Part 6

And, lying there, What should I care, Though Time, in a phrenzy of baffled rage, Should beat on my grave, And howl and rave, That I would not barter my youth, for age; But lie and sleep, Down low and deep. Though suns of a thousand seasons set. Always young, Never old, With my song half sung. And my tale half told-- Ho, ho, old Time, I may cheat you yet!

December, 1869.

_BY AND BY_

Sometime fame shall come to me; Sometime in the "yet to be." Not to-day, and not to-morrow; After years of toil and sorrow, After losing youth and grace, In the weary, foolish chase.

After weeks of bitter tears, After months, and after years, After waiting day on day, Throwing love, and peace away, I shall find the phantom nearing-- I shall find the shadows clearing.

I shall reach the thing I sought, I shall reach, and find it--what? Will it recompense, and pay For the joys I cast away? In the weary, weary race, When I lost my youth, and grace?

Is it worth the wear, and strife-- Worth the best part of a life? Thus have men and women queried, Standing on the summit, wearied With the long and steep ascent, When their youth and grace were spent.

Time sweeps onward with his cycle: Life is brief, and love is fickle. I will pause not at his calling, I will heed not tear-drops falling: Fame, but Fame, will satisfy, I shall find it by and by.

1870

_KING AND SIREN_

The harsh king, Winter, sat upon the hills, And reigned, and ruled the earth right royally. He locked the rivers, lakes, and all the rills. "I am no puny, maudlin king," quoth he, "But a stern monarch, born to rule and reign, And I will show my power to the end; The summer's flowery retinue I've slain, And taken the bold, free North-Wind for my friend.

"Spring, Summer, Autumn--feeble queens they were, With their vast troops of flowers, birds, and bees, And winds, that made the long, green grasses stir-- They lost their own identity in these. I scorn them all! nay, I defy them all! And none can wrest the sceptre from my hand. The trusty North-Wind answers to my call, And breathes his icy breath upon the land."

The Siren, South-Wind, listening the while, Now floated airily across the lea. "Oh, King!" she said, with tender tone and smile, "I come to do all homage unto thee. In all the sunny region whence I came, I find none like thee, King, so brave and grand. Thine is a well-deserved, unrivalled fame; I kiss in awe, dear King, thy cold white hand."

Her words were pleasing, and most fair her face. He listened rapt, to her soft-whispered praise. She nestled nearer, in her Siren grace; "Dear King," she said, "henceforth my voice shall raise But songs of thy unrivalled splendor! Lo! How white thy brow is! How thy garments shine-- I tremble 'neath thy beaming glance, for oh, Thy wondrous beauty mak'st thee seem divine."

The vain king listened, in a trance of bliss, To this most sweet sweet voiced Siren from the south. She nestled close, and pressed a lingering kiss Upon the stern white pallor of his mouth. She hung upon his breast--she pressed his cheek-- And he was nothing loth to hold her there. While she such tender, loving words did speak And combed his white locks, with her fingers fair.

And so she bound him, in her Siren wiles, And stole his strength with every glance she gave, And stabbed him through and through with tender smiles, And with her loving words she dug his grave. And then she left him: old, and weak, and blind-- And unlocked all the rivers, lakes and rills, While the Queen Spring, with her whole troop behind, Of flowers, and birds, and bees, came over the hills.

1871

_AFTER?_

After the summer glory has departed, After the sun slides low adown the skies, After each snowy rose, and the red-hearted, Droops in the chilling blast, and faints, and dies, When the brown bee no longer seeks the clover, But flies away, and hides in his honeyed den. And from the bleak hills cutting winds blow over, Full of keen darts--ah, will you love me then?

Or is it but the passion heat of Summer, That you mistake for love within your heart? And will not Winter, that unwelcome comer, With his cold, scornful sneers, make it depart? Have not the subtle odors of the flowers Drugged you, and made you drunk with rare perfumes? And when the winter crashes through the bowers, Will not your love fade, with the fading blooms?

If so, I will not listen to your wooing; And I will turn from words and glances sweet. Because I will not hear a drunkard's suing-- Drunken with rose-scents, and the summer heat. But if you woo me, in sound mind, and reason, And can convince me fully it is so, And that your love will last through any season, Why then, my answer will not _quite_ be--No.

1870

_IF YOU HAD BEEN TRUE_

Love, in the glow of the sunset, I have been thinking of you. Thinking what you might have made me, If you had been constant and true. You know I built wonderful castles, And you had a part in them all; But you cheated me, Love, you remember. And down fell each beautiful wall.

Well, you see I lost faith in all women-- The very worst thing I could do. Thought they were all of one pattern, And that was inconstant, untrue. I know it was but a mad fancy: Know women are truer than men. But I wish I had found it out sooner, Or could live my life over again.

For you see I have wasted my manhood; I don't really care to tell how. And if I could live it all over, I think I could better it now. I would marry some nice little woman-- Some other, if I couldn't get you. And I would be tender and faithful, And she would be constant and true.

1870

_AFLOAT_

Once there was a boat, locked fast to a shore, But rust ate the chain, day by day, And the boat was loosened more and more, As the fastenings slipped away. Yet, any day, an outstretched hand, Could have caught, and locked it again to land.

But never a hand was stretched to save, And the boat at last was free; And shot like an arrow over the wave, And drifted out mid-sea. And never, oh never, across the main, Will the boat to the shore be brought again.

So was my heart, love--linked to thine; But neglect ate the chains away: Yet a tender word love, I opine, Would have saved it, any day. Ay! a tender word, said first or last, Would have mended the chain, and held it fast.

But the word was lacking: and so my heart, Slipped from its chains, like the boat. And then as the last link fell apart, It sped o'er the waves--afloat. Nor pleading hands, nor words, you see, Brings the boat to shore, or my heart to thee.

_ROSES AND LILIES_

Roses and Lilies, both are sweet; Lily and Rose, both are fair; But which to gather for mine alway, Which to gather, and keep, and wear, That is the question that bothers me, For I cannot wear them both, you see.

Rose is the brightest and blithest of girls: I could lay my heart at her tiny feet, And gaze forever in those dark eyes, And kiss forever those lips so sweet. And holding her soft, white, clinging hand, Dreamily float into Eden land.

And Lily--Lily, my ocean pearl, So sweetly tender, so moonlight fair, I could float to heaven upon her smile, And kiss forever her silken hair, That droppeth down, like a golden veil Over her cheek, and brow--snow pale.

Lilies and Roses--both are fair: Rose, or Lily, which shall it be? I love them both with my heart of hearts. But I cannot wed them both, you see. Dark-eyed Rose, my winsome girl-- Moon-faced Lily, my ocean pearl.

1870

_IN HEAVEN WITH YOU_

'Tis said, when we shall go across the river, Whose bridge is death, and gain the other side, There in that land, with God, the mighty Giver, The heart shall evermore be satisfied.

And yet, sometimes I cannot help but wonder, How I can live in heaven without your love; How live, rejoicing, through all time, I ponder, And not have you, even with God above.

We bear such things on earth, for we remember That life is but a little span, at best. Its passion summer, but precedes December, And in the grave, we say, there will be rest.

But after death, time stretches with no limit: Your love, no time can ever bring to me. Is heaven so bright this shadow can not dim it? It seems so long--that strange Eternity.

How could my heart, and soul, change so completely That I should never think of this up there? But in the angel choruses join sweetly, Nor ever feel this gnawing grief, and care.

How vast God's lore! how vain the skill of mortal! He did not mean that we should understand, Until our feet had crossed the shining portal, The things so deep, and fathomless, and grand.

And He has made a heaven--a place most holy, For His redeemed to sometime enter in. And there is room for all the meek and lowly, Whose faith, through sorrow hath washed out all sin.

And I believe, when we shall cross the river, Whose bridge is death, and reach the other side, There in that land, with God the gracious Giver, Our hearts shall evermore be satisfied.

1869

_THOU DOST NOT KNOW_

Thou dost not know it! but to hear One word of praise from thee, There is no pain I would not bear-- No task too great for me. My hands could tireless toil all day, My feet could tireless run, If at the close thy lips would say, "Brave, noble heart, well done."

Thou dost not know it! but to win Approval from thine eyes, My soul has conquered many a sin, And conquering, neared tee skies. And though the reward may not be given, In all my earthly days, I feel that after death--in heaven, Thy lips will give me praise.

Thou dost not know--may never know, That all I strive to be, All things praiseworthy that I do, I strive, and do, for thee. And though I seldom see thy face, Or touch thy hand, my friend, Those meetings are the means of grace, That help me to the end.

Thou dost not know that thy grand life Has been my beacon light. I aim to conquer in the strife, That I may reach thy height. I strive to live, so that my feet May walk the fields most fair, For the afterlife, seems, oh! so sweet, Because _thou_ wilt be there.

Thou dost not know how brave and strong A woman's heart can be. But few could hide so well and long What mine has hid from thee. So well, that should this idyl chance To meet thine eye, my friend, Thou'd scan it with a careless glance, Nor dream to whom 'twas penned.

1872

_A GOLDEN YEAR_

Linger, linger, oh royal year! For I grieve to see you dying. Rest on the hilltops--loiter near; Wait, O Time, in your flying. For never, in all the twice ten years, You have brought to build my twenty. Never was one so free from tears-- So overflowing with plenty.

Filled to the brim with the purest draughts, That I sip in fearless pleasure; While an unseen spirit watches and laughs, And again refills the measure. My brightest dreams, and my fondest hopes, The year has gathered together, And right bountifully they have come to me. From the Spring to the Autumn weather.

The rarest of flowers, subtle and sweet, That grew in the world Ideal, Have dropped their seeds in the soil at my feet, And blossomed among the Real. And Love, like a rose, still blossoms and blows, Passion-hearted, yet tender. And my path is strewn with the glories of June, And I'm hedged about with its splendor.

Care flew over the hills, one day, And I sang, as he swift retreated; And Hope took his crown, and Joy settled down, On the throne where Care had been seated. Contentment hedged me all round about, And Love built his blazing fire; And Happiness poured his treasures out, And left me with no desire.

I have walked breast high in a sea of bliss: I have loved my God, and my brother. There never before was a year like this-- There never can be another. Linger, loiter, a little while, For I grieve to see you dying! But even in grief, I can only smile, For my heart is too light for sighing.

December, 1870

_FORESHADOWED_

My life has been a summer day complete, Teeming with pleasures, tender, pure, and sweet. But tiny clouds have ever dimmed the sky, And they have quickly passed, and floated by.

Oh, seldom in this thorny world of ours, Is mortal's pathway so bestrewn with flowers. Fragrant and fair, they ever blow and bloom, Untouched by chilling frosts, and wintry gloom. And I thank God, for all his tenderness, And from my very soul adore, and bless Him who has cast my lines in pleasant ways, And crowned with joy and happiness my days.

But sometimes, though the sun shines clear and bright, And all the world seems full of joy and light, A nameless shadow, none but I can see, Falls on my heart, hushing its melody. A nameless, voiceless shadow; but I know It tells of future agony and woe. Some mighty sorrow, vague and undefined, But dark, and awful, waits for me, behind That shadowy cloud. Something of woe and tears-- Of grief, and anguish, is the future years.

It floats away, and I rejoice again, With all my warm young heart untouched by pain. But ever and anon I see it loom, Over my life, and feel its awful gloom.

Oh God! I know not what is hidden there. But give me strength to suffer and to bear. Oh, guide my soul! and teach me how to pray, And make my spirit stronger every day. Upon Thy mighty arm, oh! let me rest, And lean. And when Thou deemest best, Reveal, my Father, what is hid behind The nameless shadow, vague, and undefined.

1869

_FORTUNE'S WHEEL_

My Love was a poor man's daughter, And I was a poor man's son. And oft we walked on the sea shore, When the work of the day was done. Hand in hand, on the gleaming strand, And our two hearts beat as one.

My Love was meek, and gentle, And she was wondrous fair; With hazel dyes in her slumbrous eyes, And chestnut shades in her hair. And we raked hay on the meadow, And I gave my heart in her care.

But the great, notched wheel of Fortune, Kept turning on and on. And she was a rich man's daughter, And I was a poor man's son. And she had a score of lovers, or more. But I was the favored one.

And I passed hard by her window, Nor turned my face to see The lady fair, with gems in her hair, As fine as fine could be. Though I knew her heart was dying For just one word from me.

My Love grew pale as the lily, And faded day by day, And I passed by, and heard her sigh, And turned my face away. For I was proud as the proudest-- And her gold between us lay.

And the great, notched wheel of Fortune Kept rolling on and on. And she was a poor man's daughter, And I was a rich man's son. And maids of grace smiled in my face, But I saw only one.

I found my love in the cottage, Where first I sought her side. And I shall not tell _how_ I wooed--but well, For she had not my pride. And I gave my heart in her keeping, And won her for my bride.

1870

_SEARCHING_

These quiet autumn days, My soul, like Noah's dove, on airy wings Goes out, and searches for the hidden things, Beyond the hills of haze.

With mournful, pleading cries Above the waters of the voiceless sea That laps the shores of broad Eternity, Day after day it flies.

Searching, but all in vain, For some stray leaf that it may light upon, And read the future as the days agone-- Its pleasure and its pain.

Listening, patiently, For some voice speaking from the mighty deep, Revealing all the secrets it doth keep, In silence, there for me.

Come back and wait! my soul, Day after day thy search has been in vain, Voiceless and silent o'er the future's plain Its mystic waters roll.

God seeing, knoweth best, And in his time the waters shall subside, And thou shalt know what lies beneath the tide. Then wait, my soul, and rest.

1869

_DAFT_

In the warm yellow smile of the morning, She stands at the lattice pane, And watches the strong young binders Stride down to the fields of grain; And she counts them over and over As they pass the cottage door: Are they six? she counts them seven-- Are they seven? she counts one more.

When the sun swings high in the heavens, And the reapers go shouting home, She calls to the household, saying "Make haste! for the binders have come! And Johnnie will want his dinner-- He was always a hungry child;" And they answer, "Yes, it is waiting;" Then tell you, "Her brain is wild."

Again, in the hush of the evening, When the work of the day is done, And the binders go singing homeward In the last red rays of the sun, She will sit at the threshold waiting, And her withered face lights with joy: "Come, Johnnie," she says, as they pass her, "Come in to the house, my boy."

Five summers ago, her Johnnie Went out in the smile o' the morn, Singing across the meadow, Striding down through the corn: He towered above the binders Walking on either side, And the mother's heart within her Swelled with exultant pride.

For he was the light of the household; His brown eyes were wells of truth, And his face was the face of the morning, Lit with its pure, fresh youth; And his song rang out from the hill-tops, Like the mellow blast of a horn, As he strode o'er the fresh shorn meadows, And down through the rows of corn.

But hushed were the voices of singing, Hushed by the presence of death, As back to the cottage they bore him-- In the noontide's scorching breath. For the heat of the sun had slain him, Had smitten the heart in his breast, And he who had towered above them Lay lower than all the rest.

The grain grows ripe in the sunshine, And the summers ebb and flow, And the binders stride to their labor, And sing as they come and go; But never again from the hill-tops Echoes the voice like a horn; Never up from the meadows, Never back from the corn.

Yet the poor, crazed brain of the mother Fancies him always near; She is blest in her strange delusion, For she knoweth no pain, no fear: And always she counts the binders As they pass her cottage door; Are they six, she counts them seven: Are they seven, she counts one more.

1870

_TRUST_

Once Pain beat on my heart, And well-nigh killed it. I shuddered at the smart, But said, "God willed it." And down and down again, With awful power, Fell the great hand of Pain, Hour after hour.

While, like a mighty flail, The fierce blows hurt me, I cried, "God doth prevail: He'll not desert me." Blow upon cruel blow, The great hand gave me, Yet I cried, "He doth know, And he will save me."

I did not loudly cry, And ask God's reason; I knew He'd tell me why, In his own season. "In His good time," I said, In trusting blindness, And I was not afraid To wait his kindness.

I did not trust in vain. God drew me nearer. And whispered, "Smile again! The way is clearer." And lo! my mortal sight Could reach to heaven, My faith dispelled the night, And light was given.

_THE COMMON LINK_

When on the crowded thoroughfare, Amidst the motley throng I stray, In all the stranger faces there, I meet and pass from day to day, Whether the face be young, or old, Or wreathed in smiles, or calm, or cold, On every brow I trace some line That links the strangers' heart to mine.

Though a proud beauty rustles by, With haughty mien, I smile and say, "You have a heart-ache--so have I: We both are hiding it to-day. Though you are rich, I am poor, We both have entered sorrow's door; Grief comes alike to you and me, So we are of one family."

The richest nabob that I meet, The poorest delver that I see, Youth and old age upon the street, Are one and all the same to me. No heart that beats, but has its grief; Nor wealth, nor youth, gives full relief; And through the tears that sometimes fall I claim relationship to all.

So poor, and rich, and high, and low, I meet upon this common plain. Though far and wide our paths may lie, We entertain the same guest--Pain. The subtle threads of this strange cord, Draw me to mankind, and the Lord, And through the sorrows heaven sends, I hold all men to be my friends.

1869

_BURIED TO-DAY_

Cold is the wind, that blows up from the river. Cold is the blast that sweeps over the plain. In the bleak breath of the morning, I shiver-- Shiver and weep, in my desolate pain. She was so fair--like the beautiful lily-- Fair, oh too fair to be hidden away. And the grave is so dark, and so damp, and so chilly, And she--oh my love!--will be buried to-day.

White is the snow that is heaped on the meadow, Whiter the face, in this desolate room. Low in the valley lurk darkness and shadow-- Low lies my heart, in its sorrow and gloom. How the spades scrape, on the sods they are breaking, Breaking, and cutting the snowdrifts away. How the men bend to the grave they are making, Where she--oh my love!--will be buried to-day.

Thick are the walls! but the bleak wind will enter, And chill her through all her long slumber, I know. Rich are her robes! but the merciless Winter Will beat on her breast, with its tempests of snow. Oh, she was guarded, and shielded from sorrow-- Kept from the shadows, and darkness, alway. But she will lie, as the beggar to-morrow-- My love--oh my love!--that is buried to-day.

1870

_WHEN I DIE_

Often, when I am alone, Thinking of the "things unseen;" Things to our eyes never shown, Hidden by the veil between This world and eternity-- To be lifted by and by, Oft the thought has come to me, "Who will robe me, when I die."

When the night-time swiftly nears, And my last sleep comes apace, And the mourners' bitter tears Fall above my dying face; When I pass out, white and still, Where no mortal hand can save, Out beyond the reach of skill-- Who will robe me, for the grave?

When my work is all complete, And I have no more to do, And I pass with willing feet, From the old life, to the new; While my dear ones numb with woe, Weep above my pulseless heart, Who, of all the friends I know, Who will robe me to depart?

Who will fold my pallid hands, On my quiet bosom; close Eyes that gaze on other lands, Clothe me for my last repose? When soft fingers toy and play With my tresses tenderly, Oft the thought has come to me, "Will _these_ robe me, when I die?"

_THE UNSEEN THORN_

"Cinnamon Roses!" she said, "how fair," Holding them out in her finger-tips. "Yes," I whispered, "the hue they wear Was borrowed out of thy cheeks, and lips. Beautiful roses! and each supposes Itself replete, with thy graces, Sweet. Fair they may be, yet not like thee-- See! they fade at thy smile, dear maid!"

"Give me a Rose!" and nothing loth, She tossed a beautiful bud to me. But I gathered the maid and the flowers both-- Close to my breast. "Not that, but _thee!_ I most am wanting. The dear face haunting My heart each hour, is the sweetest flower." And I gathered close the face like a rose, And kissed her lips and her finger-tips.

The leaves, from the roses in her hand, Dropped one by one: but the _thorn_ was left. (Fool, that I did not understand.) Cheated, and jilted, and all bereft, Of the fair, false blossom I held on my bosom I stand to-day. But the _thorn_ alway Pierces my heart like a cruel dart. The rose is dead: and her love--has fled.

1870

_FATHER AND CHILD_

The New Year wedded the winter-- Winter, the harsh old king! Whose head was a snow-capped mountain-- Whose breath was the North-Wind's sting. But he wooed and wedded the maiden, And gave her a robe of snow; And hung on her breast bright jewels, With a lace-work of frost below.

And the days flowed on like a river; And the mother looked up and smiled, When she laid in the arms of Winter, Their beautiful first-born child. "And what shall we name our infant?" She said to the harsh old king. And the old man kissed her softly, And said, "we will call her Spring."