Chapter 5
And sometimes I look with pity On my neighbor's mansion tall: There are chambers full of pictures, There are marbles in the hall, Yet with all the signs of splendor That may gild a pile of stone, Not a living thing about it But the owner, grim and lone.
I believe that all his millions He would give without repine For a little bit of gladness In his life, like that in mine; This it is that makes my pathway Beautiful, wherever trod, Keeps my soul from wreck and ruin, Keeps me nearer to my God.
The Charity Ball.
There was many a token of festal display, And reveling crowds who were never so gay, And, as it were Æolus charming the hours, An orchestra hidden by foliage and flowers; There were tapestries fit for the home of a queen, And mirrors that glistened in wonderful sheen; There was feasting and mirth in the banqueting-hall, For this was the annual Charity Ball.
There were pompous civilians, in wealth who abide, Displaying their purses, the source of their pride; And plethoric dealers in margins and stocks, And owners of acres of elegant blocks, And tenement-landlords who cling to a cent When from the poor widow exacting her rent-- Immovable, stern, as an adamant wall-- And yet, who "came down" to this Charity Ball.
There was Beauty whose toilet, superb and unique, Cost underpaid industry many a week Of arduous labor of eye, and heartache, Its starving inadequate pittance to make; There were mischievous maidens and cavaliers bold, Whose blushes and glances and coquetry told A tale of the monarch who held them in thrall-- Who met, as by chance, at the Charity Ball.
There were delicate viands the poor never taste, And dollars were lavished in prodigal waste To pamper the palate of epicures rich; Who drew from the wine cellar's cavernous niche "Excelsior" brands of the rarest champagnes To loosen their tongues--though it pilfered their brains-- Oh, sad if a step in some woeful downfall Should ever be traced to a Charity Ball!
Outside of the window, pressed close to the pane, And furrowed by tears that had fallen like rain, Was the face of a woman, so spectral in hue, With great liquid eyes, like twin oceans of blue, And cheeks in whose hollows were written the lines That pitiless hunger so often defines, Who muttered, as closer she gathered the shawl, "Oh, never for me is this Charity Ball!"
From liveried hirelings who bade her begone, By uniformed minions compelled to move on, Out into the street again driven to roam-- For friends she had none, neither fortune nor home; While carnival-goers in morning's dull gray As homeward returning, fatigued and _blasé_, A vision encountered their hearts to appall, And banish all thought of the Charity Ball.
As if seeking warmth from the icy curb-stone, A form half-reclining, half-clad, and unknown. Dead eyes looking up with a meaningless stare, Lay close to the crowded and broad thoroughfare; A form so emaciate the spirit had fled-- But the pulpit and press and the public all said, As society's doings they sought to recall, That a "brilliant success" was the Charity Ball.
The Bell(e) of Baltimore.
[One of the notable features of Baltimore is the big bell that hangs in the city hall tower, to strike the hour and sound the fire alarm. It is called "Big Sam," and weighs 5,000 pounds]
A million feet above the ground (For so it seemed in winding round), A million, and two more, The latter stiff and sore, While perspiration formed a part Of every reeking pore, I viewed the city like a chart Spread out upon the floor.
And said: "Great guide Jehoiakin, To me is meagre pleasure in The height of spires and domes, Of walls like ancient Rome's; Nor care I for the marts of trade, Or shelves of musty tomes, Nor yet for yonder colonnade Before your palace homes;
"But curiosity is keen To know the city's reigning queen, Who suiteth well the score Of suitors at her door; Oh, which of your divinities Is she whom all adore? Embodiment of truth, _who is_ The belle of Baltimore?"
Veracity's revolving eyes Looked up as if to read the skies: "Why, Lor'-a-miss, see dar-- De bell is in de air! Lan' sakes! of all de missteries Yo' nebber learn before! Why, don' yo' know 'Big Sam'? _He_ is De bell of Baltimore!"
Christmas at Church.
'Twas drawing near the holiday, When piety and pity met In whisp'ring council, and agreed That Christmas time, in homes of need, Should be remembered in a way They never could forget.
Then noble generosity Took youth and goodness by the hand, And planned a thousand charming ways To celebrate this best of days, While hearts were held in sympathy By love's encircling band.
So multitudes together came, Like wandering magi from the East With precious gifts unto the King, With every good and perfect thing To satisfy a shivering frame Or amplify a feast.
The angels had looked long and far The happy scene to parallel, When through the sanctuary door Were carried gifts from shop and store, The treasures of the rich bazaar, To give--but not to sell.
As once the apostolic twelve Of goods allotment made, So equity dealt out with care The widow's and the orphan's share, And of the aged forced to delve At drudging task or trade.
Oh, could the joy which tears express That out of gladness come Be mirrored in its tender glow, Before the beautiful tableau Ingratitude and selfishness Would shrink abashed and dumb!
If every year and everywhere Could kindness thus expand In bounteous gratuity, To all her children earth would be A flowery vale like Eden fair, A milk-and-honey land.
Mysterious.
The morning sun rose bright and fair Upon a lovely village where Prosperity abounded, And ceaseless hum of industry In lines of friendly rivalry From day to day resounded.
Its shaded avenues were wide, And closely bordered either side With cottages or mansions, Or marked by blocks of masonry That might defy a century To loosen from their stanchions.
Its peaceful dwellers daily vied To make this spot, with anxious pride, A Paradise of beauty, Recounted its attractions o'er, And its adornment held no more A pleasure than a duty.
But, ere the daylight passed away, That hamlet fair in ruins lay, Its hapless people scattered Like playthings, at the cyclone's will, And scarce remained one domicile Its fury had not shattered.
Few moments of the tempest's wrath Sufficed to mark one dreadful path With scenes of devastation; While over piles of wild débris Rose shrieks of dying agony Above the desolation.
Oh, mystery! who can understand Why, sudden, from God's mighty hand Destructive bolts of power Without discrimination strike The evil and the good alike-- As in that dreadful hour!
Alas for aching hearts that wait Today in homes made desolate By one sharp blow appalling-- For all who kneel by altars lone, And strive to say "Thy will be done," That awful day recalling!
We dare not question his decrees Who seeth not as mortal sees, Nor doubt his goodness even; Nor let our hearts be dispossessed Of faith that he disposeth best All things in earth and Heaven.
"Be not Anxious."
"Be careful for nothing," Phil. iv. 6. Revised version, "Be not anxious."
Of all the precepts in the Book By word of inspiration given, That bear the import, tone, and look Of messages direct from heaven, From Revelation back to Genesis Is nothing needed half so much as this.
Ah, well the great apostle spake In admonition wise and kind, Who bade humanity forsake The petty weaknesses that bind The spirit like a bird with pinioned wings, That to a broken bough despairing clings.
Were all undue anxiety Eliminated from desire, Could feverish fears and fancies be Consumèd on some funeral pyre, Like holy hecatomb or sacrifice, 'Twould be accepted up in Paradise.
Could this machinery go on Without the friction caused by fret, What greater loads were lightly drawn, More easily were trials met; Then might existence be with blessings rife, And lengthened out like Hezekiah's life.
Oh, be not anxious; trouble grows When cherished like a secret grief; It is the worm within the rose That eats the heart out leaf by leaf; And though the outer covering be fair, The weevil of decay is busy there.
In deep despondency to pine, Or vain solicitude, Is to deny this truth divine That God is great and good; That he is Ruler over earth and Heaven, And so disposes and makes all things even.
Mount Vernon.
Subdued and sad, I trod the place Where he, the hero, lived and died; Where, long-entombed beneath the shade By willow bough and cypress made, The peaceful scene with verdure rife, He and the partner of his life, Beloved of every land and race, Are sleeping side by side.
The summer solstice at its height Reflected from Potomac's tide A glare of light, and through the trees Intensified the Southern breeze, That dallied, in the deep ravines, With graceful ferns and evergreens, While Northern cheeks so strangely white Grew dark as Nubia's pride.
What must this homestead once have been In boundless hospitality, When Greene or Putnam may have met The host who welcomed Lafayette, Or when Pulaski, honored guest, Accepted shelter, food and rest, While rank and talent gathered in Its banquet hall of luxury!
What comfort, cheer, and kind intent The weary stranger oft hath known When she, its mistress, fair and good, Reigned here in peerless womanhood, When soft, shy maiden fancy gave Encouragement to soldiers brave, And Washington his presence lent To grace its bright hearthstone!
O beautiful Mount Vernon home, The Mecca of our long desire; Of more than passing interest To North and South, to East and West, To all Columbia's children free A precious, priceless legacy, Thine altar-shrine, as pilgrims come, Rekindles patriot fire!
A Prisoner.
Where I can see him all day long And hear his wild, spontaneous song, Before my window in his cage, A blithe canary sits and swings, And circles round on golden wings; And startles all the vicinage When from his china tankard He takes a dainty drink To clear his throat For as sweet a note As ever yet was caroled By lark or bobolink.
Sometimes he drops his pretty head And seems to be dispirited, And then his little mistress says: "Poor Dickie misses his chickweed, Or else I've fed him musty seed As stale as last year's oranges!" But all the time I wonder If we half comprehend In sweet song-words The thought of birds, Or why so oft their raptures In sudden silence end.
They do not pine for forest wilds Within the "blue Canary isles," As exiles from their native home, For in a foreign domicile They first essayed their gamut-trill Beneath a cage's gilded dome; But maybe some sad throbbing Betimes their spirits stirs, Who love as we Dear liberty, That they, admired and petted, Are only--prisoners.
Cuba.
As one long struggling to be free, O suffering isle! we look to thee In sympathy and deep desire That thy fair borders yet shall hold A people happy, self-controlled, Saved and exalted--as by fire.
Burning like thine own tropic heat Thousands of lips afar repeat The story of thy wrongs and woes; While argosies to thee shall bear, Of men and money everywhere, Strength to withstand thy stubborn foes.
Hispaniola waves her plume Defiant over many a tomb Where sleep thy sons, the true and brave; But, lo! an army coming on The places fill of heroes gone, For liberty their lives who gave.
The nations wait to hear thy shout Of "Independence!" ringing out, Chief of the Antilles, what wilt thou? Buffets and gyves from your effete Old monarchy dilapidate, Or freedom's laurels for thy brow?
In man's extremity it is That Heaven's opportunities Shine forth like jewels from the mine; Then, Cuba, in thy hour of need, With vision clear the tokens read And trust for aid that power divine.
The Sangamon River.
O sunny Sangamon! thy name to me, Soft-syllabled like some sweet melody, Familiar is since adolescent years As household phrases ringing in my ears; Its measured cadence sounding to and fro From the dim corridors of long ago.
There was a time in happy days gone by, That rosy interval of youth, when I The scholar ardent early learned to trace Great tributaries to their starting place; And thine some prairie hollow obsolete Whose name how few remember or repeat.
Like thee, meandering, yet wafted back From distant hearth and lonely bivouac, From strange vicissitudes in other lands, From half-wrought labors and unfinished plans I come, in thy cool depths my brow to lave, And rest a moment by thy silver wave.
But, ah! what means thy muddy, muggy hue? I thought thee limpid as yon ether blue; I thought an angel's wing might dip below Thy sparkling surface and be white as snow; And of thy current I had dared to drink If not as one imbibing draughts of ink.
Has some rough element of horrid clay That spoils the earth like lava beds, they say, Come sliding down, as avalanches do, And thy fair bosom percolated through? Or some apothecary's compound vile Polluted thee so many a murky mile?
Why not, proud State, beneficence insure, Selling thy soil or giving to the poor? For sad it is that dust of Illinois, With coal and compost its conjoint alloy, A morceau washed from Mississippi's mouth, Should build up acres for our neighbors south.
River! I grieve, but not for loss of dirt-- Once stainless, just because of what thou wert. Thus on thy banks I linger and reflect That, surely as all waterways connect, Forever flowing onward to the sea, Shall the great billow thy redemption be.
And now, dear Sangamon, farewell! I wait On that Elysian scene to meditate When, separated from the dregs of earth, Life's stream shall sweeter be, of better worth; And, like the ocean with its restless tide, By its own action cleansed and purified.
Syringas.
The smallest flower beside my path, In loveliness of bloom, Some element of comfort hath To rid my heart of gloom; But these, of spotless purity, And fragrant as the rose, As sad a sight recall to me As time shall e'er disclose.
Oh, there are pictures on the brain Sometimes by shadows made, Till dust is blent with dust again, That never, never fade; And things supremely bright and fair As ever known in life Suggest the darkness of despair, And sanguinary strife.
I shut my eyes; 'tis all in vain-- The battle-field appears, And one among the thousands slain In manhood's brilliant years; An elbow pillowing his head, And on the crimson sand Syringa-blooms, distained and dead, Within his rigid hand.
Could she foresee, who from the stem Had plucked that little spray Of flowers, that he would cherish them Unto his dying day? "Give these to M----;--'tis almost night-- And tell her--that--I love--" Alas! the letter he would write Was finished up above.
And so, with each recurring spring, On Decoration day, When to our heroes' graves we bring The blossom-wealth of May, While martial strains are soft and low, And music seems a prayer, Unto a hallowed spot I go, And leave syringas there.
Storm-bound.
My careful plans all storm-subdued, In disappointing solitude The weary hours began; And scarce I deemed when time had sped, Marked only by the passing tread Of some pedestrian.
But with the morrow's tranquil dawn, A fairy scene I looked upon That filled me with delight; Far-reaching from my own abode, The world in matchless splendor glowed, Arrayed in spotless white.
The surface of the hillside slope Gleamed in my farthest vision's scope Like opalescent stone; Rich jewels hung on every tree, Whose crystalline transparency Golconda's gems outshone.
Beyond the line where wayside posts Stood up, like fear-inspiring ghosts Of awful form and mien, A mansion tall, my neighbor's pride, A seeming castle fortified, Uprose in wondrous sheen.
The evergreens loomed up before My staunch and storm-defying door, Like snowy palaces That one dare only penetrate With reverence--as at Heaven's gate, Awed by its mysteries.
The apple trees' extended arms Upheld a thousand varied charms; The curious tracery Of trellised grapevine seemed to me A rare network of filigree In silver drapery.
And I no longer thought it hard From favorite pursuits debarred, Nor gazed with rueful face; For every object seemed to be Invested with the witchery Of magic art and grace.
And, though a multitude of cares, Perplexing, profitless affairs, Absorbed the hours, it seems That on the golden steps of thought I mounted heavenward, and wrought Out many hopeful schemes.
Thus every day, though it may span The gulf wherein some cherished plan Lies disarranged and crossed, If, ere its close, we shall have trod The path that leads us nearer God, Cannot be counted lost.
The Master of the Grange.
The type of enterprise is he, Of sense and thrift and toil; Who reckons less on pedigree Than rich, productive soil; And no "blue blood"--if such there be-- His veins can ever spoil.
And yet on blood his heart is set; He has his sacred cow, Some Alderney or Jersey pet, The mistress of the mow; His favorite pig is (by brevet) "Lord Suffolk"--of the slough.
To points of stock is he alive As keenest cattle king; A thoroughbred he deigns to drive, But not a mongrel thing; The very bees within his hive Are crossed--without a sting.
If apple-boughs drop pumpkins and Tomatoes grow on trees, It is because his grafting hand Has so diverted these That alien shoots with native stand Like twin-born Siamese.
No neater farm a nabob owns, Its care his chief employ, To find fertility in bones And briers to destroy, Where once he lightly skipped the stones A whistling, happy boy.
The ancient plough and awkward flail He banished long ago; The zigzag fence with ponderous rail He dares to overthrow; And wields, with sinews strong and hale, The latest style of hoe.
The household, founded as it were Upon the Decalogue, He classes with the minister, The rural pedagogue, And as a sort of angel-cur Regards his spotted dog.
His wife reviews the magazines, His children lead the school, He tries a thousand new machines (And keeps his temper cool), But bristles at Kentucky jeans, And her impressive mule.
With Science letting down the bars, Enlightening ignorance, Enigmas deeper than the stars He solves as by a glance, And raises cinnamon cigars From poor tobacco plants!
By no decree of fashion dressed, And busier than Fate, The student-farmer keeps abreast With mighty men of state, And treasures, like his Sunday vest, The motto "Educate!"
Beyond encircling hills of blue, Where I may never range, This monarch in his realm I view, Of title new and strange, And make profound obeisance to "The Master of the Grange."
A Friend Indeed.
If every friend who meditates In soft, unspoken thought With winning courtesy and tact The doing of a kindly act To cheer some lonely lot, Were like the friend of whom I dream, Then hardship but a myth would seem.
If sympathy were always thus Oblivious of space, And, like the tendrils of the vine, Could just as lovingly incline To one in distant place, 'Twould draw the world together so Might none the name of stranger know.
If every throb responsive that My ardent spirit thrills Could, like the skylark's ecstasy, Be vocal in sweet melody, Beyond dividing hills In octaves of the atmosphere Were music wafted to his ear.
If every friendship were like one, So helpful and so true, To other hearts as sad as mine 'Twould bring the joy so near divine, And hope revive anew; So life's dull path would it illume, And radiate beyond the tomb.
The Needed One.
'Twas not rare versatility, Nor gift of poesy or art, Nor piquant, sparkling _jeux d'esprit_ Which at the call of fancy come, That touched the universal heart, And won the world's encomium.
It was not beauty's potent charm; For admiration followed her Unmindful of the rounded arm, The fair complexion's brilliancy, If form and features shapely were Or lacked the grace of symmetry.
So not by marked, especial power She grew endeared to human thought, But just because, in trial's hour, Was loving service to be done Or sympathy and counsel sought, She made herself the needed one.
Oh, great the blessedness must be Of heart and hand and brain alert In projects wise and manifold, Impending sorrow to avert That duller natures fail to see, Or stand aloof severe and cold!
And who shall doubt that this is why In womanhood's florescent prime She passed the portals of the sky? As if a life thus truly given To purpose pure and act sublime Were needed also up in Heaven.
"Thy Will Be Done."
Sometimes the silver cord of life Is loosed at one brief stroke; As when the elements at strife, With Nature's wild contentions rife, Uproot the sturdy oak.
Or fell disease, in patience borne, Attenuates the frame Till the meek sufferer, wan and worn, Of energy and beauty shorn, Death's sweet release would claim.
By instant touch or long decay Is dissolution wrought; When, lost to earth, the grave and gay, The young and old who pass away, Abide in hallowed thought.
In dear regard together drawn, Affection's debt to pay, Fond greetings we exchange at dawn With one who, ere the day be gone, Is bruised and lifeless clay.