Chapter VII: Part 7

Thou dost not give a serpent, Lord,
We will not give a stone;
For the bread and meat thou givest us
Are not for us alone.

And while a loaf is given to us
From thy all-bounteous horn
We'll cheerfully divide that loaf
With the hungry and forlorn.

CHARITY

Frail are the best of us, brothers--
God's charity cover us all--
Yet we ask for perfection in others,
And scoff when they stumble and fall.
Shall we give him a fish--or a serpent--
Who stretches his hand in his need?
Let the proud give a stone, but the manly
Will give him a hand full of bread.

Let us search our own hearts and behavior
Ere we cast at a brother a stone,
And remember the words of the Savior
To the frail and unfortunate one;
Remember when others displease us
The Nazarene's holy command,
For the only word written by Jesus
Was charity--writ in the sand.

CHARITY

[Written in a friend's book of autographs, 1876.]

Bear and forbear, I counsel thee,
Forgive and be forgiven,
For Charity is the golden key
That opens the gate of heaven.

SAILOR-BOY'S SONG

Away, away, o'er the bounding sea
My spirit flies like a gull;
For I know my Mary is watching for me,
And the moon is bright and full.

She sits on the rock by the sounding shore,
And gazes over the sea;
And she sighs, "Will my sailor-boy come no more?
Will he never come back to me?"

The moonbeams play in her raven hair;
And the soft breeze kisses her brow;
But if your sailor-boy, love, were there,
He would kiss your sweet lips I trow.

And mother--she sits in the cottage-door;
But her heart is out on the sea;
And she sighs, "Will my sailor-boy come no more?
Will he never come back to me?"

Ye winds that over the billows roam
With a low and sullen moan,
O swiftly come to waft me home;
O bear me back to my own.

For long have I been on the billowy deep,
On the boundless waste of sea;
And while I sleep there are two who weep,
And watch and pray for me.

When the mad storm roars till the stoutest fear
And the thunders roll over the sea,
I think of you, Mary and mother dear,
For I know you are thinking of me.

Then blow, ye winds, for my swift return;
Let the tempest roar o'er the main;
Let the billows yearn and the lightning burn;
They will hasten me home again.

MY DEAD

Last night in my feverish dreams I heard A voice like the moan of an autumn sea, Or the low, sad wail of a widowed bird, And it said--"My darling, come home to me."

Then a hand was laid on my throbbing head-- As cold as clay, but it soothed my pain: I wakened and knew from among the dead My darling stood by my coach again.

DUST TO DUST

Dust to dust:
Fall and perish love and lust:
Life is one brief autumn day;
Sin and sorrow haunt the way
To the narrow house of clay,
Clutching at the good and just:
Dust to dust.

Dust to dust:
Still we strive and toil and trust,
From the cradle to the grave:
Vainly crying, "Jesus, save!"
Fall the coward and the brave,
Fall the felon and the just:
Dust to dust.

Dust to dust:
Hark, I hear the wintry gust;
Yet the roses bloom to-day,
Blushing to the kiss of May,
While the north winds sigh and say:
"Lo we bring the cruel frost--
Dust to dust."

Dust to dust:
Yet we live and love and trust,
Lifting burning brow and eye
To the mountain peaks on high:
From the peaks the ages cry,
Strewing ashes, rime and rust:
"Dust to dust!"

Dust to dust:
What is gained when all is lost?
Gaily for a day we tread--
Proudly with averted head
O'er the ashes of the dead--
Blind with pride and mad with lust:
Dust to dust.

Hope and trust:
All life springs from out the dust:
Ah, we measure God by man,
Looking forward but a span
On His wondrous, boundless plan;
All His ways are wise and just;
Hope and trust.

Hope and trust:
Hope will blossom from the dust;
Love is queen: God's throne is hers;
His great heart with loving force
Throbs throughout the universe;
We are His and He is just;
Hope and trust.

O LET ME DREAM THE DREAMS OF LONG AGO

Call me not back, O cold and crafty world: I scorn your thankless thanks and hollow praise. Wiser than seer or scientist--content To tread no paths beyond these bleating hills, Here let me lie beneath this dear old elm, Among the blossoms of the clover-fields, And listen to the humming of the bees. Here in those far-off, happy, boyhood years, When all my world was bounded by these hills, I dreamed my first dreams underneath this elm. Dreamed? Aye, and builded castles in the clouds; Dreamed, and made glad a fond, proud mother's heart, Now moldering into clay on yonder hill; Dreamed till my day-dreams paved the world with gold; Dreamed till my mad dreams made one desolate; Dreamed--O my soul, and was it all a dream?

As I lay dreaming under this old elm, Building my castles in the sunny clouds, Her soft eyes peeping from the copse of pine, Looked tenderly on me and my glad heart leaped Following her footsteps. O the dream--the dream! O fawn-eyed, lotus-lipped, white-bosomed Flore! I hide my bronzed face in your golden hair: Thou wilt not heed the dew-drops on my beard; Thou wilt not heed the wrinkles on my brow; Thou wilt not chide me for my long delay.

Here we stood heart to heart and eye to eye, And I looked down into her inmost soul, The while she drank my promise like sweet wine O let me dream the dreams of long ago! Soft are the tender eyes of maiden love; Sweet are the dew-drops of a dear girl's lips When love's red roses blush in sudden bloom: O let me dream the dreams of long ago! Hum soft and low, O bee-bent clover-fields; Blink, blue-eyed violets, from the dewy grass; Break into bloom, my golden dandelions; Break into bloom, my dear old apple-trees. I hear the robins cherup on the hedge, I hear the warbling of the meadow-larks; I hear the silver-fluted whippowil; I hear the harps that moan among the pines Touched by the ghostly fingers of the dead. Hush!--let me dream the dreams of long ago.

And wherefore left I these fair, flowery fields, Where her fond eyes and ever gladsome voice Made all the year one joyous, warbling June, To chase my castles in the passing clouds-- False as the mirage of some Indian isle To shipwrecked sailors famished on the brine? Wherefore?--Look out upon the babbling world-- Fools clamoring at the heels of clamorous fools! I hungered for the sapless husks of fame. Dreaming I saw, beyond my native hills, The sunshine shimmer on the laurel trees. Ah tenderly plead her fond eyes brimmed with tears; But lightly laughing at her fears I turned, Eager to clutch my crown of laurel leaves, Strong-souled and bold to front all winds of heaven-- A lamb and lion molded into one-- And burst away to tread the hollow world. Ah nut-brown boys that tend the lowing kine, Ah blithesome plowmen whistling on the glebe, Ah merry mowers singing in the swaths, Sweet, simple souls, contented not to know, Wiser are ye and ye may teach the wise.

Years trode upon the heels of flying years, And still my _Ignis Fatuus_ flew before; On thorny paths my eager feet pursued, Till she whose fond heart doted on my dreams Passed painless to the pure eternal peace. Years trode upon the heels of flying years And touched my brown beard with their silver wands, And still my _Ignis Fatuus_ flew before; Through thorns and mire my torn feet followed still, Till she, my darling, unforgotten Flore, Nursing her one hope all those weary years Waiting my tardy coming, drooped and died. I hear her low, sweet voice among the pines: O let me dream the dreams of long ago: I see her fond eyes peeping from the pines: O let me dream the dreams of long ago And hide my bronzed face in her golden hair.

Is this the Indian summer of my days-- Wealth without care and love without desire? O misty, cheerless moon of falling leaves! Is this the fruitage promised by the spring? O blighted clusters withering on the vine! O promised lips of love to one who dreams And wakens holding but the hollow air!

Let me dream on lest, dead unto my dead, False to the true and true unto the false, Maddened by thoughts of that which might have been, And weary of the chains of that which is, I slake my heart-thirst at forbidden springs. I hear the voices of the moaning pines; I hear the low, hushed whispers of the dead, And one wan face looks in upon my dreams And wounds me with her sad, imploring eyes.

The dead sun sinks beyond the misty hills; The chill winds whistle in the leafless elms; The cold rain patters on the fallen leaves. Where pipes the silver-fluted whippowil? I hear no hum of bees among the bloom; I hear no robin cherup on the hedge: One dumb, lone lark sits shivering in the rain. I hear the voices of the Autumn wind; I hear the cold rain dripping on the leaves; I hear the moaning of the mournful pines; I hear the hollow voices of the dead. O let me dream the dreams of long ago And dreaming pass into the dreamless sleep-- Beyond the voices of the autumn winds, Beyond the patter of the dreary rain, Beyond compassion and all vain regret Beyond all waking and all weariness: O let me dream the dreams of long ago.

THE PIONEER

[MINNESOTA--1860-1875]

When Mollie and I were married from the dear old cottage-home,
In the vale between the hills of fir and pine,
I parted with a sigh in a stranger-land to roam,
And to seek a western home for me and mine.

By a grove-encircled lake in the wild and prairied West,
As the sun was sinking down one summer day,
I laid my knapsack down and my weary limbs to rest,
And resolved to build a cottage-home and stay.

I staked and marked my "corners," and I "filed" upon my claim,
And I built a cottage-home of "logs and shakes;"
And then I wrote a letter, and Mollie and baby came
Out to bless me and to bake my johnny-cakes.

When Mollie saw my "cottage" and the way that I had "bached",
She smiled, but I could see that she was "blue;"
Then she found my "Sunday-clothes" all soiled and torn and patched,
And she hid her face and shed a tear or two.

But she went to work in earnest and the cabin fairly shone,
And her dinners were so savory and so nice
That I felt it was "not good that the man should be alone"--
Even in this lovely land of Paradise.

Well, the neighbors they were few and were many miles apart,
And you couldn't hear the locomotive scream;
But I was young and hardy, and my Mollie gave me heart,
And my "steers" they made a fast and fancy team.

And the way I broke the sod was a marvel, you can bet,
For I fed my "steers" before the dawn of day;
And when the sun went under I was plowing prairie yet,
Till my Mollie blew the old tin horn for tea.

And the lazy, lousy "Injuns" came a-loafing round the lake,
And a-begging for a bone or bit of bread;
And the sneaking thieves would steal whatever they could take--
From the very house where they were kindly fed.

O the eastern preachers preach, and the long-haired poets sing
Of the "noble braves" and "dusky maidens fair;"
But if they had pioneered 'twould have been another thing
When the "Injuns" got a-hankering for their "hair."

Often when we lay in bed in the middle of the night,
How the prairie-wolves would howl their jubilee!
Then Mollie she would waken in a shiver and a fright,
Clasp our baby-pet and snuggle up to me.

There were hardships you may guess, and enough of weary toil
For the first few years, but then it was so grand
To see the corn and wheat waving o'er the virgin soil,
And two stout and loving hearts went hand in hand.

But Mollie took the fever when our second babe was born,
And she lay upon the bed as white as snow;
And my idle cultivator lay a rusting in the corn;
And the doctor said poor Mollie she must go.

Now I never prayed before, but I fell upon my knees,
And I prayed as never any preacher prayed;
And Mollie always said that it broke the fell disease;
And I truly think the Lord He sent us aid:

For the fever it was broken, and she took a bit of food,
And O then I went upon my knees again;
And I never cried before,--and I never thought I could,--
But my tears they fell upon her hand like rain.

And I think the Lord has blessed us ever since I prayed the prayer,
For my crops have never wanted rain or dew:
And Mollie often said in the days of debt and care,
"Don't you worry, John, the Lord will help us through."

For the "pesky," painted Sioux, in the fall of 'sixty-two,
Came a-whooping on their ponies o'er the plain,
And they killed my pigs and cattle, and I tell you it looked "blue,"
When they danced around my blazing stacks of grain.

And the settlers mostly fled, but I didn't have a chance,
So I caught my hunting-rifle long and true,
And Mollie poured the powder while I made the devils dance,
To a tune that made 'em jump and tumble, too.

And they fired upon the cabin; 'twas as good as any fort,
But the "beauties" wouldn't give us any rest;
For they skulked and blazed away, and I didn't call it sport,
For I had to do my very "level best."

Now they don't call _me_ a coward, but my Mollie she's a "brick;"
For she chucked the children down the cellar-way,
And she never flinched a hair tho' the bullets pattered thick,
And we held the "painted beauties" well at bay.

But once when I was aiming, a bullet grazed my head,
And it cut the scalp and made the air look blue;
Then Mollie straightened up like a soldier and she said:
"Never mind it, John, the Lord will help us through."

And you bet it raised my "grit," and I never flinched a bit,
And my nerves they got as strong as steel or brass;
And when I fired again I was sure that I had hit,
For I saw the skulking devil "claw the grass."

Well, the fight was long and hot, and I got a charge of shot
In the shoulder, but it never broke a bone;
And I never stopped to think whether I was hit or not
Till we found our ammunition almost gone.

But the "Rangers" came at last--just as we were out of lead,--
And I thanked the Lord, and Mollie thanked Him, too;
Then she put her arms around my neck and sobbed and cried and said:
"Bless the Lord!--I knew that He would help us through."

And yonder on the hooks hangs that same old trusty gun,
And above it--I am sorry they're so few--
Hang the black and braided trophies[BX] yet that I and Mollie won
In that same old bloody battle with the Sioux.

[BX] Scalp-locks.

Fifteen years have rolled away since I laid my knapsack down,
And my prairie claim is now one field of grain;
And yonder down the lake loom the steeples of a town,
And my flocks are feeding out upon the plain.

The old log-house is standing filled with bins of corn and wheat,
And the cars they whistle past our cottage-home;
But my span of spanking trotters they are "just about" as fleet,
And I wouldn't give my farm to rule in Rome.

For Mollie and I are young yet, and monarchs, too, are we--
Of a "section" just as good as lies out-doors;
And the children are so happy (and Mollie and I have three)
And we think that we can "lie upon our oars."

So this summer we went back to the old home by the hill:
O the hills they were so rugged and so tall!
And the lofty pines were gone but the rocks were all there still,
And the valleys looked so crowded and so small;

And the dear familiar faces that I longed so much to see,
Looked so strangely unfamiliar and so old,
That the land of hills and valleys was no more a home to me,
And the river seemed a rivulet as it rolled.

So I gladly hastened back to the prairies of the West--
To the boundless fields of waving grass and corn;
And I love the lake-gemmed land where the wild-goose builds her nest,
Far better than the land where I was born.

And I mean to lay my bones over yonder by the lake--
By and by when I have nothing else to do--
And I'll give the "chicks" the farm, and I know for Mollie's sake,
That the good and gracious Lord will help 'em through.

NIGHT THOUGHTS

"_Le notte e madre dipensien_."

I tumble and toss on my pillow,
As a ship without rudder or spars
Is tumbled and tossed on the billow,
'Neath the glint and the glory of stars.
'Tis midnight and moonlight, and slumber
Has hushed every heart but my own;
O why are these thoughts without number
Sent to me by the man in the moon?

Thoughts of the Here and Hereafter,--
Thoughts all unbidden to come,--
Thoughts that are echoes of laughter--
Thoughts that are ghosts from the tomb,--
Thoughts that are sweet as wild honey,--
Thoughts that are bitter as gall,--
Thoughts to be coined into money,--
Thoughts of no value at all.

Dreams that are tangled like wild-wood,
A hint creeping in like a hare;
Visions of innocent childhood,--
Glimpses of pleasure and care;
Brave thoughts that flash like a saber,--
Cowards that crouch as they come,--
Thoughts of sweet love and sweet labor
In the fields at the old cottage-home.

Visions of maize and of meadow,
Songs of the birds and the brooks,
Glimpses of sunshine and shadow,
Of hills and the vine-covered nooks;
Dreams that were dreams of a lover,--
A face like the blushing of morn,--
Hum of bees and the sweet scent of clover
And a bare-headed girl in the corn.

Hopes that went down in the battle,
Apples that crumbled to dust,--
Manna for rogues, and the rattle
Of hail-storms that fall on the just.
The "shoddy" that lolls in her chariot,--
Maud Muller at work in the grass:
Here a silver-bribed Judas Iscariot,--
There--Leonidas dead in the pass.

Commingled the good and the evil;
Sown together the wheat and the tares;
In the heart of the wheat is the weevil;
There is joy in the midst of our cares.
The past,--shall we stop to regret it?
What is,--shall we falter and fall?
If the envious wrong thee, forget it;
Let thy charity cover them all.

The cock hails the morn, and the rumble
Of wheels is abroad in the streets,
Still I tumble and mumble and grumble
At the fleas in my ears and--the sheets;
Mumble and grumble and tumble
Till the buzz of the bees is no more;
In a jumble I mumble and drumble
And tumble off--into a snore.

DANIEL

[Written at the grave of an old friend.]

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,--down into the darkness at last; Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,--sleeping the dreamless sleep,-- Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn--the pure and the perfect rest: Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain? Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew?

Joy was there in the spring-time and hope like a blossoming rose, When the wine-blood of youth ran tingling and throbbing in every vein; Chirrup of robin and blue-bird in the white-blossomed apple and pear; Carpets of green on the meadows spangled with dandelions; Lowing of kine in the valleys, bleating of lambs on the hills; Babble of brooks and the prattle of fountains that flashed in the sun; Glad, merry voices, ripples of laughter, snatches of music and song, And blue-eyed girls in the gardens that blushed like the roses they wore.

And life was a pleasure unvexed, unmingled with sorrow and pain? A round of delight from the blink of morn till the moon rose laughing at night? Nay, there were cares and cankers--envy and hunger and hate; Death and disease in the pith of the limbs, in the root and the bud and the branch; Dry-rot, alas, at the heart, and a canker-worm gnawing therein.

The summer of life came on with its heat and its struggle and toil, Sweat of the brow and the soul, throbbing of muscle and brain, Toil and moil and grapple with Fortune clutched as she flew-- Only a shred of her robe, and a brave heart baffled and bowed! Stern-visaged Fate with a hand of iron uplifted to fell; The secret stab of a friend that stung like the sting of an asp, Wringing red drops from the soul and a stifled moan of despair; The loose lips of gossip and then--a storm of slander and lies, Till Justice was blind as a bat and deaf to the cries of the just, And Mercy, wrapped up in her robe, stood by like a statue in stone.

Sear autumn followed the summer with frost and the falling of leaves And red-ripe apples that blushed on the hills in the orchard of peace: Red-ripe apples, alas, with worms writhing down to the core, Apples of ashes and fungus that fell into rot at a touch; Clusters of grapes in the garden blighted and sour on the vines; Wheat-fields that waved in the valley and promised a harvest of gold, Thrashing but chaff and weevil or cockle and shriveled cheat. Fair was the promise of spring-time; the harvest a harvest of lies: Fair was the promise of summer with Fortune clutched by the robe; Fair was the promise of autumn--a hollow harlot in red, A withered rose at her girdle and the thorns of the rose in her hand.

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,--down into the darkness at last; Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel, sleeping the dreamless sleep-- Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn--the pure and the perfect rest: Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain? Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew? Dead Ashes, what do you care if it storm, if it shine, if it shower? Hail-storm, tornado or tempest, or the blinding blizzard of snow, Or the mid-May showers on the blossoms with the glad sun blinking between, Dead Ashes, what do you care?--they break not the sleep of the dead.

Proud stands the ship to the sea, fair breezes belly her sails; Strong masted, stanch in her shrouds, stanch in her beams and her bones; Bound for Hesperian isles--for the isles of the plantain and palm, Hope walks her deck with a smile and Confidence stands at the helm; Proudly she turns to the sea and walks like a queen on the waves. Caught in the grasp of the tempest, lashed by the fiends of the storm, Torn into shreds are her sails, tumbled her masts to the main; Rudderless, rolling she drives and groans in the grasp of the sea; Harbor or hope there is none; she goes to her grave in the brine: Dead in the fathomless slime lie the bones of the ship and her crew. Such was the promise of life; so is the promise fulfilled.

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,--down into the darkness at last; Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,--sleeping the dreamless sleep,-- Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn--the pure and the perfect rest: Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain? Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew? Over your grave the tempest may roar or the zephyr sigh; Over your grave the blue-bells may blink or the snow-drifts whirl,-- Dead Ashes, what do you care?--they break not the sleep of the dead. They that were friends may mourn, they that were friends may praise; They that knew you and yet--knew you never--may cavil and blame; They that were foes in disguise may strike at you down in the grave; Slander, the scavenger-buzzard--may vomit her lies on you there; Dead Ashes, what do you care?--they break not the sleep of the dead.

The hoarse, low voice of the years croaks on forever-and-aye: _Change! Change! Change_! and the winters wax and wane. The old oak dies in the forest; the acorn sprouts at its feet; The sea gnaws on at the land; the continent crowds on the sea. Bound to the Ixion wheel with brazen fetters of fate Man rises up from the dust and falls to the dust again. God washes our eyes with tears, and still they are blinded with dust: We grope in the dark and marvel, and pray to the Power unknown-- Crying for help to the desert: not even an echo replies. Doomed unto death like the moon, like the midget that men call man, Wrinkled with age and agony the old Earth rolls her rounds; Shrinking and shuddering she rolls--an atom in God's great sea-- Only an atom of dust in the infinite ocean of space. What to him are the years who sleeps in her bosom there? What to him is the cry wrung out of the souls of men? _Change, Change, Change_, and the sea gnaws on at the land: Dead Ashes, what do you care?--it breaks not the sleep of the dead.

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,--down into the darkness at last; Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,--sleeping the dreamless sleep,-- Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn--the pure and the perfect rest: Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain? Aye, and is it not better if only the dead soul knew?

Up--out of the darkness at last, Daniel,--out of the darkness at last; Into the light of the life eternal--into the sunlight of God, Singing the song of the soul immortal freed from the fetters of flesh: Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain? Aye, and is it not better than sleeping the dreamless sleep? Hark! from the reel of the spheres eternal the freed soul answereth "_Aye_." Aye--Aye--Aye--it is better, brothers, if it be but the dream of the famished soul.

MINNETONKA[BY]

[BY] The Dakota name for this beautiful lake is _We-ne-a-tan-ka_--Broad Water. By dropping the "a" before "tanka" we have changed the name to _Big Water_.

I sit once more on breezy shore, at sunset in this glorious June, I hear the dip of gleaming oar, I list the singers' merry tune. Beneath my feet the waters beat, and ripple on the polished stones, The squirrel chatters from his seat; the bag-pipe beetle hums and drones. The pink and gold in blooming wold,--the green hills mirrored in the lake! The deep, blue waters, zephyr-rolled, along the murmuring pebbles break. The maples screen the ferns, and lean the leafy lindens o'er the deep; The sapphire, set in emerald green, lies like an Orient gem asleep. The crimson west glows like the breast of _Rhuddin_[CA] when he pipes in May, As downward droops the sun to rest, and shadows gather on the bay. In amber sky the swallows fly and sail and circle o'er the deep; The light-winged night-hawks whir and cry; the silver pike and salmon leap. The rising moon, o'er isle and dune, looks laughing down on lake and lea; Weird o'er the waters shrills the loon; the high stars twinkle in the sea. From bank and hill the whippowil sends piping forth his flute-like notes, And clear and shrill the answers trill from leafy isles and silver throats. The twinkling light on cape and height; the hum of voices on the shores; The merry laughter on the night; the dip and plash of frolic oars,-- These tell the tale. On hill and dale the cities pour their gay and fair; Along the sapphire lake they sail, and quaff like wine the balmy air. 'Tis well. Of yore from isle and shore the smoke of Indian _teepees_[CB] rose; The hunter plied the silent oar; the forest lay in still repose. The moon-faced maid, in leafy glade, her warrior waited from the chase; The nut-brown, naked children played, and chased the gopher on the grass. The dappled fawn on wooded lawn, peeped out upon the birch canoe, Swift-gliding in the gray of dawn along the silent waters blue. In yonder tree the great Wanm-dee[CC] securely built her spacious nest; The blast that swept the landlocked sea[CD] but rocked her clamorous babes to rest. By grassy mere the elk and deer gazed on the hunter as he came; Nor fled with fear from bow or spear;-- "so wild were they that they were tame." Ah, birch canoe, and hunter, too, have long forsaken lake and shore; He bade his fathers' bones adieu and turned away forevermore. But still, methinks, on dusky brinks the spirit of the warrior moves; At crystal springs the hunter drinks, and nightly haunts the spot he loves. For oft at night I see the light of lodge-fires on the shadowy shores, And hear the wail some maiden's sprite above her slaughtered warrior pours. I hear the sob, on Spirit Knob,[BZ] of Indian mother o'er her child; And on the midnight waters throb her low _yun-he-he's_[CE] weird and wild: And sometimes, too, the light canoe glides like a shadow o'er the deep At midnight when the moon is low, and all the shores are hushed in sleep. Alas,--Alas!--for all things pass; and we shall vanish too, as they; We build our monuments of brass, and granite, but they waste away.

[BZ] Spirit-Knob was a small hill upon a point in the lake in full view from Wayzata. It is now washed away by the waves. The spirit of a Dakota mother, whose only child was drowned in the lake during a storm many years ago, often wailed at midnight (so the Dakotas said), on this hill. So they called it _Wa-na-gee Pa-zo-dan_--Spirit-Knob. (Literally--little hill of the spirit.)

[CA] The Welsh name for the robin.

[CB] Lodges.

[CC] Wanm-dee--the war-eagle of the Dakotas.

[CD] Lake Superior.

[CE] Pronounced _Yoon-hay-hay_--the exclamation used by Dakota women in their lament for the dead, and equivalent to "woe-is-me."

BEYOND

White-haired and hoary-bearded, who art thou That speedest on, albeit bent with age, Even as a youth that followeth after dreams? Whence are thy feet, and whither trends thy way?

Stayed not his hurried steps, but as he passed His low, hoarse answer fell upon the wind: "Go thou and question yonder mountain-peaks; Go thou and ask the hoary-heaving main;-- Nay, if thou wilt, the great, globed, silent stars That sail innumerable the shoreless sea, And let the eldest answer if he may. Lo the unnumbered myriad, myriad worlds Rolling around innumerable suns, Through all the boundless, bottomless abyss, Are but as grains of sand upwhirled and flung By roaring winds and scattered on the sea. I have beheld them and my hand hath sown.

"Far-twinkling faint through dim, immeasured depths, Behold Alcyone--a grander sun. Round him thy solar orb with all his brood Glimmering revolves. Lo from yon mightier sphere Light, flying faster than the thoughts of men, Swift as the lightnings cleave the glowering storm, Shot on and on through dim, ethereal space, Ere yet it touched thy little orb of Earth, Five hundred cycles of thy world and more. Round him thy Sun, obedient to his power, Thrice tenfold swifter than the swiftest wing, His aeon-orbit, million-yeared and vast, Wheels through the void. Him flaming I beheld When first he flashed from out his central fire-- A mightier orb beyond thine utmost ken. Round upon round innumerable hath swung Thy sun upon his circuit; grander still His vaster orbit far Alcyone Wheels and obeys the mightier orb unseen.

"Seest thou yon star-paved pathway like an arch Athwart thy welkin?--wondrous zone of stars, Dim in the distance circling one huge sun, To whom thy sun is but a spark of fire-- To whom thine Earth is but a grain of dust: Glimmering around him myriad suns revolve And worlds innumerable as sea-beach sands. Ere on yon _Via Lactea_ rolled one star Lo I was there and trode the mighty round; Yea, ere the central orb was fired and hung A lamp to light the chaos. Star on star, System on system, myriad worlds on worlds, Beyond the utmost reach of mortal ken, Beyond the utmost flight of mortal dream, Yet have mine eyes beheld the birth of all. But whence I am I know not. We are three-- Known, yet unknown--unfathomable to man, Time, Space, and Matter pregnant with all life, Immortals older than the oldest orb. We were and are forever: out of us Are all things--suns and satellites, midge and man. Worlds wax and wane, suns flame and glow and die; Through shoreless space their scattered ashes float, Unite, cohere, and wax to worlds again, Changing, yet changless--new, but ever old-- No atom lost and not one atom gained, Though fire to vapor melt the adamant, Or feldspar fall in drops of summer rain. And in the atoms sleep the germs of life, Myriad and multiform and marvelous, Throughout all vast, immeasurable space, In every grain of dust, in every drop Of water, waiting but the thermal touch. Yea, in the womb of nature slumber still Wonders undreamed and forms beyond compare, Minds that will cleave the chaos and unwind The web of fate, and from the atom trace The worlds, the suns, the universal law: And from the law, the Master; yea, and read On yon grand starry scroll the Master's will."

Yea, but what Master? Lift the veil, O Time! Where lie the bounds of Space and whither dwells The Power unseen--the infinite Unknown? Faint from afar the solemn answer fell:

"AEon on aeon, cycles myriad-yeared, Swifter than light out-flashing from the suns, My flying feet have sought the bounds of space And found not, nor the infinite Unknown. I see the Master only in his work: I see the Ruler only in his law: Time hath not touched the great All-father's throne, Whose voice unheard the Universe obeys, Who breathes upon the deep and worlds are born. Worlds wax and wane, suns crumble into dust, But matter pregnant with immortal life, Since erst the white-haired centuries wheeled the vast, Hath lost nor gained. Who made it, and who made The Maker? Out of nothing, nothing. Lo The worm that crawls from out the sun-touched sand, What knows he of the huge, round, rolling Earth? Yet more than thou of all the vast Beyond, Or ever wilt. Content thee; let it be: Know only this--there is a Power unknown-- Master of life and Maker of the worlds."

LINES

On the death of Captain Hiram A. Coats, my old schoolmate and friend.

Dead? or is it a dream-- Only the voice of a dream? Dead in the prime of his years, And laid in the lap of the dust; Only a handful of ashes Moldering down into dust.

Strong and manly was he, Strong and tender and true; Proud in the prime of his years; Strong in the strength of the just: A heart that was half a lion's, And half the heart of a girl; Tender to all that was tender, And true to all that was true; Bold in the battle of life, And bold on the bloody field; First at the call of his country, First in the front of the foe. Hope of the years was his-- The golden and garnered sheaves; Fair on the hills of autumn Reddened the apples of peace.

Dead? or is it a dream? Dead in the prime of his years, And laid in the lap of the dust.

Aye, it _is_ but a dream; For the life of man is a dream: Dead in the prime of his years And laid in the lap of the dust; Only a handful of ashes Moldering down into dust.

Only a handful of ashes Moldering down into dust? Aye, but what of the breath Blown out of the bosom of God? What of the spirit that breathed And burned in the temple of clay? Dust unto dust returns; The dew-drop returns to the sea; The flash from the flint and the steel Returns to its source in the sun. Change cometh forever-and-aye, But forever nothing is lost-- The dew-drop that sinks in the sand, Nor the sunbeam that falls in the sea. Ah, life is only a link In the endless chain of change. Death giveth the dust to the dust And the soul to the infinite soul: For aye since the morning of man--

Since the human rose up from the brute-- Hath Hope, like a beacon of light, Like a star in the rift of the storm, Been writ by the finger of God On the longing hearts of men. O follow no goblin fear; O cringe to no cruel creed; Nor chase the shadow of doubt Till the brain runs mad with despair. Stretch forth thy hand, O man, To the winds and the quaking earth-- To the heaving and falling sea-- To the ultimate stars and feel The throb of the spirit of God-- The pulse of the Universe.

MAULEY

THE BRAVE FERRY-MAN

[NOTE.--The great Sioux massacre in Minnesota commenced at the Agency village, on the Minnesota River, early in the morning of the 16th day of August, 1862, precipitated, doubtless, by the murders at Acton on the day previous. The massacre and the Indian war that followed developed many brave men, but no truer hero than Mauley, an obscure Frenchman, the ferry-man at the Agency. Continually under fire, he resolutely ran his ferry-boat back and forth across the river, affording the terror-stricken people the only chance for escape. He was shot down on his boat just as he had landed on the opposite shore the last of those who fled from the burning village to the ferry-landing. The Indians disemboweled his dead body, cut off the head, hands and feet and thrust them into the cavity. See _Heard's Hist. Sioux War_, p 67.]

Crouching in the early morning, Came the swarth and naked "Sioux;"[CF] On the village, without warning, Fell the sudden, savage blow. Horrid yell and crack of rifle Mingle as the flames arise;-- With the tomahawk they stifle Mothers' wails and children's cries. Men and women to the ferry Fly from many a blazing cot;-- Brave and ready--grim and steady, Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

Can they cross the ambushed river? 'Tis for life the only chance; Only this may some deliver From the scalping-knife and lance. Through the throng of wailing women Frantic men in terror burst;-- "Back, ye cowards!" thundered Mauley,-- "I will take the women first!" Then with brawny arms and lever Back the craven men he smote. Brave and ready--grim and steady, Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

To and fro across the river Plies the little mercy-craft, While from ambushed gun and quiver On it falls the fatal shaft. Trembling from the burning village, Still the terror-stricken fly, For the Indians' love of pillage Stays the bloody tragedy. At the windlass-bar bare-headed-- Bare his brawny arms and throat-- Brave and ready--grim and steady, Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

Hark!--a sudden burst of war-whoops! They are bent on murder now; Down the ferry-road they rally, Led by furious Little Crow. Frantic mothers clasp their children, And the help of God implore; Frantic men leap in the river Ere the boat can reach the shore. Mauley helps the weak and wounded Till the last soul is afloat;-- Brave and ready--grim and steady, Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

Speed the craft!--The fierce Dakotas Whoop and hasten to the shore, And a shower of shot and arrows On the crowded boat they pour. Fast it floats across the river, Managed by the master hand, Laden with a freight so precious,-- God be thanked!--it reaches land. Where is Mauley--grim and steady, Shall his brave deed be forgot? Grasping still the windlass-lever, Dead he lies upon the boat.

[CF] Pronounced Soo; a name given to the Dakotas in early days by the French traders.

MEN

Man is a creature of a thousand whims; The slave of hope and fear and circumstance. Through toil and martyrdom a million years Struggling and groping upward from the brute, And ever dragging still the brutish chains, And ever slipping backward to the brute. Shall he not break the galling, brazen bonds That bind him writhing on the wheel of fate? Long ages groveling with his brother brutes, He plucked the tree of knowledge and uprose And walked erect--a god; but died the death: For knowledge brings but sadness and unrest Forever, insatiate longing and regret. Behold the brute's unerring instinct guides True as the pole-star, while man's reason leads How oft to quicksands and the hidden reefs! Contented brute, his daily wants how few! And these by Nature's mother-hand supplied. Man's wants unnumbered and unsatisfied, And multiplied at every onward step-- Insatiate as the cavernous maw of time. His real wants how simple and how few! Behold the kine in yonder pasture-field Cropping the clover, or in rest reclined, Chewing meek-eyed the cud of sweet content. Ambition plagues them not, nor hope, nor fear; No demons fright them and no cruel creeds; No pangs of disappointment or remorse. See man the picture of perpetual want, The prototype of all disquietude; Full of trouble, yet ever seeking more; Between the upper and the nether stone Ground and forever in the mill of fate. Nature and art combine to clothe his form, To feed his fancy and to fill his maw; And yet the more they give the more he craves. Give him the gold of Ophir, still he delves; Give him the land, and he demands the sea; Give him the earth--he reaches for the stars. Doomed by his fate to scorn the good he has And grasp at fancied good beyond his reach, He seeks for silver in the distant hills While in the sand gold glitters at his feet.

O man, thy wisdom is but folly still; Wiser the brute and full of sweet content. The wit and wisdom of five thousand years--What are they but the husks we feed upon, While beast and bird devour the golden grain? Lo for the brutes dame Nature sows and tills; For them the Tuba-tree of Paradise Bends with its bounties free and manifold; For them the fabled fountain Salsabil, Gushes pure wine that sparkles as it runs, And fair Al Cawthar flows with creamy milk. But man, forever doomed to toil and sweat, Digs the hard earth and casts his seeds therein, And hopes the harvest;--how oft he hopes in vain! Weeds choke, winds blast, and myriad pests devour, The hot sun withers and the floods destroy. Unceasing labor, vigilance and care Reward him here and there with bounteous store. Had man the blessed wisdom of content, Happy were he--as wise Horatius sung-- To whom God gives enough with sparing hand. Of all the crops by sighing mortals sown, And watered with man's sweat and woman's tears, There is but only one that never fails In drouth or flood, on fat or flinty soil, On Nilus' banks or Scandia's stony hills-- The plenteous, never-stinted crop of fools. So hath it been since erst aspiring man Broke from the brute and plucked the fatal tree, And will be till eternity grows gray.

Princes and parasites comprise mankind: To one wise prince a million parasites; The most uncommon thing is common-sense; A truly wise man is a freak of nature. The herd are parasites of parasites That blindly follow priest or demagogue, Himself blind leader of the blind. The wise Weigh words, but by the yard fools measure them. The wise beginneth at the end; the fool Ends at the beginning, or begins anew: Aye, every ditch is full of after-wit. Folly sows broad cast; Wisdom gathers in, And so the wise man fattens on the fool, And from the follies of the foolish learns Wisdom to guide himself and bridle them. "To-morrow I made my fortune," cries the fool, "To-day I'll spend it." Thus will Folly eat His chicken ere the hen hath laid the egg. So Folly blossoms with promises all the year-- Promises that bud and blossom but to blast. "All men are fools," said Socrates, the wise, And in the broader sense I grant it true, For even Socrates had his Xanthipp'. Whose head is wise oft hath a foolish heart; The wisest has more follies than he needs; Wisdom and madness, too, are near akin. The marrow-maddening canker-worm of love Feeds on the brains of wise men as on fools'.

The wise man gathers wisdom from all men As bees their honey hive from plant and weed. Yea, from the varied history of the world, From the experience of all times, all men, The wise man learneth wisdom. Folly learns From his own bruises if he learns at all. The fool--born wise--what need hath he to learn? He needs but gabble wisdom to the world: Grill him on a gridiron and he gabbles still.

Wise men there are--wise in the eyes of men-- Who cram their hollow heads with ancient wit Cackled in Carthage, babbled in Babylon, Gabbled in Greece and riddled in old Rome, And never coin a farthing of their own. Wise men there are--for owls are counted wise-- Who love to leave the lamp-lit paths behind, And chase the shapeless shadow of a doubt. Too wise to learn, too wise to see the truth, E'en though it glow and sparkle like a gem On God's outstretched forefinger for all time. These have one argument, and only one, For good or evil, earth or jeweled heaven-- The olden, owlish argument of doubt. Ah, he alone is wise who ever stands Armed _cap-a-pie_ with God's eternal truth. Where _Grex_ is _Rex_ God help the hapless land. The yelping curs that bay the rising moon Are not more clamorous, and the fitful winds Not more inconstant. List the croaking frogs That raise their heads in fen or stagnant pool, Shouting at eve their wisdom from the mud. Beside the braying, bleating, bellowing mob, Their jarring discords are sweet harmony. The headless herd are but a noise of wind; Sometimes, alas, the wild tornado's roar. As full of freaks as curs are full of fleas, Like gnats they swarm, like flies they buzz and breed. Thought works in silence: Wisdom stops to think. No ass so obstinate as ignorance. Oft as they seize the ship of state, behold-- Overboard goes all ballast and they crowd To blast or breeze or hurricane full sail, Each dunce a pilot and a captain too. How often cross-eyed Justice hits amiss! Doomed by Athenian mobs to banishment, See Aristides leave the land he saved: Wisdom his fault and justice his offense. See Caesar crowned a god and Tully slain; See Paris red with riot and noble blood, A king beheaded and a monster throned,-- King Drone, flat fool that weather-cocked all winds, Gulped gall and vinegar and smacked it wine, Wig-wagged his way from gilded _Oeil de Boeuf_ Through mob and maelstrom to the guillotine. Chateaus up-blazing torch the doom of France, While human wolves howl ruin round their walls. Contention hisses from a million mouths, And from ten thousand muttering craters smokes The smell of sulphur. Gaul becomes a ghoul; While _Parlez-Tous_ in hot palaver holds Hubbub _ad_ Bedlam--Pandemonium thriced. There, voices drowning voice with frantic cries, Discord demented flaps her ruffled wings And shrieks delirium to her screeching brood. Sneer-lipped, hawk-eyed, wolf-tongued oraculars-- Wise-wigs, Girondins, frothing Jacobins-- Reason to madness run, tongues venom-tanged-- Howl chaos all with one united throat. Maelstrom of madness, lazar-howled, hag-shrilled! Quack quackles quack; all doctors disagree, While Doctor Guillotine's huge scalpel heads Hell-dogs beheading helpless innocents. The very babes bark rabies. Journalism, Moon-mad, green-eyed, hound-scented, _lupus_-tongued On howls the pack and smells her bread in blood.

_O Tempus ferax insanorum, Heu!_ Physicked with metaphysics, pamphleteered Into paroxysms, bruited into brutes. And metamorphosed into murder, lo Men lapse to savagery and turn to beasts. Hell-broth hag-boiled: a mad Theroigne is queen-- Mounts to the brazen throne of Harlotdom, Queen of the cursed, and flares her cannon-torch. Watch-wolves, lean-jawed, fore-smelling feast of blood, In packs on Paris howl from farthest France. Discord demented bursts the bounds of _Dis_; Mad Murder raves and Horror holds her hell. Hades up-heaves her whelps. In human forms Up-flare the Furies, serpent-haired and grin Horrid with bloody jaws. Scaled reptiles crawl From slum and sewer, slimy, coil on coil-- Danton, dark beast, that builded for himself A monument of quicksand limed with blood; Horse-leech Marat, blear-eyed, vile vulture born; Fair Charlotte's dagger robbed the guillotine! Black-biled, green-visaged, traitorous Robespierre, That buzzard-beaked, hawk-taloned octopus Who played with pale poltroonery of men, And drank the cup of flattery till he reeled; Hell's pope uncrowned, immortal for a day. Tinville, relentless dog of murder-plot-- Doom-judge whose trembling victims were foredoomed; Maillard who sucked his milk from Murder's dugs, Twin-whelp to Theroigne, captain of the hags; Jourdan, red-grizzled mule-son blotched with blood, Headsman forever "famous-infamous;" Keen, hag-whelped journalist Camille Desmoulins, Who with a hundred other of his ilk Hissed on the hounds and smeared his bread with blood; Lebon, man-fiend, that vampire-ghoul who drank Hot blood of headless victims, and compelled Mothers to view the murder of their babes; At whose red guillotine, in Arras raised, The pipe and fiddle played at every fall Of ghastly head the ribald "_Ca Ira_;" And fiends unnamed and nameless brutes untaled.

Petticoat-patriots _sans bas_, and _Sans-culottes_, Rampant in rags and hunger-toothed uproar Paris the proud. With Jacobin clubs they club The head of France till all her brains are out. Hired murder hunts in packs. Men murder-mad Slay for the love of murder. Gloomy night, Hiding her stars lest they in pity fall, Beholds a thousand guiltless, trembling souls-- Men, women, children--forth from prisons flung In flare of torch and glare of demon eyes, Among the howling wolves and lazar-hags, Crying for mercy where no mercy is, Hewed down in heaps by bloody ax and pike. From their grim battlements the imps of hell Indignant hissed and damped their fires with tears; And Manhood from the watch-towers of the world Cried in the name of Human Nature--"Hold!" As well the drifting snail might strive to still The volcan-heaved, storm-struck, moon-maddened sea. Blood-frenzied beasts demand their feast of blood. _"Liberty--Equality--Fraternity!"_--the cry Of blood-hounds baying on the track of babes. Queen innocent beheaded--mother-queen! And queenly Roland--Nature's queenly queen! Aye, at the foot of bloody guillotine She stood a heroine: before her loomed The Goddess of Liberty--in statue-stone. Queen Roland saw, and spake the words that ring Along the centuries--_"O Liberty! What crimes are committed in thy name!"_--and died. And when the headsman raised her severed head To hell-dogs shouting _"Vive la Liberte,"_ Godlike disdain still sparkled in her eyes. Grim Hell herself in pity stood aghast, Clanged shut her doors and stopped her ears with pitch.

See the wise ruler--father of Brazil, Who struck the shackles from a million slaves, Whose reign was peace and love and gentleness, Despoiled and driven from the land he loves. See jealous Labor strike the hand that feeds, And burn the mills that grind his daily bread; Yea, in blind rage denounce the very laws That shield his home from Europe's pauperdom. See the grieved farmer raise his horny hand And splutter garlic. Hear the demagogues Fist-maul the wind and weather-cock the crowd, With brazen foreheads full of empty noise Out-bellowing the bulls of Bashan; and behold Shrill, wrinkled Amazons in high harangue Stamp their flat feet and gnash their toothless gums, And flaunt their petticoat-flag of "Liberty." Hear the old bandogs of the Daily Press, Chained to their party posts, or fetter-free And running amuck against old party creeds, On-howl their packs and glory in the fight. See mangy curs, whose editorial ears Prick to all winds to catch the popular breeze, Slang-whanging yelp, and froth and snap and snarl, And sniff the gutters for their daily food. And these--are they our prophets and our priests? Hurra!--Hurra!--Hurra!--for "Liberty!" Flaunt the red flag and flutter the petticoat; Ran-tan the drums and let the bugles bray, The eagle scream and sixty million throats Sing Yankee-doodle--Yankee-doodle-doo.