Part 1

ZEPHYRS

WITH AN INTRODUCTION

BY

KATE R. STILES.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879, BY KATE R. STILES, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

WORCESTER: A. B. ADAMS, Printer. 392 Main Street.

ZEPHYRS.

To my angel Effie, the memory of whose life is an inspiration, I dedicate this little volume.

INTRODUCTION.

At the earnest solicitation of many dear friends, I present this little volume of poems before the public, not expecting it will bear the test of severe criticism. I am not vain enough to suppose that these little “Zephyrs” will sweep over the spirit with the power of the strong breezes, which are wafted to the soul from the poems of a Longfellow or a Whittier.

Yet, although among the greater lights, the lesser may not prevail, they may, perchance, send out occasional gleams, which shall serve to brighten the way for a few hearts.

KATE R. STILES.

May, 1879.

CONTENTS.

PAGE.

The Dead, 5

Clover Blossoms, 6

Lines Written on a Stormy Night, 8

Lake Quinsigamond, 10

Lines Written for the Re-union of Pastor & People, 13

Hope, 15

The Shipwreck, 16

Pansies, 21

Little Joe, A Christmas Story, 23

The Infinite Love, 27

Lines on the Death of a Young Man, 28

The Flight of the Robin, 34

Musings, 38

The Sabbath Bell, 39

Words, 41

The Postman, 43

The Triumph of Truth, 45

Memorial Day, 47

Be True, 49

Bayard Taylor, 51

The Husking Party, 53

Autumn Leaves, 56

Birthday Lines, 58

No Room for the Children, 61

Inspiration, 63

Out of the Depths, 67

Life, 72

The Babe’s Mission, 73

Sweep Clean, 75

Castles in the Air, 77

Sunbeams, 78

Lift up the Fallen, 79

Why Tarry Ye Spring-time, 80

Invocation, 81

THE DEAD.

Call them not dead, who leave the earthly for the heavenly state. Theirs is a life more real than ours; And, while we weep for them such bitter, bitter tears, They come to us with words of light and cheer; Bidding us wait in patience till our work on earth is done. Then shall we join them in that higher life, Where all which now seems full of deep, deep, mystery, Shall be unfolded to our view; and we shall see That all the discipline of our earth life was needed, To fit our souls for knowledge infinitely greater, and far more glorious Than mortal mind can e’er attain.

CLOVER BLOSSOMS.

Pretty little clover, with your flowers so fair, Filling with their sweetness all the summer air; Sad it is to see you crushed by careless feet, Pretty little clover, with your blossoms sweet.

Grows the pretty clover everywhere we look; All along the roadside--by the running brook. Beautiful and fragrant, are these little flowers. Ah! how we should miss them from this world of ours!

Pretty little clover--scorned because you grow Without care or coaxing--making little show. Yet your flowers are sweeter than the rose or pink; Modest little clover--this is what I think.

There are many lives in this world of ours, Crushed, and scorned, and slighted Like these pretty flowers. Throwing out their sweetness on the desert air, Only seen by Him, who seeth everywhere.

LINES WRITTEN ON A STORMY NIGHT.

Let the wintry breezes blow! What care we? Cold or heat, rain, hail or snow; Oh what care we? Life is full of brightness still, All may find it if they will, Only say to every ill, Oh what care we?

Oft our cup is upside down, But what care we? It will do no good to frown, What care we? Bravely bear it, as we should. From the evil comes the good, Grief’s but joy, misunderstood; Then what care we?

Though the world may not approve us, What care we? There’s a Heaven of love above us; Then what care we? God is with His children ever; Helping on each grand endeavor. Fear not then: but answer ever, Oh what care we?

LAKE QUINSIGAMOND.

Beautiful lake, with thy silvery sheen, Many a tale thou couldst tell I ween; Tales of the years long since gone by, When the wild deer and the wolf were nigh; When over thy waters fair and blue, The red man sailed in his birch canoe; When no step but his was heard on thy shore As he wandered thy wooded hillsides o’er. Silvery lake, thou wert then, I trow, Fair and beautiful as now.

Beautiful lake, art thou happier to-day, As over thy waters, the young and gay Float along in merry glee, Caring little for what is to be As they send their laughter thy waters o’er, Till its echo resounds from shore to shore? Are these sounds more sweet to thy listening ear Than the red man’s cry thou was wont to hear? Beautiful lake, tell me I pray What dost thou think of life to-day?

Beautiful lake, so smooth and clear, Thou hast caused the falling of many a tear; For in thy dark and strong embrace Lies many a well remembered face. Only the Infinite and thou Canst tell where rest these loved forms now; But what matters it where the form may be Since the spirit has risen unfettered and free? This thou wert powerless to enfold, Beautiful lake, in thy waters cold.

Beautiful lake, I love to sit On thy banks, and watch the white sails flit And hear the laugh and the merry song Of happy hearts as they glide along; Or at sunset’s hour, which is sweeter far, Ere yet appears the evening star, To watch the shadows come and go; And gazing in thy depths below, Each hill and vale, each shrub and tree, Reflected in thy face to see.

Beautiful lake, thou art changeless; but we Are not what we were, neither what we shall be, From the first dawn of life, man is changing each day, And thus will it be forever and aye; For progression is part of the Infinite plan, And has ever been, since creation began. Oh, at life’s sunset hour, looking back o’er the past, May reflections of beauty, be over it cast; Even now as each hillside, and valley and tree, Beautiful lake, are seen mirrored in thee.

LINES WRITTEN FOR THE RE-UNION OF PASTOR AND PEOPLE.

To-night, as in this pleasant home we meet, The friends of former years once more to greet, Memory is stirred; and, looking in each eye, We scarce can feel so many years have glided by, Since this dear friend and pastor, whom we love, Pointed us to the paths which lead above. As once again, we open memory’s book, Giving the past a retrospective look, Tenderly we turn the sacred pages o’er, And read the record of the days of yore. There have been changes in these homes since then, For time is ever busy in the haunts of men, And, mingling with the music of delight, Are minor strains within our hearts to-night, As we recall the voices hushed and still, Of friends who rest on yonder churchyard hill, Fathers and mothers who long since went o’er The river we call death. From that near shore We almost catch the greetings, as we stand; And reaching over, clasp them by the hand. But not the old alone, the young and gay, Have vanished from our earthly homes away, Their mission ended here, they find above Some blessed service still, for those they love. O, not in sadness would we view the past, For over all a rainbow tint is cast; The Hand that sends the sunshine and the rain, Has on us each bestowed more joy than pain! Were there no shadows in these lives of ours, We could not fully prize the sunny hours. Too much we’re prone to dwell upon the past! The present is the moment! hold it fast! There is no future--for all time is now; Let us improve it;--while in faith we bow To that which is, knowing it must be best; Rejoice in what we see, and trust God for the rest. So shall we each and every one--pastor and people, Hear the words “Well done.”

HOPE.

Tho’ the pathway of life oftentimes seemeth drear The rainbow of promise ere long shall appear! The heaviest cloud hath a silvery sheen, Altho’ through the darkness it may not be seen.

O, then let us hope! for the time draweth near When life’s many mysteries shall be made clear. When hearts that are weary, and burdened with care, In the “Rest that Remaineth,” shall each have a share.

THE SHIPWRECK.

A ship sailed out on the billowy sea, Full freighted with precious souls; And manned by a crew both gallant and free, Who sing as the brave ship rolls.

“O, a life on the sea--the foaming sea, And a home on the rolling tide, O, a sailor’s life is the life for me, Yo heave,” they merrily cried!

“Our boat is stanch, and tried and true, And a captain brave have we. Hurrah! Hurrah! we’re as jolly a crew As sails on the bounding sea!”

But their song is hushed, as they feel a shock Which makes their stout hearts quail. “O, God,” they cry, “The rock! the rock! The ship has struck a gale!”

Men, women and children rush on deck, Their faces blanched with fear. They clasp each other about the neck; And they feel that death is near.

“Go down! go down!” cries the captain brave, “This is not the place for you. I will do my best the ship to save; She has a gallant crew.”

But e’en while he spoke, above the blast Was heard the fearful cry-- “A leak! the ship is filling fast!” And no earthly help was nigh.

“Man the life-boat!” cries the captain brave In a tone of firm command. “Man the life-boat these lives to save! And let every sailor stand,

“Firm at his post, till I give the sign For him to leave the ship. All hope of rescue I now resign,” He said, with quivering lip.

They lowered the boat o’er the vessel’s side, Down into the surging sea. While over it swept the angry tide; And they felt that only He

Who holds the billows in His hand, Could guide this bark so frail, With its precious cargo, safe to land, And help it outride the gale.

Then over the side of that dreadful wreck The passengers clambered fast; Till the boat, which seemed like a tiny speck, Was crowded full at last.

At length all are gone, but the sailors brave, Who await their captain’s word; And soon, above the roaring wave, His manly voice is heard.

“Now go, my sailors! go,” he cried. “You have been brave and true; And oh, may God, your frail bark guide! Adieu! brave lads, adieu!”

“Nay, wait not for me; my place is here, And firmly here will I Stand at my post, without one fear Whether I live or die!”

Alone, upon that dreadful night, They left that captain brave. And, ere another morning’s light, He found a watery grave.

Ah! brave young heart! would that we all Might be as brave and true; As prompt to answer duty’s call, As was that gallant crew.

How few are the hearts, that bravely will stand By the wreck of a human soul. Holding on with a firm, loving clasp to the hand As o’er it the dark billows roll.

Perchance in smooth waters, our life-boat may glide, While some tempest-tossed brother may be Sinking into the dark waves of sin, by our side; Down into the turbulent sea.

Shall we stand idly by, without seeking to save From a fate which far worse may be, Than the fate of that captain, so gallant and brave, Who was drowned in the depths of the sea.

We each have a work for our brother to do. “His keeper,” God made us to be. O! then to our trust let us ever be true As we sail over life’s stormy sea.

PANSIES.

Pansies! pansies! what can compare With your varied colors so rich and rare?

Beautiful flower--in thee I trace The features of the human face.

And when I look into thine eyes, They greet me, with a glad surprise.

I love to touch thy velvety cheek, And I almost fancy I hear thee speak.

Ah! well-a-day pansy, you and I Must part, for the summer has gone by.

Soon in thy wintry bed thou’lt be, And a mantle of snow will cover thee.

There shalt thou rest, till the spring-time rain Awakes thee from thy sleep again;--

Then thou’lt come forth as fresh and bright, As comes the sun, at the morning light.

So farewell, pansy; farewell till the spring. I shall look for thee, when the robins sing.

LITTLE JOE--A CHRISTMAS STORY.

’Twas Christmas morn, and little Joe Stood looking out upon the snow With sad and thoughtful face. His childish brow was knit with care; Unlike the smile ’twas wont to wear, It now bore sorrow’s trace. His mother said, “What is it, dear? Come to mamma, and let her hear The story of your grief. I do not like to see you sad On Christmas day, when all are glad. Come here, and find relief, By telling mamma all your woe. What is it troubles little Joe?” “Mamma, I didn’t mean to be One bit unhappy--but you see, I couldn’t help it quite. I don’t feel very good, because ’Tis Christmas day--and Santa Claus, I’m sure, has not done right, To give so many books and toys To all the other little boys, While I have none at all. Why mamma, he brought Charley Spring A basket full of every thing. There was a rubber ball, And books, and marbles, and a top; Enough to fill a little shop. Why couldn’t Santa Claus have said, ‘I’ll carry some to Joe, instead Of giving him so many?’ If I were he, I’m sure I’d go To every boy and girl I know; I wouldn’t pass by any; I’d give them all some toy or book. Mamma”, and here the child’s form shook With sobs of pent-up sorrow; “What makes God give to other boys, A papa, and such lots of toys? ’Tis just one year to-morrow, You say, since God called papa dear Away to Heaven and left us here. Why couldn’t he have stayed? We used to have such lots of fun, Papa and I, how he would run When Christmas games we played. And then the great nice Christmas tree! Sometimes I shut my eyes, and see The house we used to live in. Oh, mamma dear, it makes you cry; Don’t dear mamma, for by and by Like papa, up in heaven, I’ll be a man; and then I’ll go And buy it back, before you know;-- And then, on Christmas day I’ll take you, mamma, there to live. And oh! such presents I will give! I’ll have a tree that day, And call in all the girls and boys, And give them, oh! such lots of toys, And if they’re poor, some money. Oh! mamma, ’twont be long to wait. Kiss me, mamma, for at the gate Is little cousin Johnny. Now, mamma dear, please do not cry; I’m going out to play, good bye.” The mother wiped away her tears, And prayed that in the coming years, Her darling little Joe, Might be, as on this Christmas day, Tender and pitiful, alway, Toward every child of woe.

THE INFINITE LOVE.

The gates of the “Heavenly City” Stand open both night and day; God, the keeper, feels nothing but pity; He never turns any away. ’Tis man who closes the portals, Against his poor brother man. Alas! that short-sighted mortals, Should call it the “Infinite plan!”

Our Heavenly Father is tender! He loveth His children too well, To give to each poor offender The unceasing torments of “Hell.” His love is more true than a mother’s For the infant she bears on her breast; More true than a sister’s or brother’s; Oh, then in that love let us rest!

LINES ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MAN.

A mother bends over a darling son, Whose work on earth is nearly done; And she cries in accents of bitter woe, “My darling one, can I let thee go? Can I give thee back to the Power that gave? Must this manly form rest in the grave? These lips to mine, shall I no more press? Nor my hand clasp thine in fond caress? Must I wait in vain thy step to hear? Will thy voice no longer greet my ear? Oh, this would be anguish too great to bear! I cannot, oh, Father, not e’en to thy care, Surrender this life so dear to me. Oh, Infinite Father, must it be? Must I drink from this cup of bitter woe? Oh, I cannot let my dear one go!”

O’er the couch of his son, the father is bending; While his tears, with those of his mother are blending, And his agonized cry to the Infinite One-- Is, “spare me, oh Father, my idolized son! Spare the life which so closely entwines round my heart! My son! oh my son! from thee must I part? The hope of my future--my pride and my joy! Oh, what would life be, if bereft of my boy?”

While in anguish these parents thus plead for their son, A voice whispers to them “Let God’s will be done.” “Thy will,” they responded--“oh, help us to say, Thy will, oh our Father, both now, and alway.” It stilled the wild tempest of sorrow and pain, And brought to their minds that sweet promise again; Of strength, with the trial--of light mid the gloom, And a life never ending, beyond the dark tomb.

Then they thought of the loved, who had passed on before, Who would greet their dear boy, on that beautiful shore-- And give him a welcome, so tender and kind, And help him rich treasures of knowledge to find. There was one, like a sister, they felt she was near, With the ear of the spirit, her voice they could hear, Saying, “Be of good cheer; the stream is not wide; And the friend that you love, is here by your side. Your dear one will come to this beautiful land, But still you shall feel the soft touch of his hand. In whispers of love, his voice you shall hear, As he speaks to your spirits in tones sweet and clear.”

Now the breath of the sick one comes faintly and slow, And they feel that their first-born, their darling must go. They kiss him once more ere his spirit takes flight;-- While his lips softly murmur, “dear mother, good night. Good night my dear father, I go to my home-- The angels are waiting, they bid me to come.” One sigh! all is over! the spirit is free! The casket of clay, no more needed will be. Compose the dear limbs! fold the hands o’er the breast! His sufferings are ended! he’s gone to his rest! No longer these parents their vigil need keep By the side of their son, he has fallen asleep.

The father in tears is seeking relief, The mother is sleeping, worn out with her grief. In her slumbers she sees the face of her child, Bending over her pillow; and sweetly he smiled. She awakes, crying fondly, “My dear one, my own!” But alas! with her waking the vision had flown. She thought it a dream--tho’ the vision was true; And, putting it from her, as poor mortals do, She moaned in her anguish, “Oh, would I could be Thus dreaming forever, my dear one, of thee!” Then, unto her spirit in tones soft and low, Came the words, “I am with you wherever you go; And, mother, not only in dreams, shall I be Enabled to whisper sweet comfort to thee, For I know that the Father will help me to give, In the hours of your waking, some proof that I live.”

Like the fall of the dew upon leaflet and flower, Like the sound of sweet music, at twilight’s still hour, Like the glorious sun, after long night of gloom, These low whispered words, shed a light o’er the tomb, And the mother, no longer oppressed by her woes, Sank peacefully back again into repose. At length she awakes from her slumbers, to find The light streaming in, through the half open blind; And she utters a prayer that the sunlight of love May thus enter her spirit, and lift it above. Then refreshed and submissive, she says, “It is o’er! My dear one is resting, I’ll murmur no more;-- But in faith I will bow to the Infinite One, For I know, ‘It is well’--‘It is well’ with my son!”

THE FLIGHT OF THE ROBIN.

A dear little maid, one autumn day Stood under a maple, bright and gay, Looking up at a robin--with wings outspread, While in pleading tones these words she said:--

“Are you going away little robin? Your wings are all plumed for a flight. Would you leave me alone little robin? Is it thus all my care you requite?”

“I’ve loved you and fed you, dear robin, For many and many a day; Now when I most need you, dear robin, You’re ready to fly far away.”

“’Tis true that cold winter is coming And the leaves will be gone from the tree; But I have a warm heart dear robin, Its love shall thy safe shelter be.”

“I’ll give thee a nook in the window Where roses and hyacinths bloom. I need your sweet song, my dear robin, To drive away sadness and gloom.”

“I’ll feed you, my dear little robin, With crumbs from my table each day. You shall never know want, little robin, If only with me you will stay.”

But Robin was deaf to her pleading, For love will not always prevail; Her prayers and entreaties unheeding, He flew from the snow and the hail.

Away to the south flew the robin, Where skies wear a balmier hue; Away from the hand that had fed him, From the love that was tender and true.

For a time all went well with the robin, And he flitted about ’mong the trees; Warbling his song from their branches, As they swayed in the warm, southern breeze.

But at length, our little friend Robin Grew weary of sunshine and heat, “I’ll stay here no longer” said robin, “But will find me a cooler retreat.”

Then the heart of the poor little robin Grew sad, as he thought of the day When he turned from the dear little maiden, And his nest in the maple so gay.

“I’ll go back to her home” said the robin; “Perchance she will bid me to stay. She was always a kind friend to robin. Oh, why was I tempted to stray?”

When spring spread her beautiful mantle O’er hillside, and valley, and plain, The maiden oft wondered if Robin Would come back to the maple again.

One morn as she threw up the casement To let in the balmy spring air, In flew her own dear little robin And perched on the back of her chair.