Chapter VI (1)

O radiant June, in wealth of light and air,
With leaf and bud and blossom everywhere,
Let all bright tokens affluent combine,
And round the bridal pair in splendor shine;
Let sweethearts coy and lovers fond and true
On this glad day their tender vows renew,
And all in wedlock's bond rejoice as they
Whom God hath joined for aye.

A Fowl Affair.

I hope I'm not too orthodox
To give a joke away,
That took me like the chicken-pox
And left a debt to pay.

Let argument ignore the cost,
If it be dear or cheap,
And only claim that naught be lost
When it's too good to keep.

The proverb says "All flesh is grass,"
But this I do deny,
Because of that which came to pass,
But not to pass me by.

A body weighing by the pound
Inside of half a score,
In case and cordage safely bound,
Was landed at my door.

What could it be? for friends are slack,
And give, I rather trow,
When they are sure of getting back
As much as they bestow.

My hair, at thought of dark design,
Or dynamitish fate,
Stood up like quills of porcupine,
But more than twice as straight.

Anon, I mused on something rare,
Like duck or terrapin,
But dreamed not, of the parcel, there
Might be a pullet-in.

A mighty jerk,--the string that broke
The fowl affair revealed,
The victim of a cruel choke,
Its neck completely peeled.

The biped in its paper cof-
Fin, cramped and plump and neat,
Had scratched its very toenails off
In making both ends meat.

The only part I always ate,
That never made me ill,
Had gone away decapitate
And carried off the bill.

I pondered o'er the sacrifice,
The merry-thought, the wings,
On giblet gravy, salad nice,
And chicken-pie-ous things.

In heat of Fahrenheit degree
Two hundred twelve or more,
Where its grandsire, defying me,
Had crowed the year before,

I thrust it with a hope forlorn,--
I knew what toughness meant,
And sighed that ever I was born
To die of roasting scent.

But presto! what _dénouement_ grand
Of cookery sublime!
'Twas done as by the second hand,
The drumsticks beating thyme.

And now the moral--he who buys
Will comprehend its worth,--
Look not so much to weight and size
As to the date of birth.

In fowls there is a difference;
"The good die young," they say,
And for the death of innocence
To make us meat, we pray.

Holiday Home.

Of all the sweet visions that come unto me
Of happy refreshment by land or by sea,
Like oases where in life's desert I roam,
Is nothing so pleasant as Holiday Home.

I climb to the top of the highest of hills
And look to the west with affectionate thrills,
And fancy I stand by the emerald side
Of charming Geneva, like Switzerland's pride.

In distant perspective unruffled it lies,
Except for the packet that paddles and plies,
And puffing its way like a pioneer makes
Its daily go-round o'er this pearl of the lakes.

Untroubled except for the urchins that come
From many a haunt that is never a home,
Instinctive as ducklings to swim and to wade,
Scarce knowing aforetime why water was made.

All placid except for the dip of the oar
Of the skiff, or the barge striking out from the shore,
While merry excursionists shout till the gale
Reverberates laughter through rigging and sail.

How it scallops its basin and shimmers and shines
Like a salver of silver encompassed with vines,
In crystal illusion reflecting the skies
And the mountain that seems from its bosom to rise.

There stands a great house on a summit so high,
Like an eyrie of safety enroofed by the sky;
And I think of the rest and the comfort up there
To sleep, and to breathe that empyreal air.

Oh, the charm of the glen and the stream and the wood
Can never be written, nor be understood,
Except by the weary and languid who come
To bask in the quiet of Holiday Home.

From prisonlike cellars unwholesome and drear,
From attic and alley, from labor severe,
For the poor and the famished doth kindness prepare
A world of diversion and excellent fare.

To swing in the hammock, disport in the breeze,
To lie in the shade of magnificent trees--
Oh, this is like quaffing from luxury's bowl
The life-giving essence for body and soul!

Nor distance nor time shall efface from the mind
The influence gentle, the ministry kind;
While gratitude fondly enhallows the thought
Of a home and a holiday never forgot.

Ah, one is remembered of saintliest men
To lovely Geneva who comes not again;
Who left a sweet impress wherever he trod,
Humanity's helper, companion of God.

In the hearts of the many there sheltered and fed,
As unto a hospice by Providence led,
Does often a thought like a sunbeam intrude
Of the bounty so free, and the donors so good?

Who of their abundance have cheerfully given
Wherewith to develop an embryo heaven--
To brighten conditions too hard and too sad
And make the unhappy contented and glad.

Be blessedness theirs, who like knights of renown
Thus scatter such largesse o'er country and town,
Their monument building in many a dome
Like healthful and beautiful Holiday Home.

Rutha.

The days are long and lonely,
The weary eve comes on,
And the nights are filled with dreaming
Of one beloved and gone.

I reach out in the darkness
And clasp but empty air,
For Rutha dear has vanished--
I wonder, wonder where.

Yet must it be: her nature
So lovely, pure, and true;
So nearly like the angels,
Is she an angel too.

The cottage is dismantled
Of all that made it bright;
Beyond its silent portal
No love, nor life, nor light.

Where are the hopes I cherished,
The joys that once I knew,
The dreams, the aspirations?
All, all are perished too.

Yes, love's dear chain is broken;
From shore to shore I roam--
No comfort, no companion,
No happiness, no home.

Oh could I but enfold her
Unto my heart once more,
If aught could e'er restore me
My darling as before;

If God would only tell me--
Such myriads above--
Why He must needs have taken
The one I loved to love;

If God would only tell me
Why multitudes are left,
Unhappy and unlovely,
And I am thus bereft;

If--O my soul, be silent
And some day thou shalt see
Through mystery and shadow,
And know why it must be.

To every cry of anguish
From every heart distressed,
Can be no other answer
Than this--God knoweth best.

The Student Gone.

So soon he fell, the world will never know
What possibilities within him lay,
What hopes irradiated his young life,
With high ambition and with ardor rife;
But ah! the speedy summons came, and so
He passed away.

So soon he fell, there lie unfinished plans
By others misapplied, misunderstood;
And doors are barred that wait the master-key--
That wait his magic Open Sesame!--
To that assertive power that commands
The multitude.

Too soon he fell! Was he not born to prove
What manhood and integrity might be--
How one from all base elements apart
Might walk serene, in purity of heart,
His face the bright transparency of love
And sympathy?

The student ranks are closed, there is no gap;
Of other brave aspirants is no dearth;
Prowess, fidelity, and truth go on,
And few shall miss or mourn the student gone,
Reposing in the all-protecting lap
Of Mother Earth.

Too soon--O God! was it thy will that one
Of such endeavor and of noble mien,
Enrapt with living, should thus early go
From all he loved and all who loved him so,
Mid life's activities no longer known,
No longer seen?

Oh, not for aye should agonizing lips
Quiver with questionings they dare not frame;
Though in the dark penumbra of despair
Seemeth no light, nor comfort anywhere--
All things enshadowed as in dense eclipse,
No more the same.

Could we but know, in that Elysian lore
Of happy exercise still going on
Could we but know of glorious heights attained,
Of his reward, of mysteries explained,--
Ah! but to know were to lament no more
The student gone.

The Tourist.

Lo! carpet-bag and bagger occupy the land,
And prove the touring season actively begun;
His personnel and purpose can none misunderstand,
For each upon his frontlet bears his honest brand--
The fool-ish one!

By caravan and car, from country and from town,
A great grasshopper army fell foraging the land;
Like bumblebees that know not where to settle down,
Impossible it is to curb or scare or drown
The tourist band.

With guidebook, camera, with rod and gun, to shoot,
To lure the deer, the hare, the bird, the speckled trout,
The pauper or the prince unbidden they salute,
And everywhere their royal right dare none dispute--
To roam about.

From dark immuring walls and dingy ways of trade,
From high society's luxurious stately homes,
From lounging places by the park or promenade,
From rural dwellings canopied in sylvan shade,
The tourist comes.

To every mountain peak within the antipodes,
To sweet, sequestered spots no other mortal knows;
To every island fair engirt by sunny seas,
To forest-centers unexplored by birds or bees,
The tourist goes.

For Summer's fingers all the land have richly dressed,
Resplendent in regalia of scent and bloom,
And stirred in every heart the spirit of unrest,
Like that of untamed fledglings in the parent nest
For ampler room.

What is it prompts the roving mania--is it love
Of wild adventure fanciful, unique, and odd?
Is it to be in fashion, and to others prove
One's social standing, that impels the madness of
The tramp abroad?

The question hangs unanswered, like an unwise prayer,
Importunate, but powerless response to bring;
Go ask the voyagers, the rovers everywhere--
They only say it is their rest-time, outing, their
Vacationing.

So is the world's eccentric round of joy complete
When happy tourist-traveler, no more to roam,
His fascinating, thrilling story shall repeat
To impecunious, luckless multitudes who greet
The tourist home.

The Antiquarian.

Millions have been and passed from view
Benignity who never knew;
No aspiration theirs, nor aim;
Existence soulless as the clay
From whence they sprang, what right have they
To eulogy or fame?

So multitudes have been forgot--
But drones or dunces, good for naught;
Like clinging parasites or burrs
Taking from others all they dared,
Yet little they for others cared
Except as pilferers.

Not so with that majestic man
The all-round antiquarian--
No model his nor parallel;
From selfishness inviolate
Are his achievements good and great,
And thus shall ages tell.

A love for the antiquities
His honest hold, his birthright is!
And things unheard of or unread,
Defaced by moth or rust or mold,
To him are treasures more than gold,
Ay, than his daily bread.

At neither ghost nor ghoul aghast
He echoes voices of the past,
And tones like melancholy knells
Of years departed to his ear
Are sweeter than of kindred dear,
Sweeter than Florimel's.

He delves through centuries of dust
To resurrect some unknown bust,
A torso, or a goddess whole;
Maybe like Venus, minus arms--
Haply to find those missing charms;
But not the lost, lost soul.

He dotes on aborigines
Who lived in caves and hollow trees,
And barters for their trinkets rare;
Exchanging with those dusky breeds
For arrow-heads and shells and beads
A scalplock of his hair.

Had he been born--thus he laments--
Along with other great events,
Coeval say with Noah's flood,
A proud relationship to trace
With Hittites--or with any race
Of blue archaic blood!

Much he adores that Pilgrim flock,
The same that split old Plymouth rock,
Their "Bay Psalm" when they tried to sing.
Devoid of metre, sense, and tune,
Who but a Puritanic loon
Could have devised the thing?

He revels in a pedigree,
The sprouting of a noble tree
'Way back in prehistoric times;
And for the "Family Record" true
Of scions all that ever grew
Would give a billion dimes.

There is a language fossils speak:
'Tis not like Latin, much less Greek,
But quite as dead and antiquate
Its silent syllables, and cold;
But ah, what meanings they unfold,
What histories relate!

The earthquake is his best ally--
It shows up things he cannot buy,
And gives him raw material
For making mastodons and such,
Enough to beat that ancient "Dutch
Republic's Rise and Fall."

A piece of bone can never lie:
A rib, a femur, or a thigh
Is but a dislocated sign
Of something hybrid, half and half
Betwixt a crocodile and calf--
Maybe a porcupine.

The stately "Antiquarium"
Is his emporium, his home.
He wonders if when he is gone
Will people look with mournful pride
On him done up and classified,
And the right label on.

He dreams of an emblazoned page,
The calendar of every age
Down from Creation's primal dawn;
With archetypes of spears and bones,
And tons of undeciphered stones
Its illustrations drawn.

Labor a blessing, not a curse,
His hunting ground the Universe,
So much the more his nature craves
To sound the fathoms of the sea:
What mighty wonders there must be
Down in those hidden caves!

So toils this dauntless man, alert
Amid the ruins and the dirt,
That other men to endless day
Themselves uplifted from the clod
May see, and learn and know that God
Is greater far than they.

And thus, of mighty ken and plan,
The all-round antiquarian
Pursues his happy ministry;
And on the world's progressive track
Advances, always going back--
Back to antiquity.

Poor Housekeeping.

If there is one gift that I prize above others,
That tinges with brightness whatever I do,
And gives to the sombre a roseate hue,
'Tis a legacy mine from the nicest of mothers,
Who haply the beauty of housewifery knew,
And taught me her neatness and diligence too.

So is my discomfort a house in disorder:
The service uncleanly, the linen distained,
The children like infantry rude and untrained;
The portieres dusty and frayed at the border,
By lavish expenses the pocketbook drained,
And miseries numberless never explained.

I dream not of pleasure in visions untidy,
A wrapper all hole-y, a buttonless shoe,
A slatternly matron with nothing to do;
And all the ill-luck charged to ominous Friday
Can never compare with the ills that ensue
On wretched housekeeping and cookery too.

There's many a husband, a patient bread-winner,
Gets up from the table with look of despair,
And something akin to the growl of a bear;
Not the saint he might be, but a querulous sinner--
One driven to fasting but not unto prayer--
Till epitaphed thus--"Indigestible Fare."

There's many a child, from the roof-tree diurnal,
A scene of distraction or dullness severe,
With the longing of youth for diversion and cheer,
That comes like the spring-time refreshing and vernal,
Goes out on a ruinous, reckless career,
Returning, if ever, not many a year.

O negligent female, imperfect housekeeper,
Though faultless in figure and charming of face,
In ruffles of ribbon and trailings of lace
Usurping the part of a common street-sweeper,
You never can pose as a type of your race
In frowsy appearance mid things out of place.

O fashion-bred damsel, with folly a-flutter,
Until you have learned how to manage a broom,
If never you know how to tidy a room,
Manipulate bread or decide about butter,
The duties of matron how dare you assume,
Or ever be bride to a sensible groom?

I covet no part with that army of shirkers
All down at the heels in their slipper-y tread,
Who hunt for the rolling-pin under the bed,
Who look with disdain on intelligent workers
And take to the club or the circus instead
Of mending a stocking or laying the spread.

Oh, I dream of a system of perfect housekeeping,
Where mistress and helper together compete
In excellent management, quiet and neat;
And though in the bosom of earth I am sleeping,
Shall somebody live to whom life will be sweet
And home an ideal, idyllic retreat.

Going to Tobog.

Into my disappointment-cup
The snowflakes fell and blocked the road,
And so I thought I'd finish up
The latest style of Christmas ode;
When she, the charming little lass
With eyes as bright as isinglass,
Before a line my pen had wrought
In strange attire came bounding in,
As if she had with Bruno fought,
And robbed him of his shaggy skin.

She came to me robed _cap-à-pie_
In her bewitching "blanket-suit,"
In moccasin and toggery,
All ready for "that icy chute,"
And asked me if I thought she'd do;
I shake with love of mischief true:
"For what?--a polar bear?--why, yes!"
"No, no!" she said, with half a pout.
"Why, one would think so, by your dress--
Say, does your mother know you're out?"

"No, I'm not out," she said, and sighed;
"Because the storm so wildly raged--
But for the first delightful ride
For half a year I've been engaged."
"Engaged to what?--an Esquimau?
To ride a glacier, or a floe?"
"Why, don't you know"--her color glowed,
In expectation all agog--
"The reason why I'm glad it snowed?
Because--I'm going to tobog."

"Passer Le Temps."

So _that's_ the way you pass your time!
Indeed your charming, frank confession
Betrays no sort of heinous crime,
But marks a wonderful digression
From puritanic views, less bold,
That we were early taught to hold.

"_Passer le temps_," of course, implies
A little cycle of flirtations,
Wherein the actors never rise
To sober, serious relations,
But play just for amusement's sake
A harmless game of "give and take."

While moments pass on pinions fleet,
And youth in beauty effloresces,
The joy that finds itself complete
In honeyed words and soft caresses,
Alas! an index seems to be
Of perilous inconstancy.

It may be with disdainful smile
You greet this comment from a stranger,
Your pleasure-paths pursuing while
A siren voice discounts the danger,
Until, some day, in sadder rhyme
You rue your mode of "passing time."

The Torpedo.

Valiant sons of the sea,
All the vast deep, your home,
Holds no terror so dread
As this novel and unseen foe,
Lurking under the foam
Of some dangerous channel--
As the torpedo, the scourge of ships.

Through the rigging may roar
Æolus' thousand gales,
Yet the mariner's heart
Shrinketh not from the howling blast;
Though with battle-rent sails,
Flames and carnage around him,
Cowardice never shall pale his lips.

But when powers concealed,
Threatening with death the crew,
Pave each eddy below,
E'en the bravest are chilled with fear,
Lest yon wizard in blue,
Who their progress is spying,
Touch but the key with his finger-tips.

Lo! with thunderous boom
Towers a column bright,
And the vessel is gone!
In that ocean of blinding spray
Sink her turrets from sight,
By thy potency broken,
O irresistible scourge of ships!

--_Harry Howard._

Margaret.

I saw her for a moment,
Her presence haunts me yet,
In oft-recurring visions
Of grace and gladness met
That marked the sweet demeanor
Of dainty Margaret.

Like gossamer her robe was
Around her lightly drawn,
A filmy summer-garment
That fairy maidens don
To make them look like angels
Croqueting on the lawn.

The mallet-sport became her
In hue of exercise
That tinged her cheek with roses;
And, dancing in her eyes,
Were pantomime suggestions
Of having won--a prize.

No more to me a stranger
Is she who occupies
A place in all my musings;
And brings in tender guise
A thought of one so like her--
Long years in Paradise.

Dear Margaret! that "pearl-name"
Is thine--and may it be
The synonym of goodness,
Of truth and purity,
And all ennobling graces
Exemplified in thee.

Christmas Bells.

Ring out, O bells, in joyful chime!
Again we hail the Christmas time;
In melting, mellow atmosphere,
The crown and glory of the year.

When bitterness, distrust, and awe
Dissolve, like ice in winter's thaw,
Beneath the genial touches of
Amenity, good will, and love.

When flowers of affection grow,
Like edelweiss mid alpine snow,
In lives severe and beautiless,
Unused to warmth or tenderness.

Let goodness, grace, and gratitude
Revive in music's interlude,
And pæan notes, till time shall cease,
Proclaim the blessed reign of peace.

Ring, Christmas bells! for at the sound
Sweet memories of Him abound
Who laid aside a diadem
To be the babe of Bethlehem.

By the Sea.

I am longing to dwell by the sea,
And dip in the surf every day,
And--height of subaqueous glee--
With the sharks and the porpoises play.

To novelty ever inclined--
Instead of a calm evening sail,
'Twould suit my adventurous mind
To ride on the back of a whale.

I want to disport on the rocks
Like a mythical mermaiden belle,
And comb out my watery locks,
Then dive to my cavernous cell.

I want to discover what lends
Such terror to all timid folks--
That serpent whose mystery tends
To make one believe it a hoax.

They say he's been captured at last;
The news is too good to be true--
He's slippery, cunning, and fast,
And likes notoriety too.

Once had I such longings to be
A sailor--those wishes are o'er,
But ever in dreams of the sea
My horoscope rests on the shore.

Oh, give me a home by the sea--
A cottage, a cabin, a tent!
Existence should ecstasy be
Till summer were joyfully spent.

A Song.

Oh, sing me a merry song!
My heart is sad tonight;
The day has been so drear and long,
The world has gone awry and wrong,
Discouragements around me throng,
And gloom surpassing night.

Oh, sing again the song for me
My mother used to sing
When I, a child beside her knee,
Looked up for her sweet sympathy,
Nor ever thought how I might be
Her little hindering thing.

Oh, sing, as eventide draws near,
The old-time lullabys
Grandmother sang--forever dear,
Though in her grave this many a year
She lies who "read her title clear
To mansions in the skies."

Oh, sing till all perplexing care
Has vanished with the day!
And angels ever bright and fair
Come down the melody to share,
And on their pinions lightly bear
My happy soul away.

"Is It April?"

No, this is January, dear,
The almanac's untrue;
For roaring Boreas, 'tis clear,
In sleet and snow and atmosphere,
Will be the monarch of the year,
And terror, too.

"Is it a blessing in disguise?"
Of course, things always are;
But Arctic blasts with ardent skies
Somehow do not quite harmonize,
That try to cheat by weather-lies
The calendar.

Old Janus must be double-faced;
He promised long ago
The maple syrup not to taste,
Nor steal the roses from the waist
Of one, a damsel fair and chaste
As April snow.

O winter of our discontent!
Your reign was for a day;
Behold! a scene of wonderment,
A thousand tongues are eloquent,
For spring, in bud and bloom and scent,
Is on the way.

Christmas-Tide.

Let working-clothes be laid aside,
And Industry in festal garb arrayed;
Let busy brain and hand from toil and trade
Relax at Christmas-tide.

As moments pass by dial, so
Let gifts go round the happy circle where
In giving and receiving each may share,
And mutual kindness show.

The meaning deep, like mystery,
That lies in holly-bough or mistletoe,
May thousands never fathom--yet who know
And hail the Christmas-tree.

So strong a hold on human thought
Has this glad day that seasons all the year
With the rich flavoring of hearty cheer,
It ne'er shall be forgot.

It is the milestone on life's road
Where we may lay our burdens down, and take
A look at souvenirs, for love's dear sake
So prettily bestowed.

Upon its shining tablet we may write--
If, like the good Samaritan, in deed--
A record that the angel band shall read
With impulse of delight.

And this is why on Christmas morn
The world should smile and wear its brightest glow:
Because some nineteen hundred years ago
A little child was born.

January, 1885.

These winter days are passing fair!
As if a breath of spring
Had permeated all the air,
And touched each living thing
With thankfulness for such a boon--
Discounting with a scoff
The almanac's report that "June
Is yet a long way off!"

We quarrel with the calendar--
For May has been misplaced--
And doubt the tale oracular
Of "Janus, double-faced;"
For this "ethereal mildness" looks
Toward shadowy delights
Of roseate bowers, of cosy nooks,
Of coming thermal nights.

Let robes diaphanous succeed
Dense garments made of fur,
And overcoats maintain the lead--
Among the things that were!
The wisely-rented sealskin sacque,
By many a dame possessed,
Be quickly relegated back
To its moth-haunted chest!

While every portly alderman,
In linen suit arrayed,
Manipulates the palm-leaf fan
And seeks the cooling shade;
And he perspires who not in vain
Suggests his funny squibs,
By poking his unwelcome cane
In other people's ribs.

Who dares to fling opprobrium
On January now?
As to a potentate we come
With reverential bow,
Because it doth not yet appear
That Time hath ever seen
The ruler of th' inverted year
In more benignant mien.

O Boreas! do not lie low--
That is, if "lie" thou must--
Upon our planet; do not blow
With fierce and sudden gust,
But come so gently, tenderly--
As come thou surely wilt--
That we may have sweet dreams of thee,
Beneath "our crazy quilt!"

Sweet Peas.

By helpful fingers taught to twine
Around its trellis, grew
A delicate and dainty vine;
The bursting bud, its blossom sign,
Inlaid with honeyed-dew.

Developing by every art
To floriculture known,
From tares exempt, and kept apart,
Careful, as if in some fond heart
Its legume germs were sown.

So thriving, not for me alone
Its beauty and perfume--
Ah, no, to rich perfection grown
By flower mission loved and known
In many a darkened room.

And once in strange and solemn place,
Mid weeping uncontrolled,
Upon the crushed and snowy lace
I saw them scattered 'round a face
All pallid, still, and cold.

Oh, some may choose, as gaudy shows,
Those saucy sprigs of pride
The peony, the red, red rose;
But give to me the flower that grows
Petite and pansy-eyed.

Thus, meditation on Sweet Peas
Impels the ardent thought,
Would maidens all were more like these,
With modesty--that true heartsease--
Tying the lover's knot.

The Summer House.

Midway upon the lawn it stands,
So picturesque and pretty;
Upreared by patient artist hands,
Admired of all the city;
The very arbor of my dream,
A covert cool and airy,
So leaf-embowered as to seem
The dwelling of a fairy.

It is the place to lie supine
Within a hammock swinging,
To watch the sunset, red as wine,
To hear the crickets singing;
And while the insect world around
Is buzzing--by the million--
No wingèd thing above the ground
Intrudes in this pavilion.

It is the place, at day's decline,
To tell the old, old story
Behind the dark Madeira vine,
Behind the morning glory;
To confiscate the rustic seat
And barter stolen kisses,
For honey must be twice as sweet
In such a spot as this is.

It is the haunt where one may get
Relief from petty trouble,
May read the latest day's gazette
About the "Klondike" bubble:
How shanties rise like golden courts.
Where sheep wear glittering fleeces,
How gold is picked up--by the quartz--
And all get rich as Croesus.

Here hid away from dust and heat,
Secure from rude intrusion,
While willing lips the thought repeat,
So grows the fond illusion:
That happiness the product is
Of lazy, languid dozing,
Of soft midsummer reveries,
Half-waking, half-reposing.

And here in restful interlude,
Life's fallacies forgetting,
Its frailties--such a multitude--
The fuming and the fretting,
Amid the fragrance, dusk, and dew,
The happy soul at even
May walk abroad, and interview
Bright messengers from Heaven.

To Die in Autumn.

The melody of autumn
Is the only tune I know,
And I sing it over and over
Because it thrills me so;
It stirs anew the happy wish,
So near to perfect bliss,
To live a little longer in
A world like this.

The sound was never sweeter,
The voice so nearly mute,
As beauty, dying, loses
Her hold upon the lute;
And like the harmonies that touch
And blend with those above,
Forever must an echo wake
The heart of love.

Her robe of brown and coral
And amber glistens through
Rare jewels of the morning,
The opals of the dew,
Like royal fabrics worn beneath
The tinselry of pearls,
Or diamond dust by fashion strewn
On sunny curls.

If I could wrap such garments
In true artistic style
About myself departing,
And wear as sweet a smile
And be as guileless as the flowers
My friends would never sigh;
'Twould reconcile them to my death
To see me die.

And why should there be sorrow
When dying is no more
Than 'twixt two bright apartments
The opening of a door
Through which the freed, enraptured soul
From this, a paradise,
May pass to that supremely fair
Beyond the skies?

Oh, 'twere not hard to finish
When earth with tender grace
Prepares for her dear children
So sweet a resting place;
And though in dissolution's throe
The melody be riven,
The song abruptly ended here
Goes on in Heaven.

Apple Blossoms.

Of all the lovely blossoms
That decorate the trees,
And shower down their petals
With every breath of breeze,
There is nothing so sweet or fair to me
As the delicate blooms of the apple tree.

A thousand shrubs and flow'rets
Delicious pleasure bring,
But beautiful Pomona
Must be the queen of spring;
And out of her flagon the peach and pear
Their chalices fill with essence rare.

Oh, is it any wonder,
Devoid of blight or flaw,
The peerless blooms of Eden
Our primal mother saw
In redolent beauty before her placed
So tempted fair Eve the fruit to taste?

But woman's love of apples,
Involving fearful price,
And Adam's love for woman
That cost him Paradise,
By the labor of hands and sweat of brow,
Have softened the curse to a blessing now.

If so those pink-eyed glories,
In fields and orchards gay
Develop luscious fruitage
By Horticulture's way,
Then, sweet as the heart of rich legumes,
Shall luxury follow the apple blooms.

Without a Minister.

The congregation was devout,
The minister inspired,
Their attitude to those without
By every one admired,
And all things so harmonious seemed,
Of no calamity we dreamed.

But, just in this quiescent state
A little cloud arose
Portentous of our certain fate--
As everybody knows;
Our pastor took it in his head
His "resignation" must be read.

In every eye a tear-drop stood,
For we accepted it
Reluctantly, but nothing could
Make him recant one bit;
And soon he left for distant parts,
While we were left--with broken hearts.

And next the "patriarch" who led
For nearly three-score years
Our "Sabbath school"--its worthy head--
Rekindled all our fears
By saying, with a smile benign,
"Since it's the fashion, I'll resign!"

And so he did; but promptly came
Forth one, of good report--
"Our Superintendent" is his name--
Who tries to "hold the fort"
With wisdom, tact, and rare good sense,
In this, his first experience.

The world looks on and says, "How strange!
They hang together so,
These Baptists do, and never change,
But right straight onward go
While other flocks are scattering all,
And some have strayed beyond recall!"

Indian Summer.

Is it not our bounden duty
Harsh and bitter thoughts to quell,
Wild, ambitions schemes repel,
And to revel in the beauty
Of this Indian summer spell,
Bathing forest, field, and dell
As with radiance immortelle?

None can paint like nature dying;
Whose dissolving struggle lent
Wealth of hues so richly blent
That, through weary years of trying,
Artist skill pre-eminent
May not copy or invent
Such divine embellishment.

Knights of old from castles riding
Scattered largesse as they went
Which, like manna heaven-sent,
Cheered the poverty-abiding;
But, when 'neath "that low green tent"
Passed the hand benevolent,
Sad were they and indigent.

Monarchs, too, have thus delighted
Giving unto courtiers free,
Costly robes and tinselry;
And, as royal guests, invited
Them to sumptuous halls of glee,
Banqueting and minstrelsy,
Bacchus holding sovereignty.

Then, perchance, in mood capricious
Stripped and scorned and turned away
Those who tasted for a day
Pleasure sweet and food delicious;
Nor might any say them nay--
Lest his head the forfeit pay
Who a king dared disobey.

But our own benignant Giver,
Almoner impartial, true,
Constantly doth gifts renew;
Nor would fitfully deliver
Aught unto the chosen few,
But to all the wide world through,
Who admire his wonders, too.

Never shall the heart be poorer,
Never languish in despair,
That such affluence may share;
For than this is nothing surer--
He hath said, and will prepare
In those realms of upper air
Glories infinitely fair.

Autumn-Time.

Like music heard in mellow chime,
The charm of her transforming time
Upon my senses steals
As softly as from sunny walls,
In day's decline, their shadow falls
Across the sleeping fields.

A fair, illumined book
Is nature's page whereon I look
While "autumn turns the leaves;"
And many a thought of her designs
Between those rare, resplendent lines
My fancy interweaves.

I dream of aborigines,
Who must have copied from the trees
The fashions of the day:
Those gorgeous topknots for the head,
Of yellow tufts and feathers red,
With beads and sinews gay.

I wonder if the saints behold
Such pageantry of colors bold
Beyond the radiant sky;
And if the tints of Paradise
Are heightened by the strange device
Of making all things die.

Yea, even so; for Nature glows
Because of her expiring throes,
As if around her tomb
Unmeet it were,--the look severe
That designates a common bier
Enwreathed in deepest gloom.

And so I meditate if aught
Can be so fair where death is not;
If Heaven's loveliness
Is born of struggle and decay;
And, but for funeral array,
Would it be beautiless?

Oh solemn, sad, sweet mystery
That Earth's unrivaled brilliancy
Is but her splendid pall!
That Heaven were not what it is
But for that crown of tragedies,
The sacrifice for all.

So not a charm would Zion lose
Were it bereft of sparkling hues
In gilded lanes and leas;
It would be bright though not a flower
Unclosed in its celestial bower,
And void of jeweled trees.

Yet, lily-like, one bloom I see,
Its name is his who died for me;
Whose matchless beauty shows
Perfection on its bleeding stem,
The blossom-bud of Bethlehem,
The Resurrection Rose.

The Beauty of Nature.

Oh bud and leaf and blossom,
How beautiful they are!
Than last year's vernal season
'Tis lovelier by far;
This earth was never so enchanting
Nor half so bright before--
But so I've rhapsodized, in springtime,
For forty years or more.

What luxury of color
On shrub and plant and vine,
From pansies' richest purple
To pink of eglantine;
From buttercups to "johnny-jump-ups,"
With deep cerulean eyes,
Responding to their modest surname
In violet surprise.

Sometimes I think the sunlight
That gilds the emerald hills,
And makes Aladdin dwellings
Of dingy domiciles,
Is surplus beauty overflowing
That Heaven cannot hold--
The topaz glitter, or the jacinth,
The glare of streets of gold.

In "Cedar Hill," the city
Of "low green tents" of sod,
I read the solemn record
Of those gone home to God;
While from their hallowed dust arising
The fragrant lilies grow
As if their life was all the sweeter
For those who sleep below.

And so 'tis not in sadness
I dwell upon the thought,
When I am dead and buried
That I shall be forgot.
Because the germ of reproduction
Doth this poor body hold,
Perchance to add to nature's beauty
A rose above the mold.

"All the Rage."

A common wayside flower it grew,
Unhandsome and unnoticed too,
Except in deprecation
That such an herb unreared by toil,
Prolific cumberer of the soil,
Defied extermination.

Its gorgeous blooms were never stirred
By honey-bee nor humming-bird
In their corollas dipping;
But they from clover white and red
Delicious nectar drew instead
In dainty rounds of sipping.

No place its own euphonious name
Within the catalogue might claim
Of any flora-lover;
For, in the scores of passers-by,
As yet no true artistic eye
Its beauty could discover.

The reaper with his sickle keen
Aimed at its crest of gold and green
With spiteful stroke relentless,
And would have rooted from the ground
The "Solidago"--blossom-crowned,
But gaudy, rank, and scentless.

But everything must have its day--
And since some fickle _devotée_
Or myrmidon of Fashion
Declares that this obnoxious weed,
From wild, uncultivated seed,
Shall be the "ruling passion,"

Effusive schoolgirls dote on it;
Whose "frontispieces" infinite
That need no decoration
Are hid beneath its golden dust,
Till many a fine, symmetric bust
Is lost to admiration.

Smart dudes and ladies' men--the few
Who wish they could be ladies too--
Display a sprig of yellow
Conspicuous in their buttonhole,
To captivate a maiden soul
Or vex some other fellow.

And spinsters of uncertain age
Are clamoring now for "all the rage"
To give a dash of color
To their complexions, which appear
To be the hue they hold so dear--
Except a trifle duller.

That _négligée_ "blue-stocking" friend,
Who never cared her time to spend
On mysteries of the toilet,
Now wears a sumptuous bouquet
And shakes your hand a mile away
For fear that you will spoil it.

Delightful widows, dressed in black,
Complain with modest sighs they lack
That coveted expression,
That sort of Indian Summer air
Which "relicts" always ought to wear
By general concession;

And so lugubrious folds of crape
Are crimped and twisted into shape
With graceful heads of yellow,
That give a winsome toning down
To sombre hat and sable gown--
In autumn tintings mellow.

Alas, we only hate the weed!
And think that it must be, indeed,
The ladies' last endeavor
To match the gentlemen, who flaunt
That odious dried tobacco plant
At which they puff forever.

My Mother's Hand.

My head is aching, and I wish
That I could feel tonight
One well-remembered, tender touch
That used to comfort me so much,
And put distress to flight.

There's not a soothing anodyne
Or sedative I know,
Such potency can ever hold
As that which lovingly controlled
My spirit long ago.

How oft my burning cheek as if
By Zephyrus was fanned,
And nothing interdicted pain
Or seemed to make me well again
So quick as mother's hand.

'Tis years and years since it was laid,
In her own gentle way,
On tangled curls of brown and jet
Above the downy coverlet
'Neath which the children lay.

As bright as blessed sunlight ray
The past comes back to me;
Her fingers turn the sacred page
For a little group of tender age
Who gather at her knee.

And when those hands together clasped
Devout and still were we;
To whom it seemed God then and there
Must surely answer such a prayer,
For none could pray as she.

O buried love with her that passed
Into the Silent Land!
O haunting vision of the night!
I see, encoffined, still, and white,
A mother's face and hand.

A Leap Year Episode.

Such oranges! so fresh and sweet,
So large and lovely--and so cheap!
They lay in one delicious heap,
And added to the sumptuous feast
For each and all in taste expert
The acme of all fine dessert;
So, singling out the very least
As in itself an ample treat,
While sparkling repartee and jest
Exhilarated host and guest,
Of rarity so delicate
In dreamy reverie I ate,
By magic pinions as it were
Transported from this realm of snows
To be a happy sojourner
Away down where the orange grows;
Amid the bloom, the verdure, and
The beauty of that tropic land,
While redolence seemed wafted in
From orchard-groves of Mandarin.

In dinner costume _a la mode_,
Expressing from the spongy skin
The nectar that ran down her chin
In little rills of lusciousness,
Sat Maud, the beautiful coquette;
Her dainty mouth, like "two lips" wet
With morning dew, her crimson dress,
A sad discoloration showed
Where orange-juice--it was a sin!--
A polka-dot had painted in;
Which moved the roguish girl to say
Half-ruefully (half-_décolleté_)--
"I'm glad it's Leap Year now, for I--"
Her voice was like a moistened lute
"Shall wear the flowers, by and by--
I do not like this leaky fruit!"
And looking straight and saucily
At cousin Ned, her _vis-a-vis_;
While Will, who never dared propose,
Was blushing like a red, red rose.

The company was large, and she
Touched elbows with the exquisite,
Gay Archibald, who took her wit
And pertness all as meant for him;
Who, thereby lifted some degrees
Above less-favored devotees,
With rainbow sails began to trim
His craft of sweet felicity;
So mirth in reckless afterlude
Convulsed the merry multitude,
Who laughed at Archie's self-esteem,
And pitied Will's long-cherished dream;
While all declared, for her and Ned--
His face was like a silver tray--
The wedding-banquet should be spread
Before a twelvemonth passed away.
But, ah, the sequel--blind were we
To woman and her strategy!
For he so long afraid to speak
Bore off the bride within a week.

If.

If all the sermons good men preach
And all the precepts that they teach
Were gathered into one
Unbroken line of silver speech,
The shining filament might reach
From earth unto the sun.

If all the stories ever told
By wild romancers, young or old,
Into a thread were drawn,
And from its cable coil unrolled,
'Twould span those misty hills of gold
That heaven seems resting on.

If every folly, every freak,
From day to day, from week to week,
Is written in "The Book,"
With all the idle words we speak,
Would it not crimson many a cheek
Upon the page to look?

If all the good deeds that we do
From honest motives pure and true
Shall there recorded be,
Known unto God and angels too,
Is it not sad they are so few
And wrought so charily?

Perfect Character.

He lives but half who never stood
By the grave of one held dear,
And out of the deep, dark loneliness
Of a heart bereaved and comfortless,
From sorrow's crystal plentitude,
Feeling his loss severe,
Dropped a regretful tear.

Oh, life's divinest draught doth not
In the wells of joy abound!
For the purest streams are those that flow
Out of the depths of crushing woe,
As from the springs of love and thought
Hid in some narrow mound,
Making it holy ground.

He hath been blessed who sometimes knelt
Owning that God is just,
And in the stillness of cypress shade
Rosemary's tender symbol laid
Upon a cherished shrine, and felt
Strengthened in faith and trust
Over the precious dust.

So perfect character is wrought,
Rounded and beautified,
By the alchemy of that strange alloy,
The intermingling of grief and joy;
So nearer Heaven the spirit, brought
Bleeding, so sorely tried,
Finds its diviner side.

The Miracle of Spring.

What touch is like the Spring's?
By dainty fingerings
Such rare delight to give,
'Tis luxury to live
Amid florescent things.

Through weary months of snow
When Boreas swept low,
How many an anxious hour
We watched one little flower,
And tried to make it grow;

And thrilled with ecstasy
When, half distrustfully,
A timid bud appeared,
A tender scion reared
In window greenery.

But lo! Spring's wealth of bloom
And richness of perfume
Comes as by miracle;
Then why not possible
Within a curtained room?

Ah, no! that everywhere
The earth is passing fair,
And strange new life hath caught,
Is but the marvel wrought
By sunlight, rain, and air.

Bermuda.

O charming blossom of the sea
Atlantic waters bosomed in!
Abiding-place of gayety,
Elysian bower of "Cora Linn,"
The sprightly, lively _débiteuse_
Recounting all she sees and does.

Oh, how it makes the northern heart,
With sluggish current half-congealed,
In ecstasy and vigor start
To read about this tropic field;
The garden of luxuriousness,
In winter wearing summer's dress.

With gelid sap and frozen gum
In maple trees and hackmatack,
While waiting for the spring to come
Of life's necessities we lack;
And sip the nectar that we find
In luscious fruit with golden rind.

But down the street we dread to walk,
For all the teachings of our youth
Receive an agonizing shock;
_Do_ tempting labels lie, forsooth?
For "out of Florida," she says,
"Come our Bermuda oranges."

To speed the penitential prayer
Our rosary we finger o'er,
A yellow necklace rich and rare--
'Twas purchased at the dollar store;
But oh, it makes us sigh to see
That land of amber _bijouterie_!

Oh, ocean wave and flying sail
Shall never waft us to its shore!
But if some reckless cyclone gale
Should drop Bermuda at our door,
'Twould warm our February sky
And bring the time of roses nigh!

The Charter Oak.

I seem to see the old tree stand,
Its sturdy, giant form
A spectacle remembered, and
A pilgrim-shrine for all the land
Before it met the storm.

Unnumbered gales the tree defied;
It towered like a king
Above his courtiers, reaching wide,
And sheltering scions at its side
As with protecting wing.

Revered as one among the trees
To mark the seasons born,
To watchful aborigines
It told by leafy indices
The time of planting corn.

The landmark of the past is gone,
Its site is overgrown;
A mansion overlooks the lawn
Where history is traced upon
A parapet of stone.

Shall e'er Connecticut forget
What unto it we owe--
How Wadsworth coped with Andros' threat,
And tyranny, in council met,
Outwitted years ago?

Aye, but it rouses loyal spunk
To think of that old tree!
Its stately stem, its spacious trunk
By Nature robbed of pith and punk
To guard our liberty.

But of the oak long-perished, why
Is earth forever full?
For, like the loaf and fish supply,
Its stock of fiber, tough and dry,
Seems inexhaustible.

Rare souvenirs the stranger sees--
Who never sees a joke--
And innocently dreams that these,
From knotty, gnarly, scraggy trees,
Were once the Charter Oak!

Blossom-time.

Yes, it is drawing nigh--
The time of blossoming;
The waiting heart beats stronger
With every breath of Spring,
The days are growing longer;
While happy hours go by
As if on zephyr wing.

A wealth of mellow light
Reflected from the skies
The hill and vale is flooding;
Still in their leafless guise
The Jacqueminots are budding,
Creating new delight
By promise of surprise.

The air is redolent
As ocean breezes are
From spicy islands blowing,
Or groves of Malabar
Where sandal-wood is growing;
Or sweet, diffusive scent,
From fragrant attar-jar.

Just so is loveliness
Renewed from year to year;
And thus emotions tender,
Born of the atmosphere,
Of bloom, and vernal splendor
That words cannot express,
Make Spring forever dear.

Can mortal man behold
So beautiful a scene,
Without the innate feeling
That thus, like dying sheen
The sunset hues revealing,
Glints pure, celestial gold
On fields of living green?

"One of the Least of These."

'Twas on a day of cold and sleet,
A little nomad of the street
With tattered garments, shoeless feet,
And face with hunger wan,
Great wonder-eyes, though beautiful,
Hedged in by features pinched and dull,
Betraying lines so pitiful
By sorrow sharply drawn;

Ere yet the service half was o'er,
Approached the great cathedral door
As choir and organ joined to pour
Their sweetness on the air;
Then, sudden, bold, impelled to glide
With fleetness to the altar's side,
Her trembling form she sought to hide
Amid the shadows there,

Half fearful lest some worshiper,
Enveloped close in robes of fur,
Had cast a scornful glance at her
As she had stolen by,
But soon the swelling anthem, fraught
With reverence, her spirit caught
As rapt she listened, heeding not
The darkness drawing nigh.

'Mid novelty and sweet surprise
Her soul, enraptured, seemed to rise
And tread the realms of Paradise;
Her shivering limbs grew warm,
And as the shadows longer crept
Across the chancel, angels kept
Their vigils o'er her as she slept
Secure from cold and storm.

No sound her peaceful slumber broke,
But one, whose gentle face bespoke
True goodness, took her costly cloak
In tender, thoughtful way,
And as the sleeper sweetly smiled,
Perchance by dreams of Heaven beguiled,
O'erspread the passive, slumbering child,
And softly stepped away.

So rest thee, child! since Sorrow's dart
Has touched like thine the Saviour's heart,
Thou hast a nearer, dearer part
In his great love for thee;
And when life's shadows all are gone,
May Heaven reveal a brighter dawn
To thee who, unaware, hast drawn
Our hearts in sympathy.

Lightning-bugs.

Around my vine-wreathed portico,
At evening, there's a perfect glow
Of little lights a-flashing--
As if the stellar bodies had
From super-heat grown hyper-mad,
And spend their ire in clashing.

As frisky each as shooting star,
These tiny electricians are
The Lampyrine Linnæan--
Or lightning-bugs, that sparkling gleam
Like scintillations in a dream
Of something empyrean.

They brush my face, light up my hair,
My garments touch, dart everywhere;
And if I try to catch them
They're quicker than the wicked flea--
And then I wonder how 'twould be
To have a _dress_ to match them.

To be a "princess in disguise,"
And wear a robe of fireflies
All strung and wove together,
And be the cynosure of all
At Madame Haut-ton's carnival,
In fashion's gayest feather.

So, sudden, falls upon the grass
The overpow'ring light of gas,
And through the lattice streaming;
As wearily I close my eyes
Brief are the moments that suffice
To reach the land of dreaming.

Now at the ball, superbly dressed
As I suppose, to eclipse the rest,
Within an alcove shady
A brilliant flame I hope to be,
While all admire and envy me,
The "bright electric lady."

But, ah, they never shine at all!
My eyes _ignite_--I leave the hall,
For wrathful tears have filled them;
I could have crushed them on the spot--
The bugs, I mean!--and quite forgot
That _stringing_ them had killed them.

Of Her who Died.

We look up to the stars tonight,
Idolatrous of them,
And dream that Heaven is in sight,
And each a ray of purest light
From some celestial gem
In her bright diadem.

Before that lonely home we wait,
Ah! nevermore to see
Her lovely form within the gate
Where heart and hearthstone desolate
And vine and shrub and tree
Seem asking: "Where is she?"

There is the cottage Love had planned--
Where hope in ashes lies--
A tower beautiful to stand,
Her monument whose gentle hand
And presence in the skies
Make home of Paradise.

In wintry bleakness nature glows
Beneath the stellar ray;
We see the mold, but not the rose,
And meditate if knowledge goes
Into yon mound of clay,
With her who passed away.

Of sighs, and tears, and joys denied
Do echoes reach up there?
Do seraphs know--God does--how wide
And deep is sorrow's bitter tide
Of dolor and despair,
And darkness everywhere?

Dear angel, snatched from our caress,
So suddenly withdrawn,
Alone are we and comfortless;
As in a dome of emptiness
The old routine goes on,
Aimless, since thou art gone.

Oh, dearer unto us than aught
In all the world beside
Of thee to cherish blessed thought;
So early thy sweet mission wrought,
As friend, as promised bride,
Who lived, and loved, and died.

Thanksgiving.

Nature, erewhile so marvelously lovely, is bereft
Of her supernal charm;
And with the few dead garlands of departed splendor left,
Like crape upon her arm,
In boreal hints, and sudden gusts
That fan the glowing ember,
By multitude of ways fulfills
The promise of November.

Upon the path where Beauty, sylvan priestess, sped away,
Lies the rich afterglow
Of Indian Summer, bringing round the happy holiday
That antedates the snow:
The glad Thanksgiving time, the cheer,
The festival commotion
That stirs fraternal feeling from
The mountains to the ocean.

O Hospitality! unclose thy bounty-laden hand
In generous dealing, where
Is gathered in reunion each long-severed household band,
And let no vacant chair
Show where the strongest, brightest link
In love's dear chain is broken--
A symbol more pathetic than
By language ever spoken.

Into the place held sacred to the memory of some
Beloved absentee,
Perchance passed to the other shore, oh, let the stranger come
And in gratuity
Partake of festal favors that
Shall sweeten hours of labor,
And strengthen amity and love
Unto his friend and neighbor.

Let gratitude's pure incense in warm orisons ascend,
A blessing to secure,
And gracious impulse bearing largesse of good gifts extend
To all deserving poor;
So may the day be hallowed by
Unstinted thanks and giving,
In sweet remembrance of the dead
And kindness to the living.

Receiving Sight.

In hours of meditation fraught
With mem'ries of departed days,
Comes oft a tender, loving thought
Of one who shared our youthful plays.

In gayest sports and pleasures rife
Whose happy nature reveled so,
That on her ardent, joyous life
A shadow lay, we did not know;

And bade her look one summer night
Up to the sky that seemed to hold,
In dying sunset splendor bright,
All hues of sapphire, red, and gold.

How strange the spell that mystified
Us all, and hushed our wonted glee,
As sadly her sweet voice replied,
"Why, don't you know I cannot see?"