Chapter 3

Angelic joys that died in pain, Sweet raptures from the days of bliss, Your loving lips with clinging kiss Thrill all my heart and soul and brain; And turning from my weary rhyme To count my sorrows o'er and o'er, I'd give my life to know once more Those wondrous days of Christmas time.

Ring, laughing bells, ring out to-night! From happy years that now are fled, You bring the faces of the dead, And bless me with a deep delight! Away, away, these thoughts of men, These toils of mine, that sadness give; My heart grows young and I would live My Christmas pleasures o'er again!

TRUEST HEROES ARE UNKNOWN.

All worthies are not sung in song. That live their lives and do their deeds Where wounded nature writhes and bleeds Beneath the savage blows of wrong; From humble duties tender grown, The truest heroes are unknown.

The heart that toils where none may know And uncomplaining conquers care, To save his loved ones or to spare His fellows from the pangs of woe, Is more the hero than who shields His country on the bleeding fields.

He claims no praises for his love, He seeks no tribute for his worth, But sows the desert hearts of earth With blossoms from the vales above; And in their sunshine warm and bright He holds these duties as his right.

Where lives are dark with dismal groans Great men are often chained by fate, And oft are slaves more truly great Than princes on their purple thrones; But servant brows are bound with shame, While monarchs flutter into fame.

Deeds pure and noble, gladly done, Unselfish work for sickly souls When sorrow in black surges rolls And gloomy darkness hides the sun,-- These in their truth make more the man Than royal aim or princely plan.

But sometime man shall rule by thought, And worth shall gain her just return, Till all shall every singer spurn Who in the ancient cycles taught That heroes rest in royal graves, But never in the tombs of slaves.

IF WE BUT KNEW.

If we but knew the weary way, The poisoned paths of hostile hate, The roughened roads of fiercest fate, Through which our brother's journey lay, Would we condemn, as now we do, His faults and failures,--if we knew?

Would we forget the shadows grim, The lonely hours of grief and pain, The follies dead, the pleasures slain, The tears and toils that hindered him, And only prize the deeds that grew To mighty conquest, if we knew?

Would careless hand sow tares of strife, Amid the blooms of happy care, And plant, in spite of sigh and prayer, Wild thorns amid the blameless life, Till sorrows rule the nations through, With scarce a rival, if we knew?

Would we be quicker with our praise, And gladly give the greatest meeds As recompense for noble deeds, And heroes crown with brightest bays, And slay all foes that hearts imbue With doubt and weakness, if we knew?

From lofty kings would constant worth On peasant brows their crowns bestow, And rising from her overthrow Eternal justice rule the earth, While right would strip the favored few To bless the many, if we knew?

If we but knew! Ah, well-a-day! From lives that murmur, full of ills, Behind the shadows of the hills, God hides our brother's heart away; And we shall know in vales of rest That His eternal ways are best!

HOPE.

When man from pure perfection fell, And bathed his life in grief and woe, His angel heart had overthrow From all the joys he loved so well, And only Hope of all the host Remained to comfort him when lost.

And when the other passions throw Their phantoms in the arms of death, And pour their last remaining breath Within the dismal haunts of woe, Then Hope alone of all remains To soothe our sorrows and our pains.

Hope makes the fearful millions brave, The helpless and the weary strong, Gives courage to the fainting throng And whispers freedom to the slave, And unto each, where'er he lives, Unceasing cause to struggle gives.

In heavy hours of ghostly gloom When raging billows dash and beat Around the weak and weary feet Which tremble on the yawning tomb, The harp of Hope divinely sings Exalted songs of better things.

It lifts the gaze of mortal eyes Above the desert and the dearth, Above the barren fields of earth, Unto the promise of the skies, And to the last expiring breath Gives comfort in the hour of death.

O, sacred light of human life, Eternal star of Heaven's love, Thy brightness ever shines above The darkest hours of woe and strife, To raise our souls above the sod Into the holy home of God!

DESPONDENCY.

O, gloomy world that rolls in weary space, And moans wild music to the broken spheres, Whose rivers wander into seas of tears, Despair has bound thee in a close embrace; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

Death grows beside existence, and with time Is comrade of its changes; cycles roll Their heavy circles through the human soul, And pour their dirges into mournful rhyme; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

He gropes in shadows for a happy beam That shall delight his bosom; into mist Dissolves the substance that ambition kissed, While greatness grows the garland of a dream; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

Endeavor struggles to an open grave; The past is lost in monumental dust, Where age on age in angry ire has thrust The wise, the strong, the mighty, and the brave; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

The years are shades that totter from their tombs, The ages, ghosts that live in catacombs And lure the Present to their awful homes, Where ancient races wander in the glooms; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

Oblivion welcomes men with gentle arms, And presses them like infants to her breast, Repeats to them her lullabies of rest, And guards them from all sorrows and alarms; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

Then hasten, world, and let my battle cease; I care not where I stay nor when I go; For action gives unhappiness and woe, But Lethe brings forgetfulness and peace; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

IF LOVE WERE KING.

If Love were king, That sacred Love which knows not selfish pleasure, But for its children spends its fondest treasure, Sad hearts would sing, And all the hosts of misery and wrong Forget their anguish in the happy song That joy would bring.

If Love were king, Gaunt wickedness would hide his loathsome features, And virtue would to all the world's sad creatures Her treasures fling; Till drooping souls would rise above their fate, And find sweet flowers for all the desolate And sorrowing.

If Love were king, Before the scepter of his might should vanish Toil's curse and care, and happiness should banish Want's awful sting; While laughing plenty from sweet hands would throw Delightful raptures over all below, And gladness bring.

If Love were king, The nations would eternal sunshine borrow, And conquer all the heavy clouds of sorrow And every thing That binds the race in groans and agony; Life's changing seasons would forever be Unvaried spring.

If Love were king! O, broken feet that wander worn and weary Beneath the crags and awful mountains dreary, With rapture cling Your anguished arms about him; drink delight Upon his perfect bosom soft and white And comforting!

"SING ME THE OLD SONGS, MOTHER."

Our souls are the deserts of sorrow, Our hearts are the ashes of hope, And madly from gladness we borrow The brightness where sadness may grope; My raptures in wretchedness vanish, My bosom is weeping with wrongs; Then sing me the old songs, mother, Then sing me the dear old songs.

My joys are in memory lying, Still ardently happy with youth, When smiles in ambition were dying, And life was the vision of youth; My brow for your gentle caresses And kisses of tenderness longs; Then sing me the old songs, mother, Then sing me the dear old songs.

Sweet murmurs in mystical measures Come soothingly over my soul, Where voices of babyish pleasures And echoes of lullabies roll; The struggles of all my endeavor Are bound in the darkest of thongs; Then sing me the old songs, mother, Then sing me the dear old songs.

I fain would return in my dreaming To years that proclaimed me a boy, When gladness was happily beaming And life was a musical toy; My sorrow has never Nepenthe, My woe in its bitterness throngs; Then sing me the old songs, mother, Then sing me the dear old songs.

TWO LIVES.

Two infants in their cradles lie, Where lullabies of peace In gentle strains of tender music die. And carols never cease.

Two urchins o'er the meadow lands Are bounding in their plays, Where sweet enjoyment with angelic hands Winds gladness o'er the days.

Two boys, where golden fancies bless, Repose in sunny beams, And muse away the hours of happiness On couches made of dreams.

Two men upon a summer sea Are toiling, brave and strong, Where pleasures roll their elfin harmony And labor ends in song.

Two gray-haired sages, silvered o'er, In life meet once again, To name the wondrous happiness they bore Among their fellow-men.

Two graves forever hide the twain Who found, in all their years, No secret shadows, where unbroken pain Held fountains full of tears.

Two lives have passed from human reach, And few have heard of them, But joy had not been better served if each Had worn a diadem.

Ah, bosoms here are strangely blest With perfect bliss that glows, And he above all others lives the best, Who has the fewest woes!

"AWAY, AWAY, FROM THE SULTRY WAYS."

Away, away, from the sultry ways Where the pleasures fall and fade, To the bannered corn and the meadowed bloom And the forest's cooling shade!

Afar, afar, from the rooms of care With the toils of life distressed, To the grassy hills and the fragrant slopes And the quiet vales of rest!

Away from the weary, dusty town, Where the sorrows dim the days, To the sleeping lake and the silent stream And the wildwood's tangled ways!

To margins wide of the woodland pools, Where the wild birds troll their songs, Where the lilies laugh and the willows wave, And the pleasures dance in throngs!

The dark-eyed nymphs and the fairy elves In their robes of laughing smiles, In the forests romp 'neath the leafy trees, Through the narrow long-drawn aisles.

The bannered corn and the golden wheat In the ties of bliss are bound; The sweetest joys and highest hopes On the shady farms are found.

The raptures reign in the holy scenes, And the old grow young once more, To roam the meadows and live again In the happy years of yore.

Then haste, O, haste, to the country downs, Where the valleys are sweet with joys, And the soul grows young, and the heart is light, And the bosom is like a boy's!

SPINSTERHOOD.

Alone, alone, in the twilight gray, In the shadows so dark and dim, I watch through all of the weary hours, And I wait with my heart for him; For him who'll come, when he comes at all, As my king and warrior bold; Whose form so tall is my fortress wall And whose heart is a chunk of gold.

Again, again, do I dream the dreams, All the dreams that my young heart knew, And through my soul do the yearnings thrill As of old they were wont to do; I know in truth when his face I see, I shall fall at his shining feet, Where'er it be and whoever is he, In the light of his glances sweet.

I wait in vain for the sounds that rise From the tread of his horse's hoof, And still the mists hide his form away And forever he stays aloof; His shining face and his eyes so bright In the shades of the distance hide, And out of the night with the stars bedight He hath never approached my side!

O, years, O, wonderful tide of years, From the shadows of time set free My king, my lover, my life, and bring To my heart what is most of me! Somewhere in pain do his yearnings grope For the joys that my love would bring; O, up the slope of his life-long hope, Guide the feet of my royal king!

"SWEET FAIRIES FROM THE ISLES OF SONG."

Sweet fairies from the isles of song, Bewitching choirs from music land, The pleasures of your wondrous band Once wooed me from the ways of wrong; Once won my heart with fond caress To sacred vales of summer glees, Till carols fraught with lullabies Filled all my soul with blessedness!

My yearnings miss those gentle sprites, Whose laughing lips and angel eyes And voices ever winsome-wise, Bedewed my dreams with new delights; For in the sad hours of my pain I hold them as I hold the dead, And trust that in the vales they tread, My hands shall clasp their hands again.

From those glad meadows where they play 'Neath lovely sun and gentle star, My longing soul has wandered far On rocky path and thorny way; I croon again the notes of song In strains they taught me years ago, And weep because my sorrows know They have been absent for so long.

Return, O, laughing sprites of rest, From gentle isles and peaceful seas, And pour the balsamed wine of ease Upon the anguish of my breast! Till gladness in her raptures roll Sweet strains of music, and I gain Eternal joy for all the pain That darkens o'er my weary soul!

STANZAS.

God bless the man who gave us rest And him who taught us play, For kindness reigned within his breast To all our sorrow slay; The weary heart, the fainting limb, The soul that droops in woe, Should most unceasing praise on him In gratitude bestow.

He is the hero of the race, The toiling nation's friend, For pity smiles upon his face With joys that never end; He tears away the iron gyves That chain our best repose, And makes the deserts of our lives To blossom as the rose.

He pours his balms into the wound Of bosom weak and sad, Till holy pleasures flit around And all the heart is glad; Till all is sweet that here before Was wrapped in bitter woe, And only gladness hurries o'er The millions here below.

Great man he is, and him I give That gratitude of mine, Which must in brilliance while I live With brightest glory shine, To wreathe a radiance always gay Around the worthy breast Of him who first discovered play And gave the nations rest.

MAKE THE MOST OF THIS LIFE.

Make the most of this life; where the shadow reposes The beams of the summer shall gather in glee, And the snow on the graves of the lilies and roses But cradles the blooms that shall whiten the lea; Though the hopes of the heart be encircled with sorrow And billows of wretchedness mutter and roll, There shall come with the morn of the bountiful morrow The pleasures that gladden the desolate soul.

Make the most of this life; where the carols are sleeping That rose in their rapture from lips of the spring, That awakened the world from its winter of weeping, Sweet songs shall be sung by the birds on the wing. Though the bosom be dark with the dirges of sadness And solitudes gather so heavy and lone, There shall float from the musical meadows of gladness The ravishing measures that banish each groan.

Make the most of this life; 'tis a garden of beauty, Where, blushing, the blossoms grow tenderly-sweet, While they brighten the years of man's labor and duty And scatter the kisses of love at his feet; 'Tis a world that is wild with the laughter of living When hands do the brotherly kindness they can, And its hearts are the treasures of tenderness giving To soften and sweeten the nature of man.

Make the most of this life; there is happiness in it, When souls find a theme for their jubilant song; There is music, when angels are taught to begin it, Which never was marred with a murmur of wrong; There are voices that sing in their sweetness forever, And mutter no strains of contention or strife, Neither burden the hours with the pangs of endeavor, When we, with our deeds, make the most of this life.

"THE SONGS THAT MOTHER USED TO SING."

The songs that mother used to sing! How tenderly those ditties roll, And to the dirges in my soul The happy notes of gladness bring! Where'er my vagrant feet may roam From pleasures of my childhood's home, This life of mine with rapture throngs, When thinking of my mother's songs.

They were not made of magic lays; No perfect melodies were found, That with the strains of fairy sound Would charm the stranger's ear to praise; But I can never hope to meet Another music half so sweet, And all my longing love will cling To songs that mother used to sing.

With gentleness of crooning cries, She freed the aching limbs from pain, And lulled the eyes to sleep again With sweetness of her lullabies. Love mingled with her tender voice In tones that made the heart rejoice, And Heaven's music seemed to ring In songs that mother used to sing.

Though years have passed, they still impart Glad warbles to the hours of woe, And their mute carols fondly throw The sacred raptures o'er my heart; Until my locks are thin and gray Deep in my soul will sound alway, And full of joy will ever spring The songs that mother used to sing.

"QUAFF THE GLASS, THE WINE IS RED."

Quaff the glass, the wine is red, And the rose of youth is glowing, While the toils of life are fled And the snows of age are going; Quaff it with a hearty will, Quaff it deep and quaff forever; Wine will every sorrow kill, And destroy the pleasures never.

When the heart beats sad and low, Drink its gladness like a river; When the soul is weak with woe, Quaff and be a cheerful liver; Never, never, life, despair, While a cup of hope is nigh thee; Bend not under loads of care While the fount of joy is by thee!

If the fickle friendships end And thy fortune be a sad one, Claim, O, claim, as truest friend, Ruby wine, the sweet and glad one! If thy love hath proven cold, Leave her, leave her, for the new one; Wine is never false for gold; Friend to friend, a tried and true one!

Let the cynics curse and rave; This must be a life of pleasure; Fill a bumper! He's the knave Who would scorn joy's fullest measure; Quaff the glass, the wine is red; Hour by hour the days are going; Wine is yet the fountain head From which pleasure's tide is flowing

GOOD-NIGHT.

Good night, my little love, good-night! May angels keep With fondest watch thy slumbers, till the light Shall break thy sleep, And morning with its wonders bright Shall banish all thy cares with might.

Within this quickened life of mine, I bear away The loving looks and tender words of thine, Which from this day Within my soul shall ever shine And make me better, more divine.

With love and trust and truth, my heart Beats all for thee; And though our lives may wander far apart, Till death's decree Shall pierce my hopes with deadly dart, Thou still my star of guidance art.

Good-night, dear one! As gladdest songs, The sweetest dreams Fill all my happy soul in joyous throngs, And tender themes Bring bliss for which my nature longs, And slay the curse of ancient wrongs.

Good-night, my little love! In care Of Heaven rest, And may thy life no deeper sorrow share Than love's behest, Beneath the smiles of raptures rare! Good-night! God keep thee everywhere!

LIVE LIFE WITH LOVE.

There is no soul of anguish or repining, That doubts and trembles in the shades of gloom, But love can lead where softest suns are shining And fill his days with beauty and its bloom. Live life with love!

There is no bosom dark with lonely caring, That sadly sorrows in the nights of woe, But love can soothe his torture and despairing, And scatter gladness where his feet may go. Live life with love!

There is no scene of misery or sorrow That droops and withers in the dark of night, But love can bring fond yearnings for the morrow And heap the heart with hope's unfading light. Live life with love!

There is in all the world no sinful creature That gropes and falters on his troubled way, But love can overcome his erring nature, And change his darkness to eternal day. Live life with love!

Sweet love, with bounties that her hands are giving, Can blossom roses on the desert heath, Can brighten all the longings of the living And with found kisses warm the lips of death. Live life with love!

As love is thine, so shall thy days be sweeter With all the deeds that shall thy fellows bless; Thy small achievements nobler and completer With truth and hope and highest happiness! Live life with love!

DISCONTENT.

The sun comes up in the east And the sun goes down in the west, And man to me is a heartless beast And the world has only a savage breast.

How thoughts rush over my soul As the waves walk over the sea! Their forms flee soon and the sorrows roll In the deep distress that is over me.

How hopes arise in my heart, As the roses bloom over the plain! But time is tearing their sweets apart And they die in darkness and awful pain.

Ambitions burn in my breast, As the fires in a city rage; But damp creeps over their fervid zest And they sink away into ashen age.

If there was pleasure for pain I could well be happy awhile, And, O, my bosom would ne'er complain, If my fortune gave me a single smile.

But here I am, and the curse is on, And my life is a waste of woe, And ere one river of tears is gone, O, another torrent begins to flow.

Ah, the sun comes up in the east And the sun goes down in the west. And man to me is a heartless beast And the world has only a savage breast!

STANZAS.

Put not trust nor tenderness to sleep, In sorrow sad; The heart, in which a little love may creep, Is not all bad.

The darkest hours that wear a wondrous gloom, Are somewhat light, If but one ray of brilliancy illume The brooding night.

The field in which the weed and bramble thrive Has some of good, If but a single blossom struggling live Amid the rude.

The ocean vast is not all desolate, The worlds between, If on its waters bearing human freight One sail is seen.

All is not harsh and cold amid the wood, If warbled song Resound, how feebly, through the solitude Of tangled wrong.

The desert, barren, bleak, a waste of sand Does never spread, If spear of grass in verdure green expand Above the dead.

Then put not trust nor tenderness to sleep In sorrow sad; The heart in which a little love may creep Is not all bad.

THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

Since Adam's first sin in the garden of song, Where the hopes of the race were empearled, Whenever a mortal does anything wrong, It is only the way of the world!

If statesmen forget all the pledges they made, And the people to evils are hurled,-- Excuse their misdeeds! 'Tis a trick of the trade, And is only the way of the world!