Chapter II: Part 2

There's an ogre abroad, boys,
There's an ogre abroad,
A three-handed monster
That makes his abode
In hamlet and city,
In country and town,
And revels in death
As he drags people down.
He's a sly old destroyer,
Very loth to admit
That the snares he is using
Are fraud and deceit.
He has slain and devoured
More than the sword;
By all earnest people
He is greatly abhorred,
For he leads to disease,
To sorrow and death,
As poison exhales
From his presence and breath.
He fastens himself
On bright, innocent youth,
And slyly allures him
From virtue and truth.
He holds by the throat
The servants who wait
To hear his excuses;
And sad is their fate,
For insidious smile
Is his only excuse
To victims who suffer
Defeat and abuse.
So sly are his movements,
So stealthy his tread,
Like a vampire, on blood
He is frequently fed,
While his victim, unconscious,
Makes no defence;
He steals mind and honor
And good common sense.
If you meet him, my boy,
Beware of his grasp,
For his smiles are so sweet;
But on you he will clasp
The shackles he carries
Forever concealed,
And when he secures you
He seldom will yield.
He will keep you away
From duty and right,
Destroy all your honor,
Your hopes sadly blight,
With promises made
Which he cannot fulfill
He robs of contentment
And shackles the will.
This monster has always
A right hand and left hand
That have powers of their own
That ought to command.
If he had only these
And used them aright,
His presence would ever
Afford us delight;
But the third hand he has
Is a very unkind hand,
For this ogre's real name
Is Little Behind Hand.
Little Behind Hand
Is tyrant indeed,
From which we would have
Mankind ever freed.
Little Behind Hand
Can seldom find work,
For he stumbles in blindness
And gropes in the dark,
He is sullen and mean,
Near-sighted and sour,
Ruin and trouble
'Bout him constantly lower.
Drive him off! Drive him off!
Ere he fasten on you
His fangs of destruction,
The pestilent dew
That he breathes on his victim
To deaden the sense
Of his presence and power,
And their sad consequence.
Strike him down! Strike him down!
With strong, sturdy blow,
If you yield to him now
He will soon lay you low,
And when hand and foot
Are at his command,
You will feel he has grown
To a Big Behind Hand.

* * * * *

The public tide is polluted
With offal, fraud, and deceit;
In ev'ry line of industry
Its venomous forms we meet
In men who sneer at truth and right,
Who, Honor's path have decried,
That they might gain the golden calf
Whose power they have deified.

MY CHOICE.

I would rather dwell a hermit
In some silent peaceful wood,
Where no voice of human being
Ever breaks the solitude;
Where babbling brook, and minstrelsy
Of winged friends are heard
To join the sylvan choruses
Of leaves when gently stirred,
Than live in costly splendor
With a heartless, greedy throng,
Whose only thought is sordid pelf
Obtained by fraud and wrong.

I would far prefer a cavern
On some rocky sea-girt isle,
Where the constant intonations
Of the waves as they recoil
With their soughing and deep moaning
For a momentary rest,
Tell of liquid matter only
That bespeaks itself distressed,
Than to live where human bodies
Bend and writhe for freedom's air,
Till the heart breaks in deep sorrow,
And the soul sinks in despair.

I would choose a lone oasis
With one tree, one flower, one spring,
One bird of sprightly plumage
With throat attuned to sing;
One whisper of approval
From a voiceless power within;
One perfect intuition
Of freedom from all sin,
Than dwell 'mid throngs and plenty
And grovel in the filth
That oft adheres to those who claim
The boundless stores of wealth.

Some quiet nook in a valley
With a canopy of leaves,
Such as a forest Titan
In fantastic beauty weaves;
Or some vine-embowered tangle
O'ershadowing murmuring stream
Where scarce a ray of sunlight
May on its waters gleam,
Is a dwelling-place more restful
To a man by right controlled
Than the courts of kings and princes
Ablaze with filched gold.

I would not shun the haunts of men
Or bustle of the world,
Nor would I see progression's flag
Lie dormant or unfurled;
If man for manhood would aspire,
And less for gold and power,
If noble thoughts and noble deeds
Employ each passing hour,
Then should the bustle be supreme,
For manhood thus would rise
Above the baser things of earth
To honors in the skies.

I am not a misanthropist,
Nor hater of just wealth,
I love the presence of mankind,
I love good-natured health,
I love a true and noble soul
In woman or in man,
I love a being who would not
Invert God's primal plan
And keep in bondage soul and mind,
Through base and false desire
To trample fellow beings down,
That he may rise still higher.

I know that hate deep in my soul
Burns with an intense flame
Toward him who scourges the oppressed,
And unjust power doth claim,
That he may gain some subtle coign
By which to overthrow
The balance Justice ever holds
Alike for friend or foe;
For such can never bless mankind
By thought or word or deed;
They laugh in glee whene'er they see
Their victim writhe and bleed.

When all we teach in man is mind,
And heart has no domain,
Then fraud, deceit, and treachery
Will form a tyrant train,
For beacon light can never come
Through those who legislate
Unless good seed has been well sown
By those who educate;
But lift the soul by Sinai's laws
And by the Golden Rule,
Then legislation will have power
Through truths taught in the school.

* * * * *

The world is wanting honest men
Who know and dare to do aright,
Whose honor brightens in the ken
Of Justice's ever-searching light.

THE REQUIREMENTS OF THE HOUR.

It is hard to tell at the dawn of day
What the sunset shades may bring,
The plans we make may be astray,
And our treasured hopes take wing.

We know not what strange environment
May dwarf our most cherished plan,
Or what obstructions may be sent
To defeat our ends and aim.

Though we scorn the thought that fickle Fate
Has Destiny in her hand,
We all pay tribute at her gate
And bow low at her command.

In spite of all the powers we boast
Of independent action,
An intervening hand may cost
Our progress great detraction.

Few, few there be who lack the power
To shape their own destiny,
If each will improve th' passing hour
To its full capacity.

A BOY.

A boy is a wonderfully curious thing,
Of all creation he deems himself King,
Yet give him for pastime a top and a string
And he is instantly spinning;
When fishes are ripe he tries them with hook,
He thinks more of them than of a new book,
And steals enough time to after them look,
Not conscious that he is sinning.

The great possibilities within his scope
Prompts to exertion, inspires him with hope,
Till with the world he is ready to cope
For the greatest laurels of honor;
Glory and fame are attractive stars
He may seek in strife, under bloody Mars,
Till Wisdom revolts at the ugly scars
Ambition has placed upon her.

Oh, active, mercurial, wonderful boy,
The world is a top and you spin it with joy,
Regardless of all the wiles you employ
To gain the pleasure of seeing;
No tree is so tall, but you reach its top limb,
No water so deep, but in it you swim,
No ice is so smooth, but o'er it you skim
Like a phantom, a wonderful being.

ARBOR DAY POEMS.

THE TREE OF STATE.

[The Maple was chosen by vote of the children in the schools of N. Y. State as the State Tree, and the Rose as the State Flower. Nature's Tribute, The Rose, and The Golden Rod were written at the request of the State Department of Public Instruction of N. Y. and sent to the schools of the State for Arbor Day use. Nature's Tribute was set to music.]

Tree of our state and emblem of neatness,
Beauty and grace abide in thy form;
Not in thy blood alone courses a sweetness,
Thy ev'ry unfolding is suavity born.

Down in the vale where cowslips are growing,
Where violets breathe thro' sweet scented lips,
Where brook o'er the bright pebbly bottom is flowing,
And bee of the nectar of columbine sips.

A monarch it stands of regnative power,
In a graceful symmetrical pose;
Whose arms weave a fairy, majestical bower
Where wood-nymphs their beauty disclose.

Its beautiful leaf of silvery sheen,
And the grandeur it gives to the grove,
Proclaim to th' world it of forest is queen,
And most worthy our heart's purest love.

Honor we maple as type of all neatness,
Yielding protection, beauty, and grace;
None of its rivals boast of such sweetness,
None can in typical form fill its place.

May th' state be as pure in motive and plan,
As the maple from evil is free.
May every son of the state, as a man
Take his type from the pure maple tree.

Then hale be the state, and hail to the tree!
And each halo of glory shall last
Till from all tumult our state will be free,
And no stain on her honor be cast.

This tree be our care, our state's honored prize.
May virtue and glory assemble,
And bid every man in dignity rise
Till the tree of our state he resemble.

ARBOR DAY TRIBUTE.

With lavish hand our God hath spread
Beauty and fragrance o'er the land;
His smile revives the seeming dead;
Nature awakes at His command.

He breathes upon the leafless tree;
He whispers to the tiny flower.
His touch awakes the slumbering bee,
And each obeys th' Almighty power.

The perfumed breeze of smiling May,
The dancing stream on mountain side,
The wild bird's trill of joyous lay
Proclaim Thy goodness far and wide.

Attune our hearts to sing Thy praise,
Expand our souls to comprehend
Thy attributes and all Thy ways,
And ever be our Guide and Friend.

We plant to-day within the mould,
The stock that needs Thy tender care;
Send deep its roots, its buds unfold
In answer to our faith and prayer.

THE ROSE.

When dewy morn of balmy June
Awakes and blushes in the East,
When song birds pipe their sweetest tune
And Nature spreads her grandest feast,
Among the rare and fragrant plants
Whose petals most of heaven disclose,
In foremost rank--far in advance--
There stands the sprightly, smiling rose.

Its home is on the wide, wide plains,
In valleys where wild torrents foam,
In solitudes where silence reigns,
And by the cotter's humble home.
It cheers alike the rich and poor
On Alpine heights, or by the sea,
By castle wall or peasant's door--
It justly claims ubiquity.

Could blushing beauty born of heaven,
Or world-wide worship win the prize,
Could fragrance, fancy, fame, or even
The rich rays of reflected skies
Soothe sorrows sharp and scorching sting
And give the world complete repose,
Then men should shout and children sing--
"The flower of State must be the Rose!"

THE GOLDENROD.

When August sunset's yellow blaze
Streams out o'er meadow, field and lawn,
It seeks some shrine wherein its rays
May linger till returning dawn,
And touching gently with its sheen
That graceful plumage of the sod,
Its constellated gems of green
Are changed to glorious _Goldenrod_.

Its home is in the sterile soil
Deserted by the rustic swain
Because it yields not for his toil
The recompense he would obtain.
By wall and ledge, and rock, and mound,
Where'er neglect and ruin reign
In greatest beauty there 'tis found,
To cheer and clothe the earth again.

Down in the soul there dwells a thought
That finds expression not in word,
That counts display and promise naught
Unless a voice divine is heard,
That speaks to cheer the desolate,
That yields a balm distilled from God;
Whose type should be the flower of State--
The sun-lit, heaven-born _Goldenrod_.

BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES.

Buttercups and daisies,--
Bright children of the lawn--
To the fields are nodding
In the winds of June.
Such beauty of the meadows
Gives a charm so sweet, so strong,
The robin's spirit bursts aloud
In animated song.

Buttercups and daisies
Bloom adown the narrow lane,
Beside the brook in pasture,
And over the wide plain;
Tangles in the meadow
Where ten million flowers bloom,
Draw bee and bird and squirrel,
With their beauty and perfume.

Buttercups and daisies
Aglow in morning light,
And pendant dew-drops sparkling--
Bright diamonds of night--
Send a matin greeting
To the rising god of day,
As he warms them gently
With his golden ray.

Buttercups and daisies
Are jewels to be worn
By all sons and daughters
Of Nature, truly born;
They speak a perfect language,
They lead to the divine,
They cheer the weak and weary
They strengthen and refine.

Buttercups and daisies
May softly o'er me bloom,
When I am sweetly sleeping
Within my restful tomb,
And when by mortal beings
I may forgotten be,
The buttercups and daisies
Shall be dear friends to me.

* * * * *

Modest, meek anemone,
Loved wind-flower of the spring,
You fill our hearts with gladness,
For with your smile you bring
The vitalizing sunshine,
The fruitful April shower,
The pipe of feathered songster,
And bud of sylvan bower.

THE FRINGED GENTIAN.

I remember well, in my boyhood's romp,
The beautiful flower that grew near the swamp,
With its spiral screw
Of cerulean hue,
While on the marge of its petals grew
A fringe, such as art never weaves.

I plucked it with zeal, for my heart was aglow,
Its color and form, my mother to show,
And gladden her eyes
With the exquisite prize
I had found when autumnal zephyr sighs
'Mong the faded flowers and leaves.

Fair emblem of maiden adorned as a bride,
The tintings of heaven within you abide;
You smilingly stand
In bridal robe grand,
For a lover who offers an ardent hand,
And a heart that never deceives.

When others have left us, we cherish the one
Who remains firm and faithful till vict'ry's won;
Though cold be the storm,
The heart is e'er warm
For the tried and true, who weave such a charm
Round the heart of him who receives.

THE DANDELION.

Meadows are dotted, far and wide,
With velvet stars that bring
A golden off'ring of delight,--
Flower-goslings of the spring.

Then gray-haired pappus, downy, soft,
Follows with pistils loose,
And the gosling of the early spring
Becomes a white-fledged goose.

Its feathers float on ev'ry breeze
That fans the verdant mead,
And children count the hours of day
By breaths that waft the seed.

Soft, silent Time that comes apace
O'er human flowers that bloom,
You quickly change youth to old age,
And lead life toward the tomb.

Bright turf-born gosling of the field,
Teach us to smile, and give
A perfume from a fragrant soul,
That on and on shall live.

THE FLOWERS I LOVE.

I sometimes think I love the rose
More than all other flowers,
Because its fragrance falls on me
In copious, dainty showers;
And blushing in its modesty,
I press it to my heart,
As the idol of my dalliance
That should no more depart.

But when I see the lily fair--
The meadow's beauteous queen--
Surrounded by her myriad friends
All dressed in Nature's green,
My heart goes out in ecstasy,
And naught on earth to me
Seems fairer type of loveliness,
Than this daughter of th' lea.

When bright snow-flake-petaled daisy,
Whose heart of yellow gold,
Is richer vein of pure delight
Than miner-kings may hold,
Sends out her invitation warm,
To search in her domain
For berries like a bleeding heart,
I cannot well decline.

And then the graceful goldenrod
With flaunting, sun-lit plume,
Whose lateness lends a special joy
And sweetness to its bloom,
Invites me with its wind-blown nod,
To be its devotee,
With honesty I must confess
It has a charm for me.

There's a heaven-born flower--the aster,
That drinks nocturnal dews
From late autumn's chilly fountains,
And steals the sunset hues;
It smiles from wayside tangles
And coyly casts its eyes,
Yet holds me by its modesty
A voluntary prize.

I know not which I love the most,--
I know I love them all,--
For God hath given each its grace,
And each its special call;
Each has a mission to perform,
A purpose and an end,
And sweet is the companionship
Of each bright flower-friend.

TRAILING ARBUTUS.

Under the brown leaves meekly abiding,
The gem of the spring-flowers nestles away,
In copse near th' wood, where covertly hiding,
It catches the glow of Aurora's first ray.

Where moss and leaf are strewn in profusion--
A bed whereon gods might gladly repose--
Apart from the world, in rural seclusion
The pride of the moorland--arbutus grows.

In mossy fields, 'mong refuse of bushes,
With rose-tinted lips, like herald of morn,
With but a leaf to conceal secret blushes,
Earth's first vernal offspring is sweetly born.

Modest, retiring, and beautiful sprite,
Emblem of graces a maiden should wear,
Great is the pleasure, supreme the delight
Of searching for joys such coyness doth bear.

Child of the woodland in beauty abiding,
Whose breath scents the air of early spring morns,
Fairies of magical powers are residing
In nooks and valleys your presence adorns.

Oft in the springtime I wander away
To dwell for a time in your blest retreat,
Counting such pleasure far sweeter to me
Than bustle of city or throng of the street.

THE MORNING GLORY.

[On being requested to give some Morning Glory seeds.]

The sunshine seems much brighter,
And the heart is ever lighter,
When the rays of sweet Aurora
Gild the radiant morning glory
With a splendor, such as heaven
To few favorites has given
Among the beautiful rare flowers.
So plant these seeds with care,
In a place well-chosen, where
The first rays of the morning
May kiss their bright adorning,
And teach your heart to see
The beauties there may be
In the early morning hours.

RYE.

When pollen-dust from fields of rye
Floats out on the dews of even,
And stars of June bedeck the sky
Of mild and cloudless heaven,
'Tis ecstasy to linger near
The odor-laden quivers,
Whose lance-like arrows then appear
To be our pleasure-givers.

When Luna bright is wreathed in smiles,
And breathes upon the flowers,
A billowy greenness oft beguiles
Our minds by magic powers;
For like the waves of ocean grand
When tempest winds are high,
With speed sweep by the waves on land,
In the fields of liquid rye.

Fragrant fields of beautiful June,
Whose billowy, graceful green
Is a mem'ry-gem that fades too soon
From childhood's romantic scene,
Sweet were my hours of ecstasy
When by your side I was nigh;
Joys I covet, long lost to me
That came from sweet fields of rye.

COMMUNION WITH NATURE.

'Tis sweet to hold communion
With Nature true and wild,
And feel the thrill of gladness
She breathes upon her child,
When close upon her bosom
We press the listening ear,
And fancy that the minstrelsy
Our raptured senses hear,
Is sweeter than the chorus
By angel choirs sung,
Or richer than vibrations
Of chords so deftly strung,
That all their intonations
Seem blended in one strain,
By touch of fairy fingers
Which enchant the sweet refrain.

The beauties of the sunset
Upon the evening sky,
When flecked with fleeting vapors,
Detached and awry,
Give colors that no artist
Save God alone can show
To eyes that seek such blendings,
And hearts that long to know
The hidden things in Nature
Which ne'er can be revealed
To those who find not heaven
In mountain, sky, and field;
For they who live the nearest
To Nature's self shall find
Joy boundless as the ocean,
As pure and unconfined.

Deep in the leafy forest
A thousand tones are heard,--
The laughing, dancing brooklet,
The song of bright-winged bird,
The buzz of bee on flower,
The leaf by breezes fanned,
The hum of tiny insect
Whose feeble notes command
The modulated heart-beat
To know the great decree,
That frees the mind from slavery
And sets the spirit free,
Through knowledge of those hidden things
Which God only reveals
To him who loves all nature,
And for a brother feels.

The dearest and the sweetest
Of all the charms on earth,
Are those that link our natures
To feelings that have birth
When leaf and flower and fruitage
Steal our being for an hour,
And we are half unconscious
Of some mysterious power,
That leads us close to heaven,
And points to joys supreme,
Where fields and flowers and happiness
Are not an idle dream,
But a true and soothing heritage
Whose limit has no end,
Where ev'ry rock and tree and shrub
Shall prove a trusted friend.

If heaven is not shadowed
Upon our spirit mind,
Through all its gorgeous tintings
And colorings combined;
If Nature has no language
To charm the ear and eye,
And brooks and birds and forests
Afford no minstrelsy;
If waving grain and orchards,
Freighted with fragrance rare,
Draw not the spirit heavenward
And lift the soul in prayer;
Then orisons are soulless
Though voiced on bended knee,
And small must be our knowledge
Of the Great Deity.

MOUNTAIN BROOK.

Beneath the shade deep in a dell,
Where fairy spirits ever dwell,--
Away from haunts of men,
A living thing of godlike birth,
By Nature's law springs from the earth
To gladden vale and glen.

Ten thousand fairies clad in green
Enliven the sequestered scene,
With noiseless dance and mirth,
And minstrelsy of heaven conspires
With liquid laughs and wind-played lyres
To charm the scenes of earth.

The rocks and trees bedecked with moss,
The million leaves with shimmering gloss
Drink from the dancing spray,
Which rising from the dashing foam,
Seeks its bright aerial home
And greets the orb of day.

No discord here my spirit jars,
No artful smile my comfort mars,
For Nature's self is true;
Here beauty, grace, and peace conspire
To make my inmost soul desire
Some heart with kindred view.

Who dwells in such companionship,
Builds fountains whence the soul may sip
Heaven's sweetest gift to man,
Sees beauty reign as God designed,
Has purer love for all mankind,
And lives near Nature's plan.

Loved mountain brook, so pure, so true,
I'd rather spend an hour with you,
And harmonize my soul
With the sweet melodies you sing,
With all the joy your concerts bring,
That sit where flowing bowl

And jocund laugh of merry crowd
In accents wild, profane, and loud,
Break on the midnight air;
For you bring peace and joy and rest,
Refreshment for a mind distressed,
And banish grief and care.

When I shall sleep my final sleep,
Fain would I rest where you will keep
A tuneful voice for me;
Then to my spirit will be given
The foretaste of a promised heaven--
Nature's sweet harmony.

TO A MOUNTAIN BROOK.

Shy sylvan spirit singing so sweetly,
Dancing to measures that flow with your song
Frolic your fairy feet faultlessly, fleetly,
As down the mountain vale haste you along.

Babbling buoyantly by banks and bushes,
Laughingly onward you speed to the sea,
While from your mossy sides, joyously gushes
Fountains from Nature's bowl, healthful and free.

Naiads and Nymphs hold revels at midnight,
Dancing to music that swells from your flow;
Dryad and Faun peep out at the moonlight,
Thro' rents in green curtains that over you grow.

Here would I pour my soul out in wooing
The spirit that dwells in your charmed home;
Here would I linger gladly, if knowing
My waiting might lead it at last to come.

Let me while here with you catch the spirit
Of peace and comfort abiding in you,
Then will my Nature truly inherit
A love for the beautiful, noble, and true.

THE STREAM'S STORY.

I sat me down in a forest old,
Beside a low murmuring stream;
I lent my ear to the tale it told,
For 'twas more than fancy's dream;

It spoke of days when the earth was young,
When it flowed more cheerfully,
When its water sang the rocks among,
As they danced down toward the sea.

"In the ancient days my banks were filled,
Nor shrank I from heat or frost,
For the shaded, moss-crowned earth then held
The drops, so that none were lost.

"The old forest then stretched far away,
And its sheltering arms embraced
Sweet perfumed plants and flowerets gay,
Whose lives long ago have ceased.

"For the sturdy woodman plied the blade
And the forest soon lay low;
Then the burning sun and the want of shade
Soon shrank my full crystal flow.

"Now when the rain comes, my waters roar,
And my spoils are sad to see,
For the earth-vaults where I kept my store,
Hold no surplus now for me.

"Man's greed for wealth has my beauty marred
And robbed me of early joys,
But I sing again, with hope restored,
When I see the girls and boys

"Who come with their songs in merry May,
O'er valley, hill, and plain,
To plant young trees on this Arbor Day,
So in joy I smile again."

* * * * *

To wander all day, by a purling stream
That flows through some mossy dell,
And watch its silvery waters gleam,
And list to its music's swell
As it dashes down some wild cascade,
On its race to the wide, wide sea,
With sweeter strains than old Orpheus played,
Is supreme delight to me.

THE SECOND SUNDAY IN MAY.

Softly the breezes dance o'er the meadows,
Wafting the perfume of sweet-scented May;
Flecked are the green fields with sunshine and shadows,
Telling so gently of earth's perfect day.

From moss-covered rocks whereon we are seated,
Nature spreads scenes such as art cannot yield;
With flowers of rare beauty our vision is greeted,
Our ears, with the bird-notes of forest and field.

Dogwood with tints from pink to pure whiteness,
Columbine crimson with pinnacled sheen,
Pinks of carnation, and orchards in brightness,
Vie with the meadows of velvety green.

The bobolink chatters in notes of perfection,
The oriole sings a love-song to his mate,
The whippoorwill clings to his perch for protection,
The crow laughs ha! ha! when the evening grows late.

Squirrel and humming-bird flit by like spirits,
Jack-in-the-pulpit stands ready to preach,
The roll of the anthem the wood-choir inherits,
Surpasses the harmony mortals can reach.

The song of the bird-note, the hum of the bee,
The tinkling of waters, the bursting of leaves,
The perfume of flowers, the blossoming tree,
Are sermons from Nature the pulpit ne'er gives.

My soul sings with these, with these has communion,
They lift me in thought to realms pure and bright;
They speak of a Nature with which to have union
Dispels all my sorrows and gives me delight.

Every sigh of the breeze, every note of wild bird,
Every plant that springs up from earth's fertile sod,
Are sermons of eloquence when rightly heard,
That soothe me and bring me nearer to God.

NATURE'S CHILD.

I would rather dwell with Nature
And be her favored child,
To love plant, tree, and creature
That live in forest wild;
And feel the satisfaction
That I can understand
The beauty and attraction
Of motives, noble, grand,
That fashioned for man's pleasure
This brilliant world of ours,
Than possess the jeweled treasure
Of all earth's kingly powers.

LAKE GEORGE, N. Y.

Beautiful, beautiful Horicon!
Over thy waters so blue,
Sunshine and shadow in silence flit on,
Painting fresh scenes on the ecstatic view.

Blue are the skies that kiss the green tops
Of sentinel mountains grand,
Pure are the waters descending in drops,
Or rushing in torrents from mountain to strand.

Like emerald crowns thy islands rise,
And mirrored back are doubly seen
Gray rocks of the mountains, the cloud-flecked skies,
Gorgeous adornments, and fringes of green.

Silent and wild are the fairy shores
Save song of the warbling bird,
Or the glen wherein the cataract roars,
Or the pine tree's branch by strong breezes stirred.

When sunset purples the dark ravine
And throws crimson on thy breast,
Soft-tinged are the hues that e'er lie between
Thy shores and the peaks that rise in the west.

I see in my fancy days long past,
I hear the brave soldier's song,
The bugle that summoned hosts at its blast,
Whose notes died in echoes the green shores along.

I see in the past ten-thousand oars,
And a thousand boats so grand,
As they leave the marge of thy southern shores
To meet the French foes of Montcalm's command.

I see Abercrombie grandly brave
With his fifteen thousand men,
Glide swiftly, silently over the wave
To contest from which many came not again.

Beautiful, beautiful Horicon!
How changed is the scene to-day,
The pageant of war and carnage is gone
Thy waters now bear the light-hearted and gay.

* * * * *

Who loves devoutly Nature wild,
And sees in her a Master's hand,
Will seldom be a wayward child
Though foul temptations round him stand.
Magnetic forces draw him back
From following low and slavish ways,
His soul revolts at the attack
That foe of Nature--Vice, displays.

THE THRUSH.

When on mountain road I travel,
Stained with dust and dirt and gravel,
In cool shade I sit me down;
Oft I see among the bushes
Feathered friends--shy brown thrushes,
Sweetest singers of renown.

Smooth his coat though brown and dusty,
His mellow voice is ever trusty
And clear and soft and sweet;
On the tree-top oft he's singing,
In the woods his voice is ringing
While hills his notes repeat.

I have heard him in the morning
When the sun was just adorning
Tops of tallest forest trees,
Pour his soul of song so tender,
That to God he seemed to render
Thanksgiving harmonies.

Every feather he did quiver,
As his song he would deliver
In bursts so wild and grand,
That creation's face would gladden
As the air with music laden
Seemed fraught with choral band.

Some notes that swelled his speckled breast
Were like soft zephyrs from the west
That fall on June-blown flowers;
So full, so sweet, they lull the soul,
And like a spirit voice control
My reveries for hours.

Soulful song, enwrapped in feather,
Harbinger of pleasant weather,
Sing softly unto me.
Your tuneful notes at morn and even
Are antepasts of joys in heaven
That bring felicity.

Attune your joyous song for me,
And lift my soul that it may see
The world in beauty bright;
Sing on, sing on, until the wood
Shall laugh aloud in merry mood,
And sadness take her flight!

Sweet warbling bird in brown attire,
Your notes of praise do me inspire
With love for Nature wild;
Your songs of joy so sweetly sung,
By heart and throat divinely strung,
Proclaim you Nature's child.

ROBIN REDBREAST.

Low and soft and plaintive,
Now distant and now near,
Is the voice of Robin Redbreast,
That in the tree I hear.

Sometimes 'tis but a murmur,
So gentle and so sweet,
It sounds like a dying zephyr
That echo doth repeat.

And then in bursts of music
That make the forests ring,
Comes the swelling, happy ditty
His birdship loves to sing.

And the voice is so enchanting,
So perfect and so clear,
All earth stands still to listen,
And the clouds bend low to hear.

Again he tunes his liquid note
To winds in tree-tops sighing,
Or to the sound of waters
That o'er the rocks are playing.

The sprightly, sweet ventriloquist
Deceives you as to distance,
You sometimes think him far away
Beyond alarm's resistance,

And then again, you think him near
The place you are abiding;
He's in the same place all the time,
In covert he is hiding,

And telling you in measured notes
His mate is yonder nesting,
While in the shade of leafy tree
Near by in song he's resting.

Had I so sweet a voice as his
I'd carol all day long,
Charm with my presence all mankind,
And cheer them with my song.

The woods and fields should echo far
My choicest minstrelsy,
While earth and sky would both unite
To join the revelry.

THE FARMER.

Of war and love some poets sing,
And some of fame and glory,
But few there are a tribute bring
To him whose only story
Is written on the sterile soil
With hand of honest labor,
Whose plow and hoe bespeak a toil
More grand than gory sabre.

My muse will sing of such as these,
And claim a wreath of laurel,
To crown each sturdy Hercules
Whose only wish to quarrel,
Is with the forest and the field
To make them rich and fairer,
To make old mother earth to yield
Her fruits and flowers e'en rarer.

Let merchants in the busy marts
Think farmers are mere cattle,
But they who know the farmers' hearts
And of his earnest battle
With thorns and thistles scattered wide,
Like earth's destructive Neros,
Well know they are our country's pride--
Our Nation's greatest heroes.

The lily-fingered, pale-faced men
Who live by "A Profession,"
Need not despise the farmer, when
He makes some slight digression
Upon what they call etiquette;
For in his heart he's civil;
Though rough his hand, his brow asweat,
His heart is free from evil.

He toils from early morn till night,
Yet he is "Independent;"
For Nature's God defends the right,
And holds a crown resplendent
To place upon His honored child
Whose life is heavy laden,
But keeps a spirit undefiled
To enter into Eden.

* * * * *

Though brown and dusty be his garb
From wrestling with the soil,
The farmer is God's nobleman,
Made so, by honest toil.

THE OLD FARM.

The dear old farm has a sacred charm
That extends to farthest bound,
Every rock and tree is dear to me,
And hallowed seems the ground.

Its beautiful stream whose waters gleam
As they dance on to the sea,
Sings sweeter song, as it moves along,
Than other waters to me.

No leaves are so green, as those that screen
The revered old farm-house doors,
From the burning sun of torrid June
When his fiercest rays he pours.

Each grove and field doth a mem'ry yield
Of dear childhood's blissful hours,
And in accents clear, voices I hear
That have now augmented powers.

My father's care and my mother's prayer
Are now ended here on earth,
But as time rolls on, since they have gone,
I shall understand their worth.

There's a sacred charm in the dear old farm,
For loved ones have trod its soil,
And much I now see, appears to me
As fruit of their faithful toil.

MAPLE AT MY FATHER'S DOOR.

On velvet green of grassy floor,
'Neath maple at my father's door
My couch at eve has been;
There gazing on the tranquil sky,
With all its astral brilliancy,
My spirit sang within.

Then far away beyond the blue,
On Fancy's wings my vision flew
And scanned the realms of space;
Then like a dove far from her nest,
Returned to find a perfect rest
Within its dwelling place.

OCEANUS' MIRROR, TRINITY LAKE, N. Y.

[See Note on "Fidelity."]

I've been charmed by many a picture,
That has brought its master renown;
I have looked on beautiful valleys
From the mountain's lofty crown;
I have gazed on the sky at evening,
When the heavens were all aglow,
But they fail to charm me so fully
As this scene in the waters below.

Fair Trinity lay in her beauty,
Not a ripple was on her breast,
Her borders of hemlocks and mosses
With beautiful flowers were dressed;
Clear as the air on her bosom
Were her waters so pure and deep,
They seemed like the magical mirror
That Flora and Nereus keep.

Where the rocks and trees bend over
The marge of her western shore,
The boat glided slowly onward
Without the aid of the oar;
When glancing the eye at the shadows
Reflected from shore near at hand,
There appeared a bright panorama,
Most charming--exquisitely grand.

Down, down, far down in the waters,
And touching the brink of the lake,
Was a picture no master painter
With pencil or brush could make;
Gray rocks, green trees, and bright flowers,
Inverted and magnified, too,
Seemed perfect in all but proportion
And their upturned chimerical view.

It seemed like a fairy enchantment
Inviting to feasts down below,
Where grottoes and caverns of beauty
Illumine the flowers that grow
To charm the nymphs of the water,
And beguile all the sylvan elves
To the table of old Oceanus,
Where guests ever help themselves.

Some spirit seemed calling me sweetly,
Inviting me then to partake
Of the fanciful pleasures reflected
Far down in the clear, placid lake.
O, beautiful scene of reflection!
So perfect, so grand, and so pure,
In my mind that mirror enchantment
To the end of my days must endure.

MORNING FLOWERS.

The flowers all wash their faces fair
With the dews of the smiling morn,
Then turn to greet the god of the air
As his light in the east is born.

They call th' breeze from th' slumb'ring west
And a censer place in his hand,
Then mingle perfumes, choicest, best,
To waft o'er the festive land.

The flower of th' heart may lave in deeds
That refresh the worthy poor,
And th' soul's perfume is that which feeds
The hungry, weak, and sore.

* * * * *

That spring unfolds to pleasure's eye;
There's wisdom in the falling drop
That had its birth in yonder sky.
The breeze that fans the fevered brow,
Or gives new vigor to frail man,
Is but the breath of the Divine
Sent to fulfill benignant plan.

ARTIST NATURE.

When Aurora springs from her couch of clouds
And opens the gate of a perfect day,
And her brother Sol in his daily rounds
Advances his steeds toward Polaris' ray,
Then the vernal bloom and the warbling bird
That follow his track as he speeds along,
Send their fragrance pure on the morning air,
And fill leafy groves with ecstatic song.

Oceanus lends invisible bowls,
Well filled with vapors that rise from his breast,
Eurus is summoned to waft them afar
And scatter abroad in the distant west,
Where Sol with his brush and an artist's touch,
Paints on the sky all the glories of heaven,
In colors more bright and blendings more true,
Than ever on canvas by mortal was given.

One sunset scene in Hesperian sky,
When the courts of heaven are all ablaze
With the glorious tints and pageantry
That to mortal mind so clearly portrays
The mighty power of omnipotent hand,
And the tender touch of a boundless love,
Is an omen true--infallible proof
Of a Deity who presides above.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

MUSIC.

When musical chords are tensioned
To sentiments they should express,
And touched by a master artist
Whose deft hand gives the proper stress,
The effect is so ecstatic
When vibrations fall on the ear,
The soul stands in silent rapture,
And our being expands to hear.

At skillful touch of the master
A creation of joy is given,
That lends to the spirit pinions
To waft it away toward heaven,
While it sings to the same measure
And becomes a part of the song,
Enraptured by the magic power
Which carries it gently along.

O the magic power of tension
When a master hand has control!
It wins the heart's approbation
And augments the receptive soul;
'Tis a rapture born in heaven
To entrance our expectant ears,
'Tis angelic diapason
Such as harmonized once the spheres.

We each have an organ, tensioned
With a thousand strings and their keys,
All made by a Master builder
Who permits us ourselves to please;
Its wonderful combinations
Far surpass all the works of art,
'Tis the master-piece of creation--
The versatile, strange, human heart.

We have sole choice of the music
That shall sound on the tensioned strings;
We may choose if sad or joyous
Shall be the final note it sings;
Though fate may fling fiercest chaos,
Its Maker reserved to us powers
That we need not ever surrender,
For the strength to possess is ours.

Let my tongue sing songs of rapture
And my heart-strings sweetly respond,
Till the notes shall pass earth's border
And reach the bright portals beyond;
And when in the great hereafter
The tension shall be much increased,
My joys will be there augmented
To know that earth's songs have not ceased.

* * * * *

I often long for some quiet nook
Away from the noise and strife
Which come from the steady daily round
That absorbs my busy life;
Away in some shadowy forest
Whose silence is supreme,
Save the song of feathered minstrel
And the murmur of a stream;
Far away among the dark shadows
That form Fauna's trysting-bowers,--
But the time of this total seclusion
Should ne'er exceed six hours.

REST.

When wearisome task is finished
And flesh with fatigue is oppressed,
When muscles are tired and languid
And sinews are sorely distressed,
No balm can renew their vigor
Like that boon from heaven called rest.

We know not its composition,
Nor can we expound all its laws,
We grant the effect is pleasant
Tho' we cannot explain the cause;
We therefore accept the blessing
And bid curiosity pause.

Foremost in its rank of agents
Is a heavenly maid called Sleep,
Who stands in unbroken silence,
And ever her watch will keep
O'er mortals whose labors and trials
Seem heavy, oppressive, and deep.

Sometimes when sorrows are deepest
This maiden refuses relief;
She's no balm for the broken-hearted,
No cure for a head bowed with grief,
No soothing touch for the anguish
That robs like a heartless thief.

She flies from deep woe and sorrow
And recedes from the blinding tear;
Yet hastes to fatigue and trials
And offers to them smiles of cheer
Such as turn to joy and gladness,
Murky doubt and foreboding fear.

When death shall release the spirit
From its prison-house of vile clay,
It will speed to an elysian
Of a cloudless, unending day,
Where with others of its kindred,
It will find a rest for aye.

* * * * *

Well filled with murky ink,
When in my solitary den
I sit for hours to think,
And trace my thoughts in liquid flow
Upon some virgin page,
That in the future it may show
What thoughts my mind engage.

SUCCESS.

Success knows no diminution,
For failure hovers so near,
That with trace of slight dilution,
Success must cease to appear.

We look in vain for a substitute
To take the place of success;
A proxy saps its vital cords,
It dies of paralysis.

Nothing can take the place of success,
Its measure must be complete,
If slightest imperfection is found
It suffers a deadly defeat.

The marge that divides sturdy success
From failure grim and gaunt,
Is invisible space, but separates
Abundance from woe and want.

Like pack of wolves on army's trail,
Fell failure lives on distress,
Devouring with greed th' foul refuse
That falls from th' hands of success.

Success and failure closely abide--
Success has a palace fine,
While failure dwells in a dreary hut,
Like a herding place for swine.

Success may not always achieve
The object it has in view,
But lives while its motives and acts
Are earnest, noble, and true.

True failure can only be found
In a being devoid of heart,
Whose efforts and deeds are all dead,
Or act but a sluggard's part.

Success has a heart that can sing,
A hand and a spirit to try,
A word that is fraught with good cheer,
A soul that illumines the eye.

Failure is cheerless, sullen, and glum,
His hand hanging idly by,
His voice is an echo of woe,
His face distorted, awry.

FRAGMENTS.

This world was made of fragments
Each separate from the other,
Yet in such close relation
As to indicate a brother.

Each atom of the universe
Has in itself attraction,
That finds response so much allied
To voluntary action,

That one might quickly recognize
A power, supreme, benign,
That emanates from master hand
With forces so divine,

That every touch which nature gives
To matter or to mind,
Must indicate creative power
Superior to mankind.

What scientist can ever tell
The mainspring of all action,
If all his reasons fail so prove
Molecular attraction?

It has its source from out the space,
Beyond the astral heaven;
It had a purpose to perform,
Or it had not been given.

We may not know its secret laws
Or understand its source,
But faith has taught us to be wise
And recognize its force.

Of all the teeming millions now
Upon this mundane sphere,
Not one can give a reason
For his living presence here.

'Tis strange, and yet we know 'tis true,
We constantly are dying,
All things are old, nothing is new,
And life with death is vying.

We know not when this all will cease,
We cannot understand
Why matter never may increase,
Or seas become dry land.

Enough we know to serve the end
For which we were designed,
God never yet was known to send
The blind to lead the blind.

If we but act an honest part,
And use the powers given,
When from this earth we shall depart,
We may be wise in heaven.

A BEACON LIGHT.

Adown the vistas of the past
I cast my memory's eye,
And see bright scenes receding fast,--
Some hopes in ruins lie;
Yet still there shines a beacon light
Whose ray on me descends,
And shows in its effulgency
A circle of true friends.

The magic charm this circle yields
Is richer far to me,
Than cattle in a thousand fields
Or gems from the deep sea;
It whispers softly in my ears
And cheers me on my way,
Gives faith for doubt and murky fears,
And comfort for dismay.

MEMORY.

Earthly scenes are worth preserving,
Bitter though they sometimes be;
Who would wish to sink in Lethe
All the fruits of Memory?
None could dare offend his Maker
By a wish so rash and vain;
For by this kind boon from Heaven
Life is all lived o'er again.

In the silent hour of twilight,
Thoughts of by-gone days will come,
Stealing o'er our better feelings,
Bringing back our early home;
All the soothing words of friendship
Spoken by a tongue now still,
Touch the fountains near our heart-strings,
And our eyes with moisture fill.

Tender, oh, how sweetly tender,
Are the musings of an hour,
When the mellowing scenes around us
Give to Memory magic power;
Thought recalls those scenes long parted,
Life epitomized appears,
Moments then reflect a lifetime
Reaching back through many years.

Oh, how blessed are those moments!
Present scenes can never fire
Such a rapture in our bosom
As fond Memory can inspire;
Naught on earth can e'er be spoken
To attract the living ear,
Like the words of the departed
Uttered when among us here.

Time and Death have made them sacred,
Memory calls them oft to mind,
And her choicest, dearest treasures,
She for them has oft entwined;
This is but a simple homage,
Richly paying him who kneels;
He who's prompted by such feelings,
For his fellow being feels.

Dark must be that soul enshrouded,
Which Oblivion would prefer
To the soothing power of Memory
And the influence shed by her:
Life itself is not worth having
If deprived of such a bliss,
Earth has not another treasure
That we may compare with this.

DISCONTENT.

Let quiet people talk of peace--
Contentment of the mind,
But he who lives at perfect ease
Can never bless mankind.

If each no higher end should seek
Than that which now he fills,
But be content, subdued, and meek,
'Twould bring a thousand ills.

Advancement then would have an end.
Progression then would cease,
Invention have no earnest friend,
And science no increase.

But Discontent, though called a fiend,
Is progress in disguise,
'Tis _this_ by which our end's attained,
'Tis _this_ by which we rise.

The pupil may surpass the sage
If such his aim shall be,
May fathom truths for many an age
Were wrapped mystery.

The genius may invent some plan
To ease the laborer's toil,
Or add facility for man
To cultivate the soil.

Contentment never did aspire
To elevate mankind,
It never raised the standard higher
Of science or of mind.

'Tis Discontent that gains the prize
In every useful art;
Although it brings us tearful eyes
And restlessness of heart;

But then it has a sweet reward--
Progression is the fruit,
But some this sweetness have abhorred
For others have the boot.

For he who blesses most mankind,
Himself is seldom blessed,
And he whose deeds should be enshrined
Will seldom be caressed.

Yet, let our banner ne'er be furled,
Our lives in quiet spent;
For 'tis a truth that all the world
Still thrives on Discontent.

OUR POLITICS.

"The purification of politics is an iridescent dream." U. S. Senator, John J. Ingalls, Kansas.

"Purification of politics
Is an iridescent dream,"
Is the Ingalls way of saying that
Corruption's power's supreme.

Have the people lost their honesty,
Has the Nation sunk so low,
That partisan strife can blind our eyes
Till we know not friend from foe?

If such be true, this fair land of ours
Must fail to mature the Hope
That blossomed fair on Liberty's tree,
But in impotence must grope.

Beautiful land! God's own favored land!
Thy sons must united be,
Statesmen should now hold the public helm,
Throw factions into the sea,

Teach politicians with all their schemes,
The people yet are supreme;
That Augean stables--politics--
May be cleansed by ballot's streams.

SUNSET.

Softly the tints of expiring day
Tinge th' vaults of Hesperian heaven,
Leaving a trace of the sun's mellow ray
To escort the shadows of even.

All of the gates of Phoebus are drawn,
Yet his splendor has left to sight
A trail of enchantment to linger till dawn,
To charm the still hours of the night.

Scenes of such cloud-land often reveal
A grandeur that augments the soul;
Heaven has no beauties it seeks to conceal,
No secrets inscribed on its scroll.

Through the earth for an age we may roam,
And through space our vision may fly,
Yet no pleasure is like that at home
When we gaze on a God-painted sky.

When we think of the forces displayed
To prepare for a cloud-scene at even,
Of the elements deftly arrayed
That a gorgeous effect may be given,

Of the mists and the winds and the light,
Of the blendings that art cannot teach,
Of the mysteries hidden from sight
That our knowledge would gladly reach,

Of the order, the purpose, design,
In the pictures that hang in the sky,
We know that the hand is divine
That arranged all their brilliancy,

Then our faith lifts the curtain that hides
The Spirit that ordered the plan,
And assures us He ever abides
To encourage and elevate man.

At sunset my spirit shall sing
Of the beauties the elements yield,
Let my heart then its off'ring bring
To the Artist of sky and of field.

When my soul from its dwelling of clay,
Shall escape to that unknown sphere,
May it be at the close of the day,
When the glories of sunset appear.

Soothingly, sweetly comes unto me
The thought that my soul may rest,
In a land whose glory shall be
Like cloud-scenes that glow in the west.

SELFISHNESS.

Who lives for self alone should be
Placed in some lonely, hollow tree,
And left to toad and bat and owl--
To creatures man considers foul--
Where he shall be perpetual prey
For frightful ogres night and day.

A narrow soul that lives for self,
Should stand on some old musty shelf,
Where spiders, rats, and vermin throng,
And listen only to the song
Of filing saw and creaky mill,
And owlet's hoot and whip-poor-will.

Who lives for self is not afraid
Of meanest thing God ever made,
For he himself is that same thing;
Though peasant, plebian, or king,
He thwarts the purpose of God's plan,
He lacks the impulse of a man.

No soul enwrapped within itself,
Or dwarfed by pride, or love of pelf,
Can serve its Maker or mankind
As nobly as was erst designed
By the Great Architect above,
Whose being is Unselfish Love.

RETROSPECTION.

I sit when the shadows are stealing
The light of departing day,
And think of the scenes and pleasures
I enjoyed in my childhood's play.

I can picture them all so plainly,
They seemed not a day gone by,
I recall the fields and garden,
The lake and the clear blue sky.

I can see the bright water flowing
At the foot of the sloping hill,
The dam that impeded its progress,
The toy-wheel of water-mill.

I can trace every line and feature
Of trees and the shadows they cast,
The lanes, the rocks, and orchards,
That on journey to school were past.

I can close my eyes for an instant
And draw a scene to my mind,
That seems like a photo-engraving,
As true, as complete, as defined.