LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Chap. Copyright No. Shelf..tli.7I \ ^35 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. *'* -;* .Xt*- Yl£.V\v,vV' THE LILACS at €arlp Canble Etsl)t mobctt apc31nttte CURTS & JENNINGS CINCINNATI CHICAGO ST. LOUIS TWO COPIES R-ECEIVED. Ubrary of eor,gr.8% »fffci of tho R^^'^^er of Copyrights SECOND COPY. ^-/^^7^ ...61683 COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY THE WESTERN METHODIST BOOK CONCERN. TO MY WIFE 'Y^HIS fell to me, to strike the strings Of viine ozvn harp with strenuoits hand, Refreshed to tell the Joy that rings Through all the course of cotninoti things, Believing soine would understand. No tale is here of those old days When warriors we?it i?i armor drest ; Melodious words and honeyed lays Seem all too smooth to fitly phrase The making of the mighty West. No eagle's siveep, as, round and round. He climbs the amplitude of air On fearless wing, will here be found ; The warbling zvhite-throaV s lotv, clear sound And wavering flight is all I dare. 5 PROEH Here winds the woodbine, wet with dew, And here the canes of cat-tails grow ; Here lift the bells of larkspurs blue. And morning-glories such as grew From out the loam of long ago, " Here doth the swallow write her rimes O71 the palimpsest of the pool ; The chevroned blackbird fifes his tunes ; The crocks of cream, like golden moons ^ Make twilight in the dairy cool. Here blows the sce^it by sweetbrier made ; Here cameo acorns strike the sod; The glow-worm^ s lantern lights the glade', The smile of stars on snow-fields laid. Where earth, asleep, doth dream of God. One heaped-tip harvest now is vii7ie ; Faring so far with 7iature hath Healed mine own heart ; aJid if oJie li?ie Shall win me fellowship with thine, Then co^neth in my after77iath. CONTENTS Proem, .-- Knee Deep, g When the GoIvD is on the Wili^ow, - - - - 12 The Sugar Camp, 16 The Country Road, 20 His Sweetheart's Throat, - - 23 "Stand By," - 26 He leadeth Me, 28 Where the Oak Log Crossed the Stream, - - - 33 O Christmas Day, ^6 "His Mark," ^S Mirror Lake, 39 "At Early Candle Light," 41 " Dead in Khartoum," 4, The Old Trail, 45 O Christmas Tree, 48 Easter Morning, cq 'Logan of Illinois," 5^ Our White Ladye, ---..•... cc The Breadwinners' Ballad, 57 On the Timber-Line, 61 Sassafras, 63 "Four Feet on the Fender," 65 " The River of Lost Soui,s," 68 The Whistling Boy, 71 7 8 CONTENTS PAGE " Thh Lilacs," 74 " What You Did Not Say," 77 " Hardscrabble and Highstbeple," - - - - 79 Comrade Hayes, - - - - 8i "The Old Cider Press," 83 " The Boy Who Never Returned," 85 James Newton Matthews, 87 "Joseph," 88 " Love Is Enough," 90 " All 's Well," 92 " Pretty Soon," 94 "What Is Your Life?" 96 " The Day We Seined the Dam," ... - 98 " The Old Zion Church," 100 " Right On," 102 The Back Log's Blaze, 107 " Taylor of Africa," 109 The Boy We Never Saw, in "Mary," 114 The Bluffs of Kickapoo, 116 "Victor Hugo, .--- 120 The Last Sermon, 122 Something in the Summer, 125 Where the Cork Goes Down, ------ 131 Where Are the Heroes? 134 "Jim's Meeting," 136 The Brook, 140 The Dogwood Tree, 144 God's Manuscript, - - 146 The Unknown, - - - - 147 On Christmas Eve, 149 Common Things, - - - - 151 Pictures of the Past, 153 "KNEE DEEP" iiHEY call " Knee deep, knee deep," to-night in the marsh below, Down by the bank where the rank sword-grasses and calamus grow ; They are the toilers who make the bells for the winter sprites. All keeping time to a rhyme they work thro' the summer nights. While up from the swampy forge the sparks of the fire- flies rise O'er the pool where wading lilies make love, thro' half- shut eyes, To the whippoorwill, who scolds like a shrew at the fluffy owl, While the night-hawk shuffles by, like a monk in a velvet cowl, lo "KNEE DEEP" And the bat weaves inky weft thro' the white star-beams that peep Down thro' the cypress boughs, wh^re the frogs all sing " Knee deep." Strange that the spell of a song should summon a man like me Back thro' the bygone years to the scenes that used to be, When earth was hid from heaven by one rose-hedge, and through This bourne the blessed angels looked, and asphodel odors blew; Strange the invisible choir, deep hid in the swaying sedge, Should woo my mind to wander again down to the water's edge ; But whenever I hear that carol clear, across the wide morass, All the evening calm and the twilight balm into my being pass; From oiF my soul the sorrows roll, and I feel my spirit leap With exultant joy as when, a boy, I shouted back, " Knee deep !" Knee deep I wade in the winding brook with buttercups o'erblown — The gold upon its rippled breast half hidden and half shown ; "KNEE DEEP" ii Knee deep in the billows of marigolds, across the mead- ows fair, That dance upon the wanton winds and toss their yellow hair; Knee deep where the bubbles of clover break upon the summer sea, As thick as the stars that shine upon the breast of eternity ; Knee deep in litter of autumn leaves I rustle toward the place Where the rabbit unaffrighted sits, and washes her inno- cent face; Song of the quivering culms and osiers, I am wading again, in truth, Knee deep in the stream of Memory, that flows from the land of Youth. WHEN THE GOLD IS ON THE WILLOW HEN the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier, Not hoary hair or heavy care can still my wild desire To race across the uplands, over Memory's tender turf, And dive out of my sorrows in the dogwood's bloomy surf O blue were violets in our youth, and blue were April skies, .And blue the early song-bird's wings, but bluer were the eyes That, in that land of long ago, looked thro' the window pane, And saw the tulips nod to us amid the slanting rain. WHEN THE GOLD IS ON THE WILLOW 13 Where all the dusk was glowing with our ruddy cottage fire, When the gold was on the willow, and the purple on the brier. When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier, The ducats of the dandelions have paid old Winter's hire, And sent him shuffling northward in garb of tattered snow; White-tasseled birches after him their balmy odors throw. Carousing in the bramble brake the brown bees, booz- ing, sip, And up the river's cataracts the shining salmon slip. The schoolboy's spirit leaveth him upon the weary seat, And over loamy furrows leaps, with lightsome heart, to greet The chipmunk on the mossy wall, the bullfrog in the mire, When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier. When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier, He whistles the cantata of the blackbird's noisy choir, 14 WHEN THE GOLD 15 ON THE WILLOW And all the murmurous music of a manumitted stream Sings soft around his naked feet, where shallow ripples gleam, As if the loops of crystal wherein the lad doth wade Had threaded through the lilies of some Paradise arcade, And little laughing angels had tucked their tunics high. To plash across its limpid shoals before it left the sky ; And still it lilts the melody of lute, and harp, and lyre. When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier. When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier, It my be sin to say it, but I fear that I shall tire Of heaven's eternal summer, and sometimes I will yearn To see, across the greening swale, a budding maple burn. My soul can ne'er be satisfied where sweet Spring never hath Her way along the mountain side or by the meadow path, Where kingcups never catch the sun, or bluebells mock the sky, Or trout beneath the foam-wreaths hide, or bass jump at the fly, WHEN THE GOLD IS ON THE WILLOW 15 And, in some homesick moment, for a furlough I '11 inquire, When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier. THE SUGAR CAMP HEN you want a treat, delicious to eat i'^^'JiM'S/'/f I P bees; i\mi m i\-\\\)vy^mim.iMi ^^ ^^^^ p^gg ^^ ^-^^ p^^j. ^^^ mmk March snow, to a bush of sugar-trees ; Step down the hill, when all is still, and soft blue smoke is curled In the frosty haze, where ice-gems blaze, when sundown takes the world. No honey of flowers in this world of ours, no sap of the Southern cane. Melts on the lip like the sweets that drip from a wounded maple's grain; And if you take up a gourd or a cup of the plain old- fashioned stamp, And sip some juice, you will then turn loose and shout in the sugar camp. The giants there have strength to spare; their seed no man has sown; But the Lord, who willed our good, has tilled and tended them alone. THE SUGAR CTHP 17 One hundred j-ears of smiles and tears — of the sunshine and the dew — Have gone to build the tree that spilled its blood to- day for you. O to wander free, as I used to be, through that grand primeval grove. Meandering slow, as I used to go, with the sled and the team I drove ! Do n't talk to me of the barley-bree, that steeps in a still- house damp; There never was wine came out of the vine like the sap of a sugar camp. What are stately palms in the Syrian calms, or gardens of olives dim. To one w^ho goes where the mighty rows of the maples make way for him, When the sap runs free as the melody of the robin above the shed, With the whole white earth beneath him and the whole blue sky o'erhead? For the happy man looks into the pan where the amber sweetness swirls. And sees the face and lightsome grace of the best of the country girls, And he seems to see that home to be, where, under the well-trimmed lamp. His wife doth wait, when he comes home late from work in the sugar camp. i8 THE SUGT^R C?TMP So he drives his sleigh down a winding way, along the moonlit lanes, To where the light of a farmhouse, bright, shines from the window-panes; Then, cuddled snug in the ample rug, o'er the snowy roads they whirr, While his sweetheart eats the spicy sweets he made that day for her. With tinkle of bells and song that swells, how gleaming miles unroll ; And he tastes, so plain, the flavor again as he takes his lover's toll ; For the sleigh is narrow, and one swift arrow from Cupid, the rosy scamp, Strikes man and maid from his ambuscade as they circle the sugar camp. How he smiles next day, as he toils away stirring the bubbling trough ; For he must wait to know his fate till the night of the sugaring-ofF. Cupid makes his bows of wood that grows in the sugar- thicket's shade, And dips each shaft, clear down to the haft, in the syrup when 't is made. So all ends right, and I say to-night, though we have suffered and toiled, THE SUGAR cnnp 19 We could both forget our sorrows yet in a dipper of sap half-boiled. When we get to heaven we '11 kiss our folks, then start for a happy tramp Up toward the headwaters of Paradise, just to work in the sugar camp. THE COUNTPY POAD LD meandering country road, to thy track I turn to-day, Where the carven beeches spread, and the runnel slips away, To glint across the shallows and gleam around the stones. And to croon among the cresses in caressing undertones That answer to the thrushes hid within the maple shade. Toward the town the wagons creep, along the dusty grade. Where the old covered bridge, with catalpa blossoms snowed, lyike an old-fashioned brooch, clasps the old country road. I see the brood of butterflies that border every pool Beneath the spreading elms, where the shadows are so cool; THE COUNTRY R07\D 21 And the rivulets of sheep, flowing slowly past the farms; The ballad-singing shepherds bearing lambs in their arms; And the tawny tiger-lilies, their bells all spider-spun, Each with bumble-bee for clapper, ringing matins to the sun, As I rode from the harvest-field upon the swaying load, Brushed by the locust boughs on that old country road. There is the little village, so old-fashioned and so snug. With the highway's arm around it in the fatherliest hug. Where each cottage wears at evening a smoky purple dress, With a selvedge of the sunset to set off its loveliness. Above the door the roses bloom and hide the lintel high, And along the fence the pansies make a pasture for the eye, While the open dressers preach all the hospitable code Of the friendly ethics common on that old country road. if that weaver's lassie, rinsing linen white as snow. Could whiten out my soul again as it was long ago ; O, perhaps, if I could press again that meadow with my face, 1 could cool my weary heart with the turf of that old place; 22 THE COUNTl^Y ROAD And at the end of life, in that ancient burial-plot, How sweet would be my slumber — all uncrowded and forgot ; And I think sometimes my spirit, from its heavenly abode. Would come down and walk, at twilight, up that old country road. HIS SWEETHEART'S THROAT THAT reminds me — I reckon I never told This camp how "Wes." won a medal of gold. I can hear, to-night, the Chancellor say, In the southern school down Georgia way, "Whoever" — These beans are about the stuff, But this bull-beef is so awful tough, I can scarcely chew the gravy ; and This coffee is hot as a Texas brand, — " Whoever is first on the final vote Will hang his prize at his sweetheart's throat." Well, I kept the tally, and I tell you He roped that crowd as clever, and threw It as clean as a steer that hits the sky, In just two minutes from stirrup to tie. I can see, in this crackling mesquite blaze. The scene as it was in those old days; 23 24 HIS SWEETHCHRT'S THROAT The handsome girls, high-born and rich, Who beamed on the orators, wondering which Would gain the glory, and then devote His prize to hang at his sweetheart's throat. He is not a saint — he can bite a word Into blazing brimstone when his herd Is mavericked, and he told " Kid's " breed That the timber-wolves on them would feed If they lifted his — but I wish you all Had seen that classic college hall With fine old jewels, and fine new frocks. And the boys in buckles and bushy locks. When " Wes." came out, in his home-made coat. To win the prize for his sweetheart's throat. When he cleared the corral and took the track, We all stood up, and shook the shack With shouts for "Wes.," with his curly hair, And his eye like the eye of a Pinto mare For fire, and as slim as a yucca stem. Stars ! how he turned and swept at them, With voice as sweet as the tinkling bell On a Brazos spur, and a speech that fell Like a silver riata, coiled to tote Away that prize for his sweetheart's throat. He pulled up the picket-pins, took the lead Of that beautiful bunch in a wild stampede HIS SWEETHEAm'S THI^OAT 25 Up the coulee to heaven and back again. Well, I have seen women weep, and men, But I say now, when " Wes." marched down To his mother, in her linsey gown. Who stood there waiting for a kiss, And just took her weary hands in his. We cried, and cheered, and howled, to note — He hung his prize at his sweetheart's throat. Hl^ HE swing of the sea, the billow's long beat, Flow thro' this tale that floats out of the fog. A rude hearse was rattled along an old street; No mourner was near it — not even a dog. A wandering sailor, blown in from the wave, Went up to the wagon that carried the dead, Kept close behind till it came to the grave Of the stranger, and stood with his uncovered head Till the coffin was covered, heaved a deep sigh, And said, " I thought some one should just ' stand by.' " Hear the moan of the blast, the rain on the beach, Curlew's cry thro' the spray, in this man's gentle deed. Did the wail of his weanlings, who wait for him, teach This sun-browned old saint such a heavenly creed? Did some fell affliction his own life had felt Scud o'er his sad soul as the pauper went past ? 26 "STAND BY" VI Did unspeakable loss make his sympathy melt For a poor, friendless mortal, forsaken at last? Did a sob sag his breast, or a tear wet his eye ? I know not, and care not, because he "stood by." "Stood by" all alone on that wide village road; "Stood by" in the bonds of the great brotherhood; "Stood by" in the grand old Samaritan code That 't is fine to be friendly, 't is good to do good. Heaven bless him, and bear him with favoring gales To his far-away home. Should the wild tempest smite, When waves take his deck and winds take his sails. Surely One will walk near in the watch of the night. Who will say to him softly, " Fear not, it is I. I saw thee that day and have come to ' stand by.' " "HE LEADETH ME" N the Rocky Mountains, the engineers say, Wherever the water dares to come down, A railway dares to go up; and they Coil around the loftiest Titan's crown The loops of the lasso of winding track ; And up this Romeo ladder they glide. To smirch with the murk of the smoky stack The stainless hue of the clouds that hide The brow of old Blanco, scarred with age, "Where we rode that night on the " narrow gauge." Startled, we heard the shrill whistle scream, And flocks of echoes, scared by its breath. Fluttered and flew thro' the hissing steam. Near was the summit, but nearer Death 28 "HE LEADETH ME" 29 Stood beckoning us. We felt the lurch, And heard the brave engine wrench and strain, Then backward, down from the eagle perch To the far-oflf valley reeled the train. Fear blanched our faces, when one outspoke : " Leap for your lives ! the coupling 's broke." " The brakes are useless," another one cried, As into the gorge, with a cosmic whirr, We fell. Let the poets tell the night-ride Of Paul Revere, with his red-wet spur; Or Sheridan, when the long race was done, Smiting Defeat on his boastful face ; Of the three who started when only one Brought the good news from Ghent to Aix ; But the thrill of them all was "in our veins. Swept from the peak to the distant plains. We followed the foamy stream, and swerved Where white stars lay in emerald deeps ; Roared through snow-sheds ; leaned and curved ; Hung pendulous over the crumbling steeps ; Like a meteor burning the midnight air Swayed inward, scouring the granite bank ; While, crashing amid the cries of prayer. Torn from its moorings, the water-tank Was hurled and tossed in the clanging car That bore us away to the judgment-bar. 30 "HE LCZ^DETH HE" One slip or stumble would surely fling Us all through the gate of eternity, When a white-haired woman began to sing That ancient lyric, "He Ivcadeth Me." No wavering air, but clear and full It rose and fell on that fearsome din, Triumphant as swims a gleaming gull Through the ocean storm she revels in. Our cradle rocking, the I^ord beat time, And we were swinging to that old rhyme. Her faith laid hold on the Father's arm ; We joined the chorus, and cast our fears To the howling winds; there could be no harm. With the seas, and suns, and choiring spheres, We swung harmonious, rhythmic sweet. In the heavenly temple vague and vast; We clung, like little ones, to His feet Till safely stopped on the plain at last. As the train descended our souls had trod Up the ladder of song to the throne of God. WHERE THE OAK LOG CROSSED THE STREAM WHERE THE OAK LOG CROSSED THE STREAM •■ti'JI #i^ EMORY is busy with the old folks. Like that Bible brother's wife, We are fond of glancing backward o'er the scenes of early life ; And to-night, while sitting musing, when the dusk was coming down, I forgot the children playing, and the murmur of the town. "When you called me I was driving, thro' the bars and down the lane. That faithful cow of father's, walking by her once again. With my sun-tanned arm caressing her neck's soft vel- vet skin. And telling her the secrets and the sorrows hid within The deep heart of a laddie, when she turned and licked my hand, And breathed clover-scented comfort any boy could understand. 33 34 WHEI^E THE OAK LOG CROSSED THE STRETCH O a whiff of mint and pennyroyal upon the air did seem To blow from Brindle's pasture, where the oak log crossed the stream. She would meditate a moment, then the coolest place would seek, Where swaying willow branches trailed their fringes in the creek. And then set her agate hoofs in the gravel's polished gold, To dip her dappled muzzle where the violet ripples rolled ; And such long, delicious drinking, such a thankful up- ward look. As she plashed, with dripping nostrils, to the margin of the brook; Then a cloud of mist upblown, and a low, deep-chested moan, A kind of humble dumb thanksgiving and returning God his own ; Then along the road together we meandered, slow and still, Where katydid was calling figures for the fire-flies' quadrille. And I was wandering in haunted lands of legend and of dream, While coming thro' the shadows where the oak log crossed the stream. WHERE THE Om\ LOG CROSSED THE STREHH 35 I am thinking much this season of the glad old long ago; Perhaps I am failing, Helen, dear old wife, I hardly know, And there may be sin in looking back; that Scripture sister went Thro' a lot of trouble by it — had a dreadful punishment — But if she was as happy and half as full of high delight While looking o'er her shoulder as I am this blessed night, Perhaps the end was peaceful. If I was sure I had to die, And never see another sun arise across the eastern sky, I would like to meet the river — the darksome flood of death — Beside that twilight village road, and, with my parting breath. Say good-bye to all my loved ones, with the other shore agleam, And wade out from earth forever where the oak log crossed the stream. CHRISTMAS Day, O Christmas Day O Babe, who in the manger lay, Once more thy star its splendor spills Across the sleeping Syrian hills, Once more the strange old story thrills The mind of man, till, sweet and clear, Our songs run round the board, whose cheer Makes laughing children leap, and say, "O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day!" O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day ! How selfishness doth melt away ! All eyes with kindly joy do shine, All lips say "yours," instead of "mine;" All hearts receive the Child divine, O CHI^ISTI"1?\S D7W 37 Whose dimpled hands do now caress This sad old world in tenderness ; Blue breaks through the skies of gray, O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day ! O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day! How every year doth spread the sway Of that dear King whose humble birth Awoke the anthem " Peace on earth," And taught the weary world the worth That in the lowly soul may dwell Where rules the Prince Immanuel, When lyove has had his wondrous way, O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day! O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day! All hate and envy thou dost slay ; Buried deep beneath the snow, Hid by holly and mistletoe. O'er them advent angels go. Hark to the choir of chiming bells ! This is the story the steeple tells : God has come to this world to stay, O Christmas Day, O Christmas Dayl "HIS nmw' IT is told of Angelo, that once he came Into the lowly cottage of a friend, And found it empty ; yet he left no name, But one great curve did swiftly bend On the blank canvas near. When, on return, his comrade did ex- claim, " Behold, the Buonarotti hath been here ! " I saw a splendid rainbow span the sky With its mysterious and mighty arch ; In stately grandeur sweeping heaven high. O'er which a tempest, with majestic march, In thunderous music trod. " Lo, this small studio, our world," said I, " Hath this day had a visit from our God." "MIRROR LAKE" rHEN Day cometh over the dim mountain tops, She seeth, far down in the en- chanted copse, Her fair face reflected in that magic glass Laid on the lawn where the Merced doth doth pass. Lo, the vale hangs inverted, enfolded in firs, Thro' fathoms of crystal the soaring lark whirrs, And seemeth to sink into eternity In the marvelous mirror of Yosemite. She lingereth there, o'er the sky lintel bent, And seeth beneath her the blue firmament, Watching the mists of the morning that scale The path of the winding and perilous trail, The steeps of the Sierra's gray monochrome, The storm-smitten summit of awful South Dome, When by the great portal of red porphyry The sun drives his car into Yosemite. 39 40 "niRROR LT^KE" Below, in clea-r water, the tall turrets swing, The bold cedar-trees to the terraces cling, The sevenfold rainbow is flinging its span From Bridal Veil Falls unto El Capitan. As spun by the sun from the foamy cascade, When arching across the aerial glade. It looks like the girder of God's balcony. From which He looks down into Yosemite. Sometimes in the dawning the clouds seem to stand On a far-away ledge, like an angelic band That pauses in flight, on the opaline verge Where the sky and the snow into mystery merge; Then Day to the seraphs shouts o'er the abyss, "O shining and sinless ones, answer me this: Can aught in your heaven of heavens e'er be As sublime as this splendor of Yosemite?" AT EARLY CANDLE-LIGHT" HERE is no night in heaven," so the circuit-rider said ; Now, blessings on his saintl}' heart, and on his silver head, He little knew how I had dreamed, when all my work was done, Of meeting, in my Father's house my long-lost little one. O how my yearning soul shall miss — if heaven has no night — That hour of all hours the best, " the early candle-light!" I know the dawn is lovely when the rosy wreaths of cloud Fall into purple furrows which the sun has newly plowed; The prairie, like an open hearth, on which the day doth kneel To blow the coals of morning into splendors that reveal The colors that are curled within the woven mists of white. But 't is not so hushed and holy as " the early candle- light." 41 42 "?rr EARLY CANDLE-LIGHT" And sweet the hoou in summer, when thro' the lattice blows The wind that softly whispers where the cool clematis grows ; The wheat within the valley bending in the breeze, And drowsy cattle wading the tarn among the trees, The eagle o'er them sailing thro' the sky of lazulite, But it can not bring the comfort of " the early candle- light." Oft I picture eve in heaven, where not a leaf doth stir, "When every harp grows silent, hushed each lute and dulcimer ; "Where, thro' the quiet twilight, down a path of Paradise, Toward the gate comes baby Kate, with gladness in her eyes, And on the paneled pearl lifts the latch of jasper bright. To greet me there when home I fare "at early candle- light." " DEAD IN KHARTOUM " O, Gordon is dead in Khartoum! The oak of England is prone ; The crape on her banners is black, The step of her legions is slack; Upholding her banner alone He has gone to his glorious doom. IvO, Gordon is dead in Khartoum ! lyO, Gordon is dead in Khartoum ! The damp of the Nile on his brow. Great Britain, the fateful eclipse That lies on his eyes and his lips Tells thee how he kept his vow. Death came as a bride to a groom. Lo, Gordon is dead in Khartoum ! 44 " DE7\D IN KHARTOUM " lyO, Gordon is dead in Khartoum! His toil is all over and past. O Albion, could'st thou but fold His form with thy warriors old ! Thou kept the best till the last ; Now afar he goes into the gloom. I/O, Gordon is dead in Khartoum ! Lo, Gordon is dead in Khartoum ! But our children shall wear his name. Egypt, take him to hold and keep; In thy pyramid let him sleep "With thy worthies of ancient fame — For him will thy gods make room. ho, Gordon is dead in Khartoum! THE OLD TRAIL (al^HRO' columns of cedars begirt with i\^7y ferns, Over peaks where the pinons climb together In the crimson glow where the sunset burns, And the purple fringe of the moun- tain heather ; Where the otter's pelt, in the emerald pool, 'Mid dancing foam-bells dives and glistens, And the ousel flutes in the aspens cool. Where the dappled deer, affrighted listens. When she hears our hoof-beats, far away. Runs the famous old trail to Santa Fe. A highway to heaven. The bearded and strong Left white-topped wagons and weary cattle, And, bidding this sad old world " So long," Their souls went out in the Indian battle, 45 46 THE OLD TRT^IL Set free by the red Apache spears. In clumps of cactus their bones are sleeping, Strewn with the skeletons of their steers, And a rattlesnake in the white ribs creeping Makes a gruesome epitaph, Mate, I say, For a freighter who fought on the Santa Fe. Those tunicked old settlers w^ere clear grit, And I reckon their women even stancher Of soul, if a fellow will cipher it. You mind that home of the murdered rancher; In the crumbling corner the rifle stands, With a rotten strap and a rusty buckle ; But where is the wife, whose loving hands Trained over the porch that honeysuckle? And where are the babes who used to play 'Neath its scented shade on the Santa Fe? You have not forgotten the ford, I know; That wagon-corral, and the log-fires in it; "Old Baldy," lifting his brow of snow, As white as your honest head this minute, O the yarns we spun, the songs we sung Of "home, sweet home" and blue Juniata, While up in the pines the new moon hung, And — pshaw, old partner, what 's the matter? Does it hurt you yet, when your hair is gray. What she said that night on the Santa Fe? THE OLD TRPilL 47 Well, he went down at your elbow, Dave, In that midnight fracas across the carry; You helped us heap up the lonely grave In the Cottonwood grove, over handsome Harry. We found him dead underneath his steed. With his empty sixes and stained serape. Just as he fell when the mad stampede Flung far from him these two unhappy Old chums, who tell of that red affray With tears, as they think of the Santa Fe. Gone, stirrup, riata, and rowel-bell; The bellowing herd, in its wild commotion; The breathless rush, from the chaparrel, Over the sweep of that grassy ocean. But 3^et, my comrade, the road is etched On the flowery prairie, fresh and vernal; And, dear old friend, when we are fetched. By Death, beyond the white range eternal. We will wind to the realms of endless day Up the shining trail of the Santa Fe. s^ g^fiJ- ^.^^^ O CHRISTMAS TREE 'HE Palm is the king of the lands of the sun, And his touseled plumes are tossed Where the wild gazelles the winds outrun, On the marge of the mirage lost. He stands as straight as a temple shaft, And his laughing leafage green Flings fragrant shade on the fountain, quaffed By the wandering Bedoueen. But no palm-fruit, when peeled, can be As sweet as the fruit of the Christmas Tree. The Oak is the king of the lands of the corn ; When the tempest clouds the skies, And walks the world in splendid scorn, How its wrath the oak defies ! He stands serene, elect, apart. And he drinks, from a dewy knoll, o cimisTriAS tree 49 The sap that sings in his shaggy heart And strengthens his stout old soul. Tho' he boasts of the proudest pedigree, He doffs his crown to the Christmas Tree. The Pine is the king of the lands of snow, Sole lord of the leagues of hills Where the stars in shining clusters grow, And the moon its splendor spills On the edge of the earth's gray parapet, Where he taketh the dawn's red torch To rekindle the east. This warder, set By the pillars of God's white porch. Thro' the gates ajar can often see. In the Father's house, the Christmas Tree. As the kings of old, on their bended knees, Bowed down to the Babe divine, To-day behold these high-born trees — The Palm, the Oak, and the Pine— Come over the hills to Bethlehem, With their gifts of spicery, Lo, while the star that guideth them Its refulgence throws on thee. The Christmas bells fling, wild and free. Thy "Peace on earth," O Christmas Tree! 4 EASTER MORNING ; THE dawn of Easter mornine! O the ^v sad, sweet day, ^#^ When thro' the laughing lilies loving .%^ Mary went her way ^ To the place where He was buried, to weep beside His tomb, ri?* Where the cedar and the willow tree were ^ waving in the gloom, And the myrtle and the almond tree were budding into bloom. Upon her wistful forehead all the waking wonder shone When she saw the gracious angel sitting on the guarded stone. When she heard him softly say, "Lo, 3'our Master is not dead; He is risen, as He said," In the dawn of Easter morning. O the sad, sweet day ! O the dawn of Easter morning! O the sad, sweet day ! When Jesus conquered Death alone, and ended all his sway, lyist! how Magdalene is calling all the weary world to her, 50 EH5TER HORNING 5i Where she holds the bruised cassia, the balsam and the myrrh, And stands with gaze enraptured by the open sepulcher. See the snowy linen folded, which he nevermore will need, Hear the happy woman telling that " The Lord is risen indeed." Now the shouting Christian may Stand within that vault and sing, "O Death, where is thy sting?" In the dawn of Easter morning. O the sad, sweet day ! O the dawn of Easter morning ! O the sad, sweet day ! When we were all delivered from dominion of the clay. Within that burial-garden how the heart grows calm ; How the bough of cypress changes into the branch of palm ; How the wailing requiem rises into the wedding psalm, Because our great Emmanuel, the grave could not con- tain, Comes back to be a comrade with his own elect again. In the dusky sunrise gray lyooks and speech are just the same, calling Mary by her name In the dawn of Easter morning. O the sad, sweet day ! O the dawn of Easter morning ! O the sad, sweet day ! When the resurrection glory on the urn doth play. 52 CASTER HORNING " lyct not your heart be troubled, your place I will pre- pare; For you must be beside Me now, wherever I may fare. Henceforward all My blessedness My bride will surely share." O Savior, there is nothing in Thy happy heaven above That we desire a portion in so much as in Thy love. Often hast Thou heard us pray, " Eloi, when all the race is run, welcome us with Thy 'Well done,'" In the dawn of Easter morning. O the sad, sweet day ! "LOGAN or ILLINOIS" ALLANT brother to Bayard, and Sidney, and they Who galloped in glory so long ago, lyike them, without fear or reproach, I say, With as steady a soul, and as stout a blow, And as loyal in love which he gave to her Whose prayers were the pinions of faith, to poise — 'Mid the smoke, and the din, and the death- bolt's whirr — " Logan of Illinois." O how bright was his sword when he broke a path Where the bristling bayonets slivered the sun Into splinters of gold, as he rode in w^rath And never drew rein till the field was won. S3 54 "LOGAN or ILLINOIS" Ivike a snow-suckled stream from a crag-crest flung, One sudden precipitate shaft of turquoise, Born of a breed that old Homer has sung, "Logan of Illinois." It was splendid to see him sweep into the fight. With his dominant figure and dauntless air, To speed his flight and to cheer the right When the shout of his soldiers shook the air, As he plowed his way to the perilous place At the battery's breast with his Western boys. His great soul lighting his glorious face, " IvOgan of Illinois." O thou Prairie State, he is dear to you — This knightl)^ one who has lately gone To sit in the temple beside the two Who sleep by the Hudson and Sangamon. In the Hall of the Heroes thy children meet; High fame the proud mother enjoys, Who has Lincoln to welcome and Grant to greet "lyOgan of Illinois." OUR WHITE LADYE sin liaemoriB of iftmctf '.. 4 t#?i "THE DAY WE SEINED THE DAM" HE day we seined the dam, the light Gleamed on the mullet's golden scales, When, arching in his arrowy flight, He cuffed the glinting jewels bright About the boy who held the brails, And lit the lake with shining scrolls Of radiant rings that roughed its calm, As heavenly raptures stir the souls Of saints, — the day we seined the dam. The day we seined the dam, the brim Held all the hamlet's boisterous brood ; Each tossed his tunic far from him. Waded knee-deep, sun-tanned and slim. And stood there unashamed and nude ; The tamaracks shook when they laughed, And rhythmic strophes, like a psalm, "THE DAY WE SEINED THE DHH " 99 Broke on the shore, as from the raft The)' dived — the day we seined the dam. The day we seined the dam, a bird Told but one tale from birchen boughs Wherein the sleeping south wind stirred; And down rose-hidden aisles the herd Came tinkling to the brink to browse, And in tall reeds, all satisfied. They stood where billows shook the balm From lilies tilted on the tide That rolled — the day we seined the dam. The day we seined the dam, how slipped The stream, in slopes of rainbow spray, Down to the depths where alders dipped Their beads, like monks who, in a crypt For peace, unto the Highest pray. O could I plunge in that deep pool, With all ni}^ woes, just as I am. And rise again as clean and cool As then, the day we seined the dam ! L. •' C •*THE OLD ZION CHUfXIH" ,^^| THE old Zion Church, on aj|i the old country road, Encircled with wagons when each brought a load Of the farmers, who came when the calm Sabbath-day Put the plow and the reaper and planter away. I can hear "Coronation " flow out from the choir, Bubbling over the building and up to the spire. Where one pair of bluebirds on Sunday did perch Just to join in the hymns of the old Zion Church. O the old Zion Church, down its unpainted aisles How the river of song broke in ripples of smiles As the bride drew her robes from the altar to door Thro' sunshine that sweetened the old oaken floor. And tears often flowed ; for the whole village wept When the bonnie wee babe in its white coffin slept. While the good pastor told how Death, in his search For the good Shepherd's lambs, came to old Zion Church. " THE OLD ZION CHURCH " loi O the old Zion Church — I can see it in spring, When the orchards enfold it in sweet blossoming ; And thro' the long summer it basks in the heat Where swift swallows swim the waves of the wheat ; To the tone of its bell, on the still Autumn morn, The quail whistles alto far off in the corn ; And in Winter the snow wraps the cedar and birch Keeping watch o'er the graves by the old Zion Church. the old Zion Church. — where the oak ever waves Its mantle of gloom o'er my ancestors' graves, Where mj' father and mother were long ago laid, And whippoorwill mourns in the murmurous shade. When my time comes to say a farewell to the earth, 1 would like to return to the scenes of my birth, Shake off the old life, leave the world in the lurch, For heaven is not far from the old Zion Church. :3»*'-2«' '•' . - "*«es ^ ^ - "RIGHT ON!" " I kept right on." — Grants Memoirs. IGHT ON! in the years of war, of clamor, and rumor, and woe ; Right on ! when tyrants of Europe said softly, " God orders it so;" Right out of the heart of the West, when all the land was dumb. Came Grant, and the nation said, "At last the mighty man has come." Right on ! Against his belted braves old Shiloh's bat- teries boomed. Right on! Across this hero's path the bluffs of Vicks- burg loomed. Over Mission Ridge and Lookout Mount serene and strong he trod, And the loyal North leaned hard on him as he leaned hard on God. Right on ! when, beside the Rapidan, I,ee stood across his path. And, overwhelmed, laid down his sword to bide the vic- tor's wrath; " RIGHT ON ! " 103 But behold how kindly greetings banish every sharp regret, As hand in hand the chieftains stand, and both are brothers yet. Magnanimous, unassuming soul, his stern and martial face Looked soft as to the boys in gray he said, with courtly grace, "Go home again in peace, my friends," and then the warrior calm Came back when all his task was done to wear the wreath of palm. Right on ! when cowards behind him cheapened his kingly fame; Right on ! when the paltry enemies pecked at his lustrous name; "When the kings of Europe applauded him, all courteous and mild, He kept the soldier's equipoise and the candor of a child. Right on ! as ruler, the ship of state with steady hand he steered. And never a hairbreadth, right or left, in any place he veered I04 "RIGHT ON!" Best of the West, thou sturdy type of the sterling, rare antique ; As soldier, more than a Roman bold ; as a patriot, more than a Greek. Right on! from his agonized body the spirit has now gone forth. Pile palm upon his grave, O South, and pine, thou weeping North ; For, safe in America's Pantheon, our great soldier's shade we see, With one hand outreached to Lincoln and the other to Robert Lee. THE BACK LOG'S BLAZE 106 THE BACK LOG'S BLAZE THE back log's blaze — where the wide arch showed The gloom above the hearth, where the red coals glowed; How it made the dusky shadows on the white walls lurch When the wind around the eaves the crevices did search. How the cheery cricket chirruped at every childish jest, Keeping time in crispy rhyme to the tune he loved the best; "When the curly king of home, with all his cunning ways, "Was cooed and crooned to slumber by the back log's blaze. O the back log's blaze, — when the lovers softly laughed, Then the silence heard the whiz of Cupid's winged shaft, And swarming sparkles flew up the open chimney-throat To the boughs of bloomy stars in the firmament afloat ; The sun of ninety summers split the oaken log, and laid A pathway down to Paradise for lover and for maid, And paved a golden plaza where, amid the kindly rays, The romping children rolled by the back log's blaze. io8 THE BT^CK LOO'S BLAZE O the back log's blaze, — then the world was fair to me, Far whiter than the outer snow the inner purity. When winter hounds were baying the cold December moon, The wooers, hand in hand, went along the lanes of June; The while the tempest roared, the mother rocked her child. Then bending o'er the cradle, how wistfully she smiled ! What visions of his future rose before her loving gaze As she stooped to kiss him gently, by the back log's blaze ! O the back log's blaze ! I can see it rise and fall, Lighting up that happy circle when the family was all Gathered near it in the evening in the dear, old place. O, I fancy it would smooth again the wrinkles from my face, — Every tear would disappear like the snowflakes in the flue. As they fell into the flames that my heart is turning to, Could those whom God has taken forget their hymns of praise And just come and sit together, by the back log's blaze. "TAYLOR or ArRICA" •AYLOR of Africa, tried and true, The eyes of the world are '\v¥\ ^5» bent on you, Bearing your torch in the moral murk. Where the awful shapes forever lurk ; Proud are we of the dauntless pith, Of the glorious heart you front them with. Canst thou, old Egypt, match that pair? One lying low, one battling there, One dead on the Nile with broken blade, One erect on the Congo, undismayed. Britain gave Gordon, and we gave you, Taylor of Africa, tried and true. "T7WLOR or AFRICA" Taylor of Africa, come and rest A night and a day in the mighty west ; Bring thy face with visions plowed, Thy splendid soul that ne'er was cowed, Thy mind which spills through smiling lips What thy large eyes see in Apocalypse. O your quenchless hope, your manly grain Maketh Paul of Tarsus to live again ! In shallow forms our souls are fast ; As a canon rings to a bugle blast, Blow your trumpet our slumbers through, Taylor of Africa, tried and true. Taylor of Africa, heart of oak. Hew Christ a path with sturdy stroke. The owls may hoot, the weaklings pule, The gilded gewgaws call thee fool ; God speed thee in that far-off clime And give thy spirit strength to rhyme, With the gospel message as it rolls The shout of a million ransomed souls ! Thou wilt come some day unto the throne With troops of her children as thine own. Saying, " Lord, hast thou more work to dot" Taylor of Africa, tried and true. "THE BOY WE NEVER SAW" K potters work in common clay, are common clay ourselves, Just as humble and as homely as the jugs upon our shelves ; But this child was alabaster fair, without a fleck or flaw, Sit down here, until I tell you, sir, of the boy we never saw. One day last fall a likely ball lay on the molding rim. And in the shed, at his wheel head, stood this stranger Jim. He tied his apron on and tossed a nod across to me. Then struck his treadle softly as a master strikes a key. He held the mass a moment, then so coaxingly and slow, With every turn the shapely urn in beauty seemed to grow, And when the wire cut the work from off his heavy wheel, We knew he was a craftsman true, from head to flying heel. 112 "THE BOY WC NEVER ST^W" Jim had a younkit, four years old, just coming down to die, A sickly lad who suffered so that the women had to cry, Telling how the little tyke, soon as the pain would stop, Called for the little kickshaws we sent him from the shop. We made the queerest cups, and then we made the oddest jars, With many a dip of smoothest slip, and man)^ curious stars, We chinked them in the hottest kiln, farthest from the blaze, Then took our turns to fire them, and took our turns to glaze. The foreman, in a Bible, found some pictured cups and bowls. Lovingly we shaped them, sir, with all their ancient scrolls. He filled them overflowing with the love he sent, to say That he wanted to come and see us all, but he had to go away. We all knocked off the day he died. The Chapel preacher told That shepherds take a lamb to lead a flock into the fold. "THE BOY WC NEVER SmV" "3 And how the singing seraphs stood around the throne, — but la ! There is not an angel there to match the boy we never saw. We potters work in common clay, are common clay ourselves, Just as humble and as homely as the jugs upon our shelves ; O we mean to see him some day, sir ! But my old eyelids — pshaw ! — Begin to leak whene'er I speak of that boy we never saw. _;^^3-. TTTHRO' the garden at morn, in cool emerald gloom, "Wends the sad woman, leaving her lost Sav- ior's tomb, Swerving on with no look to the skies purple flushed, Thro' lithe lilies leaning, expectant and hushed. Her unhooded brow with the dawn pallor shone, Faring wofully back from the grave and its stone ; When, before the believer, who wept for the dead. Rose the Master, and just the word " Marj^," he said. Lo ! there in the dusk of the whispering palm, Her raiment all sweet with the spikenard and balm, The myrtle tops burning with sunlight above Hung over the sinner, redeemed b}' His love, Purer far than the dewdrops upon her dark hair. Shaken down by the pink-footed doves cooing there, When the laurel's low Litany suddenly stilled. At the ringing •' Rabboni " her happy heart spilled. HARY ITS Easter cometh, and Magdalene calls its with her, Thro' gray olive shade, to the I^ord's sepulcher, Where angelic words at the cypress-hid prison, Linked like dulcimers, say unto us, " He is risen." Unsandaled and still, with souls all aglow, Drawing near we see Death, our discomfited foe, Folding all the fine linen Christ never will need, With face strangely soft, saying, " Risen, indeed." THE BLurrs or kickapoo 'the bluffs of Kickapoo!— the bluffs of Kickapoo ! Forever on their foreheads fair gleams the morning dew. Oft have I seen the king of day upon the summit stand, And pour a flood of glory over all the prairie land, And then beheld him bending unto the river's side, lyike one who cometh gallantly to claim a comely bride ; And fling her veil of shining mist far up into the blue, To float in fleecy clouds above the bluffs of Kickapoo. the bluffs of Kickapoo ! — the bluffs of Kickapoo ! 1 see the bridge beyond the ridge, I see the shallows, too ; Beneath the alder bushes, how shines the sparkling ring. Made by the leap of croppie, or the dip of swallow's wing! THE BLUFFS OF KICKAPOO 117 THE BLurrs or nckt^phdo 119 The blossoms of the tangled plum are full of sweet per- fume, The flight of startled redbird lights up the spicy gloom. No summer day was long enough when it was spent with you, And night was never welcome on the bluffs of Kickapoo. O the bluffs of Kickapoo ! — the bluffs of Kickapoo ! Though far away, my soul to-day doth bring them into view ; Amid the trees, around their knees, my boyish heart is hid, "Where gossips tell, thro' all the dell, what little Katj' did. And here, among the city streets, how oft my spirit yearns To hear thy ripples rhyme again, amid the fringe of ferns, O for one hour of that old joy, when all my life was new, To climb the path to heaven up the bluffs of Kickapoo ! " VICTOR HUGO O he is dead, you say! that dauntless king who loomed lyike a snowy mountain, above the pines of France. So now he clambers sunward, with spirit all illumed. And leaves his weary frame in the grave's deep trance. While all his loyal comrades, beside the leader's tomb. Grope, baffled and bewildered, thro' the cold, gray gloom. Dead, with his ^tna heart all burned to ashes now; The eloquent, resistless lips silent in the dust; That pen which wrote the doom upon Napoleon's brow, And jarred his rotten throne, is laid away to rust. VICTOR HUGO I2T Loved by God and little children, O honey-hearted man, How shall the world go onward, with no Hugo in the van? The last of the immortals, latest of the lofty strain, All suckled in adversity, who tugged our sinking race Out of miry shamelessness. To keep thee we were fain, But lo, the lyord hath called thee to th)^ exalted place, Where the others all await thee, crowned and battle- scarred. To greet thee at thy coming to receive thy rich reward. A prophet named thee Victor, thou who hast never failed ; When God had need of man, singer, seer, and sage, all three, Thou righteously didst smite, never doubted, drooped, nor quailed; For fifty glorious years led the hosts of Liberty. When the Future saj-s to France, "O name thy noblest soul," She will show, with radiant face, thy name upon her scroll ! <^ ORTY, and straight as a Norway fir, and yet I clean gave way To-night, dear wife; to save my life, I knew not what to say. Back came hurrying memories, like doves that homeward fly; How they gave us cheer for every year! O swiftly they went by, Freely as God spilled streams of suns to sweeten the abyss, When the clump of chaos blossomed into worlds like unto this. I spake for you, and the wee ones too, but O my eyes were blurred. When all was done for every one, and I came to the parting word ; With all my soul, like the open scroll of the stainless heaven, I Said, " Old Bible and old pulpit, and old Shiloh Church, good-bye ! " THE L7\5T SERnON ^23 Silence, like the spaces vast, and feeling, profound as the sea. Came o'er them when I fondly told what they had done for me. Thro' loving smiles along the aisles I went to take my stand ; And manfully I tried to say, as I grasped each friendly hand, "God fold you fast!" but failed at last when up came Abner Smith, His face lit with the great big heart he loves his chil- dren with. And, when they brought him forward there, he stam- mered, and began, " I was only a drunkard when you came, and now I am a man;" And then his wife so sadly said, " 'T is hard to hear you tell The old Bible, and old pulpit, and old Shiloh Church farewell ! " When to-morrow, at the break of day, that harvester, the sun. Shall husk the early shadows from the hill-tops, one by one, And by the winds of morning the shreds are swept, and whirled, And piled upon the porphyry plain that rims the wak- ing world, 124 THE LAST SERMON When the torch of dawn among them makes all the east to glow, Then, with onr babes around us, we will both arise and go Back to the humble building, and, with all our hearts and minds, Sing the song we 've loved so long, — "Blest be the tie that binds," And with a sigh say fond " Good-bye," till Shiloh Church we greet Thro' other eyes in Paradise, childlike round Shiloh's feet. SOMETHING IN THE SUMMER 'HEN the mower cuts the clover, and the swallow skims the corn, And the cockerel is telling he is glad that he was born ; When the dawn is rich with robins, piping in the poplar trees, And, deep within the hollyhocks, you hear the honey bees; When the quail calls up his covey, by the whistle of his name, In the plaited old fence corner, with its Indian pinks aflame, O something in the summer seems to say, Sip the sweetness of the nwrning, while you may. For Love will sooji be wingi7ig on his way — Something in the sumtner seems to say. 125 126 SOHETHING IN THE SUHMER When the wheat upon the hillside, in bending billows rolled, Is tossing scarlet poppies high upon its waves of gold ; When by the tree the baby, whose father binds the sheaves, Is laughing at the squirrels hid among the lisping leaves ; When reapers rest at noon within the ample leafy shade. Where the oriole is swinging in his emerald ambuscade, O something in the summer seems to say, Sip the sweetness of the morning, while you may. For Love will sooii be zvingi^ig on his way — Something in the summer seems to say. When the blackbird, in the tree-top, is tangled in his song, And the catbird gives him challenge, whether right or wrong ; When the speckled hawk is sweeping across the distant sky, And friendly sheep are grazing all about you, as you lie Looking down some river bend where a bit of blue doth shine. So vaguely thro' the curtain of the trumpet creeper vine, SOnCTHINQ IN THE SUriHER 127 O soincthhig in the summer seems to say, Sip the szueet)iess 0/ the morriing, tvhile you 77iay, For Love will soon be wijiging on his way — Something in the sicmmer seems to say. When all the hills are hazy, and the heated hollows make An echo to the pheasant, drumming deep within the brake , When you loaf, and look and listen, where honey- suckles sway Their lamps in dim savannas, dreaming back a happy day; When you drift with sleepy lids, by sheer laziness op- pressed, Thro' the languor of the spirit, when you only think of rest, O something hi the summer seems to say, Sip the sweetness of the morning, while you may^ For Love zvill soon be winging on his way — Something in the summer seems to say. When nature doth entice you with a hundred soothing charms. And you feel yourself enfolded in her strong maternal arms; 128 SOHETHING IN THIZ SUHHER And peace comes down, so soft, upon the weary heart and brain, You break the heavy shackles and the soul doth see again, All the visions of the future, long forgotten, drawing near. All your hopes and your ideals calling unto you so clear, O something in the summer seems to saj', Sip the siveetness of the morning, while you viay, For Love ivill soon be zuingijig on his way — Something in the summer seems to say. U4-^ WHERE THE CORK GOES DOWN "WHERE THE COPK GOES DOWN" HEN your wife has gone to visit where mother dear resides, And you could not win a battle, if you owned both sides, When you become so weary that you can not turn a wheel, And drag yourself to labor with a weight at either heel. And quarrel with your shadow and give the folks the "blues," There is an ancient medicine that every man should use. And its name is " go a-fishing." Get a long and limber pole, With some tackle and a can of bait, and start toward the hole Out beyond the river bend, about a mile or two from town, Just to loaf and lounge at leisure where the cork goes down. 131 132 "WHERE THE CORK GOES DOWN" Some meander to the mountains cool, and some toward the sea, But I will take my chances underneath the chestnut tree That lays upon the sloping bank its shadows deep and wide, And flings its raveled blossoms down upon the lazy tide. There all my troubles tumble with the turtles out of sight, "When from the yellow stubble comes the yodel of " Bob White;" And there I speculate in futures just as freely as I like, For I may pull out a muscalonge, a pickerel, or a pike; But the hope upon my features fades away into a frown When a "pumpkin-seed" deceives me where the cork goes down. Some say, "Work your muscle if you want to rest your mind," I say, " IvCt them both relax when health you want to find. Take a dose of doing nothing; take it on some river shore. Where a flicker far above you raps upon a sycamore. And a devil's darning-needle gads around you just as glad And contended as the poUywog upon the lily pad." O when your hook is fastened in a lusty, leaping bass. And at the battle's ending you can lay him on the grass. "WHERE THE COQW GOES DOWN" i33 You feel so full of spirit from )^our shoes up to your crown That your life will be worth living where the cork goes down. A chap who studies eating, says that fish is good for brain : I think it is the fishing, not the fish, that gives the gain ; For I have noticed that the fellows let imagination play Round the wonderful dimensions of the one that got away ; And the stories chase each other, just as chipper and as free As the squirrels winding streaks of red around the elm- tree. O when the sur is near to setting, your soul begins to sing As you purchase from a country boy a dozen on a string, And you march home in the evening a romancer of re- nown, Telling how you missed the big one where the cork goes down. "WHERE APE THE HEROES?" HERE are the heroes of old days?" He asks, and lifts his lyre, and chants, In sounding psalm, the meed of praise Due to the dead itinerants ; The men who, fearless, trod the maze Of unpathed forests, sailed the sea, Preached, prayed, and rode with Asbury, That Christ might have sole empery. "Where are the heroes of old days?" The while beside him men say this: "Send us where souls in sorrow die; Where heathenism's brood will hiss In hell's dread dialect, when high The cross of Calvary we raise ; To serve where Satan has his seat; To warm them with our own heart's heat ; And, when 't is done, say death is sweet." "Where are the heroes of old days?" Their hymns are heard in canons cold. By blight or blizzard undismayed; " WHERE Z^RE THE HEROES ? 135 The frontier's farthest farm they fold In Jesus' love, and with Him wade The Siddim's slime of, city ways; Thro' crying want and crushing debt Give one their tears and one their sweat, And, dying, ask of God to get — " Where are the heroes of old days." "JIM'S MEETING UR dear old pastor used to preach, as natural as a bird, Just the cheery kind of sermons that a bobo- link can pour Upon you from a cherry- bough, whenever he was stirred ; His wooing talk would almost win the fishes to the shore. But he wandered off one day, In a curious sort of way, And got badly "in the brush," as the circuit-riders say. Down at Ebenezer Chapel there was meeting; every night The parson pleaded tenderly, though he was weak and worn, 136 "jin'S nCETING" 137 Saying, " Come, my neighbors, come ! O come into the light, To stand with us together in the dawning of the morn ! " And when he stopped to cough Not a sinner dared to scoff, From the graybeards in the corner to the lovers far- thest ofif. Then his voice went to a whisper — he could not speak at all ; And next evening I saw Jim, the ragged child of cobbler Wood, Shivering at the crowded entrance, close against the outer wall. Till he called the preacher over in the corner where he stood. And he said, " I heard them pray, At our home, for you, to-day, And I went out and dug some medicine to drive that pain away." "God bless you!" said the preacher to the boy so thin and cold. And unwrapped the little parcel with his gentle, patient smile ; 138 "jin'S nCETING" 'T was a stringy root of calamus, in brownish paper rolled, But I saw his face was beaming as he elbowed up the aisle. Then he read a tender hjann, And in prayer my eyes were dim As he knelt there, reaching up for God and down for little Jim. "When he rose and read a Scripture like a dripping honeycomb, O I saw the gift had cured him, for, my friend, he fairly took That crowd, and led them captive all into the Father's home; Beneath his melting pathos stoutest sinners swayed and shook ; As a river deep and wide Shoulders at a dam, he cried, " Come, lyord ! " and when it tottered all the town was in the tide. All around the mourners' benches people gathered with a rush, And amid the praying penitents disciples worked and wept; "JIM'S necTi NO" 139 But he could say no more — he had strayed into the brush; Lost in some Eden thicket, while the stream of mercy swept All about the young and old, And a hymn of joy was rolled From the lips of shouting converts, coming safe into the fold. When Wood, who was converted, went singing down the road. The preacher walked beside him, just to tell his faithful wife. And they filled the lowly cottage full of melody that flowed Until midnight, for a man redeemed and started new in life. And often I have cried, As he has told, with pride, Of "Jim's Meeting," as he called it to the very day he died. "THE BROOK" OW it bubbles clear in the cool, damp room, Where the pans of milk light up the gloom, All sweet with breath of the summer bloom On the swaying locust boughs, Where the cobweb lace doth the walls adorn, When the passionate sun at the peep of morn, Breaks into the nook where the brook is born. In the lowly old spring-house. Down beechen bluiFs to the blue-grass plain, It winds the thread of its silvery skein On the old mill-wheel again and again, Where the jocund miller sings; Mid briery mazes, thro' blossomy meads, Where trout leap up at the drifting seeds, And the cat-bird dips the alder's beads In broken ripples and rings. How it shimmers and shines across the sand To the winey tarn, where cattle stand, 140 -■ .>, 4 . .. ■ jll!.';!' m i n «)• THE BROOK 141 "THE BROOK" When the heat is heavy on all the land, Deep in the shady pond, And from all the hives the buskined bees Fly out to the orchard to rifle and tease Their sweets from the spreading apple-trees On yellowing hills beyond. And when all oblivious it hath flowed, By the pasture-field and the winding road. To the doorwaj^ of many a cot, and showed Its cheery, laughing face; And reluctant, slow, it comes to the sea, How I wonder if ever it turns like me. To the ancient room and the locust tree, And thinks of its old birthplace. 143 THE DOGWOOD TREE jRIDE of the woodland wide, dainty and unde- filed, Bright is the blessing thy beauty doth bring ! When April leadeth thee, with thy white garments free, Up from the South, in the front of the Spring, Shaking the snow of thy bridal robes sweet, Flowing, in foamy surf, down to thy feet, Bride of the woodland wild, dainty and undefiled, Thee we are waiting to greet. Winter has lingered long ; O how we miss the song That always welcomes thee over the hill. The bold chee-wink, chee-wink, of the gay bobolink, And the low call of the coy whippoorwill, For thee doth the morning lark scatter the night ; For thee doth the tanager flash in his flight. Bride of the woodland wild, dainty and undefiled. Haste thee to dawn on our sight ! How thou wilt miss the one, who was the first to run, Laughing, to meet thee along the lone glen ! 144 THE DOGWOOD TREE 145 Swallows are making search, and from the graceful birch Kingfisher calls her again and again, lyong will the wren wait to show her small nest, And the brown fledgelings beneath her proud breast, Bride of the woodland wild, dainty and undefiled, Darling has gone to her rest. GOD'S MANUSCRIPT PON the hallowed ground of Galilee, O John, Thy Master writeth, while the wolfish crowd Bends lowering looks upon the woman bowed, Cursing her lovely face, so tearful and so wan; Still asks the deep heart of mankind, which sees Her streaming eyes fixed on the brow divine, " What was the import of that single line Writ by the gracious Christ amid the Pharisees?" Saying, " O to have seen upon the favored sod Those jewels from the forefinger of our God ! Go forth this morn in May, where, all unrolled. The daisied meadow lies, signed o'er with gold ; In flowery text he writes his gospel as of old ! " X46 THE UNKNOWN >ACK swings on the mast; his heart ne'er quakes When Euroclydon tumbles the sea, and takes His ship, like a harp, in his hands, and wakes From every rope a wail. He has weathered a hundred storms before ; And his faith will weather a hundred more, But the roaring stress of a street ashore Makes him cower and quail. Dick plays his part in the mart's mad rush, As calm in the din of its deafening crush As a fawn at dawn, in the purple hush Of the palms of Paradise. He dreads the deep, where the wild waves comb Their crests on the breasts of gulls that roam Thro' the spra)% as gray as the flying foam That flecks the lurid skies. Each wonders at each, for both can bide The known, but fear what they have not tried, 147 148 THE UNKNOWN So man doth shrink from the echoless tide Where waits the boatman pale ; Kindly Death doth smile at his freight afraid, And strips the mist with his oar's swift blade From the strand where the band, in white arrayed, Shouts, "Welcome, and all hail!" ON CHRISTMAS EVE ^N Christmas Eve, in this dim room, There drifts across the deepening gloom The faint, old-fashioned, spicy scent Of mistletoe and holly blent; And while the cheery wood-fire burns, She whom I loved and lost returns To sit beside me, — soft and low, I hear the voice which, long ago, Around my heart a spell did weave. When life was young on Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve I see the pond, And from the hollow woods beyond. Comes echoing back the skaters' glee, 149 ISO ON CHRISTHAS EVE As happy sweethearts swinging free, In rhythmic stroke and graceful curve Across the crystal surface swerve. O eyes of blue ! O curls of brown ! O streaming scarf! O fluttering gown! How doth your lover lonely grieve When all are glad on Christmas Kve ! On Christmas Kve, along the street The people pass on eager feet. With gifts to greet the gladsome morn Of that blest day when Christ was born. Bach to his own will cry, " Take this ! " And each will share the smile, the kiss, While I alone shall try, thro' tears. To count the sad and sombre years Since that dark day when thou didst leave This world all cold, on Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve I envy not The laughing ones, whose happier lot It is to join the scenes of mirth, And cry, rejoicing, "Peace on earth!" Some day I feel I too shall win My Father's house, and enter in; For by the portal she doth bide, Robed and expectant as a bride; Then all her love I will receive. In God's good time on Christmas Eve. COMMON THINGS HAVEN send us a prophet with wit to teach Our race, which to folly so fondlj^ clings, That all that is good is within our reach, The cream of life is the common things. We may have no turreted palaces piled In high colonnade and pillar and cope, But forever the mountains undefiled For us thro' the roseate azure slope. There never was park like the prairie lawn. Nor symphonies like the ocean's song, Nor picture to match the amethyst dawn, — These blessings to all of our kind belong! No wine gives the fillip of frosty air ; No satin e'er came from a foreign loom As white as the sheen of the lilies fair. Wan acolytes lighting the woodland gloom. 151 152 COnnON THINGS Because the bright river is free to all, To man and beast, to flower and tree. And on every sinner the sunbeams fall, The sun and the stream are dear to me. We have winds that silver the dusky rill ; The forest of pines, with healing breath; And friends and home, and love, and still The best of all, our old neighbor Death. PICTURES Or~ THE PAST OD is good to let us keep in mind the pictures of the past ; And sometimes in the sum- mer, when the seething city's clack Flings sorrow on my fevered soul, I take the outward track, And from off my weary spirit all the slavish burdens cast. O leaving work half-done, Far away from care I run To where a brook winds thro' a wood and wimples in the sun. I saunter in the tousled grass that tangles round my feet; High above my lifted head, where the tulip-trees are crossed, 153 154 PICTURES or THE P7\5T In her cool and airy cradle, the cardinal-bird is tossed ; While the emerald grove is girt with the gold of wavy wheat, And the rivulet is traced By a thread of silver, laced Thro' ferns and fair white lilies wading in it to the waist. Far away I hear the murmur by the dripping mill-wheel made; Dewy roses light the thickets, where ring-doves coo and croon ; From the levels comes the music of the mowers' harvest tune. All rejoicing in a cadence to the swish of sharpened blade. While the quail in coveys rise, Whirring from the gleaming scythes, And the frightened rabbit leaps at the harvester's loud cries. The unwithered bloom of bramble winds the fences in its wreath ; Where the squirrel sits and chats with the reiterat- ing jay ; And the honey-burdened bee doth halt, upon her homeward way. Where sumach spreads its branches over partridge-eggs beneath ; PICTURES or THE PAST I5S On distant slopes the sheep, In long shadows lie asleep, And across the winding path I watch the tortoise slowly creep. Far down the lane the oxen strain against the polished yoke, As they draw the creaking wagon up toward the traveled road ; And the laughter of the boj^s that ride upon the fragrant load Has scared the speckled hawk from his perch upon the oak; For, with a sudden cry, He mounteth up on high, And wheels in burnished curves upon the dappled summer sky. The anise and the spice-bush have brewed a rare perfume, Along the woodland edge, where the workers rest from toil. Floats the smell of meadow-sorrel, the scent of penny- royal. Mingled with the breath of balsam and the wild grape bloom. Once more I sit and sing, Within the forest swing. Where, enamored of the murmurous tree, the vine doth cling. 156 PICTURES or THE PAST Thro' the Babel of the town, high above the whistle's scream, I hear the modulated chirring of the shrill cicada's voice, And oblivious of my labor, make again my youthful choice Of the berries from the brier, or the pebbles from the stream ; A glow of love is cast Over all my life at last. As Fancy turns the pages of the pictures of the past. :irr 1899 '■'^''^"wiiiiiiSSSfiiir 015 863 572