Chapter 8

Life was made much brighter By your presence sweet; At your cheery coming Heart-shadows would retreat; Soulful songs with meanings Beyond your years were sung; To chords of sweetest rapture Your heart-strings e'er were strung.

From out the realms of heav'n Still you speak to me, And fancy draws the curtain That I your face may see; Perhaps in the hereafter I yet may fully know The purpose of your going, Your mission here below.

THE VOICE.

To me comes a voice that none other Hath power to hear or to know, Its cadence so sweet and consoling Is a whisper so gentle and low, That the flight of an angel might covet The silence it bears in its tone; It speaks to me often, to comfort My heart when I sit all alone.

I oft close my eyes at the twilight And that voice comes floating to me Like the song of some fairy creature That dwells in a pearl-lighted sea; When the shades of midnight infold me That voice lulls me gently to rest, And tells me the time is not distant When my spirit shall dwell as its guest.

When shadows of night are departing And smiling Aurora appears, That voice of sweet invitation Falls soothingly into my ears; A form that I fondly cherish Like a vision of beauty I see, That comes on an angelic mission With counsel and solace for me.

How sweet is the voice that is calling-- Is calling in rapture to me And leading me close to the border Where into its home I can see! It tells me the land is not distant, That soon when my boat I must launch, I shall know the voice that is calling, Is the voice my lost darling Blanche.

* * * * *

When Liberty lies wounded, And shrieks in wild despair, Then patriots will cast aside The party garb they wear, And honest hands and hearts unite, To wash away the stain That narrow-minded partisans Would selfishly maintain.

Dear Goddess of our fathers! Our hands shall e'er maintain The sacred trust of keeping free The realm where thou dost reign; And counting not our lives too dear To offer unto thee, We dedicate all that we are To our sweet Liberty.

A PICTURE.

I sat by the farm-house window When the winter's sun was low, And looked on the clear horizon O'er fields white-crested with snow.

A tree with its arms outstretching, Was limned on the distant sky, And my fancy saw a picture Such as gold can never buy.

Perhaps to no other vision Could the scene be just the same, For blendings in the picture Had on me a special claim.

My mother oft had looked upon That fair picture in the west, While sitting in that self-same chair, Ere she laid her down to rest.

This gave a charm to the picture Of especial power to me, And my vision saw a painting That none else on earth could see.

I can close my eyes at twilight Though now many miles away, And see that lovely horizon At close of expiring day.

I can see the true formation Of each rock and tree and field, In a perfect panorama That time has not yet concealed.

It is not an idle fancy For me now to paint the scene, Since my mother's form has faded From the place where she has been.

I know it affords me comfort To recall from day to day, That scene from the farm-house window, Since my mother passed away.

MY ROOM IN BOYHOOD'S DAYS.

After forty years.

Sacred these walls wherein I find Myself inclosed once more; Here in youth's pride my ardent mind On nightly tasks would pore.

Sweet were these tasks, for mental power Comes with each duty done; And ray of light charmed midnight's hour When thought its victory won.

Oft did the battle seem severe, Sometimes defeat seemed nigh, But pride and love must persevere When all our powers we try.

Struggles bring a development That will not brook defeat; Within us dwells an element That makes just contest sweet.

If barriers in our mental path Stand like a sullen foe, Summon the soul, in righteous wrath Strike a decisive blow,

And spare not till the victory Puts ignorance to flight; And let the battle-cry e'er be Science and Truth and Right!

Such victories, when fairly won, Put slaughter's field to shame, And Honor's self shall place upon Such victors, wreaths of fame.

O happy hours within these walls, But happier far to me Is the expanded mind which calls Deep thought, best liberty.

That mental power which sees the world As beauty, grace, and art, Wherein God's loveliness unfurled, Speaks to a living heart,

And leads it tenderly to see The harmony of laws Which unifies immensity, And tells of the First Cause,

Yields greater solace, richer lore, Than books alone can give; For mind and soul form the great power By which we act and live.

The wealth that dignifies mankind Is not in bonds and stocks, But in rich thoughts, noble, refined, Needing no bars nor locks.

When man for manhood more shall strive, And less for greed and gain, The humble poor may nobly live, And feel not hunger's pain.

These walls are sacred unto me, For thought here learned to soar And build the ark of liberty I love, exalt, adore.

NATURE'S VOICE.

Every tree and plant, every tiny flower That grows in wood or field, Hath a voice that calls aloud to me, And a beauty half concealed, That draw my ears to hear a strain Of music sweet and low, And paint for me far richer hues Than the sunset's evening glow; They speak to me as no tongue can speak; Their voices are sweeter far Than the tones that fall from human lips, Or strains of sweet music are.

POUNDRIDGE, N. Y.

Perhaps no spot upon this sphere, Has charms for me more sacred, dear, Than those of old Poundridge; I love her hills, her lakes, her streams, Her rural haunts, where Nature teems With joys naught can abridge.

Her dew-bespangled meadows shine With gems of radiance so divine, When touched by matin sun, That myriad pendant drops of dew, Lend to the mead a brilliant hue Like earth with diamonds strown.

The woods that sleep on distant hills, Or watch o'er gently murmuring rills, Seem restful to the soul; Their silence brings sweetest repose, A panacea for the woes That spurn M. D.'s control.

The healthful, healing, peaceful rest, To frame fatigued, to mind distressed, Seems but a foretaste here, Of that serene and blest abode, Which to the faithful child of God Hereafter shall appear.

I love the rustic's rough demesne, Which yields to toil a wealth unseen To those of civic life; For here I drank, in youth's bright dawn, The draughts of vigor which were drawn From labor's busy strife.

I love the house wherein I played, The yard o'erspread by maple's shade, The nearby babbling brook; The fields o'er which my youthful feet Sped onward toward the trout's retreat, With dangling line and hook.

I love the path across the wood Which once I trod in search of food For hungering, thirsting mind, The room where pupils used to meet And strive to make their work complete And manners more refined.

All these I love for what is past, And still must love while life shall last; But I do love still more The souls who fired my mental lamp, And on my character did stamp Truths fraught with richest lore.

I see my aged mother there, My father in his old arm-chair, And fancy hears their voice; My brother yet so full of joy, Has passed the limits of a boy, But still can much rejoice.

Upon the hill, the lakes between, Are sacred mounds of living green, Where sleep my precious dead; A vacant spot reserved for me, To which my heart looks longingly, Invites my weary head.

No greater boon could I e'er ask When I have finished earthly task, Than quietly to rest, Surrounded by her vales and hills, Her laughing lakes and singing rills, And friends that I love best.

Tho' many years now intervene, My mind recalls each boyhood scene Of field and wood and bridge; These cherished memories only prove Abiding faith and filial love Toward restful, old Poundridge.

TIM.

We remember well when a schoolboy, When pliant in mind and limb, We had for a boon companion, A bright youth whose name was Tim.

He was sturdy, strong, and honest, In body and mind he had vim, So we learned by intuition, To place much reliance on Tim.

We fished and hunted together, In summer, the lakes we would swim, Skated their surface in winter, With mercurial, wonderful Tim.

Our tasks at school were a union, And when thoughts were distant or dim, A light illumined the pages, That seemed a reflection from Tim.

Reciprocal visits were often, He slept with me, I slept with him, Talked till near dawn of daylight, With fluent and scholarly Tim.

Decades have passed since that season, My hair is reduced to a rim, But my heart beats as warm as ever, For that friend of my youth, named Tim.

As years fleet away, we treasure The power of our mind to skim O'er the scenes of early doings, With valiant and trustworthy Tim.

A third of a century over, Still a friend have we now like him, Exact in his every bearing, And his name is--unchanged--Tim.

We wonder if in the hereafter, When we range with the Seraphim, Happiness will be augmented By the kindly presence of Tim.

We trust an expanded mission Will fill us with joy to the brim, As we ramble the fields of glory, With genial and faithful friend Tim.

THE UNWRITTEN LETTER.

On receiving sprigs of Forget-me-not and Lilly-of-the-Valley in envelope, through mail, with no note or name inclosed.

In form it was a letter, Unique in its every part, The expression could not be better, For it touched my inmost heart.

No pen had marred its beauty, No ink had traced a line, It did its silent duty Like a messenger divine.

Upon its page was written No English, French, nor Greek; But a universal language That only flowers can speak.

The colors were pure whiteness And heavenly tints of blue, Excelling all the brightness That art can bring to view.

The Lily-of-the-Valley And sweet Forget-me-not, That grow where perfumes dally In sweet secluded spot,

When sent to tell some story That words cannot express, Are fraught with special glory And richest tenderness.

Their perfumes speak of gladness, Their colors of delight, They neutralize dull sadness, Turn darkness into light.

They link the heart of sender To heart to which they're sent, And unto both will render The sweetness of content.

I love them for their clearness, Their whiteness and their blue; But added to such dearness Is the thought they came from you.

ALL THINGS ARE SECOND-HANDED.

On being asked to write an original poem.

"There's no new thing under the sun," Said the ancient priest and preacher; What seems now new is only done To quicken some old feature That lies effete, or badly worn, And lacks its pristine rigor, That needs an energizing touch To give it life and vigor.

The sun that shines on us to-day, Shone on our ancient parents Who walked upon the primal clay; And science fully warrants That not one atom has been lost, And not one atom added To all the atom matter host, Although some forms have faded.

The gorgeous colors that are cast On cloud-land morn and even, Are but reflections of the past That erst had spangled heaven With glories from that mystic throne Whose blendings none can rival, But whose expiring tints, alone, Admit of a revival.

The rain that drops has dropped before; Our flowers were another's; The songs we sing were sung of yore By long departed brothers; The sounds we hear are but the tones Or echoes of the past; We live among the mouldering bones Of forms too frail to last.

Then ask me not for something new, All things are second-handed, The old may sometimes be more true Than that more lately branded; But taking things as best we can, We know 'tis only human To shun a second-handed man, Or a second-handed woman.

But let us not be too severe On second-handed matter, For nothing seems to be more clear Than that we should not flatter Our souls into a fatal state, Of scoffing at the common, For who can tell what cruel fate May make of man or woman?

FACES WE READ.

One may read from the face at leisure, From the leaf that reflects the soul, The thought, the desire, and the measure That imprint on the facial scroll The innermost mind and its actions, The heart with its strongest desires, The passions, impulses, and factions Which animate clay oft inspires.

Ev'ry line of th' face has a father Whose hand has engraven it there, But shades of the spirit are rather Betrayed in the hue of the hair; The pencils of thought, true to nature, Have written their records so plain, That a skillful eye reads each feature That dwells in the heart and the brain.

One may peep into occult recesses Which only the face will reveal, May read what the tongue quite represses But the eye cannot fully conceal, May fathom the deepest depressions Where the soul has buried its woe, Where the heart would hold secret sessions With scenes and events long ago.

The writer applying for a room at Newpoint Inn, Amityville, Long Island, was informed that the house was full. Some friends, stopping near, kindly invited him to go with them. He accepted. After his departure he sent the following:

AMITYVILLE.

"I was a stranger and ye took me in, Hungry and ye fed me," No place for me at Newpoint Inn, So home you kindly led me.

Some say the world is cold and sour, Devoid of fellow-feeling, But day by day and hour by hour, To me comes a revealing

That warm hearts beat where'er we go, Kind hands are gladly serving The kindred hearts which ever show They truly are deserving.

The world, indeed, may frigid be When icebergs float around it, But warm, true hearts of constancy, Have uniformly found it

To be a place where fragrant flowers Deprive the thorns of stings, Where sunny souls spend happy hours, And Nature laughs and sings.

We make our paths, we dwell the lives Selected by ourselves; We shape the destiny that gives Our fate to gods or elves.

Then let us know this truth full well Wherever we may be, We have a power to help us dwell In the _ville of amity_.

* * * * *

Robin is a singer; sweet and pure and clear Are the notes he warbles from his covert near; Softly, oh! how softly, at the sunset's glow Does he chant his vespers, plaintive, sweet, and low.

Robin is an artist; he beautifies the stream, The vale, the hill, the meadow, until they truly seem To glow, because his presence gives to each a tongue To echo back the music his minstrel throat has sung.

TRUE WEALTH.

The smallest type of manhood that lives, (If manhood it may be called,) Is that which knows no power but wealth That is measured in stocks and gold; It looks in disdain on a working man Who declines to bend his knee, Though in honor's scales he may outweigh The scorner, in great degree.

There's a wealth that far surpasses all The houses and stocks and gold, That ever was on the market placed, To be by a hireling sold; 'Tis the wealth of manhood, noble, free, And an independent mind That scorns to swerve from justice and truth, But faithfully serves mankind.

PIOUS PIE POEM PUNS.

Dedicated to my Ex-Pier.

One pious afternoon in June When pyronomics held full sway, My pilot, fancy, led me on To seek new fields, piebald and gay.

The pianet rested in shade, The lark, piano-voiced, sang not, But pining for some genial maid To pioneer me to a spot,

Where pine or oak might shield from heat, My thoughts turned piously to where Pierian pleasures one might meet, And pious converse jointly share.

Pyrometers were all at home-- No doubt the figures mounted high-- She sighed and said she could not roam, Then pitt (i) ed me with cherry pie.

Piacular may she not be, And thus escape the eternal pyre, No pirate's heart would dance with glee Like mine, to see that maid--Ex-Pier.

FIDELITY.

A Legend of Trinity Lake, Poundridge, N. Y.

Read at a Farmers' Picnic, Trinity Lake, Sept. 1, 1891.

The Rippowams were a tribe of Indians living along the Sound near Stamford and Norwalk, Ct., and extended their territory for some miles northward. The Kitchewonks were a tribe living on the Hudson, near Sing Sing and Peekskill, N. Y., and found their way eastward. In the early days of the Indian occupation of these lands the Rippowams followed up the stream running from the three lakes--Round Pond, Middle Pond, and Lower Pond--while the Kitchewonks followed that branch of the Croton which finds its source in Cross Pond, now Lake Kitchewan. For the possession of these grounds there were frequent battles between these tribes, as the lake-land abounded in fish and game. The intercourse between these tribes, both belonging to the Mohegans, was very limited, at first, but in course of time became more frequent and friendly. A lime and marble ridge separates Lake Kitchewan from the three lower lakes and forms a watershed between the Hudson and the sound.

In recent years a dam was constructed by the Stamford Water Co., and the three lakes were made into one, and very appropriately called thereafter, Trinity. The lakes are supplied almost entirely by springs, as no streams of any size empty into them.

For several years, in the spring time, a floating island appeared in Trinity, upon which vegetation grew abundantly. This island sank upon the approach of cold weather and remained in a state of hibernation until the spring came. Some person or persons who had no love for the romantic, curious, and beautiful, loaded it so heavily with stones that it sank to rise no more.

In its departure the lake sustained the loss of an attraction which is known in but few lakes in the world.

A large rock, estimated to weigh eight or ten tons, is so nicely poised upon another rook, upon a high point about fifty rods west of the lake, that a gentle pressure of the hand will cause it to rock perceptibly.

Directly opposite the picnic grounds are precipitous rocks, below which the waters are extremely deep.--THE AUTHOR.

When the infant world in its swaddling band Of mist and cloud and storm, Assumed its forms of sea and land, And the lakes and streams were born, In this western world, on the eastern shore, Four leagues from the inland sea, Came a liquid crown set with jewels four, But in union only three; For the northern gem was a solitaire And barred from the lesser three, By a marble wall wrought strong and fair By the hand of Divinity.

A silver thread from the Trinity Ran southward through the wood, Till it lost its flow in the land-locked sea, And was merged in old Neptune's flood; But the northern gem in a mystic race Sent a message toward the west, And linked itself in the kind embrace Of the Hudson grandly dressed.

Ten thousand moons had waxed and waned And flung on the mirror sheet A train of beauty, with no discord stained Since creation stood complete. Here antlered deer had slaked their thirst And fought their imaged form; Here rolling tones of thunder burst, As a harbinger of storm; Here song of bird and sigh of breeze Had ne'er met human ear; The beast on land, the fowl on trees Dwelt here in peace and knew no fear.

Brave Kitchewonks had traced their way Along the stream that westward ran, While Rippowams pursued their prey Until this lake-land was their van. 'Twas here Mohegan met again The blood that in Mohegan flowed, But each regarded not the vein, Though kinsmen, foes they firmly stood. This lake-land, rich in fish and game, Was ground for strife and war and blood; From west and south the warriors came In battle paint and surly mood. The Kitchewonks near northern lake Upon the Rippowams looked down, And hoped their power and pride to break E'er harvest-moon had fully grown.

ALMETA on the western stream Now mourned her absent PONOMO, For harvest-moon had sent its gleam Across the Hudson's tidal flow, And at its full he was to come, And her to lake-land safely guide, Where they should make their future home, And she should there become his bride. But he had with Rippowams' band, Marched forth to meet her kinsmen dear, And face to face they sternly stand Prepared for battle-storm severe.

Her heart bid her to dare the shock And seek him near the hostile camp; Her mind her heart would basely mock, And boding fears her ardor damp; The bondage of her heart so great Her coward mind could never free; She heeds no danger, dares all fate, And this her brief soliloquy:

"I know that tribal laws demand My life if I should thither flee, I must obey that great command-- God's higher law--fidelity. No other lips my lips have pressed, No other arms encircled me, Since he my maiden form caressed And each breathed vows of constancy. For me at each returning moon He journeyed through the forest wild, Braved dangers that my heart hath won, And now I must not be defiled By any doubt or any fear That death or suffering may bring. I'd count such sacrifice not dear If I must be an offering.

"What though my blood may stain the soil, Devotion mark me for a slave Through weary years to strive and toil, Or fate should sink me 'neath the wave! 'Twere better far that such should be Than I should violate my heart And all that's sacred unto me By acting a base traitor's part. I must away, I must away To meet him by the silvery lake! 'Tis crime for me to longer stay I will not, cannot now forsake."

She speeds along the forest trail Where warriors late in painted form, Had marched through Kitchewan's fair vale To meet their foes in battle-storm. Her eyes are watchful to survey, Her ears detect the lightest sound, Her heart and mind to her betray Where barriers to her flight are found. She shuns them all by tact and skill; Most gladly she to him will prove The power that's in a woman's will, The faith that's in a woman's love.