Chapter 2

The aged and decrepit plodded by, Whom one would think were ripe for any tomb, Yet quailed at dissolution's very thought; The crippled and deformed, with cane and crutch, Came limping by, as eddies in the stream; The mendicant, whose eyes might never see The golden sunlight, felt his way along, And though the world was dark, still shrank from death. Some faces showed the trace of recent tears, And some revealed the impress of despair; Others endeavored with a careless smile To hide a breast surcharged with hopelessness, As one afflicted with a foul disease Strives to avoid the scrutinizing gaze By the assumption of indifference; Some whose misfortunes and adversities And oft repeated disappointments, dried The fountain heads of kindness, and had turned Life's sweetest joys to gall and bitterness. Each face betrayed some sort or form of woe; In more than one I read a tragedy.

* * * * *

How complex is existence! What a maze Of complication and entanglement! Each thread combining with the other threads Fulfills its office in the labyrinth; Each link concatenates the other links Which constitute the vast and endless chain Of human life, and human destiny,-- The strange phantasmagoria of fate.

* * * * *

So we, in life's procession, pass along To the accompaniment of secret dirge, Or laughter interspersed with tear and groan; Nor pause a moment, nor retrace a step, But march in Fate's spectacular review In pageant to our common goal-- The Grave.

Nature's Lullaby.

A MOUNTAIN NOCTURNE

In forest shade my couch is made. And there I calmly lie, With thought confined in pensive mind, And contemplate the sky; I wonder if the frowning cliff, The valley and the wood, Or rugged freaks of mountain peaks, Enjoy their solitude.

The heavens hold a sphere of gold, A full and placid moon, Suspended high, in cloudless sky, With constellations strewn; Its mellow beam, on rill and stream, In silvery sheen I see; Before its light, the shades of night As evil spirits, flee.

In space afar, a shooting star, With swift, uncertain course, In dazzling sparks its passage marks, As it expends its force; The mountains bare reflect its glare Of weird, unearthly light, And e'en the skies, in glad surprise, Behold its gorgeous flight.

The spruce and pine, at timber-line, In straggling patches strewn, Surcharge the breeze with melodies, The forests' plaintive tune; As they descend, the waters blend In babbling harmony, And soothe to rest my tranquil breast, With Nature's lullaby.

The Spirit of freedom is Born of the Mountains.

The spirit of freedom is born of the mountains, In gorge and in cañon it hovers and dwells; Pervading the torrents and crystalline fountains, Which dash through the valleys and forest clad dells.

The spirit of freedom, so firm and impliant, Is borne on the breeze, whose invisible waves Descend from the mountain peaks, stern and defiant-- Created for freemen, but never for slaves.

The Valley of the San Miguel.

In the golden West, by fond Nature blest, Lies a vale which my heart holds dear; Where the zephyr blows from eternal snows And tempers the atmosphere; Where the torrent falls o'er the mountain walls, As its thunderous echoes thrill, Where the sparkling mist, by the rainbow kissed, Decks the Valley of San Miguel[B].

Where the birds of spring, in their season sing, Their spontaneous melodies; Where the columbine and the stately pine Stand quivering in the breeze; Where the aspen tall hugs the trachyte wall, And the wild rose bedecks the hill; Where the willows weep, and their vigils keep, On the banks of the San Miguel.

Where the mountains high, cleave the azure sky, With their turrets so bleak and gray; Where the morning light crowns the dizzy height, At the break of the summer's day; Where the crags look down with an austere frown, O'er the valley so calm and still; Where the mesas blue, blend their dreamy hue With the skies of the San Miguel.

Where the mountains hold a vast wealth of gold, In the quartz ledge and placer bar; Where the hills resound with the constant sound Of the stamp mill's battering jar; Where the waters dash with the rhythmic splash Of the cascade and mountain rill, As they laugh and flow to the lands below, Through the turbulent San Miguel.

Where the shadows glide, in the eventide, As the sun, to nocturnal rest, With the dazzling rays of a world ablaze, Sinks into the distant west; When the yellow leaf of existence brief, Brings the hour when the pulse is still, May my ashes rest in the golden West, On the banks of the San Miguel.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] San Miguel, pronounced "Magill," the Spanish form of St. Michael.

To Mother Huberta.

_As repeated in chorus on the anniversary of her Names-day by the Sisters of St. Hubert at St. Anthony's Hospital, Denver, Col., Oct. 29, 1900._

Mother, our greetings be to thee, On the glad anniversary Of this, thy festive day; Thy daughters, daughters not of earth, But bound by cords of Heavenly birth, Their love and greetings pay.

We thank thee, Mother, for thy care, Thy watchfulness, and fervent prayer; And if 'tis Heaven's will, May many a returning year And namesday find our Mother here, Constant and watchful still.

Blest be that autumn brown and sere! Bless-ed the day and blest the year, Of his[C] nativity! Blest be the hospitals, which rise, Resultant of thy enterprise, Thy zeal and fervency.

Blest be that hunter[D] saint of thine! Bless-ed the deer, and blest the sign Between its antlers broad! To us, thy daughters, is it given To bless thee, in the name of Heaven, And blessing thee, bless God.

FOOTNOTES:

[C] St. Hubert.

[D] St. Hubert, the apostle of Ardennes, a saint of the Roman Catholic Church, the patron of huntsmen. He was of a noble family of Acquitaine. While hunting in the forests of Ardennes he had a vision of a stag with a shining crucifix between its antlers, and heard a warning voice. He was converted, entered the church, and eventually became Bishop of Maestricht and Liege. He worked many miracles, and is said to have died in 727 or 729. Spofford's Cyclopædia, Vol. 4, page 470.

Suggested by a Mountain Eagle.

I gazed at the azure-hued mantle of heaven, The measureless depths of ethereal space; I gazed at the clouds, so invisibly driven, And an eagle, which wheeled with symmetrical grace.

I gazed at that eagle, majestically wheeling, With dignity, born of the free mountain air; I envied that bird, with an envious feeling Which springs from a heart that is shackled with care.

I envied that eagle, which bowed to no master, But soared at his will, through the ambient skies, Defiant of danger, and scorning disaster, He screamed at the cliffs, which re-echoed his cries.

I envied that bird, on that fair summer morning, When nature lay decked with spontaneous art, As he circled, with aspect defiant and scorning, And perched on a pinnacle's loftiest part.

And scanning the scene with a stern indecision, He spread his dark wings, with intuitive cries, And sped, till acute and inquisitive vision Discerned but a movable speck in the skies.

When the shades of the evening, so listless and dreary, Descend on the valley, his wing never flags, As through the dark shadows he soars to his eyerie, Which nestles among the impregnable crags.

Ah! fain would I rise on thy feathery pinions, Above the material cares of the day, And float over earth's most enchanting dominions, As clouds, by the zephyrs, are wafted away!

The Silvery San Juan.

Wherever I wander, my spirit still dwells, In the silvery San Juan[E] with its streamlet and dells; Whose mountainous summits, so rugged and high, With their pinnacles pierce the ethereal sky; Where the daisy, the rose, and the sweet columbine Blend their colors with those of the sober hued pine; Where the ceaseless erosions of measureless time, Have chiseled the grotto and canon sublime; Have sculptured the cliff, and the stern mountain wall; Have formed the bold turret, impressive and tall; Have cut the deep gorge with its wonderful caves, Sepulchral and gloomy; whose vast architraves Support the stalactites, both pendant and white, Which with the stalagmites beneath them unite; Where nestles a valley, sequestered and grand, Worn out of the rock by the same tireless hand, Surrounded by mountains, majestic and gray, Which smile from their heights on the Town of Ouray.

* * * * *

Wherever I wander, my ears hear the sound Of thy waters, which plunge with a turbulent bound O'er the precipice, seething and laden with foam; My ears hear their music wherever I roam; Where the cataract's rhapsody, joyous and light, Enchants in the morning and soothes in the night; Where blend the loud thunders, sonorous and deep, With the sobs of the rain as the black heavens weep; Where the whispering zephyr, and murmuring breeze, Unite with the soft, listless sigh of the trees; And where to the fancy, the voices of air Wail in tones of distress, or in shrieks of despair; Where mourneth the night wind, with desolate breath, In accents suggestive of sorrow and death; As falls from the heavens, so fleecy and light, The winter's immaculate mantle of white; Wherever I wander, these sounds greet my ears, And the silvery San Juan to my fancy appears.

FOOTNOTES:

[E] Pronounced San Wan. Spanish form of St. John.

As the Shifting Sands of the Desert.

As the shifting sands of the desert Are born by the simoon's wrath, And in wanton and fleet confusion, Are strewn on its trackless path; So our lives with resistless fury, Insensibly and unknown, With a restless vacillation By the winds of fate are blown; But an All-Wise Hand May have changed the sand, For a purpose of His own.

As the troubled and turbulent waters, As the waves of the angry main, Respond with their undulations To the breath of the hurricane; So our lives on Time's boundless ocean Unwittingly toss and roll, And unconsciously drift with the current Which evades our assumed control; But a Hand of love, From the skies above, May have guided us past a shoal.

Ephemeral, mobile, and fleeting, Our delible paths we tread; And fade as the crimson sunset, When the heavens are tinged with red; As the gorgeously tinted rainbow Retains not its varied dyes, We change, with the constant mutation, Of desert, of sea, and skies; But the Hand which made, Knows each transient shade, Which passes before the eyes.

Missed.

Pity the child who never feels A mother's fond caress; That childish smile a void conceals Of aching loneliness.

Pity the heart which loves in vain, What balm or mystic spell Can soothe that bosom's secret pain, The pain it may not tell?

Pity those missed by Cupid's darts, For 'twas ordained for such, Who love at random, but whose hearts Feel no responsive touch.

If I Have Lived Before.

If I have lived before, some evidence Should that existence to the present bind; Some innate inkling of experience Should still imbue and permeate the mind, If we, progressing, pass from state to state, Or retrograde, as turns the wheel of fate.

If I have lived before, and could my eyes But view the scenes wherein that life was spent, Or even for an instant recognize The climes, conditions and environment Beloved by them in that pre-natal span, Though past and future both be sealed to man;

Or, if perchance, kind memory should ope' Her floodgates, with fond recollection fraught, 'Twould then renew the dormant fires of hope, Now smothered out by speculative thought; 'Twould then rekindle faith within a breast, Where doubt is now the sole remaining guest.

The Darker Side.

They say that all nature is smiling and gay, And the birds the most happy of all, But the sparrow, pursued by the sparrowhawk, Savors more of the wormwood and gall.

They say that all nature is smiling and gay, But the groan may dissemble the laugh; E'en now from the meadow is wafted the sound Of a bovine bewailing her calf.

They say that all nature is smiling and gay, But the moss often covers the rock; Every animal form is beset by a foe, For the wolf always follows the flock.

For the animal holds all inferior flesh As its just and legitimate prey; Every scream of the eagle a panic creates As the weaker things scamper away.

They say that all nature is smiling and gay, But the smiles are all needed to sweeten The struggle we see so incessantly waged To eat, and avoid being eaten.

And men, with their genial competitive ways Present no decided improvements, For their personal gain they will sacrifice all Who may stand in the way of their movements.

The Miner.

Clink! Clink! Clink! The song of the hammer and drill! At the sound of the whistle so shrill and clear, He must leave the wife and the children dear, In his cabin upon the hill. Clink! Clink! Clink! But the arms that deliver the sturdy stroke, Ere the shift is done, may be crushed or broke, Or the life may succumb to the gas and smoke, Which the underground caverns fill.

Clink! Clink! Clink! The song of the hammer and drill! As he toils in the shaft, in the stope or raise, 'Mid dangers which lurk, but elude the gaze, His nerves with no terrors thrill. Clink! Clink! Clink! For the heart of the miner is strong and brave; Though the rocks may fall, and the shaft may cave And become his dungeon, if not his grave, He braves every thought of ill.

Clink! Clink! Clink! The song of the hammer and drill! But the heart which is beating in unison With the steady stroke, e'er the shift is done, May be cold and forever still. Clink! Clink! Clink! He may reap the harvest of danger sowed, The hole which he drills he may never load, For the powder may e'en in his hand explode, To mangle, if not to kill.

Clink! Clink! Clink! The song of the hammer and drill! Facing dangers more grim than the cannon's mouth; Breathing poisons more foul than the swamps of the south In their tropical fens distill. Clink! Clink! Clink! Thus the battle he fights for his daily bread; Thus our gold and our silver, our iron and lead, Cost us lives, as true as our blood is red, And probably always will.

Life's Undercurrent.

Within the precincts of a hospital, I wandered in a sympathetic mood; Where face to face with wormwood and with gall, With wrecks of pain and stern vicissitude, The eye unused to human misery Might view life's undercurrent vividly.

My gaze soon rested on the stricken form Of one succumbing to the fever's drouth, With throbbing brow intolerably warm, With wasted lips and mute appealing mouth; And when I watched that prostrate figure there I thought that fate must be the worst to bear.

I next beheld a thin but patient face, Aged by the constant twinge of hopeless pain, Wheeled in an easy chair from place to place, A form which ne'er might stand erect again; I viewed that human shipwreck in his chair, And thought a fate like that was worst to bear.

Within her room a beauteous maiden lay, Moaning in agony no words express, A cancer eating rapidly away Her vital force,--so foul and pitiless; And when I saw that face, so young and fair, I thought such anguish was the worst to bear.

A helpless paralytic met my eyes, Whose hands might never grasp a friendly hand, But hung distorted and of shrunken size, Insensible to muscular command; His face an abject picture of despair; I thought a fate like that was worst to bear.

With wasted form, emaciate and wan, A pale consumptive coughed with labored breath, His sunken eyes and hectic flush upon His cheek, foretold a sure but lingering death; I thought, whene'er I met his hollow stare, A wasting death like that was worst to bear.

That day with fetters obdurate and fast, With chain of summer, winter, spring and fall, Is bounden to the dim receding past; Time o'er my life has spread a somber pall, With sightless eyes I grope and clutch the air, My lot is now the hardest lot to bear.

They Cannot See the Wreaths We Place.

They cannot see the wreaths we place Upon the silent bier, They cannot see the tear-stained face, Nor feel the scalding tear, And now can flowers or graven stone, For wrongs done them in life atone?

Better the flower that smooths the thorns On earthly pathway found, Than that which uselessly adorns The bier or silent mound. And neither tear nor floral token Retracts the hasty word, when spoken.

Then strew the flowers ere life has fled, While yet their eyes discern; Why waste their fragrance on the dead Who no fond smile return? The heaving breast with sorrow aches, Comfort the throbbing heart which breaks.

Mother.--Alpha and Omega.

Mother! Mother! The startled cry of childish fright Rang through the silence of the night, As but the mother's fond caress Could soothe its infantile distress; And the mother answered, with loving stroke Of her gentle hand, as she softly spoke: "Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry; What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"

Mother! Mother! Long years have passed, and the fevered brow Of a bearded man, she is stroking now, As through delirium and pain He cries as a little child, again. And the mother answered, with loving stroke Of her careworn hand, as she softly spoke: "Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry; What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"

Mother! Mother! Still time rolls on, and an old man stands Trembling on life's declining sands; As memory bridges the flood of years He cries as a child, with childish tears; And memory answers, with loving stroke Of a vanished hand, and an echo spoke: "Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry; What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"

Empty are the Mother's Arms.

Ah, empty are the mother's arms Which clasp a vanished form; A darling spared from life's alarms, And safe from earthly storm.

In absent reverie, she hears That voice, nor can forget; The fond illusion disappears,-- Her arms are empty, yet.

In Deo Fides.

Almighty God! Supreme! Most High! Before Thy throne, in reverence, we kneel; We cannot realize Thine infinity; Beholding not, we can Thy presence feel; Though veiled impenetrably, Thou dost reveal Such evidence as clouds cannot conceal!

Acknowledged, though unseen, Almighty Power! Within its secret depths, the bosom pays In pleasure's or affliction's calmer hour, The heart's sincerest offering of praise; Intuitive, unuttered prayers arise Without the outstretched arms, or reverently clos-ed eyes.

Down deep within the soul's mysterious seat, The voice of reason, and inherent sense, Admits Thy Sovereign Power, and doth entreat The guidance of a Just Omnipotence; Thus doth the human essence e'er depend On that Supreme. Eternal. Without End.

Supreme, Mysterious Power! Whate'er Thou be, Can e'er our mortal natures comprehend, This side the veil which shrouds futurity, Thy Wisdom, Power, and Love? The end Of all conclusions, reasoned o'er and o'er, We know Thou dost exist! Can we know more?

Shall Love, as the Bridal Wreath, Whither and Die?

Shall love as the bridal wreath, wither and die? Or remain ever constant and sure, As the years of the future pass rapidly by, And the waves of adversity's tempest roll high, Ever changeless and fervent endure?

Mistake not the fancy, that lasts but a day, For the love which eternally thrives; That sentiment false, is as prone to decay As the wreath is to fade and to wither away; And like it, it never revives.

Shall Our Memories Live When the Sod Rolls Above Us?

Shall our memories live, when the sod rolls above us And marks our last home with a mouldering heap? Shall the voices of those who profess that they love us E'er mention our names, as we dreamlessly sleep?

Will their eyes ever dim at some fond recollection, Or their hands ever plant a small flower o'er the breast, Or will they gaze with a sad circumspection At the tablets, which tell of our last solemn rest?

Ah! soon shall the hearts which our memories cherish Forget, as they strive with the cares of their own; And even the last dim remembrance shall perish As we peacefully slumber, unwept and unknown.

But if our lives, though of transient duration, Are filled with some work in humanity's name, Some uplifting effort, or self-immolation, Our memories shall live in the temples of Fame.

A Reverie.

O, tomb of the past Where buried hopes lie, In my visions I see Thy phantoms pass by! A form, long departed, Before me appears; A sweet voice, long silent, Again greets my ears.

Fond memory dwells On the things that have been; And my eyes calmly gaze On a long vanished scene; A scene such as memory Stores deep in the breast, Which only appears In a season of rest.

Once more we wander, Her fair hand in mine; Once more her promise, "I'll ever be thine"; Once more the parting, The shroud, and the pall, The sods' hollow thump As they coffinward fall.

The reverie ends-- All the fancies have flown; And my sad, lonely heart, Now seems doubly alone; As the Ivy, whose tendrils Reach longingly out, Yet finds not an oak To entwine them about.

Love's Plea.

I love thee, my darling, both now and forever, My heart feels the thralldom of love's mystic spell, 'Tis fettered with shackles which nothing can sever, To the heart which responds to its passionate swell.

I love thee, my darling, with love that is stronger, Than all the fond ties which the heart holds enshrined; Adversity, sorrow or pain can no longer Detract from this heart, if with thine intertwined.

I love thee, my darling, with sacred affection, Which death, nor the cycles of time shall efface; Nor from my heart's mirror, erase thy reflection, Nor tear thy fond heart from its fervent embrace.

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.

Is there a Death? The light of day At eventide shall fade away; From out the sod's eternal gloom The flowers, in their season, bloom; Bud, bloom and fade, and soon the spot Whereon they flourished knows them not; Blighted by chill, autumnal frost; "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"

Is there a Death? Pale forms of men To formless clay resolve again; Sarcophagus of graven stone, Nor solitary grave, unknown, Mausoleum, or funeral urn, No answer to our cries return; Nor silent lips disclose their trust; "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"

Is there a Death? All forms of clay Successively shall pass away; But, as the joyous days of spring Witness the glad awakening Of nature's forces, may not men, In some due season, rise again? Then why this calm, inherent trust, "If ashes to ashes, dust to dust?"

Despair.