Part 3

But look! the morning’s amber hue Steals on the Easter skies, Farewell! farewell! when Death has closed These dim and longing eyes, In peace to slumber here entombed, Will be the boon I crave, And those who spurned The Hermit’s home Shall shun The Hermit’s grave.

A Window I Love.

There’s an old-fashioned building somewhere in the town That looks on a noisy street, And no matter how often I pass up and down, At the window sweet faces I meet. Little faces that lit’rally beam on the street, Untutored in Life’s trying school, That seem fashioned, my friends, as if just to repeat For our lesson the sweet, golden rule.

Oft they give us a smile, when a frown we return A kiss prompts the pout of their lip, And though we go by with a step proud and stern, How lightly beside us they trip! Catching the leaves that drift in at the door, Those pretty leaves rusted with rain, That sigh with our hearts when the summer is o’er, And that seem to wear traces of pain.

There is many a window with drapings of lace, Where the clematis bloom is entwined, Where the moss seems a part of the urn and the vase, Where the awning with satin is lined, Where Wealth sits aloof--garments dripping with pearls Like a Mermaid’s--sole god of the sphere, But the faces I love with their billows of curls You must ne’er think of looking for here.

For the window I love has no hangings of plush, Neither festooned as if for display, And yet I have seen it at evening’s soft hush Decked out in a wond’rous array Of cambrics and calicoes, sashes and curls, Little aprons and many a toy-- More plainly to speak--there are three little girls, And the king of the house is a boy.

How I love to halt here! With a satisfied look, I have watched Corinne smoothing a curl, I have seen little Richard lean over his book, I have heard Mary singing with Pearl. And O! I have thanked them again and again For the problems of patience and love That they solve unawares for my less practiced brain When I pause by the window I love.

RICHMOND, KY.

Thistle Down.

I saw a little child one day Blowing some thistle down away. How light they flew! The wings of thought Grew weary as their course was sought, And e’en the boy, with heart as light, Sighed when he failed to trace their flight; But as by chance, out of the air, One fell upon his sunny hair.

I saw the tiny sail unfurl, And faintly fan a slender curl. A fairy’s boat it seemed to be, And yet a pirate sailed the sea, And anchored on a golden wave That hid no evil deed--no grave. That thought! Did Heaven foresee the doom? From off his curl I shook the bloom.

I know not where it chanced to fall, In garden, park, or castle wall; A desert’s sand may scorch its root, A crystal brook it may pollute; A different course from mine it took, And I the path at once forsook. I only know that summer day, Far from the child ’twas blown away.

Bitter Memories.

TO REV. H. T. WILSON.

A picture is haunting my memory to-night, While I dose in the warmth of an early fire-light. As we strive to remove from the soul an old strain, Thus the outline I’ve tried to erase from my brain; But a specter stands near with sepulchral face. And over my hearthstone the same scene doth trace-- She colors the landscape and scoffs at my tears, As I gaze on the wreck of scarce twenty-one years.

’Twas the home of my boyhood. In ruins it stood, And autumn had saddened the meadow and wood; The old locust grove, where the crows used to build, The plowshare and harrow together had tilled. Not a sprig of broomsedge did the hillside adorn, But here and there stacked was the newly shocked corn. Not a wild flower bloomed--through my heart ran a chill, As I bowed by the spring at the foot of the hill.

No trickle of water fell soft on my ear-- Unless ’twas the sound of a swift falling tear-- For Time in his raving had paused here to drink, And I found only dregs as I gasped on the brink. Long I stood, and I gazed like one in a trance, And I shuddered as toward me the specter advanced; Did the chill of her hand then my heart penetrate? Dead, it seemed, as I leaned on the old garden gate.

Where the sweet-william bloomed on the old fashioned walk, Towered and flourished the rank mullein stalk, Where the raspberry vines purpled over the fence, The iron weed stood just as proud as a prince; But where was the summer-house under whose shade I had gathered the grapes and my sisters had played? “Where, oh! where,” I exclaimed (too unnerved then to fear), “Are the joys of my youth?” “Gone,” was hissed in my ear.

As the blind lead the blind it seemed I was lead Over stubble and thorns till my feet ached and bled. Then we stood by a door that had rotted apart-- Here the thistle had broken its soft, downy heart-- I glanced toward the mantel, an owl hooted there, And a rat made its nest in my mother’s old chair, “Oh! God,” I repeated, “’tis too hard to bear,” And I knelt on the threshold in low, fervent prayer.

* * * * *

“Why, papa,” a little voice called soft and clear, As she climbed on my knee and kissed off a tear, “What a long nap you’ve had; why mamma’s at tea, Now, papa, wake up and come on with me.” “My darling!” I whispered, and pressed to my face A cheek that was soft as a billow of lace. “What if the old home can not weather the storms When a foretaste of Heaven I hold in my arms.”

SEPTEMBER 7, 1885.

An Acrostic.

Daughters’ college! Muse, come nearer, And assist my feeble rhyme. Undertaking nothing dearer, Greater, nothing showeth time. Here’s the spot where you, awaking, Taught my infant mind to think; Even as the morning breaking, Richer grows to red from pink. Searched you with me for the treasures, Culled the blossoms half unblown, Opened them within my measures, Letting each bloom as my own. Lifted to my sight a heaven, E’en while lying on your breast-- Graciously for it I’ve striven, Ever hoping for the best.

My Angel Visitor.

TO J. T. C.

We talked together in the twilight gloom, Her friend and mine of scenes and times long past; And in the shadows of the quiet room, It seemed to me an angel form was cast.

I saw, and yet my friend seemed not to see The face familiar, with the gentle eyes, Whose presence sanctified the past for me, And made for him a glorious paradise.

I felt the pressure of a vanished hand Upon my own, and heard a soft robe sweep-- The same has floated from the spirit-land, And often trailed the chamber where I sleep.

I strove to break the spell that bound his heart, That held his spirit as a bondsman tied, When like a rose that shakes its leaves apart, Her garments rustled close his chair beside.

And yet he knew it not. The angel face Bent close above his own. So doth the moon Sometimes, unseen, bend from her heavenly place, To kiss a flower that falls asleep too soon.

“Awake, my friend,” I said, “too soon you sleep; An angel figure stands beside your chair, And I alone the sacred vigil keep.” But as he woke, she vanished into air.

“O, friend of mine, and friend of hers,” I cried, “A hallowed presence is so soon forgot. She walked on earth an angel by your side, The same as now, and yet you knew it not.”

Keep a Bright Face, Darling.

Keep a bright face, darling, Though the task is hard, Life holds up before you Many a bright-faced card.

Though the clouds have gathered And darkened all the way, Rainbows o’er you arching Tinge the skies of gray.

You have said what sunshine Leaked in with the rain Only brought new sorrow, Brought but grief and pain.

Keep a bright face, darling, Set your scales anew, Weigh again the sunshine And the raindrops, too.

And you’ll find your measure Hitherto was wrong, Keep a bright face, darling, And on your lips a song.

Heaven decrees our burdens, And our faith God tries; But a broken spirit He can not despise.

Keep a bright face, darling-- Even while I write, In the fields of midnight Blossom stars of light.

Though the morning cometh With a streak of gray, ’Tis a hint of sunshine And a perfect day.

Journey slow and patient With a purpose strong. Keep a bright face, darling, On your lips a song.

My Neighbor’s Mill.

TO M. BARLOW.

I love to sit here at the window-sill When the sun falls asleep in the West, And watch the gray Twilight walk over the hill In garments of night partly dressed, And see, through the rooms of my neighbor’s mill, How she creeps like an unbidden guest.

I love the low hum of the numberless wheels-- They echo the heart-beats of time, Each unto my pen its purpose reveals, Like the magic of meter and rhyme; Or, as to the soul that in penitence kneels, Doth the sound of a slow vesper chime.

We have been friends together, this old mill and I, Yes, friends that are true, tried, and strong; If over us gather a gray winter sky We faced it sometimes with a song, Or braved it in silence, scarce knowing why, As together we labored along.

I fancy sometimes as I sit here alone With the calm of the night in my heart, When from the low roof the pigeons have flown, And the stars their sweet stories impart, That this mill unto me in a strange undertone Is speaking as heart unto heart.

That it bids me look into the granary room Where the yellow wheat is packed; And anon to glance in with the sundown’s bloom Where the snowy flour is sacked, So I look--and it seems in the deepening gloom There clouds upon clouds are stacked.

What else do I scan through the moonlight’s lace That scallops the window panes; Why, the dear old miller’s honest face, He’s counting his losses and gains, And methinks on his visage I can trace A look that my own heart pains.

Ah! think of the thousands his bounty feeds-- We beggars encircle his door, While he scatters alike his bundle of seeds To the humble, the rich, and the poor. Sure there’s a reward for such generous deeds, A reward that is brighter than ore!

But the lights have gone out of my neighbor’s mill, And pale grows the red in the West; The Night has crept up to my own window-sill And pillowed my head on her breast, While over the way--how peaceful and still! The old mill’s asleep and at rest.

Dripping Springs.

TO MY BROTHER--D. G. SLAUGHTER.

Something moves my pen; its former chime I fain would drop, and gladly lose the rhyme That lights my verse as ore lights up a mine, If on my canvas I could curve and line These quiet hills, and for an hour could say I’d caught the warmth that on the landscape lay, And that I dreamed as artists sometimes dream Who blend their smiles with meadow, mound, and stream; I am indeed a child worn out at play, And weary of my game I long to stray To other haunts, to other heights unknown, And claim that Raphael’s brush as half my own. Alas! forsaken by my Muse I turn And backward glance--she beckons my return-- She floods the old familiar fields with light, She bids me pause, take up my pen and--write.

’Tis scarce yet dawn, the leaves awake, And in my brow the raindrops shake The only remnant of the cloud That pealed last night with thunder loud;

The only hint that here with flowers Come sometimes shadows, sometimes showers. The morning is a dream of bliss, The breeze not unlike Love’s first kiss.

My soul expands--I drink the dew, It gives my veins a deeper hue, I halt where like a singing rill The spring comes dripping o’er the hill.

I fill my cup again, again, I drink for all--good health to men-- I hear the rising bell’s faint sound, The porter makes his usual round.

And black-eyed Easter trips along The kitchen porch with smile and song, We find a poem in her churn, An essence in her coffee urn;

We note the pale dyspeptic’s cheek Is growing rosy, round, and sleek; His torpid stomach forced to fast, Here soon partakes the rich repast.

Breakfast over, ’round the springs The guests assemble--some in swings-- And those of a romantic turn Stroll two and two in search of fern.

For them the woods have more than speech, A calm that to the heart doth reach, That perfect peace of mind and soul The sacred Book to us hath told.

I deem that morning holds more charms Than day hides elsewhere in her arms; But when she folds her shadowy tent, And stars laugh in the firmament,

A newer phase doth nature take, And in the heart new joys awake. Some love the ball-room’s din and glare As soft they trip some favorite air,

Some love to lounge about the spring, Some frequent spots where hammocks swing, And others saunter to the pool Their tired limbs to bathe and cool.

But give me just the shady rook That o’er the dripping spring doth look, And let me watch the bright lamps flash, And let me listen to the splash

Of the old spring that drips and drips, To cool and cure the fever lips. Who could forget the landlord’s vim Or cottage rooms so neat and trim?

Who would not leave the city’s glare, The heat, the dust, and stifling air-- Who would not part with all his wealth To gain at Dripping Springs his health?

In Memoriam.

They tell me she is dead, that we no more Upon her quiet face can rest our eyes, Yet long we for it, as a weary bird Longs all in vain to rest upon a cloud That heavenward floats. And yet there’s solace still In musing on her faith so strong and pure, That recognized, through pain, God’s every wish, And dreaded not to taste death’s cup if so By Him decreed. I was not there to hold Her hand; it chilled within the orphan’s palm Until by angels clasp’d. I could not twine The flowers she so much loved about her shroud, Or speak a word of comfort to the friends That sobbed, and kissed the lips grown strangely cold, That never parted but to speak in praise When others tried to censure; but my heart Beats sad to-day the measures of my verse, And tear-drops fall. So falls the autumn rain Upon her grave, and drifting are the leaves Upon the mound that loving friends have raised In memory of her, whose spirit rests To-day with God.

The Old Orchard Trees.

Why cut them away? The dear old trees, They never did aught of harm, But scattered their perfume out to the breeze, And sheltered the birds from the storm.

For an age they have stood on the town’s outer meads, The skirmish and battle have braved; Alike they have gazed on the war’s bloody deeds, And the white flag of peace as it waved.

But you cut them away! my pleading is vain! In their shade moves the carpenter’s hands, I watched him to-day as he leveled his plane, And he spoke of the architect’s plans.

Then a wave of distress in my heart flowed anew, For dearly I love each old tree; Ah me! many secrets are hidden from you That the apple trees whispered to me.

I used to go by, and the sweet morning air, Like incense, arose from the spot, It would crowd from my heart some pain gnawing there, While the world with its cares was forgot.

Here, I’ve heard the first news of the blue bird and dove, And the round, silver note of the thrush, A concert, with sweet variations of love, Seemed pouring from tree and from bush.

I walked there to-day; as an accent profane That falls on the heart and the ear, I heard the harsh echo of hammer and plane, And the pant of a mill in the rear.

So I muffled my face with the veil that I wore-- Time, that moment of pain can’t appease; Unless like the birds from the scene I can soar, And like them, forget the old trees.

On the Hill-top Grow the Daisies.

TO CARRIE ROGERS.

I chanced to stroll not long ago To a green valley that you know; For everything about the town Was strange, and on me seemed to frown, And so I wandered off alone, To seek the friends from youth I’d known. The brook came dashing down the hill, The same old song to hum and trill; With glances shy and kisses sweet, It wound its ribbon at my feet, And laughed aloud at my delight-- It was indeed a comic sight To see me o’er the brooklet bend, And greet again an old time friend.

So thus I sat, perhaps an hour, Until I spied a human flower; A little maid it seemed to be With steps directed straight to me. Her dress was pink, her bonnet white. Her eyes were blue, and round, and bright, Some daisies in her hand she held But where they came from--would she tell? Were questions that my eyes portrayed, And she the answer quickly made. “Upon the hill-top high they grow, The path is there by which you go, But if you get them you must climb,” She said, unconscious of the rhyme.

I glanced along the rocky ledge; The daisies nodded o’er the edge, And just as far as I could see They waved their ruffled caps to me. Bright eyes that never had grown old Their heart’s content to me foretold, And I resolved the path to try That seemed to end so near the sky; And so I started up alone, A way that seemed with mosses sown. A pond’rous clod rolled on the track, A briar reached and pulled me back, A lizzard on the pathway played, And half way up I paused--afraid.

“Keep on,” the little girl replied, “A better path is near your side.” She pulled the thorn from off my gown, I heard the clod go plunging down, And then she clasped with mine her hand, And led me up to “daisy-land.” The hours we spent together there Were hallowed as the hours of prayer, And when she left me in the vale The sunlight suddenly grew pale; But she had taught me this strange truth, Forgot, or never learned in youth, It seems a little song in rhyme, “To reach the daisies, you must climb.”

BARDSTOWN, KY.

Ella Lee.

Where is Ella? Ella Lee? How I’ve missed her childish glee. Missed her step so light and airy, Missed the darling little fairy. She was nimble as a fawn, Lovely as the blush of dawn, And her voice sweet as the rill Gliding down the grassy hill. Where is she, I’ve missed her so, Surely some one ought to know.

I have called her in the crowd, Called her soft and called her loud, Called her sad and called her sweet, In the house and on the street. Yet she does not seem to hear, Though I’ve called her far and near. Hark! I hear a blackbird’s note, And he wears a brand new coat; Surely some sweet word he brings, On his iridescent wings.

Let me hail him by this tree. Listen! now he sings to me, Tells me, in his honest way, That our darling’s gone away. Far, so far away she roams, Into other hearts and homes, Ah! the budding little flower Sweetens every empty hour, Making earth a dream of bliss By the magic of her kiss.

Though she fled like a sunbeam, Still I hold a treasured dream, And were she to skip to-day, In her easy, childish way, To the playground of my heart, Childhood’s gate would fly apart, And she’d find the violet’s face, Smiling still in memory’s vase; Green and fresh the springtime sod, That her dainty feet had trod.

What is the West Wind Saying.

O! What is the west wind saying! It whispers so strange in my ear, As if some sad message delaying, From friends who are absent and dear. It laughs with the leaves on the tree-tops, And bows as the cloudlets go by, And plays with the flowers For hours and hours, Yet for me has only a sigh.

O! what is the west wind singing? ’Tis rocking the birds in the nest, And over the world it is flinging The emblems of quiet and rest. New comfort it brings to the mother, And hushes the babe on her knee, Singing softly to her And the tired laborer, Yet sadly and strangely to me.

O! what is the west wind showing? New faces look strangely in mine, Stranger tints in the sunset are glowing, Somber shadings of amber and wine. Far away the blue hills seem to beckon Me back to a sweet cottage home, Where the rose and the vine ’Round the door-way entwine-- Alas! that from them I must roam!

O! what is the west wind asking? Why question a stranger like me? If a friend, why so perfect the masking? Your counterpart glad would I see. Ah, a friend in disguise! what is sweeter, Come, let us together commune, If you bring but a kiss From the loved ones I miss, I can ask of you no greater boon.

To a Mountain Stream.

Glad as childish laughter From a childish throng, Sweet as bird voice after Daybreak is your song.

Racing down the mountain On your shining feet, Waltzing at the fountain To its love song sweet.

On and on you travel, Leaving me behind, Like a silken ravel With the weeds you wind.

Laughing at distresses; Braving battles, too; Who your trouble guesses, And your sorrow--who?

Tell me as you hurry Through the stubble field, Why not stop to worry-- But no frown’s revealed.

Sometime you must weary Of this constant strife; When the clouds are dreary, Tire you not of life?

Of the dead leaves drifted On your saddened face, And the snow flakes sifted From the cloudland place?

Yet you ne’er repineth, But alike content With the sun that shineth, And the rainstorm sent.

Teach me half the beauty That your heart must know, And through fields of duty Like you, will I go.

Pen Pictures.

(WRITTEN DURING A SNOW-STORM.)

I love the snow flakes in the air, When from the heavens they downward dart; I love to watch them sailing there, Like thoughts freed from a poet’s heart, Uncertain which, the earth or sky, Should claim their last abiding place; And yet I watch them drifting by, And strive to join the airy race.

The railway cars like spirits glide Through many a mountain’s haunted tomb, Above the river’s solemn tide, Along the ravine’s chilly room; On, on, through cedar groves we wind, That yesterday a zephyr wooed; To-day they stand with heads inclined, A sad and stricken multitude.

The sky bends low with heavy clouds, And from the long slope of a hill, The pines look down in spotless shrouds Upon a valley whiter still. A tiny stream runs breathless by, Affrighted at the ghostly sight; The sun sleeps in the western sky, And twilight deepens into night.