Part 3

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.

1869.

_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 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 soothed 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 head board or foot board, when I am dead) Better than glory, or honors, or fame, (Though I am striving for those to-day) To know that some heart will cherish my name, And think of me kindly, with blessings, alway.

1870.

_DON'T TALK WHEN YOU'VE NOTHING TO SAY_

It is well to be free in conversing, It is well to be able to chat With a friend on a subject of interest-- With a stranger on this thing or that. Don't aim to be cold or reticent, But listen to reason I pray, And remember this wisest of mottos, "Don't talk when you've nothing to say."

A gay, lively friend, or companion, With wits that are ready and quick, Is better by far, than a stupid, And unconversational stick. Yet speech at the best is but silver, While silence is golden alway. And remember at all times and places, Don't talk when you've nothing to say.

I like to see well informed people Who know _what_ to say, _how_ and _when_. And a little good nonsense and jesting Is not out of place, now and then. But I dread the approach of a Magpie, Who chatters from grave themes to gay, Who talks from the morn to the midnight, And always with nothing to say.

1871.

_THE FROST FAIRY_

All day the trees were moaning For the leaves that they had lost, All day they creaked and trembled, And the naked branches tossed And shivered in the north wind As he hurried up and down. Over hill-tops bleak and cheerless, Over meadows bare and brown.

"Oh, my green and tender leaflets. Oh, my fair buds, lost and gone!" So, they moaned through all the daytime, So, they groaned till night came on. And the hoar-frost lurked and listened To the wailing, sad refrain, And he whispered, "wait--be patient-- I will cover you again;

"I will deck you in new garments-- I will clothe you ere the light, In a sheen of spotless glory-- In a robe of purest white. You shall wear the matchless mantle, That the good Frost Fairy weaves." And the bare trees listened, wondered, And forgot their fallen leaves.

And the quaint and silent fairy, Backward, forward, through the gloom, Wove the matchless, glittering mantle, Spun the frost-thread on her loom. And the bare trees talked together, Talked in whispers soft and low, As the good and silent fairy Moved her shuttle to and fro.

And lo! when the golden glory Of the morning crept abroad, All the trees were clothed in grandeur, All the twiglets robed, and shod With matchless, spotless garments, That the sunshine decked with gems, And the trees forgot their sorrow, 'Neath their robes and diadems.

1871.

_FLORABELLE_

Did you see Florabelle? has she passed you this morning? A tall, slender Maiden, with hair like spun gold. She has? then I pray you, dear sir, heed my warning, It is just the old, oft rehearsed story re-told:

Florabelle is a jilt--a coquette--a deceiver. She angles for hearts, with soft words and sweet smiles. Forewarned is forearmed, don't you trust or believe her, Be deaf to her cooing, be blind to her wiles.

She has eyes, like the heart of a blue morning glory, She has lips like a rose-bud just sprinkled with dew, 'Tis the old hackneyed tale, 'tis the same wretched story, A woman all fair, yet all false, and untrue.

With her soft silken hair, in its meshes and tangles, With her pink and white cheek, and her full ruby lips, With her eyes shining clear, like the heaven's bright sparkles, She has wrecked as strong _hearts_ as the ocean has ships.

Those blue eyes are ever on watch for a stranger; She thirsts for fresh conquests, and she has marked you, I warn you, my friend, that your peace is in danger, Take heed, lest the day that you met her, you rue.

Don't bask in her smiles, for one moment, but leave her, Before you're entangled, and find it too late. Florabelle is a jilt--a coquet--a deceiver, I have given you warning! now choose your own fate!

1871.

_THE DOOMED CITY'S PRAYER_

(After the Burning of Chicago.)

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 Make 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.'"

November, 1871.

_ONE WOMAN'S PLEA_

Now God be with the men who stand In Legislative halls, to-day. Those chosen princes of our land-- May God be with them all, I say, And may His wisdom, guide, and shield them, For mighty is the trust we yield them.

Oh, men! who hold a people's fate, There in the hollow of your hand. Each word you utter, soon, or late, Shall leave its impress on our land,-- Forth from the halls of legislation, Shall speed its way, through all the Nation.

Then may The Source of Truth, and Light, Be ever o'er you, ever near. And may He guide each word aright; May no false precept, greet the ear, No selfish love, for purse, or faction, Stay Justice's hand, or guide one action.

And may no one, among these men Lift to his lips, the damning glass, Let no man say, with truth, again, What _has been said_, in truth, alas, "Men drink, in halls of legislation-- Why shouldn't we, of lower station!"

Oh, men! you see, you hear this beast, This fiend that pillages the earth. Whose work is death--whose hourly feast, Is noble souls, and minds of worth-- You see--and if you will not chain him, Nor reach one hand forth, to detain him.

For God's sake, do not give him aid, Nor urge him onward. Oh, to me, It seems so strange that laws are made To crush all other crimes, while he Who bears down through Hell's gaping portals The countless souls, of rum wrecked mortals,

Is left to wander, to, and fro, In perfect freedom through the land. And those who ought to see, and know, Will lift no warning voice, or hand. Oh, men in halls of legislation. Rise to the combat, save the Nation!

January, 1871.

_DECORATION POEM_

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 labelled "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.

Forest Hill Cemetery, May 30, 1871.

_A BABY IN THE HOUSE_

I knew that a baby was hid in that house, Though I saw no cradle, and heard no cry, But the husband went tiptoeing 'round like a mouse, And the good wife was humming a soft lullaby; And there was a look on the face of that mother That I knew could mean only _one_ thing, and no other.

"The _mother_," I said to myself; for I knew That the woman before me was certainly that, For there lay in the corner a tiny cloth shoe, And I saw on a stand such a wee little hat; And the beard of the husband said plain as could be, "Two fat, chubby hands have been tugging at me."

And he took from his pocket a gay picture book, And a dog that would bark if you pulled on a string; And the wife laid them up with such a pleased look; And I said to myself, "There is no other thing But a babe that could bring about all this, and so That one is in hiding here somewhere, I know."

I stayed but a moment, and saw nothing more, And heard not a sound, yet I knew I was right; What else could the shoe mean that lay on the floor-- The book and the toy, and the faces so bright? And what made the husband as still as a mouse? I am sure, _very_ sure, there's a babe in that house.

1872.

_POEM_

[Read at the Reunion of the Society of the "Grand Army of the Tennessee," at Madison, Wisconsin, July 4th, 1872.]

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.

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.