Chapter 14

The snow-clouds fly the canopy of heaven; The rivulets ripple with the merry tone Of wanton waters, and the breezes given To fan the budding hills are all thine own. Returning songsters from the tropic zone Their vernal love-songs in the tree tops sing, And talk and twitter in a tongue unknown Of joys that journey on thy golden wing, And God who sends thee forth to wake the world, O Spring!

Emblem of youth--enchanting goddess, Spring; Lo now the happy rustic wends his way O'er meadows decked with violets from thy wing, And laboring to the rhythm of song all day, Performs the task the harvest shall repay An hundredfold into the reaper's hand. What recks the tiller of his toil in May? What cares he if his cheeks are tinged and tanned By thy warm sunshine-kiss and by thy breezes bland?

Hark to the tinkling bells of grazing kine! The lambkins bleating on the mountain-side! The red squirrel chippering in the proud old pine! The pigeon-cock cooing to his vernal bride! O'er all the land and o'er the peaceful tide, Singing and praising every living thing, Till one sweet anthem, echoed far and wide, Makes all the broad blue bent of ether ring With welcomings to thee, God-given, supernal Spring.

TO MOLLIE

O Mollie, I would I possessed such a heart; It enchants me--so gentle and true; I would I possessed all its magical art, Then, Mollie, I would enchant you.

Those dear, rosy lips--tho' I never caressed them(?)-- Are as sweet as the wild honey-dew; Your cheeks--all the angels in Heaven have blessed them, But not one is as lovely as you.

Then give me that heart,--O that innocent heart! For mine own is cold and _perdu_; It enchants me, but give me its magical art, Then, Mollie, I will enchant you.

1855.

TO SYLVA

I know thou art true, and I know thou art fair As the rose-bud that blooms in thy beautiful hair; Thou art far, but I feel the warm throb of thy heart; Thou art far, but I love thee wherever thou art.

Wherever at noontide my spirit may be, At evening it silently wanders to thee; It seeks thee, my dear one, for comfort and rest, As the weary-winged dove seeks at night-fall her nest.

Through the battle of life--through its sorrow and care-- Till the mortal sink down with its load of despair,-- Till we meet at the feet of the Father and Son, I'll love thee and cherish thee, beautiful one.

1859.

THANKSGIVING.

[Nov. 26, 1857, during the great financial depression.]

Father, our thanks are due to thee For many a blessing given, By thy paternal love and care, From the bounty-horn of heaven.

We know that still that horn is filled With blessings for our race, And we calmly look thro' winter's storm To thy benignant face.

Father, we raise our thanks to Thee,-- Who seldom thanked before; And seldom bent the stubborn knee Thy goodness to adore:

But Father, thou hast blessings poured On all our wayward days And now thy mercies manifold Have filled our hearts with praise

The winter-storm may rack and roar; We do not fear its blast; And we'll bear with faith and fortitude The lot that thou hast cast.

But Father,--Father,--O look down On the poor and homeless head And feed the hungry thousands That cry to thee for bread.

Thou givest us our daily bread; We would not ask for more; But, Father, give their daily bread To the multitudes of poor.

In all the cities of the land The naked and hungry are; O feed them with thy manna, Lord, And clothe them with thy care.

Thou dost not give a serpent, Lord, We will not give a stone; For the bread and meat thou givest us Are not for us alone.

And while a loaf is given to us From thy all-bounteous horn We'll cheerfully divide that loaf With the hungry and forlorn.

CHARITY

Frail are the best of us, brothers-- God's charity cover us all-- Yet we ask for perfection in others, And scoff when they stumble and fall. Shall we give him a fish--or a serpent-- Who stretches his hand in his need? Let the proud give a stone, but the manly Will give him a hand full of bread.

Let us search our own hearts and behavior Ere we cast at a brother a stone, And remember the words of the Savior To the frail and unfortunate one; Remember when others displease us The Nazarene's holy command, For the only word written by Jesus Was charity--writ in the sand.

CHARITY

[Written in a friend's book of autographs, 1876.]

Bear and forbear, I counsel thee, Forgive and be forgiven, For Charity is the golden key That opens the gate of heaven.

SAILOR-BOY'S SONG

Away, away, o'er the bounding sea My spirit flies like a gull; For I know my Mary is watching for me, And the moon is bright and full.

She sits on the rock by the sounding shore, And gazes over the sea; And she sighs, "Will my sailor-boy come no more? Will he never come back to me?"

The moonbeams play in her raven hair; And the soft breeze kisses her brow; But if your sailor-boy, love, were there, He would kiss your sweet lips I trow.

And mother--she sits in the cottage-door; But her heart is out on the sea; And she sighs, "Will my sailor-boy come no more? Will he never come back to me?"

Ye winds that over the billows roam With a low and sullen moan, O swiftly come to waft me home; O bear me back to my own.

For long have I been on the billowy deep, On the boundless waste of sea; And while I sleep there are two who weep, And watch and pray for me.

When the mad storm roars till the stoutest fear And the thunders roll over the sea, I think of you, Mary and mother dear, For I know you are thinking of me.

Then blow, ye winds, for my swift return; Let the tempest roar o'er the main; Let the billows yearn and the lightning burn; They will hasten me home again.

MY DEAD

Last night in my feverish dreams I heard A voice like the moan of an autumn sea, Or the low, sad wail of a widowed bird, And it said--"My darling, come home to me."

Then a hand was laid on my throbbing head-- As cold as clay, but it soothed my pain: I wakened and knew from among the dead My darling stood by my coach again.

DUST TO DUST

Dust to dust: Fall and perish love and lust: Life is one brief autumn day; Sin and sorrow haunt the way To the narrow house of clay, Clutching at the good and just: Dust to dust.

Dust to dust: Still we strive and toil and trust, From the cradle to the grave: Vainly crying, "Jesus, save!" Fall the coward and the brave, Fall the felon and the just: Dust to dust.

Dust to dust: Hark, I hear the wintry gust; Yet the roses bloom to-day, Blushing to the kiss of May, While the north winds sigh and say: "Lo we bring the cruel frost-- Dust to dust."

Dust to dust: Yet we live and love and trust, Lifting burning brow and eye To the mountain peaks on high: From the peaks the ages cry, Strewing ashes, rime and rust: "Dust to dust!"

Dust to dust: What is gained when all is lost? Gaily for a day we tread-- Proudly with averted head O'er the ashes of the dead-- Blind with pride and mad with lust: Dust to dust.

Hope and trust: All life springs from out the dust: Ah, we measure God by man, Looking forward but a span On His wondrous, boundless plan; All His ways are wise and just; Hope and trust.

Hope and trust: Hope will blossom from the dust; Love is queen: God's throne is hers; His great heart with loving force Throbs throughout the universe; We are His and He is just; Hope and trust.

O LET ME DREAM THE DREAMS OF LONG AGO

Call me not back, O cold and crafty world: I scorn your thankless thanks and hollow praise. Wiser than seer or scientist--content To tread no paths beyond these bleating hills, Here let me lie beneath this dear old elm, Among the blossoms of the clover-fields, And listen to the humming of the bees. Here in those far-off, happy, boyhood years, When all my world was bounded by these hills, I dreamed my first dreams underneath this elm. Dreamed? Aye, and builded castles in the clouds; Dreamed, and made glad a fond, proud mother's heart, Now moldering into clay on yonder hill; Dreamed till my day-dreams paved the world with gold; Dreamed till my mad dreams made one desolate; Dreamed--O my soul, and was it all a dream?

As I lay dreaming under this old elm, Building my castles in the sunny clouds, Her soft eyes peeping from the copse of pine, Looked tenderly on me and my glad heart leaped Following her footsteps. O the dream--the dream! O fawn-eyed, lotus-lipped, white-bosomed Flore! I hide my bronzed face in your golden hair: Thou wilt not heed the dew-drops on my beard; Thou wilt not heed the wrinkles on my brow; Thou wilt not chide me for my long delay.

Here we stood heart to heart and eye to eye, And I looked down into her inmost soul, The while she drank my promise like sweet wine O let me dream the dreams of long ago! Soft are the tender eyes of maiden love; Sweet are the dew-drops of a dear girl's lips When love's red roses blush in sudden bloom: O let me dream the dreams of long ago! Hum soft and low, O bee-bent clover-fields; Blink, blue-eyed violets, from the dewy grass; Break into bloom, my golden dandelions; Break into bloom, my dear old apple-trees. I hear the robins cherup on the hedge, I hear the warbling of the meadow-larks; I hear the silver-fluted whippowil; I hear the harps that moan among the pines Touched by the ghostly fingers of the dead. Hush!--let me dream the dreams of long ago.

And wherefore left I these fair, flowery fields, Where her fond eyes and ever gladsome voice Made all the year one joyous, warbling June, To chase my castles in the passing clouds-- False as the mirage of some Indian isle To shipwrecked sailors famished on the brine? Wherefore?--Look out upon the babbling world-- Fools clamoring at the heels of clamorous fools! I hungered for the sapless husks of fame. Dreaming I saw, beyond my native hills, The sunshine shimmer on the laurel trees. Ah tenderly plead her fond eyes brimmed with tears; But lightly laughing at her fears I turned, Eager to clutch my crown of laurel leaves, Strong-souled and bold to front all winds of heaven-- A lamb and lion molded into one-- And burst away to tread the hollow world. Ah nut-brown boys that tend the lowing kine, Ah blithesome plowmen whistling on the glebe, Ah merry mowers singing in the swaths, Sweet, simple souls, contented not to know, Wiser are ye and ye may teach the wise.

Years trode upon the heels of flying years, And still my _Ignis Fatuus_ flew before; On thorny paths my eager feet pursued, Till she whose fond heart doted on my dreams Passed painless to the pure eternal peace. Years trode upon the heels of flying years And touched my brown beard with their silver wands, And still my _Ignis Fatuus_ flew before; Through thorns and mire my torn feet followed still, Till she, my darling, unforgotten Flore, Nursing her one hope all those weary years Waiting my tardy coming, drooped and died. I hear her low, sweet voice among the pines: O let me dream the dreams of long ago: I see her fond eyes peeping from the pines: O let me dream the dreams of long ago And hide my bronzed face in her golden hair.

Is this the Indian summer of my days-- Wealth without care and love without desire? O misty, cheerless moon of falling leaves! Is this the fruitage promised by the spring? O blighted clusters withering on the vine! O promised lips of love to one who dreams And wakens holding but the hollow air!

Let me dream on lest, dead unto my dead, False to the true and true unto the false, Maddened by thoughts of that which might have been, And weary of the chains of that which is, I slake my heart-thirst at forbidden springs. I hear the voices of the moaning pines; I hear the low, hushed whispers of the dead, And one wan face looks in upon my dreams And wounds me with her sad, imploring eyes.

The dead sun sinks beyond the misty hills; The chill winds whistle in the leafless elms; The cold rain patters on the fallen leaves. Where pipes the silver-fluted whippowil? I hear no hum of bees among the bloom; I hear no robin cherup on the hedge: One dumb, lone lark sits shivering in the rain. I hear the voices of the Autumn wind; I hear the cold rain dripping on the leaves; I hear the moaning of the mournful pines; I hear the hollow voices of the dead. O let me dream the dreams of long ago And dreaming pass into the dreamless sleep-- Beyond the voices of the autumn winds, Beyond the patter of the dreary rain, Beyond compassion and all vain regret Beyond all waking and all weariness: O let me dream the dreams of long ago.

THE PIONEER

[MINNESOTA--1860-1875]

When Mollie and I were married from the dear old cottage-home, In the vale between the hills of fir and pine, I parted with a sigh in a stranger-land to roam, And to seek a western home for me and mine.

By a grove-encircled lake in the wild and prairied West, As the sun was sinking down one summer day, I laid my knapsack down and my weary limbs to rest, And resolved to build a cottage-home and stay.

I staked and marked my "corners," and I "filed" upon my claim, And I built a cottage-home of "logs and shakes;" And then I wrote a letter, and Mollie and baby came Out to bless me and to bake my johnny-cakes.

When Mollie saw my "cottage" and the way that I had "bached", She smiled, but I could see that she was "blue;" Then she found my "Sunday-clothes" all soiled and torn and patched, And she hid her face and shed a tear or two.

But she went to work in earnest and the cabin fairly shone, And her dinners were so savory and so nice That I felt it was "not good that the man should be alone"-- Even in this lovely land of Paradise.

Well, the neighbors they were few and were many miles apart, And you couldn't hear the locomotive scream; But I was young and hardy, and my Mollie gave me heart, And my "steers" they made a fast and fancy team.

And the way I broke the sod was a marvel, you can bet, For I fed my "steers" before the dawn of day; And when the sun went under I was plowing prairie yet, Till my Mollie blew the old tin horn for tea.

And the lazy, lousy "Injuns" came a-loafing round the lake, And a-begging for a bone or bit of bread; And the sneaking thieves would steal whatever they could take-- From the very house where they were kindly fed.

O the eastern preachers preach, and the long-haired poets sing Of the "noble braves" and "dusky maidens fair;" But if they had pioneered 'twould have been another thing When the "Injuns" got a-hankering for their "hair."

Often when we lay in bed in the middle of the night, How the prairie-wolves would howl their jubilee! Then Mollie she would waken in a shiver and a fright, Clasp our baby-pet and snuggle up to me.

There were hardships you may guess, and enough of weary toil For the first few years, but then it was so grand To see the corn and wheat waving o'er the virgin soil, And two stout and loving hearts went hand in hand.

But Mollie took the fever when our second babe was born, And she lay upon the bed as white as snow; And my idle cultivator lay a rusting in the corn; And the doctor said poor Mollie she must go.

Now I never prayed before, but I fell upon my knees, And I prayed as never any preacher prayed; And Mollie always said that it broke the fell disease; And I truly think the Lord He sent us aid:

For the fever it was broken, and she took a bit of food, And O then I went upon my knees again; And I never cried before,--and I never thought I could,-- But my tears they fell upon her hand like rain.

And I think the Lord has blessed us ever since I prayed the prayer, For my crops have never wanted rain or dew: And Mollie often said in the days of debt and care, "Don't you worry, John, the Lord will help us through."

For the "pesky," painted Sioux, in the fall of 'sixty-two, Came a-whooping on their ponies o'er the plain, And they killed my pigs and cattle, and I tell you it looked "blue," When they danced around my blazing stacks of grain.

And the settlers mostly fled, but I didn't have a chance, So I caught my hunting-rifle long and true, And Mollie poured the powder while I made the devils dance, To a tune that made 'em jump and tumble, too.

And they fired upon the cabin; 'twas as good as any fort, But the "beauties" wouldn't give us any rest; For they skulked and blazed away, and I didn't call it sport, For I had to do my very "level best."

Now they don't call _me_ a coward, but my Mollie she's a "brick;" For she chucked the children down the cellar-way, And she never flinched a hair tho' the bullets pattered thick, And we held the "painted beauties" well at bay.

But once when I was aiming, a bullet grazed my head, And it cut the scalp and made the air look blue; Then Mollie straightened up like a soldier and she said: "Never mind it, John, the Lord will help us through."

And you bet it raised my "grit," and I never flinched a bit, And my nerves they got as strong as steel or brass; And when I fired again I was sure that I had hit, For I saw the skulking devil "claw the grass."

Well, the fight was long and hot, and I got a charge of shot In the shoulder, but it never broke a bone; And I never stopped to think whether I was hit or not Till we found our ammunition almost gone.

But the "Rangers" came at last--just as we were out of lead,-- And I thanked the Lord, and Mollie thanked Him, too; Then she put her arms around my neck and sobbed and cried and said: "Bless the Lord!--I knew that He would help us through."

And yonder on the hooks hangs that same old trusty gun, And above it--I am sorry they're so few-- Hang the black and braided trophies[BX] yet that I and Mollie won In that same old bloody battle with the Sioux.

[BX] Scalp-locks.

Fifteen years have rolled away since I laid my knapsack down, And my prairie claim is now one field of grain; And yonder down the lake loom the steeples of a town, And my flocks are feeding out upon the plain.

The old log-house is standing filled with bins of corn and wheat, And the cars they whistle past our cottage-home; But my span of spanking trotters they are "just about" as fleet, And I wouldn't give my farm to rule in Rome.

For Mollie and I are young yet, and monarchs, too, are we-- Of a "section" just as good as lies out-doors; And the children are so happy (and Mollie and I have three) And we think that we can "lie upon our oars."

So this summer we went back to the old home by the hill: O the hills they were so rugged and so tall! And the lofty pines were gone but the rocks were all there still, And the valleys looked so crowded and so small;

And the dear familiar faces that I longed so much to see, Looked so strangely unfamiliar and so old, That the land of hills and valleys was no more a home to me, And the river seemed a rivulet as it rolled.

So I gladly hastened back to the prairies of the West-- To the boundless fields of waving grass and corn; And I love the lake-gemmed land where the wild-goose builds her nest, Far better than the land where I was born.

And I mean to lay my bones over yonder by the lake-- By and by when I have nothing else to do-- And I'll give the "chicks" the farm, and I know for Mollie's sake, That the good and gracious Lord will help 'em through.

NIGHT THOUGHTS

"_Le notte e madre dipensien_."

I tumble and toss on my pillow, As a ship without rudder or spars Is tumbled and tossed on the billow, 'Neath the glint and the glory of stars. 'Tis midnight and moonlight, and slumber Has hushed every heart but my own; O why are these thoughts without number Sent to me by the man in the moon?

Thoughts of the Here and Hereafter,-- Thoughts all unbidden to come,-- Thoughts that are echoes of laughter-- Thoughts that are ghosts from the tomb,-- Thoughts that are sweet as wild honey,-- Thoughts that are bitter as gall,-- Thoughts to be coined into money,-- Thoughts of no value at all.

Dreams that are tangled like wild-wood, A hint creeping in like a hare; Visions of innocent childhood,-- Glimpses of pleasure and care; Brave thoughts that flash like a saber,-- Cowards that crouch as they come,-- Thoughts of sweet love and sweet labor In the fields at the old cottage-home.

Visions of maize and of meadow, Songs of the birds and the brooks, Glimpses of sunshine and shadow, Of hills and the vine-covered nooks; Dreams that were dreams of a lover,-- A face like the blushing of morn,-- Hum of bees and the sweet scent of clover And a bare-headed girl in the corn.

Hopes that went down in the battle, Apples that crumbled to dust,-- Manna for rogues, and the rattle Of hail-storms that fall on the just. The "shoddy" that lolls in her chariot,-- Maud Muller at work in the grass: Here a silver-bribed Judas Iscariot,-- There--Leonidas dead in the pass.

Commingled the good and the evil; Sown together the wheat and the tares; In the heart of the wheat is the weevil; There is joy in the midst of our cares. The past,--shall we stop to regret it? What is,--shall we falter and fall? If the envious wrong thee, forget it; Let thy charity cover them all.

The cock hails the morn, and the rumble Of wheels is abroad in the streets, Still I tumble and mumble and grumble At the fleas in my ears and--the sheets; Mumble and grumble and tumble Till the buzz of the bees is no more; In a jumble I mumble and drumble And tumble off--into a snore.

DANIEL

[Written at the grave of an old friend.]

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,--down into the darkness at last; Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,--sleeping the dreamless sleep,-- Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn--the pure and the perfect rest: Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain? Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew?

Joy was there in the spring-time and hope like a blossoming rose, When the wine-blood of youth ran tingling and throbbing in every vein; Chirrup of robin and blue-bird in the white-blossomed apple and pear; Carpets of green on the meadows spangled with dandelions; Lowing of kine in the valleys, bleating of lambs on the hills; Babble of brooks and the prattle of fountains that flashed in the sun; Glad, merry voices, ripples of laughter, snatches of music and song, And blue-eyed girls in the gardens that blushed like the roses they wore.

And life was a pleasure unvexed, unmingled with sorrow and pain? A round of delight from the blink of morn till the moon rose laughing at night? Nay, there were cares and cankers--envy and hunger and hate; Death and disease in the pith of the limbs, in the root and the bud and the branch; Dry-rot, alas, at the heart, and a canker-worm gnawing therein.

The summer of life came on with its heat and its struggle and toil, Sweat of the brow and the soul, throbbing of muscle and brain, Toil and moil and grapple with Fortune clutched as she flew-- Only a shred of her robe, and a brave heart baffled and bowed! Stern-visaged Fate with a hand of iron uplifted to fell; The secret stab of a friend that stung like the sting of an asp, Wringing red drops from the soul and a stifled moan of despair; The loose lips of gossip and then--a storm of slander and lies, Till Justice was blind as a bat and deaf to the cries of the just, And Mercy, wrapped up in her robe, stood by like a statue in stone.