
And still the mists hide his form away
And forever he stays aloof;
His shining face and his eyes so bright
In the shades of the distance hide,
And out of the night with the stars bedight
He hath never approached my side!

O, years, O, wonderful tide of years,
From the shadows of time set free
My king, my lover, my life, and bring
To my heart what is most of me!
Somewhere in pain do his yearnings grope
For the joys that my love would bring;
O, up the slope of his life-long hope,
Guide the feet of my royal king!

"SWEET FAIRIES FROM THE ISLES OF SONG."

Sweet fairies from the isles of song,
Bewitching choirs from music land,
The pleasures of your wondrous band
Once wooed me from the ways of wrong;
Once won my heart with fond caress
To sacred vales of summer glees,
Till carols fraught with lullabies
Filled all my soul with blessedness!

My yearnings miss those gentle sprites,
Whose laughing lips and angel eyes
And voices ever winsome-wise,
Bedewed my dreams with new delights;
For in the sad hours of my pain
I hold them as I hold the dead,
And trust that in the vales they tread,
My hands shall clasp their hands again.

From those glad meadows where they play
'Neath lovely sun and gentle star,
My longing soul has wandered far
On rocky path and thorny way;
I croon again the notes of song
In strains they taught me years ago,
And weep because my sorrows know
They have been absent for so long.

Return, O, laughing sprites of rest,
From gentle isles and peaceful seas,
And pour the balsamed wine of ease
Upon the anguish of my breast!
Till gladness in her raptures roll
Sweet strains of music, and I gain
Eternal joy for all the pain
That darkens o'er my weary soul!

STANZAS.

God bless the man who gave us rest
And him who taught us play,
For kindness reigned within his breast
To all our sorrow slay;
The weary heart, the fainting limb,
The soul that droops in woe,
Should most unceasing praise on him
In gratitude bestow.

He is the hero of the race,
The toiling nation's friend,
For pity smiles upon his face
With joys that never end;
He tears away the iron gyves
That chain our best repose,
And makes the deserts of our lives
To blossom as the rose.

He pours his balms into the wound
Of bosom weak and sad,
Till holy pleasures flit around
And all the heart is glad;
Till all is sweet that here before
Was wrapped in bitter woe,
And only gladness hurries o'er
The millions here below.

Great man he is, and him I give
That gratitude of mine,
Which must in brilliance while I live
With brightest glory shine,
To wreathe a radiance always gay
Around the worthy breast
Of him who first discovered play
And gave the nations rest.

MAKE THE MOST OF THIS LIFE.

Make the most of this life; where the shadow reposes
The beams of the summer shall gather in glee,
And the snow on the graves of the lilies and roses
But cradles the blooms that shall whiten the lea;
Though the hopes of the heart be encircled with sorrow
And billows of wretchedness mutter and roll,
There shall come with the morn of the bountiful morrow
The pleasures that gladden the desolate soul.

Make the most of this life; where the carols are sleeping
That rose in their rapture from lips of the spring,
That awakened the world from its winter of weeping,
Sweet songs shall be sung by the birds on the wing.
Though the bosom be dark with the dirges of sadness
And solitudes gather so heavy and lone,
There shall float from the musical meadows of gladness
The ravishing measures that banish each groan.

Make the most of this life; 'tis a garden of beauty,
Where, blushing, the blossoms grow tenderly-sweet,
While they brighten the years of man's labor and duty
And scatter the kisses of love at his feet;
'Tis a world that is wild with the laughter of living
When hands do the brotherly kindness they can,
And its hearts are the treasures of tenderness giving
To soften and sweeten the nature of man.

Make the most of this life; there is happiness in it,
When souls find a theme for their jubilant song;
There is music, when angels are taught to begin it,
Which never was marred with a murmur of wrong;
There are voices that sing in their sweetness forever,
And mutter no strains of contention or strife,
Neither burden the hours with the pangs of endeavor,
When we, with our deeds, make the most of this life.

"THE SONGS THAT MOTHER USED TO SING."

The songs that mother used to sing!
How tenderly those ditties roll,
And to the dirges in my soul
The happy notes of gladness bring!
Where'er my vagrant feet may roam
From pleasures of my childhood's home,
This life of mine with rapture throngs,
When thinking of my mother's songs.

They were not made of magic lays;
No perfect melodies were found,
That with the strains of fairy sound
Would charm the stranger's ear to praise;
But I can never hope to meet
Another music half so sweet,
And all my longing love will cling
To songs that mother used to sing.

With gentleness of crooning cries,
She freed the aching limbs from pain,
And lulled the eyes to sleep again
With sweetness of her lullabies.
Love mingled with her tender voice
In tones that made the heart rejoice,
And Heaven's music seemed to ring
In songs that mother used to sing.

Though years have passed, they still impart
Glad warbles to the hours of woe,
And their mute carols fondly throw
The sacred raptures o'er my heart;
Until my locks are thin and gray
Deep in my soul will sound alway,
And full of joy will ever spring
The songs that mother used to sing.

"QUAFF THE GLASS, THE WINE IS RED."

Quaff the glass, the wine is red,
And the rose of youth is glowing,
While the toils of life are fled
And the snows of age are going;
Quaff it with a hearty will,
Quaff it deep and quaff forever;
Wine will every sorrow kill,
And destroy the pleasures never.

When the heart beats sad and low,
Drink its gladness like a river;
When the soul is weak with woe,
Quaff and be a cheerful liver;
Never, never, life, despair,
While a cup of hope is nigh thee;
Bend not under loads of care
While the fount of joy is by thee!

If the fickle friendships end
And thy fortune be a sad one,
Claim, O, claim, as truest friend,
Ruby wine, the sweet and glad one!
If thy love hath proven cold,
Leave her, leave her, for the new one;
Wine is never false for gold;
Friend to friend, a tried and true one!

Let the cynics curse and rave;
This must be a life of pleasure;
Fill a bumper! He's the knave
Who would scorn joy's fullest measure;
Quaff the glass, the wine is red;
Hour by hour the days are going;
Wine is yet the fountain head
From which pleasure's tide is flowing

GOOD-NIGHT.

Good night, my little love, good-night!
May angels keep
With fondest watch thy slumbers, till the light
Shall break thy sleep,
And morning with its wonders bright
Shall banish all thy cares with might.

Within this quickened life of mine,
I bear away
The loving looks and tender words of thine,
Which from this day
Within my soul shall ever shine
And make me better, more divine.

With love and trust and truth, my heart
Beats all for thee;
And though our lives may wander far apart,
Till death's decree
Shall pierce my hopes with deadly dart,
Thou still my star of guidance art.

Good-night, dear one! As gladdest songs,
The sweetest dreams
Fill all my happy soul in joyous throngs,
And tender themes
Bring bliss for which my nature longs,
And slay the curse of ancient wrongs.

Good-night, my little love! In care
Of Heaven rest,
And may thy life no deeper sorrow share
Than love's behest,
Beneath the smiles of raptures rare!
Good-night! God keep thee everywhere!

LIVE LIFE WITH LOVE.

There is no soul of anguish or repining,
That doubts and trembles in the shades of gloom,
But love can lead where softest suns are shining
And fill his days with beauty and its bloom.
Live life with love!

There is no bosom dark with lonely caring,
That sadly sorrows in the nights of woe,
But love can soothe his torture and despairing,
And scatter gladness where his feet may go.
Live life with love!

There is no scene of misery or sorrow
That droops and withers in the dark of night,
But love can bring fond yearnings for the morrow
And heap the heart with hope's unfading light.
Live life with love!

There is in all the world no sinful creature
That gropes and falters on his troubled way,
But love can overcome his erring nature,
And change his darkness to eternal day.
Live life with love!

Sweet love, with bounties that her hands are giving,
Can blossom roses on the desert heath,
Can brighten all the longings of the living
And with found kisses warm the lips of death.
Live life with love!

As love is thine, so shall thy days be sweeter
With all the deeds that shall thy fellows bless;
Thy small achievements nobler and completer
With truth and hope and highest happiness!
Live life with love!

DISCONTENT.

The sun comes up in the east
And the sun goes down in the west,
And man to me is a heartless beast
And the world has only a savage breast.

How thoughts rush over my soul
As the waves walk over the sea!
Their forms flee soon and the sorrows roll
In the deep distress that is over me.

How hopes arise in my heart,
As the roses bloom over the plain!
But time is tearing their sweets apart
And they die in darkness and awful pain.

Ambitions burn in my breast,
As the fires in a city rage;
But damp creeps over their fervid zest
And they sink away into ashen age.

If there was pleasure for pain
I could well be happy awhile,
And, O, my bosom would ne'er complain,
If my fortune gave me a single smile.

But here I am, and the curse is on,
And my life is a waste of woe,
And ere one river of tears is gone,
O, another torrent begins to flow.

Ah, the sun comes up in the east
And the sun goes down in the west.
And man to me is a heartless beast
And the world has only a savage breast!

STANZAS.

Put not trust nor tenderness to sleep,
In sorrow sad;
The heart, in which a little love may creep,
Is not all bad.

The darkest hours that wear a wondrous gloom,
Are somewhat light,
If but one ray of brilliancy illume
The brooding night.

The field in which the weed and bramble thrive
Has some of good,
If but a single blossom struggling live
Amid the rude.

The ocean vast is not all desolate,
The worlds between,
If on its waters bearing human freight
One sail is seen.

All is not harsh and cold amid the wood,
If warbled song
Resound, how feebly, through the solitude
Of tangled wrong.

The desert, barren, bleak, a waste of sand
Does never spread,
If spear of grass in verdure green expand
Above the dead.

Then put not trust nor tenderness to sleep
In sorrow sad;
The heart in which a little love may creep
Is not all bad.

THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

Since Adam's first sin in the garden of song,
Where the hopes of the race were empearled,
Whenever a mortal does anything wrong,
It is only the way of the world!

If statesmen forget all the pledges they made,
And the people to evils are hurled,--
Excuse their misdeeds! 'Tis a trick of the trade,
And is only the way of the world!

If bankers, confusing distinctions of wealth,
Have your gold to their own pockets whirled,
And then gone to Europe for pleasure and health--
It is only the way of the world.

If preachers, forgetting the Master of old
And the banner of light He unfurled,
Elope with the fairest ewe-lambs of the fold,--
It is only the way of the world.

If merchants, unscrupulous, cheat with a will
While their lips are at honesty curled,--
Harsh blame, hie away! And your censure, be still!
It is only the way of the world!

The way of the world! What a happy excuse
For the faults and the follies unfurled!
Bind virtue securely! The vices turn loose!
'Tis the way--'tis the way--of the world!

MY SHADOW AND I.

A something, not of earth or sky,
Beside me walks the ways I go,
And I--I never truly know,
If I am it or it is I.

It soothes me with its tender speech,
It guides me with its gentle hand,
But I--I can not understand
The links that bind us each to each.

I hear the songs of golden days
Fall softly on the saddened years,
But know not whose the hungry ears
First feasted on the roundelays.

I feel the hopes, the yearnings brave,
Within my bosom surge and roll,
But know not whose the Master Soul
That called their glories from the grave.

I see the great world's greater curse,
Dark struggles on through darker days,
But know not whose the eyes that gaze
Through all the sobbing universe.

O, Shadow mine! Beneath my brow
I feel thy thoughts, and in my heart
Thy fondest longings madly start!
Thou art myself and I am thou!

IN THE VALES.

When from these vales I go,
That slumber on in dreams,
O, will the summer winds dance to and fro,
And kiss the streams
That play where roses scatter fond perfume
And lilies burst with bloom?

Glad children of the spring,
They moan their music sweet
Where tangled grasses wave, and softly sing
Where meadows meet,
And wildwood shadows drooping bless
The groves with happiness.

Their soothing songs I hear
Among the granite hills,
Above the elfin warbles rich and clear
From rippling rills,
As if they called my soul in future days
To wander all their ways.

Ah, moaning winds, you seem
To fill my musing breast
With lullabies that linger as I dream
And bring me rest;
For melodies from your low voices creep
That soothe my heart with sleep!

THE WILLOW.

A song for the willow, the wild weeping willow,
That murmurs a dirge to the rapturous days,
And moans when the kiss of the breeze laden billow
Entangles and dangles among the sad sprays!
A musical ditty to scatter the sadness,
A warble of wildness to banish its tears,
Till tremulous measures of bountiful gladness
Be sounding and bounding through all of the years.

The beautiful brooks, as they waken from slumbers,
Pause under the shadows that fall from the boughs,
And weave their caresses in passionate numbers,
While soothing and smoothing the frowns from its brows;
But chained in the desolate sorrows of weeping
Its heart never warms to the raptures of mirth,
And over its bosom no pleasures are creeping
While wending and blending their joys with the earth.

Then sing for the willow, the wild weeping willow,
That droops in the smiles of the summer-born times,
And mourns in the kiss of the sweet-scented billow,
When beaming and gleaming are dripping with chimes!
While melodies move where their happiness lingers,
They surely will gladden the tear-laden sprays,
And music that flutters from fairy-like fingers
Will lighten and brighten the burdensome days.

AT THE MILL.

The water-wheel goes 'round and 'round
With heavy sighs of mournful sound,
While dismal cries and weary moans
Unite with sad and tearful groans,
And weeping waves of water throw
Afar the echoes of their sadness,
And cadences of plaintive woe
Dispel each little note of gladness.

My daily life goes 'round and 'round,
And rest for me is never found;
The sobbing dirges of distress
Are more than songs of happiness;
The shadows of despairing doom
Condemn to-day and curse to-morrow,
And muffled terrors fill the gloom
Which offers anguish to my sorrow.

But hope, O, heart, for future weal!
The waters rest beyond the wheel;
So life may sing when toil is done
And all its battles lost or won.
There lives a sweeter music there,
Of gentle and melodious measure,
Where weeping never comes and where
The ages perish into pleasure.

SHADOW AND SHINE.

They will find in this life who are grieved with its gladness
No songs for the heart and no hopes for the soul,
But will faint in the glooms where the dirges of sadness
In tremulous murmurs of wretchedness roll;
For the sweets of this earth never lavish their kisses
Where lives in the valleys of rapture repine;
In the tortures they mourn who denounce all the blisses,--
They weep in the shadow that rail at the shine.

In the fields that are fair with the blooms of the clover,
No garlands are grown for the arbors of shade
Where the woes of the wood in their darkness hang over
The grasses that wave with the winds of the glade;
From the chimes of the breezes there echo no measures
That gladden the gale with a music divine;
In the troubles they languish who shrink from the pleasures,
They weep in the shadow that rail at the shine.

Ah, the world is abounding with wonderful glories
And wild are the warbles that sweeten its ways
While the songs of the land sing their beautiful stories,
And scatter their melodies over the days!
There are smiles, there are joys, never mingled with sorrow,
O, man, in return for the tears that are thine,
And the soul never sobs that has hopes for the morrow,
Nor weeps in the shadow nor rails at the shine!

THE GROWTH OF SONG.

A tender song in shadows grew,
And humble hearts were homes it knew.

But through its wondrous music stole
The longings of the human soul;

The hopes of hosts unsatisfied
Within its numbers wandered wide;

And strangely wet with toilsome tears
It held the yearnings of the years;

Till millions with their woes oppressed,
Proclaimed the song of peace and rest;

Till nations in their troubled ways
Found comfort in the joyous lays,

And all the halting race of wrong
Exalts the loving might of song!

Ah, song that soothes our many cries
With fondness of thy lullabies,

We love, we bless, we scepter thee
Proud empress of the hearts that be!

SPRING AND MUSIC.

Spring, among her sylvan shades,
And the gladness of her glades,
Once in dreamy hours was straying,
Where sweet Music with her throngs
Of glad melodies and songs
In the happy vales was playing.

Pan beheld the fairy maids
As they gamboled in the shades,
And he swore they should not sever.
But that o'er the blooming land,
Heart to heart and hand in hand,
They should wander on forever.

Thus when come the gentle days
O'er the wildwood's tangled ways,
There is found no gloomy weather;
For among the leafy bowers
And the valleys bright with flowers
Spring and Music walk together!

COMPENSATION.

The softest beams of the stars are born in the farthest skies,
And fairest rays of the sun where evening shadows rise;
The sweetest songs of the bird are sung in the darkest days,
And rarest blooms of the spring are found in the wildest ways.

The brightest blush of the rose is blown as the petals fade.
The greenest grass of the earth is grown in the hidden glade;
The fondest rhyme of the rill is heard in the secret vale,
And lightest lays of the breeze are borne from the dying gale.

The highest hopes of the heart in saddest of sorrows grow,
The purest pleasures of joy arise in the wane of woe;
The gladdest smiles of the lips are seen in the hours of pain,
And proudest days of the free are spent by the broken chain.

The grandest deeds of the race are writ on the faded scroll,
The truest rivers of good from villainous fountains roll;
The perfect raptures of life are reared in the arms of care,
And Hope with her joys dispels the darkness of our despair.

MY MOLLIE, O!

'Twas in the summer's sweet perfume,
When roses bloomed and holly, O,
That in the brightness of her bloom,
I first did meet my Mollie, O.

Although she said for lives to love
Was nothing but pure folly, O,
My heart was lit with light above,
And I true loved my Mollie, O.

O, swift and fast the days did flee
And seemed most bright and jolly, O,
For evermore was near to me
My fair and lovely Mollie, O.

Now I doth sit through all the day
And nurse my melancholy, O,
For from me she has turned away,
O, false and fickle Mollie, O!

SING NOT OF BEAUTY.

Sing not of beauty's grace to me;
Its very name a story tells
Of doubly dark inconstancy,
Love falser than a hundred hells.

Its face is often but a screen
To hide a devil's heart of guile,
Of thoughts and deeds of shameful mien,
By winning looks of heartless wile.

Its laughing smile is but the gleam
That springs from dross of foulest make;
It stirs a sweet but idle dream,
Then leaves the trusting heart to break.

Sing not of beauty's grace to me;
I can not bear to hear the name;
For, oh! Too oft in it I see
A soul of falsehood and of shame!

AT EVENTIDE.

At eventide, when glories lie
In crimson curtains hung on high,
And all the breast of heaven glows
With mingled wreaths of flowers and snows,
The dearest dreams of life draw nigh.

The pleasures in their soft robes fly
With angel wings adown the sky,
And rapture lulls to sweet repose,
At eventide.

Ah, well-a-day! Life's weary cry,
And all its curse and care shall die,
When Age on downy couches throws
His weary limbs and only knows
The tender dreams of bye-and-bye,
At eventide!

WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES.

When Christmas comes, what pleasures spring
From drooping hearts on happy wing,
Like joyous birds that soaring rise
From hidden coverts to the skies.
And echo in the chimes that ring!

Glad millions in wild rapture sing
Hosannaed hopes of welcoming,
While praises blend in harmonies,
When Christmas comes.

Ah, happy hours! Around them cling
The dearest joys that life may bring,
And all the world's despairing cries
Are soothed to sleep with lullabies
That banish every bitter thing,
When Christmas comes!

WHEN THOU ART NEAR.

When thou art near, with gladdest grace
My heart is held in fond embrace,
For laughing lips with raptures bless
The toils and tears of my distress,
And woes within me have no place.

The halting hours with hurried pace
Whirl wildly on through happy space,
And life is light with happiness,
When thou art near.

Like mortals whom an angel race
Renews with gladness face to face,
I thrill with Love's unseen caress
That holy hands upon me press,
And Heaven's pleasures all I trace,
When thou art near.

HE SLEEPS AT LAST.

He sleeps at last! The vales of rest
Are waiting for the war-worn breast,
And glorious angels fondly spread
The sweetest roses for his bed.
While countless millions call him blest.

Fame welcomes him with glad behest,
While garlands on his brow are pressed,
And laurels cluster o'er his head;
He sleeps at last.

O, deep the sorrows here confessed,
Where Freedom makes eternal quest!
The wondrous chief that proudly led
The long, blue lines that fought and bled,
In peace is now no more distressed;
He sleeps at last!

WHEN FORTUNES FROWN.

When fortunes frown, the woes, bedight
With brooding shadows, bring the night,
While dismal sorrows darkness dole,
And disappointments rise and roll
Above the longings for the light.

Despair, with hands that curse and blight,
Sows weakness in the hearts of might
Until they falter near the goal,
When fortunes frown.

But onward still! The valleys white
With Heaven's blossoms are in sight;
The Holy Mountains, knoll on knoll,
Are waiting for the Master Soul,
And he shall conquer for the right,
When fortunes frown!

WHEN WE SHALL MEET.

When we shall meet, I strangely know
The mad emotions that shall flow
Across my heart all quivering,
Beneath the raptures he shall bring
From angel years that gladdened so.

And I all shy and silent grow
Beneath his glance of gladness, though
Wild yearnings through my bosom spring,
When we shall meet.

Till joyful tears of passion show,
And to his kind embrace I throw
My heart unworthy, and I cling
With deathless fondness to the king
I worshipped in the Long Ago,
When we shall meet!

SWEET EYES OF BLUE.

Sweet eyes of blue! The stars by night,
That swoon the world with laughing light,
And touch the hills with tender glow
While all the vales are kissed below,
Beside you would no more be bright.

My worlds ye are, and while I throw
My heart to catch the beams that flow
From your fair shrine, my woes take flight,
Sweet eyes of blue!

Glad orbs of beauty! In your sight
My soul mounts up with secret might,
Till Eden's lovely bowers I know;
And as through Heaven's gates I go,
The pleasures all my sorrow smite,
Sweet eyes of blue!

HAD WE NOT MET.

Had we not met, the brooding woe
And all the griefs that greater grow,
Might not have been, and happy-wise
Our lives have laughed with lullabies
And quaffed such joys as few may know.

Our days beneath embittered skies
Where anguish moans and sorrow cries,
Might not have wept and wandered so,
Had we not met!

But ah, my darling! All we prize,--
Love and sweet trust that never dies,
Wild yearnings that with constant flow
From kindred heart to bosom go,--
Would never in our souls had rise,
Had we not met!

A SONNET.

We gentler grow by sorrow; not the breast
That never crouches in the nights of tears,
That never bends beneath the loads of years,
Has sympathies that are the kindliest.
There is a strength in agony that best
Can link the careless heart with human fears,
And teach it that fond kindness which endears
The millions that with sadness are oppressed.

Grief softens while it saddens; pleasure smites
The timid soul with harshness, till it knows
Small earnest of the great world's grievous woes
And little of its struggles; sorrow plights
Her troth with sorrow, and in tears unites
Man unto man and hatred overthrows.

OKLAHOMA,--A SONNET.

Here, through the ages old, the desert slept
In solitudes unbroken, save when passed
The bison herds, and savage hunters swept
In thund'ring chaos down the valleys vast;
But, lo! Across the barren margins stepped
Advancement with her legions, and one blast
From her imperial trumpet filled the last
Lone covert where affrighted wildness crept.

Full armed, full armored, at her wondrous birth,
Her shining temples wreathed with gorgeous dower,
She sits among the empires of the earth;
Her proud achievements o'er the nations tower,
Won by her people with their royal worth,
With lofty culture, wisdom, wealth and power.

ESTRANGED.

Though far apart, my darling, side by side
We wander still and our fond yearnings meet,
As when our hearts with highest raptures beat
Before our footsteps trod the paths of pride;
Our close companionship hath never died;
True love and trust are always fair and sweet,
And time from life's best hopes can never hide
A kindred soul that made its own complete!
So thou, dear one, shall come once more to me,
The sweeter grown for all thy years of pain;
My longing arms shall open wide for thee,
And thou shalt nestle on my breast again;
Then perfect love shall richly crown the years,
And both be better for our griefs and tears.

RECONCILED.

We meet again beyond the barren past,
Beyond the pride, the sorrows and the tears;
And yearnings leave the strife and hate of years
To flood our souls with perfect peace at last!
Our hearts forget the wrong so deep and vast,
The wounding words and all the cruel woe,
Till joy is all our bounding bosoms know,
And life is glad with happiness at last.

Love, deathless and forgiving, crowns with bays
The future and our hopes, as full of grace,
As youth had fondly dreamed in other days,
When first we knew how sweet was her embrace.
God's endless purpose guides the feet of men;
Beyond our pride we meet in love again!

THE DYING HERO.

His greatness hath not left him; till the years
Have won the nation from her children dead,
And robbed her of remembrance where she rears
Her monuments above the blood they shed,
Will his name want for homage; with sad fears
The Union winds her garlands o'er his head,
And fondly wreathes her love, bedewed with tears,
To bless the hero on his dying bed.

His luster lives untarnished; as he lies
Where Malady has bound him in wild pain,
And only Death can loose the heavy chain
That galls her captive while his nature dies,
He seems far greater in his country's eyes,
Than if an Appomattox spake again.

SONNET.

Somehow, someway, I can not see the light;
The giant hills of doubting reach the skies,
Abiding shadows bring eternal night,
And on my ways no suns of morning rise;
Dark mysteries across the years of might
Crush down my hopes, until each yearning dies,
Until my soul is weary, dim my sight,
And ghostly echoes mock my fainting cries.

Ah, I shall know beyond these narrow years,
The glorious mornings of eternal day,
Where perfect love and tender trust shall play,
And smiles and laughter banish all the tears,
And all the heavy mists of doubts and fears
Shall leave my longing soul somehow, someway!

GREATNESS LIVES APART.

Great natures live apart; the mountain gray
May call no comrade to his lonely side;
The giant ocean, wrapped in storm and spray,
Has no companion for her endless tide;
The forest monarch, where his parents died,
Can find no brother in his lofty sway,
And mighty rivers chafe their margins wide
Where infant rills and childish fountains play.

So heroes live; no raptured blossoms start
Where rugged heights of human glory end;
No tender songs of loving beauty blend
Their chorus in the great man's peerless heart;
Fate fills their souls with magnitude, and art
Supplies their lives with no congenial friend.

POEMS.

Poems are holy things. Eternal Truth,
Borrowing the robes of song and lovely grown,
In them her glory unto man proclaims
And fills his longing soul. They softly speak
Of Nature's beauty and the secrets old
Concealed behind the shadows of the hills,
And love on angel fingers borne to men,
Naming them over in so sweet a voice
That music leads their footsteps in the ways
Where God has walked; and with a lofty Harp,
As wondrous as the gentle harps of heaven,
Uplifts, ennobles, soothes and leads the race
Unto its last great ultimate of power,
To words of tenderness and goodly deeds.

SINGER AND SONG.

A singer sang in sorrow long
And breathed his life into his song.

Unknown, unheard, the song went wide,
Until the singer, starving, died.

Now in their hearts the nations write
And wear the singer's song of might.

Ah, singers fail and fall from view,
But songs are always, always new!

If garlands none to singers cling,
Bays wreathe above the songs they sing.

TO ONE WHO PLEDGED HER FRIENDSHIP.

Within this false world we may count ourselves blest,
If we have but one friend who is faithful and true;
And so in your friendship contented I'll rest,
And believe I have found that one blessing in you.

THE BANKS O' TURKEY RUN.

Like a thousan' birds o' brightness from the isles o' summer seas,
Rickollections, full o' gladness, come with songs and lullabies,
An' I listen to the carols that with gentle voices roll,
Full o' tenderness an' beauty, down upon my weary soul,
Fer thar's one thet keeps a-singin' with a song thet's never done,
An' I see the bendin' willers on the banks o' Turkey Run.

An' agin' I be a youngster with a youngster's foolin' dreams,
With his high-falutin' notions an' his fiddle-faddle schemes;
With the laughin' an' the cryin', with the sorrow an' the joy,
Thet is jumbled up together in the bosom o' the boy;
An' agin my arly fancies in a fairy loom are spun
Underneath the dancin' shadders on the banks o' Turkey Run.

An' agin I be a school-boy with the other merry lads,
When Joe an' Jerry, Bill an' I, wus only little tads,
When a half a dozen marvels an' a kivered ball was worth--
With a knife o' Barlow pattern--all the treasures o' the earth;
An' the soundin' sort o' thunder from a poppin' kind o' gun
Set our faces all a-giggle on the banks o' Turkey Run.

It 'ud tickle any feller but ter see the solemn look,
When the master was a-watchin', thet we fastened on the book,
But the mischief stickin' in us, like pertaters in a sack,
It wus never hard ter empty when the teacher turned his back;
O, the paper wads we tumbled thet 'ud weigh about a ton,
In thet crazy-cornered school-house on the banks o' Turkey Run!

How we used ter chase the robins an' the rabbits in the wood,
How we gethered bloomin' posies in the sighin' solitude!
How we wundered all the medders in our roamin's o'er an' o'er,
How we teetered in the branches o' the beech an' sycamore!
Or we watched the rompin' minners as they rasseled in their fun,
While we nearly bust a-laughin', on the banks o' Turkey Run!

How we used ter go a-fishin' when the day wus gittin' late,
With a little line o' cotton an' a fish-worm fer a bait!
With a bent pin for a fish-hook an' a hazel fer a pole,
How we sought the softest places by the widest, deepest hole!
How we teehee-eed at the nibbles, caught the fishes one by one,
With the biggest kind o' prowess, on the banks o' Turkey Run!

When the sun was burnin' shavin's in the heatin' stove o' June,
An' the clock upon the mantle wus a-knockin' off the noon
When the beams in bunches blistered as they never did afore,
An' the sweat was drippin', droppin', from the mouth o' every pore,
How we skipped across the medder, how our swimmin' wus begun,
In the cool an' crystal waters 'tween the banks o' Turkey Run!

O, the smilin' days o' childhood! O, the loudly laughin' years!
When contentment brings the moments neither heaviness ner tears!
When the pleasures jine the longin's an' the fairy fingers roll
All the heaps o' angel music in upon the blazin' soul!
O, my Joe an' Bill an' Jerry! Trustin' comrades, you wus won
Whar my bare feet brushed the grasses on the banks o' Turkey Run!

But, alas! Thar wus another; she was fairer than the rest,
An' she allus had a hearin' fer the wishes o' my breast;
Allus wus a chunk o' sunshine an' a piece o' quiet glee,
Allus had a smile o' welcome an' a tender word fer me;
An' without her wus no shinin' an' o' happiness wus none
Ter bring gladness ter my bosom on the banks o' Turkey Run.

O, her home wus in a cottage whar the mornin'-glories hung,
An' the arly birds o' April with their sweetest music sung;
Thar wus roses 'round her winder, thar wus roses 'round her door,
Thet wus stickin' full o' blushes, but they allus blushed the more,
When her eyes wus seen a-peepin' an' her cheeks beamed like the sun,
From thet cosy little cottage on the banks o' Turkey Run!

Many an' many a time we wandered in the grassy medder-land
With our wishes right together an' our longin's hand in hand;
How we dreamed about the future when the world should give me fame,
An' when she would be thrice noble to be worthy o' my name!
Thus we talked an' thus we fancied; others might my boyhood shun,
But I found her kind, my sweetheart, on the banks o' Turkey Run.

But the times have been a-changin' sence them arly years o' joy,
When she wus but a little girl an' I a little boy;
When Joe an' Jerry, Bill an' I, together wus at play,
With our hearts as light as feathers, every minute of the day,
An' at twilight sunk ter slumber tell the mornin' wus begun,
In the gloomy silent forests on the banks o' Turkey Run.

Bill an' Joe have gone a-rovin' on a fortune-huntin' quest
Through the silver mines an' Injuns in the mountains o' the west;
But the janders came ter Jerry with a solemn sort o' call
Tell they painted him as yaller as a punkin in the fall;
An' to-day I saw his tombstone as it glittered in the sun,
Over in the little churchyard, on the banks o' Turkey Run!

An' alas, my precious sweetheart! Like a lily virgin white,
Did she slowly fade an' wither tell her spirit took its flight!
Like an angel into heaven did she sweetly, calmly creep,
An' her lovely life wus over an' her bosom went ter sleep;
An' the tollin', tollin' church-bells dropt the dirges one by one,
As we laid her 'neath the wilier on the banks o' Turkey Run.

Thar a little cross o' marble marks the sacred, silent shade,
Whar the fair an' laughin' beauty o' my ole sweetheart wus laid;
An' the summer has a sadness thet is cryin' through the years,
An' my heart is full o' sorrow, an' mine eyes is full o' tears,
Fer I've allus had a failin', sence her friendship first I won,
Fer thet little lovin' maiden on the banks o' Turkey Run!

But them days have past forever in the years o' long ago,
An' a wishin' ter be wealthy has enraptured Bill an' Joe;
Death has taken Jerry; only I, o' all the boys,
Am' remainin' ter remember all them arly angel joys;
But to-night I see their faces as they peep in full o' fun,
An' agin we're boys together, on the banks o' Turkey Run!

_ENVOY_.

_Oh, to be able to capture and bring_
_And bind in the bonds of control,_
_Some of the carols that warble and sing_
_Down in the depths of my soul._

End of Project Gutenberg's Oklahoma and Other Poems, by Freeman E. Miller