human
Can you continue this poem for me?
  Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by
I well remember the evening on which you first heard of them, and
So, as you have the infirmity of going to sleep over the most
interesting discourse, as the lamp is going out, as I am nervous,
A friend of many years,
Perhaps at the time when this writing may reach the press, such a
"Dr. Norkin lives there," he said, pointing with his whip to a
"Those Yankees are unaccountable smart people."
"The doctor is a Yankee, then?"
"Yes, but I don't see what Yankees have to do with the doctor."
"You have lived long with the judge?"
I gleaned besides, some antiquarian lore concerning a venerated
"Are you sure--are you sure that he is not deaf?"
"Very well, Meta."
"Meta, can you never be still?"
"Meta, unless you are silent I shall have to leave the room."
"Oh," said I, "Miss. Meta, all that your mother said was of no
"Mr. Martin can be more considerate than you are."
"Meta, I take my departure. If nothing is heard of me to-day or
master,--freedom in name; for they now possessed it in reality.
excellent tea."
With the exception of this folly the lady was, as I have said, an
transacted without any one being in the least degree incommoded.
"What can I do? Tell me how to be useful."
"Do not offer too hastily. Let me inform you of a custom which is
invitation, if he cannot accept it, still to transmit his paper.
"What shall I write?"
"Whatever you please. A Poem if you will."
"Well so much the better. Such caution will insure variety."
The United States is the oldest country in the world. Many of its
requisite for the development of man into the highest type of
We have such remarkable institutions among us, such progressive
theorists upon all possible subjects, that the foundations of our
"Doctor," he exclaims, "it is well you have come! Do give me some
"But I wrote only in jest. I described the pretender."
When the bottle was nearly empty he said that if his hearer would
Many of the tribe marvelled that he did not seek for a bride the
One night he fell asleep by the great fire of the hunters. The
lightest."
hill-side.
prosperity. The clothes in which he arrays himself are a strange
There, where the time-worn bridge at School House Run,
Spans o'er the stream unquiet as our lives,
You find a place where few will pause at night;
Where the foot-fall is quick, and all press on
As if a winter's blast had touched the frame,
And men drew to themselves. Oft there is seen,
So men aver, the quiet gliding ghost.
Descend yon hill, near woods so desolate,
With upward gloom, and tangled undergrowths,
And shadows mouldering in the brightest day.
Near is the Indian spring's unmurmuring flow.
The summit now is gladdened by the Church.
You leave all village sounds, and are alone,
On grass-worn paths your feet emit no sound.
The thick damp air is full of dreary rest,
And stillness there spreads out like the great night.
Upon the left, hidden by aged oaks,
Is a small cedar grove; where broken winds
Are organ-like with requiem o'er some graves.
A low stone wall, and never-opened gate
Protect the marble records of the dead.
To stand at sunny noon, or starry night
Upon the arch, where you can yield the soul,
Captive to nature's impress, power with peace,
Is stillness from afar. The solitude
Seems linked with some far distant, distant space
In the broad universe, where worlds are not.
Unrest with rest is there. We often call
That peace, where thoughts are deep, but where the soul
Moves as the great, great sea, in mighty waves.
Here memories for tears, forgotten thoughts
Come without seeking. Just as the winds of May
Bring with unlaboring wings, from unknown fields,
Sweet scents from flowers, and from the early grass.
The fearful man, who left the village store,
Near to the cross roads, where the untutored tongue
Supplies the gossip of the printed sheet,
Has here beheld the mist-like, awful ghost.
The rustic lover under midnight stars,
Detained so long by Phebe's sorceries,
His little speech taking so long to say,
Has had his faith sore tried, as he has asked,
Will I, next week, pass here alone, again?
Far the most haunted spot lies yet beyond,
Follow the road until you reach the Ford,
There at the mouldering pile of wall and logs,
Where once the floating raft was as a bridge,
A pure white spirit oftentimes is seen.
She sometimes wanders all along the shore;
Sometimes from off the rocks, she seems to look
For something in the waters. Then again
Where the trees arch the road that skirts the bank,
And night is like the darkness of a cave,
This gentle spirit glides. Earth's sorrow yet,
Its burden, weary burden, borne alone.
Sad is the story of her earthly life.
You see that lonely house upon the green,
With its broad porch beneath that sycamore.
'Tis now a pleasant undisturbed abode.
There lingereth much of ancient time within:
Long may it cling there in these days of change!
Quaint are the rooms, irregular. The bright fire
Glows from the corner fire-place. Often there
I sit, and marvel o'er the shadowy past.
It is a place of welcome. Loving hearts
Extend the welcome. Angels welcome thus.
Dear sisters, reading there the purest page,
Planning some act of gentleness to wo,
The selfishness of solitary life,
Not finding place amid your daily thoughts,
For you commune with that activity
Of love most infinite, that once came down
From the far Heaven, to human form on earth.
The music of the true, the harmony
Of highest thoughts, that have enthroned as kings
The best in heart, and head of all our race,
Have their great kindred echoes as you read.
O as your prayers ascend, pray oft for me,
And then I shall not lose the name of friend.
The golden link that bindeth heart to heart
Forever, is the Love and prayer in Christ.
Since the Great Being gives me love at home,
The Diamond payment for my worth of dust,
Gives me that bright and daily light of earth,
I'm bold, and covetous of Christian love.
This house, in ancient days a wayside inn,
Has sheltered men of mark. Here Washington
Rested his weary head without despair,
Before the sinking tide rose with bright waves
At Trenton, and the spot where Mercer fell.
Here youthful La Fayette was also seen,
Whose smile, benign in age, was joy to me,
As my loved Father, at our fire-side spake
To him, as the true Patriot speaks to those
Who win a nation's homage by their toils.
Here even now, on an age-colored pane,
The letters, diamond-cut, show Hancock's name.
The war had found the host of the Ford Inn
A happy man; no idler round a bar;
For his chief calling was upon his farm,
With rich fields open to the sun, amid
The dense surrounding forests, where the deer
Still lingered by the homes of laboring men.
He bore arms for his country. And he heard
The last guns fired at Yorktown for the free.
One little daughter played around his hearth;
Oft tracked his steps far in the furrowed field;
Looked up with guileless eye in his true face.
After each absence short, her merry shout
Of greeting at his coming, rose as sure
As sounds from those dark cedars on the shore,
When the winds rise and break their mirror there.
Oh happy child! She also learned the love
That places underneath her the strong arms
Of Him who held the children when on earth,
Journeying along his pathway to the cross.
She opened all her gentle Heaven-touched heart
To all the unknown teachings of her home.
The wild-flower's beauty passed into her thoughts,
And as she gazed, and saw in earth and sky,
In every form the love of God stream forth,
She knew of beauty that could never fade.
For He, from whom these emanations came,
Will never cease to be a God revealed.
Happy the child, for her fond parents both
Had souls to kindle with her sympathies.
They learned anew with her the blessed love,
Which makes the pure like children all their days.
With her pure mind repassed the former way,
Their age and youth blended at once in her.
There was a small church in the little town
Of Bristol, some miles distant, over which
A loving pastor ruled with watchful care.
He came from England,--and but few had known
That he was bishop, of that secret line
Which Ken, and other loyalists prolonged,
Prepared for any changes in the realm.
The good man loved his people at the ford.
The child's expanding mind had ample seals
Of his kind guidance. From his store of books
He culled the treasures for her thoughtful eye.
Another memorable influence,
To add refining grace, came from the town.
One, whose sweet beauty threw a woman's charm
Over a household, seeking health in air,
That rustles forest leaves, that sweeps the fields,
Came to their home, and was not useless there.
She threw round Ellen, in resplendent light,
What Ellen knew before, in fainter day.
The lady was so true in all her grace,
Such open nature, that the child, all heart,
Could think, could love, could be as one with her.
How sad, that the refinement of the world,
Should often be the cost of all that's true!
From the volcano's side the dreadful stream,
That buried the great city, pressed its way,
To every room of refuge. Prison ne'er
Gave bondage like those dark and awful homes.
Around each form came the encrusting clay:
Death at the moment. Dying ne'er so still.
In passing ages all the form was gone:
The dark clay held the shapes of what had been,
And when the beauteous city was exhumed,
Into those hollows, moulds of former life,
They poured the plaster, and regained the form,
Of men, or women, as they were at death.
So all that lives in nature, in the heart,
Is often, living, buried by the world,
By its dead stream. Dust only can remain.
And in its place the statue--outward all
The form of beauty--the pretense of soul.
How the child basked in all her loveliness!
Unconscious, she was moulded day by day,
Sweet buds that in her heart strove to unfold,
Had waited for that sun. And Ellen saw
Her mother in changed aspect. The soft charms
Of her new friend, revealed at once in her,
More of the woman's natural tenderness.
The gentle child, had not a single love
For all the varied scenes of bank and stream--
And these to her were almost all the earth,
But as each glory centered round her home.
If the descending sun threw down the light
Tinged with the mellow hues of autumn leaves,
Upon the waters till they shone as gold,
And yet diminished not the million flames
That burnt upon the trees, all unconsumed,
It was to her a joy. But deeper joy
Came with the thought, that all her eye surveyed,
Was but a repetition of the scene,
When her fond mother, at some former day,
Had by her side blessed God for these his works.
And all the softest murmurs of the air
Recalled her father's step, and his true voice.
Thus home entwined itself with every thought,
As that great vine with all that wide-branched oak.
And in this quiet scene, the child grew up,
To know not inequalities of lot,
Of any rank dissevering man from man.
Once from the splendid coach, the city dame
And her young daughter entered the Ford Inn.
As Ellen gazed upon the little one
Whose eye recalled the dove, and then the gleam
That morning threw upon her much loved waves,
And on the tresses, like the chesnut fringe
In full luxuriance, she came forth and stood
With such a guileless, and admiring love,
That tenderness was won. And then they strolled
O'er Ellen's favorite haunts. She asked the child,
Have you such waters, and such trees beside
Your home far off? The little languid eye
Gazed vacantly on all the beauty there,
And then, as one who had not heard the words,
And least of all could give forth a response
To nature's loving call, even as it passed
To her, through Ellen's eyes, and Ellen's voice,
And from her kindled soul,--she turned again,
Absorbed in the small wagon which they drew,
And to the stones they skimmed upon the stream.
Just for a brief space, down there seemed to fall
A veil between the two--a veil like night.
All Ellen's greater, deeper swell of tides
Of soul, forever dashing on the cliffs
On which mind's ocean-great forever beat
Their swell of thunder, here could find no height
That could reverberate. And yet her heart
Was all too noble, high, serenely pure,
Too Christ-taught ever thus to stand apart.
The tender gentleness, the laughing eye,
The soul responsive to the moment's joy,
The power to love, the softening sympathy
With every bird or squirrel that appeared,
Or rabbit, scarce afraid, with wondering eye,
The love of parents, her sweet talk of friends,
And above all, a heart to beat so true
To all that One in heaven had said to her,
Were most alluring powers. Ellen forgot
Wherein they differed: And their souls then chimed
As sounds of bells, blended in summer's wind.
So, as if sunbeams faltering on the bank,
The cloud departing, creep o'er all the green,
Her brightening interest rested on the child.
And when they parted at the bridge of logs,
Though the child's dress was gorgeous, and the pomp
Of city livery from the chariot shone,
While the soft tear was in our Ellen's eye,
There still dwelt all unknown in her sweet mind,
All free from pride, the deep inspiring wish,
That she could raise this merry-hearted one
Above herself: and then there came the thought,
Unconscious, causing sorrows--higher aims--
That the one gone was poor, and she was rich.
There was a loneliness, and so she sought
Her mother; whose companionship was peace:
assistant
Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  Who ever won her to her wonted rest.
There is a poetry in many hearts
Which only blends with thought through tenderness:
It never comes as light within the mind
Creating forms of beauty for itself.
It has an eye, and ear for all the world
Can have of beauty. You will see it bend
Over the cradle, sorrow o'er the grave.
It knows of every human tie below,
The vast significance. Unto its God
It renders homage, giving incense clouds
To waft its adorations. By the cross,
It hears the voice, "How holy all is here!"
It speaks deep mysteries, and yet the clue
Is most apparent to the common mind.
Its sayings fall like ancient memories;
We so accept them. Natures such as these
Are often common-place, until the heart
Is touched, and then the tones from gates of heaven.
Such are the blessed to brighten human life--
To give a glory to our earth-born thoughts--
To teach us how to act our deeds as kings,
Which we might else perform as weary slaves.
They give us wings, not sandals, for the road
Full of dry dust. And such the mother was.
So as we tell you of the child, there needs
No voice to say, and such the woman was.
One day she sought her father in the field,
Just before sunset, ready for his home.
And as they reached the rocks along the shore,
Where the road turns, to meet the deep ravine,
Nigh unto Farley, a faint cry for help
Rang in their ears. It was a manly voice
Grieving through pain. They turned aside, and found
A stranger, who had fallen, as he leapt
From out his boat. His fallen gun and dress
Proclaimed the sportsman. Aid was soon at hand,
And in their dwelling he found friends, and care.
Days past. His mother came, and soon she found
He spake to Ellen, Ellen unto him;
As they spake not to others. And it seemed,
Such a perpetual reference in his talk,
As if he had not now a single thought,
Which had not been compared with thought of hers.
At first her pride was moved. And while she stood
Irresolute, the spell was fixed: as when
The power of spring thaws winter to itself.
She knew her son was worthy: and she knew
Here, in the wide-world must he seek a wife.
And in due time she was his fair-haired wife.
They had a rural home across the stream.
Their lights at night answered the cheerful light
Of her paternal home. Their winter's fires
Mingled their gleam upon the dark night wave,
Or on the ice. By summer's winds her voice
Was wafted o'er the waters, as she sang:
And loving hearers blessed her in their hearts.
Oh! what a joy, when in her arms they placed
Her son--ah doomed to be her only born!
Her cup of happiness seemed now so full.
And then the Father, knowing all to come,
Gave her more grace, and so she loved him more,
And had no Idol. But, as days rolled on
Such sorrow came, I scarce can tell the tale.
She saw her husband's manly strength all gone.
There was a withering tree, in the spring time,
Which on the lawn, seemed struggling to assume
The Autumn's hues amid the world's full green.
He faintly smiled, and said, "So do I fade."
Soon it was dead. He lingered slowly on.
Hopes came: hopes faded. From the early world
'Tis the same story. It was well for her,
In this her sorrow, she had learned to weep
In days of bliss, as she had read the page
Which tells of Jesus bearing his own cross.
His mother came, but Ellen was repelled
By the stern brow of one who met the shock
And would not quail. That hard and iron will
Was so unlike _her_ firmness. She was one
Who had ruled abjects. Sorrow seemed a wrong.
The parting time drew near. And then as one
Who asked as one gives law. "This little boy
Should dwell with me. Thereby shall he attain
All discipline to form the noble man.
Even as I made his Father what he was,
So will I now, again, care for the child.
Let him with me. And he shall often come
And visit you. This surely will be wise."
We need not say that Ellen too was firm.
A mother's love! In all the world a power,
To educate as this! Could any wealth
Of other learning recompense this loss!
Would this stern woman ripen in his heart
Fruits, that angelic eyes beheld with joy?
"When the boy grew, at times she'd gladly send
With thanks, the child to all this proffered care."
But now--to send him now! Why at the thought
A darkness gathered over all the world.
From all things came a voice, "All, all alone,
The husband is not--the child far away."
There was strange meaning in the angry eye;
A strange defiance, and an unknown threat,
Enmity and a triumph. As if a triumph gained.
A nation crushed, her husband's mother looked,
No flush was on her face--her voice the same.
Coldly she said, farewell. And Ellen held
The child with firmer grasp, when she was gone.
Then she had sorrow that they thus should part;
For she felt all the reverence death made due,
And also mourned rejection of her love.
As the child slept one night, watched by his nurse,
She crossed the river on the bridge of logs,
To reach her parents. Under the bright stars
The Neshamony, and its hurried waves,
Rising and falling all around her path.
No peace in all the Heavens that she could see
Was like her peace. "I suffer here," she said,
"But suffering, I shall learn more love for all."
She had returned. Her footsteps died away,
Her parents stood yet in the open air,
Where they had parted with her for the night.
Then o'er the stream there came an awful cry.
It was her cry. Oh agony to hear!
It stilled all sounds besides. It seemed to make
The wide-arched Heavens one call to echo it.
Parents and others rushed there with affright,
In breathless terror. Nurse and child were gone.
Each wood around, and every forest road
Gleamed all the night with torches. But no cheer
Rose to proclaim a trace of faintest hope.
One traveler said, that on a distant road
He met a carriage, hurrying with strange speed,
And heard, in passing, cries of a young child.
In vain they follow. Hopeless they return.
Oh wondrous, the ingenious plan devised
By that poor mother to regain her child!
Her parents tried, as if for life and death
To give her aid: and saw that she must die:
For patience such as hers was all too grand
To linger long on earth. She day by day
Trod her old haunts. But never did she see
The Heaven, or beauteous world. Her pallid lips
Moved with perpetual prayer. And when she leaned
On those who loved her, the storm-tossed at rest,
She was as quiet as in days, when she
Was but an infant. When they spoke of hope
She smiled. It was a smile of love, not hope.
It was indeed simplicity to one,
Just on the threshold where His people pass,
And where, forever, they have more than hope.
All saw that she attained a mystic life,
That was not of the earth. What might she had
To love the sorrowing! By the dying bed
She seemed as if she had not known a pang,
Her voice so peaceful. Little children round
Gazed sorrowful: and in their confused thought
Deemed that the anguish of her little child
Weeping its mother, was her dying pain;
And thought how desolate fond hearts would be
If they were gone, as was her little one.
One sweet Lord's Day she knelt down at the rail,
In her loved Church, and had forgot all grief,
Receiving there the hallowed Bread and Wine,
And the one shadowed forth had strengthened her,
So that she fed on food come down from Heaven.
The others moved. But she was in her place.
The Pastor came, and found that she was dead.
Oh how the tears of Christians fell that day!
Oh how they thanked God for her good release!
And so she went to her eternal rest.
But men, unreasoning, said they saw her form,
Oft in the night, along the river shore--
Oft at the Ford, which now is crossed no more.
And men will say, in firmness of belief,
That when the Inn was closed, and no man dwelt
In its forsaken walls, a light was seen
In Ellen's room. And then they also say,
That pure while flowers which never grew before,
Now come with Spring, where her bright spirit walks.
My children say, that if you hear the owl
Along her pathway, you may hasten on
Sure that her spirit will not meet you there.
But should you hear a bird of plaintive song,
Break the night's stillness, then go far around
By field and wood--for you may see her form
Along the shore she gladdened with her life--
A shore of many sorrows at the last.
exceptionable occupation of shedding the blood of his fellow-man,
I ought here to inform the gentle reader that it had been my good
Legislature who could read any kind of printing, to exert a great
"Fugitive impressions, and enduring mental records."
After a wretched meal in a room half heated from a stove in the
I must confess that I left the mansion of the Peabodys very much
evidence of the greatness of the celebrated physician.
And now I was to call on Miss Mary Phelps--a lady of great
I waited patiently, but there was no response.
"Madam," said I, "unless the friends of the Doctor give me their
"There may have been circumstances," she said, "which are of too
"You have heard about him, and me?"
"You have never, then, heard of my history?"
"Were you in ill health at the time of his death?"
"I enjoyed very bad health--and he attended me--like--like----"
"The Doctor was very much attached to his last wife, was he not?"
Suddenly, I began to understand, the meaning of this mysterious
appearance before you, which was in the room with me.
Only a short time elapsed before I received a reply, and to the
following effect:
"About the doctor. I did know him. That is to say, I used to meet
world; and, thanks to a kind Providence, we have had wonderful
health in the family.
"You want to hear about his personal appearance. He was a short
thick-set man, with rather a reddish summit, and a sort of an
into bigger words, and rolling them out so that people did not
know their own observations.
"You ask me if I remember any observations of his. The most
sensible remarks he ever made were some scornful attacks on Tom
"I hope the doctor was no relation of yours. I write under that
"I think the creature was honest enough. As to not being over
blessed with smartness, it was not his fault; for all cannot have
seems to me evident that the great majority must be blessed with
but little common sense, or the country would never get along? It
"Poor fellow! I have nothing to say against the doctor. He was
honest enough. He was good-natured, and could forgive an injury,
used to writing; and then the idea of having his life written,
"I hope what I write is agreeable and useful.
"With respect,
"Yours to command,
"P.S.--I will say that the doctor was ready to do a good turn. He
sun--so people said, and in this instance it was true. He was not
And now what was to be done? I began to feel quite feverish and
Let me now try my hand on the letter of Mr. Warren.
Note,--"Supposed to be wise, because he was solemn and stupid."
Biographical representation. "It is curious to observe that when
"In him there was nothing for effect--nothing that was
attendance--no turgid denomination of little objects by words of
"It would appear"--thus should it be erected into Biographical
ingredients for the sorcerer,--his coat,--his books,--his
minerals,--such are his surroundings.
Then again I have known a man who had no brilliant or striking
"SIR:--You are not to think that your designs are unknown. Your
singular conduct in passing by my house so often,--a house so
removed from the streets through which you would naturally
pass,--could not fail to be observed by any man who had an eye in
observation of your proceedings. We have taken into consideration
"Depend upon it your designs are known. The villany is detected.
You are a hypocrite of the deepest dye. Unless you entirely, and
immediately, relinquish your pursuit, you will suffer in a manner
honor you as I now despise you.
About the same time I received this additional note.
you might inquire about her property. Are the inquiries
satisfactory? Are the acres and dwellings such, that on your
"Now I think of it, there is another foolish report about
you,--that you go to the court-house by the back street, in
consequence of your having heard that that scape-grace, Bill
Turney, whom you lashed so terribly in your address before the
squire, when Obadiah Potter was arrested for beating his wife,
"Your friend,
And this was the more remarkable, because the man was by no means
A short time afterwards I entered into conversation with my fair
cousin. She directed me to look at the two, near the piano.
"They will make a good-looking couple, will they not?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why, have you not heard of their engagement?"
John Jones, a man who said he hated strife,
Had from the altar led an able wife.
No lines told scandal on a wrinkled brow;
Temper and Time are rivals with their plow.
Some said that she was gentle as the May;
That Jones, the dog, was now to have his day.
Your pardon, men, I pray you now dispense,
If I proclaim you void of common sense,
When you would have your wives to know no will,
To have no thought but such as you instill;
To be your shadows, never to suggest,
Each judgment crossing yours at once represt;
And to suppose, that every chiding word
Shall from your bearded lips alone be heard.
If no resistance met us in our home,
What petty tyrants would all men become?
The little wits that most of men possess,
For want of sharp'ning would become far less;
The selfish streams that flow from out our will,
So far corrupted be more stagnant still:
And restless, we should wage an inward war,
But for the soothing rays of home's true star.
Oh, let this wrong abuse of women end,
In me, at least, they'll find a sturdy friend.
I give my witness, I who have been thrown,
Widely with all in Country and in Town,
Women are best of all our fallen race,
Richer in heart, than e'en in outward grace,
And if our homes are not the abodes of peace,
The fault is ours; and the complaint should cease.
In that small dwelling there--from morn to night,
A woman toils, withdrawn from human sight;
A plain poor woman, in a common dress,
Of kindly tones, and of uncouth address.
Just wend thy way unto the little brook,
Day after day upon its waters look,
See every day the self-same ripples there,
On those same stones, for ages smooth and bare.
So she from day to day the course of life,
Finds one recurring call of labor's strife,
Save when God's blessed day of rest hath come,
And its sun shines, as in the church, at home.
Unlike the stream she has no murmuring tone,
She has God's will to do, and it is done.
With tender care she trains her youthful band,
And never wearies in her heart or hand;
Is ready, when the music in her ear,
From one loved step, proclaims her husband near,
To spread the frugal board, the welcome give,
In each act say, for self I do not live.
Oh man, o'erlook thy wife's unceasing care
How her dear love doth follow everywhere,
Forget her, as she stood beside thy bed,
When the long sickness bowed thy weary head,
Watching,--to her all sacrifice as light,
As 'tis to stars to watch o'er earth at night.
Ah 'tis most noble, manly, not to know
How light o'er all doth from her presence flow,
And when a quicker word in haste doth fall,
To speak of her, as if strife was her all.
What could she say, if she replied to thee,
Told to the world her secret misery,
Showed the sad wounds that thy neglect had wrought,
Where but a look the healing balm had brought.
One, at this hour, lies on the bed of death,
A neighbor lovely as the morning's breath.
Slowly she dies,--and with prophetic eye
Tracing the course of human destiny,
I see a home she brightened, hence so lone,
Its calm day darkened, and its music gone;
The young, the old with anxious cares opprest,
Their hearts, like shadows feeling for their rest
On the green sward, where flickering sunbeams glide,
My tears can fall, and standing by thy side,
I know a woman's place, a woman's worth,--
I know the gift of God in her to earth.
Thou will not let thy wife become to thee,
That which her nature claims that she should be.
Thou hast a cold dead life from her apart,
Thou art not moulded by her gentler heart,
Else by her sweet, pure thoughts thou wert more true
More wise, more bold each noble deed to do.
Of woman's weakness dost thou speak? Thou'lt find
Her strength indeed, by this just bond of mind.
You are the weak one, cannot grasp her might,
Forever boasting that thy wrong is right.
Without her soul to thine, the page is dull
Of all life's work,--and with this it is full
Of all illumined splendors, as of old,
The precious writings were adorned with Gold.
Ah view that cell so dark!--the felon there,
With glaring eye that speaks his vast despair.
He once in princely splendor lived his day,
Lord of the street, a monarch in his way.
His costly revels gained an envied fame,
Where shallow fops, and women like them came.
Oh man! how couldst thou thus thy God defy?
Could riches pay thee for thy long-told lie?
If thou hadst said thy secret to thy wife,
Made known to her the secret guilty strife,
Told of the awful chance, the business dice,
The gambling sales, the shameful, well-named vice,
Asked what to risk, asked what a man should do,
Would that shame-darkened cell have been for you?
She would have said, in woman's faith so strong,
"We may be poor,--we never will do wrong.
Take all this splendor; let it fade away,
But stand thou honest as the open day."
Would she have been to thee a feeble stay?
We make the woman weak where she is weak;
We school her feeble; feebleness we seek.
We make believe that life is pompous pride,
That she is blest, by gold when gratified,
This my conclusion, as the world we scan,
What's wrong in woman tells of wrong in man.
But where is Jones? While I have thus digressed,
Why Jones, poor fellow, is by care oppressed.
He draws his trail of briars round life's ring,
And wonders he is caught by everything.
Jones snaps at every woman, man, and child,
Just as a turtle by hot coals made wild.
Jones had a daughter, and her name was Kate,
As like her sire as pewter plate to plate.
And they together almost vexed to death,
The wife, the target of their arrowed breath.
Sometimes the patient creature's anger rose
Their petty wrongs, and malice to oppose.
And tempers such as hers, men do not try
By single deeds that cause some misery;
Stirred at the last by injuries borne so long,
Their anger speaks accumulated wrong.
Kate had her beauty, and her household skill,
And in due time her Jack had found his Gill,
He was a man as meek as man could be,
And could not dream of woman's tyranny.
He was a pleasant man to smile "good day,"
And had the art to say what others say;
Thought his old saws came from a welling-spring
In his own mind--not knowing he did bring
All that so softly from his lips e'er fell,
As vapid water from his neighbor's well--
The poor dog never stole a good-sized bone,
And so the world of curs let him alone.
Not to an infant could Kate gentle be,
As to a creature, meek and kind as he.
How could she tear the vine that round her grew,
Ready to fall with every wind that blew.
The wife made battle for him with his friends;
And fighting them, she thus made good amends
For all her patience with him. Thus with care
She spread her shield, and said, attack, who dare.
Strange, how 'mid peace we make the show of war,
And shout unto the battle from afar,
And her defense at last such habit wrought
Had she assailed him, she herself had fought.
In time, ill-temper wrought upon her mind,
And illness, too, its miseries combined.
Oh! sad to read of intellect o'erthrown!
Sometimes all blank. Sometimes one train alone
Of thought, declares that reason is denied.
We hear of one who said, I must abide
Behind the door, because I am a clock.
And there he stood, and ticked. And one was shocked
To feel a rat within his stomach run.
The doctor heard: the story being done,
He wisely smiled, and said, "I soon can cure.
You need not be a rat-trap long I'm sure."
"Why how, O doctor, can you reach the rat?"
"'Tis easy: down your throat I'll send a cat."
The man at such a pill must need rebel.
And with good sense he quietly got well.
Kate had her fancies--said she soon would die,
And wasting seemed to prove her prophecy.
"Poor Will," she said, "you soon my loss will mourn,
The wife who shielded you from many a thorn;
I'm glad the pigs are killed, the sweet-meats made,
Our turnips gathered, and our butcher paid.
I'm glad I sent away to Jericho,
That lazy Bess, that tried my temper so.
I'm glad I told my mind to Jane Agree,
About that scandal that she said of me:
That I was jealous, to my apron string
Tied you--distrustful of my marriage ring.
I'm glad I told her that it was a lie,
And somewhat sorry, since it made her cry.
"And, Oh! poor Will--so helpless when alone,
What wilt thou do, dear one, when I am gone?
How would I love, a spirit round thy way,
To move, and be thy blessing every day!
To fan thy forehead, and to dry thy tears,
To nerve thy soul, and banish all thy fears.
All I can do for thee, thou patient one,
So gentle, tender, loving, all is done.
I feel so lonely, in thy loneliness.
This is, in death, my very great distress.
Some one will fill my place, ere long, I trow,
Your clothes are whole--in perfect order now.
Be sure you get a wife that is like me,
In gentle temper, and sweet sympathy.
For you, so long to gentleness allied,
Could not a bristling woman, sure, abide."
Poor Will! At first his tears fell down like rain
Most at the time when she inflicted pain,
By her unkind surmise, that he would take
Another wife--did she the world forsake.
"You are a wife," he said, "so fond, so true,
I cannot have another--none but you.
You made me what I am the people say;
Another wife might make me; what I pray?
An eight-day clock, they say, I am most like,
Wound up by you, and by you taught to strike.
Another wife might keep the time too late,
Take out the wheels, and snatch away each weight:
And I, neglected, come to a dead stop,
Like some old time-piece in a lumber shop.
But if you think, dear wife, that I must wed,
When you, at last, are numbered with the dead,
As I depend upon your good advice,
Choose you the bride. Shall it be Susan Price?"
Never had Bill so great a blunder made;
Never had demon so his cause betrayed.
Changed in her view--a villain lost to shame--
She scarced believed that he could bear his name.
She saw the future. Susan Price was there.
With hazel eyes, and curls of Auburn hair.
The rooms she swept would that vile Susan sweep?
The cup-board key would that bad Susan keep?
With those same pans would Susan cook their food,
For that fool Bill, and for some foolish brood?
Would Susan drink the wine that she had made?
Would all those pickles be to her betrayed?
"Shall that vain thing sit there,--a pretty pass!
Neglecting work, to simper in that glass?
Will she cut down that silk frock, good, though old,
And puff it out with pride in every fold?
And of all other insults, this the worst,--
My beating heart is ready here to burst--
She'll use my blue-edged china,--yes she will--
Oh! I could throw it piece by piece at Bill.
"I see her, proud to occupy my chair,
To pour out tea, to smile around her there,
While my false friends will praise her half-baked cake,
And Bill will chuckle o'er each piece they take.
And while his grief is lettered o'er my grave,
He'll laugh, and eat, and show himself a knave."
Hast thou on some huge cliff, with oaks around,
Heard the full terror of the thunder sound?
Hast thou at sea, all breathless heard the blast
Rolling vast waves on high whene'er it past?
Then mayst thou form some thought of her dread ire
Poured on the man to burn his soul like fire.
But soon the burst of anger all was o'er,--
And softened, she could speak of death once more.
"And Susan Price can marry whom she will,
And,"--so she argued, "will not marry Bill."
One day she said,--"It is revealed to me
That ere I die, a warning there shall be."
Will looked, and saw her mind now wandered more,
As thus she spake, than it had done before.
"Yes," she exclaimed, "before I leave this scene,
Death will appear,--the warning intervene.
Death will appear in this our quiet home--
A chicken without feathers will he come."
Fame spreads the great, and fame will spread the small,
Fame gives us tears,--for laughter it will call.
The neighbors laughed, and told it far and near.
There dwelt close by, a restless heedless wight--
Mischief to him was ever a delight.--
He heard the story, and his scheme prepared,
And what his brain had purposed, that he dared.
He from a rooster all his feathers tore,
--Had he been learned in the Grecian lore
Who, lying in his tub, in dreamy ease,
Said to the hard-brained conqueror of old time,
With heedlessness to human wants sublime,
When he inquired, "What shall for you be done?"
"All that I ask, hide not from me the sun."
He might have thought of him; and Plato's scowl,
When in the school he hurled the unfeathered fowl,
And said, ere murmuring lips reproof began,
"There, Plato, is, as you defined, a man."
But of the Greeks our wight had not a thought.
Under his arm the fowl, all plucked, was brought,
And forced to enter into Katy's door:
Who spied him wandering o'er her sanded floor.
She looked upon him, and began to weep.
Bill sat not far off on a chair asleep.
"And so," she said, "Oh death! and thou art come
To take my spirit far away from home."
Then as inspired a sudden hope to trace,
She waved the unfeathered monster from its place.
Would drive far off from her the coming ill,--
"Shoo shoo, thou death, now leave me, go to Bill."
'Twas overheard--and wide the story spread.
It reached John Jones, and to his wife he said,
In precious wrath,--"They slander thus our Kate;
Some foe devised this in malicious hate;
And you, perhaps, were one to make the lie."
Thus deeply stung, she made a fierce reply.
"She did it, I am sure," replied the wife,
"She did it, sure as I have breath and life."
"No--Katy didn't," said the man in rage.
"Yes, Katy did," she said. And so they wage
A war of words, like these upon my page.
The Indian Fairy spirit heard the din,
And first to patience strove them both to win,
Sent the cool breeze to fan the burning brow,
Volcanic fires to die by flakes of snow.
In war incessant, still the clamor rose,
Still Katy did, and didn't, and fierce blows.
At last the spirit took their souls away,
And in their cottage lay their lifeless clay;
Their bodies changed--and insects they became--
Green as the grass--but still their cry the same.
Hence in all trees, we hear in starry night,
The contradiction, and the wordy fight.
We hear John Jones, and his unhappy wife,
And all their brood forever in a strife:
And Katy did, and Katy didn't still
Are sounds incessant as a murmuring rill.
Thou dwellest here, beneath this dome,
A Pilgrim, far from thine own home.
Where is thine heart, and where thy land?
Thou longest for some distant strand.
We have thy love and gentle care,
Thou bearest blessings every where.
Yet day and night, and light and shade
Shall with less labor one be made,
Than thou in sympathy be one
With us, who through our course will run,
Laden with cares, with pleasures worn,
Children of hope to sorrow born.
Thou hast our speech, our garb, our toil,
Well known, yet stranger on our soil.
Some deeper hidden life is thine,
As if we saw the tortuous vine
'Mid veiling branches intertwine;
Swinging in air its precious fruit,
While the deep mould has hid its root;
From view its highest honors lost,
'Mid the oak leaves in murmurs tost,
A secret work thy endless task,
Thy endless care, of that we ask.
I seek to form an Image here.
Doth catch no sound of chisel stroke,
No hammer clang--no marble broke.
The silence of Eternity
Around my work doth ever lie.
When marbles into dust shall fall,
And human art no fame befall,
The sun no more its beams shall give
To statues seeming half to live,
Beauty no more on genius wait,
Which copying seemeth to create;
When heaven and earth shall pass away,
When breaketh everlasting day,
Then shall the Image that I form,
Appear 'mid nature's dying storm.
The Image that no human skill
Could fashion, or Archangel's will;
No angel mind the model give
Of that which shall forever live.
At that great day it shall be known,
The clouds that drift, are slowly drawn
To that glorious sun at dawn.
Darkened mists, and now so bright,
Resplendent in the morning light;
In borrowed glory,--spreading flame,
God's fiery pillar still they frame.
So I,--in dark night once astray
Through boundless grace have found my way,
To thee,--the Sun of Righteousness,
Whose wings are healing in distress.
From thee I trust, the dawning gleam
Hath made me more than I can seem;
Hath made me thine, in joy, in tears,
Thy pardoned one,--one all whose fears
Are silenced in thy cross-wrung groan,
Buried beneath thy tomb's vast stone,
Which angels' hands alone can move.
Earth has this pure work for their love.
Oh let thy glory shine on me,
Armed in thy purest panoply.
My shield, the Lamb, the cross it bears,
Let me not weep its stain with tears!
The gathering waters fill each cloud;
The mountain's burnished tops they shroud.
They spread o'er valley, over plain,
Rich with God's blessings in the rain;
On good and evil both they fall,
In the vast care of God for all.
So Lord, thy servant thus prepare,
To bear thy mercies everywhere.
When in the grave mine ashes sleep,
When o'er it, sad a friend may weep,
Thou wilt not suffer it be said,--
His life was scarce accredited
By Him who sits upon the throne,--
By Him who bore our sins alone,
Who wills our holy walk on earth,
As sons of God, of heavenly birth,
Who will have none disciples here
Unless their cross with zeal they bear.
Life without Christ! That is but death.
Prayer without Christ!--but idle breath:
And love for man, but vanity
Save at the cross 'tis learnt by me.
Oh help thy branch, thou heavenly Vine.
Union with thee is life divine,
And clustered fruits are ever mine,
If from beneath alone we gaze,
Thy providence a darkened maze.
Rise on wings of faith and prayer,
And then what love and wisdom there!
So brightness of unbroken day
Upon those clouds doth heavenward lay
Though we can trace no single ray,
Who look from earth. Yet angels see
The glory as a silver sea.
Dread hour! nearing, nearing fast.
Yet I cannot wish thee past.
Death! Oh! but a dream till nigh,
With night cold from eternity.
That cold night doth around me creep
In which immortals never sleep.
The cloud its mighty shade doth fling,
Like a mantle for a king,
On the mountain's awful form,
Scarred through battles with the storm.
So thy darkness falls on me,
Darkness, such as cannot be,
But to those whose soul is life,
To a nation in its strife,
That its wrongs for ever crushed,
The cries of slaves forever hushed,
And every chain forever gone,
Man tremble before God alone;
That man's true right, so long betrayed,
On truth and justice shall be laid;
That Freedom's martyr's work begun
In blood, and fire, and hidden sun,
Shall culminate in triumphs won;
And the world's changing channels trace
A course of hope for all our race.
Oh! how they as the humblest die,
Who part from kingly majesty
To stand before Him!--nothing there
But as His image we may bear;
The image by the humblest borne;
The kings of the eternal morn.
The lowliest man, most void of power,
To stand the trial of that hour!
To come from life in quiet shade,
From humble duties well obeyed.
Ah! if this be a solemn thing,
What then for one in might a king!
To meet the trial of that day
From gorgeous wrongs in false array,
Where false praise gilds the every deed,
Where few warn one that will not heed;
The man whom Weird-like hands have shown
The weary pathway to the throne.
Oh! thou gory-crowned head
Haunting here my dying bed!
Was it not necessity?
Moulding deed that was to be!
Oh! king so false--away--away--
Leave me at least my dying day.
Is there no refuge? Hated face!
Come with the looks of thy cold race.
Look thou as when thy soiled hand gave
The Earl, thy vassal to the grave.
Gaze thou on me in that worst pride
As kingly honor was defied.
Look thus on me--but not as now,
That patient sorrow on thy brow.
I can but gaze. Forever near
Thy dreaded form is my one fear.
A boy, I sit by running stream,
The humble life my daily dream:
Some lowly good--some wrongs redrest,
A noiseless life, its peaceful rest.
As that stream calm my life shall be;
As placid in its purity.
The humble stone shall tell the tale
When life began--when strength did fail.
An humble race shall bear my name
Blest by a few not rich in fame.
Oh! king, thine eye! It says, but then
Thy hand had not the guilty stain.
Hark! how the marriage-bells are ringing!
Voices fill the air with singing.
Waves of light are now the beating
Of my heart, and the repeating
Seems no weariness of pleasure,
Only increase of its treasure.
Ah! dear wife! thy look hath sped
Many a sorrow. But this head!
E'en at the hearth, and by thy side
This kingly blood-stained form doth glide.
The quiet house of God,--the prayer
Rising as incense in the air.
I breathe the still and mighty power,
I catch the glory of the hour.
Am I not pure, and armed for strife
With England for her better life?
Thou gory head! my prophecy,
In that loved church told not of thee.
Look as if heaven changed thy face,
Let pardon there at last have place:
Before me, on this awful sea,
Some gleam of heaven reflected be.
As we hastened on to reach a vast rock, from whose summit we were
memorable time, of two awed and enthusiastic wanderers!
impression.
comforted the Indians is lost to us.
Yet, let us not be unjust as though the civilization which has
There was also in our kingly Indian reformer, one disagreeable
relations of some of his royal cousins in distant lands.
suggested the theory to the queen.
essential for the comfort of his family.
Suddenly a stream of quivering light fell upon it. A bright dove
And again there came over him the spell of the Indian dream-seat.
What was to be the result? Was he to undergo some external
transformation like the reptile which he had seen in the plain?
integuments.
associates.
Great peace again took possession of his mind! Then he felt the
made,--so precious--was a witness that this could have been
unutterable happiness for labors that were to occupy them.
He could not rest. He must put forth into action the aims, the
himself."
Though these sweet flowers are in their freshest bloom,
They had a beauty as I gathered them
Which thine eye sees not. For with every one
New lustre in the varied colors shone,
A purer white melted beneath the eye,
A sweeter fragrance came from dew-gemmed leaves,
Advanced in beauty as I thought of thee.
Thou seest that they grew wild in wood and fields
Teachers of love and wisdom. Some I found
In deep pine shades, where the sun's straggling beams
Through bending boughs may reach them.
Holier rays
Through deeper shades can reach the broken heart,
Through deeper shades can foster heavenly growth
Of beauty for the everlasting fields;
Through more dense shades can reach the good unknown
To human fame, yet left to bless the world.
These flowers and leaves that ripen unobserved
But for our eyes, had withered with the frost,
And none had blessed God for their loveliness.
They give their little power unto the wind
To purify for men the air they breathe,--
Air wafted far by every rising breeze.
And so a myriad of the little deeds,
Done by the men that walk in Christ's blest steps,
Add health unto the living atmosphere
Where men breathe for the strength of highest life.
Deeds go out on a sea of human life,
And touch a myriad of the rolling waves,
Send the great sea a portion of unrest,
Which saves its surface from the mould of death.
These flowers are memories that I had of thee
During my wandering to the distant home,
Where sickness was, and many an anxious care,
Where there was need that Christ's work should be done.
Oh! if these paths we tread with our soiled feet,
On this world far from scenes where all is pure,
Our feet not yet in laver cleansed from soil,
In wave by angel stirred and all so bright,
Where gleams are on the waves from his own sun,
Are skirted with these fragrant beauteous forms,
What shall surround our path in Paradise?
Flowers have a language; so they choose to say.
Each speaks a word of pure significance.
Thus in the fields of nature we can print,
Where flowers shall be the type, a beauteous book--
With joyful eye can read the beauteous book.
With all my love of flowers, here is a lore
Which is to me unknown. I have to turn
Over the pages of that pictured book
To spell each letter as a little child.
But this I know, that none can e'er mean ill.
Flowers are too pure, as angels sowed their seed
On earth in pity for a burdened race.
And where their smiles have rested there came forth
These witnesses that men are not alone.
And also this is lore from nature's school--
That speak they as they may--whate'er they mean
Of faith to be unshaken through our life,
Of love that never wanes, true as the star,
They cannot speak of faith or tender love,
Which I--flower-bearer--do not speak to thee
In this my offering of far-gathered spoils.
In after days he also became the possessor of the farm, called
"Where is your father?" said the officer.
sometimes be prominent in these wars on a little scale.
Stopping his horses, and clambering a bank, he soon secured a
"reconnoissance" of a field of strife.
It is not a little curious to see our city friends come into the
country, and take for granted that the sojourners there are all
simple-minded and honest men. That is a weakness which is soon
The aged woman came to us what she was, to remind us what endless
consolation, it was indeed given also to the aged wife. Her quiet
We were thus invited,--that is, we had as strict a summons as any
thoughts--and yet in all manliness of inquiry--promising cordial
philosopher.
M----r, for so many years a representative of his district in
While we were engaged in this agreeable duty, one of our number,
I remember that it was my turn to be off guard, and to join the
Then commenced a new and perfect scrutiny of the building.
accomplished.
indication that some man is to be detected. Go there again. Let a
The midnight came on. I was one of those in the interior of the
Some of the class were for summary vengeance on the fellow. We
determined to take him into Princeton, and hand him over to the
Hollman's.
play,--"father, look at my copy-book."
We must have new curtains for our parlor-windows.
But, Mr. Digby suggested, daring to run a tilt, madman as he was,
remonstrated against new expenditures before his old debts were
So the carriage was bought, and at last the money of the aunt was
The lapidary day by day
Brightened the sparkling gem,
And then that diamond flashed each ray
Fit for a diadem.
So in this trusting heart of mine
Increaseth love for thee;
A love whose rays shall brighter shine
When earth shall close o'er me.
The lapidary knoweth nought
But diamond-dust alone,
By which full glory may be wrought
Upon that precious stone.
So day by day increaseth love
By my true love alone;
The love that trial shall approve
A measure of thy own.
From morn to night, thine eye, my dying-boy
Is on those autumn leaves that ever wave,
A sea of leaves on that great forest oak;
Each wave of that wide sea a wave of fire.
Ah! boy! before those tinted leaves are sear,
And fallen with light crush upon the earth,
Thou wilt be gone. Oh! glorious canopy
Around thy dying bed! All nature seems
To yield a triumph conqueror ne'er received,
When all the world knew that he entered Rome,
To the Redeemer's little one who waits
Just at the gate of life.
Blest is that tree
That lulls thy quiet. 'Tis one beauteous flame
Less glorious only than the burning bush,
When God was present in the wilderness.
Is He less present to thy spirit now?
Soon, soon a change will come, and thou wilt see
The angels round thee. They will glow in light
From the Redeemer's presence. Then how dim
All earth's great transport round us in this scene!
Why hast thou lived, my boy? Thy little life
Has all been sorrow: all but some few smiles
To thy dear mother, and to me, to him
Thy brother here unconscious of his loss,
And to thy faithful nurse who never knew
Her care was trouble, sorrowing but for thee.
But thou hast lived because thou art redeemed:
Because a life was here begun for heaven.
Thou livest to say, love not this passing world.
'Tis not our home, or surely such as thou
Would be exempt from sorrow. All is well.
Yea, blessed is the family where death
Enters to take an infant. Without fear
All look unto the world where it has rest.
No gentler sorrow falls on all than this.
No gentler sorrow nurtures mutual love.
O easy faith to know that it is gone
By the bright pathway to eternal realms
Which He first opened, when he left the cross,
The earth he blessed, and so ascended there,
Where with Him all the blessed at death have rest!