Part 4

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.

MY SHIP.

If all the ships I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah, well! the harbour could not hold So many sails as there would be If all my ships came in from sea.

If half my ships came home from sea, And brought their precious freight to me, Ah, well! I should have wealth as great As any king who sits in state-- So rich the treasures that would be In half my ships now out at sea.

If just one ship I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah, well! the storm-clouds then might frown For if the others all went down, Still rich and proud and glad I'd be If that one ship came back to me.

If that one ship went down at sea, And all the others came to me, Weighed down with gems and wealth untold, With glory, honours, riches, gold, The poorest soul on earth I'd be If that one ship came not to me.

O skies, be calm! O winds, blow free-- Blow all my ships safe home to me! But if thou sendest some a-wrack, To never more come sailing back, Send any--all that skim the sea, But bring my love-ship home to me.

FINIS.

An idle rhyme of the summer time, Sweet, and solemn, and tender; Fair with the haze of the moon's pale rays, Bright with the sunset's splendor.

Summer and beauty over the lands-- Careless hours of pleasure; A meeting of eyes and a touching of hands-- A change in the floating measure.

A deeper hue in the skies of blue, Winds from the tropics blowing; A softer grace on the fair moon's face, And the summer going, going.

The leaves drift down, the green grows brown, And tears with smiles are blended; A twilight hour and a treasured flower,-- And now the poem is ended.

LINES.

Written by Request of the Proprietors of Windsor Cheese Factory.

Alas! my muse is getting fast; She uses slang, 'tis very clear. Last eve, as she was flying past, She whispered "Cheese it!" in my ear.

I chided her with words like these: "You slangy jade, avaunt! go by!" Again she said: "You'd better cheese-- The fact-ory you can't deny."

I struck her with my pen and cried, "Away! you fill my breast with woe And bitter shame." She only sighed, "Oh, whey-er, whey-er shall I go?"

"You talk more like a pilot man" Said I, "than like a poet's muse." Said she, "I'll seek the vat-I-can, But I will fly from such abuse:"

Quoth I, "What's turned your silly head? I was but jesting, anyway." "My blood is curdling now," she said. "But if you press it, I will stay."

Some sage advise I gave her then, And boxed her ears, the wicked tease, And I told her she could cut it; When I sat down to sing of cheese.

Cheese, lively subject of a poet's dream, My thoughts go skipping through the tender theme. Venerable topic, old as the hills, I sing; Yet ever new, and green, like love, and spring.

Cheese, savory subject! let me weave a song Out of my merits, musical and strong. Others may sing of green grass, if they please, I sing of it in the useful form of cheese.

The world keeps moving. Now, it's upside down. Time was, when pretty maidens of each town Made all the cheese; and while they pressed the curds, Their lovers pressed their suits, in earnest words.

Now men make cheese, and press it, and their wives And daughters worry and torment their lives, By pressing their suits, new spring suits, the while, And asking for money, to dress out in style.

Strong-minded sisters, what more can you ask? Man takes, himself, the burden of your task, And you enjoy the proceeds, and your "rights," For which each woman of the period fights.

Hail! Windsorburgh; may your cheese prove the limb You '11 walk forth on, in sight of all the world. And may the fame of Limburg yet grow dim, When once your banner is unfurled.

Hail! Windsor enterprise, pluck, pride, ambition Ignoring scoffs, defying competition. Providence smiles upon your latest plan, And soaks the grass, to help you all it can.

Three cheers for Windsor, factory and all, Upon its homes may choicest blessings fall. And so my song is ended; if you please, Will Mr. Sherman--E. P.--pass the cheese?

OVER THE WATER.

Think of it, think of it over the water Thousands of men to-day march on to death, Think how the sun shines on fields red with slaughter-- How the air chokes, with the cannon's hot breath.

How in the shadows, perchance, of this even, Hundreds of hearts, will have paused in their beat, Pale, ghastly brows, will be turned up to heaven-- Brows that were pressed by lips, tender and sweet.

Think of the homes that these battles are leaving Destitute, desolate, dreary and dumb. Think of the fond, patient, hearts that are grieving, Breaking for loved ones, who never will come.

Ah! we so recently felt this same anguish, Women--Oh! women who suffer and pray, We well can weep with you, who weep and languish, We have borne all you are bearing to-day.

"God speed the right," we cry, "God be with Prussia," Yet to the mourners of soldiers who fall, Whether their tears flow in France, or in Russia, Their dead are their dead, and we pity them all.

Think of it, think of it, hearts that are breaking, Sorrowing, suffering, over the sea. Think of the eyes that are blinded and aching With watching for those whom they never will see.

FLOWERS FOR THE BRAVE.

Gather them out of the valley-- Bring them from moorland and hill, And cast them in wreaths and in garlands. On the city so silent and still-- So voiceless, so silent, and still; Where neighbor speaks never to neighbor, Where the song of the bird, and the brown bee is heard, But never the harsh sounds of labor.

Bring them from woodland and meadow-- As fresh, and as fair, as can be. Bring them, all kinds, and all colors. That grow upon upland and lea-- That spring in wild grace on the lea. And rifle the green earth's warm bosom Of each flower, and blow, till "God's acre" shall glow And bloom, like a garden in blossom.

Bring them from vase, and from hot-house, And strew them with bountiful hand. There is nothing too rare for the soldier, Who laid down his life for his land-- Who laid down _all things_ for his land; And turned to the duty before him, And how now can we prove, our thanks and our love But by casting these May blossoms o'er him.

We know they will soon fade, and wither-- We know they will soon droop, and die; But one time, I read, how an angel Came down from the mansions on high-- In the night, from God's kingdom on high-- Came down where a poor faded flower Lay crushed by rude feet, in the dust of the street, And he carried it up to God's bower;

And laid it before the Good Master, Who kissed it, and passed it to Christ, On the throne at His side; and _He_ kissed it, And the touch of those kisses sufficed-- The caress of the God-head sufficed-- And it bloomed out in wonderful splendor, A thing of delight, and most fair in God's sight-- 'Tis a fable, I know; but so tender;

So sweet that I like to believe it-- And I have been thinking, to-day, That mayhap these soldiers, now angels, Will come, when these wreathes fade away-- When they wither, and shrivel away-- And will bear the crushed things up to heaven, And God, and His Son will kiss them, each one, And new beauty, and bloom will be given.

And odd fancy, perhaps, yet dispute it. And prove it untrue if you can. There are strange, subtle ways, in God's workings Now veiled from the knowledge of man, Shut out from the vision of man.-- By a dark veil of deep, mortal blindness; But when God deems it right, He will give us our sight, And remove the thick veil, in His kindness;

And when we have entered His kingdom, And all his strange ways understand, Who knows but these very same flowers, We shall find there abloom, in His land, All fresh, and all fair, in His land; And these soldiers, who went on before us, As we wander and stray, through God's gardens, shall say: "These are the wreathes you cast o'er us."

Then, strew ye the best, and the brightest Of buds, and of blossoms full blown, Over the graves, of the loved ones-- Over those labeled "Unknown!" Oh! the pathos of that word, "Unknown!" Bring hither the brightest, and rarest! We reck not, if the clay, wore the blue garb, or gray! We will give them the best, and the fairest.

For somebody mourned for the "missing," And wept for them hot, scalding tears, And hoped against hope, for their coming; And watched, and waited, months and years, Such long, and such desolate years! But the hearts are _so_ patient, that love them. And some now watch and weep, for the soldiers who sleep With the slab labeled "Unknown" above them.

Then gather from meadow, and woodland, From garden, and hot-house, and vase, The brightest and choicest of blossoms, And scatter them here in this place; This holy and hallowed place-- This city of rest, not of labor, Where only the bird, and th' brown bee is heard, And neighbor, speaks never to neighbor.

THE PEOPLE'S FAVORITE.

God bless the hero of my song! Six years the chieftain of our State! We've held him, in our hearts, so long, And proved him good, and true, and great. That now, we could not let him go, Even if he would have it so.

I hear the praises of his name From east and west, and north and south, His foes are silenced from sheer shame: His deeds have silenced Slander's mouth, And all the little imps of spite He's crushed beneath the heel of Right.

He dropped an arm one bloody day, In beating down the walls of wrong, But no strength went with it away; His other grew full thrice as strong. Few men, with their two hands, have done As noble deeds as he with one.

His soul speaks through his eye of blue, And all men know him one to trust, Because his heart is kind and true, And all his actions prove him just. I speak for thousands when I cry, "The people's favorite for aye!"

May God be with him all his days-- With him and all he holds most dear; And if my little song of praise Should chance to fall upon his ear, May he accept the offering, And know that from my heart I sing.

AN ARMY REUNION.

After the battles are over, And the war drums cease to beat, And no more is heard on the hillside The sound of hurrying feet, Full many a noble action, That was done in the days of strife, By the soldier is half forgotten, In the peaceful walks of life.

Just as the tangled grasses, In summer's warmth and light, Grow over the graves of the fallen And hide them away from sight, So many an act of valor, And many a deed sublime, Fades from the mind of the soldier, O'ergrown by the grass of time.

Not so should they be rewarded, Those noble deeds of old; They should live forever and ever, When the heroes' hearts are cold. Then rally, ye brave old comrades, Old veterans, re-unite! Up root time's tangled grasses-- Live over the march, and the fight.

Let Grant come up from the White House, And clasp each brother's hand, First chieftain of the army, Last chieftain of the land. Let him rest from a nation's burdens, And go, in thought, with his men, Through the fire and smoke of Shiloh, And save the day again.

This silent hero of battles, Knew no such word as _defeat_. It was left for the rebels learning. Along with the word retreat. He was not given to _talking_, But he found that guns would preach In a way that was more convincing Than fine and flowery speech.

Three cheers for the grave commander Of the grand old Tennessee! Who won the first great battle-- Gained the first great victory. His motto was always "Conquer," "Success" was his countersign, And "though it took all summer," He kept fighting upon "that line."

Let Sherman, the stern old General, Respond to the reveille, Let him march with his boys through Georgia, From "Atlanta down to the sea." Oh, that grand old tramp to Savannah! Three hundred miles to the coast! It will live in the heart of the Nation, Forever its pride and boast.

As Sheridan went to the battle. When a score of miles away, He has come to the feast and banquet. By the iron horse to-day. Its space is not much swifter Than the pace of that famous steed That bore him down to the contest And saved the day by his speed.

(When the above verse, which had been improvised on half of a Programme by Miss Wheeler, during the progress of the exercises, was read, it created wild enthusiasm, and led the loud calls for Sheridan, who came to the front of the platform, where he was received with loud applause and bowed his acknowledgments.)

Then go over the ground to-day, boys, Tread each remembered spot. It will be a gleesome journey, On the swift-shod feet of thought; You can fight a bloodless battle, You can skirmish along the route, But it's not worthwhile to forage, There are rations enough without.

Don't start if you hear the cannon; It is not the sound of doom, It does not call to the contest-- To the battle's smoke and gloom. "Let us have Peace," was spoken. And lo! peace ruled again; And now the nation is shouting, Through the cannon's voice, "Amen."

Oh, boys, who besieged old Vicksburg, Can time e'er wash away The triumph of her surrender, Nine years ago to-day? Can you ever forget the moment, When you saw that flag of white, That told how the grim old city Had fallen in her might?

Ah, 'twas a bold, brave army, When the boys with a right good will, Went gayly marching and singing To the fight at Champion Hill. They met with a warm reception, But the soul of "Old John Brown" Was abroad on that field of battle, And our flag did NOT go down.

Come, heroes of Look Out Mountain, Of Corinth and Donelson, Of Kenesaw and Atlanta, And tell how the day was won! Hush! bow the head for a moment-- There are those who cannot come. No bugle call can arouse them-- No sound of fife, or drum.

McPherson fell in the battle, When its waves were surging high. Brave Ransom sank by the wayside; 'Twas a lonely death to die. They walk God's fair, green meadows, They dwell in a land of bliss, Yet I think their spirits are with us In such an hour as this.

Oh, boys who died for the country, Oh, dear and sainted dead! What can we say about you That has not once been said? Whether you fell in the contest, Struck down by shot and shell, Or pined 'neath the hand of sickness, Or starved in the prison cell--

We know that you died for Freedom, To save our land from shame, To rescue a periled Nation, And we give you deathless fame. 'Twas the cause of Truth and Justice That you fought and perished for, And we say it, oh, so gently, "Our boys who died in the war."

Saviours of our Republic, Heroes who wore the blue, We owe the peace that surrounds us-- And our Nation's strength, to you. We owe it to you that our banner, The fairest flag in the world Is to-day unstained, unsullied, On the summer air unfurled.

We look on its stripes and spangles, And our hearts are filled the while With love for the brave commanders, And the boys of the rank and file. The grandest deeds of valor, Were never written out, The noblest acts of virtue, The world knows nothing about.

And many a private soldier, Who walks his humble way, With no sounding name or title, Unknown to the world to-day, In the eyes of God is a hero; All such he will reward, No deed however secret, Is hidden from the Lord.

Brave men of a mighty army, We extend you friendships hand! I speak for the "Loyal Women," Those pillars of our land. We wish you a hearty welcome, We are proud that you gather here To talk of old times together On this brightest day in the year.

And if peace, whose snow-white pinions, Brood over our land to-day, Should ever again go from us, (God grant she may ever stay). Should our Nation call in her peril For "Six hundred thousand more," The loyal women would hear her, And send you out as before.

We would bring out the treasured knapsack. We would take the sword from the wall, And hushing our own heart's pleadings, Hear only the country's call. For next to our God, is our Nation: And we cherish the honored name, Of the bravest of all brave armies Who fought for that Nation's fame.

THE CAMP FIRE.

When night hung low and dew fell damp, There fell athwart the shadows The gleaming watchfires of the camp, Like glow-worms on the meadows. The sentinel his measured beat With measured tread was keeping, While like bronze statues at his feet Lay tired soldiers, sleeping.

On some worn faces of the men There crept a homesick yearning, Which made it almost seem again, The child-look was returning. While on full many a youthful brow, Till now to care a stranger, The premature grave lines told how They had grown old through danger.

One, in his slumber, laughed with joy, The laughing echoes mocked him, He thought beside his baby boy He sat and gaily rocked him. O pitying angels! thou wert kind To end this brief elysian, He found what he no more could find Save in a dreamer's vision.

The clear note of a mocking bird-- That star of sound--came falling Down thro' the night; one, wakeful, heard And answered to the calling, And then upon the ear there broke That sweet, pathetic measure, That song that wakes--as then it woke, Such mingled pain and pleasure.

One voice at first, and then the sound Pulsed like a great bell's swinging, "Tenting to-night on the old camp ground," The whole roused camp was singing. The sense of warfare's discontent Gave place to warfare's glory; Right merrily the swift hours went With song, and jest, and story.

They sang the song of Old John Brown, Whose march goes on forever; It made them thirsty for renown, It fired them with endeavor. So much of that great heart lives still, So much of that great spirit-- His very name shoots like a thrill Through all men when they hear it.

They found in tales of march and fight New courage as they listened, And while they watched the weird camp-light, And while the still stars glistened, Like some stern comrade's voice, there broke And swept from hill to valley 'Til all the sleeping echoes woke,-- The bugle's call to rally!

"To arms! to arms! the foe is near!" Ah, brave hearts were ye equal To hearing through without one fear The whole tale's bloody sequel? The laurel wreath, the victor's cry, These are not all of glory; The gaping wound, the glazing eye, They, too, are in the story.

And when again their tents were spread, And by campfires they slumbered, The missing faces of the dead The living ones outnumbered. And yet, their memories animate The hearts that still survive them, And holy seems the task, and great, For one hour to revive them.

INDEPENDENCE ODE.

Columbia, fair queen in your glory! Columbia, the pride of the earth! We crown you with song-wreath and story; We honor the day of your birth!

The wrath of a king and his minions You braved, to be free, on that day; And the eagle sailed up on strong pinions, And frightened the lion at bay.

Since the chains and the shackles are broken. And citizens now replace slaves, Since the hearts of your heroes have spoken How dear they held freedom--by graves.