WITH AN INTRODUCTION

BY

KATE R. STILES.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879,
By KATE R. STILES,
in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

WORCESTER:
A. B. ADAMS, Printer.
392 Main Street.

ZEPHYRS.

To my angel Effie, the memory of whose life is an inspiration, I dedicate this little volume.

INTRODUCTION.

At the earnest solicitation of many dear friends, I present this little volume of poems before the public, not expecting it will bear the test of severe criticism. I am not vain enough to suppose that these little “Zephyrs” will sweep over the spirit with the power of the strong breezes, which are wafted to the soul from the poems of a Longfellow or a Whittier.

Yet, although among the greater lights, the lesser may not prevail, they may, perchance, send out occasional gleams, which shall serve to brighten the way for a few hearts.

KATE R. STILES.

May, 1879.

CONTENTS.

THE DEAD.

Call them not dead, who leave the earthly for the heavenly state.

Theirs is a life more real than ours;

And, while we weep for them such bitter, bitter tears,

They come to us with words of light and cheer;

Bidding us wait in patience till our work on earth is done.

Then shall we join them in that higher life,

Where all which now seems full of deep, deep, mystery,

Shall be unfolded to our view; and we shall see

That all the discipline of our earth life was needed,

To fit our souls for knowledge infinitely greater, and far more glorious

Than mortal mind can e’er attain.

CLOVER BLOSSOMS.

Pretty little clover, with your flowers so fair,

Filling with their sweetness all the summer air;

Sad it is to see you crushed by careless feet,

Pretty little clover, with your blossoms sweet.

Grows the pretty clover everywhere we look;

All along the roadside—by the running brook.

Beautiful and fragrant, are these little flowers.

Ah! how we should miss them from this world of ours!

Pretty little clover—scorned because you grow

Without care or coaxing—making little show.

Yet your flowers are sweeter than the rose or pink;

Modest little clover—this is what I think.

There are many lives in this world of ours,

Crushed, and scorned, and slighted

Like these pretty flowers.

Throwing out their sweetness on the desert air,

Only seen by Him, who seeth everywhere.

LINES WRITTEN ON A STORMY NIGHT.

Let the wintry breezes blow!

What care we?

Cold or heat, rain, hail or snow;

Oh what care we?

Life is full of brightness still,

All may find it if they will,

Only say to every ill,

Oh what care we?

Oft our cup is upside down,

But what care we?

It will do no good to frown,

What care we?

Bravely bear it, as we should.

From the evil comes the good,

Grief’s but joy, misunderstood;

Then what care we?

Though the world may not approve us,

What care we?

There’s a Heaven of love above us;

Then what care we?

God is with His children ever;

Helping on each grand endeavor.

Fear not then: but answer ever,

Oh what care we?

LAKE QUINSIGAMOND.

Beautiful lake, with thy silvery sheen,

Many a tale thou couldst tell I ween;

Tales of the years long since gone by,

When the wild deer and the wolf were nigh;

When over thy waters fair and blue,

The red man sailed in his birch canoe;

When no step but his was heard on thy shore

As he wandered thy wooded hillsides o’er.

Silvery lake, thou wert then, I trow,

Fair and beautiful as now.

Beautiful lake, art thou happier to-day,

As over thy waters, the young and gay

Float along in merry glee,

Caring little for what is to be

As they send their laughter thy waters o’er,

Till its echo resounds from shore to shore?

Are these sounds more sweet to thy listening ear

Than the red man’s cry thou was wont to hear?

Beautiful lake, tell me I pray

What dost thou think of life to-day?

Beautiful lake, so smooth and clear,

Thou hast caused the falling of many a tear;

For in thy dark and strong embrace

Lies many a well remembered face.

Only the Infinite and thou

Canst tell where rest these loved forms now;

But what matters it where the form may be

Since the spirit has risen unfettered and free?

This thou wert powerless to enfold,

Beautiful lake, in thy waters cold.

Beautiful lake, I love to sit

On thy banks, and watch the white sails flit

And hear the laugh and the merry song

Of happy hearts as they glide along;

Or at sunset’s hour, which is sweeter far,

Ere yet appears the evening star,

To watch the shadows come and go;

And gazing in thy depths below,

Each hill and vale, each shrub and tree,

Reflected in thy face to see.

Beautiful lake, thou art changeless; but we

Are not what we were, neither what we shall be,

From the first dawn of life, man is changing each day,

And thus will it be forever and aye;

For progression is part of the Infinite plan,

And has ever been, since creation began.

Oh, at life’s sunset hour, looking back o’er the past,

May reflections of beauty, be over it cast;

Even now as each hillside, and valley and tree,

Beautiful lake, are seen mirrored in thee.

LINES WRITTEN FOR THE RE-UNION OF PASTOR AND PEOPLE.

To-night, as in this pleasant home we meet,

The friends of former years once more to greet,

Memory is stirred; and, looking in each eye,

We scarce can feel so many years have glided by,

Since this dear friend and pastor, whom we love,

Pointed us to the paths which lead above.

As once again, we open memory’s book,

Giving the past a retrospective look,

Tenderly we turn the sacred pages o’er,

And read the record of the days of yore.

There have been changes in these homes since then,

For time is ever busy in the haunts of men,

And, mingling with the music of delight,

Are minor strains within our hearts to-night,

As we recall the voices hushed and still,

Of friends who rest on yonder churchyard hill,

Fathers and mothers who long since went o’er

The river we call death. From that near shore

We almost catch the greetings, as we stand;

And reaching over, clasp them by the hand.

But not the old alone, the young and gay,

Have vanished from our earthly homes away,

Their mission ended here, they find above

Some blessed service still, for those they love.

O, not in sadness would we view the past,

For over all a rainbow tint is cast;

The Hand that sends the sunshine and the rain,

Has on us each bestowed more joy than pain!

Were there no shadows in these lives of ours,

We could not fully prize the sunny hours.

Too much we’re prone to dwell upon the past!

The present is the moment! hold it fast!

There is no future—for all time is now;

Let us improve it;—while in faith we bow

To that which is, knowing it must be best;

Rejoice in what we see, and trust God for the rest.

So shall we each and every one—pastor and people,

Hear the words “Well done.”

HOPE.

Tho’ the pathway of life oftentimes seemeth drear

The rainbow of promise ere long shall appear!

The heaviest cloud hath a silvery sheen,

Altho’ through the darkness it may not be seen.

O, then let us hope! for the time draweth near

When life’s many mysteries shall be made clear.

When hearts that are weary, and burdened with care,

In the “Rest that Remaineth,” shall each have a share.

THE SHIPWRECK.

A ship sailed out on the billowy sea,

Full freighted with precious souls;

And manned by a crew both gallant and free,

Who sing as the brave ship rolls.

“O, a life on the sea—the foaming sea,

And a home on the rolling tide,

O, a sailor’s life is the life for me,

Yo heave,” they merrily cried!

“Our boat is stanch, and tried and true,

And a captain brave have we.

Hurrah! Hurrah! we’re as jolly a crew

As sails on the bounding sea!”

But their song is hushed, as they feel a shock

Which makes their stout hearts quail.

“O, God,” they cry, “The rock! the rock!

The ship has struck a gale!”

Men, women and children rush on deck,

Their faces blanched with fear.

They clasp each other about the neck;

And they feel that death is near.

“Go down! go down!” cries the captain brave,

“This is not the place for you.

I will do my best the ship to save;

She has a gallant crew.”

But e’en while he spoke, above the blast

Was heard the fearful cry—

“A leak! the ship is filling fast!”

And no earthly help was nigh.

“Man the life-boat!” cries the captain brave

In a tone of firm command.

“Man the life-boat these lives to save!

And let every sailor stand,

“Firm at his post, till I give the sign

For him to leave the ship.

All hope of rescue I now resign,”

He said, with quivering lip.

They lowered the boat o’er the vessel’s side,

Down into the surging sea.

While over it swept the angry tide;

And they felt that only He

Who holds the billows in His hand,

Could guide this bark so frail,

With its precious cargo, safe to land,

And help it outride the gale.

Then over the side of that dreadful wreck

The passengers clambered fast;

Till the boat, which seemed like a tiny speck,

Was crowded full at last.

At length all are gone, but the sailors brave,

Who await their captain’s word;

And soon, above the roaring wave,

His manly voice is heard.

“Now go, my sailors! go,” he cried.

“You have been brave and true;

And oh, may God, your frail bark guide!

Adieu! brave lads, adieu!”

“Nay, wait not for me; my place is here,

And firmly here will I

Stand at my post, without one fear

Whether I live or die!”

Alone, upon that dreadful night,

They left that captain brave.

And, ere another morning’s light,

He found a watery grave.

Ah! brave young heart! would that we all

Might be as brave and true;

As prompt to answer duty’s call,

As was that gallant crew.

How few are the hearts, that bravely will stand

By the wreck of a human soul.

Holding on with a firm, loving clasp to the hand

As o’er it the dark billows roll.

Perchance in smooth waters, our life-boat may glide,

While some tempest-tossed brother may be

Sinking into the dark waves of sin, by our side;

Down into the turbulent sea.

Shall we stand idly by, without seeking to save

From a fate which far worse may be,

Than the fate of that captain, so gallant and brave,

Who was drowned in the depths of the sea.

We each have a work for our brother to do.

“His keeper,” God made us to be.

O! then to our trust let us ever be true

As we sail over life’s stormy sea.

PANSIES.

Pansies! pansies! what can compare

With your varied colors so rich and rare?

Beautiful flower—in thee I trace

The features of the human face.

And when I look into thine eyes,

They greet me, with a glad surprise.

I love to touch thy velvety cheek,

And I almost fancy I hear thee speak.

Ah! well-a-day pansy, you and I

Must part, for the summer has gone by.

Soon in thy wintry bed thou’lt be,

And a mantle of snow will cover thee.

There shalt thou rest, till the spring-time rain

Awakes thee from thy sleep again;—

Then thou’lt come forth as fresh and bright,

As comes the sun, at the morning light.

So farewell, pansy; farewell till the spring.

I shall look for thee, when the robins sing.

LITTLE JOE—A CHRISTMAS STORY.

’Twas Christmas morn, and little Joe

Stood looking out upon the snow

With sad and thoughtful face.

His childish brow was knit with care;

Unlike the smile ’twas wont to wear,

It now bore sorrow’s trace.

His mother said, “What is it, dear?

Come to mamma, and let her hear

The story of your grief.

I do not like to see you sad

On Christmas day, when all are glad.

Come here, and find relief,

By telling mamma all your woe.

What is it troubles little Joe?”

“Mamma, I didn’t mean to be

One bit unhappy—but you see,

I couldn’t help it quite.

I don’t feel very good, because

’Tis Christmas day—and Santa Claus,

I’m sure, has not done right,

To give so many books and toys

To all the other little boys,

While I have none at all.

Why mamma, he brought Charley Spring

A basket full of every thing.

There was a rubber ball,