Part 1

SHELLS BY ELLA WHEELER _Author of "Drops of Water" and other Poems._

MILWAUKEE: HAUSER & STOREY. 1873.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873 by ELLA WHEELER, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.

DEDICATION. TO THE PEOPLE OF WISCONSIN, From whom I have Received so Many Words of Praise and Encouragement; To whom I am Indebted for so Many Marks of Appreciation, _Rendering my Pleasant Work_ Pleasanter, My Glad Life Gladder, Is this volume gratefully dedicated BY THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE

By the waves of thought, these "Shells" were washed out upon the shores of imagination, and I gathered them in idle moments. If they shall give you a few hours enjoyment, it will add to the pleasure I experienced in making the collection. ELLA WHEELER.

CONTENTS TO SECOND EDITION. Poems. Our Lives The Messenger Idle Ye Agents Warned Life Stars Fading Haunted Ghosts Tim's Story Memory's Garden Mysteries What the Winds Told Me Sometimes Blind Sorrow "Be Not Weary" To Those Who Never Pray Hung Compassion Fame Her Mother's Beautiful Eyes Old Times This World Going Away Good-Bye Jamie A Mother's Reverie The Two Glasses Twilight Thoughts Only a Kiss When I Am Dead Don't Talk When You've Nothing to Say The Frost Fairy Florabelle The Doomed City's Prayer One Woman's Plea Decoration Poem A Baby in the House Reunion Poem The People's Favorite Dream-Time Lines Written on the Death of James Buell Under the Willow Doubting A Sunset A Twilight Thought True Warriors One of These A Fancy Tired Never True Love His Song When You Go Away Bleak Weather The Tale the Robin Told A Memory Waiting Drifting Apart Once More Together Once in a While Beauty A Plea for Fame Somewhere Our Angel A Summer Idyl The Musicians In Vain Baby Eva I Shall Not Forget The Old and the New Decoration Poem At Set of Sun Love Song Display At the Window How By and By King and Siren After If You Had Been True Afloat Roses and Lilies In Heaven With You Thou Dost Not Know A Golden Year Foreshadowed Fortune's Wheel Searching Daft Trust The Common Link Burned To-day When I Die The Unseen Thorn Father and Child Under the Moon Singers Take My Hand Disinterred A Lawyer's Romance A Summer Day Song and Maid Asleep Two Counts The Watcher Life and Death An Autumn Reverie Two Lives In Memoriam My Love The Frost Fairy The Summons Three Years Old The Difference Loves Extravagance You Will Forget Me END.

SHELLS

_OUR LIVES_

Our lives are songs. God writes the words, And we set them to music at pleasure; And the song grows glad, or sweet, or sad, As we choose to fashion the measure.

We must write the music, whatever the song, Whatever its rhyme, or metre; And if it is sad, we can make it glad. Or if sweet, we can make it sweeter.

One has a song that is free and strong; But the music he writes is minor; And the sad, sad strain is replete with pain, And the singer becomes a repiner.

And he thinks God gave him a dirge-like lay. Nor knows that the words are cheery; And the song seems lonely and solemn--only Because the music is dreary.

And the song of another has through the words An under current of sadness; But he sets it to music of ringing chords, And makes it a pean of gladness.

So, whether our songs are sad or not, We can give the world more pleasure. And better ourselves, by setting the words To a glad, triumphant measure.

_THE MESSENGER_

She rose up, in the early dawn, And white, and silently she moved About the house: Four men had gone To battle for the land they loved: And she, the mother, and the wife. Waited for tidings from the strife. How still the house seemed; and her tread Sounded like footsteps of the dead.

The long day passed. The dark night came. She had not seen a human face. Some voice spoke suddenly her name. How loud it sounded in that place Where, day on day, no sound was heard But her own footsteps. "Bring you word," She cried, to whom she could not see-- "Word from the battle plain to me?" A soldier entered at the door, And stood within the dim firelight.

"I bring you tidings of the four," He said, "Who left you for the fight." "God bless you friend!" she cried, "speak on!" For I can bear it. "One is gone?" "Ay! one is gone!" he said, "Which one?" "Dear lady--he, your eldest son."

A deathly pallor shot across Her withered face: she did not weep. She said, "It is a grievous loss, But God gives his beloved sleep. What of the living--of the three, And when can they come back to me?" The soldier turned away his head, "Lady, your husband too, is dead."

She put her hand upon her brow. A wild, sharp pain, was in her eyes, "My husband? oh God help me now." The soldier shivered at her sighs. The task was harder than he thought. "Your youngest son, dear madam, fought Close at his father's side: both fell Dead, by the bursting of a shell."

She moved her lips and seemed to moan. Her face had paled to ashen grey-- "Then one is left me--one alone," She said, "of four who marched away. Oh, Over-ruling, All-wise God, How can I pass beneath Thy rod!" The soldier walked across the floor. Paused at the window, at the door--

Wiped the cold dew drops from his cheek And sought the mourner's side again. "Once more, dear lady, I must speak. Your last remaining son was slain Just at the closing of the fight, 'Twas he who sent me here to-night." "God knows," the man said afterward, "The fight itself, was not as hard."

1871.

_IDLE_

I sit in the twilight dim, At the close of an idle day, And list to the sweet, soft hymn That rises far away And dies on the evening air. Oh, all day long they sing their song Who toil in the valley there.

But never a song sing I, Sitting with folded hands. The hours pass me by, Dropping their golden sands. And I list from day to day To the tick, tick, tock, of the old brown clock Ticking my life away.

And I see the sunlight fade, And I see the night come on; And then, in the gloom and shade, I weep for the day that is gone. Weep, and wail, in pain, For the misspent day that has flown away And will not come again.

Another morning beams, But I forget the last, And sit in my idle dreams Till the day is overpast. Oh, the toiler's heart is glad When the day is gone and the night comes on, But mine is sore, and sad.

For I dare not look behind: No shining, golden sheaves Can I ever hope to find-- Nothing but withered leaves. Ah! dreams are very sweet! But will it please if only these I lay at the Master's feet.

And what will the Master say, To dreams and nothing more? Oh, idler all the day! Think, ere thy life is o'er! And when the day grows late. Oh, soul of sin, will He let you in There at the pearly gate?

Oh, idle heart beware! On, to the field of strife! On to the valley there, And live a useful life. Up! do not wait a day, For the old brown clock, with its tick, tick, tock, Is ticking your life away.

1869.

_YE AGENTS_

These agent men! these agent men! We hear the dreaded step again, We see a stranger at the door; And brace ourselves for war once more. He bows and smiles. "Walk in," we say.

He smiles again. "I come to-day. Dear Madam, with a great invention; And Sir, pray give me _your_ attention; Now here, you see, is something new. And just the thing, my friends, for you."

In vain we interrupt and say: "We shall not buy of you to-day." "But, Madam, Sir, you have not seen The beauties of this new machine; When thus arranged, your old affair, 'Tis plain to see, is just nowhere." "No doubt," I say; "'Tis very fine, And quite superior to mine." This gives him courage. On he goes, And every sentence glibly flows, Until his lesson is repeated To "warranted if fitly treated."

"Yes, new and fine, and grand," we say, "But still, we shall not buy to-day." "But, Madam, Sir, pray list to reason, 'Twill buy itself in half a season; You see the thing is bound to go." "Oh, certainly, we see, we know. But still, we do not wish to buy." He turns and leaves as with a sigh. And while we hasten to our labor He goes and persecutes our neighbor.

But lo! another follows on, Before the last is fairly gone. One day a reaper, next a mower, And then a fanning mill, and sower; Machines of all kinds 'neath the sun, Each better than the other one; A rocker for each dining chair, A brace to hold the broom in air, A book, just out, and you must buy Or give a proper reason why.

So, if we sometimes turn away Abruptly, Sirs, you must remember, That we have heard your tale each day From early Spring to late December. Why! if we listened to you all, And gave you the required attention, I think ere long each one would call, The "county house," the _best_ invention.

1869

_WARNED_

They stood at the garden gate. By the lifting of a lid She might have read her fate In a little thing he did.

He plucked a beautiful flower, Tore it away from its place On the side of the blooming bower, And held it against his face.

Drank in its beauty and bloom, In the midst of his idle talk; Then cast it down to the gloom And dust of the garden walk.

Ay, trod it under his foot, As it lay in his pathway there; Then spurned it away with his boot, Because it had ceased to be fair.

Ah! the maiden might have read The doom of her young life then; But she looked in his eyes instead, And thought him the king of men.

She looked in his eyes and blushed, She hid in his strong arms' fold; And the tale of the flower, crushed And spurned, was once more told.

_LIFE_

An infant wailing in nameless fear; A shadow, perchance, in the quiet room, Or the hum of an insect flying near, Or the screech-owl's cry, in the outer gloom.

A little child on the sun-checked floor, A broken toy, and a tear-stained face, A young life clouded, a young heart sore; And the great clock, time, ticks on apace.

A maiden weeping in bitter pain, Two white hands clasped on an aching brow. A blighted faith and a fond hope slain, A shattered trust and a broken vow.

A matron holding a baby's shoe, The hot tears gather, and fall at will On the knotted ribbon of white and blue, For the foot that wore it is cold and still.

An aged woman upon her bed, Worn, and wearied, and poor and old, Longing to rest with the happy dead. And thus the story of life is told.

Where is the season of careless glee? Where is the moment that holds no pain? Life has its crosses from infancy Down to the grave; and its hopes are vain.

1870.

_STARS_

Astronomers may gaze the heavens o'er, Discovering wonders, great, perhaps, and true! That stars are worlds, and peopled like our own, But I shall never think as these men do.

I shall believe them little shining things, Fashioned from heavenly ore, and filled with light. And to the sky above, so smoothly blue, An angel comes and nails them, every night.

And I have seen him. You no doubt would think A white cloud, sailed across the heavens blue. But as I watched the feathery thing, it was An angel nailing up the stars I knew.

And all night long they shine for us below; Shine in pale splendor, till the mighty sun Wakes up again. And then the angel comes, And gathers in his treasures, one by one.

How sweet the task! Oh, when this life is done, And I have joined the angel band on high, Of all that throng, oh may it be my lot. To nail the stars upon the evening sky.

1868.

_FADING_

She sits beside the window. All who pass Turn once again to gaze on her sweet face. She is so fair; but soon, too soon, alas, To lie down in her last low resting place.

No gems are brighter than her sparkling eyes. Her brow like polished marble, white and fair-- Her cheeks as glowing as the sunset skies-- You would not dream that death was lurking there.

But, oh! he lingers closely at her side. And when the forest dons its Autumn dress, We know that he will claim her as his bride, And earth will number one fair spirit less.

She sees the meadow robed in richest green-- The laughing stream--the willows bending o'er. With tear dimmed eyes she views each sylvan scene, And thinks earth never was so fair before.

We do not sigh for Heaven, till we have known, Something of sorrow, something of grief and woe, And as a summer day her life has flown. Then, can we wonder she is loath to go?

She has no friends in Heaven: all are here. No lost one waits her in that unknown land, And life grows doubly, trebly sweet and dear, As day by day, she nears the mystic strand.

We love her and we grieve to see her go. But it is Christ who calls her to His breast, And He shall greet her, and she soon shall know The joys of souls that dwell among the blest.

1869.

_HAUNTED_

"We walk upon the sea-shore, you and I, Just two alone," you say. But there are three; A tall and manly form is walking nigh, And as I move, he moves along with me.

Your shadow? No, for shadows do not speak, And he is speaking, tenderly and low, Words that bring crimson blushes to my cheek, You cannot hear, the sea is sounding so.

But it is strange you cannot see him there, My darling with the broad and snowy brow. You never saw a face so grandly fair. I'll stand aside--there, do you see him now?

No! well you jest, or else you're growing blind; Blue eyes are never very strong, you know; This summer sun and wind are bad combined, You should not walk here where the sea gales blow.

Ah, he who walks here at my side has eyes That sun, nor wind can dim their eagle sight, You've seen the thunder cloud in stormy skies-- Well, so his eyes are, full of purple light.

Dead! what a foolish thing for you to say, When I can see him walking at my side; Just as we walked a year ago to-day, When first I promised him to be his bride.

Go, leave us. We had rather be alone. Your words are wild to-day. Go, let me be With him a while. And when an hour has flown I'll follow you. But now he waits for me.

_GHOSTS_

There are ghosts in the room, As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there They come out of the gloom And they stand at my side, and they lean on my chair.

There's the ghost of a hope That lighted my days with a fanciful glow. In her hand is the rope That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.

But her ghost comes to-night, With its skeleton face, and expressionless eyes, And it stands in the light, And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.

There's the ghost of a Joy, A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much, And the hands that destroy Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.

There's the ghost of a love, Born with joy, reared with Hope, died in pain and unrest, But he towers above All the others--this ghost: yet a ghost at the best.

I am weary, and fain Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host Make the struggle in vain, In each shadowy corner, there lurketh a ghost.

1869

_TIM'S STORY_

I was out promenading one fine summer day, When I chanced upon three bosom cronies to stray, And a beer shop we happened to pass on our way.

"Now boys," said I, stopping them all with a wink, "If you'll step round the corner, I'll treat to a drink; How is it, my hearties? now, what do you think?"

So, into the bar-room we dropped in a flash, And up to the keeper I went with a dash: "Four glasses of lager, and none of your trash, But the best and the foamiest money can bring," Was the order I gave, with the air of a king; And mine host fluttered off, like a bird on the wing.

Just then an old toper dropped in from the street, A jolly old soak, with a nose like a beet. And he said, "Now, my rummys, I'll share in that treat."

But I said to my cronies, "Say boys, look ye there! Do you 'spose such a nosey will fall to our share?" Quoth the toper, "Keep drinking, my lads, and you'll wear A nose like my own, or I miss in my guess." "Why," said Ned, "it resembles the light of distress." Said Tom, "It's the color of Sally Ann's dress."

Said Billy, "It looks like the sun's ruddy bed, And shines like the top of my grandfather's head." Said I, "It is ready, I think, to be bled."

"Now thank ye, my lads," said old soak with a bow, "But gulp down your lager, 'twill soon show ye how Red noses are painted and polished, I vow."

I turned to my cronies: "Now, boys, look ye here! I wouldn't, I say, for ten thousand a year, Have my nose grow to look like the one beaming near!"

"Nor I, sir!" "Nor I, sir!" "Nor I!" cried each chum; Then, said I, "A good-bye to all beer, ale, and rum, And hurrah for cold water! my boys, will ye come?"

"We are ready and willing," said Tom, Bill and Ned. "Let's get us a pledge, boys, and sign it," I said-- And so at next meeting, four names were read In the Temperance column. And now should you be In these parts, and a fine-looking fellow should see, You may know it is one of my cronies, or me.

By lectures, and preaching, some fellows are won, But you see it is different with us: it was done By the jolly old soak, with a nose like the sun!

1870.

_MEMORY'S GARDEN_

Back on its golden hinges The gate of Memory swings, And my heart goes into the garden And walks with the olden things. The old-time, joys and pleasures. The loves that it used to know, It meets there in the garden. And they wander to and fro.

It heareth a peal of laughter, It seeth a face most fair. It thrills with a wild, strange rapture At the glance of a dark eye there; It strayeth under the sunset In the midst of a merry throng, And beats in a tuneful measure, To the snatch of a floating song.

It heareth a strain of music Swell on the dreamy air, A strain that is never sounded, Save in the garden there. It wanders among the roses, And thrills at a long-lost kiss, And glows at the touch of fingers, In a tremor of foolish bliss.

But all is not fair in the garden,-- There's a sorrowing sob of pain; There are tear-drops, bitter, scalding, And the roses are tempest-slain. And I shut the gate of the garden. And walk in the Present's ways. For its quiet paths are better Than the pain of those vanished days!

_MYSTERIES_

In God's vast wisdom, infinite and grand-- Too vast, too infinite, for mortal mind-- There are some things I cannot understand. In all His paths, in all His ways, I find Some subtle mysteries of life and death-- Some marvels that I cannot comprehend, Nor can I hope to know them till the end, When all shall be made plain, above--beneath.

There are so many of His righteous deeds-- There is so much that unto me is plain, I have no time to wonder--have no needs To question why, and wherefore. In the main My _mortal_ eyes see that His works are good. Whatever else seems strange, and dark, and dim, I am content to leave in faith with Him, And in His time, it will be understood.

These labyrinths wherein many souls are lost-- These waters, whereon some barks lose the shore, But draw me nearer to the Heavenly Host, But make me love and worship God the more. There is enough that I do see and know-- There is enough that I can understand, And sometime Christ shall take me by the hand. Explaining all that seems so strange below.

1870.

_WHAT THE WINDS TOLD ME_

The winds come from the West, Come softly, mildly, "What tidings do you bring?" I questioned wildly. They sang a tender tune, And answered lightly-- "Your darling's path is fair! The sun shines brightly."

The winds came from the West, Came shrieking, groaning. "What tidings now, oh wind?" My heart cried moaning. They answered loud, and wild, "When danger stalketh-- And death is waiting, near, Your darling walketh."

The winds came from the West, Came weeping, wailing. "Oh, tell me, tell me, winds!" My heart cried, failing. "Where none are near to soothe," They answered sighing, "In loneliness and pain, Your love is dying!"

The winds came from the West! Came sadly sobbing. And with an awful fear, My heart was throbbing. I wildly questioned them Amidst my weeping, "All still, and white," they said, "Your love is sleeping."

1870

_SOMETIMES_

Sometimes when I am all alone, Away from noise and strife, The many faults and weaknesses, That rule my daily life Seem to die out. And as I sit From worldliness apart, All that is good and pure obtains The mastery of my heart.

And then my soul turns heavenward, And I commune with God. I long to tread the narrow path That Christ before me trod. I long to see his precious face-- To go where angels go, To leave the fleeting, fading things That make up life below.

My soul expands with ecstasy, My heart grows brave, and strong, To meet whatever lies ahead-- To battle down the wrong. No sorrow can affright my soul, No earthly ill, I fear, While in that blessed trance I sit And feel that God is near.

And then I mingle with the world. And falter day by day, Until at last I walk within The olden, sinful way. O, shall I even grow in grace, O shall I ever be, Ready to meet the judgment day-- Fit for eternity?

1869.

_BLIND SORROW_

One bitter time of mourning, I remember, When day, and night, my sad heart did complain, My life, I said, was one cold, bleak December, And all its pleasures, were but whited pain.

Nothing could rouse me from my sullen sorrow, Because you were not near, I would not smile. And from a score of joys refused to borrow One ray of light, to gild the weary while.