SHELLS

Ella Wheeler

Author of "Drops of Water" and other Poems.

MILWAUKEE:
HAUSER & STOREY.
1873.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873 by
ELLA WHEELER,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.

DEDICATION

TO THE PEOPLE OF WISCONSIN,
From whom I have
Received so Many Words of Praise and Encouragement;
To whom I am
Indebted for so Many Marks of Appreciation,
Rendering my Pleasant Work
Pleasanter,
My Glad Life Gladder,
Is this volume gratefully dedicated
BY THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE

By the waves of thought, these "Shells" were washed out upon the shores of imagination, and I gathered them in idle moments. If they shall give you a few hours enjoyment, it will add to the pleasure I experienced in making the collection.
ELLA WHEELER.

CONTENTS

TO SECOND EDITION.

Poems.

Our Lives
The Messenger
Idle
Ye Agents
Warned
Life
Stars
Fading
Haunted
Ghosts
Tim's Story
Memory's Garden
Mysteries
What the Winds Told Me
Sometimes
Blind Sorrow
"Be Not Weary"
To Those Who Never Pray
Hung
Compassion
Fame
Her Mother's Beautiful Eyes
Old Times
This World
Going Away
Good-Bye
Jamie
A Mother's Reverie
The Two Glasses
Twilight Thoughts
Only a Kiss
When I Am Dead
Don't Talk When You've Nothing to Say
The Frost Fairy
Florabelle
The Doomed City's Prayer
One Woman's Plea
Decoration Poem
A Baby in the House
Poem
The People's Favorite
Dream Time
Lines Written on the Death of James Buell
Under the Willow
Doubting
At Sunset
A Twilight Thought
True Warriors
One of These
A Fancy
Tired
Never
True Love
His Song
When You Go Away
Bleak Weather
The Tale the Robin Told
A Memory
Waiting
Drifting Apart
Once More Together
Once in a While
Beauty
A Plea for Fame
Somewhere
Our Angel
A Summer Idyl
The Musicians
In Vain
Baby Eva
I Shall Not Forget
The Old and the New
Decoration Poem
At Set of Sun
Love Song
Display
At the Window
How
By and By
King and Siren
After?
If You Had Been True
Afloat
Roses and Lillies
In Heaven With You
Thou Dost Not Know
A Golden Year
Foreshadowed
Fortune's Wheel
Searching
Daft
Trust
The Common Link
Buried To-day
When I Die
The Unseen Thorn
Father and Child
Under the Moon
Singers
Take My Hand
Disinterred
A Lawyer's Romance
A Summer Day
Song and Maid
Asleep
Two Counts
The Watcher
Life and Death
An Autumn Reverie
Two Lives
In Memoriam
My Love
The Frost Fairy
The Summons
Three Years Old
The Difference
Love's Extravagance
You Will Forget Me

END.

SHELLS

OUR LIVES

Our lives are songs. God writes the words,
  And we set them to music at pleasure;
And the song grows glad, or sweet, or sad,
  As we choose to fashion the measure.

We must write the music, whatever the song,
  Whatever its rhyme, or metre;
And if it is sad, we can make it glad.
  Or if sweet, we can make it sweeter.

One has a song that is free and strong;
  But the music he writes is minor;
And the sad, sad strain is replete with pain,
  And the singer becomes a repiner.

And he thinks God gave him a dirge-like lay.
  Nor knows that the words are cheery;
And the song seems lonely and solemn--only
  Because the music is dreary.

And the song of another has through the words
  An under current of sadness;
But he sets it to music of ringing chords,
  And makes it a pean of gladness.

So, whether our songs are sad or not,
  We can give the world more pleasure.
And better ourselves, by setting the words
  To a glad, triumphant measure.

THE MESSENGER

She rose up, in the early dawn,
  And white, and silently she moved
About the house: Four men had gone
  To battle for the land they loved:
And she, the mother, and the wife.
Waited for tidings from the strife.
How still the house seemed; and her tread
Sounded like footsteps of the dead.

The long day passed. The dark night came.
  She had not seen a human face.
Some voice spoke suddenly her name.
  How loud it sounded in that place
Where, day on day, no sound was heard
But her own footsteps. "Bring you word,"
She cried, to whom she could not see--
"Word from the battle plain to me?"
A soldier entered at the door,
And stood within the dim firelight.

"I bring you tidings of the four"
  He said, "Who left you for the fight."
"God bless you friend!" she cried, "speak on!"
For I can bear it. "One is gone?"
"Ay! one is gone!" he said, "Which one?"
"Dear lady--he, your eldest son."

A deathly pallor shot across
  Her withered face: she did not weep.
She said, "It is a grievous loss,
  But God gives his beloved sleep.
What of the living--of the three,
And when can they come back to me?"
The soldier turned away his head,
"Lady, your husband too, is dead."

She put her hand upon her brow.
  A wild, sharp pain, was in her eyes,
"My husband? oh God help me now."
  The soldier shivered at her sighs.
The task was harder than he thought.
"Your youngest son, dear madam, fought
Close at his father's side: both fell
Dead, by the bursting of a shell."

She moved her lips and seemed to moan.
  Her face had paled to ashen grey--
"Then one is left me--one alone,"
  She said, "of four who marched away.
Oh, Over-ruling, All-wise God,
How can I pass beneath Thy rod!"
The soldier walked across the floor.
Paused at the window, at the door--

Wiped the cold dew drops from his cheek
  And sought the mourner's side again.
"Once more, dear lady, I must speak.
  Your last remaining son was slain
Just at the closing of the fight,
'Twas he who sent me here to-night."
"God knows," the man said afterward,
"The fight itself, was not as hard."

1871

IDLE

I sit in the twilight dim,
  At the close of an idle day,
And list to the sweet, soft hymn
  That rises far away
    And dies on the evening air.
  Oh, all day long they sing their song
    Who toil in the valley there.

But never a song sing I,
  Sitting with folded hands.
The hours pass me by,
  Dropping their golden sands.
    And I list from day to day
  To the tick, tick, tock, of the old brown clock
    Ticking my life away.

And I see the sunlight fade,
  And I see the night come on;
And then, in the gloom and shade,
  I weep for the day that is gone.
    Weep, and wail, in pain,
  For the misspent day that has flown away
    And will not come again.

Another morning beams,
  But I forget the last,
And sit in my idle dreams
  Till the day is overpast.
    Oh, the toiler's heart is glad
  When the day is gone and the night comes on,
    But mine is sore, and sad.

For I dare not look behind:
  No shining, golden sheaves
Can I ever hope to find--
  Nothing but withered leaves.
    Ah! dreams are very sweet!
  But will it please if only these
    I lay at the Master's feet.

And what will the Master say,
  To dreams and nothing more?
Oh, idler all the day!
  Think, ere thy life is o'er!
    And when the day grows late,
  Oh, soul of sin, will He let you in
    There at the pearly gate?

Oh, idle heart beware!
  On, to the field of strife!
On to the valley there,
  And live a useful life.
    Up! do not wait a day,
  For the old brown clock, with its tick, tick, tock,
    Is ticking your life away.

1869

YE AGENTS

These agent men! these agent men!
We hear the dreaded step again,
We see a stranger at the door;
And brace ourselves for war once more.
He bows and smiles. "Walk in," we say,

He smiles again. "I come to-day.
Dear Madam, with a great invention;
And Sir, pray give me your attention;
Now here, you see, is something new.
And just the thing, my friends, for you."

In vain we interrupt and say:
"We shall not buy of you to-day."
"But, Madam, Sir, you have not seen
The beauties of this new machine;
When thus arranged, your old affair,
'Tis plain to see, is just nowhere."
"No doubt," I say; "'Tis very fine,
And quite superior to mine."
This gives him courage. On he goes,
And every sentence glibly flows,
Until his lesson is repeated
To "warranted if fitly treated."

"Yes, new and fine, and grand," we say,
"But still, we shall not buy to-day."
"But, Madam, Sir, pray list to reason,
'Twill buy itself in half a season;
You see the thing is bound to go."
"Oh, certainly, we see, we know.
But still, we do not wish to buy."
He turns and leaves as with a sigh.
And while we hasten to our labor
He goes and persecutes our neighbor.

But lo! another follows on,
Before the last is fairly gone.
One day a reaper, next a mower,
And then a fanning mill, and sower;
Machines of all kinds 'neath the sun,
Each better than the other one;
A rocker for each dining chair,
A brace to hold the broom in air,
A book, just out, and you must buy
Or give a proper reason why.

So, if we sometimes turn away
Abruptly, Sirs, you must remember,
That we have heard your tale each day
From early Spring to late December.
Why! if we listened to you all,
And gave you the required attention,
I think ere long each one would call,
The "county house," the best invention.

1869

WARNED

They stood at the garden gate.
  By the lifting of a lid
She might have read her fate
  In a little thing he did.

He plucked a beautiful flower,
  Tore it away from its place
On the side of the blooming bower,
  And held it against his face.

Drank in its beauty and bloom,
  In the midst of his idle talk;
Then cast it down to the gloom
  And dust of the garden walk.

Ay, trod it under his foot,
  As it lay in his pathway there;
Then spurned it away with his boot,
  Because it had ceased to be fair.

Ah! the maiden might have read
  The doom of her young life then;
But she looked in his eyes instead,
  And thought him the king of men.

She looked in his eyes and blushed,
  She hid in his strong arms' fold;
And the tale of the flower, crushed
  And spurned, was once more told.

LIFE

An infant wailing in nameless fear;
  A shadow, perchance, in the quiet room,
Or the hum of an insect flying near,
  Or the screech-owl's cry, in the outer gloom.

A little child on the sun-checked floor,
  A broken toy, and a tear-stained face,
A young life clouded, a young heart sore;
  And the great clock, time, ticks on apace.

A maiden weeping in bitter pain,
  Two white hands clasped on an aching brow.
A blighted faith and a fond hope slain,
  A shattered trust and a broken vow.

A matron holding a baby's shoe,
  The hot tears gather, and fall at will
On the knotted ribbon of white and blue,
  For the foot that wore it is cold and still.

An aged woman upon her bed,
  Worn, and wearied, and poor and old,
Longing to rest with the happy dead.
  And thus the story of life is told.

Where is the season of careless glee?
  Where is the moment that holds no pain?
Life has its crosses from infancy
  Down to the grave; and its hopes are vain.

1870

STARS

Astronomers may gaze the heavens o'er,
  Discovering wonders, great, perhaps, and true!
That stars are worlds, and peopled like our own,
  But I shall never think as these men do.

I shall believe them little shining things,
  Fashioned from heavenly ore, and filled with light.
And to the sky above, so smoothly blue,
  An angel comes and nails them, every night.

And I have seen him. You no doubt would think
  A white cloud, sailed across the heavens blue.
But as I watched the feathery thing, it was
  An angel nailing up the stars I knew.

And all night long they shine for us below;
  Shine in pale splendor, till the mighty sun
Wakes up again. And then the angel comes,
  And gathers in his treasures, one by one.

How sweet the task! Oh, when this life is done,
  And I have joined the angel band on high,
Of all that throng, oh may it be my lot.
  To nail the stars upon the evening sky.

1868

FADING

She sits beside the window. All who pass
  Turn once again to gaze on her sweet face.
She is so fair; but soon, too soon, alas,
  To lie down in her last low resting place.

No gems are brighter than her sparkling eyes.
  Her brow like polished marble, white and fair--
Her cheeks as glowing as the sunset skies--
  You would not dream that death was lurking there.

But, oh! he lingers closely at her side.
  And when the forest dons its Autumn dress,
We know that he will claim her as his bride,
  And earth will number one fair spirit less.

She sees the meadow robed in richest green--
  The laughing stream--the willows bending o'er.
With tear dimmed eyes she views each sylvan scene,
  And thinks earth never was so fair before.

We do not sigh for Heaven, till we have known,
  Something of sorrow, something of grief and woe,
And as a summer day her life has flown.
  Then, can we wonder she is loath to go?

She has no friends in Heaven: all are here.
  No lost one waits her in that unknown land,
And life grows doubly, trebly sweet and dear,
  As day by day, she nears the mystic strand.

We love her and we grieve to see her go.
  But it is Christ who calls her to His breast,
And He shall greet her, and she soon shall know
  The joys of souls that dwell among the blest.

1869

HAUNTED

"We walk upon the sea-shore, you and I,
  Just two alone," you say. But there are three;
A tall and manly form is walking nigh,
  And as I move, he moves along with me.

Your shadow? No, for shadows do not speak,
  And he is speaking, tenderly and low,
Words that bring crimson blushes to my cheek,
  You cannot hear, the sea is sounding so.

But it is strange you cannot see him there,
  My darling with the broad and snowy brow.
You never saw a face so grandly fair.
  I'll stand aside--there, do you see him now?

No! well you jest, or else you're growing blind;
  Blue eyes are never very strong, you know;
This summer sun and wind are bad combined,
  You should not walk here where the sea gales blow.

Ah, he who walks here at my side has eyes
  That sun, nor wind can dim their eagle sight,
You've seen the thunder cloud in stormy skies--
  Well, so his eyes are, full of purple light.

Dead! what a foolish thing for you to say,
  When I can see him walking at my side;
Just as we walked a year ago to-day,
  When first I promised him to be his bride.

Go, leave us. We had rather be alone.
  Your words are wild to-day. Go, let me be
With him a while. And when an hour has flown
  I'll follow you. But now he waits for me.

GHOSTS

    There are ghosts in the room,
As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there
    They come out of the gloom
And they stand at my side, and they lean on my chair.

    There's the ghost of a hope
That lighted my days with a fanciful glow.
    In her hand is the rope
That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.

    But her ghost comes to-night,
With its skeleton face, and expressionless eyes,
    And it stands in the light,
And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.

    There's the ghost of a Joy,
A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much,
    And the hands that destroy
Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.

    There's the ghost of a love,
Born with joy, reared with Hope, died in pain and unrest,
    But he towers above
All the others--this ghost: yet a ghost at the best.

    I am weary, and fain
Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host
    Make the struggle in vain,
In each shadowy corner, there lurketh a ghost.

1869

TIM'S STORY

I was out promenading one fine summer day,
When I chanced upon three bosom cronies to stray,
And a beer shop we happened to pass on our way.

"Now boys," said I, stopping them all with a wink,
"If you'll step round the corner, I'll treat to a drink;
How is it, my hearties? now, what do you think?"

So, into the bar-room we dropped in a flash,
And up to the keeper I went with a dash:
"Four glasses of lager, and none of your trash,
But the best and the foamiest money can bring,"
Was the order I gave, with the air of a king;
And mine host fluttered off, like a bird on the wing.

Just then an old toper dropped in from the street,
A jolly old soak, with a nose like a beet.
And he said, "Now, my rummys, I'll share in that treat."

But I said to my cronies, "Say boys, look ye there!
Do you 'spose such a nosey will fall to our share?"
Quoth the toper, "Keep drinking, my lads, and you'll wear
A nose like my own, or I miss in my guess."
"Why," said Ned, "it resembles the light of distress."
Said Tom, "It's the color of Sally Ann's dress."

Said Billy, "It looks like the sun's ruddy bed,
And shines like the top of my grandfather's head."
Said I, "It is ready, I think, to be bled."

"Now thank ye, my lads," said old soak with a bow,
"But gulp down your lager, 'twill soon show ye how
Red noses are painted and polished, I vow."

I turned to my cronies: "Now, boys, look ye here!
I wouldn't, I say, for ten thousand a year,
Have my nose grow to look like the one beaming near!"

"Nor I, sir!" "Nor I, sir!" "Nor I!" cried each chum;
Then, said I, "A good-bye to all beer, ale, and rum,
And hurrah for cold water! my boys, will ye come?"

"We are ready and willing," said Tom, Bill and Ned.
"Let's get us a pledge, boys, and sign it," I said--
And so at next meeting, four names were read
In the Temperance column. And now should you be
In these parts, and a fine-looking fellow should see,
You may know it is one of my cronies, or me.

By lectures, and preaching, some fellows are won,
But you see it is different with us: it was done
By the jolly old soak, with a nose like the sun!

1870

MEMORY'S GARDEN

Back on its golden hinges
  The gate of Memory swings,
And my heart goes into the garden
  And walks with the olden things.
The old-time, joys and pleasures.
  The loves that it used to know,
It meets there in the garden.
  And they wander to and fro.

It heareth a peal of laughter,
  It seeth a face most fair.
It thrills with a wild, strange rapture
  At the glance of a dark eye there;
It strayeth under the sunset
  In the midst of a merry throng,
And beats in a tuneful measure,
  To the snatch of a floating song.

It heareth a strain of music
  Swell on the dreamy air,
A strain that is never sounded,
  Save in the garden there.
It wanders among the roses,
  And thrills at a long-lost kiss,
And glows at the touch of fingers,
  In a tremor of foolish bliss.

But all is not fair in the garden,--
  There's a sorrowing sob of pain;
There are tear-drops, bitter, scalding,
  And the roses are tempest-slain.
And I shut the gate of the garden.
  And walk in the Present's ways.
For its quiet paths are better
  Than the pain of those vanished days!

MYSTERIES

In God's vast wisdom, infinite and grand--
  Too vast, too infinite, for mortal mind--
There are some things I cannot understand.
  In all His paths, in all His ways, I find
Some subtle mysteries of life and death--
  Some marvels that I cannot comprehend,
Nor can I hope to know them till the end,
  When all shall be made plain, above--beneath.

There are so many of His righteous deeds--
  There is so much that unto me is plain,
I have no time to wonder--have no needs
  To question why, and wherefore. In the main
My mortal eyes see that His works are good.
  Whatever else seems strange, and dark, and dim,
I am content to leave in faith with Him,
  And in His time, it will be understood.

These labyrinths wherein many souls are lost--
  These waters, whereon some barks lose the shore,
But draw me nearer to the Heavenly Host,
  But make me love and worship God the more.
There is enough that I do see and know--
  There is enough that I can understand,
And sometime Christ shall take me by the hand.
  Explaining all that seems so strange below.

1870

WHAT THE WINDS TOLD ME

The winds come from the West,
  Come softly, mildly,
"What tidings do you bring?"
  I questioned wildly.
They sang a tender tune,
  And answered lightly--
"Your darling's path is fair!
  The sun shines brightly."

The winds came from the West,
  Came shrieking, groaning.
"What tidings now, oh wind?"
  My heart cried moaning.
They answered loud, and wild,
  "When danger stalketh--
And death is waiting, near,
  Your darling walketh."

The winds came from the West,
  Came weeping, wailing.
"Oh, tell me, tell me, winds!"
  My heart cried, failing.
"Where none are near to soothe,"
  They answered sighing,
"In loneliness and pain,
  Your love is dying!"

The winds came from the West!
  Came sadly sobbing.
And with an awful fear,
  My heart was throbbing.
I wildly questioned them
  Amidst my weeping,
"All still, and white," they said,
  "Your love is sleeping."

1870

SOMETIMES

Sometimes when I am all alone,
  Away from noise and strife,
The many faults and weaknesses,
  That rule my daily life
Seem to die out. And as I sit
  From worldliness apart,
All that is good and pure obtains
  The mastery of my heart.

And then my soul turns heavenward.
  And I commune with God.
I long to tread the narrow path
  That Christ before me trod.
I long to see his precious face--
  To go where angels go,
To leave the fleeting, fading things
  That make up life below.

My soul expands with ecstasy,
  My heart grows brave, and strong,
To meet whatever lies ahead--
  To battle down the wrong.
No sorrow can affright my soul,
  No earthly ill, I fear,
While in that blessed trance I sit
  And feel that God is near.

And then I mingle with the world,
  And falter day by day.
Until at last I walk within
  The olden, sinful way.
O, shall I even grow in grace,
  O shall I ever be,
Ready to meet the judgment day--
  Fit for eternity?

1869

BLIND SORROW

One bitter time of mourning, I remember,
  When day, and night, my sad heart did complain,
My life, I said, was one cold, bleak December,
  And all its pleasures, were but whited pain.

Nothing could rouse me from my sullen sorrow,
  Because you were not near, I would not smile.
And from a score of joys refused to borrow
  One ray of light, to gild the weary while.

But all the blessing God has given, scorning,
  I wept because we were so far apart,
And spent my time in idle, aimless mourning,
  That only kept the grief fresh in my heart--

God pity me! I know now we were nearer.
  With all these intervening miles of space--
That life was sweeter, and the future dearer.
  Than when to-day I met you, face to face!

God meant to break it gently--ease my anguish,
  But I rebelled, and caviled at His will.
Now, seeing His great wisdom, though I languish,
  In bitter pain, I trust His mercy still.

"BE NOT WEARY"

Sometimes, when I am toil-worn and aweary,
  All tired out, with working long, and well,
And earth is dark, and skies above are dreary,
  And heart and soul are all too sick to tell,
These words have come to me, like angel fingers,
  Pressing the spirit eyelids down in sleep.
"Oh, let us not be weary in well doing,
  For in due season, we shall surely reap."

Oh, blessed promise! when I seem to hear it,
  Whispered by angel voices on the air,
It breathes new life, and courage to my spirit,
  And gives me strength to suffer and forbear.
And I can wait most patiently for harvest,
  And cast my seeds, nor ever faint, nor weep,
If I know surely, that my work availeth,
  And in God's season, I at last shall reap.

When mind and body were borne down completely
  And I have thought my efforts were all vain,
These words have come to me, so softly, sweetly,
  And whispered hope, and urged me on again.
And though my labor seems all unavailing,
  And all my strivings fruitless, yet the Lord
Doth treasure up each little seed I scatter,
  And sometime, sometime, I shall reap reward.

1870

TO THOSE WHO NEVER PRAY

O! you who never bend the knee,
  And never lift the heart,
How do you live from year to year,
  And living, act your part.

How do you rise up in the morn,
  And pass the whole day through,
Without the Saviour at your side
  To guide and strengthen you.

How do you meet the daily ills
  That try the temper so!
That fret the heart and wear the soul
  More than some master woe.

How do you close your eyes and sleep,
  And how your crosses bear;
(Each has a cross, or small, or large)
  Without the aid of prayer?

How do you meet the mighty griefs,
  That rush upon the soul,
Engulfing it in bitterness.
  As angry waters roll?

How do you live at all, is one
  Deep mystery to me.
Oh, you who never lift the heart
  And never bend the knee.

1870

HUNG

Nine o'clock, and the sun shines as yellow and warm,
As though 'twere a fete day. I wish it would storm:
    Wish the thunder would crash,
    And the red lightning flash,
And lap the black clouds, with its serpentine tongue--
The day is too calm, for a man to be hung.
    Hung! ugh, what a word!
The most heartless, and horrible, ear ever heard.

He has murdered, and plundered, and robbed, so "they say,"
Been the scourge of the country, for many a day.
    He was lawless and wild;
    Man, woman, or child
Met no mercy, no pity, if found in his path.
He was worse than a beast of the woods, in his wrath.
    And yet--to be hung,
    Oh, my God! to be swung
By the neck to, and fro, for the rabble to see--
    The thought sickens me.

Thirty minutes past nine. How the time hurries by,
But a half hour remains, at ten he will die.
    Die? No! he'll be killed!
     For God never willed
    Men should die in this way.
"Vengeance is mine," He saith, "I will repay."
    Yet what could be done,
    With this wild, lawless one!
No prison could hold him, and so--he must swing,
    It's a horrible thing.

Outcast, Desperado, Fiend, Knave; all of these
And more. But call him whatever you please
    I cannot forget,
    He's a mortal man yet:
That he once was a babe, and was hushed into rest,
And fondled, and pressed, to a woman's warm breast.
    Was sung to, and rocked,
    And when he first walked
With his weak little feet, he was petted, and told
He was "mamma's own pet, worth his whole weight in gold."
     And this is the end
Of a God-given life. Just think of it, friend!

Hark! hear you that chime? 'tis the clock striking ten.
The dread weight falls down, with a sound like "amen."
Does murder pay murder? do two wrongs make a right?
    Oh, that horrible sight!
I am shut in my room, and have covered my face;
But the dread scene has followed me into this place.
    I see that strange thing,
    Like a clock pendulum swing
To and fro, in the air, back and forth, to and fro.
    One moment ago
'Twas a man, in God's image! now hide it, kind grave!
What a terrible end, to the life that God gave.

1871

COMPASSION

There is a picture, that I sometimes see,
  Of Jesus, with a child upon his breast.
And other children clustered at his knee--
  The little lambs of God, that he had blest.
And this one--lying on the Saviour's arm
  Looks up and smiles, in that most sainted face,
And knowing he is well secured from harm
  He falls asleep in that safe resting place.

To-night I am so weary, heart, and soul.
  So worn out, with a thousand nameless ills.
My spirit longs intensely for its goal
  And every fibre of my being thrills
With mighty yearning. "Oh, to be that child--
  To lie upon my Saviour's breast." I weep,
"And looking on that face so meekly mild.
  Forget my tears, and sweetly fall asleep."

It is not always so: sometimes the earth
  And earthly friends, can satisfy my heart.
But now--to-night--I feel their shallow worth,
  And feel, Oh, Christ my Saviour, that Thou art
And Thou alone, the only faithful friend
  Who knowing all my sins, and seeing me
Just as I am, will pity to the end
  And in compassion, judge me tenderly.

I am so weak, and sinful--every day
  The sins and failings that I most condemn,
And most abhor in others--I straightway
  Go forth, and wickedly walk into them.
But Christ, who was in mortal form one time
  And dwelt upon the earth, will understand.
And through a love and pity most sublime,
  Will write me out a pardon with His hand.

1869

FAME

    If I should die, to-day.
  To-morrow, maybe, the world would see--
  Would waken from sleep, and say,
"Why here was talent! why here was worth!
Why here was a luminous light o' the earth.
      A soul as free
      As the winds of the sea:
      To whom was given
      A dower of heaven.
And fame, and name, and glory belongs
To this dead singer of living songs.
Bring hither a wreath, for the bride of death!"
And so, they would praise me, and so they would raise me
  Mayhap, a column, high over the bed
  Where I should be lying, all cold and dead.

    But I am a living poet!
    Walking abroad in the sunlight of God,
    Not lying asleep, where the clay worms creep,
      And the cold world will not show it,
E'en when it sees that my song should please;
But sneering says: "Avaunt, with thy lays!
Do not sing them, and do not bring them
    Into this rustling, bustling life.
We have no time, for a jingling rhyme,
In this scene of hurrying, worrying strife."
    And so, I say, there is but one way
To win me a name, and bring me fame.
And that is, to die, and be buried low,
When the world would praise me, an hour or so.

1870

HER MOTHER'S BEAUTIFUL EYES

  I met a young girl on the street;
    I was a stranger to her, no more.
  But the glance of her brown eyes, shy and sweet,
    Set me to dreaming of days of yore.
      Ah! she does not know, but long ago
When life was as cloudless as June's blue skies,
Her mother was all the world to me;
      And she
Has her mother's beautiful eyes.

  She lifted her lashes, and let them fall;
    Raised them and dropped them as I passed by.
  A grizzled old stranger, that was all
    She saw, for she could not know that I
      In the dear, dear past
      Too sweet to last
  Had found my Eden, my paradise.
  In her mother's beautiful eyes.

  I loved, and was loved. But a word was said
    In thoughtless jest, and the work was done.
  The hopes I had cherished, lay blasted, dead--
    My rival pleaded his suit, and won.
And their child--ah me! is fair to see;
I wonder if she's as good and wise,
As sweet and kind, and pure of mind
As the one who bequeathed her those beautiful eyes.

  She has her father's step, and air.
    Her father's brow, and his pale, dark cheek.
  And her father's tawny, curling hair.
    And her father's mouth, half sweet, half weak.
      All very true.
And "she's like her father through and through,"
  I said when we met on the street that day,
    "And not like her mother in any way."
  Then I caught my breath with a start of surprise,
      (That she did not see)
For the child of my rival glanced up at me
  With her mother's beautiful eyes.

1871

OLD TIMES

Friend of my youth, let us talk of old times;
  Of the long-lost golden hours.
When "Winter" meant only Christmas chimes,
  And "Summer" wreaths of flowers.
Life has grown old, and cold, my friend,
  And the winter now, means death.
And summer blossoms speak all too plain
  Of the dear, dead forms beneath.

But let us talk of the past to-night;
  And live it over again,
We will put the long years out of sight.
  And dream we are young as then.
But you must not look at me, my friend,
  And I must not look at you,
Or the furrowed brows, and silvered locks,
  Will prove our dream untrue.

Let us sing of the summer, too sweet to last.
  And yet too sweet to die.
Let us read tales, from the book of the past,
  And talk of the days gone by.
We will turn our backs to the West, my friend,
  And forget we are growing old.
The skies of the Present are dull, and gray,
  But the Past's are blue, and gold.

The sun has passed over the noontide line
  And is sinking down the West.
And of friends we knew in days Lang Syne,
  Full half have gone to rest.
And the few that are left on earth, my friend
  Are scattered far, and wide.
But you and I will talk of the days
  Ere any roamed, or died.

Auburn ringlets, and hazel eyes--
  Blue eyes and tresses of gold.
Winds joy laden, and azure skies,
  Belong to those days of old.
We will leave the Present's shores awhile
  And float on the Past's smooth sea.
But I must not look at you, my friend,
  And you must not look at me.

1871

THIS WORLD

This world is a sad, sad place I know;
  And what soul living can doubt it.
But it will not lessen the want and woe,
  To be always singing about it.
Then away with the songs that are full of tears,
  Away with dirges that sadden.
Let us make the most of our fleeting years,
  By singing the lays that gladden.

The world at its saddest is not all sad--
  There are days of sunny weather.
And the people within it are not all bad,
  But saints and sinners together.
I think those wonderful hours in June,
  Are better by far, to remember,
Than those when the world gets out of tune
  In the cold, bleak winds of November.
Because we meet in the walks of life
  Many a selfish creature,
It does not prove that this world of strife
  Has no redeeming feature.
There is bloom, and beauty upon the earth,
  There are buds and blossoming flowers,
There are souls of truth, and hearts of worth--
  There are glowing, golden hours.

In thinking over a joy we've known,
  We easily make it double.
Which is better by far, than to mope and moan,
  Over sorrow and grief and trouble.
For though this world is sad, we know,
  (And who that is living can doubt it,)
It will not lessen the want, or woe,
  To be always singing about it.

1872

GOING AWAY

Walking to-day on the Common,
  I heard a stranger say
To a friend who was standing near him,
  "Do you know I am going away?"
I had never seen their faces:
  May never see them again,
But the words the stranger uttered,
  Stirred me with nameless pain.

For I knew some heart would miss him,
  Would ache at his "going away,"
And the earth would seem all cheerless,
  For many and many a day.
No matter how glad my spirit,
  No matter how light my heart,
If I hear these two words uttered.
  The tear drops always start.

They are so sad and solemn,
  So full of a lonely sound:
Like dead leaves rustling downward,
  And dropping upon the ground.
Oh, I pity the naked branches,
  When the skies are dull and gray,
And the last leaf whispers softly,
  "Good bye, I am going away."

In the dreary, dripping Autumn,
  The wings of the flying birds
As they soar away to the southland,
  Seem always to say these words.
Where ever they may be uttered,
  They fall with a sob, and sigh;
And heart-aches follow the sentence,
  "I am going away--Good bye."

Oh, God, in Thy blessed kingdom
  No lips shall ever say,
No ears shall ever hearken.
  To the words "I am going away."
For no soul ever wearies
  Of the dear, bright, angel band,
And no saint ever wanders,
  From the sunny, golden land.

1872

GOOD BYE

He rose, and passing, paused by her.
  They stood a moment in the door.
His dark eyes made her pulses stir
  As they had never stirred before;
How soft the night bird sang above
The dull brown heath. Oh, Life, Oh, Love!

He took her hand, and said "Good bye."
  Then, singing blithely, went across
The sodden fields: nor heard the cry
  Her heart sent up, nor knew her loss.
How bleak, and wild, and desolate,
The wind blew down. Oh, Love, Oh, Fate!

The west turned suddenly aflame;
  Striped here and there with blue and gold.
She shook with chills she could not name.
  The air seemed strangely harsh, and cold.
How keen the winds were, and how rife
With wintry sounds. Oh, Love, Oh, Life!

She waited till she saw him pass
  Across the meadow, out of sight.
His shadow fell upon the grass;
  The winds were talking of the night.
How high they whirled the withered leaf;
How swift it flew. Oh, Love, Oh, Grief.

She shut the door, and turned away.
  Some task was waiting for her hand.
She shut another door, where lay,
  Her sweet dead hope. You understand.
"And they shall weep no more," God saith,
"Nor taste of pain." Oh, Life, Oh, Death.

JAMIE

In through the kitchen, the boys came trooping:
  Will, and Sammy, and Bob and Fred,
And Johnny and Jamie, the twins, came after,
Setting the rafters, a-ring with laughter.
  Woe for the words I said!
I looked at the floor I had swept and dusted,
  And saw the litter the twelve feet brought;
And I sighed, and frowned, on the six bright blossoms,
  And frowning, spoke my thought.

"Oh, was there ever so weary a woman!
  I have been only twelve years wed.
But I've never a moment of peace or quiet.
Six rough boys, with their noise and riot,
  Are wearing me out," I said.
"Six rough boys to mend and work for,
  To clothe and feed--it is hard at best;
There's never an end to my weary labors,
  There is no time for rest."

Dark fell the shadows around my little cottage,
  Weeping I leaned over one little bed,
Vain were the tears on the tiny face falling;
In the dim distance I heard a voice calling--
  "Come unto me," it said.
And down through the starlight an angel descended,
  And stood by my Jamie's low bedside.
"Come! there is room with the angels," she whispered,
  "Heaven is fair and wide."

"Fair are its meadows, and wide are its mansions,
  And thousands of children are gathered there."
Vain were the prayers that I prayed, leaning o'er him,
Up to the mansions of heaven she bore him.
  Woe for my heart's despair!
Oh, to recall the harsh words that I uttered!
  Oh, for his litter and noise to-day!
Oh, for the labor his hands would make me!
  Hands that are turned to clay.

Five sturdy boys troop into my cottage,
  John, Will, Sammy, and Bob and Fred--
Five brave boys as e'er blessed a mother.
But always and ever I miss the other,
  The dear, dear boy that is dead.
I miss the ring of his childish laughter,
  Miss him and mourn for him night and day,
But wide are the mansions, and fair are the meadows
  Where the feet of my Jamie stray.

1872

A MOTHER'S REVERIE

The shadows drop down o'er the fields tinged with brown,
  Where the snow-drifts were gleaming of late,
And the day shuts her eyes, while th' red western skies
  Make ready the chambers of state.
How still the house seems! while round about gleams
  Th' last mellow rays of th' sun.
There's no step on the stair--no voice anywhere,
  Crying, "Mother, the last task is done!"

Can it be I'm alone? can it be there are none
  Left of eight, who have called me that name?
Four boys and four girls, with their tresses and curls,
  Four brave boys, four fair girls, that came
To my home one by one, like lost rays from the sun,
  And where are they all now? I pray;
Like birds from the nest, the babes on my breast
  Took wing, and have fluttered away.

There was John, my first child; as gentle and mild
  As the maiden that grew at his side,--
First to come, last to stay; but death called him away,
  It is two years, to-day since he died.
Hope, Mary, and Joe are all married, and so
  Have gone into homes of their own;
Mark is over the sea, and Flora--hush! we
  Never speak of the one who has flown.

My Will, bonny Will, fell at Champion Hill--
  My dark-eyed, my raven-tressed son;
There was one at his side fell too; and Kate died
  Of grieving for Will--and that one!
Yet bravely we try, my life-mate and I,
  To be happy and cheerful alway.
God knows best what to do; yet I think if we knew
  She were dead, 'twould seem better to-day.

1871

THE TWO GLASSES

There sat two glasses, filled to the brim,
On a rich man's table, rim to rim.
One was ruddy, and red as blood,
And one was as clear as the crystal flood.

Said the glass of wine to his paler brother,
"Let us tell tales of the past to each other;
I can tell of banquet, and revel, and mirth,
Where I was king, for I ruled in might.
And the proudest and grandest souls on earth
Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.
From the heads of kings, I have torn the crown,
From the heights of fame, I have hurled men down;
I have blasted many an honored name,
I have taken virtue, and given shame;
I have tempted the youth, with a sip, a taste,
That has made his future a barren waste.
Far greater than any king am I,
Or than any army beneath the sky.
I have made the arm of the driver fail,
And sent the train from its iron rail.
I have made good ships go down at sea,
And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me;
For they said, 'Behold, how great you be!
Fame, strength, wealth, genius, before you fall,
And your might and power are over all.'"
"Ho! ho! pale brother," laughed the wine,
"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"

Said the water glass, "I cannot boast
Of a king dethroned or a murdered host;
But I can tell of hearts that were sad,
By my crystal drops made light and glad.
Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I've laved;
Of hands I have cooled, and souls I've saved.
I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain;
Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.
I have burst my cloud fetters, and dropped from the sky,
And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye.
I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain,
I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain;
I can tell of the powerful wheel o' the mill,
That ground out the flour, and turned at my will;
I can tell of manhood, debased by you,
That I have uplifted, and crowned anew.
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid,
I gladden the heart of man and maid;
I set the chained wine-captive free,
And all are better for knowing me."

These are the tales they told each other,
The glass of wine, and its paler brother,
As they sat together, filled to the brim,
On the rich man's table, rim to rim.

1872

TWILIGHT THOUGHTS

The God of the day has vanished
  The light from the hills has fled,
And the hand of an unseen artist,
  Is painting the West all red.
All threaded with gold and crimson,
  And burnished with amber dye,
And tipped with purple shadows,
  The glory flameth high.

Fair, beautiful world of ours!
  Fair, beautiful world, but oh.
How darkened by pain and sorrow,
  How blackened by sin and woe,
The splendor pales in the heavens
  And dies in a golden gleam,
And alone in the hush of twilight,
  I sit, in a checkered dream.

I think of the souls that are straying,
  In shadows as black as night,
Of hands that are groping blindly
  In search of the shining light;
Of hearts that are mutely crying,
  And praying for just one ray,
To lead them out of the shadows,
  Into the better way.

I think of the Father's children
  Who are trying to walk alone,
Who have dropped the hand of the Parent,
  And wander in ways unknown.
Oh, the paths are rough and thorny,
  And I know they cannot stand.
They will faint and fall by the wayside,
  Unguided by God's right hand.

And I think of the souls that are yearning
  To follow the good and true;
That are striving to live unsullied,
  Yet know not what to do.
And I wonder when God, the Master,
  Shall end this weary strife,
And lead us out of the shadows
  Into the deathless life.

1869

ONLY A KISS

Once, when the summer lay on the hilltops,
  And the sunshine fell like a golden flame,
Out from the city's dust and turmoil
  A gallant, fair-faced stranger came--
Came to rest in our humble cottage
  Till the winds of autumn should blow again,
To walk in the meadow and lie by the brooklet,
  And woo back the strength, that the town had slain.

I was young, with the foolish heart of a maiden
  That had never been wooed, and the stranger bland
Awoke that heart from its idle dreaming,
  And swept the strings with a master-hand.
I remember the thrill, and the first wild tremor,
  That stirred its depths with a sweet surprise,
When I glanced one day at the handsome stranger,
  And caught the gaze of his deep, dark eyes.

My cheek grew red with its tell-tale blushes,
  And the knitting dropped from my nerveless grasp;
He stooped, and then, as he gracefully gave it,
  He held my hand in a loving clasp;
We said no word, but he knew my secret,
  He read what lay in my maiden heart,
No vain concealing was needed longer
  To hide the tremor his voice would start.

We walked in the meadow and by the brooklet,
  My sun-browned hand in his snowy palm;
He said my blushes would shame the roses,
  And my heart stood still in a blissful calm.
He stroked my tresses, my raven ringlets,
  And twined them over his finger fair;
My eyes' dark splendor was full of danger,
  He said, for Cupid was lurking there.

And once he held me close to his bosom,
  And pressed on my lips a loving kiss;
Oh! how I tremble with shame and anger,
  Even now, as I think of this--
But in that moment, I thought that heaven
  Had suddenly opened and drawn me in,
And kissed with passion the lips, so near me,
  Nor dreamed I was staining my soul with sin.

But there came a letter one quiet evening
  To the man who was dearer to me than life--
"A picture," he said, as he tore it open,
  "Look, sweet friend, at my fair young wife."
A terrible anguish, a seething anger,
  Heaved my bosom and blanched my cheek,
And he who stood there holding the letter,
  He watched me smiling, but did not speak.

I took the picture and gazed upon it--
  A sweet young creature with sunny hair
And eyes of blue. "May the good Lord keep you,"
  I said aloud, "in his tender care--
You who are wedded and bound forever
  Unto this man," and I met his eyes--
"This soulless villain, this shameless coward,
  Whose heart is blackened with acted lies."

My heart swelled full of a terrible hatred,
  And something of murder was burning there,
But a better feeling stole in behind it
  As I looked on the picture sweet and fair;
I turned and left him, and never saw him--
  Never looked on his face again,
And time has tempered my shame and sorrow,
  And soothed and quieted down my pain.

But I always tremble, in awful anger,
  That wears and worries my waning life,
When I think how he clasped me close to his bosom,
  He--with a lawfully wedded wife.
When I think how I answered his fond caresses,
  And clung to his neck in a trance of bliss,
And the tears of a life time and all my sorrow
  Can never remove the stain of his kiss.

1869