Part 3

I have lived in a whirl of fashion, I have kept right up to the "style," I have learned how to dance the "German," How to bow, and flirt and smile. I have worn most beautiful dresses, Been the belle of many a ball. I have won the envy of women, And the praise of fops-that's all

Does any one really respect me?-- Could a single thing be said That would give the mourners pleasure To-morrow, if I were dead? "She wore such beautiful dresses," "She's a dozen strings to her bow," "She could waltz like a perfect fairy"-- Would you like me remembered so?

Well, there's nothing else to remember What thing have I ever done That has made a soul the better Or cheered a hapless one? I have spent my time and money-- The best of my fortune and days-- In gaining the envy of women And making the poor fops gaze.

I am going to be a woman, And live for others awhile-- Forgetting myself for a season, Though I know it isn't the "style." I am in no mood for a revel-- Away with that robe of white! And I will stay here, my darling, And talk with my heart to-night.

JOY.

My heart is like a little bird That sits and sings for very gladness. Sorrow is some forgotten word, And so, except in rhyme, is sadness.

The world is very fair to me-- Such azure skies, such golden weather, I'm like a long caged bird set free, My heart is lighter than a feather.

I rise rejoicing in my life; I live with love for God and neighbor; My days flow on unmarred by strife, And sweetened by my pleasant labor.

Oh youth! oh spring! oh happy days, Ye are so passing sweet, and tender, And while the fleeting season stays, I'll revel care-free, in its splendor.

BIRD OF HOPE.

Soar not too high, oh bird of Hope! Because the skies are fair; The tempest may come on apace And overcome thee there.

When far above the mountain tops Thou soarest, over all-- If, then, the storm should press thee baek, How great would be thy fall!

And thou would'st lie here at my feet, A poor and lifeless thing,-- A torn and bleeding birdling, With a limp and broken wing.

Sing not too loud, oh bird of Hope! Because the day is bright; The sunshine cannot always last-- The morn precedes the night.

And if thy song is of the day, Then when the day grows dim, Forlorn and voiceless thou wouldst sit Among the shadows grim.

Oh! I would have thee soar and sing, But not too high, or loud, Remembering that day meets night The brilliant sun the cloud.

A GOLDEN DAY.

The subtle beauty of this day Hangs o'er me like a fairy spell, And care and grief have flown away, And every breeze sings, "All is well." I ask, "Holds earth or sin, or woe?" My heart replies, "I do not know."

Nay! all we know, or feel, my heart, Today is joy undimmed, complete; In tears or pain we have no part; The act of breathing is so sweet, We care no higher joy to name. What reek we now of wealth or fame!

The past--what matters it to me? The pain it gave has passed away. The future--that I cannot see! I care for nothing save today-- This is a respite from all care, And trouble flies--I know not where.

Go on, oh, noisy, restless life! Pass by, oh, feet that seek for heights! I have no part in aught of strife; I do not want your vain delights. The day wraps round me like a spell And every breeze sings, "All is well."

FADING.

All in the beautiful Autumn weather One thought lingers with me and stays; Death and winter are coming together, Though both are veiled by the amber haze. I look on the forest of royal splendor! I look on the face in my quiet room; A face all beautiful, sad and tender, And both are stamped with the seal of doom.

All through the days of Indian summer, Minute by minute and hour by hour. I feel the approach of a dreaded Comer-- A ghastly presence of awful power. I hear the birds in the early morning, As they fly from the fields that are turning brown, And at noon and at night my heart takes warning, For the maple leaves fall down and down.

The sumac bushes are all a-flaming! The world is scarlet, and gold, and green, And my darling's beautiful cheeks are shaming The painted bloom of the ballroom queen. Why talk of winter, amid such glory? Why speak of death of a thing so fair? Oh, but the forest king white and hoary Is weaving a mantle for both to wear.

God! if I could by the soft deceiving Of forests of splendor and cheeks of bloom Lull my heart into sweet believing Just for a moment and drown my gloom; If I could forget for a second only And rest from the pain of this awful dread Of days that are coming long and lonely When the Autumn goes and she is dead.

But all the while the sun gilds wood and meadow And the fair cheeks, hectic glows and cheats, I know grim death sits veiled in shadow Weaving for both their winding sheets. I cannot help, and I cannot save her. My hands are as weak as a babe's, new-born; I must yield her up to One who gave her And wait for the resurrection morn.

ALL THE WORLD.

All the world is full of babies, Sobbing, sighing everywhere, Looking out with eyes of terror, Beating at the empty air. Do they see the strife before them, That they sob and tremble so? Oh, the helpless, frightened babies; Still they come and still they go.

All the world is full of children, Laughing over little joys; Sighing over little troubles Fingers bruised or broken toys Wishing to be older, larger, Weeping at some fancied woe. Oh, the happy, hapless, children, Still they come and still they go.

All the earth is full of lovers, Walking slowly, whispering sweet, Dreaming dreams and building castles That must crumble at their feet; Breaking vows and burning letters, Smiling lest the world shall know. Oh, the foolish, trusting lovers, Still they come and still they go.

All the world is full of people, Hurrying, pushing, rushing by, Bearing burdens, carrying crosses, Passing onward with a sigh; Some like us, with smiling faces, And their heavy hearts below. Oh, the sad-eyed, burdened people-- How they come and how they go!

All the earth is full of corpses, Dust and bones, laid there to rest, This the end, that babes and children, Lovers, people find at best; All their cares and all their burdens, All their sorrows, wearing so Oh, the silent, happy corpses, Sleeping soundly, lying low.

LINES.

Dedicated to Mr. and Mrs. D. Atwood upon the celebration of their silver wedding, August 25th, 1874.

The harvest-moon of wedded love, Fair in the heavens sailing, Has reached mid-height, and, clear and bright, Gives little sign of paling.

Since first, above the horizon, The silvery crescent lifted, The clouds of five-and-twenty years Have o'er its surface drifted.

But, while the days have come and gone, Though many a changing "morrow," The growing moon sailed up and on Above the hills of sorrow.

And, though with years came blinding tears, The guiding moon grew brighter; It gave relief, in time of grief-- Made heavy burdens lighter.

One quarter of one hundred years It has been growing, filling, Till, round and bright, its silvery light On all tonight is spilling.

Oh, harvesters on life's great plain! The young sheaves shining 'round you Prove that you have not toiled in vain Prove that God's blessing found you.

Smile in the moonlight's silver gleam, Rejoice in harvest weather; Ye know ye may not always keep The precious sheaves together!

Shine on, oh moon of wedded bliss! Live on through many a morrow, Till from the sun of Immortal Love Its golden light you borrow.

A FRAGMENT.

Your words came just when needed. Like a breeze, Blowing and bringing from the wide salt sea Some cooling spray, to meadow scorched with heat And choked with dust and clouds of sifted sand, That hateful whirlwinds, envious of its bloom, Had tossed upon it. But the cool sea breeze Came laden with the odors of the sea And damp with spray, that laid the dust and sand And brought new life and strength to blade and bloom, So words of thine came over miles to me, Fresh from the mighty sea, a true friend's heart, And brought me hope, and strength, and swept away The dusty webs that human spiders spun Across my path. Friend--and the word means much-- So few there are who reach like thee, a hand Up over all the barking curs of spite And give the clasp, when most its need is felt; Friend, newly found, accept my full heart's thanks.

THE CHANGE.

She leaned out into the soft June weather, With her long loose tresses the night breeze played; Her eyes were as blue as the bells on the heather: Oh, what is so fair as a fair young maid!

She folded her hands, like the leaves of a lily, "My life," she said, "is a night in June, Fair and quiet, and calm and stilly; Bring me a change, oh changeful moon!

"Who would drift on a lake forever? Young hearts weary--it is not strange, And sigh for the beautiful bounding river; New moon, true moon, bring me a change!"

The rose that rivaled her maiden blushes Dropped from her breast, at a stranger's feet; Only a glance; but the hot blood rushes To mantle a fair face, shy and sweet.

To and fro, while the moon is waning, They walk, and the stars shine on above; And one is in earnest, and one is feigning Oh, what is so sweet, as a sweet young love f

A young life crushed, and a young heart broken, A bleak wind blows through the lovely bower, And all that remains of the love vows spoken-- Is the trampled leaf of a faded flower.

The night is dark, for the moon is failing-- And what is so pale, as a pale old moon! Cold is the wind through the tree tops wailing Woe that the change should come so soon.

OLD.

They stood together at the garden gate; They heard the night bird calling to his mate; The sun had set, And all the vines upon the summer bowers, The long green grasses, and the blooming flowers Were dewy wet.

The sun's last rays had lit the Western skies And dipped the mass of clouds in golden dyes Brilliant and grand. They stood in silence for a little while, And then he turned, and with a tender smile He took her hand.

"Of all the sweet days we have known, my friend," He said half sadly, "This will be the end. I grieve to go, Loving, as I shall never love again; It rends my heart-strings, and it gives me pain, But well I know

"I could not make you happy with my love, You, tender hearted, gentle as a dove, And I--oh, well! I cannot grovel on in this dull life. How my soul yearns for scenes of noise and strife No tongue can tell.

"And so I give you back the pledge you gave, I should but drag you to an early grave With my unrest. You are unfettered; but here at your feet I leave my heart; oh, may you be, my sweet, Forever blest."

She drew from off her hand the hoop of gold (Dearer to her by far than wealth untold) And gave to him, And as she, slow and silent, moved away, Her life like all that Western sky grew gray And bleak and grim.

He walks to-day, with kings upon the earth; He dwells in scenes of revelry and mirth, With naught of care. And she--the sun that set for her in deepest gloom, And never rose, will rise beyond the tomb And meet her there.

THE MUSICIANS.

The strings of my heart were strung by Pleasure, And I laughed, when the music fell on my ear, For he and Mirth played a joyful measure, And they played so loud that I could not hear The wailing and moaning of souls a-weary-- The strains of sorrow that floated around, For my heart's notes rang loud and cheery, And I heard no other sound.

Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers, Played louder and louder in joyful glee; But sometimes a discord was heard by others-- Though only the rhythm was heard by me. Louder and louder, and faster and faster The hands of the brothers played strain on strain, When all of a sudden, a Mighty Master Swept them aside; and Pain,

Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner, Restrung the strings of my quivering heart, And the air that he played was a plaintive minor, So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start; Each note was an echo of awful anguish, As shrill as solemn, as sharp as slow, And my soul for a season seemed to languish And faint with its weight of woe.

With skillful hands, that were never weary, This Master of Music played strain on strain, And between the bars of the miserere, He drew up the strings of my heart again, And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder, To see that they did not snap in two. "They are drawn so tight they will break asunder," I thought, but instead, they grew.

In the hands of the Master, firmer and stronger; And I could hear on the stilly air-- Now my ears were deafened by Mirth no longer-- The sounds of sorrow, and grief, and despair; And my soul grew tender and kind to others, My nature grew sweeter, my mind grew broad, And I held all men to be my brothers, Linked by the chastening rod.

My soul was lifted to God and heaven, And when on my heart-strings fell again The hands of Mirth and Pleasure, even, There was never a discord to mar the strain, For Pain, the musician, and soul-refiner, Attuned the strings with a master hand, And whether the music be major or minor, It is always sweet and grand.

THE DOOMED CITY'S PRAYER.

I heard a low sound, like a troubled soul praying: And the winds of the winter night brought it to me. 'Twas the doomed city's voice: "Oh, kind snow," it was saying, "Come, cover my ruins, so ghastly to see. I am robbed of my beauty, and shorn of my glory; And the strength that I boasted--where is it to-day? I am down in the dust; and my pitiful story Makes tearless eyes weep, and unpious lips pray.

"I--I, who have reveled in pomp and in power, Am down on my knees, with my face in the dust; But yesterday queen, with a queen's royal dower, To-day I am glad of a crumb or a crust. But yesterday reigning, a grand mighty city, The pride of the nation, the queen of the West; To-day I am gazed at, an object of pity, A charity child, asking alms, at the best.

"My strength, and my pride, and my glory departed, My fair features scorched by the fire fiend's breath, Is it strange that I'm soul-sick and sorrowful hearted? Is it strange that my thoughts run on ruin and death? Oh, white, fleecy clouds that are drooping above me, Hark, hark to my pleadings, and answer my sighs, And let down the beautiful snow, if you love me, To cover my wounds from all pitying eyes.

"I am hurled from my throne, but not hurled down forever; I shall rise from the dust; I shall live down my woes-- But my heart lies to-day, like a dumb, frozen river; When to thaw out and flow again, God only knows. Oh, sprites of the air! I beseech you to weave me A mantle of white snow, and beautiful rime To cover my unsightly ruins; then leave me In the hands of the healer of all wounds--'Old Time.'"

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 the 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 into the house, my boy."

Five summers ago, her Johnnie Went out in the smile of 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 nor 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.

HUNG.

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.

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 the 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 smoothed 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 headboard or footboard when I am dead?); Better than glory, or honors, or fame (Though I am striving for those to-day), To know that some heart would cherish my name And think of me kindly, with blessings, alway.

IN MEMORY OF MISS JENNIE BLANCHARD.

Across the sodden field we gaze, To woodlands, painted gold and brown; To hills that hide in purple haze, And proudly wear the Autumn's crown. Oh, lavish Autumn! fair, we know, And yet we cannot deem her so.

The blossoms had their little day; The grasses, and the green-hung trees. They lived, grew old, and passed away. And yet, not satisfied with these, The cruel Autumn could not pass Without this last fell stroke. Alas!

"Alas," we cry, because God's ways Seem so at variance with our own, And grieving through the nights and days, We see not that His love was shown In gathering to His "Harvest Home" Our lost one, from the grief to come.

Oh, tears! she will not have to weep! Oh, Woes! she will not have to bear! For her, who fell so soon asleep, No furrowed face, no whitened hair. And yet we would have given her these, In lieu of heavenly victories.