and

————

Best wishes of the season to each and every one;
May the fairest gifts attend thee till the day of time is done.
Flow thy lives as smoothly as the tide of Heavenly love,
And sweetest songs be given to the King of Kings above.

————

By

————

Lowell, Mass.
The Lawler Printing Company.
1901.
Copyright by
CORA C. BASS,
1901.

PREFACE.

Thanks are due to The New York Observer, Zion’s Herald, The Standard, Boston Transcript, Portland Transcript, New England Home Magazine and others.

I would also take this opportunity of expressing my gratitude to the many friends who gave so kindly a welcome to my first book of poems.

CORA C. BASS.

CONTENTS

Songs for All Seasons.

SONGS FOR ALL SEASONS.

Songs for all seasons, thrice welcome,
And grateful they are to the ear;
The rhythmical ring of each measure
As the voice of the wood-thrush is clear.
We hear the first note of the springtime,
And quickly our hearts are attune
With melodies pulsing around us,
Till Winter, himself, is as June.

Songs for all seasons, we love them,
The harmonies borne on the breeze.
We love the deep tones of the billows,
The brisk, busy, hum of the bees.
The harvesting songs they are pleasant,
The scent of the harvest, how sweet!
Yet never a song of the seasons
With winter’s own song can compete.

BRAVELY DO AND BRAVELY BEAR.

I will bravely do and bravely bear
Whatever God may send,
Well knowing He will ease my care
And His true child defend.
I will bravely do and bravely bear,
Yea, strive to do my best,
Whether the way be dark or fair,
And leave to Him the rest.

THE WAVES OF CHANCE.

Buffeted by the waves of chance,
Uncertain what to do,
We sail the sea of circumstance
A voyage ever new.
The beacon light too often hid,
On which we could rely,
Can Hope betray us? God forbid!
The haven still is nigh.

Buffeted by the waves of chance,
Without the compass—choice,
Neglecting when we should advance
The one directing voice;
Bewildered by the blinding spray
We fail to count the cost,
And court the dangers of delay
When reckonings are lost.

Buffeted by the waves of chance,
Rejecting what is best,
We scan the billows’ wild expanse
An eager, ceaseless quest.
The faithful pilot we have missed,
No fault of his, our own;
It means destruction to desist,—
We battle on alone.

Buffeted by the waves of chance,
Not knowing where to land,
We need a keen, unerring glance,
A firm, a steadfast hand.
The ship of life triumphant glides
Past doubt’s delusive reef,
And joyfully at anchor rides
In yon fair bay—Belief.

PRECIOUS SEED.

If no one planted precious seed
How barren all the land would be,
North and south and east and west,
Never plenty, never rest;
For a harvest rich and free,
Vain to plead.

Be ready, all along the way,
To seek the motive power of life;
Free to sow, to garner in,
Love its sure reward will win.
Undismayed by doubt or strife,
Work away.

If each man did the best he could
In winter as in summer time;
By pleasure’s side, on sorrow’s brink,
His life chain forging link by link;
Easy it would be to climb,
Doing good.

OURS IS THE CHOICE.

Most gracious choice!
What is a soul without a voice?
A noble thought develops noble deeds,
Words give thought freedom, words are wings,
Deft carriers of mysterious things
Too glorious to behold;
They bear swift witness to our needs
And make the true heart bold,
To mirror forth in language quaint,
The image fancy cannot paint.

THE SUM OF LIFE.

Day by day the weeks go by,
Month by month the swift years fly,
Hour by hour we work, we live,
Love and labor, gain and give.

Taking blessings as they come,
In the total find life’s sum;
Bind as in a volume vast,
Read the future by the past.

Only reaching heights sublime,
Willing step by step to climb;
Wealth to which a soul succeeds
Is to what the present leads.

BUILD.

How much can we hope to win, while we merely sit and plan?
It is better far to build, just building the best we can.
And pleasant it is to build though the building itself is small,
Though many a builder fail and many a building fall.
It is ever the willing hands are sure to accomplish most;
It is ever the truthful lips are least inclined to boast;
It is ever the loving heart, is the safest heart to trust;
Let us build because we may, and not because we must.

THE PERFECT SONG.

Shall we not gladly sing the song
A fainting heart to cheer?
Although the path is dark and long
Some saving help is near.
There is no hill so hard to climb
We may not reach the top;
It were a needless waste of time
To stop.

Shall we not gladly sing the song
To speed men on their way,
And swell the throng, the happy throng,
Swift pressing on to-day?
Which would we choose, to bravely sing
The while we do our best,
Or to an idle fancy cling
And rest?

In the refrain of one sweet song
Each silent voice we miss,
A song to make the feeble strong,
A song to breathe of bliss.
The song which white robed seraphs hold
All other songs above;
The perfect song, the new, the old,
Of Love.

SUNSHINE.

There is plenty of sunshine in the world
To brighten the darkest days;
Are we sailing on with our colors furled,
Or spread to the cheering rays?
Are we sailing on with downcast eyes,
Or eyes on the gleaming goal?
Safe is the trip of the ship of the skies
Though the waves of the clouds rough roll.

“IT IS GOD’S WAY.”

Rest, kindly heart, content to say
“It is God’s way,
His will be done.”
Thrice blessed thought,
With bliss enwrought,
For Freedom’s son.

Rest, kingly soul, inspired to say
“It is God’s way,
His will be done.”
While nations weep
And vigil keep,
Thy course is run.

Rest, martyr, lo! we hear thee say:—
“It is God’s way,
His will be done.”
“Nearer to Thee,”
Oh, tender plea,
The crown is won.

TIME.

When there is urgent need for haste
Can we move slow?
Let precious moments run to waste
A chance forego?
Achievement’s dizzy heights alone
Stand forth sublime;
There is no penance to atone
For loss of time.

MAY.

From southern climes, O swiftly wing thy way
And pour thy symphonies in cadence sweet
Upon the air. ’Tis done, and at thy feet
Forget-me-nots soft nestle in the spray
Fresh scattered by the dew-drops in their play:
Ay, even over echo’s proud retreat,
Monadnoc, lies thy handiwork complete;
All hail thee, gentle queen,—benignant May!

May, brilliant May, with arbutus adorned;
Fairer than life itself when hope prevails;
Thy minstrels pipe in peace from yon blue pond,
Where water-lilies spread their airy sails,
And feathered songsters wake the wood beyond
With notes more ringing sweet than nightingale’s.

For what is England’s silver-throated bird
The heart of free America to thrill;
When robin’s merry strain, the lark’s wild trill,
Fall on the fainting faith like some fond word
From lips beloved, that other days have heard,—
Which spurred the lagging feet to climb the hill,
That ere the “sweet note” fell forgot their will
And marveled—what the feeble steps deterred.

Then, as on zephyr wing the summons came,
It cheered the soul triumphant on its way;
It fanned the “spark celestial” to a flame
Which shimmered through the night’s bewildered gray
To glow about the One All-Blessed Name,
And write in lines of gold: “Hail! Bonny May!”

MAN AND THE MIST.

He cannot sweep away the mist
However he may toil,
Content to weary years persist
It would his efforts foil.
There is a place of vision clear
Where earth and sky are blending,
Impelling him to persevere,
From height to height ascending.

How good it is when man can rise
Above the mist-hung valley,
He must, who on his worth relies,
To his own rescue rally.
He murmurs not at rocks ahead
But vaulting lightly o’er them,
Will triumph over foemen dread
Or better yet ignore them.

Not seeking to the mist dispel
Thus precious moments wasting,
He marvels not that others fell
While upward, onward, hasting.
He hears the sound on ev’ry hand
Of people vainly shouting,
But knowing where he soon may stand
Gives not a thought to doubting.

He pushes on with heart athrill;
Though weaker souls may taunt him,
Succeed he must, succeed he will,
No obstacle can daunt him.
There is a place for all who climb
He cannot fail to find it,
The mist must veil a truth sublime
For there’s the sun behind it.

THE FLOWERS.

Weary and ill,
Fair messengers and sweet
They healthful thoughts and gracious hopes entreat,
Fragrant out breathings from some balmy hill,
Fresh from their sky-domed, leafy bowers,
Thrice blessed flowers!

Oppressive walls
Instinctively expand,
And sunny fields unfold on either hand,
As singing rills repeat the blithe bird calls.
We walk in breezy woodland bowers,
Seeing the flowers.

The burdened brain
Submissive to their spell
Is quick to heed the gentle tale they tell:
No baby blossom ever blooms in vain.
Borne from their dreamy, dewy bowers;
Cherish the flowers.

RECOMPENSE.

After the shadows, sunshine;
Quiet after the pain;
Light for the mountain passes
And for the desert rain.
After the shadows, sunshine,
After the failure, success;
Never a pleasure is taken
But something is given to bless.

THE WAY.

The way may be rough,
And our footsteps may falter,
Though foeman rebuff,
The right cannot alter;
As upward we climb
Each trouble outbraving,
More sweet and sublime
Is the boon we are craving.

The way may be long,
And the day may be dreary;
The world is not wrong
Because we are weary.
A cloud may annoy,
But soon shall we read it
By light of the joy
And the peace that succeed it.

A SONG.

A song makes merry music ’mid the hills,
Like laughing rills.
On heaven’s bright sea its echo lingers long,
Love is a song.
A quenchless melody given to inspire
The fainting heart with bold, ambitious fire;
Springing from out the life,
As pain is born of strife.
A sweet conception of the joy to be,
Delightful, free.
Gladly our lips take up the winsome strain
And make the meaning of its birthright plain.

THE MISSING SHIP.

Any news yet of the missing ship?
Any news yet? we say;
A household word on every lip,
The name of that ship to-day:
The name of the ship who left her dock
In the blush of the early morn,
Has she struck, unknown, on some cruel rock
With never a voice to warn?

Any news yet of the missing ship?
Any news yet? we cry;
We speak her name with a trembling lip,
To her aid we fain would fly.
Adrift at mercy of wind and wave;
Storm spent on a desolate shore:—
May there be one guardian hand to save,
’Mid the billows rush and roar.

Any news yet of the missing ship?
Any news yet? we sigh;
We speak her name with a timid lip,
And pray for a kind reply.
For life and death in a moment blend,
Who ever the captain may be;
We never can tell how a trip will end,
When a ship puts out to sea.

TRANQUILITY.

We well may keep a tranquil mind
Whatever changes meeting,
The world is happier we find
For ev’ry pleasant greeting.
How easy then to work away
At each new problem set us,
For even on the darkest day
Some gleam of hope has met us.

There is no hill so hard to climb,
We may not reach the summit;
There is no task, but patience, time,
Will grandly overcome it.
We cannot look for light in vain,
Behold it all around us;
Perplexing paths shall be made plain,
When victory has crowned us.

NO DUTY IS TOO DIFFICULT TO DO.

Attentive to the work the will requires
The hand achieves the task the heart desires;
No duty is too difficult to do,
The end in view.

The end in view, if hope, or love, it be;
Content, when it can set a brother free;
Or bid him move rejoicing on his way
The while ’tis day.

Attentive to the work the will requires,
The hand perfects the task the heart desires,
No duty is too difficult to do,
The end in view.

“OLD YEAR, ADIEU.”

A happy measure smites the ear.
It pealeth full, it pealeth clear;
And at the “witching hour” of night,
Awakes a rapture of delight.
Across the land, across the sea,
The merry strain is borne along;
While even seraphs bend the knee
Before the majesty of song.

Old Year—alas, we cannot stay
Thy eager footsteps for a day;
Thy work is done, and thou shalt go,
A rival is at hand we know.
Across the land, across the sea,
The merry strain is borne along;
Ah! surely it is bliss to flee
Upon the pinions of a song.

Hark!—clear and strong and full and free,
I hear the bells saluting thee;
They seem to say “Old Year, adieu”—
And “halleluiah” to the New.
Across the land, across the sea,
The merry peal is borne along,
And all the world must happy be
To hear the oft-repeated song.

WASHINGTON.

’Twas Christmas eve, the enemy his vigilance for once relaxed;
Well might such gusts of angry sleet the keenest zeal have overtaxed.

The ice thronged Delaware ran bleak, but friendly, to the distant bay,
While to and fro upon his beat the sentry took his patient way.

A gallant force full often tried was swiftly plying mattock, spade,
While those who first should stem the tide, moved calmly forth as on parade.

They met in silence, halted, marched, the merest motion a command,
A raging river rolled before; the “Lion” hungered near at hand.

The watchfires gleaming through the mist seemed saying:—Courage! men, good cheer.
None may suppose while bright we burn, that not a soldier lingers near.

The hero faced a bank of gloom, it spoke security, success.
He saw the country free and felt a glow of holy happiness.

Within the measure of a breath he saw the revolution o’er,
He saw Mount Vernon smile in peace above the blue Potomac’s shore.

But happy times were yet to come, a grim invader walked the land,
Oh that he might by one dread blow bid yonder Hessian horde disband.

The frost lay white upon his brow, the blizzard raved, he heeded not,
No hand but God’s should stand between his army and the goal it sought.

And so he crossed the Delaware, a lesser man had quailed to view,
He crossed it, for full well he knew how brave his men although how few.

The boat was faithful to its trust, it bore him slowly, surely, o’er;
And scorned to heed the groaning mass that pressed upon it more and more.

So victor crowned, at early morn, through Trenton’s smoke hung streets he passed,
Like one, who after weary days, has caught a glimpse of home at last.

He passed in triumph, passed to find, though other battles loomed before,
That monarchy, could not again, in this free land her loss restore.

COMRADES.

Comrades, yea comrades in war and comrades in peace,
Comrades when bugles were sounding a blessed release;

Comrades when bullets were whistling and death rode in sight,
Comrades ’mid battle and conquest and comrades to-night.

Comrades when many a river ran red with blood,
Comrades when war swept us on with the force of a flood;
Comrades when charging the fortress each fain would be first;
Comrades where thickest and fiercest the hissing shells burst.

Comrades, even as in the great conflicts of yore,
Comrades with danger behind us and danger before;
Comrades when tempests of sorrow were shrouding the sky,
Comrades to suffer and conquer, or suffer and die.

CHARACTER.

Armed with reason, braced by knowledge,
Surely such a one is king;
Ready in his honest manhood
For whatever fate may bring.
Public spirited, courageous,
Gauging chances at their best;
Let his character commend him,
Time will gladly do the rest.

WHAT IS THERE TO BE THANKFUL FOR?

“What is there to be thankful for?”
I think I hear you say:
Hope is a happy counsellor
When clouds hang dull and gray;
The sky is dark, the way is long,
The hours move sad and slow;
A fitting time for one sweet song
To set the heart aglow.

A fitting time for one sweet song
To echo far and wide,
The sky is dark, the way is long,
My strength is sorely tried.
Though dark the sky and long the way,
I’ll keep love’s armor bright.
Still singing, through the night, the day,
I know God’s will is right.

How oft the eager pulse must thrill
To robin’s liquid note;
A merry tune, the May-buds trill
’Neath winter’s shielding coat.
There sounds a gracious hymn of praise
From ev’ry living thing;
Because the sun refuse its rays
Can I refuse to sing?

Can I refuse to sing when some
Might find the timid strain
More powerful than trump or drum,
And swell the glad refrain?
Lo, Christ has made me free to rise
From man’s forlorn estate,
To look beyond the stormy skies
And see the pearly gate.

What is there to be thankful for?
A will that would obey;
A soul that stands as conqueror,
And this, that I may pray.
Lo, Christ has made me free to rise
From man’s forlorn estate,
I look beyond the stormy skies
And see the pearly gate.

LIFE’S TEMPLE.

How shall we plan life’s temple? With a height divine,
Wherein rare workmanship and worth combine;
Or low and rambling, that the prisoned soul
May trace no semblance of the wondrous whole,
To which its hopes so eagerly aspire?
We can but fashion what we most admire.

How shall we plan life’s temple? By design complete,
Which on the world’s highway we fain would meet;
Then ere Night dons her star-encrusted veil
To silent journey over hill and dale,
The dream of youth, at least, may proudly stand—
An ideal structure in an ideal land.

How shall we build life’s temple? Build it stone on stone
And ever build, no part abides alone.
We labor vainly if we fail to know
A firm foundation though ’tis builded slow,
Is built to stand, when hearts are bold to dare
And bound to conquer as to do and bear.

WHAT DO WE OWE OUR FRIENDS?

What do we owe our friends? We owe them love, not fear,
Love that the closer clings when storms are near;
Love that shall speak in eye, in voice, in hand,
And steadfast stand.

What do we owe our friends but loyalty and trust?
Forever faithful, sympathetic, just;
A peerless comforter, and shield and guide,
Whate’er betide.

What do we owe our friends? The kinship of good deeds,
A soul responsive to their deepest needs,
To share life’s burdens all the weary way,
And watch, and pray.

What do we owe our friends? The patience which forbears;
And fond communion ’mid their joys, their cares;
A gracious spirit firm to do its best,
Nor doubt, nor rest.

What do we owe our friends? Kind thoughts and pleasant cheer
Born of affection tender and sincere,
And ready service, the efficient seal
Of earnest zeal.

What do we owe our friends? We owe them love, not fear,
Love that the closer clings when storms are near,
Love that shall speak in eye, in voice, in hand,
And steadfast stand.

MEMORIAL DAY.
[Dedicated to the G. A. R. Read at Huntington Hall.]

With muffled drum, with banners furled, with martial step and slow,
Oh, gather by the sacred dust, the dust that lies below;
Oh, gather by the sacred dust of comrades loyal, true,
Wave over them thy benison, the red, the white, the blue.

May this fair Union stand complete, a monument divine
To those who sacrificed their lives at freedom’s holy shrine;
Upon each thirtieth of May with solemn tread we come,
And pay them tender tribute to the throbbing of the drum.

We marched with them, we fought with them, our bed the sullen sod,
With not a star above us and without a hope, save God;
’Mid cannon’s roar, the halt, the dash, the victory, retreat,
We saw them falling ’round us as the sickle fells the wheat.

Oh, dark the days that followed fast on Baltimore, Bull Run,
Beneath the torrid fierceness of a blazing southern sun;
With Butler in his bold campaigns, with Sherman by the sea,
We shoulder stood to shoulder in the battle of the free.

And ever through the living past there flows a tender vein,
To stir the heart and open wounds that bleed and bleed again,
As tearful eyes and empty arms to death itself appealed,
Alas for those who sadly knelt on Desolation’s field!

Oh, there are many lonely lie beneath the rev’rent blue,
But they will not be missing from the final grand review;
Let wives and mothers gather near, and little children weep
Above the dreary pillows where the martyred heroes sleep.

The martyred heroes; yonder shaft of granite guards a spot,
The sepulchre of comrades that can never be forgot;
While pride endures, and nations thrive, and patriots survive
Must Lowell keep the mem’ry of her own great loss alive.

She scatters garlands o’er her dead and softly tolls the bells,
But for her martyred heroes are the precious immortelles.
Oh, Ladd and Whitney, side by side, in peaceful silence rest,
Among the fairest jewels that adorn Columbia’s breast.

We cannot think of them as lost, for moving on and on
The soul shall rise triumphant on the resurrection morn;
Upon the angel wings of prayer let thought sublime ascend
Until we feel the grandeur that the dying comprehend.

With muffled drum, with banners furled, with martial step and slow,
Oh, gather by the sacred dust, the dust that lies below;
And mingle with the breath of flowers that sigh above the brave,
The note of lamentation, like an echo from the grave.

The laurel wreath, the tearful eye and Honor’s fairest crown
Are drops in life’s great ocean to the price that they laid down.
Hush! listen to the sacred dirge, it swells,—it sobs,—it dies:
Until we see them marching, marching home beyond the skies.

OUR CITY.

Turn backward the close written pages,
Close written with deeds breathing praise,
A secret attracting the sages,
The fruitful reward of our gaze.
Yes, turn back the close written pages, in gratitude seeking the clue;
Be thankful to find it and wonder to such a fair record review.

Her history daily unfolding,
Through life of the daughter, the son,
From models the moments are molding
The fame of our city is won.
Her rapid development shows us, the Merrimack’s run to the sea
Has not been more true to its mission than she to her promise will be.

How patiently Labor has striven,
Bespeaking the boon of success;
The loom and the spindle once given
Have proven as guerdons to bless.
The fields boldly trodden by red men, in league with each meadow and hill,
Where lingered the good Wannalancit, now answer to Industry’s will.

While yet a mere village came duly
Determined and far seeing men,
So skillfully wrought they, so truly,
The present was plain to them, then.
They planned with a clear sighted vision, their eyes on futurity bent,
Ambitious to build to their utmost, that none might have cause to lament.

The hand-maiden Knowledge beside them
Led Genius, twin-brother of Art;
A blessing could not be denied them,
Each steadfastly doing his part.
The summons of Lincoln stood honored as soon as the summons was heard,
And later when Cuba was calling how many went forth at the word.

Adversity’s forces defying
The County, the Country, the State
On Lowell are wise in relying
Till tempests of trouble abate.
Rejoice in the marvellous brightness illuming the glorious past,
Prosperity’s presence will grandly the scope of the future forecast.

NIGHT.

The mellow moonbeams glint along the waves,
Beyond the inky blur yon frowning height
Full oft impresses on the tranquil deep.
What eagle glances pierce the veil of gloom!
Each galaxy of light proclaims a town,
Instinct with life, as childhood is with joy.
Afar, like some dim phantom of the hour,
A liner speeds majestic on her way;
While beaconward a schooner lies at ease,
A graceful shadow on a silvered sea.

LITTLE WIDE-AWAKE.

Would you see a winsome fairy with her baby eyes alight,
As she wrestles with the problem: “Oh, will Santy come to-night?”
Mischief beaming in the glances where the dainty dimples hide,
’Mid a wealth of wiles bewitching at the merry Christmas tide.
Twice her eager ears have heard,
Sounds as if the yule log stirred;
Thrice the reindeer bells have rung
Since the twilight hour was young.

From her rosy lips and fingers honey-sweet caresses fall,
Like a tender benediction on the loving hearts of all;
And with each exultant jingle from the busy street below
Hark the joyful proclamation:—“He is coming now, I know.”
Singing blithely as a wren:—
“Peace on earth, good will to men.”
Wafted on the strain so sweet,
Surely earth and heaven meet.

How she warms and glows and sparkles, like a precious human gem,
Till she kneels beside the chimney at the setting of P.M.
With her gentle face uplifted and the drooping lashes wet,
Whispering the fond petition which she never can forget:—
For the lonely and the sad
That the morrow may be glad,
And that Kris herself will bless
With just one benign caress.

Hurry, darling, let us go to the magic realm of sleep,
It is over there, you know, we may hear a love-bird peep;
Hang the stocking up in state where Saint Nicholas must see,
Then away to fair dreamland on the fast express with me.
Happy Little Wide-Awake,
Santy comes and no mistake;
But she misses half the bliss
Of his pleasant smile and kiss.

TRY TO HELP ANOTHER.

Try to help another whether friend or foe,
And the sweet soul-sunshine shall the brighter glow;
Try to help another fainting by the way,
Lo! the night of sorrow turneth into day.
Try to help another, be he small or great,
Try to help him onward ere it is too late;
Try to help him onward, try to help him up,
Add a heav’nly flavor to his bitter cup.

INDEPENDENCE.

Dimly was the magnitude of the vast result foreseen
When England smote America on Lexington’s fair green.
A just retaliation of the most unrighteous blow,
The hand of the oppressor set the nation’s heart aglow.

There was burning indignation, it swept the outraged land,
The blood of murdered brothers grew too urgent to withstand.
Responsive to the message men were quickened by the news,
Confronting vital issues little need to stop and choose.

The spirit of the people sympathized with those who bore
The burden of the battle and the sword was sheathed no more.
For how could those who suffered be content to bend the knee
To tyranny? ’Twere “better far to die or to be free.”

A noble deed is eloquent to noble deeds inspire,
With broken ranks or columns massed we meet the foeman’s fire.
’Twere better far to perish than to linger here a slave,
God favored independence in the leader, true, he gave.

In that dread hour both sad and sweet which hallowed Bunker Hill,
The bud of freedom flourished in an atmosphere of will,
As Prescott faltered step by step down yonder rugged slope,
His being conquered sorrow in a sudden rush of hope.

While valiantly contending for the long defended field,
He felt Columbia’s future to her noble sons appealed.
The effort was successful in the impulse many gained,
To consecrate their powers to a cause so well maintained.

As Prescott faltered step by step down yonder rugged slope,
His being conquered sorrow in a sudden rush of hope.
In place of troops and smoking spires a peaceful city stood;
No foreign forces fettered her, she wrought for human good.

The vessels raining shot and shell, gave way to ships of trade;
No horde, with hostile purpose, dared the busy streets invade.
A whisper of its presence would united wrath awake,
Beware of idle sophistries, a nation’s life at stake.

The nation’s life at stake, one word will rouse us from our rest,
The patriot stands ready to submit to sternest test.
What sacrifice is too severe when danger is at hand?
The hero’s arm is strong to strike for home and native land.

CONTRASTED LIVES.

Successful men,
Woo the diffusive fire
And yet feel cold.
What of the homeless, then,
In pitiful attire,
Poor, feeble, old?

Affluence weeps,
A bird the weather kills,
Great souls despair.
Love willing vigil keeps,
Till want all feeling chills,
Frozen by care.

Think not to choose,
Or mere convenience seek,
Some faint heart cheer.
Who comfort could refuse,
To weary ones and weak
Perishing near?

THE WAY WILL OPEN.

The way will open it is true
If I but do my best,
I’ll do the things I find to do
And leave to God the rest.

Although the clouds are hanging low
And all the way seems dark,
I’ll do the very best I know:—
The dove was in the ark.

The way will open; Soul, be strong,
And rise to do thy best.
The shadows cannot last for long,
There’s roses in the west.

What matter is the tempest’s rage?
I’ve but to do my part,
’Tis love alone that can assuage
The tempest of the heart.

The way will open it is true
I’ve but to do my best,
I’ll do the things I find to do
And leave to God the rest.

SPRING.

Bright-eyed goddess,—witching spring,—as thy amber tresses glow,
Kindled to immortal flame
Is the breath of honor,—fame.
Well may poets hymn thy praise,—fancy flutter to and fro,—
To a measure full and fleet, to a measure stately, slow;
Thence with heaven for an aim,
Rushing on with glad acclaim:
Hearken to the strain and know, blessed Beulah here below,
Wake! The living notes prolong in a symphony of song,
Floating on the perfumed air
In the angel arms of prayer;
Welcome goddess, spring divine; beauty visions ’round thee twine;
Violets and blossoms sweet
Nestle fondly at thy feet.

VICTORIA.

When have men or nations seen
A life, to rival England’s queen?
What vital interests compressed
Within its span, what truths confessed,
A long, a useful, noble reign.

Maidenhood and age attain
A broader meaning as we view,
Her record, glorious as true.
Each subject, brave to do his part,
Found ready welcome to her heart.

She, the soldier’s work well done,
Proclaimed the wounded hero “Son”;
A royal soul alone reveres,
Worth, where ever it appears,
As light must all the brighter shine.

Springing from a source divine;
Benevolence, when simply shown,
Will gracefully adorn a throne:
The righteous wisdom of her aim,
Glorifies Victoria’s name.

FREEDOM’S SON.

Do you love him, Freedom’s son,
Great, Immortal Washington?
Is your raptured soul athrill,
At his majesty of will?
Unsubdued by doubts and fears,
Proudest of all proud careers,
It was his to boldly climb
Till his deeds stood forth sublime.

Can you see him, Freedom’s son,
Great, immortal, Washington?
See the armies he has led
Up and on where heroes bled?
Battle’s brunt, the foeman’s fire,
Seem but given to inspire,
Well his spirit might prevail
For he could not, would not fail.

Can you see him, Freedom’s son,
Great, immortal, Washington?
Face the ice-thronged Delaware
Knowing death itself is there?
Hark! the rasping, sharp as steel,
How it throbs along the keel;
Fog-enwrapped but firm he stands
With the future in his hands.

Can you see him, Freedom’s son,
Great, immortal, Washington?
Called to crown a record fair
In the Presidential chair.
First of many bound to own
This brave people’s heart a throne,
On the honor roll of fame
Men must ever read his name.

Can you see him, Freedom’s son,
Great, immortal, Washington?
Surely we are wreathing now,
Fadeless laurel for his brow.
When we meet to speak his praise,
Speak the wisdom of his ways,
In a nation’s life we view * * *
Washington, the tried, the true.

OUR RIVER.

Our river, thine and mine;
With what intrepid haste it leaps the falls
Glancing, dancing, whirling, purling, on
Over the gleaming rocks, whose falchions keen
Would rend for aye the glinting canopy
Which spans the flood in rainbow-tinted folds.
Anon the waters lift impulsive arms
Toward yonder sun through bridal veils of mist.
Never is man more moved than when he stands
Gauging the force Omnipotence creates.

SUNSET.

See the cloudlets float to rest,
At the portals of the west;
How they glimmer, how they glance
In a merry sunset dance.

Beautiful and sweet and fair,
As the spirit of a prayer;
With what confidence they lie
On the bosom of the sky.

How they crown the brow of night
With a wreath of ruddy light;
Fair as any flower that blows
In the twilight, pink and rose.

Even so our earthly way,
It will not be always gray;
Soon we, too, shall float to rest—
Past the portals of the west.

MEMORIAL POEM.
[Dedicated to the G. A. R. and read at Huntington Hall.]

Oh, peaceful are the humble graves of fallen comrades far and near,
In sweet communion with the gift we gladly offer year by year
To those who knelt at Freedom’s shrine in all the beauteous bloom of youth,
And fell, a living sacrifice, upon the altar stone of truth.

Though many of our brave marines are resting in the boundless deep,
No band of brothers bending near, the stars eternal vigil keep;
If we can never kneel and say “A noble comrade lies below,”
Upon the honor roll of fame his record shall the brighter glow.

Where legions of the “great unknown” beneath the dainty lilies sleep,
Let little children softly come above the sacred dust to weep;
A solemn sweetness fills the hours when thus devoted to the dead
Who fearless faced the cannon’s mouth and for Columbia fought and bled.

Oh, how we love to gather here upon each thirtieth of May,
And dedicate our choicest thoughts to glorify the Soldiers’ Day;
Beyond the worth of worldly store, or empty plaudits of renown,
The broken shackles of the slave are jewels in the heavenly crown.

To follow Butler’s bold campaigns must every loyal heart inspire,
As when he woke the gallant Sixth to kindle treason’s funeral pyre,
While Ladd and Whitney doomed to fall that dismal day at Baltimore
Were eager with their dying breath to hail the stars and stripes once more.
* * * * *
Athwart the face of Memory’s page we watch the busy brush of Time
Indorsing each heroic deed with one decisive word—“Sublime!”
The voice of victory arose amid the ardor of the strife,
And the patriots—these before me, had preserved a nation’s life.

Consult the dreary prison pen—the wounded heroes side by side,
Who in the weary march of months were sadly wishing they had died;
And marvel not that some are bowed as with a heavy weight of years,
But give to them a gracious meed, of love and gratitude, and tears.

Behold the spires of Gettysburg, the waving wheat, the orchard fair,
How calm it was until the strength of hostile forces entered there,
And then the awful rush and roar of surging armies, day by day,
Of Sickles in the grim retreat, and Sedgwick as he stood at bay.

Oh, how the waiting North rejoiced when Hancock’s sturdy arm prevailed,
Defeated in that last dread charge the flower of the South had failed;
And we have welcomed here tonight the comrades who as conquerors stood,
Whose hands thenceforth were closely linked in one eternal brotherhood.

And while they mourned the tender ties which lay unheeded mid the slain,
Yet not a man would dare proclaim that such as these had died in vain.
Oh, beautiful, and bright, and fair, the glorious banner of the free,
A peerless synonym of right, of hope, of love, of liberty.

And never shall a fold be rent, a color fade, a star be lost,
For freedom sees its azure field with gems of precious blood embossed;
We well may hush our hearts to hear the thrilling dirges sob and die,
Until they almost seem to us like angel whispers floating by.

BLESSED WAS THE NAME SHE BORE.

Wake! oh, nation; wake, and sing!
Bid the “arch of heaven” ring;
Praise, in sweet accord, our pride—
Thirty summers Neptune’s bride.
Kearsarge, a hymn to thee
Floateth over land and sea;
Hark, the chorus! hear it soar—
“Blessed was the name she bore.”

Volumes of heroic verse
Shall thy victories rehearse;
Well may rhythm swiftly chime
To a measure full—sublime
Kearsarge, a hymn to thee
Floateth over land and sea;
Hark, the chorus! hear it soar—
“Blessed was the name she bore.”

Though Roncador—reef of woe—
Like a traitor laid thee low;
As Aurora cleaves the sky,
Rise! the “god of storms” defy.
Kearsarge, a hymn to thee
Floateth over land and sea;
Hark, the chorus! hear it soar—
“Blessed was the name she bore.”

Swift, as light along the hill,
Fly! Columbia’s bosom thrill;
Crucified by flood, by fire—
Come, Futurity, inspire.
Kearsarge, a hymn to thee
Floateth over land and sea;
Hark, the chorus! hear it soar—
“Blessed was the name she bore.”

Lo! thy ashes softly lie
’Neath a tender southern sky;
Yet on honor’s tide ye sail,
Like a ship before the gale.
Kearsarge, a hymn to thee
Floateth over land and sea;
Hark, the chorus! hear it soar—
“Blessed was the name she bore.”

CONTENT.

Is there a place in the whole, wide, world
Like the beautiful vale content;
The fair, white, banner of peace unfurled
As our hopes in one are blent
By mutual glad consent.

Is there a place the foe cannot reach,
Stands the dark featured King subdued?
Is each prayer the Spirit would teach
With gracious power imbued
Are the thought rifts rainbow hued?

Is there a place where the weary rest
Knowing how well the past was meant?
In sharing the birthright of the blest,
Bliss of heaven to thee is lent
Beautiful vale of content.

VIOLET.

Violet tender and sweet clasped to the bosom of earth,
Lift up thy bonny blue eye, happy the day of thy birth.
Thine is a glorious lot, bearing the word of the king,
Calling the world to rejoice breathing of beauty and spring;
Violet, tender and sweet.

Violet tender and sweet plucked from the bosom of earth
Lift up thy bonny blue eye, happy the day of thy birth.
Close in thy petals of pearl, of beautiful amethyst cling,
Fresh with the balm of the wood the odorous essence of spring;
Violet, tender and sweet.

“LONGEST LANES MUST HAVE A TURNING.”

Shall we dare to be despondent, though the way is rough and cold?
“Longest lanes must have a turning,” is a saying never old.
Who would feebly faint or falter on life’s journey? Day by day
Grateful sunbeams softly greet us, through the heavy mists of gray;
Blessed gifts the Great All-Father sends to cheer our earthly lot,
And to whisper, sweetly, fondly, that we never are forgot.

Ay, ’tis hard when dreary trouble comes to pierce the faithful heart,
And hope spreads her airy pinions as if eager to depart;
Sickness, with its hand of iron—Justice, with a frowning face,
Wilfully conspire to crush us in a cruel, stern embrace:
Shall we bow beneath the burden, though it is so hard to bear,
Or arise and do our utmost, boldly breaking from despair?

Brothers, sisters, little children,—weak with hunger, bleeding feet,—
Bravely meet the dusky foemen, make the victory complete.
Many weep o’er thy misfortunes,—courage! yet will come a friend;
Do not sink upon the highway, surely this is not the end.
Let us use our best endeavor, ever seeking out the light,—
“Longest lanes must have a turning,”—one is even now in sight.

IS THERE NOT SOMETHING WE CAN DO?

Is there not something we can do,
To smooth the rugged road?
Men struggle onward, death in view,
Each with his own great load.
Men struggle onward, weak of arm,
But chivalrous of soul;
Where is the hand to do them harm,
Or keep them from the goal.

What joy to honest worth assist,
To move the stumbling stone;
Good vantage ground is often missed
When pressing on alone.
To bring a burdened brother ease,
Though long the way and rough;
Or bid the storm of trouble cease,
We cannot do enough.