It was not beauty's potent charm;
For admiration followed her
Unmindful of the rounded arm,
The fair complexion's brilliancy,
If form and features shapely were
Or lacked the grace of symmetry.
So not by marked, especial power
She grew endeared to human thought,
But just because, in trial's hour,
Was loving service to be done
Or sympathy and counsel sought,
She made herself the needed one.
Oh, great the blessedness must be
Of heart and hand and brain alert
In projects wise and manifold,
Impending sorrow to avert
That duller natures fail to see,
Or stand aloof severe and cold!
And who shall doubt that this is why
In womanhood's florescent prime
She passed the portals of the sky?
As if a life thus truly given
To purpose pure and act sublime
Were needed also up in Heaven.
"Thy Will Be Done."
Sometimes the silver cord of life
Is loosed at one brief stroke;
As when the elements at strife,
With Nature's wild contentions rife,
Uproot the sturdy oak.
Or fell disease, in patience borne,
Attenuates the frame
Till the meek sufferer, wan and worn,
Of energy and beauty shorn,
Death's sweet release would claim.
By instant touch or long decay
Is dissolution wrought;
When, lost to earth, the grave and gay,
The young and old who pass away,
Abide in hallowed thought.
In dear regard together drawn,
Affection's debt to pay,
Fond greetings we exchange at dawn
With one who, ere the day be gone,
Is bruised and lifeless clay.
O thou in manhood's morning-time
With health and hope elate,
For whom in youth's enchanting prime
The bells of promise seemed to chime,
We mourn thy early fate!
To us how sudden—yet to thee
Perchance God kindly gave
Some warning, ere the fatal key
Unlocked the door of mystery
That lies beyond the grave.
Then let us hope that one who found
Such favor, trust, and love,
And cordial praise from all around,
For rare fidelity renowned,
Found favor, too, above.
So "all is well," though swift or slow
God's will be done; and we
Draw near to him, for close and low
Beneath his chastening hand, the blow
Will fall less heavily.
Snowflakes.
Of specious weight like tissue freight
The snowflakes are—in sparkle pure
As the rich parure
A lovely queen were proud to wear;
As volatile, as fine and rare
As thistle-down dispersed in air,
Or bits of filmy lace;
Like nature's tear-drops strewn around
That beautify and warm the ground,
But melt upon my face.
A ton or more against my door
They lie, and look, in form and tint,
Like piles of lint,
When war's alarum roused the land,
Wrought out by woman's loyal hand
From linen rag, and robe, and band—
From garments cast aside—
In hospital, on battle-field
The shattered limb that bound and healed,
Or stanched life's ebbing tide.
I see the gleam of lake and stream,
The silver glint in frost portrayed
Of the bright cascade;
They bear the moisture of marshes dank,
The dew of the lawn, or river bank,
The river itself by sunlight drank;
All these in frigid air,
That strange alembic, crystallize
In odd, fantastic shape and size
Like gems of dazzling glare.
Oh, of the snow such fancies grow,
'Till thought is lost in wandering,
And wondering
If portions of their drapery
The angel beings, sad to see
So much of earth's impurity,
Have dropped from clearer skies
As snowflakes, hiding stain and blot
To make this world a fairer spot,
And more like Paradise.
Monadnock.
One summer time, with love imbued,
To climb the mount, explore the wood,
Or rove from pole to pole,
Upon Monadnock's brow I stood—
A lone, adventurous soul.
Beyond the Bay State border-line
A sweeping vista, grand and fine,
Embraced the Berkshire hills;
Embosomed hamlets, clumps of pine,
And country domiciles.
Afar, Mount Tom, in verdantique,
And Holyoke, twin companion peak,
Appeared gigantic cones;
The burning sunlight scorched my cheek,
And seemed to melt the stones.
Beneath a gnarled and twisted root
I loosed a pebble with my foot
That leaped the precipice,
And like an arrow seemed to shoot
Adown the deep abyss.
Beside the base that solstice day
A city chap who chanced to stray
Was shooting somewhat, too;
Who, when the nugget sped that way,
His firelock quickly drew.
While right and left he sought the quail,
Or the timid hare that crossed his trail,
Rang out a wild "Ha! ha!"
That might have turned the visage pale
Of a red-skinned Chippewa.
The game was his—for it made him quail;
He flung his gun and fled the vale,
The mountain-dwellers say,
As though pursued by a comet's tail—
And disappeared for aye.
Never Had a Chance
Fresh from piano, school, and books,
A happy girl with rosy looks
Young Plowman wooed and won; despite
Her pretty, pouting prejudice,
Her deep distaste for rural bliss
Or countryfied delight.
Romance through all her nature ran—
Indeed, to wed a husband-man
Suffused her ardent maiden thought;
But lofty fancy dwelt upon
A new "Queen Anne," a terraced lawn,
A city's corner lot.
Her lily fingers that so well
Could paint a scene—in aquarelle—
Or broider plush with leaves and vines,
No more of real labor knew
Than waxen petals of the dew
On native eglantines.
Anon, with lapse of tender ways
That emphasized the courting days,
The housewife in her apron blue,
As mistress of her new abode,
By frequent lachrymations showed
Her grief and blunders too.
The butter-making, bread and cheese,
The old folks difficult to please,
The harvest hands—voracious bears!—
The infantry, a parent's pride,
By duos proudly classified:
So multiplied her cares.
The treadmill round of duties that
Makes any life inane and flat,
Without diversion sandwiched in,
The drudgery, the overplus
Of toil and trouble arduous,
Were rugged discipline.
What time for books and music, when
The lambs were bleating in their pen,
The chickens peeping at the door;
The rodent gnawing at the churn,
The buckwheat wafers crisped to burn,
The kettle boiling o'er?
To hers, so far between and few,
What resting-spells the farmer knew!
What intervals for culture! and
When intellect assumed the race,
He peerless held the foremost place—
No nobler in the land.
By virtue of exalted rank
"The brilliant senator from——"
Adorns society's expanse;
While by his side with folded hands,
Her beauty gone, the woman stands
Who "never had a chance."
Sorrow and Joy.
In sad procession borne away
To sound of funeral knell,
Affection's tribute thus we pay,
And in earth's shelt'ring bosom lay
The friend to whom but yesterday
We gave the sad farewell.
But scarce the melancholy sound
Has died upon the ear,
Before the mournful dirge is drowned
By wedding-anthems' glad rebound,
That stir the solemn air around
With merry peals and clear.
Within our home doth gladness tread
So closely upon grief
That, in the tears of sorrow shed
O'er our beloved, lamented dead,
We see reflected joy instead
That gives a blest relief.
A father and a daughter gone
Beyond our fireside—
For one we loved and leaned upon
The skillful archer Death had drawn
His bow; and one in life's sweet dawn
Went out a happy bride.
We gave to Heaven, in manhood's prime,
Him whose brave strength and worth
Life's rugged steeps had taught to climb;
And her, for whom a tuneful rhyme
The bells of promise sweetly chime,
We consecrate to earth.
Thus each a mystic path, untried,
Has entered—God is just!
We leave with him our friend who died,
With him we leave our fair young bride
Who shall no more with us abide,
And in His goodness trust.
Oh, life and death, uncertainty,
Bright hopes and anxious fears,
Commingle so bewilderingly,
That perfect joy we may not see
Till all shall reunited be
Beyond this vale of tears!
Watch Hill.
Fair summer home peninsula,
Enriched by every breeze
From fragrant islands, wafted far
Across the sunny seas!
A profile rare! a height of land
Outlined 'gainst heaven's blue
With bolder touch than skillful hand
Of artist ever drew.
In "mountain billows" that parade
The grandeur of the deep,
Is His supremacy displayed
Whose hands the waters keep.
No sweep of waves, in broad expanse,
With wild, weird melody,
Shall thus an unseen world enhance—
"There shall be no more sea!"
A wealth of joy-perfected days,
Where glorious sunset dyes,
Resplendent in declining rays,
Surpass Italia's skies!
Proud caravansaries that compete
In studied arts to please
The multitude, with restless feet,
From earth's antipodes!
A motley company astray:
The sojourner for health,
The grave, serene, the devotée
Of fashion and of wealth.
Artistic cottages upreared
In beauty, strength, and skill—
The happy, healthful homes endeared
To lovers of Watch Hill!
A golden crown adorns the spot;
Forever blessed be
The hand beneficent that wrought
"A temple by the sea!"
A star in some bright diadem
In glory it shall be,
For truly, "I will honor them,"
Saith God, "who honor me."
When Christians meet to praise and pray,
May feet that never trod
The sanctuary learn the way
Unto the house of God.
Glad pæans down the centuries
With joy the world shall thrill:
"The Lord, revered and honored, is
The glory of Watch Hill!"
Supplicating.
One morn I looked across the way,
And saw you fling your window wide
To welcome in the breath of May
In breezes from the mountain-side,
And greet the sunlight's earliest ray
With happy look and satisfied.
The pansies on your window-sill
In terra cotta flowerpot,
Like royal gold and purple frill
Upon the stony casement wrought,
Adorned your tasteful domicile
And claimed your time and care and thought.
In cherry trees the robins sang
Their sweetest carol to your ear,
And shouts of merry children rang
Out on the dewy atmosphere,
But to my heart there came a pang
That my salute you did not hear.
I envied then the favored breeze
That dallied with your flowing hair,
Begrudged the songsters in the trees
And longed to be a flow'ret fair—
Some favorite blossom like heartease—
Within your miniature parterre.
O heart, that finds such ample room
Within thy confines broad and true,
For song and sunshine and perfume
And all benign impulses—go,
I pray thee, dissipate my gloom—
And take in thy petitioner too!
"Honest John."
He was a man whose lot was cast,
As some might think, in lines severe;
In humble toil whose life was passed
From week to week, from year to year;
And yet, by wife and children blessed,
He labored on with cheerful zest.
As one revered and set apart,
A quaint, unusual name he bore
That well became the frugal heart;
While plain habiliments he wore
Without a tremor or a chill
At thought of some uncanceled bill.
A king might not disdain to wear
The title so appropriate
To one who never sought to share
Exalted station 'mong the great,
Nor cared if on the scroll of fame
Were never traced his worthy name.
As bound by honor's righteous law
In strictest rectitude he wrought—
The man who calmly, clearly saw
His duty, and who dallied not—
To garner life's necessities
For those whose comfort heightened his.
The parent bird its brood protects
As fledglings in their downy nest,
Until a Power their flight directs
From trial trips to distant quest,
Through trackless zones of ether blue,
For bird companions strange and new.
But ere his babes from prattlers grew,
Upon his knee or by his side,
To womanhood and manhood true—
Too soon we thought—the father died;
How could we know, when Death was nigh
Those little wings were taught to fly?
Another name his boyhood knew,
So seldom heard that lapse of years
Had made it seem a thing untrue,
Unmusical to friendly ears;
And thus his appellation odd
His passport was where'er he trod.
So long, on every lip and tongue
As if by universal whim,
To him had his cognomen clung,
And like a garment fitted him,
That angels even must have heard
Of one, like them, in love preferred.
And when he came to Heaven's door,
To Peter's self or acolyte,
The holy warder looking o'er,
"'Tis 'Honest John!'" he said aright;
And his pilgrim spirit passed within
Because his walk with God had been.
Bushnell Park.
Sweet resting place! that long hath been
A boon Elysian 'mid the din
Of city life, 'mid city smoke;
Where weary ones who toil and spin
Have turned aside as to an inn
Whose swinging sign a welcome spoke;
Where misanthropes find medicine
In peals of laughter that begin
With ancient, resurrected joke,
Or ready wit of harlequin;
Where children, free from discipline,
Take on Diversion's easy yoke.
Fair oasis! to view aright
Its charming paths, its sloping height,
Its beautiful and broad expanse,
Must one approach in witching night
When, like abodes of airy sprite
Revealed unto the wondering glance,
O'erflooded with electric light
Than Luna's beams more dazzling bright,
Illumined nooks the scene enhance;
While zephyrs mischievous unite
The timid stroller to affright
By swaying boughs in shadow dance.
The Capitol that crowns the hill
Where Boreas sweeps with icy chill,
A masterpiece of studied art
Conceived by genius versatile
And fashioned with unerring skill,
O'erlooks the busy, crowded mart,
And, like a kingly domicile,
Its burnished dome and sculpture thrill
With admiration every heart;
And strangers pause beyond the rill
To view its grandeur, lingering still,
And with reluctant steps depart.
O Bushnell Park, memorial soil!
That marks success (though near to foil)
Of one who with prophetic ken,
With honest zeal and ceaseless toil,
Opposed the vandal wish to spoil
This lovely bit of vale and glen;
Who, 'mid discussion and turmoil
Of adverse minds, did not recoil
From vigorous stroke of tongue and pen;
And then, till passion ceased to boil,
On troubled waters poured out oil
And to his plans won other men.
So when, fatigued and overwrought,
In summer time when skies are hot
We seek its verdant, velvet sward,
Oh may we hold in reverent thought
The debt we owe, forgetting not
The spirit passed to its reward
Of one whose giant soul was fraught
With true benignity—who sought
To touch humanity's quick chord
With fire from Heaven's altar brought,
That love and zeal and being caught
As inspiration from the Lord.
At General Grant's Tomb.
Afar my loyal spirit stirred
At mention of his name;
Afar in ringing notes I heard
The clarion voice of fame;
So to his tomb, hope long deferred,
With reverent step I came.
The pilgrim muse revivified
A half-forgotten day:
A slow procession, tearful-eyed,
In funeral array,
And from MacGregor's lonely side
A hero borne away.
Here sleeps he now, where long ago
Hath nature raised his mound:
A mighty channel far below,
Divided hills around,
Where countless thousands come and go
As to a shrine renowned.
With awe do strangers' eyes discern
A casket mid the green
Luxuriance of flower and fern;
Airy and cool and clean,
Unchanged from spring to spring's return,
This charnel chamber scene.
His country's weal his care and thought,
Beloved in peace was he;
Magnanimous in war—shall not
The nation grateful be,
And render at his burial spot
A testimonial free?
Oh, let us, ere the days come on
When energy is spent,
To him, the silent soldier gone,
Statesman and President,
On Riverside's majestic lawn
Uprear a monument.
"Be Courteous."
Ah, yes; why not? Is one more adventitious born
Than others—shekels richer, honors fuller, and all that—
That he can pass his fellows by with lofty scorn,
Nor even show this slight regard—the lifting of the hat?
Why prate of social status, class, or rank when earth
Is common tenting-ground, the heritage of all mankind?
Except in purity is there no royal birth,
No true nobility but nobleness of heart and mind.
Life is so short—one journey long, a pilgrimage
That we cannot retrace, nor ever pass this way again;
Then why not turn for some poor soul a brighter page,
And line the way with courtesies unto our fellow-men?
To give a graceful word or smile, or lend a hand
To one downcast and trembling on the borders of despair,
May help him to look up and better understand
Why God has made the sky so bright and put the rainbow there.
Be courteous! is nothing helpful half so cheap
As kind urbanity that doth so much of gladness bring;
More precious too than all the treasures of the deep,
Making the winter of discomfort seem like joyous spring.
Be courteous and gentle! be serene and good!
Those grand ennobling and enduring virtues all may claim;
Of each may it be said, of the great multitude:
Oh that my life were more like such an one of blessed fame!
Is it that over-crowding, care, anxiety,
Vortex of pleasure, the incessant round of toil and strife,
Beget indifference, repressing love and sympathy,
Till we forget the beautiful amenities of life?
Then cometh a sad day, when with a poignant sting
Lost opportunities shall speak to us reproachfully;
And ours shall be the disapproval of the King—
"Discourteous to these, my creatures, ye have wounded Me."
A New Suit.
The artist and the loom unseen,
In textures soft as crepe de chine
Spring weaves her royal robe of green,
With grasses fringed and daisies dotted,
With furzy tufts like mosses fine
And showy clumps of eglantine,
With dainty shrub and creeping vine
Upon the verdant fabric knotted.
Oh, winter takes our love away
For ashen hues of sober gray!
So when the blooming, blushing May
Comes out in bodice, cap, and kirtle,
With arbutus her corsage laced,
And roses clinging to her waist,
We crown her charming queen of taste,
Her chaplet-wreath of modest myrtle.
For eighteen centuries and more
Her fairy hands have modeled o'er
The same habiliments she wore
At her primeval coronation;
And still the pattern exquisite,
For every age a perfect fit,
In every land the favorite,
Elicits world-wide admiration.
Gay butterflies of fashion, you
Who wear a suit a year or two,
Then agitate for something new,
Look at Regina, the patrician!
Her cleverness is more than gold
Who so transforms from fabrics old
The things a marvel to behold,
And glories in the exhibition.
Why worry for an overdress,
The acme of luxuriousness,
Beyond all envy to possess,
Renewed as oft as lambkin fleeces!
Why flutter round in pretty pique
To follow style's capricious freak,
To match pongee or moire antique,
And break your peace in hopeless pieces?
O mantua-maker, costumer,
And fair-robed wearer! study her
And imitate the conjurer
So prettily economizing,
Without demur, regret, or pout,
Who always puts the bright side out
And never frets at all about
The world's penchant for criticizing.
The Little Clock.
Kind friend, you do not know how much
I prize this time-ly treasure,
So dainty, diligent, and such
A constant source of pleasure.
The man of brains who could invent
So true a chrono-meter
Has set a charming precedent,
And made a good repeater.
It speaks with clear, commanding clicks,
Suggestive of the donor;
And 'tends to business—never sick
A bit more than the owner.
It goes when I do; when I stop
(As by the dial showing)
It never lets a second drop,
But simply keeps on going.
It tells me when I am to eat,
Which isn't necessary;
When food with me is obsolete,
I'll be a reliquary.
It tells me early when to rise,
And bother with dejeuner;
To sally forth and exercise,
And fill up my porte-monnaie.
I hear it talking in the night,
As if it were in clover:
You've never lost your appetite,
You've never been run over.
It makes me wish that I might live
More faithful unto duty,
And unto others something give
Like this bijou of beauty.
It holds its hands before its face,
So very modest is it;
So like the people in the place
Where I delight to visit.
Sometimes I wonder if it cries
The course I am pursuing;
Because it has so many I-s
And must know what I'm doing.
Sometimes I fear it makes me cry—
No matter, and no pity—
Afraid at last I'll have to die
In some far, foreign city.
It travels with me everywhere
And chirrups like a cricket;
As if it said with anxious air,
"Don't lose your tick-tick-ticket!"
Companion of my loneliness
Along my journey westward,
It never leaves me comfortless,
But has the last and best word.
I would not spoil its lovely face,
And so I go behind it,
And hold it like a china vase,
So careful when I wind it.
A clock is always excellent
That has its label on,
And proves a fine advertisement
For Waterbury, Conn.
Those Yankees—ah! they never shun
A chance to make a dime,
And counterfeit the very sun
In keeping "Standard Time."
Ah, well! the little clock has proved
The best of all bonanzas;
And thus my happy heart is moved
To these effusive stanzas.
Improvement.
Along the avenue I pass
Huge piles of wood and stone,
And glance at each amorphous mass,
Whose cumbrous weight has crushed the grass,
With half resentful groan.
Say I: "O labor, to despoil
Some lovely forest scene,
Or at the granite stratum toil,
And desecrate whole roods of soil,
Is vandal-like and mean!
"Than ever to disfigure thus
Our prairie garden-land,
Let me consort with Cerberus,
Be chained to crags precipitous,
Or seek an alien strand."
But while this pining, pouting Muse
The interval ignores,
Deft industry, no time to lose,
Contrives and carries, hoists and hews,
And symmetry restores.
Behold! of rock and pile and board
A modern miracle,
My neighbor's dwelling, roofed and floored,
That rapid grew as Jonah's gourd,
And far more beautiful.
The artisan's receding gait
Has brushed the chips away,
Where innocence shall recreate,
Or like the flowers grow, and wait
The balminess of May.
An arid spot, where careless feet
Have long been wont to roam,
Where cattle grazed, as if to eat
Were life's delicious, richest treat,
Becomes a charming home.
O man primeval! hadst thou known,
Ere rude hands scooped thy grave,
Of Homestead Act, or Building Loan,
Thou wouldst have quite disdained to own
A rugged cliff or cave.
And now I see how skill and art
May cleave fair nature through,
Disintegrate her breathing heart,
And to the tissues torn impart
A use and beauty new.