Chapter 2

A seaman sought the captain's side, A moment whispered low; The captain's swarthy face grew pale; He hurried down below. Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp, And clear his orders came, No human efforts could avail To quench the insidious flame.

The bad news quickly reached the deck, It sped from lip to lip, And ghastly Faces everywhere Looked from the doomed ship. "Is there no hope--no chance of life?" A hundred lips implore, "But one," the captain made reply, "To run the ship on shore."

A sailor, whose heroic soul That hour should yet reveal, By name John Maynard, eastern-born, Stood calmly at the wheel. "Head her south-east!" the captain shouts, Above the smothered roar,-- "Head her south-east without delay! Make for the nearest shore!"

No terror pales the helmsman's cheek, Or clouds his dauntless eye, As, in a sailor's measured tone, His voice responds, "Ay! ay!" Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight, Crowd forward wild with fear, While at the stern the dreaded flames Above the deck appear.

John Maynard watched the nearing flames, But still with steady hand He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly He steered the ship to land. "John Maynard, can you still hold out?" He heard the captain cry; A voice from out the stifling smoke Faintly responds, "Ay! ay!"

But half a mile! a hundred hands Stretch eagerly to shore. But half a mile! That distance sped Peril shall all be o'er. But half a mile! Yet stay, the flames No longer slowly creep, But gather round that helmsman bold, With fierce, impetuous sweep.

"John Maynard!" with an anxious voice The captain cries once more, "Stand by the wheel five minutes yet, And we shall reach the shore." Through flame and smoke that dauntless heart Responded firmly still, Unawed, though face to face with death,-- "With God's good help I will!"

The flames approach with giant strides, They scorch his hand and brow; One arm, disabled, seeks his side, Ah! he is conquered now! But no, his teeth are firmly set, He crushes down his pain, His knee upon the stanchion pressed, He guides the ship again.

One moment yet! one moment yet! Brave heart, thy task is o'er, The pebbles grate beneath the keel. The steamer touches shore. Three hundred grateful voice rise In praise to God that he Hath saved them from the fearful fire, And from the engulphing sea.

But where is he, that helmsman bold? The captain saw him reel,-- His nerveless hands released their task, He sank beside the wheel. The wave received his lifeless corpse, Blackened with smoke and fire. God rest him! Never hero had A nobler funeral pyre!

FRIAR ANSELMO.

Friar Anselmo (God's grace may he win!) Committed one sad day a deadly sin;

Which being done he drew back, self-abhorred, From the rebuking presence of the Lord,

And, kneeling down, besought, with bitter cry, Since life was worthless grown, that he might die.

All night he knelt, and, when the morning broke, In patience still he waits death's fatal stroke.

When all at once a cry of sharp distress Aroused Anselmo from his wretchedness;

And, looking from the convent window high, He saw a wounded traveller gasping lie

Just underneath, who, bruised and stricken sore, Had crawled for aid unto the convent door.

The friar's heart with deep compassion stirred, When the poor wretch's groans for help were heard

With gentle hands, and touched with love divine, He bathed his wounds, and poured in oil and wine.

With tender foresight cared for all his needs,-- A blessed ministry of noble deeds.

In such devotion passed seven days. At length The poor wayfarer gained his wonted strength.

With grateful thanks he left the convent walls, And once again on death Anselmo calls.

When, lo! his cell was filled with sudden light, And on the wall he saw an angel write,

(An angel in whose likeness he could trace, More noble grown, the traveller's form and face),

"Courage, Anselmo, though thy sin be great, God grants thee life that thou may'st expiate.

"Thy guilty stains shall be washed white again, By noble service done thy fellow-men.

"His soul draws nearest unto God above, Who to his brother ministers in love."

Meekly Anselmo rose, and, after prayer, His soul was lightened of its past despair.

Henceforth he strove, obeying God's high will, His heaven-appointed mission to fulfil.

And many a soul, oppressed with pain and grief, Owed to the friar solace and relief.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE CHURCH AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON.

One autumn day, when hedges yet were green, And thick-branched trees diffused a leafy gloom, Hard by where Avon rolls its silvery tide, I stood in silent thought by Shakspeare's tomb.

O happy church, beneath whose marble floor His ashes lie who so enriched mankind; The many-sided Shakespeare, rare of soul, And dowered with an all-embracing mind.

Through the stained windows rays of sunshine fall In softened glory on the chancel floor; While I, a pilgrim from across the sea, stand with bare head in reverential awe.

Churches there are within whose gloomy vaults Repose the bones of those that once were kings; Their power has passed, and what remains but clay? While in his grave our Shakspeare lives and sings.

Kings were his puppets, kingdoms but his stage,-- Faint shadows they without his plastic art,-- He waves his wand, and lo! they live again, And in his world perform their mimic part.

Born in the purple, his imperial soul Sits crowned and sceptred in the realms of mind. Kingdoms may fall, and crumble to decay, Time but confirms his empire o'er mankind.

MRS. BROWNING'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE.

FLORENCE wears an added grace, All her earlier honors crowning; Dante's birthplace, Art's fair home, Holds the dust of Barrett Browning.

Guardian of the noble dead That beneath thy soil lie sleeping, England, with full heart, commends This new treasure to thy keeping.

Take her, she is half thine own; In her verses' rich outpouring, Breathes the warm Italian heart, Yearning for the land's restoring.

From thy skies her poet-heart Caught a fresher inspiration, And her soul obtained new strength, With her bodily translation.

Freely take what thou hast given, Less her verses' rhythmic beauty, Than the stirring notes that called Trumpet-like thy sons to duty.

Rarest of exotic flowers In thy native chaplet twining, To the temple of thy great Add her--she is worth enshrining.

MY CASTLE.

I have a beautiful castle, With towers and battlements fair; And many a banner, with gay device, Floats in the outer air.

The walls are of solid silver; The towers are of massive gold; And the lights that stream from the windows A royal scene unfold.

Ah! could you but enter my castle With its pomp of regal sheen, You would say that it far surpasses The palace of Aladeen.

Could you but enter as I do, And pace through the vaulted hall, And mark the stately columns, And the pictures on the wall;

With the costly gems about them, That send their light afar, With a chaste and softened splendor Like the light of a distant star!

And where is this wonderful castle, With its rich emblazonings, Whose pomp so far surpasses The homes of the greatest kings?

Come out with me at morning And lie in the meadow-grass, And lift your eyes to the ether blue, And you will see it pass.

There! can you not see the battlements; And the turrets stately and high, Whose lofty summits are tipped with clouds, And lost in the arching sky?

Dear friend, you are only dreaming, Your castle so stately and fair Is only a fanciful structure,-- A castle in the air.

Perchance you are right. I know not If a phantom it may be; But yet, in my inmost heart, I feel That it lives, and lives for me.

For when clouds and darkness are round me, And my heart is heavy with care, I steal me away from the noisy crowd, To dwell in my castle fair.

There are servants to do my bidding; There are servants to heed my call; And I, with a master's air of pride, May pace through the vaulted hall.

And I envy not the monarchs With cities under their sway; For am I not, in my own right, A monarch as proud as they?

What matter, then, if to others My castle a phantom may be, Since I feel, in the depths of my own heart, That it is not so to me?

APPLE-BLOSSOMS.

I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs, In the fragrant orchard close, And around me floats the scented air, With its wave-like tidal flows. I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss, And call no king my peer; For is not this the rare, sweet time, The blossoming time of the year?

I lie on a couch of downy grass, With delicate blossoms strewn, And I feel the throb of Nature's heart Responsive to my own. Oh, the world is fair, and God is good, That maketh life so dear; For is not this the rare, sweet time, The blossoming time of the year?

I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs, The delicate blue of the sky, And the changing clouds with their marvellous tints That drift so lazily by. And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my brain, And Heaven, it seemeth near; Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time, The blossoming time of the year?

SUMMER HOURS.

It is the year's high noon, The earth sweet incense yields, And o'er the fresh, green fields Bends the clear sky of June.

I leave the crowded streets, The hum of busy life, Its clamor and its strife, To breathe thy perfumed sweets.

O rare and golden hours! The bird's melodious song, Wavelike, is borne along Upon a strand of flowers.

I wander far away, Where, through the forest trees, Sports the cool summer breeze, In wild and wanton play.

A patriarchal elm Its stately form uprears, Which twice a hundred years Has ruled this woodland realm.

I sit beneath its shade, And watch, with careless eye, The brook that babbles by, And cools the leafy glade.

In truth I wonder not, That in the ancient days The temples of God's praise Were grove and leafy grot.

The noblest ever planned, With quaint device and rare, By man, can ill compare With these from God's own hand.

Pilgrim with way-worn feet, Who, treading life's dull round, No true repose hast found, Come to this green retreat.

For bird, and flower, and tree, Green fields, and woodland wild, Shall bear, with voices mild, Sweet messages to thee.

JUNE.

Throw open wide your golden gates, O poet-landed month of June, And waft me, on your spicy breath, The melody of birds in tune.

O fairest palace of the three, Wherein Queen Summer holdeth sway, I gaze upon your leafy courts From out the vestibule of May.

I fain would tread your garden walks, Or in your shady bowers recline; Then open wide your golden gates, And make them mine, and make them mine.

LITTLE CHARLIE.

A VIOLET grew by the river-side, And gladdened all hearts with its bloom; While over the fields, on the scented air, It breathed a rich perfume. But the clouds grew dark in the angry sky, And its portals were opened wide; And the heavy rain beat down the flower That grew by the river-side.

Not far away in a pleasant home, There lived a little boy, Whose cheerful face and childish grace Filled every heart with joy. He wandered one day to the river's verge, With no one near to save; And the heart that we loved with a boundless love Was stilled in the restless wave.

The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes, And we bade farewell to joy; For our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tie To the grave of the little boy. The birds still sing in the leafy tree That shadows the open door; We heed them not, for we think of the voice That we shall hear no more.

We think of him at eventide, And gaze on his vacant chair With a longing heart that will scarce believe That Charlie is not there. We seem to hear his ringing laugh, And his bounding step at the door; But, alas! there comes the sorrowful thought, We shall never hear them more!

We shall walk sometimes to his little grave, In the pleasant summer hours; We will speak his name in a softened voice, And cover his grave with flowers; We will think of him in his heavenly home,-- In his heavenly home so fair; And we will trust with a hopeful trust That we shall meet him there.

THE WHIPPOORWILL AND I.

IN the hushed hours of night, when the air quite still, I hear the strange cry of the lone whippoorwill, Who Chants, without ceasing, that wonderful trill, Of which the sole burden is still, "Whip-poor-Will."

And why should I whip him? Strange visitant, Has he been playing truant this long summer day? I listened a moment; more clear and more shrill Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."

But what has poor Will done? I ask you once more; I'll whip him, don't fear, if you'll tell me what for. I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hill Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."

Has he come to your dwelling, by night or by day, And snatched the young birds from their warm nest away? I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hill Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."

Well, well, I can hear you, don't have any fears, I can hear what is constantly dinned in my ears. The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill, Still made but one answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will."

But what HAS poor Will done? I prithee explain; I'm out of all patience, don't mock me again. The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill, Still made the same answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will."

Well, have your own way, then; but if you won't tell, I'll shut down the window, and bid you farewell; But of one thing be sure, I won't whip him until You give me some reason for whipping poor Will.

I listened a moment, as if for reply, But nothing was heard but the bird's mocking cry. I caught the faint echo from valley and hill; It breathed the same burden, that strange "Whip-poor-Will."

CARVING A NAME.

I wrote my name upon the sand, And trusted it would stand for aye; But, soon, alas! the refluent sea Had washed my feeble lines away.

I carved my name upon the wood, And, after years, returned again; I missed the shadow of the tree That stretched of old upon the plain.

To solid marble next, my name I gave as a perpetual trust; An earthquake rent it to its base, And now it lies, o'erlaid with dust.

All these have failed. In wiser mood I turn and ask myself, "What then?" If I would have my name endure, I'll write it on the hearts of men,

In characters of living light, Of kindly deeds and actions wrought. And these, beyond the touch of time, Shall live immortal as my thought.

IN TIME OF WAR.

GONE TO THE WAR.

My Charlie has gone to the war, My Charlie so brave and tall; He left his plough in the furrow, And flew at his country's call. May God in safety keep him,-- My precious boy--my all!

My heart is pining to see him; I miss him every day; My heart is weary with waiting, And sick of the long delay,-- But I know his country needs him, And I could not bid him stay.

I remember how his face flushed, And how his color came, When the flash from the guns of Sumter Lit the whole land with flame, And darkened our country's banner With the crimson hue of shame.

"Mother," he said, then faltered,-- I felt his mute appeal; I paused--if you are a mother, You know what mothers feel, When called to yield their dear ones To the cruel bullet and steel.

My heart stood still for a moment, Struck with a mighty woe; A faint as of death came o'er me, I am a mother, you know, But I sternly checked my weakness, And firmly bade him "Go."

Wherever the fight is fiercest I know that my boy will be; Wherever the need is sorest Of the stout arms of the free. May he prove as true to his country As he has been true to me.

My home is lonely without him, My hearth bereft of joy, The thought of him who has left me My constant sad employ; But God has been good to the mother,-- She shall not blush for her boy.

WHERE IS MY BOY TO-NIGHT?

When the clouds in the Western sky Flush red with the setting sun,-- When the veil of twilight falls, And the busy day is done,-- I sit and watch the clouds, With their crimson hues alight, And ponder with anxious heart, Oh, where is my boy to-night?

It is just a year to-day Since he bade me a gay good-by, To march where banners float, And the deadly missiles fly. As I marked his martial step I felt my color rise With all a mother's pride, And my heart was in my eyes.

There's a little room close by, Where I often used to creep In the hush of the summer night To watch my boy asleep. But he who used to rest Beneath the spread so white Is far away from me now,-- Oh, where is my boy to-night?

Perchance in the gathering night, With slow and weary feet, By the light of Southern stars, He paces his lonely beat. Does he think of the mother's heart That will never cease to yearn, As only a mother's can, For her absent boy's return?

Oh, where is my boy to-night? I cannot answer where, But I know, wherever he is, He is under our Father's care. May He guard, and guide, and bless My boy, wherever he be, And bring him back at length To bless and to comfort me.

May God bless all our boys By the camp-fire's ruddy glow, Or when in the deadly fight They front the embattled foe; And comfort each mother's heart, As she sits in the fading light, And ponders with anxious heart-- Oh, where is my boy to-night?

A SOLDIER'S VALENTINE.

Just from the sentry's tramp (I must take it again at ten), I have laid my musket down, And seized instead my pen; For, pacing my lonely round In the chilly twilight gray, The thought, dear Mary, came, That this is St. Valentine's Day.

And with the thought there came A glimpse of the happy time When a school-boy's first attempt I sent you, in borrowed rhyme, On a gilt-edged sheet, embossed With many a quaint design, And signed, in school-boy hand, "Your loving Valentine."

The years have come and gone,-- Have flown, I know not where,-- And the school-boy's merry face Is grave with manhood's care; But the heart of the man still beats At the well-remembered name, And on this St. Valentine's Day His choice is still the same.

There was a time--ah, well! Think not that I repine When I dreamed this happy day Would smile on you as mine; But I heard my country's call; I knew her need was sore. Thank God, no selfish thought Withheld me from the war.

But when the dear old flag Shall float in its ancient pride, When the twain shall be made one, And feuds no more divide,-- I will lay my musket down, My martial garb resign, And turn my joyous feet Toward home and Valentine.

LAST WORDS.

"DEAR Charlie," breathed a soldier, "O comrade true and tried, Who in the heat of battle Pressed closely to my side; I feel that I am stricken, My life is ebbing fast; I fain would have you with me, Dear Charlie, till the last.

"It seems so sudden, Charlie, To think to-morrow's sun Will look upon me lifeless, And I not twenty-one! I little dreamed this morning, Twould bring my last campaign; God's ways are not as our ways, And I will not complain.

"There's one at home, dear Charlie, Will mourn for me when dead, Whose heart--it is a mother's-- Can scarce be comforted. You'll write and tell her, Charlie, With my dear love, that I Fought bravely as a soldier should, And died as he should die.

"And you will tell her, Charlie, She must not grieve too much, Our country claims our young lives, For she has need of such. And where is he would falter, Or turn ignobly back, When Duty's voice cries 'Forward,' And Honor lights the track?

"And there's another, Charlie (His voice became more low), When thoughts of HER come o'er me, It makes it hard to go. This locket in my bosom, She gave me just before I left my native village For the fearful scenes of war.

"Give her this message, Charlie, Sent with my dying breath, To her and to my banner I'm 'faithful unto death.' And if, in that far country Which I am going to, Our earthly ties may enter, I'll there my love renew.

"Come nearer, closer, Charlie, My head I fain would rest, It must be for the last time, Upon your faithful breast. Dear friend, I cannot tell you How in my heart I feel The depth of your devotion, Your friendship strong as steel.

"We've watched and camped together In sunshine and in rain; We've shared the toils and perils Of more than one campaign; And when my tired feet faltered, Beneath the noontide heat, Your words sustained my courage, Gave new strength to my feet.

"And once,--'twas at Antietam,-- Pressed hard by thronging foes, I almost sank exhausted Beneath their cruel blows,-- When you, dear friend, undaunted, With headlong courage threw Your heart into the contest, And safely brought me through.

"My words are weak, dear Charlie, My breath is growing scant; Your hand upon my heart there, Can you not hear me pant? Your thoughts I know will wander Sometimes to where I lie-- How dark it grows! True comrade And faithful friend, good-by!"

A moment, and he lay there A statue, pale and calm. His youthful head reclining Upon his comrade's arm. His limbs upon the greensward Were stretched in careless grace, And by the fitful moon was seen A smile upon his face.

SONG OF THE CROAKER. (*)