From other men he stands apart,
Wrapped in sublimity of thought
Where futile fancies enter not;
With starlike purpose pressing on
Where Agassiz and Audubon
Labored, and sped that noble art
Yet in its pristine dawn.
Something to conquer, to achieve,
Makes life well worth the struggle hard;
Its petty ills to disregard,
In high endeavor day by day
With this incentive—that he may
Somehow mankind the richer leave
When he has passed away.
Forest and field he treads alone,
Finding companionship in birds,
In reptiles, rodents, yea, in herds
Of drowsy cattle fat and sleek;
For these to him a language speak
To common multitudes unknown
As tones of classic Greek.
Unthinking creatures and untaught,
They to his nature answer back
Something his fellow mortals lack;
And oft educe from him the sigh
That they unnoticed soon must die,
Leaving of their existence naught
To be remembered by.
Man may aspire though in the slough;
May dream of glory, strive for fame,
Thirst for the prestige of a name.
And shall these friends, that so invite
The study of the erudite,
Ever as he beholds them now
Perish like sparks of light?
Nay, 'tis his purpose and design
To keep them: not like mummies old
Papyrus-mantled fold on fold,
But elephant, or dove, or swan,
Its native hue and raiment on,
In effigy of plumage fine,
Or skin its native tawn.
What God hath wrought thus time shall tell,
And thus endowment rich and vast
Be rescued from the buried past;
And rare reliques that never fade
Be in the manikin portrayed
Till taxidermy witness well
The debt to science paid.
Lo! one appeareth unforetold—
This re-creator, yea, of men;
Making him feel as born again
Who looketh up with reverent eyes,
Through wonders that his soul surprise,
That great Creator to behold
All-powerful, all-wise.
Epithalamium.
I.
"Whom God hath joined"—ah, this sententious phrase
A meaning deeper than the sea conveys,
And of a sweet and solemn service tells
With the rich resonance of wedding-bells;
It speaks of vows and obligations given
As if amid the harmony of heaven,
While seraph lips approving seem to say,
"Love, honor, and obey."
II.
Is Hymen then ambassador divine,
His mission, matrimonial and benign,
The heart to counsel, ardor to incite,
Convert the nun, rebuke the eremite?
As if were this his mandate from the throne:
"It is not good for them to be alone;
Behold the land! its fruitage and its flowers,
Not mine and thine, but ours."
III.
Did not great Paul aver, in lucid spell,
That they of conjugal intent "do well"?
But hinted at a better state,—'tis one
With which two loving souls have naught to do.
For, in well-doing being quite content,
Be there another state more excellent
To which the celibate doth fain repair,
They neither know nor care.
IV.
And does the Lord of all become High Priest,
And with his presence grace the wedding-feast?
Then must the whole celestial throng draw nigh,
For nuptials there are none beyond the sky;
So is the union sanctified and blest,>
For Love is host, and Love is welcome guest;
So may the joyous bridal season be
Like that of Galilee.
V.
Sweet Mary, of the blessed name so dear
To all the loving Saviour who revere,
Madonna-like be thou in every grace
That shall adorn thee in exalted place,
And thine the happy privilege to prove
The depth, the tenderness of woman's love;
So shall the heart that honors thee today
Bow down to thee alway.
VI.
O radiant June, in wealth of light and air,
With leaf and bud and blossom everywhere,
Let all bright tokens affluent combine,
And round the bridal pair in splendor shine;
Let sweethearts coy and lovers fond and true
On this glad day their tender vows renew,
And all in wedlock's bond rejoice as they
Whom God hath joined for aye.
A Fowl Affair.
I hope I'm not too orthodox
To give a joke away,
That took me like the chicken-pox
And left a debt to pay.
Let argument ignore the cost,
If it be dear or cheap,
And only claim that naught be lost
When it's too good to keep.
The proverb says "All flesh is grass,"
But this I do deny,
Because of that which came to pass,
But not to pass me by.
A body weighing by the pound
Inside of half a score,
In case and cordage safely bound,
Was landed at my door.
What could it be? for friends are slack,
And give, I rather trow,
When they are sure of getting back
As much as they bestow.
My hair, at thought of dark design,
Or dynamitish fate,
Stood up like quills of porcupine,
But more than twice as straight.
Anon, I mused on something rare,
Like duck or terrapin,
But dreamed not, of the parcel, there
Might be a pullet-in.
A mighty jerk,—the string that broke
The fowl affair revealed,
The victim of a cruel choke,
Its neck completely peeled.
The biped in its paper cof-
Fin, cramped and plump and neat,
Had scratched its very toenails off
In making both ends meat.
The only part I always ate,
That never made me ill,
Had gone away decapitate
And carried off the bill.
I pondered o'er the sacrifice,
The merry-thought, the wings,
On giblet gravy, salad nice,
And chicken-pie-ous things.
In heat of Fahrenheit degree
Two hundred twelve or more,
Where its grandsire, defying me,
Had crowed the year before,
I thrust it with a hope forlorn,—
I knew what toughness meant,
And sighed that ever I was born
To die of roasting scent.
But presto! what dénouement grand
Of cookery sublime!
'Twas done as by the second hand,
The drumsticks beating thyme.
And now the moral—he who buys
Will comprehend its worth,—
Look not so much to weight and size
As to the date of birth.
In fowls there is a difference;
"The good die young," they say,
And for the death of innocence
To make us meat, we pray.
Holiday Home.
Of all the sweet visions that come unto me
Of happy refreshment by land or by sea,
Like oases where in life's desert I roam,
Is nothing so pleasant as Holiday Home.
I climb to the top of the highest of hills
And look to the west with affectionate thrills,
And fancy I stand by the emerald side
Of charming Geneva, like Switzerland's pride.
In distant perspective unruffled it lies,
Except for the packet that paddles and plies,
And puffing its way like a pioneer makes
Its daily go-round o'er this pearl of the lakes.
Untroubled except for the urchins that come
From many a haunt that is never a home,
Instinctive as ducklings to swim and to wade,
Scarce knowing aforetime why water was made.
All placid except for the dip of the oar
Of the skiff, or the barge striking out from the shore,
While merry excursionists shout till the gale
Reverberates laughter through rigging and sail.
How it scallops its basin and shimmers and shines
Like a salver of silver encompassed with vines,
In crystal illusion reflecting the skies
And the mountain that seems from its bosom to rise.
There stands a great house on a summit so high,
Like an eyrie of safety enroofed by the sky;
And I think of the rest and the comfort up there
To sleep, and to breathe that empyreal air.
Oh, the charm of the glen and the stream and the wood
Can never be written, nor be understood,
Except by the weary and languid who come
To bask in the quiet of Holiday Home.
From prisonlike cellars unwholesome and drear,
From attic and alley, from labor severe,
For the poor and the famished doth kindness prepare
A world of diversion and excellent fare.
To swing in the hammock, disport in the breeze,
To lie in the shade of magnificent trees—
Oh, this is like quaffing from luxury's bowl
The life-giving essence for body and soul!
Nor distance nor time shall efface from the mind
The influence gentle, the ministry kind;
While gratitude fondly enhallows the thought
Of a home and a holiday never forgot.
Ah, one is remembered of saintliest men
To lovely Geneva who comes not again;
Who left a sweet impress wherever he trod,
Humanity's helper, companion of God.
In the hearts of the many there sheltered and fed,
As unto a hospice by Providence led,
Does often a thought like a sunbeam intrude
Of the bounty so free, and the donors so good?
Who of their abundance have cheerfully given
Wherewith to develop an embryo heaven—
To brighten conditions too hard and too sad
And make the unhappy contented and glad.
Be blessedness theirs, who like knights of renown
Thus scatter such largesse o'er country and town,
Their monument building in many a dome
Like healthful and beautiful Holiday Home.
Rutha.
The days are long and lonely,
The weary eve comes on,
And the nights are filled with dreaming
Of one beloved and gone.
I reach out in the darkness
And clasp but empty air,
For Rutha dear has vanished—
I wonder, wonder where.
Yet must it be: her nature
So lovely, pure, and true;
So nearly like the angels,
Is she an angel too.
The cottage is dismantled
Of all that made it bright;
Beyond its silent portal
No love, nor life, nor light.
Where are the hopes I cherished,
The joys that once I knew,
The dreams, the aspirations?
All, all are perished too.
Yes, love's dear chain is broken;
From shore to shore I roam—
No comfort, no companion,
No happiness, no home.
Oh could I but enfold her
Unto my heart once more,
If aught could e'er restore me
My darling as before;
If God would only tell me—
Such myriads above—
Why He must needs have taken
The one I loved to love;
If God would only tell me
Why multitudes are left,
Unhappy and unlovely,
And I am thus bereft;
If—O my soul, be silent
And some day thou shalt see
Through mystery and shadow,
And know why it must be.
To every cry of anguish
From every heart distressed,
Can be no other answer
Than this—God knoweth best.
The Student Gone.
So soon he fell, the world will never know
What possibilities within him lay,
What hopes irradiated his young life,
With high ambition and with ardor rife;
But ah! the speedy summons came, and so
He passed away.
So soon he fell, there lie unfinished plans
By others misapplied, misunderstood;
And doors are barred that wait the master-key—
That wait his magic Open Sesame!—
To that assertive power that commands
The multitude.
Too soon he fell! Was he not born to prove
What manhood and integrity might be—
How one from all base elements apart
Might walk serene, in purity of heart,
His face the bright transparency of love
And sympathy?
The student ranks are closed, there is no gap;
Of other brave aspirants is no dearth;
Prowess, fidelity, and truth go on,
And few shall miss or mourn the student gone,
Reposing in the all-protecting lap
Of Mother Earth.
Too soon—O God! was it thy will that one
Of such endeavor and of noble mien,
Enrapt with living, should thus early go
From all he loved and all who loved him so,
Mid life's activities no longer known,
No longer seen?
Oh, not for aye should agonizing lips
Quiver with questionings they dare not frame;
Though in the dark penumbra of despair
Seemeth no light, nor comfort anywhere—
All things enshadowed as in dense eclipse,
No more the same.
Could we but know, in that Elysian lore
Of happy exercise still going on
Could we but know of glorious heights attained,
Of his reward, of mysteries explained,—
Ah! but to know were to lament no more
The student gone.
The Tourist.
Lo! carpet-bag and bagger occupy the land,
And prove the touring season actively begun;
His personnel and purpose can none misunderstand,
For each upon his frontlet bears his honest brand—
The fool-ish one!
By caravan and car, from country and from town,
A great grasshopper army fell foraging the land;
Like bumblebees that know not where to settle down,
Impossible it is to curb or scare or drown
The tourist band.
With guidebook, camera, with rod and gun, to shoot,
To lure the deer, the hare, the bird, the speckled trout,
The pauper or the prince unbidden they salute,
And everywhere their royal right dare none dispute—
To roam about.
From dark immuring walls and dingy ways of trade,
From high society's luxurious stately homes,
From lounging places by the park or promenade,
From rural dwellings canopied in sylvan shade,
The tourist comes.
To every mountain peak within the antipodes,
To sweet, sequestered spots no other mortal knows;
To every island fair engirt by sunny seas,
To forest-centers unexplored by birds or bees,
The tourist goes.
For Summer's fingers all the land have richly dressed,
Resplendent in regalia of scent and bloom,
And stirred in every heart the spirit of unrest,
Like that of untamed fledglings in the parent nest
For ampler room.
What is it prompts the roving mania—is it love
Of wild adventure fanciful, unique, and odd?
Is it to be in fashion, and to others prove
One's social standing, that impels the madness of
The tramp abroad?
The question hangs unanswered, like an unwise prayer,
Importunate, but powerless response to bring;
Go ask the voyagers, the rovers everywhere—
They only say it is their rest-time, outing, their
Vacationing.
So is the world's eccentric round of joy complete
When happy tourist-traveler, no more to roam,
His fascinating, thrilling story shall repeat
To impecunious, luckless multitudes who greet
The tourist home.
The Antiquarian.
Millions have been and passed from view
Benignity who never knew;
No aspiration theirs, nor aim;
Existence soulless as the clay
From whence they sprang, what right have they
To eulogy or fame?
So multitudes have been forgot—
But drones or dunces, good for naught;
Like clinging parasites or burrs
Taking from others all they dared,
Yet little they for others cared
Except as pilferers.
Not so with that majestic man
The all-round antiquarian—
No model his nor parallel;
From selfishness inviolate
Are his achievements good and great,
And thus shall ages tell.
A love for the antiquities
His honest hold, his birthright is!
And things unheard of or unread,
Defaced by moth or rust or mold,
To him are treasures more than gold,
Ay, than his daily bread.
At neither ghost nor ghoul aghast
He echoes voices of the past,
And tones like melancholy knells
Of years departed to his ear
Are sweeter than of kindred dear,
Sweeter than Florimel's.
He delves through centuries of dust
To resurrect some unknown bust,
A torso, or a goddess whole;
Maybe like Venus, minus arms—
Haply to find those missing charms;
But not the lost, lost soul.
He dotes on aborigines
Who lived in caves and hollow trees,
And barters for their trinkets rare;
Exchanging with those dusky breeds
For arrow-heads and shells and beads
A scalplock of his hair.
Had he been born—thus he laments—
Along with other great events,
Coeval say with Noah's flood,
A proud relationship to trace
With Hittites—or with any race
Of blue archaic blood!
Much he adores that Pilgrim flock,
The same that split old Plymouth rock,
Their "Bay Psalm" when they tried to sing.
Devoid of metre, sense, and tune,
Who but a Puritanic loon
Could have devised the thing?
He revels in a pedigree,
The sprouting of a noble tree
'Way back in prehistoric times;
And for the "Family Record" true
Of scions all that ever grew
Would give a billion dimes.
There is a language fossils speak:
'Tis not like Latin, much less Greek,
But quite as dead and antiquate
Its silent syllables, and cold;
But ah, what meanings they unfold,
What histories relate!
The earthquake is his best ally—
It shows up things he cannot buy,
And gives him raw material
For making mastodons and such,
Enough to beat that ancient "Dutch
Republic's Rise and Fall."
A piece of bone can never lie:
A rib, a femur, or a thigh
Is but a dislocated sign
Of something hybrid, half and half
Betwixt a crocodile and calf—
Maybe a porcupine.
The stately "Antiquarium"
Is his emporium, his home.
He wonders if when he is gone
Will people look with mournful pride
On him done up and classified,
And the right label on.
He dreams of an emblazoned page,
The calendar of every age
Down from Creation's primal dawn;
With archetypes of spears and bones,
And tons of undeciphered stones
Its illustrations drawn.
Labor a blessing, not a curse,
His hunting ground the Universe,
So much the more his nature craves
To sound the fathoms of the sea:
What mighty wonders there must be
Down in those hidden caves!
So toils this dauntless man, alert
Amid the ruins and the dirt,
That other men to endless day
Themselves uplifted from the clod
May see, and learn and know that God
Is greater far than they.
And thus, of mighty ken and plan,
The all-round antiquarian
Pursues his happy ministry;
And on the world's progressive track
Advances, always going back—
Back to antiquity.
Poor Housekeeping.
If there is one gift that I prize above others,
That tinges with brightness whatever I do,
And gives to the sombre a roseate hue,
'Tis a legacy mine from the nicest of mothers,
Who haply the beauty of housewifery knew,
And taught me her neatness and diligence too.
So is my discomfort a house in disorder:
The service uncleanly, the linen distained,
The children like infantry rude and untrained;
The portieres dusty and frayed at the border,
By lavish expenses the pocketbook drained,
And miseries numberless never explained.
I dream not of pleasure in visions untidy,
A wrapper all hole-y, a buttonless shoe,
A slatternly matron with nothing to do;
And all the ill-luck charged to ominous Friday
Can never compare with the ills that ensue
On wretched housekeeping and cookery too.
There's many a husband, a patient bread-winner,
Gets up from the table with look of despair,
And something akin to the growl of a bear;
Not the saint he might be, but a querulous sinner—
One driven to fasting but not unto prayer—
Till epitaphed thus—"Indigestible Fare."
There's many a child, from the roof-tree diurnal,
A scene of distraction or dullness severe,
With the longing of youth for diversion and cheer,
That comes like the spring-time refreshing and vernal,
Goes out on a ruinous, reckless career,
Returning, if ever, not many a year.
O negligent female, imperfect housekeeper,
Though faultless in figure and charming of face,
In ruffles of ribbon and trailings of lace
Usurping the part of a common street-sweeper,
You never can pose as a type of your race
In frowsy appearance mid things out of place.
O fashion-bred damsel, with folly a-flutter,
Until you have learned how to manage a broom,
If never you know how to tidy a room,
Manipulate bread or decide about butter,
The duties of matron how dare you assume,
Or ever be bride to a sensible groom?
I covet no part with that army of shirkers
All down at the heels in their slipper-y tread,
Who hunt for the rolling-pin under the bed,
Who look with disdain on intelligent workers
And take to the club or the circus instead
Of mending a stocking or laying the spread.
Oh, I dream of a system of perfect housekeeping,
Where mistress and helper together compete
In excellent management, quiet and neat;
And though in the bosom of earth I am sleeping,
Shall somebody live to whom life will be sweet
And home an ideal, idyllic retreat.
Going to Tobog.
Into my disappointment-cup
The snowflakes fell and blocked the road,
And so I thought I'd finish up
The latest style of Christmas ode;
When she, the charming little lass
With eyes as bright as isinglass,
Before a line my pen had wrought
In strange attire came bounding in,
As if she had with Bruno fought,
And robbed him of his shaggy skin.
She came to me robed cap-à-pie
In her bewitching "blanket-suit,"
In moccasin and toggery,
All ready for "that icy chute,"
And asked me if I thought she'd do;
I shake with love of mischief true:
"For what?—a polar bear?—why, yes!"
"No, no!" she said, with half a pout.
"Why, one would think so, by your dress—
Say, does your mother know you're out?"
"No, I'm not out," she said, and sighed;
"Because the storm so wildly raged—
But for the first delightful ride
For half a year I've been engaged."
"Engaged to what?—an Esquimau?
To ride a glacier, or a floe?"
"Why, don't you know"—her color glowed,
In expectation all agog—
"The reason why I'm glad it snowed?
Because—I'm going to tobog."
"Passer Le Temps."
So that's the way you pass your time!
Indeed your charming, frank confession
Betrays no sort of heinous crime,
But marks a wonderful digression
From puritanic views, less bold,
That we were early taught to hold.
"Passer le temps," of course, implies
A little cycle of flirtations,
Wherein the actors never rise
To sober, serious relations,
But play just for amusement's sake
A harmless game of "give and take."
While moments pass on pinions fleet,
And youth in beauty effloresces,
The joy that finds itself complete
In honeyed words and soft caresses,
Alas! an index seems to be
Of perilous inconstancy.
It may be with disdainful smile
You greet this comment from a stranger,
Your pleasure-paths pursuing while
A siren voice discounts the danger,
Until, some day, in sadder rhyme
You rue your mode of "passing time."
The Torpedo.
Valiant sons of the sea,
All the vast deep, your home,
Holds no terror so dread
As this novel and unseen foe,
Lurking under the foam
Of some dangerous channel—
As the torpedo, the scourge of ships.
Through the rigging may roar
Æolus' thousand gales,
Yet the mariner's heart
Shrinketh not from the howling blast;
Though with battle-rent sails,
Flames and carnage around him,
Cowardice never shall pale his lips.
But when powers concealed,
Threatening with death the crew,
Pave each eddy below,
E'en the bravest are chilled with fear,
Lest yon wizard in blue,
Who their progress is spying,
Touch but the key with his finger-tips.
Lo! with thunderous boom
Towers a column bright,
And the vessel is gone!
In that ocean of blinding spray
Sink her turrets from sight,
By thy potency broken,
O irresistible scourge of ships!
—Harry Howard.
Margaret.
I saw her for a moment,
Her presence haunts me yet,
In oft-recurring visions
Of grace and gladness met
That marked the sweet demeanor
Of dainty Margaret.
Like gossamer her robe was
Around her lightly drawn,
A filmy summer-garment
That fairy maidens don
To make them look like angels
Croqueting on the lawn.
The mallet-sport became her
In hue of exercise
That tinged her cheek with roses;
And, dancing in her eyes,
Were pantomime suggestions
Of having won—a prize.
No more to me a stranger
Is she who occupies
A place in all my musings;
And brings in tender guise
A thought of one so like her—
Long years in Paradise.
Dear Margaret! that "pearl-name"
Is thine—and may it be
The synonym of goodness,
Of truth and purity,
And all ennobling graces
Exemplified in thee.
Christmas Bells.