Songs for All Seasons, and Other Poems

Successful men,
Woo the diffusive fire
And yet feel cold.
What of the homeless, then,
In pitiful attire,
Poor, feeble, old?

Affluence weeps,
A bird the weather kills,
Great souls despair.
Love willing vigil keeps,
Till want all feeling chills,
Frozen by care.

Think not to choose,
Or mere convenience seek,
Some faint heart cheer.
Who comfort could refuse,
To weary ones and weak
Perishing near?

THE WAY WILL OPEN.

The way will open it is true
If I but do my best,
I’ll do the things I find to do
And leave to God the rest.

Although the clouds are hanging low
And all the way seems dark,
I’ll do the very best I know:—
The dove was in the ark.

The way will open; Soul, be strong,
And rise to do thy best.
The shadows cannot last for long,
There’s roses in the west.

What matter is the tempest’s rage?
I’ve but to do my part,
’Tis love alone that can assuage
The tempest of the heart.

The way will open it is true
I’ve but to do my best,
I’ll do the things I find to do
And leave to God the rest.

SPRING.

Bright-eyed goddess,—witching spring,—as thy amber tresses glow,
Kindled to immortal flame
Is the breath of honor,—fame.
Well may poets hymn thy praise,—fancy flutter to and fro,—
To a measure full and fleet, to a measure stately, slow;
Thence with heaven for an aim,
Rushing on with glad acclaim:
Hearken to the strain and know, blessed Beulah here below,
Wake! The living notes prolong in a symphony of song,
Floating on the perfumed air
In the angel arms of prayer;
Welcome goddess, spring divine; beauty visions ’round thee twine;
Violets and blossoms sweet
Nestle fondly at thy feet.

VICTORIA.

When have men or nations seen
A life, to rival England’s queen?
What vital interests compressed
Within its span, what truths confessed,
A long, a useful, noble reign.

Maidenhood and age attain
A broader meaning as we view,
Her record, glorious as true.
Each subject, brave to do his part,
Found ready welcome to her heart.

She, the soldier’s work well done,
Proclaimed the wounded hero “Son”;
A royal soul alone reveres,
Worth, where ever it appears,
As light must all the brighter shine.

Springing from a source divine;
Benevolence, when simply shown,
Will gracefully adorn a throne:
The righteous wisdom of her aim,
Glorifies Victoria’s name.

FREEDOM’S SON.

Do you love him, Freedom’s son,
Great, Immortal Washington?
Is your raptured soul athrill,
At his majesty of will?
Unsubdued by doubts and fears,
Proudest of all proud careers,
It was his to boldly climb
Till his deeds stood forth sublime.

Can you see him, Freedom’s son,
Great, immortal, Washington?
See the armies he has led
Up and on where heroes bled?
Battle’s brunt, the foeman’s fire,
Seem but given to inspire,
Well his spirit might prevail
For he could not, would not fail.

Can you see him, Freedom’s son,
Great, immortal, Washington?
Face the ice-thronged Delaware
Knowing death itself is there?
Hark! the rasping, sharp as steel,
How it throbs along the keel;
Fog-enwrapped but firm he stands
With the future in his hands.

Can you see him, Freedom’s son,
Great, immortal, Washington?
Called to crown a record fair
In the Presidential chair.
First of many bound to own
This brave people’s heart a throne,
On the honor roll of fame
Men must ever read his name.

Can you see him, Freedom’s son,
Great, immortal, Washington?
Surely we are wreathing now,
Fadeless laurel for his brow.
When we meet to speak his praise,
Speak the wisdom of his ways,
In a nation’s life we view * * *
Washington, the tried, the true.

OUR RIVER.

Our river, thine and mine;
With what intrepid haste it leaps the falls
Glancing, dancing, whirling, purling, on
Over the gleaming rocks, whose falchions keen
Would rend for aye the glinting canopy
Which spans the flood in rainbow-tinted folds.
Anon the waters lift impulsive arms
Toward yonder sun through bridal veils of mist.
Never is man more moved than when he stands
Gauging the force Omnipotence creates.

SUNSET.

See the cloudlets float to rest,
At the portals of the west;
How they glimmer, how they glance
In a merry sunset dance.

Beautiful and sweet and fair,
As the spirit of a prayer;
With what confidence they lie
On the bosom of the sky.

How they crown the brow of night
With a wreath of ruddy light;
Fair as any flower that blows
In the twilight, pink and rose.

Even so our earthly way,
It will not be always gray;
Soon we, too, shall float to rest—
Past the portals of the west.

MEMORIAL POEM.

[Dedicated to the G. A. R. and read at Huntington Hall.]

Oh, peaceful are the humble graves of fallen comrades far and near,
In sweet communion with the gift we gladly offer year by year
To those who knelt at Freedom’s shrine in all the beauteous bloom of youth,
And fell, a living sacrifice, upon the altar stone of truth.

Though many of our brave marines are resting in the boundless deep,
No band of brothers bending near, the stars eternal vigil keep;
If we can never kneel and say “A noble comrade lies below,”
Upon the honor roll of fame his record shall the brighter glow.

Where legions of the “great unknown” beneath the dainty lilies sleep,
Let little children softly come above the sacred dust to weep;
A solemn sweetness fills the hours when thus devoted to the dead
Who fearless faced the cannon’s mouth and for Columbia fought and bled.

Oh, how we love to gather here upon each thirtieth of May,
And dedicate our choicest thoughts to glorify the Soldiers’ Day;
Beyond the worth of worldly store, or empty plaudits of renown,
The broken shackles of the slave are jewels in the heavenly crown.

To follow Butler’s bold campaigns must every loyal heart inspire,
As when he woke the gallant Sixth to kindle treason’s funeral pyre,
While Ladd and Whitney doomed to fall that dismal day at Baltimore
Were eager with their dying breath to hail the stars and stripes once more.
* * * * *
Athwart the face of Memory’s page we watch the busy brush of Time
Indorsing each heroic deed with one decisive word—“Sublime!”
The voice of victory arose amid the ardor of the strife,
And the patriots—these before me, had preserved a nation’s life.

Consult the dreary prison pen—the wounded heroes side by side,
Who in the weary march of months were sadly wishing they had died;
And marvel not that some are bowed as with a heavy weight of years,
But give to them a gracious meed, of love and gratitude, and tears.

Behold the spires of Gettysburg, the waving wheat, the orchard fair,
How calm it was until the strength of hostile forces entered there,
And then the awful rush and roar of surging armies, day by day,
Of Sickles in the grim retreat, and Sedgwick as he stood at bay.

Oh, how the waiting North rejoiced when Hancock’s sturdy arm prevailed,
Defeated in that last dread charge the flower of the South had failed;
And we have welcomed here tonight the comrades who as conquerors stood,
Whose hands thenceforth were closely linked in one eternal brotherhood.

And while they mourned the tender ties which lay unheeded mid the slain,
Yet not a man would dare proclaim that such as these had died in vain.
Oh, beautiful, and bright, and fair, the glorious banner of the free,
A peerless synonym of right, of hope, of love, of liberty.

And never shall a fold be rent, a color fade, a star be lost,
For freedom sees its azure field with gems of precious blood embossed;
We well may hush our hearts to hear the thrilling dirges sob and die,
Until they almost seem to us like angel whispers floating by.

BLESSED WAS THE NAME SHE BORE.

Wake! oh, nation; wake, and sing!
Bid the “arch of heaven” ring;
Praise, in sweet accord, our pride—
Thirty summers Neptune’s bride.
Kearsarge, a hymn to thee
Floateth over land and sea;
Hark, the chorus! hear it soar—
“Blessed was the name she bore.”

Volumes of heroic verse
Shall thy victories rehearse;
Well may rhythm swiftly chime
To a measure full—sublime
Kearsarge, a hymn to thee
Floateth over land and sea;
Hark, the chorus! hear it soar—
“Blessed was the name she bore.”

Though Roncador—reef of woe—
Like a traitor laid thee low;
As Aurora cleaves the sky,
Rise! the “god of storms” defy.
Kearsarge, a hymn to thee
Floateth over land and sea;
Hark, the chorus! hear it soar—
“Blessed was the name she bore.”

Swift, as light along the hill,
Fly! Columbia’s bosom thrill;
Crucified by flood, by fire—
Come, Futurity, inspire.
Kearsarge, a hymn to thee
Floateth over land and sea;
Hark, the chorus! hear it soar—
“Blessed was the name she bore.”

Lo! thy ashes softly lie
’Neath a tender southern sky;
Yet on honor’s tide ye sail,
Like a ship before the gale.
Kearsarge, a hymn to thee
Floateth over land and sea;
Hark, the chorus! hear it soar—
“Blessed was the name she bore.”

CONTENT.

Is there a place in the whole, wide, world
Like the beautiful vale content;
The fair, white, banner of peace unfurled
As our hopes in one are blent
By mutual glad consent.

Is there a place the foe cannot reach,
Stands the dark featured King subdued?
Is each prayer the Spirit would teach
With gracious power imbued
Are the thought rifts rainbow hued?

Is there a place where the weary rest
Knowing how well the past was meant?
In sharing the birthright of the blest,
Bliss of heaven to thee is lent
Beautiful vale of content.

VIOLET.

Violet tender and sweet clasped to the bosom of earth,
Lift up thy bonny blue eye, happy the day of thy birth.
Thine is a glorious lot, bearing the word of the king,
Calling the world to rejoice breathing of beauty and spring;
Violet, tender and sweet.

Violet tender and sweet plucked from the bosom of earth
Lift up thy bonny blue eye, happy the day of thy birth.
Close in thy petals of pearl, of beautiful amethyst cling,
Fresh with the balm of the wood the odorous essence of spring;
Violet, tender and sweet.

“LONGEST LANES MUST HAVE A TURNING.”

Shall we dare to be despondent, though the way is rough and cold?
“Longest lanes must have a turning,” is a saying never old.
Who would feebly faint or falter on life’s journey? Day by day
Grateful sunbeams softly greet us, through the heavy mists of gray;
Blessed gifts the Great All-Father sends to cheer our earthly lot,
And to whisper, sweetly, fondly, that we never are forgot.

Ay, ’tis hard when dreary trouble comes to pierce the faithful heart,
And hope spreads her airy pinions as if eager to depart;
Sickness, with its hand of iron—Justice, with a frowning face,
Wilfully conspire to crush us in a cruel, stern embrace:
Shall we bow beneath the burden, though it is so hard to bear,
Or arise and do our utmost, boldly breaking from despair?

Brothers, sisters, little children,—weak with hunger, bleeding feet,—
Bravely meet the dusky foemen, make the victory complete.
Many weep o’er thy misfortunes,—courage! yet will come a friend;
Do not sink upon the highway, surely this is not the end.
Let us use our best endeavor, ever seeking out the light,—
“Longest lanes must have a turning,”—one is even now in sight.

IS THERE NOT SOMETHING WE CAN DO?

Is there not something we can do,
To smooth the rugged road?
Men struggle onward, death in view,
Each with his own great load.
Men struggle onward, weak of arm,
But chivalrous of soul;
Where is the hand to do them harm,
Or keep them from the goal.

What joy to honest worth assist,
To move the stumbling stone;
Good vantage ground is often missed
When pressing on alone.
To bring a burdened brother ease,
Though long the way and rough;
Or bid the storm of trouble cease,
We cannot do enough.

SUNNY DAYS.

Of course we value sunny days
And all of nature’s pleasant ways,
The merry birds, the balmy sky,
The happy brooklet laughing by,
With the clouds come darker hours,
Good for us as for the flowers.

How bright the meadow after rain;
How calm the heart is after pain.
We owe indeed a wondrous debt
To ev’ry trouble bravely met;
A debt that no one ever pays,
Our thanks are for the sunny days.

BUNKER HILL.

From Cambridge, through the solemn moving night,
With firm determination to be free,
Our fathers came, that this proud shaft might be
Synonymous of liberty and right.
Pale moonbeams strove to cast a languid light,
Upon the patriot band and that true sea,
Which once was bold to brew good English tea.
Scarce hidden by a mask too frail for flight,
Across “The Neck” their fearless footsteps sped,
Ere morning could the sullen east assail
To mingle with her coming joy and dread,
The fierce redoubt and breastwork marked a trail
Of glory, up the path where Honor led,
Those master spirits eager to prevail.

A gallant sight and noble, did it quell,
The squadron swan-like sweeping to and fro,
Upon the Mystic and the Charles? oh, no!
The Britons captive to the subtle spell
Yet read the meaning of its signal well.
When from the “Lively” came a sudden glow,
Then swift the leaden hail fell blow on blow,
Gage, governor, commander, heard the knell
Of that first warning boom and wounded pride
Spoke in his wrathful face, his hurried gait,
As gazing o’er the smoothly flowing tide
He felt his own wise plan had come too late;
But on an easy conquest still relied
To claim those frowning heights, the town, the state.

DOING.

Keep doing, always doing,
Wishing, dreaming, what are they?
Tempters idle steps pursuing,
Foemen ambushing the way.

Keep doing, bravely doing,
Never falter, never fail,
Day by day your strength renewing,
Gird your armor on, prevail!

Keep doing, wisely doing,
Working upward as you may;
Human interest accruing
Will a high percentage pay.

Keep doing, boldly doing,
Use the talents time may lend;
Right upholding, self reviewing,
The down-trodden truth defend.

Keep doing, ever doing,
Trusting, when you cannot see;
Fearing not, a tempest brewing,
Knowing what the end will be.

FOR FEEBLE HANDS.

It is not so much what we wish that counts,
As the little we really achieve;
The duty we do to-day amounts
To more than we ever perceive.
There are tasks just fitted for feeble hands,
For the feeble as well as the strong;
Be bold to stand where the right demands
And bound to vanquish wrong.

LITTLE CAN’T-WAIT.

Have you met her? Little Can’t-Wait, she is sweet and bright and fair,
With her sunny, floating, ringlets and bewitching baby air;
Just a pretty bit of mischief all impatient now to know
If St. Nicholas, dear fellow, by her tiny socks will go.

Quite alone on Christmas evening, she has planned it out to hide
And is bound to capture Santy, brisk and jolly from his ride.
Little Can’t-Wait is so winsome as she lays this clever plot,
That I toss her to the ceiling and caress her on the spot.

But the darling, I’ve a notion, like a bird upon its nest
In the cosy chimney corner will glide softly off to rest;
And her brown eyes will not open till the rosy morning light,
When she’ll wake to find Kris Cringle caught her napping in the night.

Have you met her? Little Can’t-Wait: met the witchery of eyes
Where the halo of affection in its angel beauty lies?
While I toss her to the ceiling and caress her sunny hair,
She is deep in speculation, seeing Santy ev’ry where.

Hearing of his sturdy reindeer, rapidly they speed along,
We can barely catch the echo of his merry jest and song;
Of the bountiful attractions, of the season and the night,
Of the pleasures and the pastimes such as give a child delight.

Little Can’t-Wait as I chatter hangs enraptured on the tale,
With an interest in Santy that was never known to fail.
Whereupon I whisper gaily and receive a roguish glance,
Here’s the story Kris will tell you if you give him half a chance.

“Have you heard how little Can’t-Wait, just a year ago to-day,
Formed a clever plan, the mischief, and when twilight softly lay
Over this fair scene around us, crept into a dainty nest,
In the cosy chimney corner where the evening shadows rest.

There, upon the faintest jingle of my sleigh bells drawing nigh
To triumphant watch my fingers pile the tiny stockings high;
And so certain was the conquest that the elf was bound to make,
I was downright sorry, darling, to the pretty picture break.

It was pleasant to be welcomed by a most enticing view,
Of a dainty bit of muslin and a golden lock or two.
As I crept up close and closer to the crimson curtained chair,
Well, a secret’s none in telling, some one, slyly kissed her there.

When those baby eyes were blinking in the rosy morning light,
They were just too late to see me as I bounded out of sight.”
Little Can’t-Wait shyly dimples, firm this Christmas eve to keep,
And to not be caught “a-napping,” even though she is asleep.

MAKE IT A PLEASURE.

Make it a pleasure, the task you would shun,
Joy beyond measure will follow “well done!”
There is no trouble that cannot be eased,
Bliss will redouble when others are pleased.

Make it a pleasure to work while you may,
Time is a treasure, the crown of to-day;
Hard is the waiting with nothing to do,
Stand not debating but carry things through.

Make it a pleasure to help people thrive,
Man may not measure, he only may strive;
There is no trouble that cannot be eased,
Bliss will redouble when others are pleased.

IF WE HAD LIVED WHEN FIRST THE PILGRIMS CAME.

If we had lived, when first the Pilgrims came,
Founding on a rock their future fame;
Humbly would we celebrate the day
Love alone can make care free and gay.

If we had lived when Freedom’s cause was young,
Often would the heart be sorrow wrung;
Yet when war and famine thinned our ranks
Find its sweetest joy in giving thanks.

If we had lived, no light on either hand,
Trusting, when we could not understand;
Pressed by want and danger all the way
Thankful would we then have been to-day.

MUMMA ’ANG ME ’TOCKING UP.

Mumma ’ang me ’tocking up,
Want a yamb, a tilver tup,
’Orse, a tart, a dum, a s’ed
An a nighty, nithe and wed.
Me dus awsul want a dun
Bang-a-banging, dus for fun;
An a ’teamer dat will say
Toot-a-toot, toot, duss iss way.
Wite a ’etter, mumma dear,
Wite it bid so he can hear
’Tanty Taws, be thure an ’top.
Div me a whole baby s’op.
All de doodies, oo ull know
Yarf an kie, an soot, an blow;
Want an ’oop, a joll, a s’ate,
’Ots and ’ote of sings to ate;
Tanny, ’ugar, feenuts, jum
Tell him dat he mustest tum.
Weed it mumma, so to see
If oo said it dus like me.
It ull do iss time I dess,
Ceps me want a pwetty dwess,
Thure the ’tocking don’t forget
Thign with love, from ’Ittle Pet.

OUR JOY IS MEASURED BY WHAT WE DO.

We bring to the Lord and we call it giving,
It is merely paying a debt we owe.
The life we from day to day are living
Is broader, deeper, than man may know.

While striving to walk in the path of duty,
The way may be rugged and yet be plain.
A thought may be true, conceal its beauty,
We bury a bliss and sigh in vain,

We work for the Lord, nor faint, nor falter,
However perplexing the task may be;
The promise is sure, it cannot alter,
There’s strength and enough for you and me.

Consider the song the angels were singing
That first glad Christmas the world ever knew.
God needs the offering men are bringing
Our joy is measured by what we do.

THANKSGIVING.

Be grateful, oh my soul, while blessings I recount,
Although I may not hope to tell the full amount;
Encompassed oftentimes by pain, and fear, and doubt,
Whence, daily, comes the strength, I could not do without?

Be grateful, oh my soul, give thanks and be at peace,
The night of grief shall pass, the din of strife shall cease.
As there is not one heart its secret thoughts can hide,
So I am not alone whatever may betide.

Be grateful, oh my soul, for gratitude is sweet,
One sympathizing friend can make my joy complete.
For gifts of life and love shall I not offer praise?
Knowing every week has seven thanksgiving days.

TRANSMUTED.

Bright bloom the roses of the eventide,
Roses whose parted petals never fall;
Transmuted, they in living light,
Vibrate responsive to the heart of man,
And man to God.

CHRISTMAS GIFTS.

I like to watch the Christmas gifts, so gaily they go by,
To win sweet words from sweeter lips, the love light to the eye.
The mother’s face will beam with joy, the children dance with glee,
When, as the evening closes in, we gather round the tree.

I like to watch the Christmas gifts, a father’s willing hands
Are bearing swiftly homeward for he always understands
Just what will give most pleasure to the hearts he longs to please,
Although he may not bring them, either wealth, or power, or ease.

I like to watch the Christmas gifts, they gladly troop along,
The plain, the proud, the practical, a merry, motley throng.
It matters not how much they cost in money, none may miss,
Giving at least one person some share of Christmas bliss.

WHAT HE WANTED.

“Mamma dear, I am so sleepy; will good Santy truly come
With a bang-er-bang, a ’teamer, and a ball, a kite, a drum?
I just awesul want a rainbow for whenever papa’s late,
We could wave it from the window and he would not miss the gate.
It is snowing, now I wonder if I ask Kris Kringle nice,
Would he carve a baby city from a tiny bit of ice?
Have a lot of ’tores, and turches, and a sun, and moon, and ’tars,
With the dearest, sweetest station, for my toot-er-tooting cars?

Hang a ’tocking over yonder; clear the corner for the toys,
Then just write a line to tell him I’m the very best of boys;
And, oh mamma, when you write it, write it bid so he can hear,
For he didn’t see our chimney as he hurried by last year;
Oh, I should be dreadful sorry if to-night he passed again,
So be careful, mamma darling, and be sure and write it plain.
Pin it close beside the mantle where he cannot fail to see,
Tissmas is so long in coming to a little chap like me.”