Chapter III: Part 3

Time's flight has not dim'd or shaded
One outline the scenes gave then,
Though the years that have intervened,
Are nearly two score and ten.

There's a central, attractive figure,
With heart unselfish and warm,
That always appears in the picture--
'Tis my mother's benignant form.

I can see her in all the beauty
And glow of a mother's pride,
As she patiently watched and labored
For her children at her side.

How sweet to my soul is the power
To so clearly these scenes portray;
I pray that to life's latest hour
This bliss be not taken away.

ALONE.

"And the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a help meet for him."--Gen. 2, 18.

Alone! God saw His creature man,
Deprived of great felicity,
And changed the order of His plan
That earth in harmony might be
With all the products of the spheres,
Which move in such perfect accord,
That through aeons of passing years
They but proclaim a perfect Lord.

The earth was fair and fresh and young,
The stars hung in a cloudless sky,
Sweet perfumes on the air were flung
From every breeze went laughing by;
The brook and bird in wanton glee,
Attuned their notes in such refrain
That earth was full of minstrelsy,
And heaven re-echoed it again.

God's image, man, heard not the strain,
No beauty charmed his listless eye,
Earth spread her treasures but in vain,
In vain shone the bejeweled sky;
Earth gave no food for hungry _heart_,
No solace-cup from which to sip,
Defective seemed Nature and Art,
To _soul_ robbed of _companionship_.

A "help meet" then to man was given,
To _soothe_ and _cheer_ his lonely way;
Eve was an afterthought of Heaven
That crowned the last creation-day.
Create anew, Almighty Power,
A "help meet" for the desolate,
Let no wild sophistry devour
The solace Thou didst last create.

LOVE.

[Written after reading Shakespeare's sonnet commencing, "Love is not Love which alters when it alterations finds."]

Love is a sort of cannibal
And lives upon its kind,
It dares all dangers, fears no foes
And to the world is blind,
While faithful heart unswerving beats,
Or pines in forced retreat;
It deems all tortures fate may send
Are perfumed with the sweet
Aroma of implicit faith,
Born of a kindred soul
That to the outer things of life
Spurns puny hate's control.

Love, undeceived, is perfect bliss
When trust reciprocates
The purest, sweetest touch that Heaven
Within the soul creates;
But fierce Vesuvius cannot burn
With such destructive flame,
As fires Love's victim of deceit
Stung by the taunts that claim
No truthful fountain as their source,
No mild-voiced Justice to allay
The cauldron of defenseless fraud
Distilled through treachery.

Love that dissembles is not love,
But a subtle treachery,--
A siren with a charming voice
That sounds o'er a mirror sea,--
A beacon light set to allure
From a harbor safe and calm,--
A soothing drug whose deadly power
Yields to no proffered balm,--
A smiling face with winsome glow
But poisonous, blasting breath,
That breathes upon its victim, draughts
Of sorrow, tears, and death.

Love that would gain a mastery
To wield for pelf or power,
Is not a love born clean and pure
O'er which no evils lower,
But like a miasmatic clime
That yields delicious fruit,
It hides the venom it distills,
And seeks its sole repute
In outward show and pageantry,
Wherein are deep concealed
The poisoned arrows plumed for death,
It would not have revealed.

Unselfish love is but a spark
Of God's own spirit dropped from Heaven,
The richest boon, the sweetest joy,
That unto mortals God hath given;
Within itself it hath a power
To lift the soul on joyous wings,
Attune the heart to harmonies,
And softly touch the tensioned strings
That vibrate in such unison
With other strings so like its own,
That not a discord may be heard
In cadence, blend, or tone.

* * * * *

As a cricket sang his song to me
On a late September eve,
The tone had a sadness in it,
That over my spirit did weave
A spell of gloom, at the requiem
He sang in his solitude,
For the dying year, th' fading leaf,
And flowers by frost subdued.

LIES.

If aught on earth my soul can fire,
'Tis the deception of a liar
Who with soft smoothness of the tongue,
Has promises and pledges strung
To suit all needs that come to hand,
To serve the purpose Satan planned.

Satan himself, I think, would shun
The presence of that artful one,
Who violates truth's sacred laws,
Regardless of the end or cause,
But deems it strategy to live
For the sole purpose to deceive.

If hell has any corner where
Vile culprits may be doomed to share
The merits they richly deserve,
It should be held in strict reserve
For them whose flattery and art
Are used to kill a trusting heart.

Let me abhor, loathe, and despise
The author of those fiendish lies,
Who would for pleasure, greed, or power,
The confidence of youth devour,
And blight the soul with foul distrust,
Or trample honor in the dust.

No sting of pain can e'er atone,
No purging fire was ever known
For cleansing of a heart defiled
By falsehood; though it may be styled
In diction, affability,
It poisons like the upas tree.

Beware the tongue that will deceive,
At last 'twill cause your soul to grieve
Though smooth its accents now may be,
Its motive power is treachery,
Its fruits are laden with disease,
Although its tones may often please.

Dissimulation's oily tongue
Will grace Simplicity, among
Her unsuspecting, trustful throng,
That he may do her greater wrong,
And covertly defile the pure,
Some envied purpose to secure.

HEARTSTRINGS.

The tiny trembling tendons
That twine about the heart,
Are chords that yield a music
Unknown to vocal art.

Though soft the notes are sounded,
Each vibration tells a tale
Of the mellow, winsome sunshine,
Or of fierce, destructive gale.

Though the strings be few in number,
They have compass far beyond
The myriad chords around them,
That are less delicately tuned.

List we softly to the music
As its volumes gently roll,
Varied in their intonation
By the tension of the soul.

Ecstatic measures fill us
With a rapture so profound,
That we fancy heaven's portals
With such harmonies abound.

Each note is rich in meaning,
Each tone is full and clear
To the charming sweet delusion
Of imagination's ear.

If you would hear this music
And be charmed by its tone,
Attune your heart to harmony,
For the music is its own.

No lessons conned in schooldays,
No studied forms of art,
Can profit us so greatly
As communion with our heart.

It will sing us songs of rapture,
Though silent each may be;
It will help to solve the questions
Of life's great mystery.

If one would hear sweet harmony
He carefully must live;
For these songs will be an echo
Of the keynote he shall give.

If heartstrings be but tuned aright
Sweet melodies we hear;
If strung with envy and deceit,
The tone is doleful, drear.

Then let us tune our hearts with joy,
And touch the strings with glee,
For honor, truth, and purity,
Will bring soul-ecstasy.

WHO KNOWS?

It matters not what be our lot
Upon this mundane sphere,
In spite of fears and burning tears
While we shall linger here,
We must depend on foe or friend
For many things we need
To give the soul that full control
Which makes it strong indeed.

For noble end, make him a friend
Who can reciprocate,
A kindly act, not to it tacked
The proof of reprobate.
God only knows whom we may choose
And safely trust as brother,
The seeming saint may have a taint
That proves him quite another.

In human dust we scarcely trust
The egotistic pious,
Who thinks that he from sin is free--
Not subject to its bias;
A holy man does all he can
For God and human kind;
He meekly lives, but counsel gives
In language pure, refined.

TWILIGHT HOUR.

[Set to Music by Com. T. C. Adams.]

I love to spend the twilight hour
When stars their radiance o'er me cast,
With that benign mysterious power
Which calls up mem'ries of the past,
And brings anew the scenes of yore,
Like sacred perfume from some shrine
Whose hallowed influence ever more
Proves life and love of birth divine.
Sweet twilight hour! sweet twilight hour!
How blissful is thy magic power,
At thy return new strength is given
To lead me to the gates of heaven.

I love at such an hour as this
To hold sweet converse with my soul,
Anticipate a promised bliss,
Or memory's charmed page unroll;
To feel life's not alone for me,
But has some aim, some end, some plan,
Which to the soul gives dignity,
And leads toward heaven a fellow man.

I love at twilight hour to see
The lamps of heaven in glory shine
With beacon-light effulgency,
To guide me to that land divine,
Where dwell the loved of former years,
And where no sorrow e'er may come,
Where God shall wipe away all tears,
And I shall find abiding home.

Oh, twilight hour, how sweet thou art!
Thy coming oft relieves my pain,
Thy soft communings with my heart
Prepare me for life's toils again;
Drive thou away my sordid thought,
And give my soul augmented power;
Teach me to use thee as I ought,
Thou holy, blessed twilight hour.

* * * * *

Let us not lose the heritage
Our fathers did bequeath
To sons whose grasp should hold secure
The prize, till hour of death
Shall still the heart, and loose the nerve
Whose tension holds secure
The magic love of Liberty
And Justice, strong and pure.

THE HAIR.

Since the days of primal story
Of Eden's happy pair,
A woman's greatest glory
Is her glossy flowing hair;
It is a safe criterion
By which to judge her life,
To ascertain, if duly won,
She'd prove a worthy wife.

Its color and arrangement,
Its sunshine and its storm
Prefigure an estrangement,
Or friendship true and warm.
We dearly love the sunshine
Of locks with golden hue,
That bear this blessed combine--
Kind, tender, warm, and true.

We read volumes of character
In every lock of hair;
The life, the mind, the heart's prefer
Are plainly written there;
No printed index could portray
The soul's environment,
So plainly and so perfectly
As capillary bent.

Beware the frouzy, unkempt lock
That speaks of negligence;
Regard cosmetic's fancy stock
Of little consequence;
Trust only such as speak of taste
Born of a cultured mind,
Whose purposes are pure and chaste
Whose structure, soft, refined.

* * * * *

A thoughtful mind may lessons draw
From faded leaf or broken straw;
May beauty see in some lone star
That cheers the storm-tossed mariner;
May note in solitude some sound
Wherein soft harmonies abound;
May hear no voice from human lip;
Yet dwell in blest companionship.

LIBERTY.

Into the port where Liberty stands
Inviting the nations to woo her,
Malefactors swarm from foreign lands,
Whose tenets would surely undo her.

Criminals, paupers, the ostracised
From all countries beyond the great sea,
Flock into the land our fathers prized,
And baptized "The Sweet Land of the Free."

They come not to build a hearth and home,
Or to clear and improve our rich soil,
But prowl like wolves that in forest roam,
And prey on fruits of our honest toil.

Long were our shores a refuge secure,
For the honest, the brave, and the true;
With valor and pride, men would endure
The trials that for State might accrue.

Men there are yet, who come to our shore,
In honor high, of great moral powers,
Whose hands give strength to homes we adore,
And whose hearts are as loyal as ours.

For these there is room and welcome, too,
For there's land quite enough and to spare,
But we pray that all the vicious crew
To their homes o'er the sea may repair.

Shall we quarantine disease and death,
Whose subtle infections float in the air,
And grant free power to the pois'nous breath
That would strangle our Liberty fair?

Sons of the Nation, arise in might!
And then swear by the God we adore,
This vicious crowd shall be put to flight,
And forever debarred from our shore.

Freedom and Liberty need our care,
If from wounds we would e'er keep them free,
For a frenzied brain would even dare
To destroy through base treachery.

Long live the land unto freedom given,
And forever may Liberty stand,
With beacon flame from the throne of heaven,
And a symbol of Light in her hand.

When stars shall fade from the dome of heaven,
And sun shall refuse his golden light;
When noon of Time shall be changed to even,
And earth shall be lost to human sight;

When crash of worlds and revolving spheres
Shall lose in chaos, identity;
And Time shall be measured not by years,
But on shall roll through eternity;

Then Liberty's form may sink in dust;
But loyal sons shall transported be
From the mundane scenes of moth and rust,
To the perfect home of Liberty.

I ween that when such an hour as this,
Shall marshal friends who have fought and died
For the sacred cause of earthly bliss,
And Freedom's cause have so magnified,

There shall be a special crown for him
Who has stood undaunted in the fight;
But the brightest star in the diadem
Is steadfast love for the Truth and Right.

"LO," THE DEPARTED.

The Bison strong and the Indian wild
Have departed from our plains;
The land where they lived has been defiled
By man's greed for worldly gains.

The human tide that on them has rolled
In merciless energy,
In search of that dazzling monarch Gold,
Swept on like a mighty sea,

Till their prostrate forms, mingled with clay,
Enrich the soil once their own;
And naught but waters shrink in dismay,
And winds in wild sorrow moan.

O, beautiful lakes and silver streams,
May your names their mem'ry keep;
Dear mountains, wake from your silent dreams,
When your sides so wild and steep,

Shall hear your names in the Indian tongue;
And echoes, reverberate
The mellow tones of the songs once sung,
At the hunter's evening fete.

DRIFTING AWAY.

How softly, how still, are we drifting away,
On the wide Sea of Life as it beckons us on,
Though the sunshine allure us 'tis but for a day,
Then darkness comes o'er us and hopes are all gone.

We are drifting away in a bark that is frail,
On a sea sometimes rough and whose waves often moan,
Yet when all is peaceful we think not of gale,
But are drifting away in our bark all alone.

So softly we float on a smooth flowing sea,
That our helm and our anchors are cast to the shore,
We think them a burden and wish to be free,
From every encumbrance that can serve us no more.

We are drifting away with our hopes and our fears,
To an ocean of life unknown to us now;
We see a bright vision--though veiled by our tears,
It appears like refulgence to lighten the brow.

Too slowly our bark seems to drift toward the prize,
We in ecstasy wish it to speed faster on;
But while we are wishing, a mist dims our eyes,
And lo! that bright vision has vanished and gone.

A gloom of thick darkness now spreads like a pall,
The winds of the tempest arise in their force,
And amid their wild shriekings for succor we call
On Him who reigns o'er us, to mark out our course.

We plead for protection from ruin and pain,
Repiningly think of our anchor and helm,
And could we secure those lost prizes again,
No tempest could shake us, no wave could o'erwhelm.

But swiftly we're drifting, we cannot tell where,
The current moves onward regardless of gloom,
We raise our weak voices and utter a prayer
That God in His mercy is drifting us home.

* * * * *

The silver stream by the farmhouse door
Flows on and on forever,
But the feet that trod its oaken floor
Have crossed the mystic river,
And no wind kissed by a vernal sun
Can return them e'er again;
Their earthly pilgrimage is done,
They dwell in a new domain.

KINDRED SPIRITS.

Oh, give me some heart of a kindred spirit
That smiles when I smile, or that weeps when I weep,
Whose solace is greater by far to inherit
Than the wealth of the mines or the gems of the deep.

Some heart that will echo response to my feeling,
That thrills with delight when I speak of my joy;
That sorrows with sorrow too deep for concealing,
When cankering griefs make my own heart's alloy.

Some heart that appreciates each little kindness,
That knows all my feelings, tho' oft unexpressed,
That sees not my faults with a passionate blindness,
But clings to my soul when 'tis sorely distressed.

Some heart whose affection can never be blighted,
That beats all in concert with that of my own,
That revels in pleasures with which I'm delighted,
And grieves at the sorrows which cause me to moan.

Some heart that can never be swerved from its mooring,
Though tempests may thunder and billows may roar,
That espouses my fate in spite of such roaring,
And when trials are sorest will trust even more.

My heart would exult to find such a treasure,
And return ev'ry throb in fidelity's pride,
Would suffer if need be, and call it but pleasure
To live or to die for a heart so allied.

No frown of the world could e'er cause me to tremble
While trusting my all in a heart such as this,
Too fond to deceive me; too true to dissemble--
'Twere a foretaste of Heaven, the acme of bliss.

Can it be, can it be, the world is so varied,
Human hearts never beat on chords that are even!
Is versatile man so odd, or so seared
That perfect accord is known but in Heaven!

My heart shall rejoice that some kindred vibrations
Soothe the devious marge of the pathway of fate,
And gathering strength through many privations
Shall learn in contentment to patiently wait.

* * * * *

To sit an hour on lichened stone,
Or mould'ring log by moss o'ergrown,
And use our ears and eyes,
Will teach us the effect and cause
Of many of great Nature's laws
That now are mysteries.

SCHOOL DAYS.

Can we e'er forget our boyhood,
And the days we spent at school,
With the jolly youths and maidens
Who with pencil for a tool,
Squared the area of a circle,
And minutely did compute
The interest and discount
On a promissory note?

As we worked those "grazing" questions,
We could see the cattle eat;
See the grass grow up by inches
Beneath their cloven feet;
We could surely hear a lowing
That distinctly called our names,
Inviting us to pastures
To enjoy our childish games.

If the day were warm and pleasant,
The calling seemed more clear
Than when chilly winds were sighing,
And the clouds were dark and drear;
It was no imagination,
For a schoolboy's mind is real,
Though we heard that calling often
We answered it with zeal.

Then we worked like real bankers
And claimed "three days of grace;"
Then we figured "hare and greyhound"
In their leaping, jaunty race;
We desired an illustration
Of the problems to be solved,
As no concrete computation
From the abstract e'er evolved.

We solved the size of fishes,
When some fraction and a part
Were all the given bases
To test our "number" art,
But we never were contented
With the fishes in the book,
So we strolled off to the lakeside,
Or down the purling brook.

Then we had some given acres
In the form of perfect square,
And a fence around its border
With a circle must compare,
Which would cost the greater money
To fence it in with rails,
Or build with posts and stringers,
Sawed lumber, and cut nails.

Then we worked upon that problem
Which has never yet been solved,
How to live and be contented
In the scenes life has evolved,
Though in every operation
Much must be inferred,
We will find this root's extraction
Will often prove a surd.

As life's day of sunshine lingers,
Ere the darkness draws apace,
'Tis a blessed satisfaction
To look backward o'er the race,
And feel that in the running,
Our best was ever done,
And know that at the ending,
Some trophy must be won.

Though the eye may lose its clearness
And the touch may lose its thrill,
Though the senses fail to gather
All the promptings of the will,
May the mind retain its power
To recall the days of yore,
Till the spirit casts its anchor
On that far-off unseen shore.

When on that shore safe landed,
It seems to be quite plain
That the greatest satisfaction
Will be to think of youth again;
There must be a great transition
From this mundane sphere below,
If the thoughts of early boyhood
May not set all heaven aglow.

PERHAPS.

Perhaps had I chosen some other profession
Than that of moulding the human mind,
I might have secured a greater possession
Of lucre and treasures and powers combined,
Than all I may now of these truly own;
But I have in my casket some jewels I treasure
Far more than all stocks and houses and lands,
In gold and silver their worth has no measure,
For none may compute warm hearts and true hands,
When the shadows of years are over us thrown.

* * * * *

There are two kinds of discontent--
Malignant, and progressive,--
The latter is the proper sort,
Of it, be quite possessive.
The former, born of parentage
Whose motive powers are evil,
Serves but one purpose here below--
To aid its father--Devil.

IMPORTANT MOMENTS.

There are times when the fate of nations
May hang on a moment's call;
When spheres in their mute rotations
May swing on a hinge so small,
That the breath of a spirit's pinion
Might unpoise a balanced world,
And lost to law's dominion
Through endless space be hurled.

There are times when the herdsman's calling
May vibrate thro' alpine ranch
Till the pendent drop, by its falling,
Sweeps down in an avalanche,
Till the mountain trembles and totters
'Neath the mighty force of snow,
And the lives and homes of the cotters
Are lost in the vale below.

There are times when the mind's inaction
Has robbed the soul of power,
When moments of deep reflection
Arrive at so late an hour
That they lose the force of their mission
In the laggard way they come,
And like withered buds of fruition,
Are lifeless, powerless, dumb.

There are words that have been spoken
That have echoed on thro' years;
Though the vessel has been broken
That voiced them to our ears,
Yet they come with increased ardor
As the years are passing by,
Since the soul stood on the border
Of vast eternity.

There are scenes that ever mirror
Their forms in thought divine,
That with lapse of time grow dearer
Till we hold them as some shrine,
Wherein are kept the treasures
Of Faith and Trust and Love--
A trio fraught with pleasures
Drawn from the realms above.

There are hours upon whose decision
The fate of a soul may be;
Though clouds may obscure the vision
And we pray for a light to see
The way that shall lead to heaven,
And keep our pathway bright,
We can use but the knowledge given
And walk in our purest light.

Let us scan each hour's requisition
And answer every demand,
Knowing that want of decision
Is a foe we cannot withstand;
If we shrink from performing our duty,
Or tardily fashion our thought,
Life loses its charm and its beauty
And existence profits us naught.

* * * * *

We know that like all human
Our work is imperfect at best,
And will bristle with imperfections
Till our hands shall be at rest;
But to justify our blunders
Or pass them lightly o'er,
Is the fatal way of inviting
A thousand errors more.

WHO SHALL JUDGE?

We know not all that we have done,
Nor may we ever know;
No field was ever lost or won,
Until the final blow
Has registered itself in Heaven,
And every impulse known,
That tells a reason why 'twas given,
To Him upon the Throne.

Then let us boast not of our deeds,
Nor let our true hearts fail,
Because we think some plan succeeds
While others ne'er prevail;
For he who works as best he can
With lofty, pure intent,
Will not be judged by puny man,
But God Omnipotent.

* * * * *

This earth is a place of probation,
A school wherein man may secure
A knowledge of his true relation,
To the noble, the true, and the pure.

THE FUTURE.

I know not what the future
May have in store for me,
I only know that God is God
And He may trusted be.

The past with all its pleasure
And all its sorrow too,
Has been but a probation
To prove me false or true.

If in my earthly mission
No progress has been made
Toward a higher spirit--
No growth of soul displayed--

Then dark, sad, and foreboding
The future must appear,
The soul must shrink in terror
When death's hour draweth near.

If in the past no brother
Has felt my outstretched hand,
To aid him on his pilgrimage
Toward a better land,

No word of mine brought solace
To a weary careworn soul;
No hand of mine has pointed
To the Christian's heavenly goal;

No thought, or word, or action
To lead to better life;
No balm to heal deep anguish;
No anodyne for strife;

Then shall I hear the sentence,
"You did it not to me,"
Come from the sacred Teacher
Who taught in Gallilee.

If I have wronged my brother,
In action or in thought;
Have forced him into sorrow,
Or counted him as naught,

Have borne false witness of him
Or robbed him of his peace;
Unjustly taken from him
Or hindered his increase,

The words of condemnation,
"You did it unto me,"
Will fill my soul with terror,
Distress, and misery.

My soul has wronged no being
Of just and honest part;
But on this sole reliance
It would not dare depart.

Not in its own weak merit,
Not in itself alone,
But in the great redemption
Of Him who did atone

For man, and bid him enter,
The gates of joy and rest,
Through faith, and prayer, and penitence,
Upon a Savior's breast.

I shrink not at the future
Whatever it may be,
But joy in full assurance
Of faith's expectancy.

* * * * *

Let me pass away when my work is done,
Like a cloudless day whose setting sun
Leaves a smile on the evening sky;
Let this transient clay when deprived of breath,
With the earth yet stay, it alone knows death,
Myself must live on and cannot die.

ERE AND AT MY CALL.

Ere I lay me down the burden
That my soul on earth hath worn,
Let me feel before departing,
That my tree of life hath borne
Fruitage that shall ever onward
Move mankind along the road,
Toward the haven of the blessed
Toward the city of my God.

Let some word that I have spoken
Or some act performed by me,
Sound aloud thro' coming ages
Making captive souls more free;
Not to bring me earthly glory
Nor to win me empty fame,
But to prove the mighty power
In a risen Savior's name.

Let my work be all completed
When the summons comes to go;
Let there be no cause for weeping,
Let there be no sound of woe,
When the spirit from my Father
Beckons me from duty done,
To appear at His tribunal,
And receive the crown that's won.

Let there be a joyous sunset,
Lighting all the realm above
With the radiance and the glory
Of a Savior's dying love;
Let my faith be firm, unshaken,
Let His hand be clasped in mine,
Let me cross the mystic river,
Leaning on His breast divine.

BODING SNOW.

The sky that was blue and sunny,
Has changed to a granite gray,
The sun that was soft and cheery,
Refuses it mellow ray;
On the distant tree-top, cawing,
Sits a solitary crow;
These and the shivering children
Betoken the coming snow.

Soon the flakes will be falling,
Like down from an angel's wing,
That is sent from the starry regions
For Nature's covering;
The trees, the plants, the grasses,
With rev'rence bow their heads,
For the pure and fleecy mantle
That God above them spreads.

AN OPEN BOOK.

How strange are the stories we sometimes read
In faces we meet by the way,
They unconsciously tell of motive or deed
That the tongue would refuse to betray.

Each lineament is a page set apart
To be studied and understood
By the shade that reflects the mind and heart,
In their varied forms and mood.

The eye oft reflects the secrets of soul
That are occult to all beside,
And form of the mouth defying control
Betrays what the heart fain would hide.

The quivering chin and tear-bedewed eye
That respond to a kindred word
That unconsciously fell from a tongue passing by,
Oft betrays how th' heart has been stirred.

There are fountains so deep in some human lives
That from them no draught can be drawn,
Save the perfect mirage the face ever gives
Of the soul when reflections dawn.

How varied the pages we daily read--
Some are joyous and full of glee,
While others may tell of brave hearts that bleed,
And then break in deep misery.

The facial page to me hath a charm
That no printed book can impart,
'Tis no fancied tale, 'tis no false alarm,
But stern truths from the human heart.

Pencils write plainly each act, on the face,
Each motive indulged is seen there,
No after decision can fully erase
The masks faces ever must wear.

If the face would be fair and bright and young,
Wear a charming, a joyous hue,
To truth and to right heart-strings must be strung,
Every thought, every act must be true.

Let the pencil of truth inscribe on the face,
Let honor illumine the eye,
Let generous thoughts and acts ever grace
The face-page the world shall descry.

SOME CHARACTERS I MUCH ADORE.

An honest man with noble mind,
With heart sincere, true, and refined,
Who lives for God and all mankind,
Who cares for rich and poor,
And opens wide his soul to see
The sweet designs of Deity,
Yet from all prejudice is free,
Is character I much adore.

The man who all his rights will claim,
But gives another just the same,
And shares with equity the blame
Of faults done long before,
Who will not shrink when sorely tried.
But firmly by the truth abide,
E'en when his own faults are allied,
Is character I much adore.

A man who will not plead a cause
That violates the nation's laws,
Or seek to give Justice a pause,
For gold or worldly store,
But Pallas-like will e'er defend,
Alike for foe, or trusted friend,
The rights on which morals depend,
Is character I much adore.

A man who rises by his worth
And not through fortune-favored birth,
Who owns himself, though all the earth
May bribes around him pour,
Who wears distinction's jeweled crown,
But not from trampling others down,
Or acts that cause Justice to frown,
Is character I much adore.

The teacher who sees soul and mind
In pleasing harmony combined
Within the clay to be refined,
And scans it o'er and o'er,
That through instruction, skill, and love,
It may expand and so improve,
To honor earth and heaven above,
Is character I much adore.

The man of God who feels no loss
To bear the burden of the cross
Though waves of fury round him toss,
That sometimes hide the shore;
Who guides alike the rich and poor
Toward Him who said, "I am the Door,"
And bids them come though sick and sore,
Is character I much adore.

The man who fills a humble lot
As best he can, and murmurs not
At what he has, or has not got,
But uses all his power
To elevate his work and life,
And knows no mean ignoble strife,
With which the world is too much rife,
Is character I much adore.

A faithful wife bent low in prayer
O'er suffering one in wild despair,
While tender hands relief prepare
Upon th' uncovered floor
Of him who cursed her life by drink
And caused her trusting heart to sink
Upon Despair's cold, cheerless brink,
Is character I much adore.

* * * * *

Nature has printed the largest book
That eye has ever seen,
And filled it with colored pictures fair,
In white and gray and green.
She offers it free to all mankind--
Noble, generous deed--
But few there are in its pages rare,
Have ever learned to read.

SOME CHARACTERS I CAN'T ADMIRE.

The seeming saint with long drawn face,
Who thinks that he has so much grace
He should be throned on highest place
To which saints may aspire,
And yet, when dealing with a man,
Will use some vicious, subtle plan
By which a vantage he may gain,
Is character I can't admire.

The zealot who thinks God has given
A delegated power from heaven
To him, to see that men are driven
To escape a burning fire,
Yet draws no souls by filial love,
But deems the world can never move
By holy influence from above,
Is character I can't admire.

The man whose prayer is long and loud,
Whose knee is bent, whose head is bowed--
With worldly goods richly endowed
With all man can desire,
Yet sees a _worthy_ brother fall,
Without responding to his call
For aid to soothe starvation's gall,
Is character I can't admire.

The teacher who devoid of heart,
Unskilled in pedagogic art,
With looks and acts severely tart
Would loathesome tasks require,
Of pupils dulled by daily grind,
Or stirred by words unjust, unkind,
Which leave a canker in the mind,
Is character I can't admire.

The mother who aspires to be
A beacon light of charity,
Regardless of the nursery
Whereof she seems to tire,
Who thinks her husband needs no care,
But drives him wildly toward despair
By meagre love, and frigid fare,
Is character I can't admire.

The husband who spends days and nights
In low resorts, mid brawls and fights,
In which his heart greatly delights,
But stops not to inquire,
If wife and child have needed care,
Or from his draughts he may not spare
The pittance they should justly share,
Is character I can't admire,

The millionaire who doth obtain
His wealth by brawn and muscle strain
Of those he poorly doth maintain
Through scanty meed and hire,
Who will not justly, freely give
A recompense whereby may live
In health, the man who makes him thrive
Is character I can't admire.

The man who feels no poignant ruth
At the dethronement of a truth,
That to old age from tender youth
Has felt no fervid ire
When hate and envy swayed the tongue,
And took no pride in checking wrong,
No matter where it may belong,
Is character I can't admire.

The man who lives for self alone,
The man whose truth and honor 've flown,
The man who hears a fellow groan
Or sees a soul expire,
And lifts no friendly hand to aid,
No sympathy of soul betrayed,
No fevered brow with balm allayed,
Are characters I can't admire.

ON BROOKLYN BRIDGE.

I stood upon the slender link
That joins two cities into one,
And saw from thence the storm-clouds drink
Their moisture from the sun.

I watched their lowering, frowning edge,
Girt round with silver band,
Saw castles tall and towering ledge
Assume their forms so grand.

I saw the marshalled hosts of heaven
Join for the mighty fray,
Their ranks by tempest-winds were driven
Along their dark highway.

High in the heavens the giant forms
Of chariots, horsemen, towers stand,
Whose home is ever 'mid the storms--
When chaos reigns, most grand.

I saw the fragments of the cloud
Join with the nucleus form,
Cirrus to Nimbus quickly bowed--
Sure harbinger of storm.

These were but outward signs I saw,
Portending danger, strife, and fear,
Yet still I knew by Nature's law,
Beyond the clouds, 'twas clear.

In spite of cloud and storm and strife,
Of tempests wild, severe,
There's sunshine in our daily life,
If one true heart is near.

No battle vanquishes the _true_,
E'en thought of death is sweet
To him whose soul would e'er subdue
The scorpion-sting--deceit.

One trusting, true, and tender heart
Can cure a thousand ills,
Extract the poison from the dart
Of malice e'er it kills.

Oh, marshalled hosts of warring clouds!
Teach me this truth to know,
There's light beyond, though trouble shrouds
The valley here below.

THEIR LIFE IS WHAT THEY MAKE IT.

Let melancholy mortals grieve
And tell their tale of sorrow,
Their gloomy spirits to relieve,
But all returns to-morrow;
For all the while they court their grief,
Unwilling to forsake it,
And in the way they seek relief,
Their life is what they make it.

They brood o'er sorrow day by day,
With dreams they are affrighted,
But never strive to cast away
What most their spirits blighted;
And if fair fortune chance to smile
And give no cause for sorrow,
They're not content to rest awhile,
But off they go and borrow.

Avoiding all life's pleasant ways
Their life is always clouded,
They see no happy sunny days,
For all in gloom is shrouded;
They never see the flowers that bloom
As on Life's road they ramble,
But in the darkest paths of gloom
Are seeking for a bramble.

The pleasures of this life do not
Depend on its surrounding,
But if the heart's trained as it ought,
Content will be abounding;
The silent heart's the seat of joy,
And by continual training
Life's trials scarcely will annoy
The soul where peace is reigning.

Then tell me not Fate made them so,
And they cannot avoid it,
That all their life is doomed to woe,
And they have not alloyed it;
For all the while they court their grief,
Unwilling to forsake it,
And in the way they seek relief,
Their life is what they make it.

* * * * *

The atmosphere may be redolent
With fragrance from some happy soul
Whose unconscious influence has sent
Attractive power, like magnetic pole,
Till laugh of bright eyes is contagious,
Infectious, the mirth of a smile,
And the ominous brow umbrageous,
Casts aside its lowerings vile.

THE LONE BIRD.

A solitary bird was seen by the writer, making its toilsome flight against a strong storm-wind. The peculiar undulating flight, the gathering darkness of the night, and the portentous indications of storm suggested this:

Whither away on such winged undulations,
Breasting the winds and the tempests wild glee,
Lifting your form in graceful vibrations
As onward you move like a billowy sea?

Alone, all alone, on wing wide extended,
Nerved for the tempest that sounds not afar,
Night her dark mantle o'er earth has suspended,
Thro' which may not shine e'en the light of one star.

Stop, lonely wanderer, and tell me why mateless,
Tell me the story of your solitude;
God, e'en a bird has not left so fateless
But somewhere there lives a companion for you.

Tell me if death has robbed you of treasures
That sweetened the tone of your vesper song;
Tell me if fears have destroyed all the pleasures
Which justice and right say to you should belong.

Tell me, yes, tell me, and tell me most truly,
Is there just cause why your flight is alone?
Is there some stain whereby you are duly
Debarred from the pleasures that should be your own?

Still but your wing and confide me the story,
Chant it to me in a short plaintive song;
Perhaps it may speak of a sweet transient glory
That faded and died 'mid disaster and wrong.

Perhaps I may speak some word that has healing
For solitude's wounds, e'en sweet tho' they be,
For sorrows augment by sacred concealing,
And steal from the heart ev'ry wish to be free.

Dear blessed bird! you have stopped at my pleading,
My soul aids my ears to catch your sweet tone:
"If life is not sweetened by presence and breeding,
'Tis better by far to travel alone.

"I have learned as my wings have borne me thro' groves
Where gods their ambrosial nectar sip,
That the heart's best experience ever proves,
Joy comes not from _presence_, but _companionship_."

A LESSON FROM NATURE.

O who has not felt his gay heart beat with gladness,
As forth he has wandered some morning in May?
It drives away care and relieves us from sadness,
It cheers the lone heart and makes us feel gay.

We see how all Nature rejoices around us,
The plants as they spring from the earth seem to smile,
The fresh growing leaves of the groves now surround us,
And soft sounds of Spring-time unite to beguile.

The earth is now teeming with bright vegetation,
The early spring flowers are now in their bloom,
And where'er we look there appears animation
Just bursting the cells of the last winter's tomb.

The soft breeze of May-day, we welcome it near us,
As filled with rich fragrance it comes thro' the trees,
And the bright feathered songsters apparently fear us
No more than the odors that float on the breeze.

They tune their sweet voices and sing their devotion,
Their hearts seem so light, so merry and free,
That ideal beauty graces each motion,
While they playfully dart from bush and from tree.

Our hearts beat with rapture too great for expression
While viewing sweet Nature, so lovely, so gay,
And hearing those sweet lulling sounds in succession,
We wished in our joy it always were May.

Thus tempted to linger and spend one short hour,
In looking around us in bliss most supreme,
We found a choice spot in a fine shady bower,
Where near it there murmured a bright silver stream.

From this lovely spot we intently were watching
The scenes that surround us on this merry May,
Every strain of grove-music our ears were now catching,
And we saw every movement that came in our way.

A sweet, tiny bird on a twig near the river,
Was warbling softly his choice matin lay,
While near on a branch we soon did discover
A serpent preparing to make him his prey.

Then glancing the eye to a branch that was near them,
We saw there a nest that contained a young brood;
While this parent bird was singing to cheer them,
The other returned to the nest with their food.

The worm which she held in her beak she soon gave them,
Then off in the thicket she darted again,
To seek for their food, and from hunger relieve them;
But on her return how great was her pain!

For while she had wandered, this serpent intruder
Had charmed her loved mate, as he sat on the spray,
His sweet song had ceased, and his notes became ruder,
But his fluttering wings could not bear him away.

We flew to the rescue--struck down the invader
Before the sweet songster had yielded his life,
Put an end to this cunning and mischievous raider,
And quieted all of the songster's great strife.

We learned from the scenes of this morning's ramble
That moments of happiness soon may decay;
While plucking the flowers to beware of the bramble,
Which hid among blossoms may sadly betray.

We learned that the joys of this world are not lasting;
That what we call pleasure may be a vain show;
While joys seem the sweetest they only are blasting,
And happiness frequently ends in great woe.

We learned that when Nature seems most to invite us,
To build some fond hope on some loved scheme of ours,
That there may be sadness preparing to blight us,
Which evades all our watchings, defies all our powers.

MY MOTHER'S LOVE.

Nine months after writing this poem, my mother died, Dec. 21st, 1894.

My vision eye beholds a form,
Bent low by years of life's fierce storm,
That moves with feeble tread;
Though time has worn that weary frame
The heart still keeps its sacred flame
True, undiminished.

No power but Death can ever quell--
No mortal tongue can ever tell
A mother's boundless love;
'Tis shadowed in the secret sigh,
Or in the moisture of the eye--
E'en silence, it may prove.

Itself and I had but one birth,
It came from heaven to gladden earth--
And brighten man's abode;
To feel the magic of its power
Is richer boon than any dower
The earth has yet bestowed.

Favored in this has been my lot;
Relentless Death has robbed me not--
Though fifty years have flown,
Of all the ecstasy and joy
That came to me when but a boy,
Or since to manhood grown,

Of that benign maternal smile,
Whose magic influence can beguile
My heart from worldly care,
And lead me toward that beacon-light
Of motive pure and act aright,
No matter when or where.

O blessed influence of the past!
May all my mother's counsels last
Until my heart shall cease
To send its crimson current round
The tenement wherein 'tis bound,
And Death shall bring release.

Still let these visions come to me
Of her I would so gladly see
Though far from her I roam;
They bring sweet memory of the past,
Which but a few more years may last,
Of happiness and home.

THE EVENING BEFORE MY BROTHER'S FIFTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY.

Dear Brother, how the time speeds on
And leaves its trace upon our forms;
The days of sunny youth are gone
And age unfits us for the storms
That gather oft for you and me--
To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

It seems but yesterday since youth
Was all aglow within our hearts,
But still we recognized the truth,
Old age has pierced us with his darts
Until from pains we are not free--
To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

Long years of toil and anxious care
Have left their records all too plain;
The failing eye, the snowy hair,
The limbs and body racked with pain,
Tell tales that all the world can see--
To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

Still on life's battlefield we'll fight
And win such victories as we may,
Believing still that right is might
And faithful hearts shall win the day;
Then let us shout and sing with glee--
To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

And when a few more days are past
And we are bowed with years and care,
The cheerful sunshine still may last
To make declining years more fair;
Ah! much I hope that this may be--
To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

'Tis sweet to think of boyhood's days
And all the happiness they gave,
To summon back life's earliest plays
And call lost childhood from its grave;
Thus memory gives us victory--
To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

Since manhood's form was given me
Until this hour, our ways have been
In different lines of industry,
And scarce have we each other seen;
Your birthday's held in memory--
To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

MY BROTHER'S BIRTHDAY.

Fifty-eight to-day, fifty-eight to-day!
How years of your life have sped away,
And left in the brown of the dying year
A quiet content, devoid of fear
At the onward march of Time's noiseless feet,
Which ever advance, but ne'er retreat,
As they bear you on to that silent shore,
From which earth's mortals return no more.

With the night of time come the sunset cares,
The faltering step, the snowy hairs,
The tottering frame, and the stifled breath,
Sure harbingers of approaching death,
That bring with their train a tranquil repose
Unknown to the tears and sighs and woes
That belong to scenes of an active life,
Whose atmosphere breathes of toil and strife.

As glorious day dies out in the west
And sinks in crimson splendor to rest,
While the stars of heaven come one by one
With reflected light from th' sinking sun,
So may life with you in its late decline,
Leave a trail of light that yet may shine
To illumine the path that others tread,
And cheer the way of the vanquished.

TO MY DAUGHTER BLANCHE IN HEAVEN.

Died Jan. 4th, 1893, aged 11 years.

Darling of my bosom,
Pride of my loving heart,
Hopes were sorely shattered
When I saw your life depart;
In you I saw my future,
Cheered by your smile and voice,
Sorrow ceased its frowning,
My spirit would rejoice.

Life was made much brighter
By your presence sweet;
At your cheery coming
Heart-shadows would retreat;
Soulful songs with meanings
Beyond your years were sung;
To chords of sweetest rapture
Your heart-strings e'er were strung.

From out the realms of heav'n
Still you speak to me,
And fancy draws the curtain
That I your face may see;
Perhaps in the hereafter
I yet may fully know
The purpose of your going,
Your mission here below.

THE VOICE.

To me comes a voice that none other
Hath power to hear or to know,
Its cadence so sweet and consoling
Is a whisper so gentle and low,
That the flight of an angel might covet
The silence it bears in its tone;
It speaks to me often, to comfort
My heart when I sit all alone.

I oft close my eyes at the twilight
And that voice comes floating to me
Like the song of some fairy creature
That dwells in a pearl-lighted sea;
When the shades of midnight infold me
That voice lulls me gently to rest,
And tells me the time is not distant
When my spirit shall dwell as its guest.

When shadows of night are departing
And smiling Aurora appears,
That voice of sweet invitation
Falls soothingly into my ears;
A form that I fondly cherish
Like a vision of beauty I see,
That comes on an angelic mission
With counsel and solace for me.

How sweet is the voice that is calling--
Is calling in rapture to me
And leading me close to the border
Where into its home I can see!
It tells me the land is not distant,
That soon when my boat I must launch,
I shall know the voice that is calling,
Is the voice my lost darling Blanche.

* * * * *

When Liberty lies wounded,
And shrieks in wild despair,
Then patriots will cast aside
The party garb they wear,
And honest hands and hearts unite,
To wash away the stain
That narrow-minded partisans
Would selfishly maintain.

Dear Goddess of our fathers!
Our hands shall e'er maintain
The sacred trust of keeping free
The realm where thou dost reign;
And counting not our lives too dear
To offer unto thee,
We dedicate all that we are
To our sweet Liberty.

A PICTURE.

I sat by the farm-house window
When the winter's sun was low,
And looked on the clear horizon
O'er fields white-crested with snow.

A tree with its arms outstretching,
Was limned on the distant sky,
And my fancy saw a picture
Such as gold can never buy.

Perhaps to no other vision
Could the scene be just the same,
For blendings in the picture
Had on me a special claim.

My mother oft had looked upon
That fair picture in the west,
While sitting in that self-same chair,
Ere she laid her down to rest.

This gave a charm to the picture
Of especial power to me,
And my vision saw a painting
That none else on earth could see.

I can close my eyes at twilight
Though now many miles away,
And see that lovely horizon
At close of expiring day.

I can see the true formation
Of each rock and tree and field,
In a perfect panorama
That time has not yet concealed.

It is not an idle fancy
For me now to paint the scene,
Since my mother's form has faded
From the place where she has been.

I know it affords me comfort
To recall from day to day,
That scene from the farm-house window,
Since my mother passed away.

MY ROOM IN BOYHOOD'S DAYS.

After forty years.

Sacred these walls wherein I find
Myself inclosed once more;
Here in youth's pride my ardent mind
On nightly tasks would pore.

Sweet were these tasks, for mental power
Comes with each duty done;
And ray of light charmed midnight's hour
When thought its victory won.

Oft did the battle seem severe,
Sometimes defeat seemed nigh,
But pride and love must persevere
When all our powers we try.

Struggles bring a development
That will not brook defeat;
Within us dwells an element
That makes just contest sweet.

If barriers in our mental path
Stand like a sullen foe,
Summon the soul, in righteous wrath
Strike a decisive blow,

And spare not till the victory
Puts ignorance to flight;
And let the battle-cry e'er be
Science and Truth and Right!