Chapter III: Part 3

Things of evil go out from me,
Leave this silence-haunted room,
Full enough of darkness keepeth
In the chamber of his tomb.
Full enough of shadow lieth
In that dim futurity--
In that wedding night, where, meekly,
My beloved waits for me!

THE OLD HOMESTEAD.

I remember the dear little cabin
That stood by the weather-brown mill,
And the beautiful wavelets of sunshine
That flowed down the slope of the hill,
And way down the winding green valley,
And over the meadow--smooth shorn,--
How the dew-drops lay flashing and gleaming
On the pale rosy robes of the morn.

How the blush-blossoms shook on the upland,
Like a red-cloud of sunset afar,
And the lilies gleamed up from the marsh pond
Like the pale silver rim of a star;
How the brook chimed a beautiful chorus,
With the birds that sang high in the trees;
And how the bright shadows of sunset
Trailed goldenly down on the breeze.

I remember the mossy-rimmed springlet,
That gushed in the shade of the oaks,
And how the white buds of the mistletoe,
Fell down at the woodman's strokes,
On the morning when cruel Sir Spencer
Came down with his haughty train,
To uproot the old kings of the greenwood
That shadowed his golden grain.

For he dwelt in a lordly castle
That towered half-way up the hill,
And we in a poor little cabin
In the shade of the weather-brown mill,
Therefore the haughty Earl Spencer
Came down with his knightly train,
And uprooted our beautiful roof-trees
That shadowed his golden grain.

Ah! wearily sighed our mother,
When the mistletoe boughs lay shed;
But never the curse of the orphan
Was breathed on the rich man's head;
And when again the gentle summer
Had gladdened the earth once more,
No branches of gnarled oaks olden
Made shadows across the floor.

GURTHA.

The lone winds creep with a snakish hiss
Among the dwarfish bushes,
And with deep sighing sadly kiss
The wild brook's border rushes;
The woods are dark, save here and there
The glow-worm shineth faintly,
And o'er the hills one lonely star
That trembles white and saintly.

Ah! well I know this mournful eve
So like an evening olden;
With many a goodly harvest sheaf
The upland fields were golden;
The lily moon in bridal white
Leaned o'er the sea, her lover,
And stars with beauty filled the Night--
The wind sang in the clover.

The halls were bright with revelry,
The beakers red with wassail;
And music's grandest symphony
Rung thro' the ancient castle;
And she, the brightest of the throng,
With wedding-veil and roses,
Seemed like the beauty of a song
Between the organ's pauses.

My memory paints her sweetly meek,
With her long sunny tresses,
And how the blushes on her cheek
Kissed back their warm caresses;
But like an angry cloud that cleaves
Down thro' the mists of glory,
I see the flowers a pale hand weaves
Around a forehead gory.

The road was lone that lay between
His, and her father's castle,
And many a stirrup-cup, I ween,
Quaffed he of generous wassail.
My soul drank in a larger draught
From the burning well of hate,
The hand that sped the murderous shaft
Was guided by my fate.

Red shadows lay upon the sward
That night, instead of golden--
And long the bride's maids wait the lord
In the bridal-chamber olden;
Ah, well! pale hands unwove the flowers
That bound the milk-white forehead--
The star has sunk, the red moon glowers
Down slopes of blackness horrid.

IN MEMORIAM.

JOHN B. ABRAHAMS, OF PORT DEPOSIT, AGED 22 YEARS.

He giveth His beloved sleep.

--Psalms 127:2

From heaven's blue walls the splendid light Of signal-stars gleams far and bright Down the abyssmal deeps of night.

Against the dim, dilating skies Orion's radiant mysteries Of belt, and plume, and helmet rise--

I see--with flashing sword in hand, With eyes sublime, and forehead grand-- The conquering constellation stand!

And on one purple tower the moon Hangs her white lamp--the night wind's rune Floats faint o'er holt and black lagoon.

Far down the dimly shining bay The drifting sea-fog, cold and gray, Wraps all the golden ships away--

The fair-sailed ships, that in the glow Of ghostly moon and vapor go, Like wandering phantoms, to and fro!

With mournful thought I sit alone-- My heart is heavy as a stone, And hath no utterance but a moan.

I think of him, who, being blest, With pale hands crossed on silent breast, Taketh his long unending rest;

While lone winds chant a funeral stave, And pallid church-yard daisies wave About his new unsodded grave.

The skies are solemn with their throng Of choiring stars--and deep and strong The river moans an undersong.

Oh mournful wind! Oh moaning river, Oh golden planets, pausing never! His lips have lost your song forever!

His lips, that done with pleadings vain-- And human sighing, born of pain-- Are hymning heav'ns triumphal strain.

The ages tragic Rhythm of change Clashing on projects new and strange-- The tireless nations forward range--

Can ne'er disturb the perfect rest Wherein he lieth--being blest, With chill hands cross'd on silent breast.

Oh mourning heart! whose heavy plaint Drifts down the deathly shadows faint, Why weep ye for this risen saint?

His life's pale ashes, under foot That cling about the daisies' root Will bear at last most glorious fruit!

'Tis but the casket hid away Neath roof of stone and burial clay; The jewel shines in endless day!

And thus I gather for my tears Sweet hope from faith in after years; And far across the glimmering spheres

Height over height the heavens expand-- I see him in God's Eden land, With palms of vict'ry in his hand;

O'er brows of solemn breadth profound, With fadeless wreaths of glory wound, He stands a seraph, robed and crowned.

Aye! in a vision, see I now; Christ's symbol written on his brow-- Found worthy unto death art thou!

And ever in this heart of mine, So won to glorious peace, divine This vision of our lost shall shine;

Not with pale forehead in eclipse With close-sealed lids and silent lips, But grand in Life's Apocalypse!

For very truly hath been said-- For the pale living--not the dead-- Should mourning's bitterest tears be shed!

MISSIVE TO ----.

Purple shafts of sunset fire
Glory-crown the passionate sea,
Throbbing with a fierce desire
For the blue immensity.

Floods of pale and scarlet flame
Sweep the bases of the hills,
With a blushing unto shame
Thro' their rosy bridal-thrills.

Slowly to the gorgeous West
Twilight paces from the East,
Like a dark, unbidden guest
Going to a marriage feast.

Dian--palaced in the blue--
O'er the eve-star, newly born,
Shakes a sweet baptismal dew
From her pearly drinking-horn.

Not the Ocean's fiery soul
Throbbing up thro' all his deeps--
Not the sunset tides that roll
Gloriously against the steeps

Of the hills, that to the stars
Lift their regal wedded brows,
Glittering, through the golden bars
Clasping close their nuptial snows.

Not the palace lights of Hesper
In the Queendom of the Moon,
Win me from that lovely vesper--
The last one of our last June.

Oh the golden-tressed minutes!
Oh the silver-footed hours!
Oh the thoughts that sang like linnets,
In a woodland full of flowers!

When my wild heart beat so lightly
It forgot its mortal shroud;
And an Angel trembled brightly
In the fold of every cloud.

Wo! That storms of sorrow-strife
Hold the pitying light apart,
And the golden waves of life
Beat against a breaking heart.

Saddest fate that e'er has been
Woven in the loom of years,
Our sworn faith has come between,
Heavy with the wine of tears.

Broken vow and slighted trust--
Hope's white garments soiled and torn--
Passion trampled in the dust
By the iron heel of scorn.

Thou art dead, to me, as those
Folded safe from mortal strife;
Dead! as tho' the grave-mould froze
The red rivers of thy life!

Oh! My Sweet! My Light! My Love!
With my grief co-heir sublime!
Storms and sorrows ever prove
True inheritors of Time.

Hush! An Angel holds my heart
From its breaking--tho' I stand,
From the happy world apart,
On a broad and barren sand.

I will love thee tho' I die!
Love thee, with my ancient faith!
For immortal voices cry:
Love is mightier than Death!

CHICK-A-DEE'S SONG.

Sweet, sweet, sweet!
High up in the budding vine
I've woven and hidden a dainty retreat
For this little brown darling of mine!
Along the garden borders,
Out of the rich dark mold,
The daffodils and jonquils
Are pushing their heads of gold;
And high in her bower-chamber
The little brown mother sits,
While to and fro, as the west winds blow,
Her pretty shadow flits.

Weet, weet, weet!
Safe in the branching vine,
Pillowed on woven grasses sweet,
Our pearly treasures shine;
And all day long in the sunlight,
By vernal breezes fanned,
The daffodil and the jonquil
Their jeweled discs expand;
And two and fro, as the west winds blow,
In the airy house a-swing,
The feeble life in the pearly eggs
She warms with brooding wing!

Sweet, sweet, sweet!
Under a flowery spray
Downy heads and little pink feet
Are cunningly tucked away!
Along the shining furrows,
The rows of sprouting corn
Flash in the sun, and the orchards
Are blushing red as morn;
And the time o' the year for toil is here,
And idle song and play
With the jonquils, and the daffodils,
Must wait for another May.

LATER POEMS.

TO MY SISTER.

M.A. KENNON.

"God's dear love is over all."

Dear, the random words you said
Once, as we two walked apart,
Still keep ringing in my head,
Still keep singing in my heart:
Like the lone pipe of a bird,
Like a tuneful waterfall
Far in desert places heard--
"God's dear love is over all!"

Thro' the ceaseless toil and strife
They have taught me to be strong!
Fashioned all my narrow life
To the measure of a song!
They have kept me brave and true--
Saved my feet from many a fall,
Since, what ever fate may do,
God's dear love is over all!

Lying in your chamber low,
Neath the daisies and the dew,
Can you hear me? Can you know
All the good I owe to you?
You, whose spirit dwells alway
Free from earthly taint and thrall!
You who taught me that sweet day
God's dear love is over all!

From your holy, far off Heaven,
When the beams of twilight wane,
Thro' the jasper gates of even
Breathe those trustful words again;
They shall aid and cheer me still,
What-so-ever fate befall,
Since thro' every good and ill
God's dear love is over all!

MEASURING THE BABY.

We measured the riotous baby
Against the cottage wall:
A lily grew at the threshold,
And the boy was just so tall;
A royal tiger lily,
With spots of purple and gold,
And a heart like a jeweled chalice,
The fragrant dews to hold.

Without the blue birds whistled,
High up in the old roof trees;
And to and fro at the window
The red rose rocked her bees;
And the wee pink fists of the baby
Were never a moment still,
Snatching at shine and shadow,
That danced on the lattice sill!

His eyes were wide as blue-bells,
His mouth like a flower unblown,
Two little barefeet, like funny white mice,
Peept out from his snowy gown;
And we thought, with a thrill of rapture.
That yet had a touch of pain--
When June rolls around with her roses
We'll measure the boy again!

Ah me! In a darkened chamber,
With the sunshine shut away,
Thro' tears that fell like a bitter rain
We measured the Boy to-day!
And the little bare feet, that were dimpled,
And sweet as a budding rose,
Lay side by side together,
In the hush of a long repose!

Up from the dainty pillow,
White as the rising dawn,
The fair little face lay smiling
With the light of Heaven thereon!
And the dear little hands, like rose leaves
Dropt from a rose, lay still,
Never to snatch at the sunshine,
That crept to the shrouded sill!

We measured the sleeping baby
With ribbons white as snow,
For the shining rose-wood casket
That waited him below;
And out of the darkened chamber
We crept with a childless moan:
To the height of the sinless Angels
Our little one had grown!

THE LIGHT OF DREAMS.

Last night I walked in happy dreams,
The paths I used to know;
I heard a sound of running streams,
And saw the violets blow;
I breathed a scent of daffodils;
And faint and far withdrawn,
A light upon the distant hills,
Like morning, led me on.

And childish hands clung fast to mine,
And little pattering feet
Trod with me thro' the still sunshine
Of by-ways green and sweet;
The flax-flower eyes of tender blue,
The locks of palest gold,
Were just the eyes and locks I knew
And loved, and lost--of old!

By many a green familiar lane
Our pathway seemed to run
Between long fields of waving grain,
And slopes of dew and sun;
And still we seemed to breathe alway
A scent of daffodils,
And that soft light of breaking day
Shone on the distant hills.

And out of slumber suddenly
I seemed to wake, and know
The little feet, that followed me,
Were ashes long ago!
And in a burst of rapturous tears
I clung to her and said:
"Dear Pitty-pat! The lonesome years
They told me you were dead!

"O, when the mother drew, of old,
About her loving knee
The little heads of dusk and gold,
I know that we were three!
And then there was an empty chair--
A stillness, strange and new:
We could not find you anywhere--
And we were only two!"

She pointed where serenely bright
The hills yet glowed afar:
"Sweet sister, yon ineffable light
Is but the gates ajar!
And evermore, by night and day,
We children still are three,
Tho' I have gone a little way
To open the gates," said she.

Then all in colors faint and fine
The morning round me shone,
The little hands slipt out of mine,
And I was left alone;
But still I smelled the daffodils,
I heard the running streams;
And that far glory on the hills--
Was it the light of dreams?

BEN HAFED'S MEED.

Ben Hafed, when the vernal rain Warmed the chill heart of earth again, Tilled the dull plot of sterile ground, Within the dank and narrow round That compassed his obscure domain; With earnest zeal, thro' heat and cold, He wrought and turned the sluggish mold, And all in furrows straight and fair He sowed the yellow seed with care, Trusting the harvest--as of old.

Soft fell the rains, the suns shone bright, The long days melted into night, And beautiful, on either hand, Outspread the shining summer land, And all his neighbor's fields were white. Long drawn, beneath the genial skies, He saw deep-fruited vineyards rise; On every hill the bladed corn Flashed like the falchions of the morn Before Ben Hafed's wistful eyes.

But in the garden, dull and bare, Where he had wrought with patient care, No cluster purpled on the vine, No blossom made the furrows shine With hints of harvest anywhere! Ben Hafed, scorning to complain, Bent to his thankless toil again: "I slight no task I find to do, Dear Lord, and if my sheaves be few, Thou wilt not count my labor vain?"

His neighbors, rich in flocks and lands, Stood by and mocked his empty hands: "Why wage with ceaseless fret and toil The grim warfare that yields no spoil? Why spend thy zest on barren sands? The circling seasons come and go, And others garner as they sow; But year by year, in sun and rain, Thou till'st these fields with toil and pain, Where only tares and thistles grow!"

With quiet mien Ben Hafed heard, And answered not by sign or word, Tho' some divine, all-trustful sense Of loss made sweet thro' recompense, In God's good time, within him stirred. With no vain protest or lament, Low to the stubborn glebe he bent: "I till the fields Thou gavest me, And leave the harvest, Lord, to thee," He said--and plodded on, content.

And ever, with the golden seeds, He sowed an hundred gracious deeds-- Some act of helpful charity, A saving word of cheer, may be, To some poor soul in bitter need! And life wore on from gold to gray; The world went by, another way: "Tho' long and wearisome my task, Dear Lord, 'tis but a tithe I ask, And Thou will grant me that, some day!"

One morn upon his humble bed, They found Ben Hafed lying dead, God's light upon his worn old face, And God's ineffable peace and grace Folding him round from feet to head. And lo! in cloudless sunshine rolled The glebe but late so bare and cold, Between fair rows of tree and vine Rich clustered, sweating oil and wine, Shone all in glorious harvest gold!

And One whose face was strangely bright With loving ruth--whose garments white Were spotless as the lilies sweet That sprang beneath His shining feet-- Moved slowly thro' those fields of light; "Blest be Ben Hafed's work--thrice blest!" He said, and gathered to His breast The harvest sown in toil and tears: "Henceforth, thro' Mine eternal years, Thou, faithful servant, cease and rest!"

WINTER BOUND.

If I could live to see beyond the night,
The first spring morning break with fiery thrills,
And tremble into rose and violet light
Along the distant hills!

If I could hear the first wild note that swells
The blue bird's silvery throat when spring is here,
And all the sweet, wind ruffled lily bells
Ring out the joyous matins of the year!

Only to smell the budding lilac blooms
The balmy airs from sprouting brake and wold,
Rich with the strange ineffable perfumes
Of growing grass and newly furrowed mold!

If I could hear the rushing waters call
In the wild exultation of release,
Dear, I might turn my face unto the wall
And fall asleep in peace!

MISLED.

Thro' moss, and bracken, and purple bloom,
With a glitter of gorses here and there,
Shoulder deep in the dewy bloom,
My love, I follow you everywhere!
By faint sweet signs my soul divines,
Dear heart, at dawning you came this way,
By the jangled bells of the columbines,
And the ruffled gold of the gorses gay.

By hill and hollow, by mead and lawn,
Thro' shine and shade of dingle and glade,
Fast and far as I hurry on
My eager seeking you still evade.
But, were you shod with the errant breeze,
Spirit of shadow and fire and dew,
O'er trackless deserts of lands and seas
Still would I follow and find out you.

Like a dazzle of sparks from a glowing brand,
'Mid the tender green of the feathery fern
And nodding sedge, by the light gale fanned,
The Indian pinks in the sunlight burn;
And the wide, cool cups of the corn flower brim
With the sapphire's splendor of heaven's own blue,
In sylvan hollows and dingles dim,
Still sweet with a hint of the morn--and you!

For here is the print of your slender foot,
And the rose that fell from your braided hair,
In the lush deep moss at the bilberry's root--
And the scent of lilacs is in the air!
Do lilacs bloom in the wild green wood?
Do roses drop from the bilberry bough?
Answer me, little Red Riding Hood!
You are hiding there in the bracken, now!

Come out of your covert, my Bonny Belle--
I see the glint of your eyes sweet blue--
Your yellow locks--ah, you know full well
Your scarlet mantle has told on you;
Come out this minute, you laughing minx!
--By all the dryads of wood and wold!
'Tis only a cluster of Indian pinks
And corn flowers, under the gorses' gold.

AT MILKING-TIME.

"Coe, Berry-brown! Hie, Thistledown!
Make haste; the milking-time is come!
The bells are ringing in the town,
Tho' all the green hillside is dumb,
And Morn's white curtain, half withdrawn,
Just shows a rosy glimpse of dawn."
Tinkle, tinkle in the pail:
"Ah! my heart, if Tom should fail!
See the vapors, white as curd,
By the waking winds are stirred,
And the east is brightening slow
Tom is long a-field, I know!

"Coe, Bell! Come Bright! Miss Lilywhite,
I see you hiding in the croft!
By yon steep stair of ruddy light
The sun is climbing fast aloft;
What makes the stealthy, creeping chill
That hangs about the morning still?"
Tinkle, tinkle in the pail:
"Some one saunters up the vale,
Pauses at the brook awhile,
Dawdles at the meadow stile--
Well! if loitering be a crime,
Some one takes his own sweet time!

"So! Berry, so! Now, cherry-blow,
Keep your pink nose out of the pail!
How dull the morning is--how low
The churning vapors coil and trail!
How dim the sky, and far away!
What ails the sunshine and the day?"
Tinkle, tinkle in the pail:
"But for that preposterous tale
Nancy Mixer brought from town,
'Tom is courting Kitty Brown,'
I'd not walked with Willie Snow,
Just to tease my Tom, you know!

"So! stand still, my thistledown!
Tom is coming thro' the gate,
But his forehead wears a frown,
And he never was so late!
Till that vexing demon, Doubt,
Angered us, and we fell out!"
Tinkle, tinkle in the pail:
"Tom roosts on the topmost rail,
Chewing straws, and looking grim
When I choose to peep at him;
Wonder if he's sulking still,
All about my walk with Will?

"Cherry, Berry, Lilywhite,
Hasten fieldward, every one;
All the heavens are growing bright,
And the milking time is done;
I will speak to him, and see
If his lordship answers me:
'Tom!' He tumbles off the rail,
Stoops to lift the brimming pail;
With a mutual pleading glance
Lip meets lip--mayhap by chance--
And--but need I whisper why?--
Tom is happy--and so am I!"

THE SINGER'S SONG

O weary heart of mine,
Keep still, and make no sign!
The world hath learned a newer joy--
A sweeter song than thine!
Tho' all the brooks of June
Should lilt and pipe in tune.
The music by and by would cloy--
The world forgets so soon!

So thou mayest put away
Thy little broken lay;
Perhaps some wistful, loving soul
May take it up some day--
Take up the broken thread,
Dear heart, when thou art dead,
And weave into diviner song
The things thou wouldst have said!

Rest thou, and make no sign,
The world, O, heart of mine,
Is listening for the hand that smites
A grander chord than thine!
The loftier strains that teach
Great truths beyond thy reach;
Whose far faint echo they have heard
In thy poor stammering speech.

Thy little broken bars,
That wailing discord mars,
To vast triumphal harmonies
Shall swell beyond the stars.
So rest thee, heart, and cease;
Awhile, in glad release,
Keep silence here, with God, amid
The lilies of His peace.

AUNT PATTY'S THANKSGIVING.

[Transcriber's note: The original text titled this poem here as
"Aunt Patty's Thanksgiving" and in the table of contents as "Aunt
Betty's Thanksgiving." This discrepancy is intentionally preserved.]

Now Cleo, fly round! Father's going to town With a load o' red russets, to meet Captain Brown; The mortgage is due, and it's got to be paid, And father is troubled to raise it, I'm 'fraid! We've had a bad year, with the drouth and the blight The harvest was short, and the apple crop light; The early hay cutting scarce balanced the cost, And the heft o' the after-math's ruined with frost; A gloomy Thanksgiving to-morrow will be-- But the ways o' the Lord are not our ways, ah me!

But His dear will be done! If we jest do our best, And trust Him, I guess He'll take care o' the rest; I'd not mind the worry, nor stop to repine, Could I take father's share o' the burden with mine! He is grieving, I know, tho' he says not a word, But, last night, 'twixt the waking and dreaming, I heard The long, sobbing sighs of a strong man in pain, And I knew he was fretting for Robert again! Our Robert, our first-born: the comfort and stay Of our age, when we two should grow feeble and gray; What a baby he was! with his bright locks, and eyes Just as blue as a bit o' the midsummer skies! And in youth--why, it made one's heart lightsome and glad Like a glimpse o' the sun, just to look at the lad!

But the curse came upon him--the spell of unrest-- Like a voice calling out of the infinite West-- And Archibald Grace, he was going--and so We gave Rob our blessing, and jest let him go!

There, Cleo, your father is out at the gate: Be spry as a cricket; he don't like to wait! Here's the firkin o' butter, as yellow as gold-- And the eggs, in this basket--ten dozen all told. Tell father be sure and remember the tea-- And the spice and the yard o' green gingham for me; And the sugar for baking:--and ask him to go To the office--there might be a letter, you know!

May Providence go with your father to town, And soften the heart o' this rich Captain Brown. He's the stranger that's buying the Sunnyside place, We all thought was willed to poor Archibald Grace, Along with the mortgage that's jest falling due, And that father allowed Archie Grace would renew; And, Cleo, I reckon that father will sell The Croft, and the little real Alderney, Bel. You raised her, I know; and it's hard she must go; But father will pay every dollar we owe; It's his way, to be honest and fair as the day; And he always was dreadfully set in his way.

I try to find comfort in thinking, my dear, That things would be different if Robert was here; I guess he'd a stayed but for Archibald Grace. And helped with the chores and looked after the place; But Archie, he heard from that Eben Carew, And went wild to go off to the gold-diggings, too; And so they must up and meander out West, And now they are murdered--or missing, at best-- Surprised by that bloody, marauding "Red Wing," 'Way out in the Yellowstone country, last spring.

No wonder, Cleora, I'm getting so gray! I grieve for my lost darling day after day; And, Cleo, my daughter, don't mind if it's true, But I reckon I've guessed about Archie and you! And the Lord knows our burdens are grievous to bear, But there's still a bright edge to my cloud of despair, And somehow I hear, like a tune in my head: "The boys are coming! The boys aren't dead!"

So to-morrow, for dear father's sake, we will try To make the day seem like Thanksgivings gone by; And tho' we mayn't see where Thanksgiving comes in, Things were never so bad yet as things might a-been. But it's nigh time the kettle was hung on the crane, And somebody's driving full tilt up the lane--

For the land's sake! Cleora, you're dropping that tray O' blue willow tea-cups! What startled you? Hey? You're white as a ghost--Why, here's father from town! And who are those men, daughter, helping him down? Run! open the door! There's a whirr in my head, And the tune's getting louder--"The boys aren't dead!" Cleora! That voice--it is Robert!--O, Lord! I have leaned on Thy promise, and trusted Thy word, And out of the midst of great darkness and night Thy mercy has led me again to the light!

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES!

(UNDER THIS SIGN THOU SHALT CONQUER.)

Beneath the solemn stars that light The dread infinitudes of night, Mid wintry solitudes that lie Where lonely Hecla's toweling pyre Reddens an awful space of sky With Thor's eternal altar fire! Worn with the fever of unrest, And spent with years of eager quest, Beneath the vaulted heaven they stood, Pale, haggard eyed, of garb uncouth, The seekers of the Hidden Good, The searchers for Eternal Truth!

From fiery Afric's burning sands, From Asia's hoary templed lands, From the pale borders of the North, From the far South--the fruitful West, O, long ago each journeyed forth, Led hither by one glorious quest! And each, with pilgrim staff and shoon, Bore on his scrip a mystic rune, Some maxim of his chosen creed, By which, with swerveless rule and line, He shaped his life in word and deed To ends heroic and divine!

Around their dreary winter world The great ice-kraken dimly curled The white seas of the frozen zone; And like a mighty lifted shield The hollow heavens forever shone On gleaming fiord and pathless field! Behind them, in the nether deep, The central fires, that never sleep, Grappled and rose, and fell again; And with colossal shock and throe The shuddering mountain rent in twain Her garments of perpetual snow!

Then Aba Seyd, grave-eyed and grand, Stood forth with lifted brow and hand; Kingly of height, of mien sublime, Like glorious Saul among his peers, With matchless wisdom for all time Gleaned from the treasure house of years; His locks rose like an eagle's crest, His gray beard stormed on cheek and breast, His silvery voice sonorous rang, As when, exulting in the fray, Where lances hissed and trumpets sang, He held the Bedouin hordes at bay.

"Lo! Here we part: henceforth alone We journey to the goal unknown; But whatsoever paths we find, The ties of fellowship shall bind Our constant souls; and soon or late-- We laboring still in harmony-- The grand results for which we wait Shall crown the mighty years to be! Now scoffed at, baffled, and beset, We grope in twilight darkness yet, We who would found the age of gold, Based on the universal good, And forge the links that yet shall hold The world in common Brotherhood!

"O, comrades of the Mystic Quest! Who seek the Highest and the Best! Where'er the goal for which we strive-- Whate'er the knowledge we may win-- This truth supreme shall live and thrive, 'Tis love that makes the whole world kin! The love sublime and purified, That puts all dross of self aside To live for others--to uphold Before our own a brother's cause: This is the master power shall mould The nobler customs, higher laws!

"Then shall all wars, all discords cease, And, rounded to perpetual peace, The bounteous years shall come and go Unvexed; and all humanity, Nursed to a loftier type, shall grow Like to that image undefiled, That fair reflex of Deity, Who, first, beneath the morning skies And glowing palms of paradise, A God-like man, awoke and smiled!" * * * * Like some weird strain of music, spent In one full chord, the sweet voice ceased; A faint white glow smote up the east, Like wings uplifting--and a cry Of winds went forth, as if the night Beneath the brightening firmament Had voiced, in hollow prophecy, The affirmation: "By and by!"

HOW KATIE SAVED THE TRAIN.

The floods were out. Far as the bound Of sight was one stupendous round Of flat and sluggish crawling water! As, from a slowly drowning rise, She looked abroad with startled eyes, The engineer's intrepid daughter. Far as her straining eyes could see, The seething, swoolen Tombigbee Outspread his turbulent yellow tide; His angry currents swirled and surged O'er leagues of fertile lands submerged, And ruined hamlets, far and wide.

Along a swell of higher ground, Still, like a gleaming serpent, wound The heavy graded iron trail; But, inch by inch, the overflow Dragged down the road bed, till the slow Back-water crept across the rail. And where the ghostly trestle spanned A stretch of marshy bottom-land, The stealthy under current gnawed At sunken pile, and massive pier, And the stout bridge hung airily where She sullen dyke lay deep and broad.

Above the hollow, droning sound Of waves that filled the watery round, She heard a distant shout and din-- The levees of the upper land Had crumbled like a wall of sand, And the wild floods were pouring in! She saw the straining dyke give way-- The quaking trestle reel and sway. Yet hold together, bravely, still! She saw the rushing waters drown The piers, while ever sucking down The undermined and treacherous "fill!"

Her strong heart hammered in her breast, As o'er a distant woody crest A dim gray plume of vapor trailed; And nearer, clearer, by and by, Like the faint echo of a cry, A warning whistle shrilled and wailed! Her frightened gelding reared and plunged, As the doomed trestle rocked and lunged-- The keen lash scored his silken hide: "Come, Bayard! We must reach the bridge And cross to yonder higher ridge-- For thrice an hundred lives we ride!"

She stooped and kissed his tawny mane, Sodden with flecks of froth and rain; Then put him at the surging flood! Girth deep the dauntless gelding sank, The tide hissed round his smoking flank, But straight for life or death she rode! The wide black heavens yawned again, Down came the torrent rushing rain-- The icy river clutched her! Shrill in her ears the waters sang, Strange fires from the abysses sprang, The sharp sleet stung like whip and spur!

Her yellow hair, blown wild and wide, Streamed like a meteor o'er the tide; Her set white face yet whiter grew, As lashed by furious flood and rain, Still for the bridge, with might and main, Her gallant horse swam, straight and true! They gained the track, and slowly crept Timber by timber, torrents swept, Across the boiling hell of water-- Till past the torn and shuddering bridge He bore her to the safer ridge, The engineer's intrepid daughter!

The night was falling wild and black, The waters blotted out the track; She gave her flying horse free rein, For full a dreadful mile away The lonely wayside station lay, And hoarse above his startled neigh She heard the thunder of the train! "What if they meet this side the goal?" She thought with sick and shuddering soul; For well she knew what doom awaited A fell mischance--a step belated-- The grinding wheels, the yawning dyke-- Sure death for her--for them--alike!

Like danger-lamps her blue eyes glowed, As thro' the whirling gloom she rode, Her laboring breath drawn sharply in; Pitted against yon rushing wheels Were tireless grit and trusty heels, And with God's favor they might win! And soon along the perilous line Flamed out the lurid warning sign, While round her staggering horse the crowd Surged with wild cheers and plaudits loud.-- And this is how, thro' flood and rain, Brave Kate McCarthy saved the train!

OFF THE SKIDLOE.

With leagues of wasteful water ringed about, And wrapped in sheeted foam from base to peak, A sheer, stupendous monolith, wrought out By the slow, ceaseless labor of the deeps, In awful isolation, old as Time, The gray, forbidding Rock of Skidloe stands-- Breasting the wild incursions of the North-- The grim antagonist of a thousand waves!

Far to the leeward, faintly drawn against A dim perspective of perpetual storms, A frowning line of black basaltic cliffs Baffles the savage onset of the surf. But, rolled in cloud and foam, old Skidloe lifts His dark, defiant head forever mid The shock and thunder of contending tides, And fixed, immovable as fate, hurls back The rude, eternal protest of the sea!

Colossal waters coil about his feet, Deep rooted in the awful gulfs between The measureless walls of mountain chains submerged; An infinite hoarse murmur wells from all His dim mysterious crypts and corridors: The inarticulate mutterings that voice The ancient secret of the mighty main.

In all the troubled round of sea and air, No glimpse of brightness lends the vivid zest Of life and light to the harsh monotone Of gray tumultuous flood and spectral sky; Far off the black basaltic crags are heaved Against the desolate emptiness of space; But no sweet beam of sunset ever falls Athwart old Skidloe's cloudy crest--no soft And wistful glory of awakened dawn Lays on his haggard brows a touch of grace. Sometimes a lonely curlew skims across The seething torment of the dread abyss, And, shrieking, dips into the mist beyond; But, solitary and unchanged for aye, He towers amid the rude revolt of waves, His stony face seamed by a thousand years, And wrinkled with a million furrows, worn By the slow drip of briny tears, that creep Along his hollow cheek. His hidden hands Drag down the drowned and tossing wrecks that drive Before the fury of the Northern gales, And mute, inscrutable as destiny, He keeps his sombre secrets as of yore.

The slow years come and go; the seasons dawn And fade, and pass to swell the solemn ranks Of august ages in the march of Time. But changeless still, amid eternal change, Old Skidloe bears the furious brunt of all The warring elements that grapple mid The mighty insurrections of the sea! Gray desolation, ancient solitude, Brood o'er his wide, unrestful water world, While grim, unmoved, forbidding as of yore, He wraps his kingly altitudes about With the fierce blazon of the thunder cloud; And on his awful and uplifted brows The red phylactery of the lightning shines; And throned amid eternal wars, he dwells, His dread regality hedged round by all The weird magnificence of exultant storms!

LIFE'S CROSSES.

"O life! O, vailed destiny!" She cried--"within thy hidden hands What recompense is waiting me Beyond these naked wintry sands? For lo! The ancient legend saith: 'Take ye a rose at Christmas tide, And pin thereto your loving faith, And cast it to the waters wide; Whate'er the wished-for guerdon be, God's hand will guide it safe to thee!'

"I pace the river's icy brink, This dreary Christmas Eve," she said, "And watch the dying sunset sink From pallid gold to ashen red. My eyes are hot with weary tears, I heed not how the winds may blow, While thinking of the vanished years Beyond the stormy heave and throe Of yon far sea-line, dimly curled Around my lonely island-world.

"The winds make melancholy moan; I hear the river flowing by, As, heavy-hearted and alone, Beneath the wild December sky, I take the roses from my breast-- White roses of the Holy Rood-- And, filled with passionate unrest, I cast them to the darkening flood. O, roses, drifting out to sea, Bring my lost treasures back to me!

"Bring back the joyous hopes of youth! The faith that knew no flaw of doubt! The spotless innocence and truth That clothed my maiden soul about! Bring back the grace of girlhood gone, The rapturous zest of other days! The dew and freshness of the dawn, That lay on life's untrodden ways-- The glory that will shine no more For me on earthly sea or shore!

"Call back the sweet home-joys of old That gladdened many a Christmas-tide-- The faces hidden in the mould, The dear lost loves that changed or died! O, gentle spirits, gone before, Come, from the undiscovered lands, And bring the precious things of yore To aching heart and empty hands; Keep all the wealth of earth and sea, But give my lost ones back to me.

"Vain are my tears, my pleadings vain! O, roses, drifting with the tide, To me shall never come again The glory of the years that died! Thro' gloom and night, sweet flowers, drift on-- Drift out upon the unknown sea; Into the holy Christmas dawn Bear this impassioned prayer for me: O, turn, dear Lord, my heart away From things that are but for a day; Teach me to trust thy loving will, And bear life's heavy crosses still."

NATHAN COVINGTON BROOKS, A.M., LL.D.

The following sketch is principally from the Third Volume of Biographical Sketches of Eminent Americans.

"Nathan Covington Brooks, the youngest son of John and Mary Brooks, was born in West Nottingham, Cecil county, Maryland, on the 12th of August, 1809. His education was commenced at the West Nottingham Academy, then under the charge of Rev. James Magraw, D.D., and subsequently he graduated as Master of Arts, at St. John's College, Annapolis, Md. His thesis was a poem on the World's Changes. Diligent and persevering in his studies, his rapid progress and high attainments won the regard of his teachers, while his amiable manners endeared him to his classmates. While his principal delight was in the study of the Classics, he devoted much attention to mathematics and other studies. Like many other writers, some of his earliest efforts were in verse. Indeed it may be said of him, as of Pope, that he 'lisped in rhyme.'

Though we have no Shakespeares, or Miltons, or Byrons, there is no scarcity of literary amateurs who, in their hours of recreation and dalliance with letters, betake themselves to poetry as an amusement for their leisure hours or a solace amid the rude trials of life. High in the rank of these writers of occasional poetry stands Dr. Brooks. Nature, in all her forms, he has made the subject of close observation and profound reflection, and in looking at Nature, he has used his own eyes and not the spectacles of other writers. He has a keen relish for the beautiful, and a deep sympathy with the truthful and the good. His taste, formed on the finest models, has been ripened and chastened by a patient study of the great monuments of antiquity. His thoughts seem to be the natural development of his mind; and his words the unstudied expression of his thoughts. The music of his verse reminds us sometimes of the soft cadences of Hemans, and not unfrequently of the mournful harp of Byron."

In his eighteenth year he was a contributor of prose and poetry to the _Minerva and Emerald_, and _Saturday Post_, of Baltimore; subsequently contributed to _The Wreath_, _Monument_, _Athenæum_, and _Protestant_, of the same city. In 1830 he edited _The Amethyst_, an annual and soon after became a contributor of prose and poetry to _Atkinson's Casket_, and _The Lady's Book_, of which latter he was the first paid contributor; wrote for _Burton's Magazine_, and _Graham's_, _The New York Mirror_, _The Ladies' Companion_, and the _Home Journal_; and the following annuals, _The Gift_, _The Christian Keepsake_, and _The Religious Souvenir_. He contributed also prose and poetry to _The Southern Literary Messenger_, _The Southern Quarterly_ of New Orleans, _The London Literary Gazette_, and _The London Court Journal_.

In 1837 Marshall, of Philadelphia, published a volume of his religious poems, entitled "Scriptural Anthology." In 1840, Kay Brothers, of Philadelphia, published a volume of his prose and poetry, under the name of "The Literary Amaranth." Besides these Dr. Brooks has edited a series of Greek and Latin classics, has written four volumes on religious subjects, one on "Holy Week," just issued from the press, "The History of the Mexican War," which was translated into German, "Battles of the Revolution," etc.

In his literary career he has won three prizes that will be cherished as heirlooms in the family, a silver pitcher, for the best prose tale, entitled "The Power of Truth," and two silver goblets, one a prize for the poem entitled "The Fall of Superstition," the other a prize for a poem, "The South-sea Islander," for which fifteen of our leading poets were competitors.

Though in his leisure moments Dr. Brooks has achieved so much in literature, his profession has been that of an educator, in which he has had the mental training of males and females to the number of five or six thousand. In 1824, he was appointed to the village school in Charlestown, Cecil county, in 1826, established a private school in Baltimore city; in 1831 was elected principal of the Franklin Academy, Reistertown, and in 1834 principal of the Brookesville Academy, Montgomery county, both endowed by the State; in 1839, he was unanimously elected over forty-five applicants as principal of the Baltimore City High School which position he held for nine years, until asked by the Trustees of the Baltimore Female College, in 1848, to accept the organization of the institution. The College is chartered and endowed by the State of Maryland, has graduated over three hundred young ladies, and trained and sent forth two hundred teachers. Emory College, Oxford, Georgia, conferred the degree of LL.D., on Professor Brooks in 1859, and in 1863 his name was presented, with others, for the presidency of Girard College. Though Major Smith, a Philadelphian of an influential family, was elected president, Professor Brooks received more votes than any of the other competitors. In 1827, he married Mary Elizabeth, eldest daughter of William Gobright, a lady of great beauty and excellence, and in 1867, married Christiana Octavia, youngest daughter of Dr. William Crump, of Virginia. Of the former union four sons and two daughters are living; of the latter union a son. The following poems are selected as specimens of his style.

THE MOTHER TO HER DEAD BOY.

The flowers you reared repose in sleep With folded bells where the night-dews weep, And the passing wind, like a spirit, grieves In a gentle dirge through the sighing leaves. The sun will kiss the dew from the rose, Its crimson petals again unclose, And the violet ope the soft blue ray Of its modest eye to the gaze of day; But when will the dews and shades that lie So cold and damp on thy shrouded eye, Be chased from the folded lids, my child, And thy glance break forth so sweetly wild?

The fawn, thy partner in sportive play, Has ceased his gambols at close of day, And his weary limbs are relaxed and free In gentle sleep by his favorite tree. He will wake ere long, and the rosy dawn Will call him forth to the dewy lawn, And his sprightly gambols be seen again, Through the parted boughs and upon the plain; But oh! when will slumber cease to hold The limbs that lie so still and cold? When wilt thou come with thy tiny feet That bounded my glad embrace to meet?

The birds you tended have ceased to sing, And shaded their eyes with the velvet wing, And, nestled among the leaves of the trees, They are rocked to rest by the cool night breeze. The morn will the chains of sleep unbind, And spread their plumes to the freshening wind; And music from many a warbler's mouth Will honey the grove, like the breath of the south; But when shall the lips, whose lightest word Was sweeter far than the warbling bird, Their rich wild strain of melody pour? They are mute! they are cold! they will ope no more!

When heaven's great bell in a tone sublime Shall sound the knell of departed Time, And its echoes pierce with a voice profound Through the liquid sea and the solid ground, Thou wilt wake, my child, from the dreamless sleep Whose oblivious dews thy senses steep, And then will the eye, now dim, grow bright In the glorious rays of Heaven's own light, The limbs, that an angel's semblance bore, Bloom 'neath living trees on the golden shore, And the voice that's hushed, God's praises hymn 'Mid the bands of the harping seraphim.

TO A DOVE.

MOURNING AMID THE RUINS OF AN ANCIENT CHURCH.

The fields have faded, the groves look dead, The summer is gone, its beauty has fled, And there breathes a low and plaintive sound From each stream and solemn wood around. In unison with their tone, my breast With a spirit of kindred gloom is opprest, And the sighs burst forth as I gaze, the while, On the crumbling stone of the reverend pile, And list to the sounds of the moaning wind As it stirs the old ivy-boughs entwined,-- Sighs mournful along through chancel and nave, And shakes the loose panel and architrave, While the mouldering branches and withered leaves Are rustling around the moss-grown eaves.

But sadder than these, thou emblem of love, Thy moanings fall, disconsolate dove, In the solemn eve on my pensive ear, As the wailing sounds of a requiem drear, As coming from crumbling altar stone They are borne on the winds in a dirge-like tone, Like the plaintive voice of the broken-hearted O'er hopes betrayed and joys departed.

Why dost thou pour thy sad complaint On the evening winds from a bosom faint? As if thou hadst come from the shoreless main Of a world submerged to the ark again, With a weary heart to lament and brood O'er the wide and voiceless solitude. Dost thou mourn that the gray and mouldering door Swings back to the reverent crowd no more? That the tall and waving grass defiles The well-worn flags of the crowdless aisles? That the wild fox barks, and the owlet screams Where the organ and choir pealed out their themes?

Dost thou mourn, that from sacred desk the word Of life and truth is no longer heard? That the gentle shepherd, who to pasture bore His flock, has gone, to return no more? Dost thou mourn for the hoary-headed sage Who has sunk to the grave 'neath the weight of age? For the vanquished pride of manhood's bloom? For the light of youth quenched in the tomb? For the bridegroom's fall? For the bride's decay? That pastor and people have passed away, And the tears of night their graves bedew By the funeral cypress and solemn yew?

Or dost thou mourn that the house of God Has ceased to be a divine abode? That the Holy Spirit, which erst did brood O'er the Son of Man by Jordan's flood, In thine own pure form to the eye of sense, From its resting place has departed hence, And twitters the swallow, and wheels the bat O'er the mercy-seat where its presence sat? I have marked thy trembling breast, and heard With a heart responsive thy tones, sweet bird, And have mourned, like thee, of earth's fairest things The blight and the loss--Oh! had I thy wings, From a world of woe to the realms of the blest I would flee away, and would be at rest.

FALL OF SUPERSTITION.

A PRIZE POEM.