Teach me to use thee as I ought,
      Thou holy, blessed twilight hour.

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

THE HAIR.

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

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

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

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

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

LIBERTY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"LO," THE DEPARTED.

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

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

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

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

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

DRIFTING AWAY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

KINDRED SPIRITS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SCHOOL DAYS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PERHAPS.

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

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

IMPORTANT MOMENTS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHO SHALL JUDGE?

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

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

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

THE FUTURE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ERE AND AT MY CALL.

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

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

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

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

BODING SNOW.

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

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

AN OPEN BOOK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SOME CHARACTERS I MUCH ADORE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SOME CHARACTERS I CAN'T ADMIRE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ON BROOKLYN BRIDGE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THEIR LIFE IS WHAT THEY MAKE IT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE LONE BIRD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A LESSON FROM NATURE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY MOTHER'S LOVE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY BROTHER'S BIRTHDAY.

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

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

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

TO MY DAUGHTER BLANCHE IN HEAVEN.

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

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

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

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

THE VOICE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A PICTURE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY ROOM IN BOYHOOD'S DAYS.

After forty years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Such victories, when fairly won,
      Put slaughter's field to shame,
    And Honor's self shall place upon
      Such victors, wreaths of fame.

    O happy hours within these walls,
      But happier far to me
    Is the expanded mind which calls
      Deep thought, best liberty.

    That mental power which sees the world
      As beauty, grace, and art,
    Wherein God's loveliness unfurled,
      Speaks to a living heart,

    And leads it tenderly to see
      The harmony of laws
    Which unifies immensity,
      And tells of the First Cause,

    Yields greater solace, richer lore,
      Than books alone can give;
    For mind and soul form the great power
      By which we act and live.

    The wealth that dignifies mankind
      Is not in bonds and stocks,
    But in rich thoughts, noble, refined,
      Needing no bars nor locks.

    When man for manhood more shall strive,
      And less for greed and gain,
    The humble poor may nobly live,
      And feel not hunger's pain.

    These walls are sacred unto me,
      For thought here learned to soar
    And build the ark of liberty
      I love, exalt, adore.

NATURE'S VOICE.

    Every tree and plant, every tiny flower
    That grows in wood or field,
    Hath a voice that calls aloud to me,
    And a beauty half concealed,
    That draw my ears to hear a strain
    Of music sweet and low,
    And paint for me far richer hues
    Than the sunset's evening glow;
    They speak to me as no tongue can speak;
    Their voices are sweeter far
    Than the tones that fall from human lips,
    Or strains of sweet music are.

POUNDRIDGE, N. Y.

    Perhaps no spot upon this sphere,
    Has charms for me more sacred, dear,
      Than those of old Poundridge;
    I love her hills, her lakes, her streams,
    Her rural haunts, where Nature teems
      With joys naught can abridge.

    Her dew-bespangled meadows shine
    With gems of radiance so divine,
      When touched by matin sun,
    That myriad pendant drops of dew,
    Lend to the mead a brilliant hue
      Like earth with diamonds strown.

    The woods that sleep on distant hills,
    Or watch o'er gently murmuring rills,
      Seem restful to the soul;
    Their silence brings sweetest repose,
    A panacea for the woes
      That spurn M. D.'s control.

    The healthful, healing, peaceful rest,
    To frame fatigued, to mind distressed,
      Seems but a foretaste here,
    Of that serene and blest abode,
    Which to the faithful child of God
      Hereafter shall appear.

    I love the rustic's rough demesne,
    Which yields to toil a wealth unseen
      To those of civic life;
    For here I drank, in youth's bright dawn,
    The draughts of vigor which were drawn
      From labor's busy strife.

    I love the house wherein I played,
    The yard o'erspread by maple's shade,
      The nearby babbling brook;
    The fields o'er which my youthful feet
    Sped onward toward the trout's retreat,
      With dangling line and hook.

    I love the path across the wood
    Which once I trod in search of food
      For hungering, thirsting mind,
    The room where pupils used to meet
    And strive to make their work complete
      And manners more refined.

    All these I love for what is past,
    And still must love while life shall last;
      But I do love still more
    The souls who fired my mental lamp,
    And on my character did stamp
      Truths fraught with richest lore.

    I see my aged mother there,
    My father in his old arm-chair,
      And fancy hears their voice;
    My brother yet so full of joy,
    Has passed the limits of a boy,
      But still can much rejoice.

    Upon the hill, the lakes between,
    Are sacred mounds of living green,
      Where sleep my precious dead;
    A vacant spot reserved for me,
    To which my heart looks longingly,
      Invites my weary head.

    No greater boon could I e'er ask
    When I have finished earthly task,
      Than quietly to rest,
    Surrounded by her vales and hills,
    Her laughing lakes and singing rills,
      And friends that I love best.

    Tho' many years now intervene,
    My mind recalls each boyhood scene
      Of field and wood and bridge;
    These cherished memories only prove
    Abiding faith and filial love
      Toward restful, old Poundridge.

TIM.

    We remember well when a schoolboy,
      When pliant in mind and limb,
    We had for a boon companion,
      A bright youth whose name was Tim.

    He was sturdy, strong, and honest,
      In body and mind he had vim,
    So we learned by intuition,
      To place much reliance on Tim.

    We fished and hunted together,
      In summer, the lakes we would swim,
    Skated their surface in winter,
      With mercurial, wonderful Tim.

    Our tasks at school were a union,
      And when thoughts were distant or dim,
    A light illumined the pages,
      That seemed a reflection from Tim.

    Reciprocal visits were often,
      He slept with me, I slept with him,
    Talked till near dawn of daylight,
      With fluent and scholarly Tim.

    Decades have passed since that season,
      My hair is reduced to a rim,
    But my heart beats as warm as ever,
      For that friend of my youth, named Tim.

    As years fleet away, we treasure
      The power of our mind to skim
    O'er the scenes of early doings,
      With valiant and trustworthy Tim.

    A third of a century over,
      Still a friend have we now like him,
    Exact in his every bearing,
      And his name is--unchanged--Tim.

    We wonder if in the hereafter,
      When we range with the Seraphim,
    Happiness will be augmented
      By the kindly presence of Tim.

    We trust an expanded mission
      Will fill us with joy to the brim,
    As we ramble the fields of glory,
      With genial and faithful friend Tim.

THE UNWRITTEN LETTER.

On receiving sprigs of Forget-me-not and Lilly-of-the-Valley in
envelope, through mail, with no note or name inclosed.

    In form it was a letter,
      Unique in its every part,
    The expression could not be better,
      For it touched my inmost heart.

    No pen had marred its beauty,
      No ink had traced a line,
    It did its silent duty
      Like a messenger divine.

    Upon its page was written
      No English, French, nor Greek;
    But a universal language
      That only flowers can speak.

    The colors were pure whiteness
      And heavenly tints of blue,
    Excelling all the brightness
      That art can bring to view.

    The Lily-of-the-Valley
      And sweet Forget-me-not,
    That grow where perfumes dally
      In sweet secluded spot,

    When sent to tell some story
      That words cannot express,
    Are fraught with special glory
      And richest tenderness.

    Their perfumes speak of gladness,
      Their colors of delight,
    They neutralize dull sadness,
      Turn darkness into light.

    They link the heart of sender
      To heart to which they're sent,
    And unto both will render
      The sweetness of content.

    I love them for their clearness,
      Their whiteness and their blue;
    But added to such dearness
      Is the thought they came from you.

ALL THINGS ARE SECOND-HANDED.

On being asked to write an original poem.

    "There's no new thing under the sun,"
      Said the ancient priest and preacher;
    What seems now new is only done
      To quicken some old feature
    That lies effete, or badly worn,
      And lacks its pristine rigor,
    That needs an energizing touch
      To give it life and vigor.

    The sun that shines on us to-day,
      Shone on our ancient parents
    Who walked upon the primal clay;
      And science fully warrants
    That not one atom has been lost,
      And not one atom added
    To all the atom matter host,
      Although some forms have faded.

    The gorgeous colors that are cast
      On cloud-land morn and even,
    Are but reflections of the past
      That erst had spangled heaven
    With glories from that mystic throne
      Whose blendings none can rival,
    But whose expiring tints, alone,
      Admit of a revival.

    The rain that drops has dropped before;
      Our flowers were another's;
    The songs we sing were sung of yore
      By long departed brothers;
    The sounds we hear are but the tones
      Or echoes of the past;
    We live among the mouldering bones
      Of forms too frail to last.

    Then ask me not for something new,
      All things are second-handed,
    The old may sometimes be more true
      Than that more lately branded;
    But taking things as best we can,
      We know 'tis only human
    To shun a second-handed man,
      Or a second-handed woman.

    But let us not be too severe
      On second-handed matter,
    For nothing seems to be more clear
      Than that we should not flatter
    Our souls into a fatal state,
      Of scoffing at the common,
    For who can tell what cruel fate
      May make of man or woman?

FACES WE READ.

    One may read from the face at leisure,
      From the leaf that reflects the soul,
    The thought, the desire, and the measure
      That imprint on the facial scroll
    The innermost mind and its actions,
      The heart with its strongest desires,
    The passions, impulses, and factions
      Which animate clay oft inspires.

    Ev'ry line of th' face has a father
      Whose hand has engraven it there,
    But shades of the spirit are rather
      Betrayed in the hue of the hair;
    The pencils of thought, true to nature,
      Have written their records so plain,
    That a skillful eye reads each feature
      That dwells in the heart and the brain.

    One may peep into occult recesses
      Which only the face will reveal,
    May read what the tongue quite represses
      But the eye cannot fully conceal,
    May fathom the deepest depressions
      Where the soul has buried its woe,
    Where the heart would hold secret sessions
      With scenes and events long ago.

     The writer applying for a room at Newpoint Inn,
     Amityville, Long Island, was informed that the house
     was full. Some friends, stopping near, kindly invited
     him to go with them. He accepted. After his departure
     he sent the following:

AMITYVILLE.

    "I was a stranger and ye took me in,
      Hungry and ye fed me,"
    No place for me at Newpoint Inn,
      So home you kindly led me.

    Some say the world is cold and sour,
      Devoid of fellow-feeling,
    But day by day and hour by hour,
      To me comes a revealing

    That warm hearts beat where'er we go,
      Kind hands are gladly serving
    The kindred hearts which ever show
      They truly are deserving.

    The world, indeed, may frigid be
      When icebergs float around it,
    But warm, true hearts of constancy,
      Have uniformly found it

    To be a place where fragrant flowers
      Deprive the thorns of stings,
    Where sunny souls spend happy hours,
      And Nature laughs and sings.

    We make our paths, we dwell the lives
      Selected by ourselves;
    We shape the destiny that gives
      Our fate to gods or elves.

    Then let us know this truth full well
      Wherever we may be,
    We have a power to help us dwell
      In the _ville of amity_.

    Robin is a singer; sweet and pure and clear
    Are the notes he warbles from his covert near;
    Softly, oh! how softly, at the sunset's glow
    Does he chant his vespers, plaintive, sweet, and low.

    Robin is an artist; he beautifies the stream,
    The vale, the hill, the meadow, until they truly seem
    To glow, because his presence gives to each a tongue
    To echo back the music his minstrel throat has sung.

TRUE WEALTH.

    The smallest type of manhood that lives,
      (If manhood it may be called,)
    Is that which knows no power but wealth
      That is measured in stocks and gold;
    It looks in disdain on a working man
      Who declines to bend his knee,
    Though in honor's scales he may outweigh
      The scorner, in great degree.

    There's a wealth that far surpasses all
      The houses and stocks and gold,
    That ever was on the market placed,
      To be by a hireling sold;
    'Tis the wealth of manhood, noble, free,
      And an independent mind
    That scorns to swerve from justice and truth,
      But faithfully serves mankind.

PIOUS PIE POEM PUNS.

Dedicated to my Ex-Pier.

    One pious afternoon in June
      When pyronomics held full sway,
    My pilot, fancy, led me on
      To seek new fields, piebald and gay.

    The pianet rested in shade,
      The lark, piano-voiced, sang not,
    But pining for some genial maid
      To pioneer me to a spot,

    Where pine or oak might shield from heat,
      My thoughts turned piously to where
    Pierian pleasures one might meet,
      And pious converse jointly share.

    Pyrometers were all at home--
      No doubt the figures mounted high--
    She sighed and said she could not roam,
      Then pitt (i) ed me with cherry pie.

    Piacular may she not be,
      And thus escape the eternal pyre,
    No pirate's heart would dance with glee
      Like mine, to see that maid--Ex-Pier.

FIDELITY.

A Legend of Trinity Lake, Poundridge, N. Y.

Read at a Farmers' Picnic, Trinity Lake, Sept. 1, 1891.

The Rippowams were a tribe of Indians living along the Sound near
Stamford and Norwalk, Ct., and extended their territory for some miles
northward. The Kitchewonks were a tribe living on the Hudson, near Sing
Sing and Peekskill, N. Y., and found their way eastward. In the early
days of the Indian occupation of these lands the Rippowams followed up
the stream running from the three lakes--Round Pond, Middle Pond, and
Lower Pond--while the Kitchewonks followed that branch of the Croton
which finds its source in Cross Pond, now Lake Kitchewan. For the
possession of these grounds there were frequent battles between these
tribes, as the lake-land abounded in fish and game. The intercourse
between these tribes, both belonging to the Mohegans, was very limited,
at first, but in course of time became more frequent and friendly. A
lime and marble ridge separates Lake Kitchewan from the three lower
lakes and forms a watershed between the Hudson and the sound.

In recent years a dam was constructed by the Stamford Water Co., and the
three lakes were made into one, and very appropriately called
thereafter, Trinity. The lakes are supplied almost entirely by springs,
as no streams of any size empty into them.

For several years, in the spring time, a floating island appeared in
Trinity, upon which vegetation grew abundantly. This island sank upon
the approach of cold weather and remained in a state of hibernation
until the spring came. Some person or persons who had no love for the
romantic, curious, and beautiful, loaded it so heavily with stones that
it sank to rise no more.

In its departure the lake sustained the loss of an attraction which is
known in but few lakes in the world.

A large rock, estimated to weigh eight or ten tons, is so nicely poised
upon another rook, upon a high point about fifty rods west of the lake,
that a gentle pressure of the hand will cause it to rock perceptibly.

Directly opposite the picnic grounds are precipitous rocks, below which
the waters are extremely deep.--THE AUTHOR.

    When the infant world in its swaddling band
      Of mist and cloud and storm,
    Assumed its forms of sea and land,
      And the lakes and streams were born,
    In this western world, on the eastern shore,
      Four leagues from the inland sea,
    Came a liquid crown set with jewels four,
      But in union only three;
    For the northern gem was a solitaire
      And barred from the lesser three,
    By a marble wall wrought strong and fair
      By the hand of Divinity.

    A silver thread from the Trinity
      Ran southward through the wood,
    Till it lost its flow in the land-locked sea,
      And was merged in old Neptune's flood;
    But the northern gem in a mystic race
      Sent a message toward the west,
    And linked itself in the kind embrace
      Of the Hudson grandly dressed.

    Ten thousand moons had waxed and waned
      And flung on the mirror sheet
    A train of beauty, with no discord stained
      Since creation stood complete.
    Here antlered deer had slaked their thirst
      And fought their imaged form;
    Here rolling tones of thunder burst,
      As a harbinger of storm;
    Here song of bird and sigh of breeze
      Had ne'er met human ear;
    The beast on land, the fowl on trees
      Dwelt here in peace and knew no fear.

    Brave Kitchewonks had traced their way
      Along the stream that westward ran,
    While Rippowams pursued their prey
      Until this lake-land was their van.
    'Twas here Mohegan met again
      The blood that in Mohegan flowed,
    But each regarded not the vein,
      Though kinsmen, foes they firmly stood.
    This lake-land, rich in fish and game,
      Was ground for strife and war and blood;
    From west and south the warriors came
      In battle paint and surly mood.
    The Kitchewonks near northern lake
      Upon the Rippowams looked down,
    And hoped their power and pride to break
      E'er harvest-moon had fully grown.

    ALMETA on the western stream
      Now mourned her absent PONOMO,
    For harvest-moon had sent its gleam
      Across the Hudson's tidal flow,
    And at its full he was to come,
      And her to lake-land safely guide,
    Where they should make their future home,
      And she should there become his bride.
    But he had with Rippowams' band,
      Marched forth to meet her kinsmen dear,
    And face to face they sternly stand
      Prepared for battle-storm severe.

    Her heart bid her to dare the shock
      And seek him near the hostile camp;
    Her mind her heart would basely mock,
      And boding fears her ardor damp;
    The bondage of her heart so great
      Her coward mind could never free;
    She heeds no danger, dares all fate,
      And this her brief soliloquy:

    "I know that tribal laws demand
      My life if I should thither flee,
    I must obey that great command--
      God's higher law--fidelity.
    No other lips my lips have pressed,
      No other arms encircled me,
    Since he my maiden form caressed
      And each breathed vows of constancy.
    For me at each returning moon
      He journeyed through the forest wild,
    Braved dangers that my heart hath won,
      And now I must not be defiled
    By any doubt or any fear
      That death or suffering may bring.
    I'd count such sacrifice not dear
      If I must be an offering.

    "What though my blood may stain the soil,
      Devotion mark me for a slave
    Through weary years to strive and toil,
      Or fate should sink me 'neath the wave!
    'Twere better far that such should be
      Than I should violate my heart
    And all that's sacred unto me
      By acting a base traitor's part.
    I must away, I must away
      To meet him by the silvery lake!
    'Tis crime for me to longer stay
      I will not, cannot now forsake."

    She speeds along the forest trail
      Where warriors late in painted form,
    Had marched through Kitchewan's fair vale
      To meet their foes in battle-storm.
    Her eyes are watchful to survey,
      Her ears detect the lightest sound,
    Her heart and mind to her betray
      Where barriers to her flight are found.
    She shuns them all by tact and skill;
      Most gladly she to him will prove
    The power that's in a woman's will,
      The faith that's in a woman's love.

    From hill and ledge she scans the ground
      While dangers seem her faith to mock;
    But highest point by her is found,
      She stands upon the swaying rock,
    Which seems unsteady 'neath her feet,
      And makes her doubt if she can stand
    To make inspection so complete,
      She may discern PONOMO'S band.
    The trembling rock and trembling heart
      Are firmly fixed, no power can move;
    But from its crest she must depart
      In search of him her heart doth love.
    She stands beside the central lake
      Along whose shores the war-whoop rang,
    And softly for her own heart's sake,
      This song of harvest-moon she sang:

    "The hunter's moon now floods the night
      Turns darkness into day,
    The wood and lake in mellow light,
      Charm grief and care away.

    "The sparkling water's silvery gleam
      My sorrow soothes for me,
    And lifts my soul in fancy's dream
      To thoughts so pure and free.

    "So bright the light that fills the night,
      The song-birds sweetly sing;
    From tree to tree they take their flight
      On swift yet noiseless wing.

    "Now come, PONOMO, come to me,
      I wait your coming here;
    You promised 'neath this hemlock tree,
      At midnight to appear.

    "My heart, my life, my all is yours,
      And you are all to me;
    Faith trusts your promise and assures
      Unchanged fidelity.

    "I know your heart is warm and true,
      Your love not cold or dumb,
    No earthly power can it subdue;
      I know that you will come."

    She hears a footstep drawing near;
      Her voice is mute, her song is done,
    She waits, PONOMO to appear,
      In shadowed silence all alone.
    Beneath lugubrious hemlock shade
      Her heart beats with expectancy,
    And Kitchewonk's own dusky maid
      Trusts Rippowam's fidelity.
    He comes! She sees him near the lake;
      She knows his form, his step, his voice;
    No other charm for her could make
      Her heart and soul so much rejoice.

    They meet beside the water's edge
      Where hemlock boughs in silence nod,
    And there with mutual vow and pledge,
      In presence of their living God,
    They join the hand, the heart, the life,
      While harvest-moon a witness stood,
    That he the husband, she the wife,
      Should share in life's vicissitude.
    That sacred pledge was heard on high
      And written by an angel hand,
    Nor priest, nor king, nor majesty,
      Could marriage rites perform more grand.

    No tribal laws or priestly hand
      Can rivet adverse hearts in one;
    Compulsion has no iron band
      So strong it may not be undone;
    But ties of mutual interest
      That spring spontaneous from the soul,
    Are never by themselves oppressed,
      Their silken cords have full control.
    To know, to feel, to fully share
      The joys and sorrows of this life,
    Unites the souls of mated pair,
      And make the husband and the wife.

    PONOMO and ALMETA there,
      Where juts of rocks 'neath hemlock boughs,
    Had breathed a mutual, fervent prayer,
      And each to each pledged sacred vows,
    When o'er the lake the war-whoop rang,
      And Kitchewonks, on every side,
    Swept down with shout and yell and clang,
      Upon PONOMO and his bride.
    On north and south, and on the west,
      No way of flight then could they take,
    So from the rough rocks' rugged side
      They plunged into the central lake.

    A hundred arrows cleft the air,
      But one alone had reached its mark.
    PONOMO felt it roughly tear
      Its way into his faithful heart.
    He shrieked and sank beneath the wave,
      ALMETA followed after him;
    Their bridal couch was watery grave,
      The war-whoop was their requiem.

    The savage yell of victory
      Re-echoed then from shore to shore,
    While every rock and every tree
      Seemed deeply tinged with human gore,
    For when the moon from heavenly throne
      Looked down and saw the ghastly deed,
    It veiled itself and feebly shone,
      As if in agony to plead
    That human souls might ever know
      That God himself cannot approve
    The hand that strikes avenging blow,
      The soul devoid fraternal love.

    'Neath crystal waters of the lake,
      In silent, undisturbed repose,
    Where sounds of strife no slumbers break,
      Heedless alike of friends and foes,
    They slept the long, long sleep of death,
      Through centuries of rolling years,
    While o'er their forms the zephyrs' breath
      In playful eddyings oft appears.
    Their race has faded from the shore
      And left few traces that they were;
    The war-whoop now resounds no more,
      They bowed before White Conqueror.
    Full many a fathom 'neath the wave,
      Their forms have mouldered side by side,
    While shadowy hemlocks fringe the grave
      Of dark PONOMO and his bride.

    The waters then were deeper made
      Which gave their spirits much unrest,
    The lake their agony betrayed
      And seemed on every side distressed.
    One spring when Nature gaily dressed
      With charms that could the mind beguile,
    There rose upon the lake's fair breast
      A hibernating, floating isle.
    Devoid of life it seemed at first,
      Chaotic, dull, with beauty none,
    But rays of sunshine on it burst
      And changed it to a paragon.

    Two alders sprang from near its edge
      And twined in close embrace,
    While ferns and grass gave certain pledge
      That Time should give it smiling face.
    But when the frosts of autumn fell
      It sank from sight, perchance to rest;
    No searching mind could ever tell
      The secret of its rising crest.
    For years, at each returning spring,
      The isle would rise from 'neath the wave,
    As if to memory to bring
      PONOMO and ALMETA'S grave.
    But when the harvest-moon shone bright,
      It meekly sank; as years before
    When on that dread, but fatal night,
      The faithful sank by rock-bound shore.

    Its verdure grew, its alders spread,
      Its fame extended many a mile,
    'Twas type of resurrected dead--
    This hibernating, floating isle.

    But vandal hands destroyed the prize
      And sank it 'neath a weight of stones,
    While ALMETA sends forth her sighs,
      And PONOMO emits his groans.
    Here let them rest, if rest they may,
      Amid the beauteous scenes around,
    And wait in peace the final day,
      When at the angel's trumpet sound,
    The water shall give up its prey,
      The earth shall full surrender make,
    For heaven has not a type to-day,
      More perfect than this sky-blue lake.

FINIS.

    After our labor is finished,
      After the struggle is done,
    A restful surcease awaits us
      At the setting of life's sun.
    If when our toil seemed the sorest
      The heart refused to retreat
    From a grand and noble purpose,
      Till the vic'try was complete,
    Then shall joyous crown await us,
      Resplendent with jewels rare,
    And a radiance of honor
      The face shall benignly wear;
    Not that our works were all faultless
      And free from error and wrong,
    But because our sincere purpose
      Made us brave and true and strong.

    Results of labor thus rendered,
      Are safely trusted to Heaven,
    For He who knows ev'ry motive,
      Understands _why_ we have striven.
    If to man were given the balance
      To adjust with equity,
    His weakness and imperfection,
      His greed and his jealousy,
    Might sway the poise from adjustment,
      And his judgment go astray,
    Through the frailties of his nature--
      Imperfect humanity

    The Infallible in knowledge,
      Whose true balance never swerves,
    Knows every man's Gethsemane,
      And the merit he deserves.
    He will not ask figs of the thorns;
      Of talents will not demand
    A greater increase than is just
      From a faithful steward's hand.
    Feeling the weight of the mission
      Incumbent upon our care;
    Searching the heart's deep recesses
      That vice may not shelter there;
    Working courageously onward
      The truth and right to defend;
    And asking a perfect guidance,
      We calmly welcome the end.

[Transcriber's Note: The following errors in the original have been
corrected in this version:

WHO KNOWS?

While we shall linger hear,
While we shall linger here,

OUR PROFESSION.

Is a receipe one may offer
Is a recipe one may offer

FACT VERSUS FORM.

So are educational falacies
So are educational fallacies

INDULGENCE.

In love, oft a maddened, frienzied heart
In love, oft a maddened, frenzied heart

THE THRUSH.

That bring filicity.
That bring felicity.

SUNSET.

No secrets incribed on its scroll.
No secrets inscribed on its scroll.

RETROSPECTION.

That seemes like a photo-engraving,
That seems like a photo-engraving,

THE HAIR.

Regard causmetic's fancy stock
Regard cosmetic's fancy stock

POUNDRIDGE, N. Y.

That spurn M. D's. control.
That spurn M. D.'s control.

]

End of Project Gutenberg's Our Profession and Other Poems, by Jared Barhite