Part 6
He struggled for knowledge and riches, Position and glory, and _won_. But, reaching too far, like a child for a star, He fell, with the words, "It is done!" It is done, all the climbing and toiling; It is done, all the worry and strife, All the bitter and sweet, th' success and defeat,-- It is done, the great drama of life.
It is done, all the year could do for us, Its mixture of shadow and sun, Its smiles and its tears, its hopes and its fears, Its labors and duties, all done. We stand face to face with the New Year, Nor know what it hides from our sight; God grant that it be kind to you, and to me, That it lead us in ways that are light.
The bells in the steeples are joyful, The children are shouting in glee, There is mirth and good cheer in the happy New Year-- All hail to young '73! Come out of the shadows, ye mourners! And drop, for this one day at least, And take part in the revel and feast.
Let us laugh like gay children together, Forgetting we ever shed tears-- Forgetting the losses, the sorrows and crosses That came to our lives with the years-- Remembering only the perfume, The beauty, the bloom, and the sun, Let us talk of the New Years departed, And call this the happiest one.
January 1st, 1873.
_DECORATION POEM_
A year that was solemn, and sad and strange, Has passed away to its tomb, Since we made the graves of our dear, dead braves Like a garden, all abloom,-- A year that brought sorrow, and want, and change-- A year with a fateful breath: And the dreaded beat of its flame-shod feet Wrought ruin, and woe, and death.
High and higher the tongues of fire Leaped up in a single night, Till the walls of a town went crumbling down, And a city fell in her might. And with flame and disease, and woes like these, Death laughed in his mad, wild glee; And Pestilence loosened his imps in the land, And ships went down at sea.
But with all of the passion, and pain, and fear,-- With all of the long, sad hours,-- We have not forgotten to offer here Our yearly tribute of flowers. I think the heart in a loyal breast Knows no such word as _forget_; And I think--nay, know--that in weal or in woe, _We_ shall remember our debt.
The debt of a nation redeemed from shame, And a million of slaves set free, Of a spotless fame, and cherished name, Honored on land and sea. Of the dear old flag kept out of the dust, The flag of the brave and true, And this is the debt we are owing yet To the boys who wore the blue.
Thousands are sleeping in Southern graves, With no slab to tell us where; But the land where the sweet magnolia waves, God's hands keep fresh and fair. And the angels above; in pity and love, Watch over the unknown mound, Where some heart's joy, some mother's boy, A nameless grave has found.
To a clear sweet song that is free and strong, Yet sad with a minor strain, I liken the lives of the boys in blue, Who died ere they knew our gain; To a glad, glad song, that rings loud and bold, In a stirring major key, I liken in thought, the boys who fought, And were crowned with victory.
To the hero who comes with the beating of drums, We can give the laurels of fame; And with mirth, and music, and song and feast, We can honor and praise his name; But we bring to the bed of the sainted dead, Only these wreaths to-day; Yet they speak with their bloom and sweet perfume, More than our lips can say.
They speak of a love that can never die, But strengthen and grow with time; Of lives that blossom again on high,-- Of a faith and hope sublime. They tell how a grateful nation's heart Remembers her tried and true, And how tears are shed for the honored dead, For the boys who wore the blue.
They speak of the higher and purer life That the Lord's dear angels know; Where nought can enter of pain or strife, And tears can never flow. Sleep on brave boys your graves are as green As the thoughts we give to ye, And these blooms will say ye are shrined alway In the halls of memory.
Forest Hill Cemetery, May 30th, 1872.
_AT SET OF SUN_
If we sit down at set of sun, And count the things that we have done, And counting, find One self-denying act, one word That eased the heart of him who heard, One glance, most kind, That fell like sunshine where it went-- Then we may count that day well spent.
Or, on the other hand, if we, In looking through the day, can see A place or spot Where we an unkind act put down, Or where we smiled when wont to frown, Or crushed some thought That cumbered the heart--ground where it stood-- Then we may count that day as good.
But if, through all the life-long day, We've eased no heart by yea or nay; If through it all We've done no thing that we can trace, That brought the sunshine to a face-- No act most small That helped some soul, and nothing cost-- Then count that day as worse than lost.
1869
_LOVE SONG_
When the glad spring time walked over the border, And the brown honey bee crept from his cell; When the sun and the west wind put nature in order, And decked her in robes that became her so well, Then did my torpid heart waken from slumber, Then did I first spring to life and to light. For what were the years passed without thee; they number Only as one long, dark, flavorless night.
In the flush of the spring time, I saw thee, and seeing, Loved with the love that had waited for thee. A life that I never had known, sprang to being-- A life and a love that were heaven to me. There never before was such warmth in the summer, There never before were such hues in the fall, Never such balm in the breath of that comer Who shrouds the dead seasons, and rules over all.
Love, I have drunk in the charm of thy presence, The elixir that grants me perpetual life. My blood leaps, and bounds! I am thrilled with the essence, And soar over trials, and troubles, and strife. We live, and we love! and what grief can alarm us; Darling, my darling, the world is our own! Life never can rob us--death cannot disarm us Of this, our vast riches, our wealth, love, alone.
The summer is dead! Did'st know it, my darling? Did'st know that the winter walked over the earth? The gold-breasted thrush, and the quaker-crowned starling Make glad other lands, with their innocent mirth. Ah no! for the summer of love in thy bosom, Make summer and sunlight, for thee, everywhere. _I_ should not have known: but I missed the bright blossom That all through the summer, I saw in thy hair.
1870
_DISPLAY_
Oh, households wherein skeletons abide! Keep the dark closet closed, nor think it wise To throw the door open for stranger eyes, To see the grinning, fleshless thing inside.
I hate that senseless, imbecile display Of loathsome things, that calls the gaping crowd To gaze and comment. Let the screening shroud Cover the faces of the dead, I say.
And if a household counts a skeleton, Then keep the ghastly phantom closeted; Nor flaunt the bones of the unquiet dead For all the vulgar throng to gaze upon.
Oh, you whose souls are burdened cruelly, Who shrink in anguish at the bitter smart That gnaweth, burneth, at your very heart-- Cover the wounds, that strangers shall not see!
Think you a bleeding heart will sooner heal, To hang where all the cutting winds that blow, And all the birds of prey can mock its woe? I hate that vain parade, of all we feel.
Whoever knew the world to give relief To any private sorrow of a heart! Its sneering pity is a poisoned dart! Then closet well your phantoms, and your grief.
1869
_AT THE WINDOW_
Every morning, as I walk down From my dreary lodgings, toward the town, I see at the window near the street, The face of a woman, fair, and sweet, With soft brown eyes, and chestnut hair, And red lips, warm with the kiss left there. And she lingers as long as she can see The man who walks, just ahead of me.
At night, when I come from my office, down town, There stands the woman, with eyes of brown, Smiling out through the window-blind, At the man who comes strolling on behind. This fellow and I resemble each other; At least, so I'm told, by one and another. (But I think I'm the handsomer, far, of the two.) I don't know him at all, save to "how d'ye do," Or nod when I meet him. I think he's at work In a dry goods store, as a salaried clerk.
And I am a lawyer, of high renown; Have a snug bank account, and an office down town. Yet I feel for that fellow an envious spite: (It has no better name, so I speak it outright.) There were symptoms before: but it's grown, I believe, Alarmingly fast, since one cloudy eve, When passing the little house, close by the street, I heard the patter of two tiny feet, And a figure in pink, fluttered down to the gate, And a sweet voice exclaimed, "Oh, Will, you are late And, darling, I've watched at the window until-- Sir, I beg pardon! I thought it was Will."
I passed on my way, with an odd little smart Beneath my vest pocket, in what's called the heart. For, as it happens, my name, too, is Will; And that voice crying "darling" sent such a strange thrill Throughout my whole being. "How nice it would be," Thought I, "if it were in reality me That she's watched and longed for, instead of that lout." (It was envy made me use that word, no doubt, For he's a fine fellow, and handsome, ahem!) But then it's absurd that this rare little gem Of a woman, should be on the look-out for him, Till she brings on a headache, and makes her eyes dim, While I go to lodgings, dull, dreary, and bare, With no one to welcome me, no one to care If I'm early, or late--no soft eyes of brown To watch when I go to, or come from, the town.
This bleak, wretched bachelor life, is about, If I may be allowed the expression--played out. Somewhere there must be, in this wide world, I think, Another fair woman, who dresses in pink. And I know of a cottage for sale just below, And it has a French window, in front, and--heigho I wonder how long, at the longest, 'twill be, Before coming home from the office I'll see A nice little woman there, watching for me.
1870.
_HOW_
How can I let my youth go by? How can I let Time mark my brow, And steal the light of a laughing eye, And whiten the locks that are nut brown now. And the tide that goes, And ripples, and flows, Like a beautiful river, on forever, Over my head, through every vein, And fills me, and thrills me, with joy like pain, Old cruel Time, With a touch of rime, Will drug, and chill, and freeze, until It likes a stream, In its winter dream.
Ho! ho! old Time! you may chuckle and smile, But Death may cheat you, and beat you yet; What shall you say, if, after a while, Ere the sun of my youth has set, I go with him, to a closet dim, And closing my eyes, in a long, long rest, Lie white and cold, And never grow old, With my two hands clasped over my breast. Always young, With my song half sung-- Lying under the graves' green mould; And the world, for a day Would miss me, and say, "When will the rest of the tale be told?" And then go on, Gaily on. Till its hopes were fears, and its young were old.
And, lying there, What should I care, Though Time, in a phrenzy of baffled rage, Should beat on my grave, And howl and rave, That I would not barter my youth, for age; But lie and sleep, Down low and deep. Though suns of a thousand seasons set. Always young, Never old, With my song half sung. And my tale half told-- Ho, ho, old Time, I may cheat you yet!
December, 1869.
_BY AND BY_
Sometime fame shall come to me; Sometime in the "yet to be." Not to-day, and not to-morrow; After years of toil and sorrow, After losing youth and grace, In the weary, foolish chase.
After weeks of bitter tears, After months, and after years, After waiting day on day, Throwing love, and peace away, I shall find the phantom nearing-- I shall find the shadows clearing.
I shall reach the thing I sought, I shall reach, and find it--what? Will it recompense, and pay For the joys I cast away? In the weary, weary race, When I lost my youth, and grace?
Is it worth the wear, and strife-- Worth the best part of a life? Thus have men and women queried, Standing on the summit, wearied With the long and steep ascent, When their youth and grace were spent.
Time sweeps onward with his cycle: Life is brief, and love is fickle. I will pause not at his calling, I will heed not tear-drops falling: Fame, but Fame, will satisfy, I shall find it by and by.
1870
_KING AND SIREN_
The harsh king, Winter, sat upon the hills, And reigned, and ruled the earth right royally. He locked the rivers, lakes, and all the rills. "I am no puny, maudlin king," quoth he, "But a stern monarch, born to rule and reign, And I will show my power to the end; The summer's flowery retinue I've slain, And taken the bold, free North-Wind for my friend.
"Spring, Summer, Autumn--feeble queens they were, With their vast troops of flowers, birds, and bees, And winds, that made the long, green grasses stir-- They lost their own identity in these. I scorn them all! nay, I defy them all! And none can wrest the sceptre from my hand. The trusty North-Wind answers to my call, And breathes his icy breath upon the land."
The Siren, South-Wind, listening the while, Now floated airily across the lea. "Oh, King!" she said, with tender tone and smile, "I come to do all homage unto thee. In all the sunny region whence I came, I find none like thee, King, so brave and grand. Thine is a well-deserved, unrivalled fame; I kiss in awe, dear King, thy cold white hand."
Her words were pleasing, and most fair her face. He listened rapt, to her soft-whispered praise. She nestled nearer, in her Siren grace; "Dear King," she said, "henceforth my voice shall raise But songs of thy unrivalled splendor! Lo! How white thy brow is! How thy garments shine-- I tremble 'neath thy beaming glance, for oh, Thy wondrous beauty mak'st thee seem divine."
The vain king listened, in a trance of bliss, To this most sweet sweet voiced Siren from the south. She nestled close, and pressed a lingering kiss Upon the stern white pallor of his mouth. She hung upon his breast--she pressed his cheek-- And he was nothing loth to hold her there. While she such tender, loving words did speak And combed his white locks, with her fingers fair.
And so she bound him, in her Siren wiles, And stole his strength with every glance she gave, And stabbed him through and through with tender smiles, And with her loving words she dug his grave. And then she left him: old, and weak, and blind-- And unlocked all the rivers, lakes and rills, While the Queen Spring, with her whole troop behind, Of flowers, and birds, and bees, came over the hills.
1871
_AFTER?_
After the summer glory has departed, After the sun slides low adown the skies, After each snowy rose, and the red-hearted, Droops in the chilling blast, and faints, and dies, When the brown bee no longer seeks the clover, But flies away, and hides in his honeyed den. And from the bleak hills cutting winds blow over, Full of keen darts--ah, will you love me then?
Or is it but the passion heat of Summer, That you mistake for love within your heart? And will not Winter, that unwelcome comer, With his cold, scornful sneers, make it depart? Have not the subtle odors of the flowers Drugged you, and made you drunk with rare perfumes? And when the winter crashes through the bowers, Will not your love fade, with the fading blooms?
If so, I will not listen to your wooing; And I will turn from words and glances sweet. Because I will not hear a drunkard's suing-- Drunken with rose-scents, and the summer heat. But if you woo me, in sound mind, and reason, And can convince me fully it is so, And that your love will last through any season, Why then, my answer will not _quite_ be--No.
1870
_IF YOU HAD BEEN TRUE_
Love, in the glow of the sunset, I have been thinking of you. Thinking what you might have made me, If you had been constant and true. You know I built wonderful castles, And you had a part in them all; But you cheated me, Love, you remember. And down fell each beautiful wall.
Well, you see I lost faith in all women-- The very worst thing I could do. Thought they were all of one pattern, And that was inconstant, untrue. I know it was but a mad fancy: Know women are truer than men. But I wish I had found it out sooner, Or could live my life over again.
For you see I have wasted my manhood; I don't really care to tell how. And if I could live it all over, I think I could better it now. I would marry some nice little woman-- Some other, if I couldn't get you. And I would be tender and faithful, And she would be constant and true.
1870
_AFLOAT_
Once there was a boat, locked fast to a shore, But rust ate the chain, day by day, And the boat was loosened more and more, As the fastenings slipped away. Yet, any day, an outstretched hand, Could have caught, and locked it again to land.
But never a hand was stretched to save, And the boat at last was free; And shot like an arrow over the wave, And drifted out mid-sea. And never, oh never, across the main, Will the boat to the shore be brought again.
So was my heart, love--linked to thine; But neglect ate the chains away: Yet a tender word love, I opine, Would have saved it, any day. Ay! a tender word, said first or last, Would have mended the chain, and held it fast.
But the word was lacking: and so my heart, Slipped from its chains, like the boat. And then as the last link fell apart, It sped o'er the waves--afloat. Nor pleading hands, nor words, you see, Brings the boat to shore, or my heart to thee.
_ROSES AND LILIES_
Roses and Lilies, both are sweet; Lily and Rose, both are fair; But which to gather for mine alway, Which to gather, and keep, and wear, That is the question that bothers me, For I cannot wear them both, you see.
Rose is the brightest and blithest of girls: I could lay my heart at her tiny feet, And gaze forever in those dark eyes, And kiss forever those lips so sweet. And holding her soft, white, clinging hand, Dreamily float into Eden land.
And Lily--Lily, my ocean pearl, So sweetly tender, so moonlight fair, I could float to heaven upon her smile, And kiss forever her silken hair, That droppeth down, like a golden veil Over her cheek, and brow--snow pale.
Lilies and Roses--both are fair: Rose, or Lily, which shall it be? I love them both with my heart of hearts. But I cannot wed them both, you see. Dark-eyed Rose, my winsome girl-- Moon-faced Lily, my ocean pearl.
1870
_IN HEAVEN WITH YOU_
'Tis said, when we shall go across the river, Whose bridge is death, and gain the other side, There in that land, with God, the mighty Giver, The heart shall evermore be satisfied.
And yet, sometimes I cannot help but wonder, How I can live in heaven without your love; How live, rejoicing, through all time, I ponder, And not have you, even with God above.
We bear such things on earth, for we remember That life is but a little span, at best. Its passion summer, but precedes December, And in the grave, we say, there will be rest.
But after death, time stretches with no limit: Your love, no time can ever bring to me. Is heaven so bright this shadow can not dim it? It seems so long--that strange Eternity.
How could my heart, and soul, change so completely That I should never think of this up there? But in the angel choruses join sweetly, Nor ever feel this gnawing grief, and care.
How vast God's lore! how vain the skill of mortal! He did not mean that we should understand, Until our feet had crossed the shining portal, The things so deep, and fathomless, and grand.
And He has made a heaven--a place most holy, For His redeemed to sometime enter in. And there is room for all the meek and lowly, Whose faith, through sorrow hath washed out all sin.
And I believe, when we shall cross the river, Whose bridge is death, and reach the other side, There in that land, with God the gracious Giver, Our hearts shall evermore be satisfied.
1869
_THOU DOST NOT KNOW_
Thou dost not know it! but to hear One word of praise from thee, There is no pain I would not bear-- No task too great for me. My hands could tireless toil all day, My feet could tireless run, If at the close thy lips would say, "Brave, noble heart, well done."
Thou dost not know it! but to win Approval from thine eyes, My soul has conquered many a sin, And conquering, neared tee skies. And though the reward may not be given, In all my earthly days, I feel that after death--in heaven, Thy lips will give me praise.
Thou dost not know--may never know, That all I strive to be, All things praiseworthy that I do, I strive, and do, for thee. And though I seldom see thy face, Or touch thy hand, my friend, Those meetings are the means of grace, That help me to the end.
Thou dost not know that thy grand life Has been my beacon light. I aim to conquer in the strife, That I may reach thy height. I strive to live, so that my feet May walk the fields most fair, For the afterlife, seems, oh! so sweet, Because _thou_ wilt be there.