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diff --git a/42439-0.txt b/42439-0.txt index 0664113..56a0f8b 100644 --- a/42439-0.txt +++ b/42439-0.txt @@ -1,36 +1,4 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Santa Fe Trail and Other Poems, by Joseph R. Wilson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Santa Fe Trail and Other Poems - -Author: Joseph R. Wilson - -Release Date: March 30, 2013 [EBook #42439] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SANTA FE TRAIL AND OTHER POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Bergquist, Matthew Wheaton and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42439 *** [Illustration: “CREEPING CLOSER TO THE TRAIL.” (P. 15)] @@ -2174,362 +2142,4 @@ withal, one of the most tragic national highways in the United States. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Santa Fe Trail and Other Poems, by Joseph R. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Santa Fe Trail and Other Poems - -Author: Joseph R. Wilson - -Release Date: March 30, 2013 [EBook #42439] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SANTA FE TRAIL AND OTHER POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Bergquist, Matthew Wheaton and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - [Illustration: "CREEPING CLOSER TO THE TRAIL." (P. 15)] - - - - - "The Santa Fe Trail" - - And Other Poems - - _By_ - - JOSEPH R. WILSON, LL.B. - - - INTERNATIONAL PRINTING COMPANY - PHILADELPHIA - 1921 - - - COPYRIGHT - 1921 - BY JOSEPH R. WILSON - - - TO MY WIFE - - - - - INDEX - - - Page - Brief History of the Famous Santa Fe Trail 7 - The Santa Fe Trail 12 - The Blind Beggar of Albuquerque 16 - Sunrise From "The Alvarado" 18 - The Lilacs of Shawmont 20 - A Jolly Fellow is the Western Tumbleweed 21 - The Grand Canyon of Arizona 21 - The Melodies of Memories 22 - The Harvey House Chimes 23 - Rest 24 - She Gave Me Two 24 - The Face in the Moon 25 - In Spirit Land 25 - Life's Treasures 25 - Juror No. 3 26 - He Who Sits in the Gloom 28 - Mi-Lady's Shoe 28 - Beside the Sea 29 - Winter's Sorrows 29 - Kisses 30 - Mystery 30 - Alma Mater "Pennsylvania" 31 - Napoleon's Tomb 31 - The Sorrows Grim Want Imposes 32 - I Would I Were Still a Boy 33 - The Same Voice 34 - Memories 34 - Old Days (a Ballad) 35 - On the Engagement of Miss Constance "More" 36 - Oh, Gondolier 36 - A Proposal 36 - Lake Geneva (a Memory) 37 - My Boyhood's Home 37 - The Death of the Host of the Jolly Swan 38 - Oh! Tamaca 41 - One Sweet Moment 41 - Mine Tonight 42 - The Melody of Love 43 - Wives 44 - A Country Romance 45 - Word Wounds 47 - The Gondolier's Song 48 - Avaunt! Ye Tears 48 - The Last of the Tasmanians 49 - An English Lane 51 - Words to Mendelssohn's "Consolation" 51 - A Maiden of the South Pacific 52 - An Actor's Epitaph 53 - The Loved Ones Left Behind 53 - Life's Voyage in Vain 54 - The Song of the Stream 55 - Dry Thine Eyes 56 - Honor 57 - Song to the Moon 58 - To My Mother 59 - The Unexpected Summons 60 - Oh! 'Tis Sweet to Live 60 - Too Late! 61 - Song of Atilla 62 - Dreams 63 - Who Looks Beyond 67 - Ready to Die 68 - The Soul 69 - Where Life Began 70 - The Grandeur of Death 70 - The Day is Done 71 - Death's Courtship 71 - An Appeal to Him 71 - A Christmas Carol 72 - Wilt Thou Lord Stand for Me? 73 - My Saviour Understands 74 - Help Us Great Friend 74 - Into the Valley of My Soul 75 - - - - -BRIEF HISTORY OF THE FAMOUS SANTA FE TRAIL - - -The early history of the Santa Fe Trail, which runs parallel with the -Santa Fe Railroad for hundreds of miles, is somewhat obscured by -mystery and tradition, but from historical data in possession of the -Museum of New Mexico, at Santa Fe, it can be stated with a large -degree of accuracy that the trail was started by Spanish explorers -three hundred years ago. - -The first known expedition by Americans over the trail was made by the -Mallet brothers, who arrived in Santa Fe, July 22, 1739. The first -trader to follow the trail reached Santa Fe in 1763. It was not until -1804 that LaLande, a trapper and hunter, crossed the trail and made -Santa Fe that year. Kit Carson was one of those who struck the trail -in 1826, when he was but sixteen years of age. - -The camping stations along the trail at that time were Diamond Spring, -Lost Spring, Cottonwood Creek, Turkey Creek, Cow Creek (now -Hutchinson, Kansas), and further on was Pawnee Rock, a famous landmark -of sandstone, twenty feet high. - -From the year 1820 many caravans made their way over the trail to -Santa Fe, then, as it is to-day, the seat of government. It was here -in the old palace that some of the early governors had lived in a -semi-royal state, maintaining a little court and body-guards whose -lives were by no means a sinecure, since they were called upon to -fight the Indians on many occasions. - -These Indians developed great hostility to the white man, and caravans -on the trail were so frequently attacked, and so many tragedies -stained the trail with the blood of women and children, that in 1823, -Colonel Viscarra, Jef Politicio, of New Mexico, commanded a battalion -of Mexican troops in protecting the caravans on the Santa Fe trail. -His hand-full of men, and the predatory and blood-thirsty character of -the Indians, made it impossible for him to protect any large part of -the trail, and soldiers, traders and their families were massacred by -overwhelming numbers, the victims including many women and children. -The members of one caravan met their fate in sight of Santa Fe, -forty-six days out from St. Louis. - -Colonel Viscarra had not only to deal with one tribe, but many. There -were the Navajos, Pawnees, Arapahos, Kiowas, Comanche, Apache and -Cheyenee. There was only one tribe friendly to the traders, and that -was the Pueblo Indians. - -In August, 1829, a particularly vicious attack on a caravan on the -Santa Fe trail, bound for Santa Fe, caused the traders to petition the -government for military protection, and as a result this year, under -agreement with the Government of the United States and the Republic of -Mexico, four companies of United States troops guarded the great -caravans moving from Western Missouri to Santa Fe, as far as the -Arkansas River. In spite of this protection, however, attacks by -Indians were a common occurrence, and every caravan had to carry arms -and ammunition, and vigilance was never relaxed from the time they -left the Arkansas River until they struck the plaza at Santa Fe. - -Colonel Viscarra, a handsome, picturesque Spaniard, always mounted on -a mettlesome thoroughbred, was probably the most dashing figure in the -history of the Santa Fe trail. Tales of his gallantry and daring -became folklore among the traders, pioneers and their descendants. - -In 1843, the American traders commenced to establish regular -communication between Missouri and Santa Fe and in 1849, started to -run a stage from Independence, Mo., to Santa Fe. The fare was $250. -Each passenger was allowed forty pounds of baggage. The capacity of -the coach was ten passengers in addition to the driver and messenger. -Relays of horses were stationed along the trail every fifteen to -twenty miles. - -The vehicles used by the traders and pioneers were for the greater -part Conestoga wagons drawn by horses or mules. As they proceeded -westward it was a common sight to see on the trail, "creoles, polished -gentlemen magnificently clothed in Spanish costume, exiled Spaniards -escaping from Mexico, and richly caparisoned horses, mules and asses, -and a courtesy of the road grew out of a common danger". - -The most terrible part of the trail was the great plain between the -Arkansas River and Cimarron Spring. It was over three thousand feet -above sea level and sixty-three miles without a water course or pool. -The soil was dry and hard and short buffalo grass and some cacti were -the only evidence of the parched vegetation. There was not a shrub or -tree of any kind. It was a sandy desert plain and it was here the -traveler saw the mirage, a beautiful lake which disappeared as he -approached it. - -Breakdowns on this plain were frequent, and the Indians most -dangerous. Dry, hot weather prevailed with the blue sky overhead, and -over these parched wastes of the desert, exposed to attacks by Indians -both night and day, the caravans finally reached Cimarron Spring, -which was in a small ravine. - -After leaving Cimarron Spring (445 miles from Independence, Missouri), -the caravans struck the following camps: - - Willow Bar; - Cold Spring; - Rabbit Ear Creek; - Round Mound; - Rock Creek; - Point of Rocks; - Rio Colorado; - Ocat Creek; - Santa Clara Spring (Wagon Mound); - Rio Mora; - Rio Gallinas (Las Vegas); - Ojo De Bernal Spring; - San Miguel; - Pecos Village; - -and finally Santa Fe, a distance of 750 miles from Independence, -Missouri, the starting point. - -The old Santa Fe Trail led from Franklin, Missouri, through Kansas, -Colorado, Oklahoma and New Mexico. It followed the Arkansas River to -Cimarron Crossing (Fort Dodge) to La Junta, Colorado; then south, -crossing the Raton Pass, joining the main trail at Santa Clara Spring. - -The passenger looking out of the window of the train on the Santa Fe -Railroad will see this trail running for miles parallel with the -track, and will be able to people it with the historic traditions -which have made the Santa Fe Trail one of the most romantic and, -withal, one of the most tragic national highways in the United States. - - NOTE.--The greater part of the information given in this brief - history is taken from _Twitchell on Leading Facts of New Mexico - History_. - - - - - THE SANTA FE TRAIL. - - - There are moanings on the trail, - From west and eastward bounders, - The host that's passed forever, - That shall never know it more; - From men and fragile women, - From pioneers and traders, - Whose dying word was "Never," - Whose pale souls went on before. - And its ruts flow deep with tears - For the countless lowly biers, - Of those who died upon it, - In the agony of fears. - - Oh! the rumbling caravan-- - The women under cover, - While the men before them scan, - For Indians or water, - For the're mounds along the trail, - It's thousand miles of stretches, - Of man, and child and mother, - Fair flowers and hardened wretches; - Where the sandstorms blow and blow, - And obliterate all traces. - - Moving twenty miles a day, - With mules and horses straining - Through the deep and parching sand, - The wagon wheels a-squeaking, - With the hot sun beating down - On whitened bones a bleaching. - Stretching all along the trail, - From Fort Dodge to San Miguel, - From caravans forgotten, - Where none lived to tell the tale. - - Oh! the tide of misery, - And tears forever flowing, - From the women folk inside, - Through the long, dark hours of night, - Or moonlight's eerie bleaches, - Praying God to send the light. - The grey of early morning, - While a rifle shot rings out, - The Indians are coming, - And the men go driving on, - The tired horses running, - For the goal they never reach. - - Oh! that never ending trail, - Through canyon and arroya, - And that cursed, cruel plain, - The parched wastes of the desert, - A mile above sea-level, - Not a tree or shrub upon it, - Without a drop of water, - 'Tween the Arkansas river - And the spring at Cimarron, - Where they'll never drink again. - - Pushing on to Willow Bar, - Round Mound and Rio Moro, - Through buff'lo grass and cacti, - To ruins of the Pecos, - With the blue skies overhead, - And the horses breathing hard, - Rolls the caravan along. - A country in the making, - And the women try to sing, - God bless them, they are helping, - Those tender friends of man, - To keep his heart from breaking, - With the wagon broken down, - And not a blade for grazing. - - There are ghosts upon the trail, - The myriads that trod it, - And they pass without salute - In a never ending line, - In wagon and on horseback; - Some going West, some Eastward. - Strange spectres in the moonlight, - Brave men and noble women, - Young girls and little children, - All long ago forgotten. - - And the past rolls back again, - With Indians approaching, - The Navajos and Pawnees, - Kiowas and Comanche, - Creeping closer to the trail. - The children and the women, - Oh! 'tis hard that they should die. - Then the musket shots ring out - From cool men bent on killing, - Fighting for the ones they love, - Though ten to one outnumbered, - Until morning tints the sky - And with it ends the combat. - - Then the town of Santa Fe, - Oh! Father, in Thy mercy-- - And the women laugh and sing, - The tired men are weeping, - A thousand times repeated, - As men entered Santa Fe. - The cursed trip was over, - Save to those left on the way, - The pioneer martyrs - Of the trail to Santa Fe. - - - - - BLIND BEGGAR OF ALBUQUERQUE - - - There are faces that pass in a moment, - But his face will live till I die. - He'd a beard and blue eyes like the Saviour, - At least like the face we all know, - And we met in the cool of the morning, - We met about two years ago. - And my heart bade me call out "Good morning," - "Good morning," he answered to me. - But I saw his blue eyes looking elsewhere, - Like one who was trying to see. - He had come from a hut without windows, - A mud hut with only a door, - Yet his face was the face of the Saviour, - And I fain would speak to him more. - So I stopped, for his smile had a sweetness - That entered the gates of my soul; - I was hungry to know where it came from, - That I might its wonders extol. - And we talked of the beautiful morning, - The scent of the grass and the flowers, - And he spoke like a man of refinement, - Like one to whom knowledge was power, - Of the glory of God and His wonders, - And we talked for more than an hour. - I forgot that the speaker was sightless, - Or a mud hut his dwelling here. - Could it be he was just a blind beggar? - Was a greater One standing near? - And he talked of the hills in their grandeur, - As sentinels watching mankind, - Of the plains and vales, of sunshine and flowers, - Which he only saw in his mind. - And he spoke of the poor and the lowly, - Of God's mercy to such as he, - Of his gratitude to his Creator, - Gratitude, though he could not see. - And I stretched out my arms to that beggar, - From Syria, over the sea, - With the beard and the eyes of our Saviour-- - At least they looked like that to me. - He had taught me a wonderful lesson, - The burden a Christian could bear, - Who from out the dark caverns of blindness - Saw only the things that were fair. - And I asked my dear Father forgiveness, - My fetters of sin to unbind, - That he'd make me to see like that beggar, - For I was the one who was blind. - - - - - SUNRISE FROM THE ALVARADO HOTEL, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO. - - - "The Alvarado," on the Santa Fe, - Here oft my eyes have met the break of day; - The red sun rising through the morning mist, - Over the mountains, and the mesa kissed, - Down to the valley, where the shadows deep - Dissolved, and woke the city from its sleep. - - Facing the East, the first faint streak of dawn - Sought my closed eyes and ope'd them to the morn. - Then like the passing shadow of a cloud - Revealed the world beneath the lifted shroud, - The glories of the proud Sandia Range, - Whose rugged grandeur God alone can change. - - Sweet was the air that in my casement swept, - And in the court below a fountain leap't, - Which on the harp of life sweet music made, - And soothed me in my slumbers as it played. - The songs of gentle rain, of woodland stream, - Entranced me nightly in a murmuring dream. - - The doves upon the roof made music too, - And sweet it was to hear them bill and coo. - Into my open window Nature smiled, - And all the world seemed pure and undefiled. - Naught can describe those joys of early morn, - When from the night another day was born. - - When cares that come oppress and burden me, - I'll pray to God to send me memory, - Where precious moments came at break of day, - "The Alvarado" on the Santa Fe. - Thither my soul shall fly where'er I be, - And bring that joy of morning back to me. - - - - - THE LILACS OF SHAWMONT. - - - In our home in the West, on the edge of the mesa, - When our day's work is done, and the voices are still, - Comes faintly the scent of the lilacs of Shawmont - We knew in our youth, at the house on the hill. - - Back to those halls, now so silent and empty, - Where voices of children once merrily rang; - To those dear dead windows still facing the garden, - Where the woodthrush, the robin and oriole sang. - - Back to the solemn old bell in the tree forks, - Which summoned us home to the noonday repast; - Whose music had rung in the morning of centuries, - And yet was as sweet as the day it was cast. - - From our home on the mesa we still hear it calling, - Long, long is the journey, o'er mountain and plain; - But it's only in memory--past to the present-- - And only in fancy we hear it again. - - The scent of the lilacs, the voices of children; - The chirp of the tree-toad, the song of the stream; - The path through the woods, where as lovers we wandered, - Confusingly call like a voice in a dream. - - Call to us here in our home on the mesa, - From out the dear past in the house on the hill, - And in fancy we dwell in the home by the Schuylkill, - When our day's work is done and the voices are still. - - - - - A JOLLY FELLOW IS THE WESTERN TUMBLEWEED. - - - Oh! what a jolly fellow is the western tumbleweed, - As he rolls across the mesa with the breeze; - He'll even try to race a train, no matter what it's speed, - You can see him from the window jump the trees. - - Just where the fellow's bound for it's a little hard to say, - For his heart seems full of joyousness and life, - As he capers like a schoolboy out for a holiday-- - Some say the beggar's looking for a wife. - - - - - THE GRAND CANYON OF ARIZONA. - - - Methought 'twas God, Himself, - For as I reached the "El Tovar" - And passed toward the Canyon's brink, - I seemed to stand upon the bar - Of Heaven--too dazed to think. - - - - - THE MELODIES OF MEMORIES. - - - The melodies of every clime - Ring out so true and sweet, - They make the world akin in song, - Bring joy with every beat. - They breathe the incense of the morn, - The fragrance of the night, - They weave the mystery of love, - In garlands of delight. - - Oh! sweet uplifting melodies, - That soothe the human soul; - The young and old, the rich, the poor, - Are one 'neath their control. - The melodies of younger days, - The sweetest ever sung, - The melodies of memories - That make the ages young. - - Oh! crowd us, blessed melodies, - Come to us one by one; - Bring back the tender thoughts of life, - When it had scarce begun. - And in one long, delicious dream - We live the past again, - In melodies of memories, - In happiness and pain. - - - - - THE HARVEY HOUSE CHIMES ON THE SANTA FE RAILROAD. - - - "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!" - Better hurry--do not be late. - Best of food is on the table, - Eat as much as you are able-- - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. - - "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!" - A welcome waits at every plate. - Shining silver, spotless linen, - Waitresses, all pretty women-- - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. - - "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!" - Ascending sweet from one to eight, - Descending just as sweet to one-- - The chimes have stopp'd, the meal's begun. - - - - - REST. - - - The golden sun is setting in the quiet, silent West, - The feathered songster's voice is hushed within its cozy nest, - And the evening breeze comes stealing o'er the fields of new-mown - hay, - As Phoebus folds his wings and bids farewell the dying day. - - The gloaming shadows thicken 'round the house beneath the hill, - The water ripples softly 'neath the wheel that works the mill; - Then over all comes darkness, and the landscape fades from sight, - And tired Nature sinks to rest within the silent night. - - - - - SHE GAVE ME TWO. - - - In childhood days I met a little Miss, - Whose pouting lips were luscious as the dew. - I begged that she would give me just one kiss-- - She gave me two. - - - - - THE FACE IN THE MOON. - - - One night I gazed with rapture on the moon, - And there I found surcease from all my cares. - The face I saw within, it was not his-- - 'Twas hers. - - - - - IN SPIRIT LAND. - - - In spirit land, I know not where, - I only know she comes to me - In memory-- - When I was young and she was fair. - - - - - LIFE'S TREASURES. - - - It matters not - How great our treasures, - The cares of life - Outweigh its pleasures. - - - - - JUROR NO. 3. - - - Two boys were up for burglary, and crowded was the Court, - With half the town of Elkington, who came to see the sport. - For well they knew the Judge, whose heart was harder than a stone, - Who only dealt in justice--to whom mercy was unknown. - Oh! what a wondrous judge he was, no guilty e'er got free, - His instinct read between the lines what no one else could see, - And these two boys on whom he gazed with comprehensive stare, - Raised not their eyes to his stern face, for mercy was not there. - - "No counsel, Judge," the prosecutor said in careless way; - A case was just a case to him, who tried them every day. - "We'll see to it," the Judge replied, as often times before. - He had imposed the maximum--the law allowed no more. - The case was called, the jury boxed, when Juror No. 3 - Said, "Judge, they have no counsel, and it seems unfair to me. - The Commonwealth has two shrewd men." The Judge replied, "What - two?" - And Juror No. 3 came back, "Why, Mr. Todd and you." - "Let me correct you," said the Judge, amid the courtroom din; - "The Court administers the law when all the facts are in." - - Then turning to the crier he said, "Keep order in the Court; - Now Mr. Todd, begin the case, the time is getting short." - Just then a woman's helpless cry fell on the Judge's ear, - And both the lads within the dock were seen to shed a tear. - And Juror No. 3 stood up and said, "Where is the friend? - I call on Thee, Lord Jesus, the prisoners to defend." - - The Judge sat upright on the bench, a greater One than he - Was in the court to help the lads, summoned by Juror 3. - The case was tried and verdict found, "Guilty" the foreman said, - And not a juror disagreed--the Judge bowed low his head. - - Then to the bar there came the man, whose house the lads had - robbed. - Gazing on Juror No. 3, "Forgive them, Judge," he sobbed. - "I forgive them as Our Master would, as I hope He'll pardon me." - And the light on the face of Juror 3 was wonderful to see. - - And all eyes turned upon the bench; what would that stern Judge do? - His face was soft as baby's smile; he had been born anew. - "You have sinned, my lads; go, sin no more!" Then he set them free, - And who shall say that Jesus was not Juror No. 3? - - - - - HE WHO SITS IN THE GLOOM. - - - Not a day goes by, but I read somewhere - In this wonderful world of ours, - That some lowly being has raised his soul - And become as the Norman towers. - From out of the sweat and the slavish grind, - From the depths where but hope is known, - There has risen a star, serene and pure, - That reacheth the Heavenly throne. - - And no one knoweth his neighbor's lot, - Or divineth the Father's will, - For he who sits in the gloom tonight - May tomorrow walk on the hill; - For swift as the flash of a falcon's wing, - In the gloaming homeward flight, - Comes the change that lifteth the downcast up, - And the darkness turns to light. - - - - - MI-LADY'S SHOE. - - - I only know you by the crease - And dents across your dainty shoe. - And yet there's something in that crease-- - YOU! - - A fairy phantom of the mind, - Above thy shoe a form I see, - Another worships at thy shrine-- - ME! - - - - - BESIDE THE SEA. - - - Beside the sea, beside the sea, - I seemed to hear my mother's voice. - She had been sleeping twenty years, - And yet her voice came back to me, - Beside the sea, beside the sea. - - - - - WINTER'S SORROWS. - - - There's a bitterness and sorrow in the Winter's leaden air, - A chilling sort of something that's akin to human care, - A tender gray of sadness, like a voice of bygone gladness, - In the ashen sombre atmosphere that lingers everywhere. - - There are tear-drops on the eyelid, in the Winter's leaden air, - A sympathetic chord is touched that finds expression there; - Reality seems clearer, and the end of all seems nearer, - In the sober, flinty ether, supernaturally bare. - - - - - KISSES. - - - Kisses sweet behind the door-- - She was three and I was four; - Kisses still are sweet to me, - Though she now is fifty-three. - - Kisses sweet behind the door-- - I was three and he was four; - Kisses still are sweet to me, - Though he is more than fifty-three. - - - - - MYSTERY. - - - From out the caverns of mysterious thought - Appeared a form who said, "I'm Memory." - "Go back!" cried I, "I care not for the past, - Send me the form who knows what's yet to be." - - A shadow rose and said, "You call, I'm here; - Thy future leads thee to the Stygian shore, - And none shall weep for thee a single tear." - "Avaunt!" I cried, "I will not hear thee more." - - - - - ALMA MATER "PENNSYLVANIA." - - - I see thee, dear "Old Penn," in silhouette, - Far back along the road on which I came; - And memories, fragrant as the violet, - Are interwoven with thine honored name. - - I've thrilled at "Harvard" and at good old "Yale," - Proud have I been to meet their doughty men, - But in the world there's just one nightingale-- - My Alma Mater, my own honored "Penn." - - - - - NAPOLEON'S TOMB. - - - Here pause and gaze, ye travelers young and old, - On this dull marble hewn in sacred mould, - Mark that inscription on the graven stone, - Within sleeps he, who stood 'mongst men alone. - - Within sleeps he who at Marengo fought, - Whose skill and courage set his foes at naught; - Who led his men beneath th' Egyptian Sun, - Scarce fought a battle, but the day he won. - - Who, living, loved the cannon's deadly roar, - And made his trumpets heard on every shore; - Who, with his eagle banner, never furled, - His conquering legions over-ran the world. - - Proud Austria humbled lay beneath his feet, - And Russia's legions fled in swift retreat; - He saw the world, ambition swelled his heart, - He longed for all, nor cared to have a part. - - So lost he all, insatiate from the first, - When his proud deeds like fire on Europe burst. - A soldier, statesman, Emperor, _toute chose_ King, - Before nor since has lived so grand a thing. - - He died in exile from his glorious France, - On lonely isle, his life a leaden trance; - The sea around, walled in on every side, - His proud heart broke, and so the hero died. - - Within this marble rest the mummied bones - Of him who held in life a dozen thrones; - Approach with awe and reverential tread, - Here sleeps the mightiest of the living--dead. - - - - - THE SORROWS GRIM WANT IMPOSES. - - - 'Neath the sorrows that grim want imposes, - Imperious stalks decay; - Hunger's terrors have withered the roses - That bloomed and then faded away. - - The hearts which with young life once budded, - The fond hopes which happiness kissed, - Are dissolved in the tears which have flooded - The homes of the poor in our midst. - - - - - I WOULD I WERE STILL A BOY. - - - Oh! joy, for a fancied rest - Instead of this grind, a toy. - God seems to know what is best, - But would I were still a boy. - - Oh! man, and a heartsick smile, - Has something gone wrong ahead? - Why! life is scarcely worth while, - If man can wish himself dead. - - Oh! well, poor fellow, I know - Some have it better than you. - But, man! wherever you go, - The satisfied are the few. - - Go seek ye, and ye shall find - The light of eternal joy. - When Faith once enters the mind, - Again you will be a boy. - - - - - THE SAME VOICE. - - - The same voice speaks as the days of eld, - Since the human race began, - Enmeshed in the woof and weave of life, - Designed in the form of man. - - It spoke the dawn of his natal day, - It is speaking today as then, - The voice that speaks is the voice of God, - From out of the mouths of men. - - - - - MEMORIES. - - - The fragrance of a cigarette, - The incense of a morning fair; - The odor of the mignonette, - The perfume of a woman's hair, - The sunset dancing on the sea, - White bolles of cirrus in the sky, - Bring back fond memories to me. - Ask not! I cannot tell you why. - - - - - OLD DAYS. - - A BALLAD. - - - She stood by the stile in the twilight dim, - With a soft look in her eye; - 'Twas a tryst, she waited alone for him, - Her lover, a warrior bold and grim, - 'Neath that beauteous evening sky. - - "Why tarries my lord?" quoth the maiden fair, - "My love, my love, come to me!" - In her eyes came a look so sweet and rare, - As she gazed to the wood, through the scented air, - Till her eyes could no longer see. - - Still she waited there for her warrior bold, - "He will come to-night!" said she. - Then up rode a knight in armor of gold: - "Your warrior died like a knight of old, - On the battlefield," said he. - - - - - ON THE ENGAGEMENT OF MISS CONSTANCE MORE. - - - Thou hast the wit and charming grace - To match with speech thy lovely face-- - A maid whom men adore. - Yet I do prophesy this night, - Before the dawn of next year's light - That thou wilt be no "More." - - - - - OH, GONDOLIER. - - - Oh, Gondolier, turn thy boat again, - That I may see the sunlight on its prow, - The light that I have tried to paint in vain, - The light of Heaven--there! 'tis shimmering now. - - - - - A PROPOSAL. - - - Let us go a-maying, love; - All the world is playing, love, - This God-sent happy day. - Let us be together, love, - Ever and forever, love, - Forever and for aye. - - - - - LAKE GENEVA--A MEMORY. - - - I sat beside her in the gloaming light, - And neither spoke--'twas by Geneva's lake. - We sat, and neither spoke, and then came Night. - - - - - MY BOYHOOD'S HOME. - - - Oh, many a time in the silent night - I sigh for the days gone by, - When a happy boy with gay delight - I hailed the cuckoo's cry. - - And the dear old woods that I loved so well, - Where the stock-dove built its nest; - The rippling stream and the hermit's cell, - Its green and shady crest. - - The stately home 'neath the elms so tall, - The lawn with its cool bright turf; - The old peach tree by the garden wall, - Each has its own sweet worth. - - For my head is bent with the weight of years, - As white as the falling snow; - My stream of life through this vale of tears - Will soon have ceased to flow. - - - - - THE DEATH OF THE HOST OF THE JOLLY SWAN - - - The pewter pots were shining on the shelves behind the bar, - Like the gold and silver lining of a sunset cloud afar, - And the pine log fire burned brightly with its blaze of light and - heat, - Athwart the untrodden sawdust floor that looked so clean and neat. - - A cheerful, ruddy glamor lighted up the tavern walls, - And, shooting through the open door, lit up the silent halls, - To where the old clock's pendulum swung slowly to and fro, - With measured beat, that seemed to speak of the days of long ago. - - Sick unto death--in the room above--lay the host of the Jolly Swan. - And far and near, his kinsmen had, to seek the doctors, gone, - For the jovial face and the merry laugh of the host of yesterday - Had all departed, leaving naught but the mould of the living clay. - - Alone in his chamber he watched the sun slope down to his Western - bower, - And a gentle smile stole o'er his face, as the old clock chimed the - hour. - His thoughts were of the days gone by--as the host of the Jolly - Swan, - He had raised his tankard high and drank to the health of the old - friends gone. - - There was good old Squire Thornleigh, with his great big raw-boned - gray, - And the biggest hearted fellow that e'er waved the "Hark! Away!" - There was Jones, the hunting parson, with his jovial, ringing - laugh, - Who could preach a right good sermon and an honest bumper quaff. - - Then there was Billy Foster, who was only twenty-two, - When he broke his neck in the hunting field through the casting of - a shoe. - And portly old Judge Horner, who in the room below, - Had smoked and drank full many a night in the days of long ago. - - And as he thought, the window ope'd, and in slipped Huntsman Death, - Arrayed in scarlet, white-topped boots, with a fine rich malty - breath. - "Ah! good old friend," the huntsman cried, "since you have called - me here, - Get down the pewter pots that we may drink a funeral bier-- - - For I have ridden hard today to reach the Swan this night, - And what I ask is nothing more than what is only right." - With that, the host got out of bed and brought two pewters brimmed, - And while below he saw that all the tavern lights were trimmed. - - His kinsman, riding up the road, with doctors from afar, - Reined up to watch the lights that burned so brightly in the bar; - While the jolly host with Death alone sat in the room above, - And drank the foaming liquor down, his first and only love. - - Just then the sound of horses' hoofs the sick man heard without, - And he and Death, in one glad breath, sent up a hunting shout-- - "It's bold Squire Thornleigh's raw-boned gray, or Parson Jones's - bay-- - I'm coming, Squire, Yoick's tally-ho!" Death shouted, "Hark! Away!" - - Yoick's tally-ho fills loud the room as he springs up from bed, - And the bugle horn sounds merrily in the chamber of the dead; - Gay prancing steeds and huntsmen bold ride blithely by his side, - "Yoicks! tally-ho!" rang from his lips, and back he fell and died. - - His kinsmen heard that hunting shout, that old familiar cry, - And in they rushed--too late--too late--to see the good man die. - Two empty tankards on the floor was all that they could see, - And how the host of the Jolly Swan died--is still a mystery. - - - - - OH! TAMACA. - - - Oh! Tamaca, oh! Tamaca, - I see thy face, - I see thy face. - The sea is rolling on the bar, - Low hang the clouds, afar, afar, - Thy skiff bounds swiftly in the race, - Tis death that leads thee, Tamaca. - - - - - ONE SWEET MOMENT. - - - Under the lindens we wandered, - Gaily my love and I; - Light through the shimmering leaflets - Fell like a kiss from the sky. - On to her soft, golden tresses, - Into her eyes divine, - Smothered her form with caresses, - Blended her shadow with mine. - - Under the lindens we wandered; - Fifty years had gone by; - Light through the cold, naked branches - Fell like a pall from the sky. - Old and forsaken, our children - Had left us to starve and to die; - But we lived in the past one sweet moment - 'Neath the lindens, my love and I. - - - - - MINE TONIGHT. - - - Mine to-night, - For tomorrow's light - Our dream will end, and waking bring dull pain. - Oh! the happy past, - Far too sweet to last, - For 'tis decreed we shall not meet again. - - In thy dear eyes - My heaven lies, - And yet forever I must say good-bye; - With your lips to mine, - And my heart to thine, - With this last embrace would God I could die. - - - - - THE MELODY OF LOVE. - - - Oh! breathe again thine answer to the stars. - The woodbine turns to listen to thy voice; - The subtle beauty of such love as ours - Makes every living thing rejoice. - Blending sweet heaven with our earthly love, - Locked in each other's arms, our prayers to God - Rise from our souls unto his throne above - In gratitude, sweet gratitude to Him. - - Oh! breathe again thine answer to the stars. - The nightingale doth listen in the grove - To music sweeter than the breath of flowers, - Unto the melody of love. - Holy as triumphs of an angel hand, - Strained heart to heart, for love is God's command, - Mute in the fulness of our joy, we stand - In gratitude, sweet gratitude to Him. - - - - - WIVES. - - - We were alone--my wife and I-- - God from above looked down on us, - Never a word did either speak, - Dry lay the salt from the tears on her cheek, - Joy was afar from us. - - Silence held sway, the sin was mine, - Pride was my sin--alas! for me, - Pride that strangled the man within, - That silenced the truth and increased my sin, - She had done naught to me. - - Someone's speaking. Who dares intrude? - Reckless being, away from here. - "Reckless"--that little form in white? - Clinging to her, crying "Mother, good night!" - Low hung my head in shame. - - "Mother," I cried, "can you forgive?" - With faltering step I went to her, - And never a word did mother speak, - But the salt grew wet on her glowing cheek, - And joy came back to us. - - - - - A COUNTRY ROMANCE. - - - May I take your hand in mine, - Little Miss? - For this fairy-like retreat - In the country fresh and sweet, - Is what I've longed to meet, - Little Miss. - - Yes, I came here from the town, - Little Miss; - Without an aim in view, - I have roved the country through, - And by chance I've met with you, - Little Miss. - - You were born upon the farm, - Little Miss? - Why, how happy you must be - In the country pure and free! - I am filled with ecstasy, - Little Miss. - - Do I like the city belles, - Little Miss? - Well! some I do, and yet, - Why you needn't pout and fret, - For I am still to let, - Little Miss. - - I am longing for a kiss, - Little Miss. - Yes, I'm asking with my eyes - In a tongue that never lies, - And in words I can't disguise, - Little Miss. - - Oh! is what I say quite true, - Little Miss? - Ah! Why should Phyllis doubt - With that pretty little pout? - I know what I'm about, - Little Miss. - - Now what age am I, you ask, - Little Miss? - Well, I've just turned twenty-two, - And I'd like to marry you. - - * * * * * - - Now, I'm married. Ah! Who to? - That little Miss. - - - - - WORD WOUNDS. - - - Though strong emotion sweeps the heart, - Though anguish wings the brow, - Hold back the words whose cruel smart - Hurts no one worse than thou - - Pause, pause until the morrow brings - Reflection, thoughts more kind, - Then from calm reason's crystal springs - Distill from out thy mind. - - A wound received from warrior's sword - May heal within a day, - But the wound of some light, thoughtless word - May be a wound for aye. - - - - - THE GONDOLIER'S SONG. - - (From "Lionardo, the Gondolier.") - - - Goodnight, my love, a fond goodnight, - The moon shines down on thee. - But soon that cloud shall hide its light, - And thy dear face from me, - And thy dear face from me. - - Goodnight again, my beauteous flower, - Farewell, my gentle dove; - The night speeds on, 'tis now the hour - When we must part, my love-- - When we must part, my love. - - Sleep, softly sleep, luxurious rest, - Sweet dreams, dear love, be thine. - May each unconscious thought be blest - With love, sweet love of mine-- - Goodnight, sweet love of mine. - - - - - AVAUNT! YE TEARS. - - - Avaunt! ye tears, 'tis not the soul - That crumbles 'neath the grassy sod. - Now dost thou learn how vain to weep, - When death means, "God"? - - - - - THE LAST OF THE TASMANIANS. - - Tasmania, a large, beautiful island to the southeast of - Australia, when discovered by Van Dieman, was peopled with a - magnificent race of savages, resembling somewhat the American - Indian. Civilization, with its attendant advantages and evils, - proved too much for the primitive child of the forest. The last - Tasmanian, a woman, died in 1885, and the once splendid race is - now extinct. - - - PROLOGUE. - - Alone she sits, nor marks the dying day. - Alone on earth, she bows her weary head, - And dusky spirits bear her soul away; - A race extinct. The last Tasmanian dead. - - - APOSTROPHE. - - Where are thy dark sons, Tasmania, Tasmania? - Where are the lords who once swayed o'er thy shore? - Gone to their fathers; Oh! weep ye, Tasmania, - Weep for the race thou shalt see never more. - - Weep for the race on thy fair bosom nourished, - Tutored by nature, untrammeled, so free; - Kings of thy green hills and valleys they flourished, - Kings who now sleep in their graves by the sea. - - Proud were the race who knew not their beginning, - To whom the long past was as sealed as their fate, - Who counted their seasons when insects were winging, - The time by the shadows, the suns for their date. - - Skilled were thy dark sons, Tasmania! Tasmania! - Virtuous, gentle and peaceful their ways; - Till civilization o'ertook thee, Tasmania, - And civilized habits renumbered their days. - - Set is the sun of thy people, Oh, country! - Strangers now trample unawed o'er they race; - Forgotten, the dusky-hued sons that a century - Past were the monarchs of all thy sweet place. - - Soft may they sleep by thy shores, Oh! Tasmania, - Where sea-dirges swell for the child of the past; - Sleep as thy guardian spirits, Tasmania, - Hovering round thy dear land to the last. - - - - - AN ENGLISH LANE. - - - Tall elms on either side with stately heads, - With here and there an oak of ancient days, - Sweet briar hedges flanked with clover beds, - In which the feathered songster trills his lays. - - - - - WORDS TO MENDELSSOHN'S "CONSOLATION." - - - Lord, my poor heart, with sadness now is breaking, - Longing for light, that I may find belief, - Aching for rest from these tumultuous doubtings, - Seeking to find the path that leads to peace. - But Oh! dear Lord, my soul refuses comfort; - Vainly I strive for the goal beyond this sad, sweet world. - Rest for eternity. - Grant then, Oh! Lord, the enlightenment of sorrow, - That gentle faith which comes through grief alone; - Ripened in hours of darkest tribulation, - When my poor soul stood face to face with Thee. - - - - - A MAIDEN OF TE PITO TE HENUA, AN ISLAND IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC. - - - On her beautiful puoka (head) - Hung her raven-black rauoko (hair) - While love filled her mokoikoi (heart) - Her alabaster kiri (skin) - Gleamed on her kapu hivi (shoulder). - And her petticoats came down to her kuri (knee). - - Sweet was her aerero (tongue); - White were her even niho (teeth), - And graceful her kakari munava (waist); - Voluptuous her ngutu (lips) - And shapely were her heru (legs). - Well developed were her kiko ua-ua (muscles). - - Oh, this maid of Rapa Nin (island) - Bore a rima tuhi hana (ring). - Beloved was she by a tangala (man), - Who in his little vaka (boat) - Caught a wedding gift of ika (fish) - And breathed his tale of love in her ringa (ear). - - - - - AN ACTOR'S EPITAPH. - - - Here lies a body whose majestic grace - Drew from his fellow-man unstinted praise; - Who lured emotion from her hiding place, - And thrilled the world with deeds of other days. - He that possessed, which unto Art is dear, - A grand conception of unvarnished truth; - He oft provoked a smile, more oft a tear, - Sublime and beauteous in his manly youth. - - Full in the zenith of his great renown, - God gave to him his final part to play; - While Death untimely rung the curtain down - On that great scene where man doth pass away. - The rustling leaves soft whisper o'er his head, - And robins fill the air with sweetest sound; - Within the theatre of the mighty dead - The actor sleeps beneath the sacred ground. - - - - - THE LOVED ONES LEFT BEHIND. - - - There are sounds of martial music, - But the laugh is hushed within, - As the soldier boys march bravely down the street; - A little child is weeping, - As she listens to the din, - Of kettle-drum and tramp of many feet. - - "Oh! my papa! Oh! my papa!" - Wailed the tiny little mite. - "You have gone and left poor mamma all alone; - Come back, my darling papa, - Oh! do come home tonight, - And see how good your little girl has grown. - - "I won't be naughty, papa, - And I won't make any noise, - When papa's head is aching him so bad; - I will walk about so quietly - And put away my toys, - Your little girl won't make her father sad." - - But the tiny voice fell empty, - On the shadows in the room, - And the music in the distance fainter grew; - This is but a single instance - Of the scenes within the gloom, - Which the loved ones left behind are passing through. - - - - - LIFE'S VOYAGE IN VAIN. - - - With eyes upcast to the glistening stars, - Full of a strange mysterious awe, - I watch the lights on the heavenly bar, - And think of the ships that are sailing in, - Cargoless, empty, their voyage in vain. - - - - - THE SONG OF THE STREAM. - - - Born on some distant mountain top, - A happy wanderer from its birth, - From stone to stone with merry laugh - It dances o'er its mother earth. - - Then with some gathering streamlet meets, - With bubbling laughter on they fling - Their glittering sprays through sweet retreats, - And cool abodes of sylvan king. - - The mighty river next appears, - And to its arms the youngsters race, - Then separate with baby tears, - While current marshalls each in place. - - And last the ocean heaves in view, - Then dies for aye the streamlet's span; - Death is the ocean, all life through, - Whose outstretched arms wait every man. - - - - - DRY THINE EYES. - - - Dry thine eyes, love; cease thy weeping, - For thy boy will soon be sleeping - Safe within the angels' keeping-- - Dry thine eyes. - - Hold my hand; the tide is flowing, - Down the stream my boat is going, - On the banks the kine are lowing, - In the skies. - - See, my love, the shadows creeping, - Round my bed while I am sleeping, - List! I hear a sound of weeping! - Now it dies. - - Raise me up, the day is breaking; - Streaks of gray proclaim its waking; - Sleep my weary eyes forsaking, - In the light. - - Raise me up that I may, nearer, - Watch the shades becoming clearer; - Ebbing life seems growing dearer. - But my sight - - Fails again; the sombre fretting - Changes now to golden netting. - See! the blood-red sun is setting! - Love, good-night. - - Unto God my soul is winging; - I can hear the angels singing; - Joy bells overhead are ringing! - Dry thine eyes. - - - - - HONOR. - - - When aloft two young hearts are soaring - To those realms of pleasure and pain, - The law and the prophets ignoring, - There's a something recalls them again. - - And the truths that we see in reflection, - Sad but sweetly encircle the soul, - For honor's more kind than affection - That creates, then destroys the loved goal. - - - - - SONG TO THE MOON. - - (From "Lionardo, the Gondolier.") - - - Orb of some mighty potent power - In thine exalted sphere, - Thy soft light maketh sweet the hour - Within the fairy woodland bower, - To maidenhood, so dear. - - Empress of Night, thy beauteous spell - Superb and matchless given, - Thy light the lover loves so well, - The gentle tale of old to tell - While earth becomes, his Heaven. - - Luna, thou goddess of the night, - Chaste harbinger of love, - I feel in thy sweet fairy light - My heart again grow glad and bright, - When thou dost ride above. - - - - - TO MY MOTHER. - - - Awake, fond heart, to life again, - For why should sorrow ever - Enshroud the past with endless pain, - Cause bitter tears to flow in vain - For those passed o'er the river? - - The dead are gone--they ne'er return, - Life's troubles here are ended; - And though to see them back we yearn, - Christ's teachings lead us to discern - 'Tis not what God intended. - - Who can the curtain thrust aside, - Or gaze through Death's dark portals? - Short space on earth doth each abide, - Then comes his call to swell the tide, - Whose waves are dying mortals. - - We all must die, mayhap this night - Our souls are drifting thither, - Where those dear loved ones lost to sight - Await us there in glory bright, - Across the shining river. - - - - - THE UNEXPECTED SUMMONS. - - - Dead in his chair. The sun's expiring rays - With crimson glow lights up the rigid face, - And in the unclosed eyes that look afar - A blood-red sunbeam finds a resting place. - - Dead! with the pen still clutched in pulseless hand, - "Dear wife," sole words before his sightless gaze. - One nerveless arm hangs strangely by the chair, - While at his frozen feet a kitten plays. - - Dead! Can it be, with children's shouts without? - So still he sits. How painful is the light, - And deeper glows the crimson on his face, - The sun has set, Goodnight. - - - - - OH! 'TIS SWEET TO LIVE. - - - The funeral march, it suiteth not my mood, - Its Stygian tones are those on which men brood. - Beyond its solemn measure lies the tomb, - And shades dissolving in eternal gloom. - - Nay! rather let me hear some lively air, - Whose Springtime notes suggest a morning fair, - Filled with the pulsing joys that life can give, - On this old earth, for oh! 'tis sweet to live. - - - - - TOO LATE. - - - The corn may spring, the corn may spring, - And thou beside the river walk; - Yet sad must be the song you sing, - A withered flower on the stalk. - The elms overhead are sighing, - The solemn rooks around are flying, - Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw! - - And once 'twas here we walked alone, - In that sweet hush of eventide, - Before thy heart had turned to stone, - Before thy love for me had died. - The elms overhead are sighing, - The solemn rooks around are flying, - Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw! - - Beyond the fence in peace I sleep, - And soughing breezes kiss my grave. - I hear my name, and thou dost weep, - For I was fair and thou wert brave. - The elms overhead are sighing, - The solemn rooks around are flying, - Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw! - - I hear thee coming through the gate, - I feel thee kneeling at my head. - I hear thy cry, "Too late! Too late!" - I love her now and she is dead. - The elms overhead are sighing, - The solemn rooks around are flying, - Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw! - - - - - SONG OF ATTILA. - - (From "Lionardo, the Gondolier.") - - - I'll sing you a song about great Attila, - A mighty man was he. - He was King of the Huns, had seventy sons, - And daughters one hundred and three, three, three, - And daughters 1, 0, 3. - - All nations vowed him a very fine fellow, - With them he couldn't agree; - One Autumn so mellow, he conquered Torcello - A. D. four hundred and forty-three, - Anno Domini 4, 4, 3. - - So he left a son to watch over the place, - Though round it flowed the sea, - And all over the place sprang the Kingly race - Of Torcellani--that's me, me, me, - Anno Domini 4, 4, 3. - - - - - DREAMS. - - - Midst pastoral lands and purling recluse streams - There dwells the maiden queen of recreant dreams, - Gentian by name, a maid most wondrous fair, - With eyes like astral and her glorious hair, - Tangled with moonbeams, disputes the right - Of other garb to veil the beauteous sight. - Her skin, as white as Ida's Cretean snow, - Outlines a form of soft voluptuous flow - Of grace majestic, contours fair to see, - Exquisite in their matchless symmetry; - While, crowning all, a sweet and noble grace - Marks every movement and o'erspreads her face. - And having this described this noctal flower, - The Muse will now define sweet Gentian's power. - From out her bower of amaranthine hue - She peers with eyes of soft, exquisite blue, - And breathing gently, like a zephyr's kiss, - Enjoys alone the core of perfect bliss. - Queen of a land, to every mortal given - A glimpse, at least, of what perchance is heaven; - Queen of a land of terror, shame and crime, - From life to death, and all that marketh time. - Queen of a land more wondrous than our own - Sweet Gentian reigns, and sways the realm alone. - Mistress of nations, every soul on earth - Becomes her vassal at the hour of birth. - Kings are her subjects, as the peasant boy, - And brilliant minds with her a fancy toy. - Once steeped in sleep, all minds become as one, - For Gentian's spell o'er man has then begun. - No longer cares of base terrestrial clay - Torment the soul with visions of the day. - Earth is no more, the river crossed is deep, - Man dies each time his head is bowed in sleep, - And Gentian paints the sphere to suit her mind - Capricious as the sex of womankind. - Now steeped in bliss she leads the love-sick swain - And gives the kiss for which he sighed in vain. - The maid who but that morn his glances fled - Caresses lovingly his restless head. - The hapless poet who is lost to fame - Hears in his sleep his own illustrious name, - And, laurel crowned, looks back with scornful eye - Into a past of mean obscurity. - The ship-wrecked boy on some far distant shore - In happy dreamland sees his home once more, - His mother's face aglow with pride and joy - As to her breast she clasps her sailor boy, - And summer seas beat on the golden sand - That forms the shore of Gentian's wonderland. - The ruined merchant's heart again grows light, - As fortune smiles on him at dead of night, - And sheriff's sales and judgment notes confessed - No longer break the weary toiler's rest. - Proudly he says, "My word is now my bond," - And coins the yellow dross with Gentian's wand. - The holy man, by church ordained a priest, - In dreams partaketh of the merry feast, - And sparkling glances when the hour is late - Make roguish havoc with the celibate. - "Avaunt!" he cries, "such joys are not for me." - And wakes in prayer upon his bended knee. - The scientist retires with addled brain - To dream his fretful genius o'er again, - When from Cimmerian darkness breaks a light - The Atlantic bridged bursts on his 'stonished sight. - And then his mind is turned to stranger things, - As up he soars on his invented wings. - Begrimed with coal, the miner goes to rest - And sharp-drawn breaths inflate his manly chest. - Sudden, the clothes are rudely thrust aside, - His eyes with terror now stand open wide; - The roof is falling, God! the whole mine shakes! - A loud explosion, 'tis a dream, he wakes. - A little elf, a girl, a tiny tot, - With waxen face, indents the baby cot, - And visions fair regale her infant sight - Of cakes and candy through the silent night. - Sleep, little angel, Gentian marks thy worth, - A sleeping child, the sweetest thing on earth. - 'Midst dirt and filth, at night the city gloom - Steals weird and sickly to a garret room, - Where, breathing hard upon a mattress bare, - A girlish form is outlined sleeping there. - One of the lost, polluted, base, defiled, - Yet once she slept, a little angel child. - And now she moves, sweet Gentian enters in, - And she is pure again and free from sin. - The dry, parched lips with innocence now speak, - And balmy breezes fan the fevered cheek. - The little white-washed cottage standeth near - And mother's voice sounds sweetly on her ear, - While from the fields the scent of new mown hay - Comes strong and lusty at the close of day. - Her little sisters and her brothers wait - For her to join them at the garden gate, - And in her sleep her laugh is undefiled, - For she is once again a little child. - The anxious farmer sees his fallow land - Yield heavy crops beneath the reaper's hand, - And barren orchards bend beneath the weight - Of golden fruit, 'twas joy to cultivate. - No landlord's agent doth his peace invade. - He dreams of ownership, and taxes paid. - The country parson turns and twists in bed, - As mighty thoughts run rampant through his head. - He mounts the village pulpit wreathed in smiles, - And proudly gazes down the crowded aisles. - Forgot is life, with its unvarnished views - And vault-like echoes from the empty pews, - The church is filled, his lips now move in prayer, - And touched is every heart that's gathered there. - Not satisfied, his sermon follows next, - And from a flower he takes his simple text. - Now thrills his audience with his eloquence, - And marvels greatly at his common sense; - And as he speaks with love of our dear Lord, - He sees ahead his well-earned, just reward. - A scholar, preacher, helper of the sick, - He gets at last a lawn-sleeved bishopric, - But soon as he the pastoral crosier takes, - The country parson to himself awakes. - The hapless monarch on his bed of down - No longer sinks beneath the jeweled crown; - His mind expands with liberty of thought, - And heart proclaims his king-ship dearly bought. - In sleep alone, his deep-drawn sighs confess - His heart's desire, domestic happiness. - "Domestic happiness," sweet Gentian sings, - "Belongs to laborers, and not to kings." - And so she bids us with a graceful ease - Assume a virtue of some dread disease, - Which pleases best the tricky fairy's mind, - Who hurts so much and yet can be so kind. - Well do we know how perfect is her will - Who makes us love the rival we would kill, - Or vice versa, which more awful seems - She makes us kill our rival in our dreams. - Ah! gentle Gentian, what a power is thine, - To be so cruel and yet so divine. - - - - - WHO LOOKS BEYOND. - - - There is a grandeur in the man, - Who views with calm that endless sleep; - Who looks beyond the taking off, - Conceives the goal beyond the deep. - - - - - READY TO DIE. - - - Life is a sarcasm rare, - It stands in a class of its own, - While love thrills the heart of the fair - Decay is at work on the bone. - - That instant the clasp is undone - The mantle of life slips away, - And beauty men worshipped of yore - Becomes but inanimate clay. - - There's reason in all things save death, - And no one knows why that should be; - What is there mysterious in breath, - That it should so suddenly flee? - - Nay, ask not the bent, aged form, - The cripple, the starving, the weak, - But he whose life-blood courses warm, - With health in his eye, on his cheek. - - Go ask him what thinks he of death, - He will laugh in his heart for reply, - With sarcasm bating his breath, - He will tell you he's ready to die. - - - - - THE SOUL. - - - "Your soul! your soul!" the preachers cry. - "What is a soul?" is man's reply. - "To know his soul, must man not die?" - - "What is a soul?" I'm glad you ask. - The soul is life, the form, the mask. - The answer was not such a task. - - The soul is in the ambient air, - Down in the earth, in landscape fair. - 'Tis in the sea, 'tis everywhere. - - To know his soul man must not die, - For 'tis the life he liveth by, - Connecting him with God on high. - - - - - WHERE LIFE BEGAN. - - - Theme by uncounted thousands written, - In Sanscrit, Greek, Teutonic, Latin; - Theme that bewildered all their senses, - Theme on which vapory thought condenses; - Stupendous, contradictory, thrilling, - A most mysterious part fulfilling; - An endless night that has no morning, - Though millions tear-dimmed wait its dawning; - A theme divine, in doubt distressing, - A curse to some, to more a blessing; - Where life began--and where it ceases? - The more we think the light decreases. - Conflicting doubts half smother reason, - Which complicates with age and season, - Until, with aching brain confessing, - The greatest sage returns to guessing. - Happy that simple-hearted creature - Who in the Bible finds a teacher. - - - - - THE GRANDEUR OF DEATH. - - - Oh! Death sublime, the end of our tempestuous struggle here, - Enfolding arms, and breast on which to lay our troubled head, - Eternal Gates! through which we turn our face from earthly cares, - And then our God, whose outstretched arms await the ransomed Dead. - - - - - THE DAY IS DONE. - - - And when the curfew of our life - Proclaims that even-tide has come, - And peaceful shadows end the strife, - The day is done, - The goal is won. - - - - - DEATH'S COURTSHIP. - - - Life has been thy courtship, sad thy smile, - Persistent wooer, always by my side; - Pray leave me with the things of earth awhile, - Said I that I e'er loved thee? Then I lied. - - - - - AN APPEAL TO HIM. - - - So weak, dear Lord, so tired, - And Thou so great and strong. - Wilt Thou not stretch Thine hand to earth, - To help a soul along? - - - - - A CHRISTMAS CAROL. - - - "Christ was born today!" - Hear the joy bells ringing, - "Christ was born today!" - Hear the children singing. - "Christ was born today, - Christ was born today!" - - "Christ was born today!" - Hear the love-bells ringing; - "Christ was born today!" - Hear the old folks singing. - "Christ was born today, - Christ was born today!" - - "Christ was born today!" - Joy and gladness bringing, - "Christ was born today!" - All the world is singing. - "Christ was born today!" - Forever and for aye, - "Christ was born today!" - - - - - WILT THOU, LORD, STAND FOR ME? - - - I've girded on my armor, - To battle for the Lord; - Though all the world oppose me, - I will uphold His Word. - Though tired, wounded, bleeding, - My sword still flashes free. - I stand for Thee, Lord Jesus, - Wilt Thou, Lord, stand for me? - - His name is on my banner - In letters writ in gold; - The glorious name of JESUS - Let all the world behold, - And in the mighty combat - My leader's face I see. - I stand for Thee, Lord Jesus, - Wilt Thou, Lord, stand for me? - - - - - MY SAVIOUR UNDERSTANDS. - - - It is the Lord of Heaven tonight - Who's speaking unto me, - And I can see His radiant light - With great intensity. - He's here beside me now, - He takes my trembling hands. - Shout out--let all the world shout out, - My Saviour understands. - - - - - HELP US, GREAT FRIEND. - - - Many there are who would love to see - Things as they are, - Things as they are. - Life is not what we want it to be. - Not what we want it to be: - God, give us light, - God, give us sight, - God, send us peace ere the coming of night. - - Many there are who desire to do - That which is right, - That which is right. - Vainly we strive with this end in view, - Strive with this end in view: - Help us, Great Friend, - Strength to us send, - Be our Protector, dear Lord, to the end. - - - - - INTO THE VALLEY OF MY SOUL. - - - Through all the bitter cares of life, - One sadder sight I see; - My own dear Saviour, on the Cross, - Who died on Calvary. - What are my aches to His? - Then why should I despair? - The One who gave His life for all - Will help our Cross to bear. - - Into the valley of my soul, - Where deep the shadows lie, - There comes a shout from Calvary: - "Look upward to the sky! - Look up, Oh! fainting heart, - His outstretched arms receive; - For Christ is coming down to earth, - Look up, faint heart! Believe!" - - Albuquerque, New Mexico, - May 14, 1921. - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Santa Fe Trail and Other Poems, by -Joseph R. Wilson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SANTA FE TRAIL AND OTHER POEMS *** - -***** This file should be named 42439-8.txt or 42439-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/4/3/42439/ - -Produced by Greg Bergquist, Matthew Wheaton and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Wilson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Santa Fe Trail and Other Poems - -Author: Joseph R. Wilson - -Release Date: March 30, 2013 [EBook #42439] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SANTA FE TRAIL AND OTHER POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Bergquist, Matthew Wheaton and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42439 ***</div> <div class="figcenter"> <img src="images/cover.jpg" width="400" height="565" alt="" /> @@ -2702,384 +2664,6 @@ AN ISLAND IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC.</h2> Albuquerque, New Mexico,<br /> May 14, 1921.</p> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Santa Fe Trail and Other Poems, by -Joseph R. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Santa Fe Trail and Other Poems - -Author: Joseph R. Wilson - -Release Date: March 30, 2013 [EBook #42439] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SANTA FE TRAIL AND OTHER POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Bergquist, Matthew Wheaton and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - [Illustration: "CREEPING CLOSER TO THE TRAIL." (P. 15)] - - - - - "The Santa Fe Trail" - - And Other Poems - - _By_ - - JOSEPH R. WILSON, LL.B. - - - INTERNATIONAL PRINTING COMPANY - PHILADELPHIA - 1921 - - - COPYRIGHT - 1921 - BY JOSEPH R. WILSON - - - TO MY WIFE - - - - - INDEX - - - Page - Brief History of the Famous Santa Fe Trail 7 - The Santa Fe Trail 12 - The Blind Beggar of Albuquerque 16 - Sunrise From "The Alvarado" 18 - The Lilacs of Shawmont 20 - A Jolly Fellow is the Western Tumbleweed 21 - The Grand Canyon of Arizona 21 - The Melodies of Memories 22 - The Harvey House Chimes 23 - Rest 24 - She Gave Me Two 24 - The Face in the Moon 25 - In Spirit Land 25 - Life's Treasures 25 - Juror No. 3 26 - He Who Sits in the Gloom 28 - Mi-Lady's Shoe 28 - Beside the Sea 29 - Winter's Sorrows 29 - Kisses 30 - Mystery 30 - Alma Mater "Pennsylvania" 31 - Napoleon's Tomb 31 - The Sorrows Grim Want Imposes 32 - I Would I Were Still a Boy 33 - The Same Voice 34 - Memories 34 - Old Days (a Ballad) 35 - On the Engagement of Miss Constance "More" 36 - Oh, Gondolier 36 - A Proposal 36 - Lake Geneva (a Memory) 37 - My Boyhood's Home 37 - The Death of the Host of the Jolly Swan 38 - Oh! Tamaca 41 - One Sweet Moment 41 - Mine Tonight 42 - The Melody of Love 43 - Wives 44 - A Country Romance 45 - Word Wounds 47 - The Gondolier's Song 48 - Avaunt! Ye Tears 48 - The Last of the Tasmanians 49 - An English Lane 51 - Words to Mendelssohn's "Consolation" 51 - A Maiden of the South Pacific 52 - An Actor's Epitaph 53 - The Loved Ones Left Behind 53 - Life's Voyage in Vain 54 - The Song of the Stream 55 - Dry Thine Eyes 56 - Honor 57 - Song to the Moon 58 - To My Mother 59 - The Unexpected Summons 60 - Oh! 'Tis Sweet to Live 60 - Too Late! 61 - Song of Atilla 62 - Dreams 63 - Who Looks Beyond 67 - Ready to Die 68 - The Soul 69 - Where Life Began 70 - The Grandeur of Death 70 - The Day is Done 71 - Death's Courtship 71 - An Appeal to Him 71 - A Christmas Carol 72 - Wilt Thou Lord Stand for Me? 73 - My Saviour Understands 74 - Help Us Great Friend 74 - Into the Valley of My Soul 75 - - - - -BRIEF HISTORY OF THE FAMOUS SANTA FE TRAIL - - -The early history of the Santa Fe Trail, which runs parallel with the -Santa Fe Railroad for hundreds of miles, is somewhat obscured by -mystery and tradition, but from historical data in possession of the -Museum of New Mexico, at Santa Fe, it can be stated with a large -degree of accuracy that the trail was started by Spanish explorers -three hundred years ago. - -The first known expedition by Americans over the trail was made by the -Mallet brothers, who arrived in Santa Fe, July 22, 1739. The first -trader to follow the trail reached Santa Fe in 1763. It was not until -1804 that LaLande, a trapper and hunter, crossed the trail and made -Santa Fe that year. Kit Carson was one of those who struck the trail -in 1826, when he was but sixteen years of age. - -The camping stations along the trail at that time were Diamond Spring, -Lost Spring, Cottonwood Creek, Turkey Creek, Cow Creek (now -Hutchinson, Kansas), and further on was Pawnee Rock, a famous landmark -of sandstone, twenty feet high. - -From the year 1820 many caravans made their way over the trail to -Santa Fe, then, as it is to-day, the seat of government. It was here -in the old palace that some of the early governors had lived in a -semi-royal state, maintaining a little court and body-guards whose -lives were by no means a sinecure, since they were called upon to -fight the Indians on many occasions. - -These Indians developed great hostility to the white man, and caravans -on the trail were so frequently attacked, and so many tragedies -stained the trail with the blood of women and children, that in 1823, -Colonel Viscarra, Jefe Politicio, of New Mexico, commanded a battalion -of Mexican troops in protecting the caravans on the Santa Fe trail. -His hand-full of men, and the predatory and blood-thirsty character of -the Indians, made it impossible for him to protect any large part of -the trail, and soldiers, traders and their families were massacred by -overwhelming numbers, the victims including many women and children. -The members of one caravan met their fate in sight of Santa Fe, -forty-six days out from St. Louis. - -Colonel Viscarra had not only to deal with one tribe, but many. There -were the Navajos, Pawnees, Arapahos, Kiowas, Comanche, Apache and -Cheyenee. There was only one tribe friendly to the traders, and that -was the Pueblo Indians. - -In August, 1829, a particularly vicious attack on a caravan on the -Santa Fe trail, bound for Santa Fe, caused the traders to petition the -government for military protection, and as a result this year, under -agreement with the Government of the United States and the Republic of -Mexico, four companies of United States troops guarded the great -caravans moving from Western Missouri to Santa Fe, as far as the -Arkansas River. In spite of this protection, however, attacks by -Indians were a common occurrence, and every caravan had to carry arms -and ammunition, and vigilance was never relaxed from the time they -left the Arkansas River until they struck the plaza at Santa Fe. - -Colonel Viscarra, a handsome, picturesque Spaniard, always mounted on -a mettlesome thoroughbred, was probably the most dashing figure in the -history of the Santa Fe trail. Tales of his gallantry and daring -became folklore among the traders, pioneers and their descendants. - -In 1843, the American traders commenced to establish regular -communication between Missouri and Santa Fe and in 1849, started to -run a stage from Independence, Mo., to Santa Fe. The fare was $250. -Each passenger was allowed forty pounds of baggage. The capacity of -the coach was ten passengers in addition to the driver and messenger. -Relays of horses were stationed along the trail every fifteen to -twenty miles. - -The vehicles used by the traders and pioneers were for the greater -part Conestoga wagons drawn by horses or mules. As they proceeded -westward it was a common sight to see on the trail, "creoles, polished -gentlemen magnificently clothed in Spanish costume, exiled Spaniards -escaping from Mexico, and richly caparisoned horses, mules and asses, -and a courtesy of the road grew out of a common danger". - -The most terrible part of the trail was the great plain between the -Arkansas River and Cimarron Spring. It was over three thousand feet -above sea level and sixty-three miles without a water course or pool. -The soil was dry and hard and short buffalo grass and some cacti were -the only evidence of the parched vegetation. There was not a shrub or -tree of any kind. It was a sandy desert plain and it was here the -traveler saw the mirage, a beautiful lake which disappeared as he -approached it. - -Breakdowns on this plain were frequent, and the Indians most -dangerous. Dry, hot weather prevailed with the blue sky overhead, and -over these parched wastes of the desert, exposed to attacks by Indians -both night and day, the caravans finally reached Cimarron Spring, -which was in a small ravine. - -After leaving Cimarron Spring (445 miles from Independence, Missouri), -the caravans struck the following camps: - - Willow Bar; - Cold Spring; - Rabbit Ear Creek; - Round Mound; - Rock Creek; - Point of Rocks; - Rio Colorado; - Ocate Creek; - Santa Clara Spring (Wagon Mound); - Rio Mora; - Rio Gallinas (Las Vegas); - Ojo De Bernal Spring; - San Miguel; - Pecos Village; - -and finally Santa Fe, a distance of 750 miles from Independence, -Missouri, the starting point. - -The old Santa Fe Trail led from Franklin, Missouri, through Kansas, -Colorado, Oklahoma and New Mexico. It followed the Arkansas River to -Cimarron Crossing (Fort Dodge) to La Junta, Colorado; then south, -crossing the Raton Pass, joining the main trail at Santa Clara Spring. - -The passenger looking out of the window of the train on the Santa Fe -Railroad will see this trail running for miles parallel with the -track, and will be able to people it with the historic traditions -which have made the Santa Fe Trail one of the most romantic and, -withal, one of the most tragic national highways in the United States. - - NOTE.--The greater part of the information given in this brief - history is taken from _Twitchell on Leading Facts of New Mexico - History_. - - - - - THE SANTA FE TRAIL. - - - There are moanings on the trail, - From west and eastward bounders, - The host that's passed forever, - That shall never know it more; - From men and fragile women, - From pioneers and traders, - Whose dying word was "Never," - Whose pale souls went on before. - And its ruts flow deep with tears - For the countless lowly biers, - Of those who died upon it, - In the agony of fears. - - Oh! the rumbling caravan-- - The women under cover, - While the men before them scan, - For Indians or water, - For the're mounds along the trail, - It's thousand miles of stretches, - Of man, and child and mother, - Fair flowers and hardened wretches; - Where the sandstorms blow and blow, - And obliterate all traces. - - Moving twenty miles a day, - With mules and horses straining - Through the deep and parching sand, - The wagon wheels a-squeaking, - With the hot sun beating down - On whitened bones a bleaching. - Stretching all along the trail, - From Fort Dodge to San Miguel, - From caravans forgotten, - Where none lived to tell the tale. - - Oh! the tide of misery, - And tears forever flowing, - From the women folk inside, - Through the long, dark hours of night, - Or moonlight's eerie bleaches, - Praying God to send the light. - The grey of early morning, - While a rifle shot rings out, - The Indians are coming, - And the men go driving on, - The tired horses running, - For the goal they never reach. - - Oh! that never ending trail, - Through canyon and arroya, - And that cursed, cruel plain, - The parched wastes of the desert, - A mile above sea-level, - Not a tree or shrub upon it, - Without a drop of water, - 'Tween the Arkansas river - And the spring at Cimarron, - Where they'll never drink again. - - Pushing on to Willow Bar, - Round Mound and Rio Moro, - Through buff'lo grass and cacti, - To ruins of the Pecos, - With the blue skies overhead, - And the horses breathing hard, - Rolls the caravan along. - A country in the making, - And the women try to sing, - God bless them, they are helping, - Those tender friends of man, - To keep his heart from breaking, - With the wagon broken down, - And not a blade for grazing. - - There are ghosts upon the trail, - The myriads that trod it, - And they pass without salute - In a never ending line, - In wagon and on horseback; - Some going West, some Eastward. - Strange spectres in the moonlight, - Brave men and noble women, - Young girls and little children, - All long ago forgotten. - - And the past rolls back again, - With Indians approaching, - The Navajos and Pawnees, - Kiowas and Comanche, - Creeping closer to the trail. - The children and the women, - Oh! 'tis hard that they should die. - Then the musket shots ring out - From cool men bent on killing, - Fighting for the ones they love, - Though ten to one outnumbered, - Until morning tints the sky - And with it ends the combat. - - Then the town of Santa Fe, - Oh! Father, in Thy mercy-- - And the women laugh and sing, - The tired men are weeping, - A thousand times repeated, - As men entered Santa Fe. - The cursed trip was over, - Save to those left on the way, - The pioneer martyrs - Of the trail to Santa Fe. - - - - - BLIND BEGGAR OF ALBUQUERQUE - - - There are faces that pass in a moment, - But his face will live till I die. - He'd a beard and blue eyes like the Saviour, - At least like the face we all know, - And we met in the cool of the morning, - We met about two years ago. - And my heart bade me call out "Good morning," - "Good morning," he answered to me. - But I saw his blue eyes looking elsewhere, - Like one who was trying to see. - He had come from a hut without windows, - A mud hut with only a door, - Yet his face was the face of the Saviour, - And I fain would speak to him more. - So I stopped, for his smile had a sweetness - That entered the gates of my soul; - I was hungry to know where it came from, - That I might its wonders extol. - And we talked of the beautiful morning, - The scent of the grass and the flowers, - And he spoke like a man of refinement, - Like one to whom knowledge was power, - Of the glory of God and His wonders, - And we talked for more than an hour. - I forgot that the speaker was sightless, - Or a mud hut his dwelling here. - Could it be he was just a blind beggar? - Was a greater One standing near? - And he talked of the hills in their grandeur, - As sentinels watching mankind, - Of the plains and vales, of sunshine and flowers, - Which he only saw in his mind. - And he spoke of the poor and the lowly, - Of God's mercy to such as he, - Of his gratitude to his Creator, - Gratitude, though he could not see. - And I stretched out my arms to that beggar, - From Syria, over the sea, - With the beard and the eyes of our Saviour-- - At least they looked like that to me. - He had taught me a wonderful lesson, - The burden a Christian could bear, - Who from out the dark caverns of blindness - Saw only the things that were fair. - And I asked my dear Father forgiveness, - My fetters of sin to unbind, - That he'd make me to see like that beggar, - For I was the one who was blind. - - - - - SUNRISE FROM THE ALVARADO HOTEL, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO. - - - "The Alvarado," on the Santa Fe, - Here oft my eyes have met the break of day; - The red sun rising through the morning mist, - Over the mountains, and the mesa kissed, - Down to the valley, where the shadows deep - Dissolved, and woke the city from its sleep. - - Facing the East, the first faint streak of dawn - Sought my closed eyes and ope'd them to the morn. - Then like the passing shadow of a cloud - Revealed the world beneath the lifted shroud, - The glories of the proud Sandia Range, - Whose rugged grandeur God alone can change. - - Sweet was the air that in my casement swept, - And in the court below a fountain leap't, - Which on the harp of life sweet music made, - And soothed me in my slumbers as it played. - The songs of gentle rain, of woodland stream, - Entranced me nightly in a murmuring dream. - - The doves upon the roof made music too, - And sweet it was to hear them bill and coo. - Into my open window Nature smiled, - And all the world seemed pure and undefiled. - Naught can describe those joys of early morn, - When from the night another day was born. - - When cares that come oppress and burden me, - I'll pray to God to send me memory, - Where precious moments came at break of day, - "The Alvarado" on the Santa Fe. - Thither my soul shall fly where'er I be, - And bring that joy of morning back to me. - - - - - THE LILACS OF SHAWMONT. - - - In our home in the West, on the edge of the mesa, - When our day's work is done, and the voices are still, - Comes faintly the scent of the lilacs of Shawmont - We knew in our youth, at the house on the hill. - - Back to those halls, now so silent and empty, - Where voices of children once merrily rang; - To those dear dead windows still facing the garden, - Where the woodthrush, the robin and oriole sang. - - Back to the solemn old bell in the tree forks, - Which summoned us home to the noonday repast; - Whose music had rung in the morning of centuries, - And yet was as sweet as the day it was cast. - - From our home on the mesa we still hear it calling, - Long, long is the journey, o'er mountain and plain; - But it's only in memory--past to the present-- - And only in fancy we hear it again. - - The scent of the lilacs, the voices of children; - The chirp of the tree-toad, the song of the stream; - The path through the woods, where as lovers we wandered, - Confusingly call like a voice in a dream. - - Call to us here in our home on the mesa, - From out the dear past in the house on the hill, - And in fancy we dwell in the home by the Schuylkill, - When our day's work is done and the voices are still. - - - - - A JOLLY FELLOW IS THE WESTERN TUMBLEWEED. - - - Oh! what a jolly fellow is the western tumbleweed, - As he rolls across the mesa with the breeze; - He'll even try to race a train, no matter what it's speed, - You can see him from the window jump the trees. - - Just where the fellow's bound for it's a little hard to say, - For his heart seems full of joyousness and life, - As he capers like a schoolboy out for a holiday-- - Some say the beggar's looking for a wife. - - - - - THE GRAND CANYON OF ARIZONA. - - - Methought 'twas God, Himself, - For as I reached the "El Tovar" - And passed toward the Canyon's brink, - I seemed to stand upon the bar - Of Heaven--too dazed to think. - - - - - THE MELODIES OF MEMORIES. - - - The melodies of every clime - Ring out so true and sweet, - They make the world akin in song, - Bring joy with every beat. - They breathe the incense of the morn, - The fragrance of the night, - They weave the mystery of love, - In garlands of delight. - - Oh! sweet uplifting melodies, - That soothe the human soul; - The young and old, the rich, the poor, - Are one 'neath their control. - The melodies of younger days, - The sweetest ever sung, - The melodies of memories - That make the ages young. - - Oh! crowd us, blessed melodies, - Come to us one by one; - Bring back the tender thoughts of life, - When it had scarce begun. - And in one long, delicious dream - We live the past again, - In melodies of memories, - In happiness and pain. - - - - - THE HARVEY HOUSE CHIMES ON THE SANTA FE RAILROAD. - - - "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!" - Better hurry--do not be late. - Best of food is on the table, - Eat as much as you are able-- - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. - - "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!" - A welcome waits at every plate. - Shining silver, spotless linen, - Waitresses, all pretty women-- - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. - - "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!" - Ascending sweet from one to eight, - Descending just as sweet to one-- - The chimes have stopp'd, the meal's begun. - - - - - REST. - - - The golden sun is setting in the quiet, silent West, - The feathered songster's voice is hushed within its cozy nest, - And the evening breeze comes stealing o'er the fields of new-mown - hay, - As Phoebus folds his wings and bids farewell the dying day. - - The gloaming shadows thicken 'round the house beneath the hill, - The water ripples softly 'neath the wheel that works the mill; - Then over all comes darkness, and the landscape fades from sight, - And tired Nature sinks to rest within the silent night. - - - - - SHE GAVE ME TWO. - - - In childhood days I met a little Miss, - Whose pouting lips were luscious as the dew. - I begged that she would give me just one kiss-- - She gave me two. - - - - - THE FACE IN THE MOON. - - - One night I gazed with rapture on the moon, - And there I found surcease from all my cares. - The face I saw within, it was not his-- - 'Twas hers. - - - - - IN SPIRIT LAND. - - - In spirit land, I know not where, - I only know she comes to me - In memory-- - When I was young and she was fair. - - - - - LIFE'S TREASURES. - - - It matters not - How great our treasures, - The cares of life - Outweigh its pleasures. - - - - - JUROR NO. 3. - - - Two boys were up for burglary, and crowded was the Court, - With half the town of Elkington, who came to see the sport. - For well they knew the Judge, whose heart was harder than a stone, - Who only dealt in justice--to whom mercy was unknown. - Oh! what a wondrous judge he was, no guilty e'er got free, - His instinct read between the lines what no one else could see, - And these two boys on whom he gazed with comprehensive stare, - Raised not their eyes to his stern face, for mercy was not there. - - "No counsel, Judge," the prosecutor said in careless way; - A case was just a case to him, who tried them every day. - "We'll see to it," the Judge replied, as often times before. - He had imposed the maximum--the law allowed no more. - The case was called, the jury boxed, when Juror No. 3 - Said, "Judge, they have no counsel, and it seems unfair to me. - The Commonwealth has two shrewd men." The Judge replied, "What - two?" - And Juror No. 3 came back, "Why, Mr. Todd and you." - "Let me correct you," said the Judge, amid the courtroom din; - "The Court administers the law when all the facts are in." - - Then turning to the crier he said, "Keep order in the Court; - Now Mr. Todd, begin the case, the time is getting short." - Just then a woman's helpless cry fell on the Judge's ear, - And both the lads within the dock were seen to shed a tear. - And Juror No. 3 stood up and said, "Where is the friend? - I call on Thee, Lord Jesus, the prisoners to defend." - - The Judge sat upright on the bench, a greater One than he - Was in the court to help the lads, summoned by Juror 3. - The case was tried and verdict found, "Guilty" the foreman said, - And not a juror disagreed--the Judge bowed low his head. - - Then to the bar there came the man, whose house the lads had - robbed. - Gazing on Juror No. 3, "Forgive them, Judge," he sobbed. - "I forgive them as Our Master would, as I hope He'll pardon me." - And the light on the face of Juror 3 was wonderful to see. - - And all eyes turned upon the bench; what would that stern Judge do? - His face was soft as baby's smile; he had been born anew. - "You have sinned, my lads; go, sin no more!" Then he set them free, - And who shall say that Jesus was not Juror No. 3? - - - - - HE WHO SITS IN THE GLOOM. - - - Not a day goes by, but I read somewhere - In this wonderful world of ours, - That some lowly being has raised his soul - And become as the Norman towers. - From out of the sweat and the slavish grind, - From the depths where but hope is known, - There has risen a star, serene and pure, - That reacheth the Heavenly throne. - - And no one knoweth his neighbor's lot, - Or divineth the Father's will, - For he who sits in the gloom tonight - May tomorrow walk on the hill; - For swift as the flash of a falcon's wing, - In the gloaming homeward flight, - Comes the change that lifteth the downcast up, - And the darkness turns to light. - - - - - MI-LADY'S SHOE. - - - I only know you by the crease - And dents across your dainty shoe. - And yet there's something in that crease-- - YOU! - - A fairy phantom of the mind, - Above thy shoe a form I see, - Another worships at thy shrine-- - ME! - - - - - BESIDE THE SEA. - - - Beside the sea, beside the sea, - I seemed to hear my mother's voice. - She had been sleeping twenty years, - And yet her voice came back to me, - Beside the sea, beside the sea. - - - - - WINTER'S SORROWS. - - - There's a bitterness and sorrow in the Winter's leaden air, - A chilling sort of something that's akin to human care, - A tender gray of sadness, like a voice of bygone gladness, - In the ashen sombre atmosphere that lingers everywhere. - - There are tear-drops on the eyelid, in the Winter's leaden air, - A sympathetic chord is touched that finds expression there; - Reality seems clearer, and the end of all seems nearer, - In the sober, flinty ether, supernaturally bare. - - - - - KISSES. - - - Kisses sweet behind the door-- - She was three and I was four; - Kisses still are sweet to me, - Though she now is fifty-three. - - Kisses sweet behind the door-- - I was three and he was four; - Kisses still are sweet to me, - Though he is more than fifty-three. - - - - - MYSTERY. - - - From out the caverns of mysterious thought - Appeared a form who said, "I'm Memory." - "Go back!" cried I, "I care not for the past, - Send me the form who knows what's yet to be." - - A shadow rose and said, "You call, I'm here; - Thy future leads thee to the Stygian shore, - And none shall weep for thee a single tear." - "Avaunt!" I cried, "I will not hear thee more." - - - - - ALMA MATER "PENNSYLVANIA." - - - I see thee, dear "Old Penn," in silhouette, - Far back along the road on which I came; - And memories, fragrant as the violet, - Are interwoven with thine honored name. - - I've thrilled at "Harvard" and at good old "Yale," - Proud have I been to meet their doughty men, - But in the world there's just one nightingale-- - My Alma Mater, my own honored "Penn." - - - - - NAPOLEON'S TOMB. - - - Here pause and gaze, ye travelers young and old, - On this dull marble hewn in sacred mould, - Mark that inscription on the graven stone, - Within sleeps he, who stood 'mongst men alone. - - Within sleeps he who at Marengo fought, - Whose skill and courage set his foes at naught; - Who led his men beneath th' Egyptian Sun, - Scarce fought a battle, but the day he won. - - Who, living, loved the cannon's deadly roar, - And made his trumpets heard on every shore; - Who, with his eagle banner, never furled, - His conquering legions over-ran the world. - - Proud Austria humbled lay beneath his feet, - And Russia's legions fled in swift retreat; - He saw the world, ambition swelled his heart, - He longed for all, nor cared to have a part. - - So lost he all, insatiate from the first, - When his proud deeds like fire on Europe burst. - A soldier, statesman, Emperor, _toute chose_ King, - Before nor since has lived so grand a thing. - - He died in exile from his glorious France, - On lonely isle, his life a leaden trance; - The sea around, walled in on every side, - His proud heart broke, and so the hero died. - - Within this marble rest the mummied bones - Of him who held in life a dozen thrones; - Approach with awe and reverential tread, - Here sleeps the mightiest of the living--dead. - - - - - THE SORROWS GRIM WANT IMPOSES. - - - 'Neath the sorrows that grim want imposes, - Imperious stalks decay; - Hunger's terrors have withered the roses - That bloomed and then faded away. - - The hearts which with young life once budded, - The fond hopes which happiness kissed, - Are dissolved in the tears which have flooded - The homes of the poor in our midst. - - - - - I WOULD I WERE STILL A BOY. - - - Oh! joy, for a fancied rest - Instead of this grind, a toy. - God seems to know what is best, - But would I were still a boy. - - Oh! man, and a heartsick smile, - Has something gone wrong ahead? - Why! life is scarcely worth while, - If man can wish himself dead. - - Oh! well, poor fellow, I know - Some have it better than you. - But, man! wherever you go, - The satisfied are the few. - - Go seek ye, and ye shall find - The light of eternal joy. - When Faith once enters the mind, - Again you will be a boy. - - - - - THE SAME VOICE. - - - The same voice speaks as the days of eld, - Since the human race began, - Enmeshed in the woof and weave of life, - Designed in the form of man. - - It spoke the dawn of his natal day, - It is speaking today as then, - The voice that speaks is the voice of God, - From out of the mouths of men. - - - - - MEMORIES. - - - The fragrance of a cigarette, - The incense of a morning fair; - The odor of the mignonette, - The perfume of a woman's hair, - The sunset dancing on the sea, - White bolles of cirrus in the sky, - Bring back fond memories to me. - Ask not! I cannot tell you why. - - - - - OLD DAYS. - - A BALLAD. - - - She stood by the stile in the twilight dim, - With a soft look in her eye; - 'Twas a tryst, she waited alone for him, - Her lover, a warrior bold and grim, - 'Neath that beauteous evening sky. - - "Why tarries my lord?" quoth the maiden fair, - "My love, my love, come to me!" - In her eyes came a look so sweet and rare, - As she gazed to the wood, through the scented air, - Till her eyes could no longer see. - - Still she waited there for her warrior bold, - "He will come to-night!" said she. - Then up rode a knight in armor of gold: - "Your warrior died like a knight of old, - On the battlefield," said he. - - - - - ON THE ENGAGEMENT OF MISS CONSTANCE MORE. - - - Thou hast the wit and charming grace - To match with speech thy lovely face-- - A maid whom men adore. - Yet I do prophesy this night, - Before the dawn of next year's light - That thou wilt be no "More." - - - - - OH, GONDOLIER. - - - Oh, Gondolier, turn thy boat again, - That I may see the sunlight on its prow, - The light that I have tried to paint in vain, - The light of Heaven--there! 'tis shimmering now. - - - - - A PROPOSAL. - - - Let us go a-maying, love; - All the world is playing, love, - This God-sent happy day. - Let us be together, love, - Ever and forever, love, - Forever and for aye. - - - - - LAKE GENEVA--A MEMORY. - - - I sat beside her in the gloaming light, - And neither spoke--'twas by Geneva's lake. - We sat, and neither spoke, and then came Night. - - - - - MY BOYHOOD'S HOME. - - - Oh, many a time in the silent night - I sigh for the days gone by, - When a happy boy with gay delight - I hailed the cuckoo's cry. - - And the dear old woods that I loved so well, - Where the stock-dove built its nest; - The rippling stream and the hermit's cell, - Its green and shady crest. - - The stately home 'neath the elms so tall, - The lawn with its cool bright turf; - The old peach tree by the garden wall, - Each has its own sweet worth. - - For my head is bent with the weight of years, - As white as the falling snow; - My stream of life through this vale of tears - Will soon have ceased to flow. - - - - - THE DEATH OF THE HOST OF THE JOLLY SWAN - - - The pewter pots were shining on the shelves behind the bar, - Like the gold and silver lining of a sunset cloud afar, - And the pine log fire burned brightly with its blaze of light and - heat, - Athwart the untrodden sawdust floor that looked so clean and neat. - - A cheerful, ruddy glamor lighted up the tavern walls, - And, shooting through the open door, lit up the silent halls, - To where the old clock's pendulum swung slowly to and fro, - With measured beat, that seemed to speak of the days of long ago. - - Sick unto death--in the room above--lay the host of the Jolly Swan. - And far and near, his kinsmen had, to seek the doctors, gone, - For the jovial face and the merry laugh of the host of yesterday - Had all departed, leaving naught but the mould of the living clay. - - Alone in his chamber he watched the sun slope down to his Western - bower, - And a gentle smile stole o'er his face, as the old clock chimed the - hour. - His thoughts were of the days gone by--as the host of the Jolly - Swan, - He had raised his tankard high and drank to the health of the old - friends gone. - - There was good old Squire Thornleigh, with his great big raw-boned - gray, - And the biggest hearted fellow that e'er waved the "Hark! Away!" - There was Jones, the hunting parson, with his jovial, ringing - laugh, - Who could preach a right good sermon and an honest bumper quaff. - - Then there was Billy Foster, who was only twenty-two, - When he broke his neck in the hunting field through the casting of - a shoe. - And portly old Judge Horner, who in the room below, - Had smoked and drank full many a night in the days of long ago. - - And as he thought, the window ope'd, and in slipped Huntsman Death, - Arrayed in scarlet, white-topped boots, with a fine rich malty - breath. - "Ah! good old friend," the huntsman cried, "since you have called - me here, - Get down the pewter pots that we may drink a funeral bier-- - - For I have ridden hard today to reach the Swan this night, - And what I ask is nothing more than what is only right." - With that, the host got out of bed and brought two pewters brimmed, - And while below he saw that all the tavern lights were trimmed. - - His kinsman, riding up the road, with doctors from afar, - Reined up to watch the lights that burned so brightly in the bar; - While the jolly host with Death alone sat in the room above, - And drank the foaming liquor down, his first and only love. - - Just then the sound of horses' hoofs the sick man heard without, - And he and Death, in one glad breath, sent up a hunting shout-- - "It's bold Squire Thornleigh's raw-boned gray, or Parson Jones's - bay-- - I'm coming, Squire, Yoick's tally-ho!" Death shouted, "Hark! Away!" - - Yoick's tally-ho fills loud the room as he springs up from bed, - And the bugle horn sounds merrily in the chamber of the dead; - Gay prancing steeds and huntsmen bold ride blithely by his side, - "Yoicks! tally-ho!" rang from his lips, and back he fell and died. - - His kinsmen heard that hunting shout, that old familiar cry, - And in they rushed--too late--too late--to see the good man die. - Two empty tankards on the floor was all that they could see, - And how the host of the Jolly Swan died--is still a mystery. - - - - - OH! TAMACA. - - - Oh! Tamaca, oh! Tamaca, - I see thy face, - I see thy face. - The sea is rolling on the bar, - Low hang the clouds, afar, afar, - Thy skiff bounds swiftly in the race, - Tis death that leads thee, Tamaca. - - - - - ONE SWEET MOMENT. - - - Under the lindens we wandered, - Gaily my love and I; - Light through the shimmering leaflets - Fell like a kiss from the sky. - On to her soft, golden tresses, - Into her eyes divine, - Smothered her form with caresses, - Blended her shadow with mine. - - Under the lindens we wandered; - Fifty years had gone by; - Light through the cold, naked branches - Fell like a pall from the sky. - Old and forsaken, our children - Had left us to starve and to die; - But we lived in the past one sweet moment - 'Neath the lindens, my love and I. - - - - - MINE TONIGHT. - - - Mine to-night, - For tomorrow's light - Our dream will end, and waking bring dull pain. - Oh! the happy past, - Far too sweet to last, - For 'tis decreed we shall not meet again. - - In thy dear eyes - My heaven lies, - And yet forever I must say good-bye; - With your lips to mine, - And my heart to thine, - With this last embrace would God I could die. - - - - - THE MELODY OF LOVE. - - - Oh! breathe again thine answer to the stars. - The woodbine turns to listen to thy voice; - The subtle beauty of such love as ours - Makes every living thing rejoice. - Blending sweet heaven with our earthly love, - Locked in each other's arms, our prayers to God - Rise from our souls unto his throne above - In gratitude, sweet gratitude to Him. - - Oh! breathe again thine answer to the stars. - The nightingale doth listen in the grove - To music sweeter than the breath of flowers, - Unto the melody of love. - Holy as triumphs of an angel hand, - Strained heart to heart, for love is God's command, - Mute in the fulness of our joy, we stand - In gratitude, sweet gratitude to Him. - - - - - WIVES. - - - We were alone--my wife and I-- - God from above looked down on us, - Never a word did either speak, - Dry lay the salt from the tears on her cheek, - Joy was afar from us. - - Silence held sway, the sin was mine, - Pride was my sin--alas! for me, - Pride that strangled the man within, - That silenced the truth and increased my sin, - She had done naught to me. - - Someone's speaking. Who dares intrude? - Reckless being, away from here. - "Reckless"--that little form in white? - Clinging to her, crying "Mother, good night!" - Low hung my head in shame. - - "Mother," I cried, "can you forgive?" - With faltering step I went to her, - And never a word did mother speak, - But the salt grew wet on her glowing cheek, - And joy came back to us. - - - - - A COUNTRY ROMANCE. - - - May I take your hand in mine, - Little Miss? - For this fairy-like retreat - In the country fresh and sweet, - Is what I've longed to meet, - Little Miss. - - Yes, I came here from the town, - Little Miss; - Without an aim in view, - I have roved the country through, - And by chance I've met with you, - Little Miss. - - You were born upon the farm, - Little Miss? - Why, how happy you must be - In the country pure and free! - I am filled with ecstasy, - Little Miss. - - Do I like the city belles, - Little Miss? - Well! some I do, and yet, - Why you needn't pout and fret, - For I am still to let, - Little Miss. - - I am longing for a kiss, - Little Miss. - Yes, I'm asking with my eyes - In a tongue that never lies, - And in words I can't disguise, - Little Miss. - - Oh! is what I say quite true, - Little Miss? - Ah! Why should Phyllis doubt - With that pretty little pout? - I know what I'm about, - Little Miss. - - Now what age am I, you ask, - Little Miss? - Well, I've just turned twenty-two, - And I'd like to marry you. - - * * * * * - - Now, I'm married. Ah! Who to? - That little Miss. - - - - - WORD WOUNDS. - - - Though strong emotion sweeps the heart, - Though anguish wings the brow, - Hold back the words whose cruel smart - Hurts no one worse than thou - - Pause, pause until the morrow brings - Reflection, thoughts more kind, - Then from calm reason's crystal springs - Distill from out thy mind. - - A wound received from warrior's sword - May heal within a day, - But the wound of some light, thoughtless word - May be a wound for aye. - - - - - THE GONDOLIER'S SONG. - - (From "Lionardo, the Gondolier.") - - - Goodnight, my love, a fond goodnight, - The moon shines down on thee. - But soon that cloud shall hide its light, - And thy dear face from me, - And thy dear face from me. - - Goodnight again, my beauteous flower, - Farewell, my gentle dove; - The night speeds on, 'tis now the hour - When we must part, my love-- - When we must part, my love. - - Sleep, softly sleep, luxurious rest, - Sweet dreams, dear love, be thine. - May each unconscious thought be blest - With love, sweet love of mine-- - Goodnight, sweet love of mine. - - - - - AVAUNT! YE TEARS. - - - Avaunt! ye tears, 'tis not the soul - That crumbles 'neath the grassy sod. - Now dost thou learn how vain to weep, - When death means, "God"? - - - - - THE LAST OF THE TASMANIANS. - - Tasmania, a large, beautiful island to the southeast of - Australia, when discovered by Van Dieman, was peopled with a - magnificent race of savages, resembling somewhat the American - Indian. Civilization, with its attendant advantages and evils, - proved too much for the primitive child of the forest. The last - Tasmanian, a woman, died in 1885, and the once splendid race is - now extinct. - - - PROLOGUE. - - Alone she sits, nor marks the dying day. - Alone on earth, she bows her weary head, - And dusky spirits bear her soul away; - A race extinct. The last Tasmanian dead. - - - APOSTROPHE. - - Where are thy dark sons, Tasmania, Tasmania? - Where are the lords who once swayed o'er thy shore? - Gone to their fathers; Oh! weep ye, Tasmania, - Weep for the race thou shalt see never more. - - Weep for the race on thy fair bosom nourished, - Tutored by nature, untrammeled, so free; - Kings of thy green hills and valleys they flourished, - Kings who now sleep in their graves by the sea. - - Proud were the race who knew not their beginning, - To whom the long past was as sealed as their fate, - Who counted their seasons when insects were winging, - The time by the shadows, the suns for their date. - - Skilled were thy dark sons, Tasmania! Tasmania! - Virtuous, gentle and peaceful their ways; - Till civilization o'ertook thee, Tasmania, - And civilized habits renumbered their days. - - Set is the sun of thy people, Oh, country! - Strangers now trample unawed o'er they race; - Forgotten, the dusky-hued sons that a century - Past were the monarchs of all thy sweet place. - - Soft may they sleep by thy shores, Oh! Tasmania, - Where sea-dirges swell for the child of the past; - Sleep as thy guardian spirits, Tasmania, - Hovering round thy dear land to the last. - - - - - AN ENGLISH LANE. - - - Tall elms on either side with stately heads, - With here and there an oak of ancient days, - Sweet briar hedges flanked with clover beds, - In which the feathered songster trills his lays. - - - - - WORDS TO MENDELSSOHN'S "CONSOLATION." - - - Lord, my poor heart, with sadness now is breaking, - Longing for light, that I may find belief, - Aching for rest from these tumultuous doubtings, - Seeking to find the path that leads to peace. - But Oh! dear Lord, my soul refuses comfort; - Vainly I strive for the goal beyond this sad, sweet world. - Rest for eternity. - Grant then, Oh! Lord, the enlightenment of sorrow, - That gentle faith which comes through grief alone; - Ripened in hours of darkest tribulation, - When my poor soul stood face to face with Thee. - - - - - A MAIDEN OF TE PITO TE HENUA, AN ISLAND IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC. - - - On her beautiful puoka (head) - Hung her raven-black rauoko (hair) - While love filled her mokoikoi (heart) - Her alabaster kiri (skin) - Gleamed on her kapu hivi (shoulder). - And her petticoats came down to her kuri (knee). - - Sweet was her aerero (tongue); - White were her even niho (teeth), - And graceful her kakari munava (waist); - Voluptuous her ngutu (lips) - And shapely were her heru (legs). - Well developed were her kiko ua-ua (muscles). - - Oh, this maid of Rapa Nin (island) - Bore a rima tuhi hana (ring). - Beloved was she by a tangala (man), - Who in his little vaka (boat) - Caught a wedding gift of ika (fish) - And breathed his tale of love in her ringa (ear). - - - - - AN ACTOR'S EPITAPH. - - - Here lies a body whose majestic grace - Drew from his fellow-man unstinted praise; - Who lured emotion from her hiding place, - And thrilled the world with deeds of other days. - He that possessed, which unto Art is dear, - A grand conception of unvarnished truth; - He oft provoked a smile, more oft a tear, - Sublime and beauteous in his manly youth. - - Full in the zenith of his great renown, - God gave to him his final part to play; - While Death untimely rung the curtain down - On that great scene where man doth pass away. - The rustling leaves soft whisper o'er his head, - And robins fill the air with sweetest sound; - Within the theatre of the mighty dead - The actor sleeps beneath the sacred ground. - - - - - THE LOVED ONES LEFT BEHIND. - - - There are sounds of martial music, - But the laugh is hushed within, - As the soldier boys march bravely down the street; - A little child is weeping, - As she listens to the din, - Of kettle-drum and tramp of many feet. - - "Oh! my papa! Oh! my papa!" - Wailed the tiny little mite. - "You have gone and left poor mamma all alone; - Come back, my darling papa, - Oh! do come home tonight, - And see how good your little girl has grown. - - "I won't be naughty, papa, - And I won't make any noise, - When papa's head is aching him so bad; - I will walk about so quietly - And put away my toys, - Your little girl won't make her father sad." - - But the tiny voice fell empty, - On the shadows in the room, - And the music in the distance fainter grew; - This is but a single instance - Of the scenes within the gloom, - Which the loved ones left behind are passing through. - - - - - LIFE'S VOYAGE IN VAIN. - - - With eyes upcast to the glistening stars, - Full of a strange mysterious awe, - I watch the lights on the heavenly bar, - And think of the ships that are sailing in, - Cargoless, empty, their voyage in vain. - - - - - THE SONG OF THE STREAM. - - - Born on some distant mountain top, - A happy wanderer from its birth, - From stone to stone with merry laugh - It dances o'er its mother earth. - - Then with some gathering streamlet meets, - With bubbling laughter on they fling - Their glittering sprays through sweet retreats, - And cool abodes of sylvan king. - - The mighty river next appears, - And to its arms the youngsters race, - Then separate with baby tears, - While current marshalls each in place. - - And last the ocean heaves in view, - Then dies for aye the streamlet's span; - Death is the ocean, all life through, - Whose outstretched arms wait every man. - - - - - DRY THINE EYES. - - - Dry thine eyes, love; cease thy weeping, - For thy boy will soon be sleeping - Safe within the angels' keeping-- - Dry thine eyes. - - Hold my hand; the tide is flowing, - Down the stream my boat is going, - On the banks the kine are lowing, - In the skies. - - See, my love, the shadows creeping, - Round my bed while I am sleeping, - List! I hear a sound of weeping! - Now it dies. - - Raise me up, the day is breaking; - Streaks of gray proclaim its waking; - Sleep my weary eyes forsaking, - In the light. - - Raise me up that I may, nearer, - Watch the shades becoming clearer; - Ebbing life seems growing dearer. - But my sight - - Fails again; the sombre fretting - Changes now to golden netting. - See! the blood-red sun is setting! - Love, good-night. - - Unto God my soul is winging; - I can hear the angels singing; - Joy bells overhead are ringing! - Dry thine eyes. - - - - - HONOR. - - - When aloft two young hearts are soaring - To those realms of pleasure and pain, - The law and the prophets ignoring, - There's a something recalls them again. - - And the truths that we see in reflection, - Sad but sweetly encircle the soul, - For honor's more kind than affection - That creates, then destroys the loved goal. - - - - - SONG TO THE MOON. - - (From "Lionardo, the Gondolier.") - - - Orb of some mighty potent power - In thine exalted sphere, - Thy soft light maketh sweet the hour - Within the fairy woodland bower, - To maidenhood, so dear. - - Empress of Night, thy beauteous spell - Superb and matchless given, - Thy light the lover loves so well, - The gentle tale of old to tell - While earth becomes, his Heaven. - - Luna, thou goddess of the night, - Chaste harbinger of love, - I feel in thy sweet fairy light - My heart again grow glad and bright, - When thou dost ride above. - - - - - TO MY MOTHER. - - - Awake, fond heart, to life again, - For why should sorrow ever - Enshroud the past with endless pain, - Cause bitter tears to flow in vain - For those passed o'er the river? - - The dead are gone--they ne'er return, - Life's troubles here are ended; - And though to see them back we yearn, - Christ's teachings lead us to discern - 'Tis not what God intended. - - Who can the curtain thrust aside, - Or gaze through Death's dark portals? - Short space on earth doth each abide, - Then comes his call to swell the tide, - Whose waves are dying mortals. - - We all must die, mayhap this night - Our souls are drifting thither, - Where those dear loved ones lost to sight - Await us there in glory bright, - Across the shining river. - - - - - THE UNEXPECTED SUMMONS. - - - Dead in his chair. The sun's expiring rays - With crimson glow lights up the rigid face, - And in the unclosed eyes that look afar - A blood-red sunbeam finds a resting place. - - Dead! with the pen still clutched in pulseless hand, - "Dear wife," sole words before his sightless gaze. - One nerveless arm hangs strangely by the chair, - While at his frozen feet a kitten plays. - - Dead! Can it be, with children's shouts without? - So still he sits. How painful is the light, - And deeper glows the crimson on his face, - The sun has set, Goodnight. - - - - - OH! 'TIS SWEET TO LIVE. - - - The funeral march, it suiteth not my mood, - Its Stygian tones are those on which men brood. - Beyond its solemn measure lies the tomb, - And shades dissolving in eternal gloom. - - Nay! rather let me hear some lively air, - Whose Springtime notes suggest a morning fair, - Filled with the pulsing joys that life can give, - On this old earth, for oh! 'tis sweet to live. - - - - - TOO LATE. - - - The corn may spring, the corn may spring, - And thou beside the river walk; - Yet sad must be the song you sing, - A withered flower on the stalk. - The elms overhead are sighing, - The solemn rooks around are flying, - Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw! - - And once 'twas here we walked alone, - In that sweet hush of eventide, - Before thy heart had turned to stone, - Before thy love for me had died. - The elms overhead are sighing, - The solemn rooks around are flying, - Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw! - - Beyond the fence in peace I sleep, - And soughing breezes kiss my grave. - I hear my name, and thou dost weep, - For I was fair and thou wert brave. - The elms overhead are sighing, - The solemn rooks around are flying, - Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw! - - I hear thee coming through the gate, - I feel thee kneeling at my head. - I hear thy cry, "Too late! Too late!" - I love her now and she is dead. - The elms overhead are sighing, - The solemn rooks around are flying, - Caw, Caw! Caw, Caw! - - - - - SONG OF ATTILA. - - (From "Lionardo, the Gondolier.") - - - I'll sing you a song about great Attila, - A mighty man was he. - He was King of the Huns, had seventy sons, - And daughters one hundred and three, three, three, - And daughters 1, 0, 3. - - All nations vowed him a very fine fellow, - With them he couldn't agree; - One Autumn so mellow, he conquered Torcello - A. D. four hundred and forty-three, - Anno Domini 4, 4, 3. - - So he left a son to watch over the place, - Though round it flowed the sea, - And all over the place sprang the Kingly race - Of Torcellani--that's me, me, me, - Anno Domini 4, 4, 3. - - - - - DREAMS. - - - Midst pastoral lands and purling recluse streams - There dwells the maiden queen of recreant dreams, - Gentian by name, a maid most wondrous fair, - With eyes like astral and her glorious hair, - Tangled with moonbeams, disputes the right - Of other garb to veil the beauteous sight. - Her skin, as white as Ida's Cretean snow, - Outlines a form of soft voluptuous flow - Of grace majestic, contours fair to see, - Exquisite in their matchless symmetry; - While, crowning all, a sweet and noble grace - Marks every movement and o'erspreads her face. - And having this described this noctal flower, - The Muse will now define sweet Gentian's power. - From out her bower of amaranthine hue - She peers with eyes of soft, exquisite blue, - And breathing gently, like a zephyr's kiss, - Enjoys alone the core of perfect bliss. - Queen of a land, to every mortal given - A glimpse, at least, of what perchance is heaven; - Queen of a land of terror, shame and crime, - From life to death, and all that marketh time. - Queen of a land more wondrous than our own - Sweet Gentian reigns, and sways the realm alone. - Mistress of nations, every soul on earth - Becomes her vassal at the hour of birth. - Kings are her subjects, as the peasant boy, - And brilliant minds with her a fancy toy. - Once steeped in sleep, all minds become as one, - For Gentian's spell o'er man has then begun. - No longer cares of base terrestrial clay - Torment the soul with visions of the day. - Earth is no more, the river crossed is deep, - Man dies each time his head is bowed in sleep, - And Gentian paints the sphere to suit her mind - Capricious as the sex of womankind. - Now steeped in bliss she leads the love-sick swain - And gives the kiss for which he sighed in vain. - The maid who but that morn his glances fled - Caresses lovingly his restless head. - The hapless poet who is lost to fame - Hears in his sleep his own illustrious name, - And, laurel crowned, looks back with scornful eye - Into a past of mean obscurity. - The ship-wrecked boy on some far distant shore - In happy dreamland sees his home once more, - His mother's face aglow with pride and joy - As to her breast she clasps her sailor boy, - And summer seas beat on the golden sand - That forms the shore of Gentian's wonderland. - The ruined merchant's heart again grows light, - As fortune smiles on him at dead of night, - And sheriff's sales and judgment notes confessed - No longer break the weary toiler's rest. - Proudly he says, "My word is now my bond," - And coins the yellow dross with Gentian's wand. - The holy man, by church ordained a priest, - In dreams partaketh of the merry feast, - And sparkling glances when the hour is late - Make roguish havoc with the celibate. - "Avaunt!" he cries, "such joys are not for me." - And wakes in prayer upon his bended knee. - The scientist retires with addled brain - To dream his fretful genius o'er again, - When from Cimmerian darkness breaks a light - The Atlantic bridged bursts on his 'stonished sight. - And then his mind is turned to stranger things, - As up he soars on his invented wings. - Begrimed with coal, the miner goes to rest - And sharp-drawn breaths inflate his manly chest. - Sudden, the clothes are rudely thrust aside, - His eyes with terror now stand open wide; - The roof is falling, God! the whole mine shakes! - A loud explosion, 'tis a dream, he wakes. - A little elf, a girl, a tiny tot, - With waxen face, indents the baby cot, - And visions fair regale her infant sight - Of cakes and candy through the silent night. - Sleep, little angel, Gentian marks thy worth, - A sleeping child, the sweetest thing on earth. - 'Midst dirt and filth, at night the city gloom - Steals weird and sickly to a garret room, - Where, breathing hard upon a mattress bare, - A girlish form is outlined sleeping there. - One of the lost, polluted, base, defiled, - Yet once she slept, a little angel child. - And now she moves, sweet Gentian enters in, - And she is pure again and free from sin. - The dry, parched lips with innocence now speak, - And balmy breezes fan the fevered cheek. - The little white-washed cottage standeth near - And mother's voice sounds sweetly on her ear, - While from the fields the scent of new mown hay - Comes strong and lusty at the close of day. - Her little sisters and her brothers wait - For her to join them at the garden gate, - And in her sleep her laugh is undefiled, - For she is once again a little child. - The anxious farmer sees his fallow land - Yield heavy crops beneath the reaper's hand, - And barren orchards bend beneath the weight - Of golden fruit, 'twas joy to cultivate. - No landlord's agent doth his peace invade. - He dreams of ownership, and taxes paid. - The country parson turns and twists in bed, - As mighty thoughts run rampant through his head. - He mounts the village pulpit wreathed in smiles, - And proudly gazes down the crowded aisles. - Forgot is life, with its unvarnished views - And vault-like echoes from the empty pews, - The church is filled, his lips now move in prayer, - And touched is every heart that's gathered there. - Not satisfied, his sermon follows next, - And from a flower he takes his simple text. - Now thrills his audience with his eloquence, - And marvels greatly at his common sense; - And as he speaks with love of our dear Lord, - He sees ahead his well-earned, just reward. - A scholar, preacher, helper of the sick, - He gets at last a lawn-sleeved bishopric, - But soon as he the pastoral crosier takes, - The country parson to himself awakes. - The hapless monarch on his bed of down - No longer sinks beneath the jeweled crown; - His mind expands with liberty of thought, - And heart proclaims his king-ship dearly bought. - In sleep alone, his deep-drawn sighs confess - His heart's desire, domestic happiness. - "Domestic happiness," sweet Gentian sings, - "Belongs to laborers, and not to kings." - And so she bids us with a graceful ease - Assume a virtue of some dread disease, - Which pleases best the tricky fairy's mind, - Who hurts so much and yet can be so kind. - Well do we know how perfect is her will - Who makes us love the rival we would kill, - Or vice versa, which more awful seems - She makes us kill our rival in our dreams. - Ah! gentle Gentian, what a power is thine, - To be so cruel and yet so divine. - - - - - WHO LOOKS BEYOND. - - - There is a grandeur in the man, - Who views with calm that endless sleep; - Who looks beyond the taking off, - Conceives the goal beyond the deep. - - - - - READY TO DIE. - - - Life is a sarcasm rare, - It stands in a class of its own, - While love thrills the heart of the fair - Decay is at work on the bone. - - That instant the clasp is undone - The mantle of life slips away, - And beauty men worshipped of yore - Becomes but inanimate clay. - - There's reason in all things save death, - And no one knows why that should be; - What is there mysterious in breath, - That it should so suddenly flee? - - Nay, ask not the bent, aged form, - The cripple, the starving, the weak, - But he whose life-blood courses warm, - With health in his eye, on his cheek. - - Go ask him what thinks he of death, - He will laugh in his heart for reply, - With sarcasm bating his breath, - He will tell you he's ready to die. - - - - - THE SOUL. - - - "Your soul! your soul!" the preachers cry. - "What is a soul?" is man's reply. - "To know his soul, must man not die?" - - "What is a soul?" I'm glad you ask. - The soul is life, the form, the mask. - The answer was not such a task. - - The soul is in the ambient air, - Down in the earth, in landscape fair. - 'Tis in the sea, 'tis everywhere. - - To know his soul man must not die, - For 'tis the life he liveth by, - Connecting him with God on high. - - - - - WHERE LIFE BEGAN. - - - Theme by uncounted thousands written, - In Sanscrit, Greek, Teutonic, Latin; - Theme that bewildered all their senses, - Theme on which vapory thought condenses; - Stupendous, contradictory, thrilling, - A most mysterious part fulfilling; - An endless night that has no morning, - Though millions tear-dimmed wait its dawning; - A theme divine, in doubt distressing, - A curse to some, to more a blessing; - Where life began--and where it ceases? - The more we think the light decreases. - Conflicting doubts half smother reason, - Which complicates with age and season, - Until, with aching brain confessing, - The greatest sage returns to guessing. - Happy that simple-hearted creature - Who in the Bible finds a teacher. - - - - - THE GRANDEUR OF DEATH. - - - Oh! Death sublime, the end of our tempestuous struggle here, - Enfolding arms, and breast on which to lay our troubled head, - Eternal Gates! through which we turn our face from earthly cares, - And then our God, whose outstretched arms await the ransomed Dead. - - - - - THE DAY IS DONE. - - - And when the curfew of our life - Proclaims that even-tide has come, - And peaceful shadows end the strife, - The day is done, - The goal is won. - - - - - DEATH'S COURTSHIP. - - - Life has been thy courtship, sad thy smile, - Persistent wooer, always by my side; - Pray leave me with the things of earth awhile, - Said I that I e'er loved thee? Then I lied. - - - - - AN APPEAL TO HIM. - - - So weak, dear Lord, so tired, - And Thou so great and strong. - Wilt Thou not stretch Thine hand to earth, - To help a soul along? - - - - - A CHRISTMAS CAROL. - - - "Christ was born today!" - Hear the joy bells ringing, - "Christ was born today!" - Hear the children singing. - "Christ was born today, - Christ was born today!" - - "Christ was born today!" - Hear the love-bells ringing; - "Christ was born today!" - Hear the old folks singing. - "Christ was born today, - Christ was born today!" - - "Christ was born today!" - Joy and gladness bringing, - "Christ was born today!" - All the world is singing. - "Christ was born today!" - Forever and for aye, - "Christ was born today!" - - - - - WILT THOU, LORD, STAND FOR ME? - - - I've girded on my armor, - To battle for the Lord; - Though all the world oppose me, - I will uphold His Word. - Though tired, wounded, bleeding, - My sword still flashes free. - I stand for Thee, Lord Jesus, - Wilt Thou, Lord, stand for me? - - His name is on my banner - In letters writ in gold; - The glorious name of JESUS - Let all the world behold, - And in the mighty combat - My leader's face I see. - I stand for Thee, Lord Jesus, - Wilt Thou, Lord, stand for me? - - - - - MY SAVIOUR UNDERSTANDS. - - - It is the Lord of Heaven tonight - Who's speaking unto me, - And I can see His radiant light - With great intensity. - He's here beside me now, - He takes my trembling hands. - Shout out--let all the world shout out, - My Saviour understands. - - - - - HELP US, GREAT FRIEND. - - - Many there are who would love to see - Things as they are, - Things as they are. - Life is not what we want it to be. - Not what we want it to be: - God, give us light, - God, give us sight, - God, send us peace ere the coming of night. - - Many there are who desire to do - That which is right, - That which is right. - Vainly we strive with this end in view, - Strive with this end in view: - Help us, Great Friend, - Strength to us send, - Be our Protector, dear Lord, to the end. - - - - - INTO THE VALLEY OF MY SOUL. - - - Through all the bitter cares of life, - One sadder sight I see; - My own dear Saviour, on the Cross, - Who died on Calvary. - What are my aches to His? - Then why should I despair? - The One who gave His life for all - Will help our Cross to bear. - - Into the valley of my soul, - Where deep the shadows lie, - There comes a shout from Calvary: - "Look upward to the sky! - Look up, Oh! fainting heart, - His outstretched arms receive; - For Christ is coming down to earth, - Look up, faint heart! Believe!" - - Albuquerque, New Mexico, - May 14, 1921. - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Santa Fe Trail and Other Poems, by -Joseph R. Wilson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SANTA FE TRAIL AND OTHER POEMS *** - -***** This file should be named 42439.txt or 42439.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/4/3/42439/ - -Produced by Greg Bergquist, Matthew Wheaton and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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