Part 2
Nine o'clock, and the sun shines as yellow and warm, As though 'twere a fete day. I wish it would storm: Wish the thunder would crash, And the red lightning flash, And lap the black clouds, with its serpentine tongue-- The day is _too_ calm, for a man to be hung. Hung! ugh, what a word! The most heartless, and horrible, ear ever heard.
He has murdered, and plundered, and robbed, so "they say," Been the scourge of the country, for many a day. He was lawless and wild; Man, woman, or child Met no mercy, no pity, if found in his path. He was worse than a beast of the woods, in his wrath. And yet--to be _hung_, Oh, my God! to be swung By the neck to, and fro, for the rabble to see-- The thought sickens me.
Thirty minutes past nine. How the time hurries by, But a half hour remains, at ten he will die. Die? No! he'll be _killed!_ For God never willed Men should die in this way. "Vengeance is mine," He saith, "I will repay." Yet what could be done, With this wild, lawless one! No prison could hold him, and so--he must swing, It's a horrible thing.
Outcast, Desperado, Fiend, Knave; all of these And more. But call him whatever you please I cannot forget, He's a mortal man yet: That he once was a babe, and was hushed into rest, And fondled, and pressed, to a woman's warm breast. Was sung to, and rocked, And when he first walked With his weak little feet, he was petted, and told He was "mamma's own pet, worth his whole weight in gold." And this is the end Of a God-given life. Just think of it, friend!
Hark! hear you that chime? 'tis the clock striking ten. The dread weight falls down, with a sound like "amen." Does murder pay murder? do two wrongs make a right? Oh, that horrible sight! I am shut in my room, and have covered my face; But the dread scene has followed me into this place. I see that strange thing, Like a clock pendulum swing To and fro, in the air, back and forth, to and fro. One moment ago 'Twas a man, in God's image! now hide it, kind grave! What a terrible end, to the life that God gave.
1871.
_COMPASSION_
There is a picture, that I sometimes see, Of Jesus, with a child upon his breast. And other children clustered at his knee-- The little lambs of God, that he had blest. And this one--lying on the Saviour's arm Looks up and smiles, in that most sainted face, And knowing he is well secured from harm He falls asleep in that safe resting place.
To-night I am so weary, heart, and soul. So worn out, with a thousand nameless ills. My spirit longs intensely for its goal And every fibre of my being thrills With mighty yearning. "Oh, to be that child-- To lie upon my Saviour's breast." I weep, "And looking on that face so meekly mild. Forget my tears, and sweetly fall asleep."
It is not always so: sometimes the earth And earthly friends, can satisfy my heart. But now--to-night--I feel their shallow worth, And feel, Oh, Christ my Saviour, that Thou art And Thou alone, the only faithful friend Who knowing all my sins, and seeing me Just as I am, will pity to the end And in compassion, judge me tenderly.
I am so weak, and sinful--every day The sins and failings that I most condemn, And most abhor in others--I straightway Go forth, and wickedly walk into them. But Christ, who was in mortal form one time And dwelt upon the earth, will understand. And through a love and pity most sublime, Will write me out a pardon with His hand.
1869.
_FAME_
If I should die, to-day. To-morrow, maybe, the world would see-- Would waken from sleep, and say, "Why here was talent! why here was worth! Why here was a luminous light o' the earth. A soul as free As the winds of the sea: To whom was given A dower of heaven. And fame, and name, and glory belongs To this dead singer of living songs. Bring hither a wreath, for the bride of death!" And so, they would praise me, and so they would raise me Mayhap, a column, high over the bed Where I should be lying, all cold and dead.
But I am a _living_ poet! Walking abroad in the sunlight of God, Not lying asleep, where the clay worms creep, And the cold world will not show it, E'en when it sees that my song should please; But sneering says: "Avaunt, with thy lays! Do not sing them, and do not bring them Into this rustling, bustling life. We have no time, for a jingling rhyme, In this scene of hurrying, worrying strife." And so, I say, there is but one way To win me a name, and bring me fame. And that is, to die, and be buried low, When the world would praise me, an hour or so.
1870.
_HER MOTHER'S BEAUTIFUL EYES_
I met a young girl on the street; I was a stranger to her, no more. But the glance of her brown eyes, shy and sweet, Set me to dreaming of days of yore. Ah! _she_ does not know, but long ago When life was as cloudless as June's blue skies, Her _mother_ was all the world to me; And she Has her mother's beautiful eyes.
She lifted her lashes, and let them fall; Raised them and dropped them as I passed by. A grizzled old stranger, that was all _She_ saw, for she could not know that I In the dear, dear past Too sweet to last Had found my Eden, my paradise. In her mother's beautiful eyes.
I loved, and was loved. But a word was said In thoughtless jest, and the work was done. The hopes I had cherished, lay blasted, dead-- My rival pleaded his suit, and won. And their child--ah me! is fair to see; I wonder if she's as good and wise, As sweet and kind, and pure of mind As the one who bequeathed her those beautiful eyes.
She has her father's step, and air. Her father's brow, and his pale, dark cheek. And her father's tawny, curling hair. And her father's mouth, half sweet, half weak. All very true. And "she's like her father through and through," I said when we met on the street that day, "And not like her mother in any way." Then I caught my breath with a start of surprise, (That she did not see) For the child of my rival glanced up at me With her mother's beautiful eyes.
1871.
_OLD TIMES_
Friend of my youth, let us talk of old times; Of the long-lost golden hours. When "Winter" meant only Christmas chimes, And "Summer" wreaths of flowers. Life has grown old, and cold, my friend, And the winter now, means death. And summer blossoms speak all too plain Of the dear, dead forms beneath.
But let us talk of the past to-night; And live it over again, We will put the long years out of sight. And dream we are young as then. But you must not look at me, my friend, And I must not look at you, Or the furrowed brows, and silvered locks, Will prove our dream untrue.
Let us sing of the summer, too sweet to last. And yet too sweet to die. Let us read tales, from the book of the past, And talk of the days gone by. We will turn our backs to the West, my friend, And forget we are growing old. The skies of the Present are dull, and gray, But the Past's are blue, and gold.
The sun has passed over the noontide line And is sinking down the West. And of friends we knew in days Lang Syne, Full half have gone to rest. And the few that are left on earth, my friend Are scattered far, and wide. But you and I will talk of the days Ere any roamed, or died.
Auburn ringlets, and hazel eyes-- Blue eyes and tresses of gold. Winds joy laden, and azure skies, Belong to those days of old. We will leave the Present's shores awhile And float on the Past's smooth sea. But I must not look at you, my friend, And you must not look at me.
1871.
_THIS WORLD_
This world is a sad, sad place I know; And what soul living can doubt it. But it will not lessen the want and woe, To be always singing about it. Then away with the songs that are full of tears, Away with dirges that sadden. Let us make the most of our fleeting years, By singing the lays that gladden.
The world at its saddest is not all sad-- There are days of sunny weather. And the people within it are not all bad, But saints and sinners together. I think those wonderful hours in June, Are better by far, to remember, Than those when the world gets out of tune In the cold, bleak winds of November. Because we meet in the walks of life Many a selfish creature, It does not prove that this world of strife Has no redeeming feature. There is bloom, and beauty upon the earth, There are buds and blossoming flowers, There are souls of truth, and hearts of worth-- There are glowing, golden hours.
In thinking over a joy we've known, We easily make it double. Which is better by far, than to mope and moan, Over sorrow and grief and trouble. For though this world is sad, we know, (And who that is living can doubt it,) It will not lessen the want, or woe, To be always singing about it.
1872.
_GOING AWAY_
Walking to-day on the Common, I heard a stranger say To a friend who was standing near him, "Do you know I am going away?" I had never seen their faces: May never see them again, But the words the stranger uttered, Stirred me with nameless pain.
For I knew some heart would miss him, Would ache at his "going away," And the earth would seem all cheerless, For many and many a day. No matter how glad my spirit, No matter how light my heart, If I hear these two words uttered, The tear drops always start.
They are so sad and solemn, So full of a lonely sound: Like dead leaves rustling downward, And dropping upon the ground. Oh, I pity the naked branches, When the skies are dull and gray, And the last leaf whispers softly, "Good bye, I am going away."
In the dreary, dripping Autumn, The wings of the flying birds As they soar away to the southland, Seem always to say these words. Where ever they may be uttered, They fall with a sob, and sigh; And heart-aches follow the sentence, "I am going away--Good bye."
Oh, God, in Thy blessed kingdom No lips shall ever say, No ears shall ever hearken. To the words "I am going away." For no soul ever wearies Of the dear, bright, angel band, And no saint ever wanders, From the sunny, golden land.
1872.
_GOOD BYE_
He rose, and passing, paused by her. They stood a moment in the door. His dark eyes made her pulses stir As they had never stirred before; How soft the night bird sang above The dull brown heath. Oh, Life, Oh, Love!
He took her hand, and said "Good bye." Then, singing blithely, went across The sodden fields: nor heard the cry Her heart sent up, nor knew her loss. How bleak, and wild, and desolate, The wind blew down. Oh, Love, Oh, Fate!
The west turned suddenly aflame; Striped here and there with blue and gold. She shook with chills she could not name. The air seemed strangely harsh, and cold. How keen the winds were, and how rife With wintry sounds. Oh, Love, Oh, Life!
She waited till she saw him pass Across the meadow, out of sight. His shadow fell upon the grass; The winds were talking of the night. How high they whirled the withered leaf; How swift it flew. Oh, Love, Oh, Grief.
She shut the door, and turned away. Some task was waiting for her hand. She shut another door, where lay, Her sweet dead hope. You understand. "And they shall weep no more," God saith, "Nor taste of pain." Oh, Life, Oh, Death.
_JAMIE_
In through the kitchen, the boys came trooping: Will, and Sammy, and Bob and Fred, And Johnny and Jamie, the twins, came after, Setting the rafters, a-ring with laughter. Woe for the words I said! I looked at the floor I had swept and dusted, And saw the litter the twelve feet brought; And I sighed, and frowned, on the six bright blossoms, And frowning, spoke my thought.
"Oh, was there ever so weary a woman! I have been only twelve years wed. But I've never a moment of peace or quiet. Six rough boys, with their noise and riot, Are wearing me out," I said. "Six rough boys to mend and work for, To clothe and feed--it is hard at best; There's never an end to my weary labors, There is no time for rest."
Dark fell the shadows around my little cottage, Weeping I leaned over one little bed, Vain were the tears on the tiny face falling; In the dim distance I heard a voice calling-- "Come unto me," it said. And down through the starlight an angel descended, And stood by my Jamie's low bedside. "Come! there is room with the angels," she whispered, "Heaven is fair and wide."
"Fair are its meadows, and wide are its mansions, And thousands of children are gathered there." Vain were the prayers that I prayed, leaning o'er him, Up to the mansions of heaven she bore him. Woe for my heart's despair! Oh, to recall the harsh words that I uttered! Oh, for his litter and noise to-day! Oh, for the labor his hands would make me! Hands that are turned to clay.
Five sturdy boys troop into my cottage, John, Will, Sammy, and Bob and Fred-- Five brave boys as e'er blessed a mother. But always and ever I miss the other, The dear, dear boy that is dead. I miss the ring of his childish laughter, Miss him and mourn for him night and day, But wide are the mansions, and fair are the meadows Where the feet of my Jamie stray.
1872.
_A MOTHER'S REVERIE_
The shadows drop down o'er the fields tinged with brown, Where the snow-drifts were gleaming of late, And the day shuts her eyes, while th' red western skies Make ready the chambers of state. How still the house seems! while round about gleams Th' last mellow rays of th' sun. There's no step on the stair--no voice anywhere, Crying, "Mother, the last task is done!"
Can it be I'm alone? can it be there are none Left of eight, who have called me that name? Four boys and four girls, with their tresses and curls, Four brave boys, four fair girls, that came To my home one by one, like lost rays from the sun, And where are they all now? I pray; Like birds from the nest, the babes on my breast Took wing, and have fluttered away.
There was John, my first child; as gentle and mild As the maiden that grew at his side,-- First to come, last to stay; but death called him away, It is two years, to-day since he died. Hope, Mary, and Joe are all married, and so Have gone into homes of their own; Mark is over the sea, and Flora--hush! we Never speak of the one who has flown.
My Will, bonny Will, fell at Champion Hill-- My dark-eyed, my raven-tressed son; There was one at his side fell too; and Kate died Of grieving for Will--and that one! Yet bravely we try, my life-mate and I, To be happy and cheerful alway. God knows best what to do; yet I think if we knew She were dead, 'twould seem better to-day.
1871.
_THE TWO GLASSES_
There sat two glasses, filled to the brim, On a rich man's table, rim to rim. One was ruddy, and red as blood, And one was as clear as the crystal flood.
Said the glass of wine to his paler brother, "Let us tell tales of the past to each other; I can tell of banquet, and revel, and mirth, Where I was king, for I ruled in might. And the proudest and grandest souls on earth Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight. From the heads of kings, I have torn the crown, From the heights of fame, I have hurled men down; I have blasted many an honored name, I have taken virtue, and given shame; I have tempted the youth, with a sip, a taste, That has made his future a barren waste. Far greater than any king am I, Or than any army beneath the sky. I have made the arm of the driver fail, And sent the train from its iron rail. I have made good ships go down at sea, And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me; For they said, 'Behold, how great you be! Fame, strength, wealth, genius, before you fall, And your might and power are over all.'" "Ho! ho! pale brother," laughed the wine, "Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"
Said the water glass, "I cannot boast Of a king dethroned or a murdered host; But I can tell of hearts that were sad, By my crystal drops made light and glad. Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I've laved; Of hands I have cooled, and souls I've saved. I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain; Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain. I have burst my cloud fetters, and dropped from the sky, And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye. I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain, I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain; I can tell of the powerful wheel o' the mill, That ground out the flour, and turned at my will; I can tell of manhood, debased by you, That I have uplifted, and crowned anew. I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid, I gladden the heart of man and maid; I set the chained wine-captive free, And all are better for knowing me."
These are the tales they told each other, The glass of wine, and its paler brother, As they sat together, filled to the brim, On the rich man's table, rim to rim.
1872.
_TWILIGHT THOUGHTS_
The God of the day has vanished The light from the hills has fled, And the hand of an unseen artist, Is painting the West all red. All threaded with gold and crimson, And burnished with amber dye, And tipped with purple shadows, The glory flameth high.
Fair, beautiful world of ours! Fair, beautiful world, but oh, How darkened by pain and sorrow, How blackened by sin and woe. The splendor pales in the heavens And dies in a golden gleam, And alone in the hush of twilight, I sit, in a checkered dream.
I think of the souls that are straying, In shadows as black as night, Of hands that are groping blindly In search of the shining light; Of hearts that are mutely crying, And praying for just one ray, To lead them out of the shadows, Into the better way.
I think of the Father's children Who are trying to walk alone, Who have dropped the hand of the Parent, And wander in ways unknown. Oh, the paths are rough and thorny, And I know they cannot stand. They will faint and fall by the wayside, Unguided by God's right hand.
And I think of the souls that are yearning To follow the good and true; That are striving to live unsullied, Yet know not what to do. And I wonder when God, the Master, Shall end this weary strife, And lead us out of the shadows Into the deathless life.
1869.
_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.
1869.
_WHEN I AM DEAD_
When I am dead, if some chastened one, Seeing the "item," or hearing it said That my play is over, and my part done, And I lie asleep in my narrow bed-- If I could know that some soul would say, Speaking aloud or silently, "In the heat, and burden of the day, She gave a refreshing draught to me;"
Or, "when I was lying nigh unto death, She nursed me to life, and to strength again, And when I labored and struggled for breath, She soothed and quieted down my pain;" Or, "when I was groping in grief and doubt, Lost, and turned from the light o' the day, Her hand reached me and helped me out, And led me up to the better way."
Or, "when I was hated and shunned by all, Bowing under my sin and my shame, She, once, in passing me by, let fall Words of pity and hope that came Into my heart, like a blessed calm Over the waves of the stormy sea, Words of comfort like oil and balm. She spake, and the desert blossomed for me."
Better by far, than a marble tomb-- Than a monument towering over my head; (What shall I care, in my quiet room, For head board or foot board, when I am dead) Better than glory, or honors, or fame, (Though I am striving for those to-day) To know that some heart will cherish my name, And think of me kindly, with blessings, alway.
1870.
_DON'T TALK WHEN YOU'VE NOTHING TO SAY_
It is well to be free in conversing, It is well to be able to chat With a friend on a subject of interest-- With a stranger on this thing or that. Don't aim to be cold or reticent, But listen to reason I pray, And remember this wisest of mottos, "Don't talk when you've nothing to say."
A gay, lively friend, or companion, With wits that are ready and quick, Is better by far, than a stupid, And unconversational stick. Yet speech at the best is but silver, While silence is golden alway. And remember at all times and places, Don't talk when you've nothing to say.
I like to see well informed people Who know _what_ to say, _how_ and _when_. And a little good nonsense and jesting Is not out of place, now and then. But I dread the approach of a Magpie, Who chatters from grave themes to gay, Who talks from the morn to the midnight, And always with nothing to say.
1871.
_THE FROST FAIRY_