Part 3

For God's sake, do not give him aid, Nor urge him onward. Oh, to me, It seems so strange that laws are made To crush all other crimes, while he Who bears down through Hell's gaping portals The countless souls, of rum wrecked mortals,

Is left to wander, to, and fro, In perfect freedom through the land. And those who ought to see, and know, Will lift no warning voice, or hand. Oh, men in halls of legislation. Rise to the combat, save the Nation!!

IF.

If I were sent to represent A portion of a nation I would not chat, on this and that, In the halls of legislation. To show my power, I'd waste no hour In aimless talk and bother, Nor fritter away a precious day On this and that and the other.

Whether the food a dog consumes Wouldn't make a porker fatter, And about a thousand useless things, Of no import or matter;-- Whether each day a man should pray For our welfare, or shouldn't. Now I do not say men do this way; I merely say I wouldn't!

No! were I sent to represent A state, or town, or county, I'd do some good, and all I could, To earn the people's bounty. Instead of a dog, or a fattening hog, I'd talk about men's drinking! And, with words of fire, I-would inspire The stolid and unthinking.

And the time that I might idly waste, (I don't say men do waste it,) I'd spend in pleading for my cause, And, with tongue and pen, I'd haste it Through all the land, till a mighty band, With laws and legislation, Should cleanse the stain and cut the chain That binds our helpless nation.

And little need would there be then, When that bright sun had risen, Of asylum wings or building sites-- Of county or state prison. The need is made by the liquor trade! Oh ye wise, sage law-makers, 'Tis the friend you smile upon that makes Our madmen and law-breakers.

"Two-thirds," so reads our State Report, "Are made insane by liquor!" And so I say, I'd spend no day In idle chat and bicker If I were sent to represent A portion of a nation; But I'd plead for laws, until my cause Was won through legislation.

A PLEA FOR FAME.

Let those slander fame who will-- Call her cheat and blame her ways. It may all be true; and still I shall give her words of praise. She has been my faithful friend, True and constant to the end.

Since I saw her hand first beckon Far above my lowly plain, I have had no need to reckon What my loss, or what my gain. She has made sweet blossoms blow In whatever path I go; She hath made the dark ways light. Made the somber places bright; She has filled my empty cup Full to overflow with pleasure, And, though I may drink it up, She again refills the measure.

She has never promised aught That she has not more than brought. She has stood by me in danger, Made a friend of many a stranger-- Made a welcome warm for me Whereso'er my lot may be; Thrown wide open many a door That was closed to me before; Given me every boon and blessing-- Almost--that is worth possessing.

All my life, I never knew Any other friend so true. Youth and Love are fleeting things; Wealth has light and airy wings-- Fame, once mine, will never flee, She has been a friend to me. Let who will condemn her ways, I shall always sing her praise.

A MOTHER'S WAIL.

The sweet young spring walks over the earth, It flushes and glows on moor and lea; The birds are singing in careless mirth-- The brook flows cheerily on to the sea. And I know that the flowers are blooming now, Over my beautiful darling's brow; Blooming and blowing in perfume now Over my poor lost darling's brow.

The breath of the passionate summer turns The green on the hills to a deeper dye. The wind from the southland blows and burns; The sun grows red in the brazen sky; And I know that the long, dark grasses wave Over my beautiful darling's grave; Rise and fall, and lift and wave Over my darling's narrow grave.

The days flow on and the summer dies And glorious autumn takes the crown, And toward the south the robin flies, And the grass on the hill grows dull and brown, And the leaves, all gold, and purple and red Drift over my precious darling's 'bed. Drift and flutter, all gold and red, Over my darling's lonely bed.

The winter comes with its chilling snow And wraps the world in a spotless shroud And cold from the north the wild wind blows, And the tempest rages fierce and loud. It shrieks, and sobs, and sighs, and weeps, O'er the mound where my darling sleeps; In pity it sobs, and sighs, and weeps Over the ground where my lost one sleeps.

He was so young, and fair, and brave, The pride of my bosom, my heart's best joy. And he lieth now in a drunkard's grave-- My beautiful darling--my only boy. But down in my heart of hearts I know He has gone where the tempter never can go To heaven his soul has gone, I know, Where the souls of his tempters never can go.

They charmed him into his licensed hell, They gave him rum, and his eye grew wild; And lower and lower, down he fell, Till they made a fiend of my precious child. May the curses of God fall on the soul Who gave my darling the poison bowl; Aye! curses dark and deep on the soul Who tempted my darling to lift the bowl.

"THE SAME OLD STRAIN."

Each day that I live I am persuaded anew, A maxim I long have believed in, is true. Each day I grow firmer in this, my belief, Strong drink causes half the world's trouble and grief.

Do I take up a paper, I read of a fight, Tom's fist in his eye deprived Jamie of sight; Both fellows were drinking before it began, And drink made a brute of a peaceable man.

Next, Jones kills his wife, such an awful affair! She was throttled, and pounded, and drawn by the hair; Cause--"Jones had been drinking--not in his sane mind." (Few men _are_ who tip up the bottle, I find.)

Then, a man is assaulted and dirked in the dark By two "jolly boys" who are out on a "lark;" They have ever been peaceable boys--but, you see, They drank, and "were hardly themselves" on this spree.

Just over the street lives the man who is known To be honest and kind, when he lets drink alone; But whenever he quaffs from the full, flowing bowl, He is more like a beast than a man with a soul.

Next door lives the husband who frets at his wife; With his temper and spleen, she's no peace of her life. Well I know--do you? he muddles his head Every night with hot toddy, ere going to bed.

"We temperance croakers harp on the same strain?" Well--the cause is one story again and again; Fights--tragedy--troubles--all stirred up by drink, Good reason we have to keep _harping_, I think.

We harp to these words; strong drink drives the knife To the heart of a friend, and deprives him of life; It turns sober boys into rowdies and knaves-- It steals from the household to fill up the graves.

Who loves it the most first falls by its art; It first wins its victim--then strikes to the heart. But one thing is certain--it never was known To do a man harm if he let it alone.

LIMITLESS.

There is nothing, I hold, in the way of work That a human being may not achieve If he does not falter, or shrink or shirk, And more than all, if he will _believe_.

Believe in himself and the power behind That stands like an aid on a dual ground, With hope for the spirit and oil for the wound, Ready to strengthen the arm or mind.

When the motive is right and the will is strong There are no limits to human power; For that great force back of us moves along And takes us with it, in trial's hour.

And whatever the height you yearn to climb, Tho' it never was trod by the foot of man, And no matter how steep--I say you _can_, If you will be patient-and use your time.

DENIED.

The winds came out of the west one day, And hurried the clouds before them; And drove the shadows and mists away, And over the mountains bore them. And I wept, "Oh, wind, blow into my mind, Blow into my soul and heart, And scatter the clouds that hang like shrouds, And make the shadows depart."

The rain came out of the leaden skies And beat on the earth's cold bosom. It said to the sleeping grass, "Arise," And the young buds sprang in blossom. And I wept in pain, "Oh, blessed rain, Beat into my heart to-day; Thaw out the snows that are chilling it so, Till it blossoms in hope, I pray."

The sunshine fell on the bare-armed trees, In a wonderful sheen of glory; And the young leaves rustled and sang to the breeze, And whispered a love-fraught story. And "Sun, oh shine on this heart of mine, And woo it to life," I cried; But the wind, and sun, and rain, each one The coveted boon denied.

WARNED.

They stood at the garden gate. By the lifting of a lid She might have read her fate In a little thing he did.

He plucked a beautiful flower, Tore it away from its place On the side of the blooming bower, And held it against his face.

Drank in its beauty and bloom, In the midst of his idle talk; Then cast it down to the gloom And dust of the garden walk.

Ay, trod it under his foot, As it lay in his pathway there; Then spurned it away with his boot, Because it had ceased to be fair.

Ah! the maiden might have read The doom of her young life then; But she looked in his eyes instead, And thought him the king of men.

She looked in his eyes and blushed, She hid in his strong arms' fold; And the tale of the flower, crushed And spurned, was once more told.

RICH AND POOR.

By the castle-gate my lady stands, Viewing broad acres and spreading lands.

Hill and valley and mead and plain Are all her own, with their wealth of grain.

In the richest of rich robes she is dressed, A jewel blazes upon her breast;

And her brow is decked with a diadem That glitters with many a precious gem.

But what to the Lady Wendoline Rich satin garments or jewels fine?

Or ripening harvests, or spreading lands-- See! she is wringing her milk-white hands!

And her finger is stained with crimson dew Where the ring with the diamond star cut through.

And a look of pain and wild despair Rests on the face, so young and fair.

To-morrow will be her bridal day, And she will barter herself away

For added wealth and a titled name; 'Tis the curse of her station, and whose the blame!

She loathes the man who will call her wife, And moans o'er her hapless, loveless life.

The joys of wooing she cannot know; My lord, her father, has willed it so.

She's a piece of merchandise, bought and sold For name, position, and bags of gold.

But people must wed in their own degree, Though hearts may break in their agony.

Under the hill, in the castle's shade, At a cottage door sits an humble maid;

In her cheek the blushes come and go As she stitches away on a robe like snow;

And she sings aloud in her happiness-- In a joy she cannot hide or repress.

Close at her side her lover stands, Watching the nimble, sun-browned hands

As they draw the needle to and fro Through the robe as white as drift of snow.

Both hearts are singing a wordless lay, For the morrow will be their bridal day.

They have only their hands, their love, their health, In place of title, position, and wealth.

But which is the rich, and which the poor, The maid at the gate, or the maid in the door?

OVER THE ALLEY.

Here in my office I sit and write Hour on hour, and day on day, With no one to speak to from morn till night, Though I have a neighbor just over the way. Across the alley that yawns between A maiden sits sewing the whole day long; A face more lovely is seldom seen In hall or castle or country throng.

Her curling tresses are golden brown; Her eyes, I think, are violet blue, Though her long, thick lashes are always down, Jealously hiding the orbs from view; Her neck is slender, and round, and white, And this way and that way her soft hair blows, As there in the window, from morn till night, She sits in her beauty, and sings and sews.

And I, in my office chair, lounge and dream, In an idle way, of a sweet "might be," While the maid at her window sews her seam, With never a glance or a thought for me. Perhaps she is angry because I look So long and often across the way, Over the top of my ledger-book; But those stolen glances brighten the day.

And I am blameless of any wrong;-- She the transgressor, by sitting there And making my eyes turn oft and long To a face so delicate, pure and fair. Work is forgotten; the page lies clean, Untouched by the pen, while hours go by. Oh, maid of the pensive air and mien! Give me one glance from your violet eye.

Drop your thimble or spool of thread Down in the alley, I pray, my sweet, Or the comb or ribbon from that fair head, That I may follow with nimble feet; For how can I tell you my heart has gone Across the alley, and lingers there, Till I know your name, my beautiful one? How could I venture, and how could I dare?

Just one day longer I'll wait and dream, And then, if you grant me no other way, I shall write you a letter: "Maid of the seam, You have stolen my property; now give pay, Beautiful robber and charming thief! Give but a glance for the deed you've done." Thus shall I tell you my loss and grief, Over the alley, my beautiful one.

AT THE WINDOW.

Every morning, as I walk down From my dreary lodgings, toward the town, I see at the window near the street, The face of a woman, fair, and sweet, With soft brown eyes, and chestnut hair, And red lips, warm with the kiss left there. And she lingers as long as she can see The man who walks, just ahead of me.

At night, when I come from my office, down town, There stands the woman, with eyes of brown, Smiling out through the window-blind, At the man who comes strolling on behind. This fellow and I resemble each other; At least, so I'm told, by one and another. (But I think I'm the handsomer, far, of the two.) I don't know him at all, save to "how d'ye do," Or nod when I meet him. I think he's at work In a dry goods store, as a salaried clerk.

And I am a lawyer, of high renown; Have a snug bank account, and an office down town. Yet I feel for that fellow an envious spite: (It has no better name, so I speak it outright.) There were symptoms before: but it's grown, I believe, Alarmingly fast, since one cloudy eve, When passing the little house, close by the street, I heard the patter of two tiny feet, And a figure in pink, fluttered down to the gate, And a sweet voice exclaimed, "Oh, Will, you are late And, darling, I've watched at the window until-- Sir, I beg pardon! I thought it was Will."

I passed on my way, with an odd little smart Beneath my vest pocket, in what's called the heart. For, as it happens, my name, too, is Will; And that voice crying "darling" sent such a strange thrill Throughout my whole being. "How nice it would be," Thought I, "if it were in reality me That she's watched and longed for, instead of that lout." (It was envy made me use that word, no doubt, For he's a fine fellow, and handsome, ahem!) But then it's absurd that this rare little gem Of a woman, should be on the look-out for him, Till she brings on a headache, and makes her eyes dim, While I go to lodgings, dull, dreary, and bare, With no one to welcome me, no one to care If I'm early, or late--no soft eyes of brown To watch when I go to, or come from, the town.

This bleak, wretched bachelor life, is about, If I may be allowed the expression--played out. Somewhere there must be, in this wide world, I think, Another fair woman, who dresses in pink. And I know of a cottage for sale just below, And it has a French window, in front, and--heigho I wonder how long, at the longest, 'twill be, Before coming home from the office I'll see A nice little woman there, watching for me.

ONLY A KISS.

Once, when the summer lay on the hilltops, And the sunshine fell like a golden flame, Out from the city's dust and turmoil A gallant, fair-faced stranger came-- Came to rest in our humble cottage Till the winds of autumn should blow again, To walk in the meadow and lie by the brooklet, And woo back the strength, that the town had slain.

I was young, with the foolish heart of a maiden That had never been wooed, and the stranger bland Awoke that heart from its idle dreaming, And swept the strings with a master-hand. I remember the thrill, and the first wild tremor, That stirred its depths with a sweet surprise, When I glanced one day at the handsome stranger, And caught the gaze of his deep, dark eyes.

My cheek grew red with its tell-tale blushes, And the knitting dropped from my nerveless grasp; He stooped, and then, as he gracefully gave it, He held my hand in a loving clasp; We said no word, but he knew my secret, He read what lay in my maiden heart, No vain concealing was needed longer To hide the tremor his voice would start.

We walked in the meadow and by the brooklet, My sun-browned hand in his snowy palm; He said my blushes would shame the roses, And my heart stood still in a blissful calm. He stroked my tresses, my raven ringlets, And twined them over his finger fair; My eyes' dark splendor was full of danger, He said, for Cupid was lurking there.

And once he held me close to his bosom, And pressed on my lips a loving kiss; Oh! how I tremble with shame and anger, Even now, as I think of this-- But in that moment, I thought that heaven Had suddenly opened and drawn me in, And kissed with passion the lips, so near me, Nor dreamed I was staining my soul with sin.

But there came a letter one quiet evening To the man who was dearer to me than life-- "A picture," he said, as he tore it open, "Look, sweet friend, at my fair young wife." A terrible anguish, a seething anger, Heaved my bosom and blanched my cheek, And he who stood there holding the letter, He watched me smiling, but did not speak.

I took the picture and gazed upon it-- A sweet young creature with sunny hair And eyes of blue. "May the good Lord keep you," I said aloud, "in his tender care-- You who are wedded and bound forever Unto this man," and I met his eyes-- "This soulless villain, this shameless coward, Whose heart is blackened with acted lies."

My heart swelled full of a terrible hatred, And something of murder was burning there, But a better feeling stole in behind it As I looked on the picture sweet and fair; I turned and left him, and never saw him-- Never looked on his face again, And time has tempered my shame and sorrow, And soothed and quieted down my pain.

But I always tremble, in awful anger, That wears and worries my waning life, When I think how he clasped me close to his bosom, He--with a lawfully wedded wife. When I think how I answered his fond caresses, And clung to his neck in a trance of bliss, And the tears of a life time and all my sorrow Can never remove the stain of his kiss.

MY SHIP.

If all the ships I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah, well! the harbour could not hold So many sails as there would be If all my ships came in from sea.

If half my ships came home from sea, And brought their precious freight to me, Ah, well! I should have wealth as great As any king who sits in state-- So rich the treasures that would be In half my ships now out at sea.

If just one ship I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah, well! the storm-clouds then might frown For if the others all went down, Still rich and proud and glad I'd be If that one ship came back to me.

If that one ship went down at sea, And all the others came to me, Weighed down with gems and wealth untold, With glory, honours, riches, gold, The poorest soul on earth I'd be If that one ship came not to me.

O skies, be calm! O winds, blow free-- Blow all my ships safe home to me! But if thou sendest some a-wrack, To never more come sailing back, Send any--all that skim the sea, But bring my love-ship home to me.

FINIS.

An idle rhyme of the summer time, Sweet, and solemn, and tender; Fair with the haze of the moon's pale rays, Bright with the sunset's splendor.

Summer and beauty over the lands-- Careless hours of pleasure; A meeting of eyes and a touching of hands-- A change in the floating measure.

A deeper hue in the skies of blue, Winds from the tropics blowing; A softer grace on the fair moon's face, And the summer going, going.

The leaves drift down, the green grows brown, And tears with smiles are blended; A twilight hour and a treasured flower,-- And now the poem is ended.

LINES.

Written by Request of the Proprietors of Windsor Cheese Factory.

Alas! my muse is getting fast; She uses slang, 'tis very clear. Last eve, as she was flying past, She whispered "Cheese it!" in my ear.

I chided her with words like these: "You slangy jade, avaunt! go by!" Again she said: "You'd better cheese-- The fact-ory you can't deny."

I struck her with my pen and cried, "Away! you fill my breast with woe And bitter shame." She only sighed, "Oh, whey-er, whey-er shall I go?"

"You talk more like a pilot man" Said I, "than like a poet's muse." Said she, "I'll seek the vat-I-can, But I will fly from such abuse:"

Quoth I, "What's turned your silly head? I was but jesting, anyway." "My blood is curdling now," she said. "But if you press it, I will stay."

Some sage advise I gave her then, And boxed her ears, the wicked tease, And I told her she could cut it; When I sat down to sing of cheese.

Cheese, lively subject of a poet's dream, My thoughts go skipping through the tender theme. Venerable topic, old as the hills, I sing; Yet ever new, and green, like love, and spring.

Cheese, savory subject! let me weave a song Out of my merits, musical and strong. Others may sing of green grass, if they please, I sing of it in the useful form of cheese.

The world keeps moving. Now, it's upside down. Time was, when pretty maidens of each town Made all the cheese; and while they pressed the curds, Their lovers pressed their suits, in earnest words.

Now men make cheese, and press it, and their wives And daughters worry and torment their lives, By pressing their suits, new spring suits, the while, And asking for money, to dress out in style.

Strong-minded sisters, what more can you ask? Man takes, himself, the burden of your task, And you enjoy the proceeds, and your "rights," For which each woman of the period fights.

Hail! Windsorburgh; may your cheese prove the limb You '11 walk forth on, in sight of all the world. And may the fame of Limburg yet grow dim, When once your banner is unfurled.

Hail! Windsor enterprise, pluck, pride, ambition Ignoring scoffs, defying competition. Providence smiles upon your latest plan, And soaks the grass, to help you all it can.

Three cheers for Windsor, factory and all, Upon its homes may choicest blessings fall. And so my song is ended; if you please, Will Mr. Sherman--E. P.--pass the cheese?

OVER THE WATER.

Think of it, think of it over the water Thousands of men to-day march on to death, Think how the sun shines on fields red with slaughter-- How the air chokes, with the cannon's hot breath.

How in the shadows, perchance, of this even, Hundreds of hearts, will have paused in their beat, Pale, ghastly brows, will be turned up to heaven-- Brows that were pressed by lips, tender and sweet.

Think of the homes that these battles are leaving Destitute, desolate, dreary and dumb. Think of the fond, patient, hearts that are grieving, Breaking for loved ones, who never will come.

Ah! we so recently felt this same anguish, Women--Oh! women who suffer and pray, We well can weep with you, who weep and languish, We have borne all you are bearing to-day.

"God speed the right," we cry, "God be with Prussia," Yet to the mourners of soldiers who fall, Whether their tears flow in France, or in Russia, Their dead are their dead, and we pity them all.