However fair and rich the booty, I could not make his loss my gain. For love is dear, but dearer duty, And here my way was clear and plain. I saw how I could save him pain. And so, with all my day grown dim, That this loved brother's sun might shine, I joined his suit, gave over mine, And sought Ione, to plead for him.

I found her in an eastern bower, Where all day long the am'rous sun Lay by to woo a timid flower. This day his course was well-nigh run, But still with lingering art he spun Gold fancies on the shadowed wall. The vines waved soft and green above, And there where one might tell his love, I told my griefs—I told her all!

I told her all, and as she hearkened, A tear-drop fell upon her dress. With grief her flushing brow was darkened; One sob that she could not repress Betrayed the depths of her distress. Upon her grief my sorrow fed, And I was bowed with unlived years, My heart swelled with a sea of tears, The tears my manhood could not shed.

The world is Rome, and Fate is Nero, Disporting in the hour of doom. God made us men; times make the hero— But in that awful space of gloom I gave no thought but sorrow's room. All—all was dim within that bower, What time the sun divorced the day; And all the shadows, glooming gray, Proclaimed the sadness of the hour.

She could not speak—no word was needed; Her look, half strength and half despair, Told me I had not vainly pleaded, That she would not ignore my prayer. And so she turned and left me there, And as she went, so passed my bliss; She loved me, I could not mistake— But for her own and my love's sake, Her womanhood could rise to this!

My wounded heart fled swift to cover, And life at times seemed very drear. My brother proved an ardent lover— What had so young a man to fear? He wed Ione within the year. No shadow clouds her tranquil brow, Men speak her husband's name with pride, While she sits honored at his side— She is—she must be happy now!

I doubt the course I took no longer, Since those I love seem satisfied. The bond between them will grow stronger As they go forward side by side; Then will my pains be jusfied. Their joy is mine, and that is best— I am not totally bereft; For I have still the mem'ry left— Love stopped with me—a Royal Guest!

RELIGION

I am no priest of crooks nor creeds, For human wants and human needs Are more to me than prophets' deeds; And human tears and human cares Affect me more than human prayers.

Go, cease your wail, lugubrious saint! You fret high Heaven with your plaint. Is this the "Christian's joy" you paint? Is this the Christian's boasted bliss? Avails your faith no more than this?

Take up your arms, come out with me, Let Heav'n alone; humanity Needs more and Heaven less from thee. With pity for mankind look 'round; Help them to rise—and Heaven is found.

DEACON JONES' GRIEVANCE

I 've been watchin' of 'em, parson, An' I 'm sorry fur to say 'At my mind is not contented With the loose an' keerless way 'At the young folks treat the music; 'T ain't the proper sort o' choir. Then I don't believe in Christuns A-singin' hymns for hire.

But I never would 'a' murmured An' the matter might 'a' gone Ef it was n't fur the antics 'At I've seen 'em kerry on; So I thought it was my dooty Fur to come to you an' ask Ef you would n't sort o' gently Take them singin' folks to task.

Fust, the music they 've be'n singin' Will disgrace us mighty soon; It 's a cross between a opry An' a ol' cotillion tune. With its dashes an' its quavers An' its hifalutin style— Why, it sets my head to swimmin' When I 'm comin' down the aisle.

Now it might be almost decent Ef it was n't fur the way 'At they git up there an' sing it, Hey dum diddle, loud and gay. Why, it shames the name o' sacred In its brazen wordliness, An' they 've even got "Ol' Hundred" In a bold, new-fangled dress.

You 'll excuse me, Mr. Parson, Ef I seem a little sore; But I 've sung the songs of Isr'el For threescore years an' more, An' it sort o' hurts my feelin's Fur to see 'em put away Fur these harum-scarum ditties 'At is capturin' the day.

There 's anuther little happ'nin' 'At I 'll mention while I 'm here, Jes' to show 'at my objections All is offered sound and clear. It was one day they was singin' An' was doin' well enough— Singin' good as people could sing Sich an awful mess o' stuff—

When the choir give a holler, An' the organ give a groan, An' they left one weak-voiced feller A-singin' there alone! But he stuck right to the music, Tho' 't was tryin' as could be; An' when I tried to help him, Why, the hull church scowled at me.

You say that's so-low singin', Well, I pray the Lord that I Growed up when folks was willin' To sing their hymns so high. Why, we never had sich doin's In the good ol' Bethel days, When the folks was all contented With the simple songs of praise.

Now I may have spoke too open, But 'twas too hard to keep still, An' I hope you 'll tell the singers 'At I bear 'em no ill-will. 'At they all may git to glory Is my wish an' my desire, But they 'll need some extry trainin' 'Fore they jine the heavenly choir.

ALICE

Know you, winds that blow your course Down the verdant valleys, That somewhere you must, perforce, Kiss the brow of Alice? When her gentle face you find, Kiss it softly, naughty wind.

Roses waving fair and sweet Thro' the garden alleys, Grow into a glory meet For the eye of Alice; Let the wind your offering bear Of sweet perfume, faint and rare.

Lily holding crystal dew In your pure white chalice, Nature kind hath fashioned you Like the soul of Alice; It of purest white is wrought, Filled with gems of crystal thought.

AFTER THE QUARREL

So we, who 've supped the self-same cup, To-night must lay our friendship by; Your wrath has burned your judgment up, Hot breath has blown the ashes high. You say that you are wronged—ah, well, I count that friendship poor, at best A bauble, a mere bagatelle, That cannot stand so slight a test.

I fain would still have been your friend, And talked and laughed and loved with you; But since it must, why, let it end; The false but dies, 't is not the true. So we are favored, you and I, Who only want the living truth. It was not good to nurse the lie; 'T is well it died in harmless youth.

I go from you to-night to sleep. Why, what's the odds? why should I grieve? I have no fund of tears to weep For happenings that undeceive. The days shall come, the days shall go Just as they came and went before. The sun shall shine, the streams shall flow Though you and I are friends no more.

And in the volume of my years, Where all my thoughts and acts shall be, The page whereon your name appears Shall be forever sealed to me. Not that I hate you over-much, 'T is less of hate than love defied; Howe'er, our hands no more shall touch, We 'll go our ways, the world is wide.

BEYOND THE YEARS

I

Beyond the years the answer lies, Beyond where brood the grieving skies And Night drops tears. Where Faith rod-chastened smiles to rise And doff its fears, And carping Sorrow pines and dies— Beyond the years.

II

Beyond the years the prayer for rest Shall beat no more within the breast; The darkness clears, And Morn perched on the mountain's crest Her form uprears— The day that is to come is best, Beyond the years.

III

Beyond the years the soul shall find That endless peace for which it pined, For light appears, And to the eyes that still were blind With blood and tears, Their sight shall come all unconfined Beyond the years.

AFTER A VISIT

I be'n down in ole Kentucky Fur a week er two, an' say, 'T wuz ez hard ez breakin' oxen Fur to tear myse'f away. Allus argerin' 'bout fren'ship An' yer hospitality— Y' ain't no right to talk about it Tell you be'n down there to see.

See jest how they give you welcome To the best that's in the land, Feel the sort o' grip they give you When they take you by the hand. Hear 'em say, "We 're glad to have you, Better stay a week er two;" An' the way they treat you makes you Feel that ev'ry word is true.

Feed you tell you hear the buttons Crackin' on yore Sunday vest; Haul you roun' to see the wonders Tell you have to cry for rest. Drink yer health an' pet an' praise you Tell you git to feel ez great Ez the Sheriff o' the county Ez the Gov'ner o' the State.

Wife, she sez I must be crazy 'Cause I go on so, an' Nelse He 'lows, "Goodness gracious! daddy, Cain't you talk about nuthin' else?" Well, pleg-gone it, I 'm jes' tickled, Bein' tickled ain't no sin; I be'n down in ole Kentucky, An' I want o' go ag'in.

CURTAIN

Villain shows his indiscretion, Villain's partner makes confession. Juvenile, with golden tresses, Finds her pa and dons long dresses. Scapegrace comes home money-laden, Hero comforts tearful maiden, Soubrette marries loyal chappie, Villain skips, and all are happy.

THE SPELLIN'-BEE

I never shall furgit that night when father hitched up Dobbin, An' all us youngsters clambered in an' down the road went bobbin' To school where we was kep' at work in every kind o' weather, But where that night a spellin'-bee was callin' us together. 'Twas one o' Heaven's banner nights, the stars was all a glitter, The moon was shinin' like the hand o' God had jest then lit her. The ground was white with spotless snow, the blast was sort o' stingin'; But underneath our round-abouts, you bet our hearts was singin'. That spellin'-bee had be'n the talk o' many a precious moment, The youngsters all was wild to see jes' what the precious show meant, An' we whose years was in their teens was little less desirous O' gittin' to the meetin' so 's our sweethearts could admire us. So on we went so anxious fur to satisfy our mission That father had to box our ears, to smother our ambition. But boxin' ears was too short work to hinder our arrivin', He jest turned roun' an' smacked us all, an' kep' right on a-drivin'. Well, soon the schoolhouse hove in sight, the winders beamin' brightly; The sound o' talkin' reached our ears, and voices laffin' lightly. It puffed us up so full an' big 'at I 'll jest bet a dollar, There wa'n't a feller there but felt the strain upon his collar. So down we jumped an' in we went ez sprightly ez you make 'em, But somethin' grabbed us by the knees an' straight began to shake 'em. Fur once within that lighted room, our feelin's took a canter, An' scurried to the zero mark ez quick ez Tam O'Shanter. 'Cause there was crowds o' people there, both sexes an' all stations; It looked like all the town had come an' brought all their relations. The first I saw was Nettie Gray, I thought that girl was dearer 'N' gold; an' when I got a chance, you bet I aidged up near her. An' Farmer Dobbs's girl was there, the one 'at Jim was sweet on, An' Cyrus Jones an' Mandy Smith an' Faith an' Patience Deaton. Then Parson Brown an' Lawyer Jones were present—all attention, An' piles on piles of other folks too numerous to mention. The master rose an' briefly said: "Good friends, dear brother Crawford, To spur the pupils' minds along, a little prize has offered. To him who spells the best to-night—or 't may be 'her'—no tellin'— He offers ez a jest reward, this precious work on spellin'." A little blue-backed spellin'-book with fancy scarlet trimmin'; We boys devoured it with our eyes—so did the girls an' women. He held it up where all could see, then on the table set it, An' ev'ry speller in the house felt mortal bound to get it. At his command we fell in line, prepared to do our dooty, Outspell the rest an' set 'em down, an' carry home the booty. 'T was then the merry times began, the blunders, an' the laffin', The nudges an' the nods an' winks an' stale good-natured chaffin'. Ole Uncle Hiram Dane was there, the clostest man a-livin', Whose only bugbear seemed to be the dreadful fear o' givin'. His beard was long, his hair uncut, his clothes all bare an' dingy; It wasn't 'cause the man was pore, but jest so mortal stingy; An' there he sot by Sally Riggs a-smilin' an' a-smirkin', An' all his children lef' to home a diggin' an' a-workin'. A widower he was, an' Sal was thinkin' 'at she 'd wing him; I reckon he was wond'rin' what them rings o' hern would bring him. An' when the spellin'-test commenced, he up an' took his station, A-spellin' with the best o' them to beat the very nation. An' when he 'd spell some youngster down, he 'd turn to look at Sally, An' say: "The teachin' nowadays can't be o' no great vally." But true enough the adage says, "Pride walks in slipp'ry places," Fur soon a thing occurred that put a smile on all our faces. The laffter jest kep' ripplin' 'roun' an' teacher could n't quell it, Fur when he give out "charity" ole Hiram could n't spell it. But laffin' 's ketchin' an' it throwed some others off their bases, An' folks 'u'd miss the very word that seemed to fit their cases. Why, fickle little Jessie Lee come near the house upsettin' By puttin' in a double "kay" to spell the word "coquettin'." An' when it come to Cyrus Jones, it tickled me all over— Him settin' up to Mandy Smith an' got sot down on "lover." But Lawyer Jones of all gone men did shorely look the gonest, When he found out that he 'd furgot to put the "h" in "honest." An' Parson Brown, whose sermons were too long fur toleration, Caused lots o' smiles by missin' when they give out "condensation." So one by one they giv' it up—the big words kep' a-landin', Till me an' Nettie Gray was left, the only ones a-standin', An' then my inward strife began—I guess my mind was petty— I did so want that spellin'-book; but then to spell down Nettie Jest sort o' went ag'in my grain—I somehow could n't do it, An' when I git a notion fixed, I 'm great on stickin' to it. So when they giv' the next word out—I had n't orter tell it, But then 't was all fur Nettie's sake—I missed so's she could spell it. She spelt the word, then looked at me so lovin'-like an' mello', I tell you 't sent a hunderd pins a shootin' through a fello'. O' course I had to stand the jokes an' chaffin' of the fello's, But when they handed her the book I vow I was n't jealous. We sung a hymn, an' Parson Brown dismissed us like he orter, Fur, la! he 'd learned a thing er two an' made his blessin' shorter. 'T was late an' cold when we got out, but Nettie liked cold weather, An' so did I, so we agreed we 'd jest walk home together. We both wuz silent, fur of words we nuther had a surplus, 'Till she spoke out quite sudden like, "You missed that word on purpose." Well, I declare it frightened me; at first I tried denyin', But Nettie, she jest smiled an' smiled, she knowed that I was lyin'. Sez she: "That book is yourn by right;" sez I: "It never could be— I—I—you—ah—" an' there I stuck, an' well she understood me. So we agreed that later on when age had giv' us tether, We 'd jine our lots an' settle down to own that book together.

KEEP A-PLUGGIN' AWAY

I 've a humble little motto That is homely, though it 's true,— Keep a-pluggin' away. It's a thing when I 've an object That I always try to do,— Keep a-pluggin' away. When you 've rising storms to quell, When opposing waters swell, It will never fail to tell,— Keep a-pluggin' away.

If the hills are high before And the paths are hard to climb, Keep a-pluggin' away. And remember that successes Come to him who bides his time,— Keep a-pluggin' away. From the greatest to the least, None are from the rule released. Be thou toiler, poet, priest, Keep a-pluggin' away.

Delve away beneath the surface, There is treasure farther down,— Keep a-pluggin' away. Let the rain come down in torrents, Let the threat'ning heavens frown, Keep a-pluggin' away. When the clouds have rolled away, There will come a brighter day All your labor to repay,— Keep a-pluggin' away.

There 'll be lots of sneers to swallow, There 'll be lots of pain to bear,— Keep a-pluggin' away. If you 've got your eye on heaven, Some bright day you 'll wake up there,— Keep a-pluggin' away. Perseverance still is king; Time its sure reward will bring; Work and wait unwearying,— Keep a-pluggin' away.

NIGHT OF LOVE

The moon has left the sky, love, The stars are hiding now, And frowning on the world, love, Night bares her sable brow. The snow is on the ground, love, And cold and keen the air is. I 'm singing here to you, love; You 're dreaming there in Paris.

But this is Nature's law, love, Though just it may not seem, That men should wake to sing, love, While maidens sleep and dream. Them care may not molest, love, Nor stir them from their slumbers, Though midnight find the swain, love, Still halting o'er his numbers.

I watch the rosy dawn, love, Come stealing up the east, While all things round rejoice, love, That Night her reign has ceased. The lark will soon be heard, love, And on his way be winging; When Nature's poets wake, love, Why should a man be singing?

COLUMBIAN ODE

I

Four hundred years ago a tangled waste Lay sleeping on the west Atlantic's side; Their devious ways the Old World's millions traced Content, and loved, and labored, dared and died, While students still believed the charts they conned, And revelled in their thriftless ignorance, Nor dreamed of other lands that lay beyond Old Ocean's dense, indefinite expanse.

II

But deep within her heart old Nature knew That she had once arrayed, at Earth's behest, Another offspring, fine and fair to view,— The chosen suckling of the mother's breast. The child was wrapped in vestments soft and fine, Each fold a work of Nature's matchless art; The mother looked on it with love divine, And strained the loved one closely to her heart. And there it lay, and with the warmth grew strong And hearty, by the salt sea breezes fanned, Till Time with mellowing touches passed along, And changed the infant to a mighty land.

III

But men knew naught of this, till there arose That mighty mariner, the Genoese, Who dared to try, in spite of fears and foes, The unknown fortunes of unsounded seas. O noblest of Italia's sons, thy bark Went not alone into that shrouding night! O dauntless darer of the rayless dark, The world sailed with thee to eternal light! The deer-haunts that with game were crowded then To-day are tilled and cultivated lands; The schoolhouse tow'rs where Bruin had his den, And where the wigwam stood the chapel stands; The place that nurtured men of savage mien Now teems with men of Nature's noblest types; Where moved the forest-foliage banner green, Now flutters in the breeze the stars and stripes!

A BORDER BALLAD

Oh, I have n't got long to live, for we all Die soon, e'en those who live longest; And the poorest and weakest are taking their chance Along with the richest and strongest. So it's heigho for a glass and a song, And a bright eye over the table, And a dog for the hunt when the game is flush, And the pick of a gentleman's stable.

There is Dimmock o' Dune, he was here yester-night, But he 's rotting to-day on Glen Arragh; 'Twas the hand o' MacPherson that gave him the blow, And the vultures shall feast on his marrow. But it's heigho for a brave old song And a glass while we are able; Here 's a health to death and another cup To the bright eye over the table.

I can show a broad back and a jolly deep chest, But who argues now on appearance? A blow or a thrust or a stumble at best May send me to-day to my clearance. Then it's heigho for the things I love, My mother 'll be soon wearing sable, But give me my horse and my dog and my glass, And a bright eye over the table.

AN EASY-GOIN' FELLER

Ther' ain't no use in all this strife, An' hurryin', pell-mell, right thro' life. I don't believe in goin' too fast To see what kind o' road you 've passed. It ain't no mortal kind o' good, 'N' I would n't hurry ef I could. I like to jest go joggin' 'long, To limber up my soul with song; To stop awhile 'n' chat the men, 'N' drink some cider now an' then. Do' want no boss a-standin' by To see me work; I allus try To do my dooty right straight up, An' earn what fills my plate an' cup. An' ez fur boss, I 'll be my own, I like to jest be let alone; To plough my strip an' tend my bees, An' do jest like I doggoned please. My head's all right, an' my heart's meller, But I 'm a easy-goin' feller.

A NEGRO LOVE SONG

Seen my lady home las' night, Jump back, honey, jump back. Hel' huh han' an' sque'z it tight, Jump back, honey, jump back. Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh, Seen a light gleam f'om huh eye, An' a smile go flittin' by— Jump back, honey, jump back.

Hyeahd de win' blow thoo de pine, Jump back, honey, jump back. Mockin'-bird was singin' fine, Jump back, honey, jump back. An' my hea't was beatin' so, When I reached my lady's do', Dat I could n't ba' to go— Jump back, honey, jump back.

Put my ahm aroun' huh wais', Jump back, honey, jump back. Raised huh lips an' took a tase, Jump back, honey, jump back. Love me, honey, love me true? Love me well ez I love you? An' she answe'd, "'Cose I do"— Jump back, honey, jump back.

THE DILETTANTE: A MODERN TYPE

He scribbles some in prose and verse, And now and then he prints it; He paints a little,—gathers some Of Nature's gold and mints it.

He plays a little, sings a song, Acts tragic roles, or funny; He does, because his love is strong, But not, oh, not for money!

He studies almost everything From social art to science; A thirsty mind, a flowing spring, Demand and swift compliance.

He looms above the sordid crowd— At least through friendly lenses; While his mamma looks pleased and proud, And kindly pays expenses.

BY THE STREAM

By the stream I dream in calm delight, and watch as in a glass, How the clouds like crowds of snowy-hued and white-robed maidens pass, And the water into ripples breaks and sparkles as it spreads, Like a host of armored knights with silver helmets on their heads. And I deem the stream an emblem fit of human life may go, For I find a mind may sparkle much and yet but shallows show, And a soul may glow with myriad lights and wondrous mysteries, When it only lies a dormant thing and mirrors what it sees.

THE COLORED SOLDIERS

If the muse were mine to tempt it And my feeble voice were strong, If my tongue were trained to measures, I would sing a stirring song. I would sing a song heroic Of those noble sons of Ham, Of the gallant colored soldiers Who fought for Uncle Sam!

In the early days you scorned them, And with many a flip and flout Said "These battles are the white man's, And the whites will fight them out." Up the hills you fought and faltered, In the vales you strove and bled, While your ears still heard the thunder Of the foes' advancing tread.

Then distress fell on the nation, And the flag was drooping low; Should the dust pollute your banner? No! the nation shouted, No! So when War, in savage triumph, Spread abroad his funeral pall— Then you called the colored soldiers, And they answered to your call.

And like hounds unleashed and eager For the life blood of the prey, Sprung they forth and bore them bravely In the thickest of the fray. And where'er the fight was hottest, Where the bullets fastest fell, There they pressed unblanched and fearless At the very mouth of hell.

Ah, they rallied to the standard To uphold it by their might; None were stronger in the labors, None were braver in the fight. From the blazing breach of Wagner To the plains of Olustee, They were foremost in the fight Of the battles of the free.

And at Pillow! God have mercy On the deeds committed there, And the souls of those poor victims Sent to Thee without a prayer. Let the fulness of Thy pity O'er the hot wrought spirits sway Of the gallant colored soldiers Who fell fighting on that day!

Yes, the Blacks enjoy their freedom, And they won it dearly, too; For the life blood of their thousands Did the southern fields bedew. In the darkness of their bondage, In the depths of slavery's night, Their muskets flashed the dawning, And they fought their way to light.

They were comrades then and brothers, Are they more or less to-day? They were good to stop a bullet And to front the fearful fray. They were citizens and soldiers, When rebellion raised its head; And the traits that made them worthy,— Ah! those virtues are not dead.

They have shared your nightly vigils, They have shared your daily toil; And their blood with yours commingling Has enriched the Southern soil.

They have slept and marched and suffered 'Neath the same dark skies as you, They have met as fierce a foeman, And have been as brave and true.

And their deeds shall find a record In the registry of Fame; For their blood has cleansed completely Every blot of Slavery's shame. So all honor and all glory To those noble sons of Ham— The gallant colored soldiers Who fought for Uncle Sam!

NATURE AND ART

TO MY FRIEND CHARLES BOOTH NETTLETON

I

The young queen Nature, ever sweet and fair, Once on a time fell upon evil days. From hearing oft herself discussed with praise, There grew within her heart the longing rare To see herself; and every passing air The warm desire fanned into lusty blaze. Full oft she sought this end by devious ways, But sought in vain, so fell she in despair. For none within her train nor by her side Could solve the task or give the envied boon. So day and night, beneath the sun and moon, She wandered to and fro unsatisfied, Till Art came by, a blithe inventive elf, And made a glass wherein she saw herself.

II

Enrapt, the queen gazed on her glorious self, Then trembling with the thrill of sudden thought, Commanded that the skilful wight be brought That she might dower him with lands and pelf. Then out upon the silent sea-lapt shelf And up the hills and on the downs they sought Him who so well and wondrously had wrought; And with much search found and brought home the elf. But he put by all gifts with sad replies, And from his lips these words flowed forth like wine: "O queen, I want no gift but thee," he said. She heard and looked on him with love-lit eyes, Gave him her hand, low murmuring, "I am thine," And at the morrow's dawning they were wed.

AFTER WHILE

A POEM OF FAITH

I think that though the clouds be dark, That though the waves dash o'er the bark, Yet after while the light will come, And in calm waters safe at home The bark will anchor. Weep not, my sad-eyed, gray-robed maid, Because your fairest blossoms fade, That sorrow still o'erruns your cup, And even though you root them up, The weeds grow ranker.

For after while your tears shall cease, And sorrow shall give way to peace; The flowers shall bloom, the weeds shall die, And in that faith seen, by and by Thy woes shall perish. Smile at old Fortune's adverse tide, Smile when the scoffers sneer and chide. Oh, not for you the gems that pale, And not for you the flowers that fail; Let this thought cherish:

That after while the clouds will part, And then with joy the waiting heart Shall feel the light come stealing in, That drives away the cloud of sin And breaks its power. And you shall burst your chrysalis, And wing away to realms of bliss, Untrammelled, pure, divinely free, Above all earth's anxiety From that same hour.

THE OL' TUNES

You kin talk about yer anthems An' yer arias an' sich, An' yer modern choir-singin' That you think so awful rich; But you orter heerd us youngsters In the times now far away, A-singin' o' the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way.

There was some of us sung treble An' a few of us growled bass, An' the tide o' song flowed smoothly With its 'comp'niment o' grace; There was spirit in that music, An' a kind o' solemn sway, A-singin' o' the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way.

I remember oft o' standin' In my homespun pantaloons— On my face the bronze an' freckles O' the suns o' youthful Junes— Thinkin' that no mortal minstrel Ever chanted sich a lay As the ol' tunes we was singin' In the ol'-fashioned way.

The boys 'ud always lead us, An' the girls 'ud all chime in Till the sweetness o' the singin' Robbed the list'nin' soul o' sin; An' I used to tell the parson 'T was as good to sing as pray, When the people sung the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way.

How I long ag'in to hear 'em Pourin' forth from soul to soul, With the treble high an' meller, An' the bass's mighty roll; But the times is very diff'rent, An' the music heerd to-day Ain't the singin' o' the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way.

Little screechin' by a woman, Little squawkin' by a man, Then the organ's twiddle-twaddle, Jest the empty space to span,— An' ef you should even think it, 'T is n't proper fur to say That you want to hear the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way.

But I think that some bright mornin', When the toils of life air o'er, An' the sun o' heaven arisin' Glads with light the happy shore, I shall hear the angel chorus, In the realms of endless day, A-singin' o' the ol' tunes In the ol'-fashioned way.

MELANCHOLIA

Silently without my window, Tapping gently at the pane, Falls the rain. Through the trees sighs the breeze Like a soul in pain. Here alone I sit and weep; Thought hath banished sleep.

Wearily I sit and listen To the water's ceaseless drip. To my lip Fate turns up the bitter cup, Forcing me to sip; 'T is a bitter, bitter drink, Thus I sit and think,—

Thinking things unknown and awful, Thoughts on wild, uncanny themes, Waking dreams. Spectres dark, corpses stark, Show the gaping seams Whence the cold and cruel knife Stole away their life.

Bloodshot eyes all strained and staring, Gazing ghastly into mine; Blood like wine On the brow—clotted now— Shows death's dreadful sign. Lonely vigil still I keep; Would that I might sleep!

Still, oh, still, my brain is whirling! Still runs on my stream of thought; I am caught In the net fate hath set. Mind and soul are brought To destruction's very brink; Yet I can but think!

Eyes that look into the future,— Peeping forth from out my mind, They will find Some new weight, soon or late, On my soul to bind, Crushing all its courage out,— Heavier than doubt.

Dawn, the Eastern monarch's daughter, Rising from her dewy bed, Lays her head 'Gainst the clouds' sombre shrouds Now half fringed with red. O'er the land she 'gins to peep; Come, O gentle Sleep!

Hark! the morning cock is crowing; Dreams, like ghosts, must hie away; 'Tis the day. Rosy morn now is born; Dark thoughts may not stay. Day my brain from foes will keep; Now, my soul, I sleep.

THE WOOING

A youth went faring up and down, Alack and well-a-day. He fared him to the market town, Alack and well-a-day. And there he met a maiden fair, With hazel eyes and auburn hair; His heart went from him then and there, Alack and well-a-day.

She posies sold right merrily, Alack and well-a-day; But not a flower was fair as she, Alack and well-a-day. He bought a rose and sighed a sigh, "Ah, dearest maiden, would that I Might dare the seller too to buy!" Alack and well-a-day.

She tossed her head, the coy coquette, Alack and well-a-day. "I'm not, sir, in the market yet," Alack and well-a-day. "Your love must cool upon a shelf; Tho' much I sell for gold and pelf, I 'm yet too young to sell myself," Alack and well-a-day.

The youth was filled with sorrow sore, Alack and well-a-day. And looked he at the maid once more, Alack and well-a-day. Then loud he cried, "Fair maiden, if Too young to sell, now as I live, You're not too young yourself to give," Alack and well-a-day.

The little maid cast down her eyes, Alack and well-a-day. And many a flush began to rise, Alack and well-a-day. "Why, since you are so bold," she said, "I doubt not you are highly bred, So take me!" and the twain were wed, Alack and well-a-day.

MERRY AUTUMN

It's all a farce,—these tales they tell About the breezes sighing, And moans astir o'er field and dell, Because the year is dying.

Such principles are most absurd,— I care not who first taught 'em; There's nothing known to beast or bird To make a solemn autumn.

In solemn times, when grief holds sway With countenance distressing, You'll note the more of black and gray Will then be used in dressing.

Now purple tints are all around; The sky is blue and mellow; And e'en the grasses turn the ground From modest green to yellow.

The seed burrs all with laughter crack On featherweed and jimson; And leaves that should be dressed in black Are all decked out in crimson.

A butterfly goes winging by; A singing bird comes after; And Nature, all from earth to sky, Is bubbling o'er with laughter.

The ripples wimple on the rills, Like sparkling little lasses; The sunlight runs along the hills, And laughs among the grasses.

The earth is just so full of fun It really can't contain it; And streams of mirth so freely run The heavens seem to rain it.

Don't talk to me of solemn days In autumn's time of splendor, Because the sun shows fewer rays, And these grow slant and slender.

Why, it's the climax of the year,— The highest time of living!— Till naturally its bursting cheer Just melts into thanksgiving.

WHEN DE CO'N PONE'S HOT

Dey is times in life when Nature Seems to slip a cog an' go, Jes' a-rattlin' down creation, Lak an ocean's overflow; When de worl' jes' stahts a-spinnin' Lak a picaninny's top, An' yo' cup o' joy is brimmin' 'Twell it seems about to slop, An' you feel jes' lak a racah, Dat is trainin' fu' to trot— When yo' mammy says de blessin' An' de co'n pone 's hot.

When you set down at de table, Kin' o' weary lak an' sad, An' you 'se jes' a little tiahed An' purhaps a little mad; How yo' gloom tu'ns into gladness, How yo' joy drives out de doubt When de oven do' is opened, An' de smell comes po'in' out; Why, de 'lectric light o' Heaven Seems to settle on de spot, When yo' mammy says de blessin' An' de co'n pone 's hot.

When de cabbage pot is steamin' An' de bacon good an' fat, When de chittlins is a-sputter'n' So 's to show you whah dey's at; Tek away yo' sody biscuit, Tek away yo' cake an' pie, Fu' de glory time is comin', An' it's 'proachin' mighty nigh, An' you want to jump an' hollah, Dough you know you 'd bettah not, When yo' mammy says de blessin' An' de co'n pone 's hot.

I have hyeahd o' lots o' sermons, An' I 've hyeahd o' lots o' prayers, An' I 've listened to some singin' Dat has tuck me up de stairs Of de Glory-Lan' an' set me Jes' below de Mastah's th'one, An' have lef my hea't a-singin' In a happy aftah tone; But dem wu'ds so sweetly murmured Seem to tech de softes' spot, When my mammy says de blessin', An' de co'n pone's hot.

BALLAD

I know my love is true, And oh the day is fair. The sky is clear and blue, The flowers are rich of hue, The air I breathe is rare, I have no grief or care; For my own love is true, And oh 'the day is fair.

My love is false I find, And oh the day is dark. Blows sadly down the wind, While sorrow holds my mind; I do not hear the lark, For quenched is life's dear spark,— My love is false I find, And oh the day is dark!

For love doth make the day Or dark or doubly bright; Her beams along the way Dispel the gloom and gray. She lives and all is bright, She dies and life is night. For love doth make the day, Or dark or doubly bright.

THE CHANGE HAS COME

The change has come, and Helen sleeps— Not sleeps; but wakes to greater deeps Of wisdom, glory, truth, and light, Than ever blessed her seeking sight, In this low, long, lethargic night, Worn out with strife Which men call life.

The change has come, and who would say "I would it were not come to-day"? What were the respite till to-morrow? Postponement of a certain sorrow, From which each passing day would borrow! Let grief be dumb, The change has come.

COMPARISON

The sky of brightest gray seems dark To one whose sky was ever white. To one who never knew a spark, Thro' all his life, of love or light, The grayest cloud seems over-bright.

The robin sounds a beggar's note Where one the nightingale has heard, But he for whom no silver throat Its liquid music ever stirred, Deems robin still the sweetest bird.

A CORN-SONG

On the wide veranda white, In the purple failing light, Sits the master while the sun is lowly burning; And his dreamy thoughts are drowned In the softly flowing sound Of the corn-songs of the field-hands slow returning.

Oh, we hoe de co'n Since de ehly mo'n; Now de sinkin' sun Says de day is done.

O'er the fields with heavy tread, Light of heart and high of head, Though the halting steps be labored, slow, and weary; Still the spirits brave and strong Find a comforter in song, And their corn-song rises ever loud and cheery.

Oh, we hoe de co'n Since de ehly mo'n; Now de sinkin' sun Says de day is done.

To the master in his seat, Comes the burden, full and sweet, Of the mellow minor music growing clearer, As the toilers raise the hymn, Thro' the silence dusk and dim, To the cabin's restful shelter drawing nearer.

Oh, we hoe de co'n Since de ehly mo'n; Now de sinkin' sun Says de day is done.

And a tear is in the eye Of the master sitting by, As he listens to the echoes low-replying To the music's fading calls As it faints away and falls Into silence, deep within the cabin dying.

Oh, we hoe de co'n Since de ehly mo'n; Now de sinkin' sun Says de day is done.

DISCOVERED

Seen you down at chu'ch las' night, Nevah min', Miss Lucy. What I mean? oh, dat 's all right, Nevah min', Miss Lucy. You was sma't ez sma't could be, But you could n't hide f'om me. Ain't I got two eyes to see! Nevah min', Miss Lucy.

Guess you thought you's awful keen; Nevah min', Miss Lucy. Evahthing you done, I seen; Nevah min', Miss Lucy. Seen him tek yo' ahm jes' so, When he got outside de do'— Oh, I know dat man 's yo' beau! Nevah min', Miss Lucy.

Say now, honey, wha 'd he say?— Nevah min', Miss Lucy! Keep yo' secrets—dat's yo' way— Nevah min', Miss Lucy. Won't tell me an' I'm yo' pal— I'm gwine tell his othah gal,— Know huh, too, huh name is Sal; Nevah min', Miss Lucy!

DISAPPOINTED

An old man planted and dug and tended, Toiling in joy from dew to dew; The sun was kind, and the rain befriended; Fine grew his orchard and fair to view. Then he said: "I will quiet my thrifty fears, For here is fruit for my failing years."

But even then the storm-clouds gathered, Swallowing up the azure sky; The sweeping winds into white foam lathered The placid breast of the bay, hard by; Then the spirits that raged in the darkened air Swept o'er his orchard and left it bare.

The old man stood in the rain, uncaring, Viewing the place the storm had swept; And then with a cry from his soul despairing, He bowed him down to the earth and wept. But a voice cried aloud from the driving rain; "Arise, old man, and plant again!"

INVITATION TO LOVE

Come when the nights are bright with stars Or when the moon is mellow; Come when the sun his golden bars Drops on the hay-field yellow. Come in the twilight soft and gray, Come in the night or come in the day, Come, O love, whene'er you may, And you are welcome, welcome.

You are sweet, O Love, dear Love, You are soft as the nesting dove. Come to my heart and bring it rest As the bird flies home to its welcome nest.

Come when my heart is full of grief Or when my heart is merry; Come with the falling of the leaf Or with the redd'ning cherry. Come when the year's first blossom blows, Come when the summer gleams and glows, Come with the winter's drifting snows, And you are welcome, welcome.

HE HAD HIS DREAM

He had his dream, and all through life, Worked up to it through toil and strife. Afloat fore'er before his eyes, It colored for him all his skies: The storm-cloud dark Above his bark, The calm and listless vault of blue Took on its hopeful hue, It tinctured every passing beam— He had his dream.

He labored hard and failed at last, His sails too weak to bear the blast, The raging tempests tore away And sent his beating bark astray. But what cared he For wind or sea! He said, "The tempest will be short, My bark will come to port." He saw through every cloud a gleam— He had his dream.

GOOD-NIGHT

The lark is silent in his nest, The breeze is sighing in its flight, Sleep, Love, and peaceful be thy rest. Good-night, my love, good-night, good-night.

Sweet dreams attend thee in thy sleep, To soothe thy rest till morning's light, And angels round thee vigil keep. Good-night, my love, good-night, good-night.

Sleep well, my love, on night's dark breast, And ease thy soul with slumber bright; Be joy but thine and I am blest. Good-night, my love, good-night, good-night.

A COQUETTE CONQUERED

Yes, my ha't 's ez ha'd ez stone— Go 'way, Sam, an' lemme 'lone. No; I ain't gwine change my min'— Ain't gwine ma'y you—nuffin' de kin'.

Phiny loves you true an' deah? Go ma'y Phiny; whut I keer? Oh, you need n't mou'n an' cry— I don't keer how soon you die.

Got a present! Whut you got? Somef'n fu' de pan er pot! Huh! yo' sass do sholy beat— Think I don't git 'nough to eat?

Whut's dat un'neaf yo' coat? Looks des lak a little shoat. 'T ain't no possum! Bless de Lamb! Yes, it is, you rascal, Sam!

Gin it to me; whut you say? Ain't you sma't now! Oh, go 'way! Possum do look mighty nice, But you ax too big a price.

Tell me, is you talkin' true, Dat 's de gal's whut ma'ies you? Come back, Sam; now whah 's you gwine? Co'se you knows dat possum's mine!

NORA: A SERENADE

Ah, Nora, my Nora, the light fades away, While Night like a spirit steals up o'er the hills; The thrush from his tree where he chanted all day, No longer his music in ecstasy trills. Then, Nora, be near me; thy presence doth cheer me, Thine eye hath a gleam that is truer than gold.

I cannot but love thee; so do not reprove me, If the strength of my passion should make me too bold. Nora, pride of my heart— Rosy cheeks, cherry lips, sparkling with glee,— Wake from thy slumbers, wherever thou art; Wake from thy slumbers to me.

Ah, Nora, my Nora, there 's love in the air,— It stirs in the numbers that thrill in my brain; Oh, sweet, sweet is love with its mingling of care, Though joy travels only a step before pain. Be roused from thy slumbers and list to my numbers; My heart is poured out in this song unto thee. Oh, be thou not cruel, thou treasure, thou jewel; Turn thine ear to my pleading and hearken to me.

OCTOBER

October is the treasurer of the year, And all the months pay bounty to her store; The fields and orchards still their tribute bear, And fill her brimming coffers more and more. But she, with youthful lavishness, Spends all her wealth in gaudy dress, And decks herself in garments bold Of scarlet, purple, red, and gold.

She heedeth not how swift the hours fly, But smiles and sings her happy life along; She only sees above a shining sky; She only hears the breezes' voice in song. Her garments trail the woodlands through, And gather pearls of early dew That sparkle, till the roguish Sun Creeps up and steals them every one.

But what cares she that jewels should be lost, When all of Nature's bounteous wealth is hers? Though princely fortunes may have been their cost, Not one regret her calm demeanor stirs. Whole-hearted, happy, careless, free, She lives her life out joyously, Nor cares when Frost stalks o'er her way And turns her auburn locks to gray.

A SUMMER'S NIGHT

The night is dewy as a maiden's mouth, The skies are bright as are a maiden's eyes, Soft as a maiden's breath the wind that flies Up from the perfumed bosom of the South. Like sentinels, the pines stand in the park; And hither hastening, like rakes that roam, With lamps to light their wayward footsteps home, The fireflies come stagg'ring down the dark.

SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT

Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing; I look far out into the pregnant night, Where I can hear a solemn booming gun And catch the gleaming of a random light, That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.

My tearful eyes my soul's deep hurt are glassing; For I would hail and check that ship of ships. I stretch my hands imploring, cry aloud, My voice falls dead a foot from mine own lips, And but its ghost doth reach that vessel, passing, passing.

O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing, O heart of mine, O soul that dreads the dark! Is there no hope for me? Is there no way That I may sight and check that speeding bark Which out of sight and sound is passing, passing?

THE DELINQUENT

Goo'-by, Jinks, I got to hump, Got to mek dis pony jump; See dat sun a-goin' down 'N' me a-foolin' hyeah in town! Git up, Suke—go long!

Guess Mirandy'll think I's tight, Me not home an' comin' on night. What 's dat stan'in' by de fence? Pshaw! why don't I lu'n some sense? Git up, Suke—go long!

Guess I spent down dah at Jinks' Mos' a dollah fur de drinks. Bless yo'r soul, you see dat star? Lawd, but won't Mirandy rar? Git up, Suke—go long!

Went dis mo'nin', hyeah it 's night, Dah 's de cabin dah in sight. Who's dat stan'in' in de do'? Dat must be Mirandy, sho', Git up, Suke—go long!

Got de close-stick in huh han', Dat look funny, goodness lan', Sakes alibe, but she look glum! Hyeah, Mirandy, hyeah I come! Git up, Suke—go long!

Ef 't had n't a' b'en fur you, you slow ole fool, I 'd a' be'n home long fo' now!

DAWN

An angel, robed in spotless white, Bent down and kissed the sleeping Night. Night woke to blush; the sprite was gone. Men saw the blush and called it Dawn.

A DROWSY DAY

The air is dark, the sky is gray, The misty shadows come and go, And here within my dusky room Each chair looks ghostly in the gloom. Outside the rain falls cold and slow— Half-stinging drops, half-blinding spray.

Each slightest sound is magnified, For drowsy quiet holds her reign; The burnt stick in the fireplace breaks, The nodding cat with start awakes, And then to sleep drops off again, Unheeding Towser at her side.

I look far out across the lawn, Where huddled stand the silly sheep; My work lies idle at my hands, My thoughts fly out like scattered strands Of thread, and on the verge of sleep— Still half awake—I dream and yawn.

What spirits rise before my eyes! How various of kind and form! Sweet memories of days long past, The dreams of youth that could not last, Each smiling calm, each raging storm, That swept across my early skies.

Half seen, the bare, gaunt-fingered boughs Before my window sweep and sway, And chafe in tortures of unrest. My chin sinks down upon my breast; I cannot work on such a day, But only sit and dream and drowse.

DIRGE

Place this bunch of mignonette In her cold, dead hand; When the golden sun is set, Where the poplars stand, Bury her from sun and day, Lay my little love away From my sight.

She was like a modest flower Blown in sunny June, Warm as sun at noon's high hour, Chaster than the moon. Ah, her day was brief and bright, Earth has lost a star of light; She is dead.

Softly breathe her name to me,— Ah, I loved her so. Gentle let your tribute be; None may better know Her true worth than I who weep O'er her as she lies asleep— Soft asleep.

Lay these lilies on her breast, They are not more white Than the soul of her, at rest 'Neath their petals bright. Chant your aves soft and low, Solemn be your tread and slow,— She is dead.

Lay her here beneath the grass, Cool and green and sweet, Where the gentle brook may pass Crooning at her feet. Nature's bards shall come and sing, And the fairest flowers shall spring Where she lies.

Safe above the water's swirl, She has crossed the bar; Earth has lost a precious pearl, Heaven has gained a star, That shall ever sing and shine, Till it quells this grief of mine For my love.

HYMN

When storms arise And dark'ning skies About me threat'ning lower, To thee, O Lord, I raise mine eyes, To thee my tortured spirit flies For solace in that hour.

The mighty arm Will let no harm Come near me nor befall me; Thy voice shall quiet my alarm, When life's great battle waxeth warm— No foeman shall appall me.

Upon thy breast Secure I rest, From sorrow and vexation; No more by sinful cares oppressed, But in thy presence ever blest, O God of my salvation.

PREPARATION

The little bird sits in the nest and sings A shy, soft song to the morning light; And it flutters a little and prunes its wings. The song is halting and poor and brief, And the fluttering wings scarce stir a leaf; But the note is a prelude to sweeter things, And the busy bill and the flutter slight Are proving the wings for a bolder flight!

THE DESERTED PLANTATION

Oh, de grubbin'-hoe 's a-rustin' in de co'nah, An' de plow 's a-tumblin' down in de fiel', While de whippo'will 's a-wailin' lak a mou'nah When his stubbo'n hea't is tryin' ha'd to yiel'.

In de furrers whah de co'n was allus wavin', Now de weeds is growin' green an' rank an' tall; An' de swallers roun' de whole place is a-bravin' Lak dey thought deir folks had allus owned it all.

An' de big house stan's all quiet lak an' solemn, Not a blessed soul in pa'lor, po'ch, er lawn; Not a guest, ner not a ca'iage lef' to haul 'em, Fu' de ones dat tu'ned de latch-string out air gone.

An' de banjo's voice is silent in de qua'ters, D' ain't a hymn ner co'n-song ringin' in de air; But de murmur of a branch's passin' waters Is de only soun' dat breks de stillness dere.

Whah 's de da'kies, dem dat used to be a-dancin' Evry night befo' de ole cabin do'? Whah 's de chillun, dem dat used to be a-prancin' Er a-rollin' in de san' er on de flo'?

Whah 's ole Uncle Mordecai an' Uncle Aaron? Whah 's Aunt Doshy, Sam, an' Kit, an' all de res'? Whah 's ole Tom de da'ky fiddlah, how 's he farin'? Whah 's de gals dat used to sing an' dance de bes'?

Gone! not one o' dem is lef' to tell de story; Dey have lef' de deah ole place to fall away. Could n't one o' dem dat seed it in its glory Stay to watch it in de hour of decay?

Dey have lef' de ole plantation to de swallers, But it hol's in me a lover till de las'; Fu' I fin' hyeah in de memory dat follers All dat loved me an' dat I loved in de pas'.

So I'll stay an' watch de deah ole place an' tend it Ez I used to in de happy days gone by. 'Twell de othah Mastah thinks it's time to end it, An' calls me to my qua'ters in de sky.

THE SECRET

What says the wind to the waving trees? What says the wave to the river? What means the sigh in the passing breeze? Why do the rushes quiver? Have you not heard the fainting cry Of the flowers that said "Good-bye, good-bye"?

List how the gray dove moans and grieves Under the woodland cover; List to the drift of the falling leaves, List to the wail of the lover. Have you not caught the message heard Already by wave and breeze and bird?

Come, come away to the river's bank, Come in the early morning; Come when the grass with dew is dank, There you will find the warning— A hint in the kiss of the quickening air Of the secret that birds and breezes bear.

THE WIND AND THE SEA

I stood by the shore at the death of day, As the sun sank flaming red; And the face of the waters that spread away Was as gray as the face of the dead.

And I heard the cry of the wanton sea And the moan of the wailing wind; For love's sweet pain in his heart had he, But the gray old sea had sinned.

The wind was young and the sea was old, But their cries went up together; The wind was warm and the sea was cold, For age makes wintry weather.

So they cried aloud and they wept amain, Till the sky grew dark to hear it; And out of its folds crept the misty rain, In its shroud, like a troubled spirit.

For the wind was wild with a hopeless love, And the sea was sad at heart At many a crime that he wot of, Wherein he had played his part.

He thought of the gallant ships gone down By the will of his wicked waves; And he thought how the church-yard in the town Held the sea-made widows' graves.

The wild wind thought of the love he had left Afar in an Eastern land, And he longed, as long the much bereft, For the touch of her perfumed hand.

In his winding wail and his deep-heaved sigh His aching grief found vent; While the sea looked up at the bending sky And murmured: "I repent."

But e'en as he spoke, a ship came by That bravely ploughed the main, And a light came into the sea's green eye, And his heart grew hard again.

Then he spoke to the wind: "Friend, seest thou not Yon vessel is eastward bound? Pray speed with it to the happy spot Where thy loved one may be found."

And the wind rose up in a dear delight, And after the good ship sped; But the crafty sea by his wicked might Kept the vessel ever ahead.

Till the wind grew fierce in his despair, And white on the brow and lip. He tore his garments and tore his hair, And fell on the flying ship.

And the ship went down, for a rock was there, And the sailless sea loomed black; While burdened again with dole and care, The wind came moaning back.

And still he moans from his bosom hot Where his raging grief lies pent, And ever when the ships come not, The sea says: "I repent."

RIDING TO TOWN

When labor is light and the morning is fair, I find it a pleasure beyond all compare To hitch up my nag and go hurrying down And take Katie May for a ride into town; For bumpety-bump goes the wagon, But tra-la-la-la our lay. There's joy in a song as we rattle along In the light of the glorious day.

A coach would be fine, but a spring wagon's good; My jeans are a match for Kate's gingham and hood; The hills take us up and the vales take us down, But what matters that? we are riding to town, And bumpety-bump goes the wagon, But tra-la-la-la sing we. There's never a care may live in the air That is filled with the breath of our glee.

And after we've started, there's naught can repress The thrill of our hearts in their wild happiness; The heavens may smile or the heavens may frown, And it's all one to us when we're riding to town. For bumpety-bump goes the wagon, But tra-la-la-la we shout, For our hearts they are clear and there 's nothing to fear, And we've never a pain nor a doubt.

The wagon is weak and the roadway is rough, And tho' it is long it is not long enough, For mid all my ecstasies this is the crown To sit beside Katie and ride into town, When bumpety-bump goes the wagon, But tra-la-la-la our song; And if I had my way, I 'd be willing to pay If the road could be made twice as long.

WE WEAR THE MASK

We wear the mask that grins and lies, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,— This debt we pay to human guile; With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise, In counting all our tears and sighs? Nay, let them only see us, while We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries To thee from tortured souls arise. We sing, but oh the clay is vile Beneath our feet, and long the mile; But let the world dream otherwise, We wear the mask!

THE MEADOW LARK

Though the winds be dank, And the sky be sober, And the grieving Day In a mantle gray Hath let her waiting maiden robe her,— All the fields along I can hear the song Of the meadow lark, As she flits and flutters, And laughs at the thunder when it mutters. O happy bird, of heart most gay To sing when skies are gray!

When the clouds are full, And the tempest master Lets the loud winds sweep From his bosom deep Like heralds of some dire disaster, Then the heart alone To itself makes moan; And the songs come slow, While the tears fall fleeter, And silence than song by far seems sweeter. Oh, few are they along the way Who sing when skies are gray!

ONE LIFE

Oh, I am hurt to death, my Love; The shafts of Fate have pierced my striving heart, And I am sick and weary of The endless pain and smart. My soul is weary of the strife, And chafes at life, and chafes at life.

Time mocks me with fair promises; A blooming future grows a barren past, Like rain my fair full-blossomed trees Unburden in the blast. The harvest fails on grain and tree, Nor comes to me, nor comes to me.

The stream that bears my hopes abreast Turns ever from my way its pregnant tide. My laden boat, torn from its rest, Drifts to the other side. So all my hopes are set astray, And drift away, and drift away.

The lark sings to me at the morn, And near me wings her skyward-soaring flight; But pleasure dies as soon as born, The owl takes up the night, And night seems long and doubly dark; I miss the lark, I miss the lark.

Let others labor as they may, I'll sing and sigh alone, and write my line. Their fate is theirs, or grave or gay, And mine shall still be mine. I know the world holds joy and glee, But not for me,—'t is not for me.

CHANGING TIME

The cloud looked in at the window, And said to the day, "Be dark!" And the roguish rain tapped hard on the pane, To stifle the song of the lark.

The wind sprang up in the tree tops And shrieked with a voice of death, But the rough-voiced breeze, that shook the trees, Was touched with a violet's breath.

DEAD

A knock is at her door, but she is weak; Strange dews have washed the paint streaks from her cheek; She does not rise, but, ah, this friend is known, And knows that he will find her all alone. So opens he the door, and with soft tread Goes straightway to the richly curtained bed. His soft hand on her dewy head he lays. A strange white light she gives him for his gaze. Then, looking on the glory of her charms, He crushes her resistless in his arms.

Stand back! look not upon this bold embrace, Nor view the calmness of the wanton's face; With joy unspeakable and 'bated breath, She keeps her last, long liaison with death!

A CONFIDENCE

Uncle John, he makes me tired; Thinks 'at he's jest so all-fired Smart, 'at he kin pick up, so, Ever'thing he wants to know. Tried to ketch me up last night, But you bet I would n't bite. I jest kep' the smoothes' face, But I led him sich a chase, Could n't corner me, you bet— I skipped all the traps he set. Makin' out he wan'ed to know Who was this an' that girl's beau; So 's he 'd find out, don't you see, Who was goin' 'long with me. But I answers jest ez sly, An' I never winks my eye, Tell he hollers with a whirl, "Look here, ain't you got a girl?" Y' ought 'o seen me spread my eyes, Like he 'd took me by surprise, An' I said, "Oh, Uncle John, Never thought o' havin' one." An' somehow that seemed to tickle Him an' he shelled out a nickel. Then you ought to seen me leave Jest a-laffin' in my sleeve. Fool him—well, I guess I did; He ain't on to this here kid. Got a girl! well, I guess yes, Got a dozen more or less, But I got one reely one, Not no foolin' ner no fun; Fur I 'm sweet on her, you see, An' I ruther guess 'at she Must be kinder sweet on me, So we 're keepin' company. Honest Injun! this is true, Ever' word I 'm tellin' you! But you won't be sich a scab Ez to run aroun' an' blab. Mebbe 't ain't the way with you, But you know some fellers do. Spoils a girl to let her know 'At you talk about her so. Don't you know her? her name 's Liz, Nicest girl in town she is. Purty? ah, git out, you gilly— Liz 'ud purt 'nigh knock you silly. Y' ought 'o see her when she 's dressed All up in her Sunday best, All the fellers nudgin' me, An' a-whisperin', gemunee! Betcher life 'at I feel proud When she passes by the crowd. 'T 's kinder nice to be a-goin' With a girl 'at makes some showin'— One you know 'at hain't no snide, Makes you feel so satisfied. An' I 'll tell you she 's a trump, Never even seen her jump Like some silly girls 'ud do, When I 'd hide and holler "Boo!" She 'd jest laff an' say "Git out! What you hollerin' about?" When some girls 'ud have a fit That 'un don't git skeered a bit, Never makes a bit o' row When she sees a worm er cow. Them kind 's few an' far between; Bravest girl I ever seen. Tell you 'nuther thing she 'll do, Mebbe you won't think it 's true, But if she 's jest got a dime She 'll go halvers ever' time. Ah, you goose, you need n't laff; That's the kinder girl to have. If you knowed her like I do, Guess you 'd kinder like her too. Tell you somep'n' if you 'll swear You won't tell it anywhere. Oh, you got to cross yer heart Earnest, truly, 'fore I start. Well, one day I kissed her cheek; Gee, but I felt cheap an' weak, 'Cause at first she kinder flared, 'N', gracious goodness! I was scared. But I need n't been, fer la! Why, she never told her ma. That's what I call grit, don't you? Sich a girl's worth stickin' to.

PHYLLIS

Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day, Few are my years, but my griefs are not few, Ever to youth should each day be a May-day, Warm wind and rose-breath and diamonded dew— Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day.

Oh for the sunlight that shines on a May-day! Only the cloud hangeth over my life. Love that should bring me youth's happiest heyday Brings me but seasons of sorrow and strife; Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day.

Sunshine or shadow, or gold day or gray day, Life must be lived as our destinies rule; Leisure or labor or work day or play day— Feasts for the famous and fun for the fool; Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day.

RIGHT'S SECURITY

What if the wind do howl without, And turn the creaking weather-vane; What if the arrows of the rain Do beat against the window-pane? Art thou not armored strong and fast Against the sallies of the blast? Art thou not sheltered safe and well Against the flood's insistent swell?

What boots it, that thou stand'st alone, And laughest in the battle's face When all the weak have fled the place And let their feet and fears keep pace? Thou wavest still thine ensign, high, And shoutest thy loud battle-cry; Higher than e'er the tempest roared, It cleaves the silence like a sword.

Right arms and armors, too, that man Who will not compromise with wrong; Though single, he must front the throng, And wage the battle hard and long. Minorities, since time began, Have shown the better side of man; And often in the lists of Time One man has made a cause sublime!

IF

If life were but a dream, my Love, And death the waking time; If day had not a beam, my Love, And night had not a rhyme,— A barren, barren world were this Without one saving gleam; I 'd only ask that with a kiss You 'd wake me from the dream.

If dreaming were the sum of days, And loving were the bane; If battling for a wreath of bays Could soothe a heart in pain,— I 'd scorn the meed of battle's might, All other aims above I 'd choose the human's higher right, To suffer and to love!

THE SONG

My soul, lost in the music's mist, Roamed, rapt, 'neath skies of amethyst. The cheerless streets grew summer meads, The Son of Phoebus spurred his steeds, And, wand'ring down the mazy tune, December lost its way in June, While from a verdant vale I heard The piping of a love-lorn bird.

A something in the tender strain Revived an old, long-conquered pain, And as in depths of many seas, My heart was drowned in memories. The tears came welling to my eyes, Nor could I ask it otherwise; For, oh! a sweetness seems to last Amid the dregs of sorrows past.

It stirred a chord that here of late I 'd grown to think could not vibrate. It brought me back the trust of youth, The world again was joy and truth. And Avice, blooming like a bride, Once more stood trusting at my side. But still, with bosom desolate, The lorn bird sang to find his mate.

Then there are trees, and lights and stars, The silv'ry tinkle of guitars; And throbs again as throbbed that waltz, Before I knew that hearts were false. Then like a cold wave on a shore, Comes silence and she sings no more. I wake, I breathe, I think again, And walk the sordid ways of men.

SIGNS OF THE TIMES

Air a-gittin' cool an' coolah, Frost a-comin' in de night, Hicka' nuts an' wa'nuts fallin', Possum keepin' out o' sight. Tu'key struttin' in de ba'nya'd, Nary step so proud ez his; Keep on struttin', Mistah Tu'key, Yo' do' know whut time it is.

Cidah press commence a-squeakin' Eatin' apples sto'ed away, Chillun swa'min' 'roun' lak ho'nets, Huntin' aigs ermung de hay. Mistah Tu'key keep on gobblin' At de geese a-flyin' souf, Oomph! dat bird do' know whut's comin'; Ef he did he 'd shet his mouf.

Pumpkin gittin' good an' yallah Mek me open up my eyes; Seems lak it's a-lookin' at me Jes' a-la'in' dah sayin' "Pies." Tu'key gobbler gwine 'roun' blowin', Gwine 'roun' gibbin' sass an' slack; Keep on talkin', Mistah Tu'key, You ain't seed no almanac.

Fa'mer walkin' th'oo de ba'nya'd Seein' how things is comin' on, Sees ef all de fowls is fatt'nin'— Good times comin' sho 's you bo'n. Hyeahs dat tu'key gobbler braggin', Den his face break in a smile— Nebbah min', you sassy rascal, He 's gwine nab you atter while.

Choppin' suet in de kitchen, Stonin' raisins in de hall, Beef a-cookin' fu' de mince meat, Spices groun'—I smell 'em all. Look hyeah, Tu'key, stop dat gobblin', You ain' luned de sense ob feah, You ol' fool, yo' naik 's in dangah, Do' you know Thanksgibbin 's hyeah?

WHY FADES A DREAM?

Why fades a dream? An iridescent ray Flecked in between the tryst Of night and day. Why fades a dream?— Of consciousness the shade Wrought out by lack of light and made Upon life's stream. Why fades a dream?

That thought may thrive, So fades the fleshless dream; Lest men should learn to trust The things that seem. So fades a dream, That living thought may grow And like a waxing star-beam glow Upon life's stream— So fades a dream.

THE SPARROW

A little bird, with plumage brown, Beside my window flutters down, A moment chirps its little strain, Ten taps upon my window-pane, And chirps again, and hops along, To call my notice to its song; But I work on, nor heed its lay, Till, in neglect, it flies away.

So birds of peace and hope and love Come fluttering earthward from above, To settle on life's window-sills, And ease our load of earthly ills; But we, in traffic's rush and din Too deep engaged to let them in, With deadened heart and sense plod on, Nor know our loss till they are gone.

SPEAKIN' O' CHRISTMAS

Breezes blowin' middlin' brisk, Snow-flakes thro' the air a-whisk, Fallin' kind o' soft an' light, Not enough to make things white, But jest sorter siftin' down So 's to cover up the brown Of the dark world's rugged ways 'N' make things look like holidays. Not smoothed over, but jest specked, Sorter strainin' fur effect, An' not quite a-gittin' through What it started in to do. Mercy sakes! it does seem queer Christmas day is 'most nigh here. Somehow it don't seem to me Christmas like it used to be,— Christmas with its ice an' snow, Christmas of the long ago. You could feel its stir an' hum Weeks an' weeks before it come; Somethin' in the atmosphere Told you when the day was near, Did n't need no almanacs; That was one o' Nature's fac's. Every cottage decked out gay— Cedar wreaths an' holly spray— An' the stores, how they were drest, Tinsel tell you could n't rest; Every winder fixed up pat, Candy canes, an' things like that; Noah's arks, an' guns, an' dolls, An' all kinds o' fol-de-rols. Then with frosty bells a-chime, Slidin' down the hills o' time, Right amidst the fun an' din Christmas come a-bustlin' in, Raised his cheery voice to call Out a welcome to us all; Hale and hearty, strong an' bluff, That was Christmas, sure enough. Snow knee-deep an' coastin' fine, Frozen mill-ponds all ashine, Seemin' jest to lay in wait, Beggin' you to come an' skate. An' you 'd git your gal an' go Stumpin' cheerily thro' the snow, Feelin' pleased an' skeert an' warm 'Cause she had a-holt yore arm. Why, when Christmas come in, we Spent the whole glad day in glee, Havin' fun an' feastin' high An' some courtin' on the sly. Bustin' in some neighbor's door An' then suddenly, before He could give his voice a lift, Yellin' at him, "Christmas gift." Now sich things are never heard, "Merry Christmas" is the word. But it's only change o' name, An' means givin' jest the same. There 's too many new-styled ways Now about the holidays. I 'd jest like once more to see Christmas like it used to be!

LONESOME

Mother 's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two, An', oh, the house is lonesome ez a nest whose birds has flew To other trees to build ag'in; the rooms seem jest so bare That the echoes run like sperrits from the kitchen to the stair. The shetters flap more lazy-like 'n what they used to do, Sence mother 's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two.

We 've killed the fattest chicken an' we've cooked her to a turn; We 've made the richest gravy, but I jest don't give a durn Fur nothin' 'at I drink er eat, er nothin' 'at I see. The food ain't got the pleasant taste it used to have to me. They 's somep'n' stickin' in my throat ez tight ez hardened glue, Sence mother's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two.

The hollyhocks air jest ez pink, they 're double ones at that, An' I wuz prouder of 'em than a baby of a cat. But now I don't go near 'em, though they nod an' blush at me, Fur they 's somep'n' seems to gall me in their keerless sort o' glee An' all their fren'ly noddin' an' their blushin' seems to say: "You 're purty lonesome, John, old boy, sence mother 's gone away."

The neighbors ain't so fren'ly ez it seems they 'd ort to be; They seem to be a-lookin' kinder sideways like at me, A-kinder feared they 'd tech me off ez ef I wuz a match, An' all because 'at mother 's gone an' I 'm a-keepin' batch! I 'm shore I don't do nothin' worse 'n what I used to do 'Fore mother went a-visitin' to spend a month er two.

The sparrers ac's more fearsome like an' won't hop quite so near, The cricket's chirp is sadder, an' the sky ain't ha'f so clear; When ev'nin' comes, I set an' smoke tell my eyes begin to swim, An' things aroun' commence to look all blurred an' faint an' dim. Well, I guess I 'll have to own up 'at I 'm feelin' purty blue Sence mother's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two.

GROWIN' GRAY

Hello, ole man, you 're a-gittin' gray, An' it beats ole Ned to see the way 'At the crow's feet's a-getherin' aroun' yore eyes; Tho' it ought n't to cause me no su'prise, Fur there 's many a sun 'at you 've seen rise An' many a one you 've seen go down Sence yore step was light an' yore hair was brown, An' storms an' snows have had their way— Hello, ole man, you 're a-gittin' gray.

Hello, ole man, you 're a-gittin' gray, An' the youthful pranks 'at you used to play Are dreams of a far past long ago That lie in a heart where the fires burn low— That has lost the flame though it kept the glow, An' spite of drivin' snow an' storm, Beats bravely on forever warm. December holds the place of May— Hello, ole man, you 're a-gittin' gray.

Hello, ole man, you 're a-gittin' gray— Who cares what the carpin' youngsters say? For, after all, when the tale is told, Love proves if a man is young or old! Old age can't make the heart grow cold When it does the will of an honest mind; When it beats with love fur all mankind; Then the night but leads to a fairer day— Hello, ole man, you 're a-gittin' gray!

TO THE MEMORY OF MARY YOUNG

God has his plans, and what if we With our sight be too blind to see Their full fruition; cannot he, Who made it, solve the mystery? One whom we loved has fall'n asleep, Not died; although her calm be deep, Some new, unknown, and strange surprise In Heaven holds enrapt her eyes.

And can you blame her that her gaze Is turned away from earthly ways, When to her eyes God's light and love Have giv'n the view of things above? A gentle spirit sweetly good, The pearl of precious womanhood; Who heard the voice of duty clear, And found her mission soon and near.

She loved all nature, flowers fair, The warmth of sun, the kiss of air, The birds that filled the sky with song, The stream that laughed its way along. Her home to her was shrine and throne, But one love held her not alone; She sought out poverty and grief, Who touched her robe and found relief.

So sped she in her Master's work, Too busy and too brave to shirk, When through the silence, dusk and dim, God called her and she fled to him. We wonder at the early call, And tears of sorrow can but fall For her o'er whom we spread the pall; But faith, sweet faith, is over all.

The house is dust, the voice is dumb, But through undying years to come, The spark that glowed within her soul Shall light our footsteps to the goal. She went her way; but oh, she trod The path that led her straight to God. Such lives as this put death to scorn; They lose our day to find God's morn.

WHEN MALINDY SINGS

G'way an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy— Put dat music book away; What's de use to keep on tryin'? Ef you practise twell you 're gray, You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin' Lak de ones dat rants and rings F'om de kitchen to be big woods When Malindy sings.

You ain't got de nachel o'gans Fu' to make de soun' come right, You ain't got de tu'ns an' twistin's Fu' to make it sweet an' light. Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy, An' I 'm tellin' you fu' true, When hit comes to raal right singin', 'T ain't no easy thing to do.

Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah, Lookin' at de lines an' dots, When dey ain't no one kin sence it, An' de chune comes in, in spots; But fu' real melojous music, Dat jes' strikes yo' hea't and clings, Jes' you stan' an' listen wif me When Malindy sings.

Ain't you nevah hyeahd Malindy? Blessed soul, tek up de cross! Look hyeah, ain't you jokin', honey? Well, you don't know whut you los'. Y' ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa'blin', Robins, la'ks, an' all dem things, Heish dey moufs an' hides dey faces When Malindy sings.

Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddlin', Lay his fiddle on de she'f; Mockin'-bird quit tryin' to whistle, 'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f. Folks a-playin' on de banjo Draps dey fingahs on de strings— Bless yo' soul—fu'gits to move em, When Malindy sings.

She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs, "Come to Jesus," twell you hyeah Sinnahs' tremblin' steps and voices, Timid-lak a-drawin' neah; Den she tu'ns to "Rock of Ages," Simply to de cross she clings, An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappin' When Malindy sings.

Who dat says dat humble praises Wif de Master nevah counts? Heish yo' mouf, I hyeah dat music, Ez hit rises up an' mounts— Floatin' by de hills an' valleys, Way above dis buryin' sod, Ez hit makes its way in glory To de very gates of God!

Oh, hit's sweetah dan de music Of an edicated band; An' hit's dearah dan de battle's Song o' triumph in de lan'. It seems holier dan evenin' When de solemn chu'ch bell rings, Ez I sit an' ca'mly listen While Malindy sings.

Towsah, stop dat ba'kin', hyeah me! Mandy, mek dat chile keep still; Don't you hyeah de echoes callin' F'om de valley to de hill? Let me listen, I can hyeah it, Th'oo de bresh of angels' wings, Sof an' sweet, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," Ez Malindy sings.

THE PARTY

Dey had a gread big pahty down to Tom's de othah night; Was I dah? You bet! I nevah in my life see sich a sight; All de folks f'om fou' plantations was invited, an' dey come, Dey come troopin' thick ez chillun when dey hyeahs a fife an' drum. Evahbody dressed deir fines'—Heish yo' mouf an' git away, Ain't seen no sich fancy dressin' sence las' quah'tly meetin' day; Gals all dressed in silks an' satins, not a wrinkle ner a crease, Eyes a-battin', teeth a-shinin', haih breshed back ez slick ez grease; Sku'ts all tucked an' puffed an' ruffled, evah blessed seam an' stitch; Ef you 'd seen 'em wif deir mistus, could n't swahed to which was which. Men all dressed up in Prince Alberts, swaller-tails 'u'd tek yo' bref! I cain't tell you nothin' 'bout it, y' ought to seen it fu' yo'se'f. Who was dah? Now who you askin'? How you 'spect I gwine to know? You mus' think I stood an' counted evahbody at de do.' Ole man Babah's house-boy Isaac, brung dat gal, Malindy Jane, Huh a-hangin' to his elbow, him a-struttin' wif a cane; My, but Hahvey Jones was jealous! seemed to stick him lak a tho'n; But he laughed with Viney Cahteh, tryin' ha'd to not let on, But a pusson would 'a' noticed f'om de d'rection of his look, Dat he was watchin' ev'ry step dat Ike an' Lindy took. Ike he foun' a cheer an' asked huh: "Won't you set down?" wif a smile, An' she answe'd up a-bowin', "Oh, I reckon 't ain't wuth while." Dat was jes' fu' Style, I reckon, 'cause she sot down jes' de same, An' she stayed dah 'twell he fetched huh fu' to jine some so't o' game; Den I hyeahd huh sayin' propah, ez she riz to go away, "Oh, you raly mus' excuse me, fu' I hardly keers to play." But I seen huh in a minute wif de othahs on de flo', An' dah wasn't any one o' dem a-playin' any mo'; Comin' down de flo' a-bowin' an' a-swayin' an' a-swingin', Puttin' on huh high-toned mannahs all de time dat she was singin': "Oh, swing Johnny up an' down, swing him all aroun', Swing Johnny up an' down, swing him all aroun', Oh, swing Johnny up an' down, swing him all aroun' Fa' you well, my dahlin'." Had to laff at ole man Johnson, he 's a caution now, you bet— Hittin' clost onto a hunderd, but he 's spry an' nimble yet; He 'lowed how a-so't o' gigglin', "I ain't ole, I 'll let you see, D'ain't no use in gittin' feeble, now you youngstahs jes' watch me," An' he grabbed ole Aunt Marier—weighs th'ee hunderd mo' er less, An' he spun huh 'roun' de cabin swingin' Johnny lak de res'. Evahbody laffed an' hollahed: "Go it! Swing huh, Uncle Jim!" An' he swung huh too, I reckon, lak a youngstah, who but him. Dat was bettah 'n young Scott Thomas, tryin' to be so awful smaht. You know when dey gits to singin' an' dey comes to dat ere paht: "In some lady's new brick house, In some lady's gyahden. Ef you don't let me out, I will jump out, So fa' you well, my dahlin'." Den dey 's got a circle 'roun' you, an' you's got to break de line; Well, dat dahky was so anxious, lak to bust hisse'f a-tryin'; Kep' on blund'rin' 'roun' an' foolin' 'twell he giv' one gread big jump, Broke de line, an lit head-fo'most in de fiah-place right plump; Hit 'ad fiah in it, mind you; well, I thought my soul I 'd bust, Tried my best to keep f'om laffin', but hit seemed like die I must! Y' ought to seen dat man a-scramblin' f'om de ashes an' de grime. Did it bu'n him! Sich a question, why he did n't give it time; Th'ow'd dem ashes and dem cindahs evah which-a-way I guess, An' you nevah did, I reckon, clap yo' eyes on sich a mess; Fu' he sholy made a picter an' a funny one to boot, Wif his clothes all full o' ashes an' his face all full o' soot. Well, hit laked to stopped de pahty, an' I reckon lak ez not Dat it would ef Tom's wife, Mandy, had n't happened on de spot, To invite us out to suppah—well, we scrambled to de table, An' I 'd lak to tell you 'bout it—what we had—but I ain't able, Mention jes' a few things, dough I know I had n't orter, Fu' I know 't will staht a hank'rin' an' yo' mouf 'll 'mence to worter. We had wheat bread white ez cotton an' a egg pone jes like gol', Hog jole, bilin' hot an' steamin' roasted shoat an' ham sliced cold— Look out! What's de mattah wif you? Don't be fallin' on de flo'; Ef it 's go'n' to 'fect you dat way, I won't tell you nothin' mo'. Dah now—well, we had hot chittlin's—now you 's tryin' ag'in to fall, Cain't you stan' to hyeah about it? S'pose you'd been an' seed it all; Seed dem gread big sweet pertaters, layin' by de possum's side, Seed dat coon in all his gravy, reckon den you 'd up and died! Mandy 'lowed "you all mus' 'scuse me, d' wa'n't much upon my she'ves, But I's done my bes' to suit you, so set down an' he'p yo'se'ves." Tom, he 'lowed: "I don't b'lieve in 'pologisin' an' perfessin', Let 'em tek it lak dey ketch it. Eldah Thompson, ask de blessin'." Wish you 'd seed dat colo'ed preachah cleah his th'oat an' bow his head; One eye shet, an' one eye open,—dis is evah wud he said: "Lawd, look down in tendah mussy on sich generous hea'ts ez dese; Make us truly thankful, amen. Pass dat possum, ef you please!" Well, we eat and drunk ouah po'tion, 'twell dah was n't nothin' lef, An' we felt jes' like new sausage, we was mos' nigh stuffed to def! Tom, he knowed how we 'd be feelin', so he had de fiddlah 'roun', An' he made us cleah de cabin fu' to dance dat suppah down. Jim, de fiddlah, chuned his fiddle, put some rosum on his bow, Set a pine box on de table, mounted it an' let huh go! He's a fiddlah, now I tell you, an' he made dat fiddle ring, 'Twell de ol'est an' de lamest had to give deir feet a fling. Jigs, cotillions, reels an' breakdowns, cordrills an' a waltz er two; Bless yo' soul, dat music winged 'em an' dem people lak to flew. Cripple Joe, de old rheumatic, danced dat flo' f'om side to middle, Th'owed away his crutch an' hopped it; what's rheumatics 'ginst a fiddle? Eldah Thompson got so tickled dat he lak to los' his grace, Had to tek bofe feet an' hol' dem so 's to keep 'em in deir place. An' de Christuns an' de sinnahs got so mixed up on dat flo', Dat I don't see how dey 'd pahted ef de trump had chanced to blow. Well, we danced dat way an' capahed in de mos' redic'lous way, 'Twell de roostahs in de bahnyard cleahed deir th'oats an' crowed fu' day. Y' ought to been dah, fu' I tell you evahthing was rich an' prime, An' dey ain't no use in talkin', we jes had one scrumptious time!



LYRICS OF THE HEARTHSIDE

LOVE'S APOTHEOSIS

Love me. I care not what the circling years To me may do. If, but in spite of time and tears, You prove but true.

Love me—albeit grief shall dim mine eyes, And tears bedew, I shall not e'en complain, for then my skies Shall still be blue.

Love me, and though the winter snow shall pile, And leave me chill, Thy passion's warmth shall make for me, meanwhile, A sun-kissed hill.

And when the days have lengthened into years, And I grow old, Oh, spite of pains and griefs and cares and fears, Grow thou not cold.

Then hand and hand we shall pass up the hill, I say not down; That twain go up, of love, who 've loved their fill,— To gain love's crown.

Love me, and let my life take up thine own, As sun the dew. Come, sit, my queen, for in my heart a throne Awaits for you!

THE PARADOX

I am the mother of sorrows, I am the ender of grief; I am the bud and the blossom, I am the late-falling leaf.

I am thy priest and thy poet, I am thy serf and thy king; I cure the tears of the heartsick, When I come near they shall sing.

White are my hands as the snowdrop; Swart are my fingers as clay; Dark is my frown as the midnight, Fair is my brow as the day.

Battle and war are my minions, Doing my will as divine; I am the calmer of passions, Peace is a nursling of mine.

Speak to me gently or curse me, Seek me or fly from my sight; I am thy fool in the morning, Thou art my slave in the night.

Down to the grave will I take thee, Out from the noise of the strife; Then shalt thou see me and know me— Death, then, no longer, but life.

Then shalt thou sing at my coming. Kiss me with passionate breath, Clasp me and smile to have thought me Aught save the foeman of Death.

Come to me, brother, when weary, Come when thy lonely heart swells; I 'll guide thy footsteps and lead thee Down where the Dream Woman dwells.

OVER THE HILLS

Over the hills and the valleys of dreaming Slowly I take my way. Life is the night with its dream-visions teeming, Death is the waking at day.

Down thro' the dales and the bowers of loving, Singing, I roam afar. Daytime or night-time, I constantly roving,— Dearest one, thou art my star.

WITH THE LARK

Night is for sorrow and dawn is for joy, Chasing the troubles that fret and annoy; Darkness for sighing and daylight for song,— Cheery and chaste the strain, heartfelt and strong. All the night through, though I moan in the dark, I wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

Deep in the midnight the rain whips the leaves, Softly and sadly the wood-spirit grieves. But when the first hue of dawn tints the sky, I shall shake out my wings like the birds and be dry; And though, like the rain-drops, I grieved through the dark, I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

On the high hills of heaven, some morning to be, Where the rain shall not grieve thro' the leaves of the tree, There my heart will be glad for the pain I have known, For my hand will be clasped in the hand of mine own; And though life has been hard and death's pathway been dark, I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

IN SUMMER

Oh, summer has clothed the earth In a cloak from the loom of the sun! And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue, And a belt where the rivers run.

And now for the kiss of the wind, And the touch of the air's soft hands, With the rest from strife and the heat of life, With the freedom of lakes and lands.

I envy the farmer's boy Who sings as he follows the plow; While the shining green of the young blades lean To the breezes that cool his brow.

He sings to the dewy morn, No thought of another's ear; But the song he sings is a chant for kings And the whole wide world to hear.

He sings of the joys of life, Of the pleasures of work and rest, From an o'erfull heart, without aim or art; 'T is a song of the merriest.

O ye who toil in the town, And ye who moil in the mart, Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong Shall renew your joy of heart.

Oh, poor were the worth of the world If never a song were heard,— If the sting of grief had no relief, And never a heart were stirred.

So, long as the streams run down, And as long as the robins trill, Let us taunt old Care with a merry air, And sing in the face of ill.

THE MYSTIC SEA

The smell of the sea in my nostrils, The sound of the sea in mine ears; The touch of the spray on my burning face, Like the mist of reluctant tears.

The blue of the sky above me, The green of the waves beneath; The sun flashing down on a gray-white sail Like a scimitar from its sheath.

And ever the breaking billows, And ever the rocks' disdain; And ever a thrill in mine inmost heart That my reason cannot explain.

So I say to my heart, "Be silent, The mystery of time is here; Death's way will be plain when we fathom the main, And the secret of life be clear."

A SAILOR'S SONG

Oh for the breath of the briny deep, And the tug of the bellying sail, With the sea-gull's cry across the sky And a passing boatman's hail. For, be she fierce or be she gay, The sea is a famous friend alway.

Ho! for the plains where the dolphins play, And the bend of the mast and spars, And a fight at night with the wild sea-sprite When the foam has drowned the stars. And, pray, what joy can the landsman feel Like the rise and fall of a sliding keel?

Fair is the mead; the lawn is fair And the birds sing sweet on the lea; But the echo soft of a song aloft Is the strain that pleases me; And swish of rope and ring of chain Are music to men who sail the main.

Then, if you love me, let me sail While a vessel dares the deep; For the ship 's my wife, and the breath of life Are the raging gales that sweep; And when I 'm done with calm and blast, A slide o'er the side, and rest at last.

THE BOHEMIAN

Bring me the livery of no other man. I am my own to robe me at my pleasure. Accepted rules to me disclose no treasure: What is the chief who shall my garments plan? No garb conventional but I 'll attack it. (Come, why not don my spangled jacket?)

ABSENCE

Good-night, my love, for I have dreamed of thee In waking dreams, until my soul is lost— Is lost in passion's wide and shoreless sea, Where, like a ship, unruddered, it is tost Hither and thither at the wild waves' will. There is no potent Master's voice to still This newer, more tempestuous Galilee!

The stormy petrels of my fancy fly In warning course across the darkening green, And, like a frightened bird, my heart doth cry And seek to find some rock of rest between The threatening sky and the relentless wave. It is not length of life that grief doth crave, But only calm and peace in which to die.

Here let me rest upon this single hope, For oh, my wings are weary of the wind, And with its stress no more may strive or cope. One cry has dulled mine ears, mine eyes are blind,— Would that o'er all the intervening space, I might fly forth and see thee face to face. I fly; I search, but, love, in gloom I grope.

Fly home, far bird, unto thy waiting nest; Spread thy strong wings above the wind-swept sea. Beat the grim breeze with thy unruffled breast Until thou sittest wing to wing with me. Then, let the past bring up its tales of wrong; We shall chant low our sweet connubial song, Till storm and doubt and past no more shall be!

HER THOUGHT AND HIS

The gray of the sea, and the gray of the sky, A glimpse of the moon like a half-closed eye. The gleam on the waves and the light on the land, A thrill in my heart,—and—my sweetheart's hand.

She turned from the sea with a woman's grace, And the light fell soft on her upturned face, And I thought of the flood-tide of infinite bliss That would flow to my heart from a single kiss.

But my sweetheart was shy, so I dared not ask For the boon, so bravely I wore the mask. But into her face there came a flame:— I wonder could she have been thinking the same?

THE RIGHT TO DIE

I have no fancy for that ancient cant That makes us masters of our destinies, And not our lives, to hold or give them up As will directs; I cannot, will not think That men, the subtle worms, who plot and plan And scheme and calculate with such shrewd wit, Are such great blund'ring fools as not to know When they have lived enough. Men court not death When there are sweets still left in life to taste. Nor will a brave man choose to live when he, Full deeply drunk of life, has reached the dregs, And knows that now but bitterness remains. He is the coward who, outfaced in this, Fears the false goblins of another life. I honor him who being much harassed Drinks of sweet courage until drunk of it,— Then seizing Death, reluctant, by the hand, Leaps with him, fearless, to eternal peace!

BEHIND THE ARRAS

As in some dim baronial hall restrained, A prisoner sits, engirt by secret doors And waving tapestries that argue forth Strange passages into the outer air; So in this dimmer room which we call life, Thus sits the soul and marks with eye intent That mystic curtain o'er the portal death; Still deeming that behind the arras lies The lambent way that leads to lasting light. Poor fooled and foolish soul! Know now that death Is but a blind, false door that nowhere leads, And gives no hope of exit final, free.

WHEN THE OLD MAN SMOKES

In the forenoon's restful quiet, When the boys are off at school, When the window lights are shaded And the chimney-corner cool, Then the old man seeks his armchair, Lights his pipe and settles back; Falls a-dreaming as he draws it Till the smoke-wreaths gather black.

And the tear-drops come a-trickling Down his cheeks, a silver flow— Smoke or memories you wonder, But you never ask him,—no; For there 's something almost sacred To the other family folks In those moods of silent dreaming When the old man smokes.

Ah, perhaps he sits there dreaming Of the love of other days And of how he used to lead her Through the merry dance's maze; How he called her "little princess," And, to please her, used to twine Tender wreaths to crown her tresses, From the "matrimony vine."

Then before his mental vision Comes, perhaps, a sadder day, When they left his little princess Sleeping with her fellow clay. How his young heart throbbed, and pained him! Why, the memory of it chokes! Is it of these things he 's thinking When the old man smokes?

But some brighter thoughts possess him, For the tears are dried the while. And the old, worn face is wrinkled In a reminiscent smile, From the middle of the forehead To the feebly trembling lip, At some ancient prank remembered Or some long unheard-of quip.

Then the lips relax their tension And the pipe begins to slide, Till in little clouds of ashes, It falls softly at his side; And his head bends low and lower Till his chin lies on his breast, And he sits in peaceful slumber Like a little child at rest.

Dear old man, there 's something sad'ning, In these dreamy moods of yours, Since the present proves so fleeting, All the past for you endures. Weeping at forgotten sorrows, Smiling at forgotten jokes; Life epitomized in minutes, When the old man smokes.

THE GARRET

Within a London garret high, Above the roofs and near the sky, My ill-rewarding pen I ply To win me bread. This little chamber, six by four, Is castle, study, den, and more,— Altho' no carpet decks the floor, Nor down, the bed.

My room is rather bleak and bare; I only have one broken chair, But then, there's plenty of fresh air,— Some light, beside. What tho' I cannot ask my friends To share with me my odds and ends, A liberty my aerie lends, To most denied.

The bore who falters at the stair No more shall be my curse and care, And duns shall fail to find my lair With beastly bills. When debts have grown and funds are short, I find it rather pleasant sport To live "above the common sort" With all their ills.

I write my rhymes and sing away, And dawn may come or dusk or day: Tho' fare be poor, my heart is gay. And full of glee. Though chimney-pots be all my views; 'T is nearer for the winging Muse, So I am sure she 'll not refuse To visit me.

TO E. H. K.

ON THE RECEIPT OF A FAMILIAR POEM

To me, like hauntings of a vagrant breath From some far forest which I once have known, The perfume of this flower of verse is blown. Tho' seemingly soul-blossoms faint to death, Naught that with joy she bears e'er withereth. So, tho' the pregnant years have come and flown, Lives come and gone and altered like mine own, This poem comes to me a shibboleth: Brings sound of past communings to my ear, Turns round the tide of time and bears me back Along an old and long untraversed way; Makes me forget this is a later year, Makes me tread o'er a reminiscent track, Half sad, half glad, to one forgotten day!