Part 3

This season of old, We’ve often been told, Was the time of all others For youth to be bold; So the brave and the fair May venture to dare, Like the birds of the air, Their feelings unfold.

This day of the year, To the young very dear, Suggests to the heart A sweet happiness near; And a hope bright and gay, May tempt them to say, On St. Valentine’s Day, Words tender and queer.

Shy lovers, begin, Faint hearts never win, Nor is it a sin To love wisely and well; And the coy and the fair May be yearning to hear, At least once a year, What a lover might tell.

So, gents, your attention; I beg you will mention To the fair of your choice Your honest intention; And should she reject you, Don’t let it deject you, But think it an ounce Of healthy prevention.

They say Cupid’s arrows Pierce even the sparrows; The thought surely harrows The youth of to-day; For who with right reason, In love-making season, Would like by the birds To be “given away?”

THE RAINY DAY.

The gentle rain that softly falls, Befriending earth and ocean, Awakens many a happy thought, As well as sad emotion. It tells of changing Nature’s tears, That fall to freshen beauty; It teaches us that gloomy hours May darken pleasant duty.

Tearful times must come to all, And joy be mixed with sadness; Our years are not one summer dream, Our hearts one glow of gladness; But like the gentle rain to earth, Bereaving while it brightens, A few dark days, in every life, Each coming blessing heightens.

We greet the golden sunshine more, That follows after showers, Just as we welcome happiness Succeeding dreary hours; Were years continued summer time, Or filled with constant glory, Were Nature always in her prime, And life one cloudless story, We’d poorly prize the blessings sent-- No contrast to create content.

AUTUMN.

I love to live in autumn days, To linger in their balmy haze, To ponder in a dreamy maze, Upon their many glories. I love to watch the setting sun, To see the stars come one by one, And fade away when they are done, Telling their nightly story.

I love sweet autumn’s golden hours, Though chilling winds and fading flowers, Tell of Nature’s waning powers, Still I love the season; They speak of ripeness, ere decay Has swept their beauties all away; The change of leaf from green to gray Must charm the dullest reason.

The garnered grain, the golden sheaf, The varied bough, the yellow leaf, Teem with beauties, all too brief, That vanish as we view them. I’d have the autumn’s gentle sway Control the year from June to May; I’d have its glories ne’er decay, Nor winter snows to strew them.

OCTOBER.

This golden month, with varied leaves, So full of waning glories, Adorns the groves that it bereaves, And fills the woods with stories Of fleeting verdure, fading flowers-- Dying Nature’s empty bowers.

It stills the birds and chills the air, It scatters roses here and there, Making bush and branches bare Of foliage and beauty. The verdant leaves of summer lie Seared, beneath an autumn sky, Left to wither and to die, As Nature’s latest duty.

LOVE’S LONGINGS.

I dream of thee in dewy hours, I think of thee by day, I muse upon thy winning powers, When thou art far away. I love to live in love with thee, To watch thy pensive eye, To linger in thy memory, To soothe thy bosom’s sigh. I fain would have thy love-lit face Forever turned on me, Oh, may we not in future trace One common destiny? And then together we could tread Life’s flowery fields as one, Dependent on each other’s love, As earth is on the sun.

Each joy in life would brighter be, If thou wert always near, And every sorrow lighter be, If thou wert there to cheer. So let me linger by thy side, In love with thee alone, Should fortune frown or ills betide, Thy presence would atone.

And blest and happy in thy smiles, Despite of cross or care, I’d pray for rare longevity, Thy holy love to share. And then when life should cease to be, And _earthly_ love grow cold, My songs throughout eternity Should _angel_ love unfold.

SHE SLEEPS BENEATH THE ROSES.

We bore our Bessie’s angel form, Which now in death reposes, To the silent grave, in summer days, When earth was bathed in sunny rays, When June birds sang their summer lays, We laid her ’neath the roses.

We watched the form we loved so well, As the grave so greedy closes, We heard the sod as it sadly fell, A heartless tale it seemed to tell, Its echo like a funeral knell, Was heard among the roses.

We turned away and left her there, With flowers around, above her, We breathed the soothing summer air, Which bade us hope and hush despair, We gave our child to angel care, And trust to God to love her.

We sought our sorrow-stricken home, Which naught but grief discloses, Each echo there repeats a groan, Each merry laugh is now a moan, For angel Bessie sleeps alone, Beneath the summer roses.

NOVEMBER.

The Autumn boughs are growing bare, The leaves are changed and falling, And dying nature everywhere Obeys grim Winter’s calling; The fields bereft of grass and grain, The waving woods deserted, The fountains gush, the songsters strain, To wailing winds converted. All nature frowns in drear dismay, As Autumn beauties pass away.

We see them all decay and die, Each bud and tree and flower, The trailing vines neglected lie, Around the summer bower; O’er slopes so lately pleasure’s haunts, The withered leaves are blowing, The broken branch, the barren bough The sterile grounds are strewing; Earth’s beauties vanish one by one, As nature’s yearly race is run.

November’s winds are bleak and cold, Its skies are gray and dreary, Its landscapes no delights unfold, To rest the eye that’s weary. There’s naught around, beneath, above, But tells of fading glory, Each lonely lawn, and leafless grove Confirms the saddened story; Earth sobs her grief, and Boreas sighs, As changing Nature droops and dies.

GONE BLIND.

An early friend, of brilliant mind, In manhood’s summer stricken blind; Earth’s beauties faded day by day, Till views and visions passed away, And left a blank in the midst of bloom-- A spirit crushed in a life of gloom. A heart bowed down in manly grief, No hope of light to bring relief.

His sun is set at early noon, His rayless night ’s without a moon; His life’s bright zenith ’s clouded o’er, To him the stars will rise no more. No sunny scenes illume his way, The flowers bloom and then decay, The planets daily set and rise Before those yearning, sightless eyes.

To him, all life is one long night, The season’s change brings no delight; His vacant orbs scan nothing new, But stare in vain for one dim view Of sights and scenes of other days, When life was full of sunny rays; He’d freely give all earthly gold For one glad glimpse of scenes of old.

Familiar faces, favorite friends, That by his side in love attends; What priceless gift ’twould be for him To see those forms, though faint and dim; To trace the features, watch the eye Of loved ones, flitting fondly by, And gaze upon her gentle face, Whose charms e’en darkness can’t efface.

Oh, could this dreary winter dream Be gladdened by one golden gleam, One sunbeam’s blessed brightening ray Could turn this darkness into day. But this eclipse, this sunless gloom, That now makes life a living tomb, May know no dawn till earthly night Gives place to heaven’s eternal light.

LINES WRITTEN BY THE SEASIDE.

As I sit by the seaside, And watch the blue waves On the boundless bright bosom of ocean, The roar of the billows, The sea as it raves, Awaken ecstatic emotion.

I long for the leisure To stay by its side, To linger in love by its beauties, To listen entranced, To gaze with delight, And regret that I have other duties.

I regret that dull life, With its prosy routine, Must claim my attention to-morrow; That I must awake From my bright ocean dream, And leave the cool seaside in sorrow.

This world of delight, This home by the sea, This hour so full of enjoyment, How I wish that the future Had nothing for me But just such happy employment.

I’d live by the sea, All these long summer days I’d watch the bright breakers at even, I’d wander at twilight, And silently gaze On the beauties of ocean and heaven.

Till Luna lends light To the billowy scene, That sparkles like gems in its glory; As tipping the waves With her silvery sheen. She nightly renews her bright story.

I’d gaze at the stars In the heavens on high, And list to the music of ocean, Till the moan of the sea And the zephyr’s soft sigh Would turn my delight to devotion.

I could muse on those orbs, Thus mirrored by waves, In revery live by the hour By the side of the sea, As it sighs or it raves, And dream of Omnipotent power.

TWENTY SUMMERS.

On our Daughter’s Birthday.

Thy first bright twenty years have past, And left an impress that will last A lifetime on thy brow; May the moulding of thy gentle face, Which all the kindly feelings grace, Be always calm as now!

All nature’s noble gifts are thine, So carry out her sweet design In every new career; Thus radiate delight around, Make sunny happiness abound, And bless each future sphere.

Let every grace that now is thine Be ripened by the hand of time, Enriched by coming years; Ennobled and refined by art, That only culture can impart, And moral worth endears.

No idle ease nor empty hours Should dwarf thy mind’s improving powers, But live with earnest aim; And strive each happy trait to woo, Do nobly what thou hast to do, And grace thy future name.

CHIDING “LOVE’S CHIDINGS.”

The cruel word in anger spoken, Has oft the loving heart near broken, And left its sting for hours behind, Upon some dear one’s troubled mind. How many a day is clouded o’er, And many a heart made sad and sore, By thoughtless words that give us pain, That ne’er can be recalled again!

Our dearest friends should surely be The ones the last our faults to see, And then, all leniency and love, Should by its blind devotion prove How far above all other ties In life, our home-hearts we should prize; Our wedded love’s responsive thrill Should be the same through good and ill.

Away with love that’s only lent Till all the summer hours are spent, That fades and cools as cares increase, That comes and goes with each caprice. Ah! no, the love for which we yearn Will through all age and error burn, Will live and light our winter days, And be the same in blame and praise.

True love is trusting, patient, pure, Is constant, kind, and will endure; It never chides, but soothes the breast That sighs for sympathy and rest. One broken chord may wreck a life, One angry word may start a strife, And chill the love that early won, That should be life’s domestic sun.

FOUND DROWNED.

There drifted a form on the banks of a stream, As pretty and fair as poet’s young dream; With her worn, draggled dress and her small tattered shoes, Her golden hair floating dishevelled and loose; Her pale, haggard face, so sad in repose, Told tales of a life beclouded by woes; Her small dimpled hands lay listless and cold Across her fair breast, where sorrows untold Had made her young heart in misery old.

Her poor glassy eyes, now death dimmed and blue, Looked vacantly out, as if bidding adieu To a world that had shunned her, to friends that denied Love, kindness, and pity in self-righteous pride: Who can she be, this fair one unknown, Has she a history, has she a home? Was life ever bright to her, friends ever kind? Why did she seek thus oblivion to find-- This blankness and Lethe for body and mind?

Did nobody love her, did nobody wait In crazy anxiety as to her fate? Had she no father, no husband, no brother, Had she no dear, tender sister or mother, To watch for her coming and wonder and wait, Impatient and anxious, because she’s so late? And when she comes not, is there no one to miss her, No one to seek her, to love her or kiss her? Will nobody come to claim the fair clay, Will friends all forsake her in doubt and dismay? Must this disappointed, mistaken young life, Gone out in its misery, not end the strife? Will forgiveness not come, even if error were there, To the clay of this victim of hopeless despair?

Did life in its springtime to her seem so sad, That living was sorrow? Ah, mayhap she had Crushed hopes and affections too heavy to bear, So she seeks dissolution in crazy despair. To live would need courage, to die would end all, So she leaps in the dark, e’er her Maker doth call. “Found Drowned” is the verdict too sad to believe, No kindred to sorrow, no loved ones to grieve, Doomed to desertion, both living and dead, No mourners to follow to the place she is laid; By strangers she’s buried, unwept and unknown, Thus ends a brief life, misery marked for its own.

THE DARK DAYS OF WINTER.

As gloom gathers round, the dark days of winter, And the season of shadows, beclouds the bright skies, The heart becomes tinged with pensive emotions As Nature, in mourning, thus withers and dies.

We recall the sweet hours of retrospect pleasure, Of green haunts of happiness--lately our own-- Of gay, joyous scenes, and sweet summer fancies, Engendered by beauty and brightness alone.

Adieu to the charms of summer and autumn, That each, in their turn, fill life with delight; We love Nature, budding or blooming or ripened, We cherish its beauties--regretting their flight.

But the dark days of winter must come to the seasons, That change, in their rounds, from the bright to the drear; And, though we deplore their cold dullness and darkness, We can’t hope for springtime all thro’ the year.

These dull, dreary days, these clouds, gray and heavy, That hang, like a pall, over Nature’s fair face, But serve to enhance each gleam of gold sunshine, When new-waking Nature its beauties retrace.

THE SONG OF THE SLUSH.

The slush, the slush, the terrible slush, That streams from each pore of the earth with a gush; Impeding the travel, making walking a woe; All on account of the “Beautiful Snow.”

From each roof and tree, great drippings we see, Making gutters and crossings quite up to the knee; The sidewalks so icy, the pavements a show; All on account of the “Beautiful Snow.”

From the time that we leave the sill of the door, “Eaves-droppings,” in torrents, all over us pour-- Such splashing above, such slushing below; All on account of the “Beautiful Snow.”

Then we slip and we slide, as we try to proceed; Tottering and trembling, like a wind-waving reed. This icy mud-mixture makes traveling so slow; All on account of the “Beautiful Snow.”

The soot and the slush, the mud and the smoke, Make that pure, pretty poem a dark, dirty joke; With a nature poetic, we certainly know No “Queen City” bard wrote “Beautiful Snow.”

BETRAYED.

I knew a rustic beauty once, A happy-hearted maiden, Whose life seemed bright as summer days, And as she watched the autumn rays, With love of nature’s works and ways, Her heart seemed always laden.

She loved her quiet, rural home, In all its sweet sedateness, She’d stroll along with happy air, Regardless of a coming care, Supposing joy was everywhere, And dream of future greatness.

Her bright, blue eyes would seek the skies, In wondering admiration, She’d roam at will, from wood to hill, Or sit and dream by rock and rill, As if she yearned her soul to fill With love of God’s creation.

Could her young life ne’er known of strife, Nor seen but rural beauties, That happiness might still be hers, Where anguish now her bosom stirs, That always follows each that errs Against life’s hallowed duties.

A suitor came, in city guise, A gay and dashing lover, He woos this simple-hearted girl, He tells her of the city’s whirl, Where fascinations all unfurl, And pleasure’s cup runs over.

She soon would scorn these rustic scenes, So tame to riper vision, Her beauty buried out of sight, Her love spent on some country wight, Her life without one gay delight, Would mark her future mission.

She loving heard his dangerous words, And, with fond trust believing, She listened by her favorite stream To tales of love that made life seem Enchanting as a fairy dream, Nor thought of his deceiving.

She quit her happy, rural home, To share his boasted pleasures. Alas, her love was soon despised, He left her e’er she had surmised That he, bereft of all she prized, Was least among her treasures.

Crushed beneath that heavy blow, She sank in deep dejection; Her happiness is changed to tears, Her purity to guilty fears, Estranged each friendly face appears, And dead each fond affection.

His broken vows near drove her mad, His treacherous desertion Made desperate every hope she had, To her the rest of life was sad, Not even innocence to glad Or shield her from aspersion.

She, broken-hearted, crush’d and wrong’d, Who erred through blind devotion, Could ne’er regain her home and friends, Nor could a lifetime make amends, Nor dull the pang her bosom rends; She’d die and end emotion.

She seeks the brook that once she loved, By stealth in twilight hour, And, musing on that peaceful scene, She sadly thought “what might have been,” Had traitors love, with gilded mien, Not charmed with subtle power.

Then came the flood of bitter tears, Heart-chiding and misgiving, When stilling all her future fears, As she a fancied footstep hears, She takes a leap and disappears, And ends the pain of living.

Despairing death her early doom, Young, wretched, and mistaken, Her innocence and beauty gone, Her life cut off in early morn, Her broken heart in anguish torn, Deserted and forsaken.

And where is he whose treach’rous wiles Have driven her to madness? Whose hollow heart and sinful soul Betrayed, while under love’s control, The trusting heart we here enroll Upon life’s book of sadness?

Her icy form drifts down the stream, While he pursues his pleasures; The world looks on his murd’rous deeds With leniency, and scarcely heeds The ruin wrought, or wrong that pleads For justice in God’s measures.

SUMMER SIGHINGS.

We want to go to “Iceland,” Or to the “polar seas;” We want to hug an “iceberg,” Or raise a “family breeze;” We want to see a white frost All o’er our grassy earth; We want to have a snow storm Give winter early birth; A “cold” would be a godsend, Indeed, we’d like a “chill;” A “coolness” with our dearest friend Would help to “fill the bill.” A “cool reception” we’d enjoy, Also, a “freezing” bow, And “frosted feet” we’d think a treat If we could have them now. We’d like our home an “ice house,” Our bed a bank of snow, We’d have “refrigerator” cars To take us to and fro; We’d love to live in Lapland, For reasons of our own, Or spend our summer holidays Within the “frigid zone.” Why they call this world a “cold world” We surely cannot tell, We think this summer proves it Almost as hot as “Hades.”

OUR BABY.

Our precious babe, our household pet, “The well spring of our pleasure,” Each hour welcomes some new art Endearing this our treasure; Its many little winning ways, Its cunning tricks and baby plays Bewitches beyond measure.

We watch it bud from day to day, Developing new beauties; A wonder in precociousness, Performing baby duties;

It laughs, and coos, and “patty cakes,” And plays with rings and rattles, And reaches out its dimpled hands. For all the goods and chattels That tend to brighten babyhood. And for them begs and battles;

Then laughs and leaps in gay delight; And kicks and crows its pleasure, Rejuvenates our quiet home And fills our hours of leisure, Till “tired nature” claims the sway And gives the household holiday.

CREMATION.

Cremation seems to some to be A matter of economy; To save a heavy funeral fee, Thus cheat the undertaker. It has always been our great desire To wholly shun _post mortem_ fire; We’d hate to roast a son or sire, Or be a body baker.

How those that like this novel plan To inflamate the corpse of man, May use the funeral frying pan, And gather up the ashes. But we truly trust that our friends, When our demise their bosom rends, Will in their sorrow make amends, Omitting cinder hashes.

No matter if the freight is low, Or if we were a deadhead through, Who’d want to be a broil or stew-- Thus to the turkey leveled? Oh, no! we hope that our fate Will be postponed till it’s so late The fashion will be out of date, And then we can’t be _deviled_.

RESPONSE, BY CINDER-ELLA.