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• 1 2022-01-11T14:00:42-05:00 Lucian B. Watkins (Lucian Watkins), "Voices of Solitude" (Full Text) (1907) 8 plain 2024-02-01T15:04:12-05:00 This document was edited and formatted by Kate Hennessey in January 2024. The original page images can be viewed at HathiTrust here.
  
  Note: this book is widely credited as having been published in 1903, but textual evidence within the book itself shows that the book must have been published in 1907. The author himself signs the preface giving 1907 as a date, and several poems in the collection are dated from 1904, 1905, and 1906. 
  
  
  VOICES OF SOLITUDE POEMS
  WRITTEN AND COMPOSED BY Lucian B. Watkins 
  CHICAGO and DONOHUE & COMPANY PUBLISHERS 
  
  
  
  My motto through this life I choose to be Evolution! The light amid the darkness 'round I see- Evolution! The steady view and mental quiz, A delving for the truth there is, A building up to loy and bliss — Evolution! 
  
  
  CONTENTS 
  
  Autobiography 9 
  Introduction 17 
  The Vale of Solitude 19 
  My Mother's Picture 22 
  Love 23 
  The Beauties of Woman 24 
  The Siren 26 
  The Manly Man 28 
  The Libertine 29 
  The Flower at My Window 31 
  The Household Queen 33 
  The Man With the Gun 35 
  To the Sighing Winds 37 
  One of Earth's Few 40 
  Only a Little Curl 41 
  Rocked on the Waters of the Deep 42 
  To the Ocean Pacific 45 
  Paul Lawrence Dunbar 47 
  Little Golden Pen 48 
  To One of the Brave 49 
  The New Leaf 50 
  "Ever Faithful to You" 51 
  The Sunlight of Temperance 53 
  The Drink-Slave 54 
  "Looking for Work" 56 
  The Debtor 58 
  A Dedication (Booker T. Washington) 59 
  The Hand That Guides the Plow 61 
  Toussaint L'Ouverture 63
  
  San Francisco's 18th of April (1906) 65 
  An Ode to the Christian Martyrs 67 
  A Memorial (Frederick Douglass) 68 
  Life's Day 69 
  Pantheon 72 
  A Major Chord 73 
  A Minor Chord 75 
  Time's Chord 77 
  Sharps and Flats 78 
  A Dirge to Ancient Rome 79 
  The Dove 81 Voices of the Waves. 84 
  The Miser 85 
  The Spendthrift 86 
  Anita 88 
  An Elegy to John Brown 94 
  The Treasured Curl 95 
  Uncle Ike's Opinion of Winterpock's College 97 
  The Faded Leaves 100 
  Christmas Morn 101 
  "I Love You, Too" 102 
  Have I Done Wrong? 104 
  A Divided Love 106 
  My Father's Letter 108 
  Thanksgiving no The Frozen Rain in A Winter's Sunrise 112 
  The Death of a Soldier-Comrade 113 
  Scaevola 119 
  Imagination (Essay and Poem) 121 
  Retrospection 124 
  Teach Me 126 
  "Rest in Jesus" 127 
  THE !!! 128
  
  
  PREFACE 
  
  In compliance with the wish of many friends, I have consented to the publication of these products of my heart and pen, the reading of which, I hope, may lead many to feel the emotions that prompted me to their production.
  
  It has been said, "Necessity is the mother of Invention." I say that Solitude is the mother of Poetry. I speak of solitude in a special sense. I do not intend to imply that one must necessarily be apart from mankind, but I speak of that secluded, quiet communion with the imagination such as the heart often enjoys regardless of environment. In such times of solitude and re- flection my heart has often been moved to overflowing, and the trifles of this little volume are the deluges that have found expression in words.
  
  My selections are all brief. Just faint touches upon the heartstrings of Human Nature. They all bear my own originality. Not one is an imitation. Though, doubtless, many of the chords have been sounded before, since "there is nothing new under the sun," and we must all harp upon the same strings; yet, there are as many different "touches" as there are players, and the melody of each harper bears a certain unique characteristic. This little book is "touched" with the will of my ardent desire to reach the thought-centers of humanity, and, that these may find here motives tending toward the illustrious influences of good thoughts and deeds. Should this result be obtained, in any degree, I shall not have striven in vain.
  
  L. B. W. Chicago, 111., February 5, 1907.
  
  
  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
  
  "Let another man praise thee, and not thine own mouth; a stranger, and not thine own lips." We who are inclined to speak overmuch of ourselves seem to feel in these words an open rebuke by the wise Solomon. Yet it seems if one can. only resist the impulse to soar away upon the evil winds of egotism into the vain clouds of auto-laudation, he may be permitted to walk cautiously about the peaceful valley of truthful simplicity.
  
  I have no reasons to offer in defense of present assumption as an autobiographer. I feel that my life has been insignificant and, upon my part, void of much good. But the vernal years of man's allotted "three score and ten" have just passed over my head, placing thereon — even in their swift flight — many of the silver threads of life's autumn. Should there be the blessed visual realization of life's summer in store for me, I hope to grow into a life of real usefulness.
  
  My father's name is Henderson B. Watkins. The maiden name of my mother was Emeline Brooks. Humble, praying, Christian parents from the lowly log cabin of slavery. "Joined together" in those benighted days of servitude, and, subsequently, legally confirmed. Both of them secretly learned to read print, and were devoted readers of the Bible. Neither of them learned to write. My father became a successful miner. My mother was an acknowledged efficient cook and a competent nurse. Upon the summit of industry, perseverance, fortitude, goodness, kindness and womanliness my mother's life rises before me — an amatory personage.
  
  According to the "birth record" of our family Bible, and the unquestionable statement of my parents, I was born May 25, 1878, in Chesterfield County, Virginia, at a small settlement called Otterdale, about twenty miles from Richmond. I am the youngest but two of the family of fifteen children. Soon after I became seven years of age my parents gave me a McGufifey's Primer, and one bright Monday morning I was sent with my older brothers and sisters to the first school that I ever attended. I shall never forget how proud and happy I felt that "first day in school." My older sister had taught me the alphabet. I could read and spell quite well.
  
  This school was taught by one Mr. Gray, a man who was kind in disposition, noble, magnetic and impressive in his bearing, and a worthy teacher. My young heart was drawn toward him with the tender liking of true friendship. My studies became a pleasure; thus my launch upon an educational sea was replete with pleasures that I am always glad to recall. I do not think I gave my teacher much trouble with my studies, as I found myself at the end of my first session in school ready for the Third Reader, with other studies accordingly. For three suc- cessive sessions I attended the same school, with the same teacher. The next session I attended the same school, but had a lady teacher, one Miss Tucker, who had been an advanced pupil of Mr. Gray's school during my preceding school days. The following three sessions I attended another school, taught by my older sister, Leora, the one who taught me the alphabet, and to whom I dedicated "The Household Queen," of this volume. Sister Leora was also formerly a pupil of Mr. Gray's school, but afterward graduated from the Summer Normal Course of "The Virginia Normal and Collegiate Institute," of Petersburg, Va.
  
  In December, 1891, my mother died. I was then thirteen years of age. I think I was my mother's favorite. O! those thirteen years in the sunshine of mother's love ! I now look back through the dim mists of years and see the smiles! hear the voice! feel the caresses of MOTHER!
  
  Soon after my mother's death I began to study crayon portraiture and automatic shading pen work. Having made fair progress with these studies, I made a portrait of my mother. From this portrait I received the impulse that led me to write "My Mother's Picture." This was my first attempt at verse-making, and was written when I was thirteen years of age.
  
  About this time my older brother presented me with an organ and I began to study music.
  
  My parents had early talked of sending me to college some day, and in September, 1892, I was sent to "The Virginia Normal and Collegiate Institute," Petersburg, Va. My sister, Leora, bore the greater part of my expenses ; a portion I paid by doing janitor work at the school. My entrance examination at this school was creditable, and I found it comparatively easy to keep up with my class. This session at college having been in every way favorable, and my desire for an education being awakened, I endeavored during the intermission from the close of school in May to its re-opening in September, to earn enough money to return to college. In this I failed, but earned enough money to buy the books sufficient for the class in which I would have been had I returned.
  
  I had heard a college professor tell how he at one time, while obtaining an education, found himself with insufficient means to return to college ; and that he bought books and pursued the studies of his class, personally reporting and successfully taking each examination, finally graduating with his class. This I endeavored to do. I succeeded in this to a great extent but, unlike my hero, I did not report to take the examinations; whether I would have graduated with my class or not is one of the untried things that must ever be unknown.
  
  About this time I received my inspirations of Christianity, and joined the Baptist church. Soon after this I wrote mv second selection, "The Vale of Solitude." Then followed "The Beauties of Woman," "The Flower at My Window," "The Faded Leaves," "The Frozen Rain," "Uncle Ike's Opinion of Winterpock's College," "A Winter's Sunrise," "The Household Queen," "Retrospection," and others.
  
  In my life there is one love. This is manifested in the selections: "A Divided Love," "The Treasured Curl," "To the Sighing Winds," "Love," "I Love You, Too," and " Ever Faithful to You."
  
  In the summer of 1897 I passed successfully the examination for public school teacher. I taught school the following two sessions.
  
  May 25, 1900 (my twenty-second birthday), I left home, in company with a cousin and two other young men, for the Chamberlin Hotel, Old Point Comfort, Va., where we had been promised engagements as waiters. Being the least experienced of the four of my company, I soon became discouraged in my attempts at waiting, despite the fact I was treated kindly and assured that I would become a successful waiter. But my despondency increased daily, until I, at length, left that hotel and went to Baltimore, Md., in which city one of my brothers lived. In this city I was engaged as waiter at the "Old Town Hotel." One month's work at this hotel gave me new ambitions for hotel work. I afterward served as waiter at the "Florence Hotel," Philadelphia, Pa.; lastly, at the "Queen City Hotel," Cumberland, Md.
  
  Led by the love of adventure and travel, coaxed by the hope of experience and the ac- quisition of knowledge, driven by the pangs of a seemingly hopeless love, August i6, 1900, I enlisted in the service of the United States Army. I was assigned to the Tenth Cavalry. For my first soldierly training, I was sent to Fort Clark, Texas. A few months later I was assigned to Troop " F" of the Tenth Cavalry then stationed at Fort Mcintosh, Texas. The next day after joining my troop I was detailed as clerk at the post Adjutant's Office. Later I was detailed troop clerk.
  
  April 15, 1 901, I embarked with my troop, at San Francisco, Cal., for foreign service in the Philippine Islands. We arrived at Manila May 13, 190 1. I served in the campaign against the Philippine insurgents on the island of Samar, May, June and July, 1901. After about one year and four months service in the islands we were surprised by an order directing our troop to return to the United States. After returning to the States, we were stationed at Fort Wash- akie, Wyo. (a post then about one hundred and fifty miles from any railroad). This being an Indian reservation I learned many curious and interesting facts in regard to the customs of this race of people. During school session while serving at this post I was assistant teacher of the post school. While here I wrote the military record of the First Sergeant of my troop. It was published in the February number of "THE COLORED AMERICAN MAGAZINE," then published in Boston, under the title of "The Life Story of a Typical Fighter." By request, I also contributed articles and poems to "THE ARMY AND NAVY UNION JOURNAL" of New York. Among them — "A Recruit's Resolutions," "Fort Washakie," "The Man With the Gun," and "To One of the Brave." I remained at this station until the expiration of my term of enlistment (August 15, 1903), at which date I was given an honorable discharge, showing for me an "excellent character and absolutely temperate habits." During this service in the Army I completed a course of "Advanced Bookkeeping and Business," with the " National Correspondence School," Washington, D. C.
  
  December 21, 1903, I re-enlisted for service in the Hospital Corps, Medical Department, United States Army, and was sent to the " Hospital School of Instruction," Washington Barracks, D. C. Meanwhile, I attended night school at the "ARMSTRONG MANUAL TRAINING SCHOOL," Washington, D. C, and pursued a course of stenography and typewriting. Having completed the prescribed course at the "Hospital School of Instruction," I was sent to Fort Assinniboine, Mont., for duty.
  
  October, 1904 (nine months and a few days after having entered the Medical Department), I passed successfully the examination for Hospital Sergeant. November, 1904, I received the appointment.
  
  January 25, 1906, by special request, I was again sent to the Philippine Islands. During this service I was engaged in much actual hospital work in the field. This was during the pulejanes insurrection on the island of Leyte, July, August, September and October, 1906. Deciding to leave the army service, I was returned to the United States and received my second discharge January 3, 1907.
  
  "VOICES OF SOLITUDE" breathes all that is dear to me in life. Every good emotion of which my heart is capable is 'in each line, and is a part of me.
  
  LUCIAN BOTTOW WATKINS. February 5, 1907,
  
  
  
  INTRODUCTION 
  
  INTRODUCTION 
  
  Dear Readers: —  In my heart abides
  Fond Hope, who has a little son —
  His name is Wish, and more besides
  He seems to be a pleasant one.
  
  He seems obliging in his way —
  Although he is a little lad —
  He comes and offers me to-day
  A service — but his face is sad.
  
  He says he'll bear this little book
  And place it in your busy hand ;
  Perhaps, you'll, by his honest look,
  His earnest motives understand.
  
  The little fellow cannot talk
  (This I forgot to say before),
  A mute from birth ; but he can walk
  And look the things he would implore.
  
  He always tries his best to please,
  And make you smile approvingly;
  For by this act he always sees
  You take his faults excusingly.
  
  But when you've learned his noiseless speech,
  Indeed, this peaceful little elf
  Will well explain this book, and each 
  of all his signs is truth itself.
  
  He'll tell you of the mournful day,
  In th' early morning of my youth,
  When mother went from me away
  Up to the heavens above, forsooth!
  
  He'll tell you of the day I wrote 
  "My Mother's Picture" when I stood
  Before her photograph to note
  This noble view of womanhood.
  
  He'll tell you of my Christian birth
  Down in the Vale of Solitude ;
  And of the friends of noble worth
  I've met in life — so kind and good.
  
  He'll tell you of the girl I love,
  And how her love has helped me live ;
  How all the pretty stars above
  Have lent me songs to sing and give.
  
  He'll help you see in every way
  The many things that bid me write;
  How hard I try to do and say
  What e'er may give the brightest light.
  
  You'll treat him kindly, now, I know
  And please this little bearer's heart;
  Then in his little bow he'll show
  Another well accomplished art.
  
  VOICES OF SOLITUDE 
  
  THE VALE OF SOLITUDE 
  
  Sweet, silent, Vale of Solitude! 
           Secluded, quiet, rest! 
  Oft thee I seek with serious mood 
           Of thought within my breast. 
  
  Thou beaut 'ous plain amid the hills 
           Where sunlight's dancers play; 
  ‘Tis here a fragrant odor fills 
          The air with breaths of May. 
  
  A dreamy breeze here gently blows, 
          As if from angels' wings; 
  The sweetest songs that Fancy knows 
          Here in this vale she sings. 
  
  The flowers here all seem to know 
          A heart when it is glad; 
  They seem to laugh when one is so, 
          And weep when one is sad. 
  
  The chymings of its gentle streams 
          Bear beauty's imagery 
  Of wasted loves, wars' blood-stained dreams — 
          Sad trophies for life's sea!
  
   Its lifeless stones lie motionless, 
          Yet preach their sermons, too, 
  Of dead souls that no Life confess, 
          Though e'er so near the true! 
  
  Great sentinels of massy hills — 
          With summits' golden heights —  
  Vale's jew'led thoughts rich luster fill 
          While in their upward flight.
  
  The spirit of this dreamy plain  
          Harm'nizes with each heart;  
  Each pleasure, sorrow, joy or pain 
          It seems to share a part. 
  
  The Savior sought this quiet place
          (Gethsemane was there) 
  A seriousness was on His face 
          As here He lay in prayer. 
  
  Then all the flowers closed their eyes 
          To check their tears of grief, 
  A gloomy shade was o'er the skies. 
          And breathless every leaf. 
  
  A guilty sinner once I lay 
          Upon this sacred ground; 
  All gloomy shadows cleared away 
          When peace — sweet peace — I found!
  
   With sighs of grief and songs of joy 
          This spot I oft have sought; 
  For nothing here seems to annoy 
          While I am wrapped in thought. 
  
  Oh, let me in this vale seclude, 
          For 'tis a place I love ! 
  The sweet, sad Vale of Solitude
          Leads all my thoughts above.
  
  
  MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 
  
  Oh, if thou could' st speak to me, 
  My mother dear! 
  Silent are those lips I see — 
  No voice I hear! 
  Mother dear — oh ! dost thou know 
  How my heart yearns for thee so? 
  When from earth I'm called to go 
  May I not fear. 
  
  Thy dear love — oh, I do miss, 
  Beloved one! 
  Now I never feel thy kiss 
  When day is done! 
  Thou art gone now as a dove, 
  Gone to realms up above, 
  But, now longing for thy love 
  Is thy dear son. 
  
  Mother, since thou left me here 
  Some years ago, 
  Oft this world seems dark and drear 
  Down here below. 
  Mother dear, farewell! I trust 
  When to leave this world I must, 
  When my body lies in dust 
  Then thee I'll know! 
  
  
  LOVE
  
  O, Love! Love! Love! mysterious strength! 
  Weak e'en is death to ever quench 
  Thy glowing, pure, magnetic light. 
  The strongest heart hath not the might 
  To e'er resist thy entrance there. 
  Thy reigning force ne'er fails to bear 
  Its fruitfulness. Thou art the true 
  Essential of the heart; and through
  Thy inclination's kingly will, 
  Is blended with another, still, 
  And now the twain become but one — 
  Thus is thy happiness begun — 
  And though thy days seem oft so bright, 
  Thou sometimes casteth shades of night; 
  And in these days of seeming gloom 
  The dregs of thy sweet cup assume 
  The taste of pain and cruel ache! 
  But these dark days dost only make 
  The bright ones brighter; and the bad 
  And bitter dregs — so truly sad — 
  Dost make the sweets but sweeter still. 
  And thus thy joyous spirit fills 
  Thy hearts with all thy peace's refrain. 
  Sweet happiness dwells in thy pains! 
  The blessing of a dreamy bliss 
  Is centered in thy magic kiss! 
  I fain would have thee dwell with me 
  Through life and death — eternity!
  
  
  THE BEAUTIES OF WOMAN 
  
  O, woman of virtue! sweet woman of love! 
  As heavenly manna sent down from above 
  Your wonderful actions are thus to the world; 
  Then may your love's banner — no never be furled, 
  But gently waving through ages of time, 
  May e'er it be seen in its motions sublime. 
  
  Affectionate woman of truth and pure light! 
  You ease many pains and dear homes you make bright; 
  And often your tender, sweet voice may be heard 
  Consoling the sad with an angelic word, 
  And tenderly soothing the weary through life, 
  Thus lovingly cheering his pathway of strife. 
  
  Sweet woman, you wept o'er the Savior, of old, 
  And washed His feet with our tears, we are told; 
  You wiped them dry with the hair of your head — 
  Put on them a costly sweet ointment, 'tis said; 
  Kind woman, then may your dear ministering hand 
  Ne'er cease noble actions o'er all of the land.
   Good woman of beauties so noble and true! 
  The hearts of this world will ne'er cease to love you, 
  But always will cherish your name while on earth — 
  Through sickness and sadness or pleasure and mirth; 
  And when time is over and all things must die 
  I know you will rest in the "home bye and 
  Bye."
  
  
  THE SIREN 
  
  Fond mistress o'er the very dreamy treasures 
  Of Fairy's love, your shining golden wand 
  Each wave e'er summons captivating pleasure 
  That don your form and luring jeweled hands. 
  
  The smiles of stolen sweets play in your dimples, 
  And at your will fling bright, delusive plights — 
  A silv'ry web — invisible and simple — 
  To do your bidding — capture vain delights. 
  
  To please you now the colors of the roses 
  Glide o'er your cheeks; and those of lilies fair 
  Rest on your brow. Fair Nature even poses 
  And brightest sunshine lingers in your hair.
   
  Your teeth e'en seem fair sisters to pure whiteness; 
  Your eyes with diamond twinkles seem to speak 
  Beneath their silken lashes' veiled brightness — 
  A pictured love of trueness, kind and meek. 
  
  The magnetism of your presence only 
  Invites your victims to their certain fate, 
  For with your fatal weapons false you fondly 
  Insnare the hearts for which you lie in wait.
  
  Slaves to your charms of winsomeness' devising, 
  Rejoicing with each kiss of loveless love 
  That plays upon your ruby lips, disguising 
  Your wit's sweet Falsehood's cooing of the dove.
   
  Love's noblest monarchs tangle in your webbing, 
  Each counts your heel a blessing on his head 
  Each fairy day, until the cruel ebbing 
  Of your affections shows the husks you've fed! 
  
  Dark, blighted lives! great bleeding hearts! 
  lamenting — 
  Cursed with your sinful life, and with a night 
  Dark as the tomb! — Your left hand these resenting, 
  Next victims now you're greeting with your 
  right! 
  
  World's noblest hearts are but your tiny toys 
  To baffle, fling aside — forsooth, you can! 
  Yea, e'en the tender love of thoughtless boys 
  Oft count amid your conquests of the man.
   
  Your days will end! Your fairy wand will perish! 
  We shudder at the fate that 'waites you then! 
  Oh ! while the breath of fleeting life you cherish 
  Consider! turn! and view a happy end!
  
  
   THE MANLY MAN
   
  O, Manly Man! born of Perfection's Hand 
  With all the beautitude of soul-blown purity! 
  O, Noble Man of blessing to your land, 
  Filled with Love's magnetism of sincerity! 
  
  O, Gentle Man! Aye! go where e'er you can 
  You'll always find a welcome sweet of loyalty! 
  O, Knightly Man! your presence seems to fan 
  The glowing flames of worth and royalty. 
  
  O, Honest Man! a little lower than 
  The angels is your place of usefulness! 
  Yea, Godly Man! e'en when the world began 
  There was prepared for you a peaceful rest!
  
  
  THE LIBERTINE 
  
  Monarch over weakness, 
  Emperor o'er the fair; 
  Conqueror of the helpless — 
  Falsehood's artful snare. 
  
  Forceful magnetism — 
  Willing all you crave — 
  Forcing brows of innocence 
  In your false love's grave. 
  
  But, this grave is darkness — 
  Though the guise be light — 
  What may seem day's brightness 
  Is but, in truth, a night. 
  
  Into eyes of seeming 
  Maidens look and read 
  Truth where lies are lurking, 
  Love where only greed. 
  
  Soon the cruel moment 
  Comes when they do know 
  Falsehoods such as dreaming 
  Makes a blinded show.
  
   Broken hearted victims! 
  Saddened lives of sin! 
  Weep your tears repenting, 
  Better lives you'll win. 
  
  Libertine reveling, 
  Will you thus enthrall 
  While you hear appealing 
  Reason's earnest call?
  
  
  THE FLOWER AT MY WINDOW 
  
  WRITTEN FOR A LADY FRIEND 
  
   O! my heart now feels so cheerful as I go with footsteps light 
  In the daily toil of my dear home; 
  And I'll tell to you the secret that now makes my life so bright — 
  There's a flower at my window in full bloom. 
  
  It is radiant in the sunshine, and so cheerful after rain; 
  And it wafts upon the air its sweet perfume. 
  It is very, very lovely ! may its beauties never wane — 
  This dear flower at my window in full bloom. 
  
  Nature has so clothed it in such glorious array, 
  And it does so cheer our home, and hearts illume; 
  Its dear mem'ry I will cherish though the flower fade away — 
  This dear flower at my window in full bloom.
  
  Oft I gaze upon this flower with its blossoms pure and white.
      And I think as I behold its gay costume,
  While through life we all are passing may our lives
              Be always bright
      Like this flower at my window in full bloom
  
  
  THE HOUSEHOLD QUEEN 
  
  She looketh well to the ways of her household; and eateth
  not the bread of idleness.   Her children arise up and 
  call her blessed, her husband also, and he praiseth her. 
  — Prov. xxxi., 27-28 
  
  DEDICATED TO MY SISTER, MRS. SALLIE L. BRANCH 
  
  Let other poets sing about the queen that wears the crown, 
  And sits upon a shining throne with dignity's renown; 
  But my song to queenly woman is to her who comforts home 
  With a cheerful heart of sunshine, by industry with her broom. 
  
  By the pure and wholesome dishes that her careful hands prepare, 
  By the rocking of her cradle, with contents so precious there; 
  By the love she sheds around her, making life so gay and bright 
  For those of her dear home circle who at home feel pure delight.
   Thus to her I sing in glory, for to her 'tis justly due; 
  All through life may many blessings rest on her so kind and true. 
  In the bright celestial city, glowing with sweet love serene, 
  When ends here her earthlv mission, there will 
          rest the HOUSEHOLD QUEEN.
  
  
  THE MAN WITH THE GUN 
  
  WRITTEN WHILE A SOLDIER 
  AT FORT CLARK, TEXAS 
  
  With a look of stern demeanor, "duty" 
          stamped upon his brow; 
  Every muscle of his body seeming conscious of 
          his "vow; " 
  There we see beside him Justice — ("Only right 
          is right," quoth he) 
  At a distance near her lover we behold sweet 
          Liberty. 
  
  Meek and queenly Peace is poised on his head, so 
          brave and true — 
  There it sings sweet songs of dreamland, where 
          'tis joy and comfort, too; 
  Thus he stands with e'er the pressure of the 
          world against his breast — 
  Do you wonder why he never wearies — never
          sighs for rest? — 
  See his mother, sister, father, brother, friends 
          and sweetheart dear 
  ‘Mid the multitude behind him — looking to him 
          from the rear! 
  
  Then he must not — cannot falter, for whene'er 
          he coward grows
  Justice dwells no longer with him — strikes for 
          him no other blows; 
  Liberty, his pride — his dear one, then from him 
          is torn away —
  (Death to him is far the sweeter than to live as 
          worthless clay) 
  Peace now hushes songs of pleasure, lifts its 
          light, fantastic wings 
  With a song of sad heartbreakings — lo, a fare-
          well song it sings! 
  
  Hark ! what sounds are those of wailings strike so 
          mournfully his ear 
  Like the weird notes of night-birds from some 
          woodland brown and sere? 
  Ah, alas! 'tis those behind him, now oppressed 
          and full of fears — 
  And with confident assurance they have looked 
          to him for years! 
  
  O! we cannot view such horrors! from this dream 
          let us awake. 
  View the patriot now nobly standing for his 
          country's sake. 
  He is earnest, true and faithful, he will face all 
          dangers there; — 
  When you're in your secret chamber breathe for 
          him these words of prayer
  "Thou, O God, who art his Captain, grant him
          strength — this noble one 
  ‘Til Thy order— 'Blow the Trumpet; faithful 
          man, lay down thy gun.' "
  
  
  TO THE SIGHING WINDS 
  
  WRITTEN WHILE A SOLDIER 
  AT FORT MCINTOSH, TEXAS 
  
  O, sighing winds! now in thy journey over hills 
          and far away, 
  Wilt thou bear a message for me — whisper what 
          I bid thee say 
  To my many friends and kindreds far away in 
          distant land, 
  Thinking of me in my sojourn on the banks of 
          the Rio Grand? 
  
  Wilt thou whisper — murmur softly, while thou'rt 
          passing oft the way 
  Where now dwells my dear old father with his 
          head silvered with gray. 
  Fan his venerable forehead with thy calm, sweet, 
          breath of life
  Tell him I am gently passing through this world 
          of toil and strife ? 
  
  Tell him though the fatal bullets of some battle 
          wild and fierce — 
  While they strike the marks of marksmen — 
           one this heart of mine may pierce
   Bid him — oh! if this should some day be the 
          tidings of his son 
  Only lift his voice to heaven crying — " Lord, thy 
          will be done!" 
  
  Then there is a dear and fair one — wilt thou 
          grant this earnest plea — 
  As thou passeth in thy journey pause and speak 
          to her for me ? 
  Surely, surely, thou must know her, such a sweet 
          and charming one, 
  With a head of silken tresses, smiles as bright as 
          yonder's sun; 
  Eyes of dark and sparkling beauty, face so 
          picturesquely fair. 
  And her merry peals of laughter fill as silv'ry 
          bells the air. 
  
  Surely, thou dost know I love her, and she loves
          me just the same, 
  And I have her dear sweet promise that she'll 
          share with me my name. 
  Wilt thou calm and gentle zephyr, put my silent 
          thoughts in words ? — 
  I know thou canst bear them for me faster than
          the fleetest birds. 
  ‘Mid the many things thou beareth, with a 
          whisper soft and low. 
  Tell her I will come back someday, if God wills
          it to be so. 
  
  Tell to all my friends and kindreds that I'm 
         striving to be true.
   Hoping that I may with honor wear this uniform 
          of blue.
  Gentle breeze so calmly passing, softly whisper 
          all I've said;
  In my sojourn should death take me, gently 
          bear the news, "He's dead."
  
  
  ONE OF EARTH'S FEW 
  
  DEDICATED TO MISS R. L. WILSON, 
  OF SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS 
  Written While a Soldier at Fort Mcintosh, Texas. 
  
   White as are the whitest hues — lo ! thou art as pure!
  Bright as are the brightest jewels thus thy life is seen;
  As the brightest gleam of sunshine enters any door,
  Just so welcome is thy presence, truly ideal queen.
  Nobler moral standard never this vain world e'er knew;
  I am forced to say thou, really, art one of earth's few.
  
  Kindest words of sweetest music, such thou hast in stow.
  Cheery smiles of sunny brightness dost thou daily wear;
  Many lives thou maketh lighter through this world of woe,
  Many hearts exclaim, "God bless thee" in this life of care.
  In the day of separation of the false and true
  I believe thou wilt that morning be one of earth's few.
  
  
  ONLY A LITTLE CURL 
  WRITTEN FOR A LADY FRIEND 
  While a Soldier on the U. S. A. Transport, "Logan” 
  En Route to P. I. 
   
   Only a little curl of darkest hue!
  Only these silken strands that are but few,
  Cut from amid companions where they grew
       A woman's glory.
  Bright glossy curl! dear little silken tress!
  Fond memento! no king can e'er possess
  A greater gift; nor ever words express
       A sweeter story.
  
  Ah! I received thee from the faltering hand
  Of one I knew in far and distant land,
  When distant journey was the stern command
       To "boys in blue." 
  Only a little curl, was my request —
  "I know not whether it be wise or best."
  She said, "but with this token may there rest
       A friendship true."
  
  
  ROCKED ON THE WATERS OF THE DEEP 
  
  WRITTEN WHILE A SOLDIER, ON THE U. S. A. 
  TRANSPORT "LOGAN," EN ROUTE TO P. I. [Philippine Islands]
   
  Rocked on the waters of the deep, briney blue,
  Oft I am tossed by surging, foaming billows, too;
  When drear skies are 'bove me, with the wind's 
          thrilling sound,
  Loud roaring waters then I hear all around.
  
  Rocked but not gently with a mother's lulaby —
  Oh, for such rockings oft my heart heaves a sigh
  Deep as this ocean! Ah, this loved one is dead!
  On the Pacific I am rocked now, instead.
  
  Rocked on the waters of the blue briney deep,
  Sometimes the streaming moon and stars seem
          to weep,
  As over shining waters there seems a bright
  Flowing stream of silver tears reflecting the light.
  
  Rocked now amid the beauties of Nature's 
          scenes; —
  Sunrise's bright golden colors with shades be-
          tween,
   Bright streams of golden glimmers of setting sun,
  Dark shadows of the evening when day is done.
  
  Rocked 'mid sweet dreams of dreamland o'er 
          waters' wave,
  Bright shining visions of the dear One who saves ;
  His tender care and presence on the wide deep
  Give all who know His mercy sweet, peaceful 
          sleep.
  
  Rocked 'mid the pleasant and sweet dreams of 
          the past,
  To my interior vision they come so fast
  O'er these dark waters from the land far away —
  Sweet dreams of Hfe when it was one cloudless 
          day.
  
  Rocked, and each moment as the time passes by,
  Thus I am moving on between land and sky;
  These weary rockings take me far, far away
  From many friends and kindreds — sad, sad to 
          say!
  
  Rocked o'er these waters for it is the command,
  And I have pledged obedience with "upraised 
          hand;"
  Far o'er these waters there is work to be done
  By many soldiers — of which I am one.
  
  Rocked while the saddest hearts repine, but in
          vain —
   Sighs and emotions from the hearts that remain
  Far, far behind me, yet their love I can feel
  Bound ever 'round my heart as strong hoops of 
          steel !
  
  Rocked, moved with rockings, o'er the waves' 
          swelling tide,
  While o'er these foaming waters I slowly glide,
  Sad hearts behind me, cease — oh, cease to repine !
  Wait for my coming from this "world o'er the
          line!"
  
  Rocked, but more roughly, by this world's 
          swelling tides,
  Rocked by life's tempest — roughly tossed, yet, 
          besides;
  Rocked on life's ocean of the unfathomed deep,
  Rocked 'til the final day of one "lasting sleep."
  
  
  TO THE OCEAN PACIFIC 
  
  WRITTEN WHILE A SOLDIER, ON THE U. S. A. 
  TRANSPORT "LOGAN," EN ROUTE TO P. I. 
   
   Wondrous blue and briney ocean!
          As I o'er thy bosom glide,
  Oft I watch the swaying motion
          Of thy surface far and wide.
  
  Peaceful ocean! oft it seemeth
          When thou art so calm and free,
  Surely Fancy never dreameth
          Sweeter dreams than this of thee.
  
  When thy waves but softly tinkle
          'Neath the sun's bright, shining rays,
  Making diamond studded twinkles —
          Nature seems to stand and gaze.
  
  There is one thing I learn of thee,
          Though thou hast thy peaceful days,
  Oft the sky grows dark above thee,
          And thou art not calm always.
  
   Thou dost have thy days of trouble,
          Such as is the way of life,
  Days when each and every bubble
          Seems a frightful scene of strife.
  
  My life sometimes seems as dreary
          As thy waters ever are;
  And my heart is oft as weary
          As a fading morning star.
  
  Though my life is often sadness,
          Yet, it is not always so;
  For it has its psalm of gladness
          Mingled with its dirge of woe.
  
  
  PAUL LAWRENCE DUNBAR
  
  LINES WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH 
  OF THIS SWEET POET-SINGER
  
  We were afraid that you would soon be borne 
  away
  Upon the sweet endearing breathings of 
  your heart!
  We were afraid that you would soon forget to stay
  And give to life your lofty, soulful missioned 
  part!
  Too true! but — ah! the jeweled breaths with 
  which you sang —
  That blew in their soft whispers o'er the 
  tender strings
  Of human hearts, the sweet aeolian sounds that 
  rang
  An echo as if blown from heaven's angels' 
  wings —
  Still linger in the ethics of our souls! Then 
  must
  We say you're dead? and can we ever for 
  you weep ?
  Ah, no! amid the sacred halo o'er your dust.
          We listen to your echoed- breathing while 
  you sleep!
  
  
  LITTLE GOLDEN PEN 
  
   Written While a Soldier, at San Joaquin, Panay, P. I., 
  for a Friend Who Presented Me with a Fountain Pen for 
  a Birthday Present 
  
  Little Golden Pen!
  Oh, could there from thy fountain flow, expressed 
         in words, all that my heart so often 
         feels!
          But, ah! for this I know not how to guide or 
         e'en direct thee!
  Thy donor, venerable and hale, hath due the
  praise for which there never can be 
  words —
          Then it is vain to try to say what language 
  cannot let me.
  
  Little Golden Pen! 
  Since thou art with me now — a souvenir — a 
       token of a friendship tried and true,
          Thou, surely, canst e'er render me invaluable 
  assistance;
  When wing expressive thoughts to dwell with me, 
  my hand will guide thee while thy 
  fountain flows
  Upon some page where friends may read 
          when I've no more existence.
  
  
  TO ONE OF THE BRAVE
  
  Written While a Soldier, at Fort Washakie, Wyo., for 
  First Sergeant William Barnes, Troop "F," loth Caval-
  ry, on the Occasion of His Forty-Fifth Birthday
  
  Though forty-five long years, you say,
  Have silvered o'er your head with gray,
  Your friends rejoice, to-day, that you
  Stand hale and hearty in your "blue."
  
  Long for Old Glory you have stood
  With truest sense of brotherhood;
  Long may you live a useful life —
  Noble and true in peace or strife.
  
  
  
   THE NEW LEAF 
  
  WRITTEN WHILE A SOLDIER, AT FORT 
  WASHAKIE, WYO., NEW YEAR's DAY, 1903
  
  On this page of my life's hist'ry, with the help of 
          God I'll make
  Brighter, truer, nobler record — strive to follow 
          Jesus' wake.
  
  Thus I'll make my life more useful, with an 
          influence strong to win
  Many who are daily drifting in the way of death 
          and sin.
  
  In my journey o'er life's ocean, Jesus, Savior, 
          pilot me
  Let thy beacon light of wisdom ever true my 
          guidance be.
  
  
   “EVER FAITHFUL TO YOU" 
  
  DEDICATED TO A LADY FRIEND
  Written While a Soldier at Fort Washakie, Wyo.
  
  When e'er I read these words, Dear Heart, of 
          your sweet valentine,
  I'm sure no heart can ever feel a sweeter joy than 
          mine.
  
  "Faithful!" no word can e'er express a truer, 
          greater love —
  No truer constancy than this have angels up 
          above!
  
  "Ever!" ah, then eternally you pledge that 
          you'll be true!
  For love's sweet sake, alone, I choose a happy 
          life with you.
  
  Through every sorrow, joy or pain that we in 
          life may meet,
  In sweet companionship we'll share — the bitter 
          with the sweet.
   
  We'll live these words of faithfulness, what e'er 
          our lot may be,
  And live that we may after death from earthly 
          stains be free.
  
  
  THE SUNLIGHT OF TEMPERANCE
  
  Afar it gleams its glowing light,
          And wafts its golden beams
  From lofty heights that know no night,
          From realms that know no dreams.
  
  Within the home its glist'ning rays
          Delight each loving heart;
  They sweeten life with joyous days,
          And blissful peace impart.
  
  They place upon the mother's face
          The smiles of brightest day,
  They give the wife her charming grace.
          They light the children's play.
  
  They give to life its noble worth,
          They sweeten every breath;
  They find true pleasures here on earth,
          And smile and welcome death.
  
  
  THE DRINK SLAVE
  
  Poor Slave! 
  Great flowing streams of pity's tears
          And anguish's sobbing bitter cries,
          Are now before your blinded eyes,
  Groan in your dizzy, deafened ears!
  Poor Slave! 
  Poor Slave!
  The silver threads of years bow low
          In token of the prayers that rise
          From breaking hearts of wasted sighs –
  For you who take this drink of woe!
  Poor Slave! 
  
  Poor Slave! 
  The love that once you counted sweet 
          Now of yourself is not a part!
          The soulless pulses of your heart 
  Now master vou from head to feet! 
  Poor Slave! 
  
  Poor Slave !
  The touch of baby's tender hands
          Once found within your heart's re- 
  spond —
           But, now — alas! your sacred bond
  Of love you do not understand!
  Poor Slave!
  
  Poor Slave!
  Give back to life the love you owe !
          O, break this chain of loveless death!
          O, will a life of temperate breath !
  O, leave this cup of nameless woe! 
  Poor Slave!
  
  
   “LOOKING FOR WORK”
  
  The wheel of Time turns slowly o'er and o'er,
  The hand of Wealth revels but more and more
  In happy comforts and the joyous fill
  Of pleasures such as it alone instills.
  
  But, now, a grave foot-sore procession's tread
  Falls, as a funeral march upon the dead,
  On many heedless ears that hear its cries,
  And many thoughtless hearts that hear its 
          sighs.
  
  Yea, heedless of the hunger and the pains
  That steal away the spirit of these brains;
  Yea, thoughtless even of the starving wives
  Now weeping in the background of these lives!
  
  Yea, heedless of the bowed heads of gray,
  And thoughtless of the spoiled children's play
  That're hidden in the voice at your door
  That only asks for work and nothing more!
  
  Yea, heedless of the love that is, indeed,
  Now hidden in this life of darkened need;
  Yea, thoughtless of the fatal stroke of death
  Now hidden in this feeble, pleading breath!
  
  Perchance, 'tis now you hear the last attempt
  Of Sad Despair with every joy exempt!
  O, World give now the living that you owe,
  That these may something of your comforts 
          know!
  
  
   THE DEBTOR
  
  Bowed beneath the dead'ning weight of 
     Woe,
  Crawling 'neath the galling yoke of Owe;
  Obligation's hand
  Beats him with his wand,
  And his restless bed his burden knows!
  
  'Neath stern Justice's ever grinding heels,
  In Debt's prison now he sadly kneels;
  Fettered with Due's claim,
  Pilloried with shame!
  And no tongue can tell the pain he feels.
  
  Fortunate is he if now he bear
  Not a greater burden than this care; –
  If his soul is free 
  From sin's misery
  He may work 'til life again is fair.
  
  
   A DEDICATION 
  TO PRINCIPAL BOOKER T. WASHINGTON OF 
  TUSKEGEE INDUSTRIAL SCHOOL 
   
   To you who now so nobly do 
           A noble deed; 
   Who now instill the virtues true 
           To virtuous need; 
   Whose mission is so truly good — 
   So full of kindly brotherhood — 
   Who live the life you surely should –
           A trusty lead;
   
   Who early saw that skillful head 
           And skillful hands 
   Should, surely, be in union wed 
           'Gainst life's quicksands — 
   For people whose unhappy state 
   Was, surely, in the hands of fate, 
   Would make a combination great 
           As iron bands. 
  
   Long may your daring presence live 
           And works instill. 
   Long may your kingly reasons give 
           A forceful will,
          Long may your glowing, useful days 
          Shine forth their bright illuming rays, 
        And give to gloomy lives always 
  A happy thrill.
  
  
  THE HAND THAT GUIDES THE 
  PLOW IS THE HAND THAT  
  RULES THE WORLD 
   
  Perched upon the beam above the plowshare, 
          Gath'ring from the soil o'er which she glides 
   Food and many other cheery comforts — 
          For she has a sure and trusty guide; 
   
   Busy with her many occupations: — 
           Playing with the lightning of the clouds, 
   Peeping at the great and lofty planets, 
           Solving darkened mystery's misty shrouds; 
   
   Pealing sweetest music o'er her mountains, 
          Shouting now the lyrics of the brave ; 
   Learning all the mighty Laws of Nature — 
           Seeking e'en a "why" for death and grave; 
   
  Proudly does she polish precious metals — 
          Hoping e'en to make a brighter hue — 
  Donning pretty fashions gay in splendor — 
           Rainbow's, sunset's dress and ocean's blue. 
   
  Dancing with the glee of childish pleasures 
          Thoughtless in her love of City's whirl; —
  Moves the world with pomp and pride — 
   
   Oft she scorns to be the bride 
   At her benefactor's side, 
   But the hand that guides the plow 
           Is the hand that moves the WORLD. 
  
  
   TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE 
   
   To learn the great achievements in the epics of 
          your life, 
   Or to learn the noble story of your victory- 
          sworded strife; 
   To learn the supernatural feat with which you
          struck slave-free —
   How the Spaniard, French and English bled and 
          groaned about your knee — 
   We only need to go to Hayti — France — where 
          once you trod, 
   And Hasten to the story of the hearts beneath the 
          sod! 
   
  We need not mock Old Hist'ry for the light he 
          failed to catch 
  From the lustrous streak of glory that o'er- hung 
          your cottage thatched; 
  We know this cunning artist's white heroes are 
          painted with 
  Honors; but, he oft forgets the shaded counte- 
          nance of myth. 
  The dotted pages of no book can breathe your 
          spotless fame — 
  For 'tis written in the "Milky Way" that marks 
          your noble name.
  
  Soldier and statesman, brave and true, unlearned 
          of book's device — 
  Soul-taught alone, your heart proclaimed, 
           "Freedom at any price!" 
   Words feebly shadow forth the vim that heaved 
           your noble breast — 
   We leave these for the sunbeams' crowns! — to 
           grace your sleeping rest! 
  
  
   SAN FRANCISCO'S 18th OF APRIL 
   (1906) 
   
   “ * * * ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars, * * * 
  nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against 
  kingdom: and there shall be earthquakes in divers places,
  and there shall be famines and troubles: these are the be-
  ginnings of sorrows.”  — St. Mark, xiii, 7-8 
   
  "O, what an awful, awful dream!" A dream? O, 
  sleepy head! 
        Arouse! arouse! electric brain, from this 
       delusive sleep! 
        Open your eyes upon a truth that churns 
  the ocean deep! 
  That splits asunder even now the mighty 
  mountain's bed! 
   
  O, sleepy eyes, look and behold yon reeling 
  mass of steel! 
        Yon track-laid paves of broken stones now 
       writhing in their speach 
        Of mighty forces great and strong that they 
  are bound to teach! 
  Ears, 'wake and hear their message, too! heart, 
       drink the truth you feel! 
   
  Hark! what is that? — O, fire! fire! our city is 
       wrap'd in flames! 
         The leaping flames whose awful breath 
       bloweth death so deeply wrought 
        With scorched sounds of human cries; and, 
       of mercy beareth naught! 
  Who stamps Life's faces with its brand of crisp — 
         unknown names. 
   
  The Unseen Hand! let us believe, in spite of every 
  cant 
        About the science that's proclaimed does 
       these great shocking deeds; 
        Life-Words' great prophecies we see ful- 
       filling as they read — 
   All of their deep, mysterious truths we must in 
       wonder grant. 
  
  
  AN ODE TO THE CHRISTIAN MARTYRS 
   
  In humble reverence and Christian love 
  Before the Greatest of them all we bow, 
  Likewise before the Father of this One! 
  We see the greatness of this mighty love — 
  The giving of an only Son to die 
  A martyr for the cause of sin! We view 
  The cruel thorns upon His sacred brow, 
  And crimson streams e'en trickling from their 
          wounds ! 
  We hear the hands of buffeters against 
  His face; the cruel, ringing hammers' sound 
  Upon the nails that pierce His hands and feet! 
  We praise Him for the faith and mighty strength 
  That He hath given to the noble host 
  Of martyrs who have followed Him, and shown 
  The priceless jewel of His love, so bright 
  And shining to the world! Grim Death canst 
          bear 
  No sting of terror for such noble hearts! 
  I now in mem'ry of these sacred lives. 
  Dare this, the veiled shadow of a song. 
  With just the hope that it may mingle with 
  The whispers of the soft and gentle breeze 
  That hover o'er the halo of their graves!
  
   
  A MEMORIAL 
  
  IN MEMORY OF FREDERICK DOUGLASS. 
   
  In mem'ry of your truly noble life; 
          In mem'ry of the cause for which you 
  fought; 
  In mem'ry of your fierce and bitter strife; 
         In mem'ry of the lasting good you
  wrought; 
  
   In mem'ry of the talents, really great, 
          That found a home within your massive 
  brains,
  And swayed the thousands of each town and 
  State 
          Who heard your forceful oratory strains; 
  
  I offer now these simple words of praise — 
         This chord I touch to sound your honor's 
  due — 
  The pathway of your truly useful days 
          Shines now a grand and brilliant light for 
  You.
  
  
  LIFE'S DAY
  
          MORNING 
   
   Aurora's dawning veil reveals 
           A glimpse of 'wak'ning Day 
  Who opes his eyes upon the world 
          In a curious, wond'ring way. 
   
  Strange faces 'round about he sees 
          With eyes of truthful vow; 
  Fond fingers fan away the cares 
         Before they reach his brow. 
   
  The twitter of the early birds, 
         The freshness of the breeze, 
  The scent of Fairy's flowers, and 
         The blossoms of the trees; 
   
  The clatter of the busy world. 
         The lurings of the sea 
  Soon lead him forth, on hands and knees, 
         To see what these things be. 
   
  Vain butterflies before him flit — 
         He rises in his glee 
  To trip, fall, rise 'mid worlds of books 
         And Nature's misery. 
   
          NOON 
   
  A feast of wholesome literature; 
          Deserts of sweet love coos, 
  And pleasures such as oft he finds 
  Digestion brings distress of mind 
         And storming clouds of blues. 
   
          EVENING 
   
  His dimming eye now faint reveals 
          A world that changes, too. 
  Bright flowers vanished from the fields –
         The leaves all colored new 
   
  The happy thoughts of morn's bright 
  hours, 
          And thoughtless moments' sting, 
  Awake afresh to give him joy 
          And painful reasoning. 
   
  The dreary, tardy hours creep 
          Into his bending frame; 
  Upon a cane his waning weight 
          He places, without shame. 
   
  The shades of night he plainly sees 
          Faint twilight gleams afar ; 
   His brighter hopes grow brighter still 
          At the sight of each new star. 
   
  They seem to plainly speak to him, 
           "A good fight you've fought, 
  Upon your crown we all shall shine 
          As you have oft been taught." 
   
  The closing scene now shows a smile 
          Upon his beaming face. 
  And closes now his eyes to ope 
          Within the "better place." 
   
  
  PANTHEON 
   
  The heaven and its glories bright above;  
  The earth with Nature's beauties here below; 
  The wondrous light of day and veiling shades i 
  Of night; the glowing sun; the fiick'ring moon; 
  The lofty planets and the tiny stars;
  The eagle up amid the cloudy mists; 
  The little fish down in the whirling deep;
  The wisdom's treasures of the very myth 
   Of Time; the best that ever will — or can 
  E'er nestle in the very purest soul 
  Of Thine own imaged man — lo, all is Thine! 
  
   
  A MAJOR CHORD 
   
          JOY 
   
  Hail Fair Elixir of the heart and mind! 
          Hail Bright Cajoler for the good of life! 
  Your presence gives to all the sweetest kind 
          Of happiness, amid the world of strife. 
   
           FRIENDSHIP 
   
  Twin sister to your fairer sister, Love, 
          But with a sweetness truly all your own 
  You bind your hearts with golden thoughts; 
            and all 
          Are pure; no one is base — a perfect tie. 
   
              SORROW 
   
  Sad Friend, when e'er you creep into our 
            lives 
          We do not often greet you with a smile. 
  But, still, we know 'tis thus the Lord con- 
       trives 
         To chasten — yet, He loves the while. 
   
              PURITY 
   
  White with the snowdrifted bleaching of 
            Good Deeds. 
   Bright with the sunlit glowing of Pure 
            Thought; 
  Sad with the sight of Pity's sorrowing needs, 
         Glad with the hope of blessings inward 
            wrought. 
   
  
   A MINOR CHORD 
   
          VANITY 
   
  Vain Pride, Conceit; vain love of Fond Display! 
  Vain pleasures of the world that cannot stay 
  To be our guide when we'll a guidance need 
  To cheer us through Death's Night of darkened 
          deed. 
   
           FAITHLESSNESS 
   
  Untrue to self, and e'en to love untrue! 
  Yea, false in words and false in actions, too! 
  Great lives are ruined by your sad untruth; 
  Great souls are blackened by your life — forsooth! 
   
               PITY 
   
  O, Plaintive Softener of Hard'n'd Hearts! 
  Your mission is, in truth, a one of need; 
  The tender sympathies which you impart 
  To life is one of noble worth, indeed! 
   
             HATRED 
   
  Hatred, thou art the bitter foe of love! 
  The petrifying hardener of hearts! 
  The cruel thrust of Anger's murd'rous blade !  
  The strangling grasp of Vengeance's mere 'less 
          hand ! 
  The deadly venom of Jealousy's sweetened cup! 
  The fatal blow of heartless Envy's club! 
  The mortal wound of Guilty Pleasure's plan!  
  The darkness that declines to see the light! 
  The wrong that e'er declines to know the right! 
  The hopeless drift that leads to sinful death! 
   
  
   TIME'S CHORD 
   
               YESTERDAY 
   
  Thou hideth in thy bosom many sweets 
          Of joyous past that we so much adore; 
  And many tears of sorrow at thy feet 
          We dropt to thy farewell — forevermore! 
   
                 TO-DAY 
   
  Thy flitting moments dance before our eyes, 
          And beg that we would wreathe into a crown 
  Their jeweled forms — so like the starry skies — 
          To make for us an emblem of renown. 
   
             TO MORROW 
   
  O, sphinx of time, thou flit'h from day to day, 
          Eluding our every grasp — so much 
  As butterflies caress the many gay 
          Sweet flowers, yet evade bright childhood's 
  touch. 
   
                ETERNITY 
   
  O, mighty and infinite space of time! 
          O, shrouded myth of hopeful mystery! 
  O, glorious light for righteousness, sublime! 
          O, utter darkness for sin's misery! 
   
  
   SHARPS AND FLATS 
   
        REMORSE 
   
  Bitter pang of sin, 
          Painful sleeplessness! 
  Dart of bleeding life within, 
          Excruciating stress! 
   
       DISCOURAGEMENT 
   
   
  Smotherer, strangler, slayer of hearts! 
  Coercer of ambition — lo, living death thou art! 
   
       FEAR 
   
  Scare, quiver and quake; 
  Stare, shiver and shake; 
  A heartless breathlessness you are —
  A joyless life you make! 
   
       SHAME 
   
  Guilty sin of heavy head 
          And drooping eyes! 
  Evaded gaze of sad regret 
          And heaving sighs! 
   
  
   A DIRGE TO ANCIENT ROME 
   
  O, Rome! thy flaming annals even scorch 
  Our searching view!    Yea, e'en the breath 
  (A lava of corruption, cruel vice, 
  Gross irreligion, sensuality), 
  Of all thy murd'rous tyrants fall 
  Upon the ethics of our very souls 
  And sadly wounds us! yea, it even makes 
  Us shudder in our dreams ! 
   
  O, Rome! Rome! 
  Why didst not thou, for pity, only keep 
  From us the knowledge's pain that even such 
  Base sins could ever form the faintest part 
  Of human lives?      For always in our search 
  For thy bright talents — law, philosophy, 
  Grand architectural arts, the jeweled breaths 
  Of literature — we have to clear away 
  The putrifying carcasses of sin — 
  The murd'rous work of bloody daggers' thrusts, 
  By hands of Envy, Hatred, Pride, Contempt, 
  Ingratitude, Dehumaned Pleasure, Fear, 
  Degeneracy, Insatiatety, Dislike, 
  Debauchery, Ambition, Madness, Fame, 
  Mad Pagan Antichristianity, Disdain, 
  The Siren's Love, Hereditary Vice! 
  The reasons of a serious thinking mind 
  Canst not perform a task so sore unclean 
  Without returning to its fond abode 
  And bringing dizzy tremors to the soul! 
   
  Thy Claudius quakes our very souls with fear; 
  Tiberius even haunts our dreams at night! 
  Caligula!     Our hearts e'en squirm within! 
  Nero!     His name 's breath bears his poisoned sins! 
   
  Yet, when our search is finally all done, 
  And at thy grave we view thy ruined heap, 
  We see thy talents' virtues with true light 
  And close thy mausoleum lid of past. 
   
  
  THE DOVE 
   
  Once upon a bright spring morning, 
          When the world seemed at its best — 
  Filled with sweetly scented flowers, 
          Azure skies from east to west — 
  I was walking 'mid the breezes 
          That were blowing 'round about, 
  Filling all the blood within me 
          With its glowing, rich redoubt 
  'Gainst disease and all its kindred; 
          And I felt that in each beat 
  Of my pulse was throbbed a pleasant 
          Thinking mood from head to feet. 
  Then I heard the plaintive voice 
          Of a dove — so soft and low — 
  All its tiny heart seemed mourning: 
         “O - - - - 0! O! O! O - - - - o! O - - - - o!” 
   
  “Little mourning bird,” I answered, 
          "How can you, to-day, be sad 
  While the world now seems so happy, 
           And the flowers seem so glad? 
  And the merry bees are buzzing, 
          And the butterflies are gay;
  And the breeze that bears your mournings 
          Wafts the fragrance of the hay? 
  And the glimmers of the sunbeams 
          On your shining plumage rest, 
  Seeking now to learn the secret 
           That is hidden in your breast ! 
  All are guessing for a reason 
          That we think could make you mourn, 
  For we think no heart among us 
          Should be happier than your own. 
  Still while yet we sit and ponder, 
          For the truth we'd like to know, 
   You repeat your only answer:" 
           “‘O - - - - 0! O! O! O - - - - o! O - - - - o!’” 
   
  “Can it be you know the suf 'rings 
          Of the world with death and sin? 
  Can it be you know the sorrows 
          Of the clashing battle's din? 
  Can it be you know the shameful 
          Stalking of the monster, Wrong? 
  Can you see the sad oppression 
          Of the weaklings by the strong? 
  Is it true you've not forgotten 
           How a flood did once destroy 
  All the people who were wicked — 
          Who had made of sin a joy? 
  Can it be you see the murderer 
          As he goes about his work; 
  Can it be you hear the clashing 
          Of his deadly, cruel dirk? 
  Can you see the suicides leaping 
          From the brinks of sad despair — 
  From a life of sinful torture, 
          And a life of burdened care? 
  If you hear and know these wailings, 
          And can feel the same, also, 
  I know why you sit in mourning:” 
   “‘O - - - - 0! O! O! O - - - - o! O - - - - o!’” 
  
   
  VOICES OF THE WAVES 
  
  WRITTEN WHILE A SOLDIER, ON U. S. A. TRANS-
  PORT “SHERMAN,” RETURNING TO U. S. 
   
  Gay, rolling mists, now leaping in your play 
  A foaming, splashing, white and shining spray; 
  ‘Tis oft I stand and feast my eyes on you, 
  And watch your gentle, swaying field of blue! 
   
  But, as I stand and look methinks I hear 
  The voices of your throbbing Pulses stir, 
  As gurgling through the veins of all your thought 
  They whisper now your hist'ry — sadly wrought 
  With wasted loves and battles' crimsoned floods; 
  With sad   despair   and    wreckaged-scattered 
         bloods ! 
   
  With maiden's honor and with woman's sighs; 
  With youth's ambitions and with man's devise; 
  With secret follies and with mother's prayers; 
  With dizzy pleasures and with burdened cares!
   
  With blood-stained glitters of the pirate's gold; 
  With wealth ill-gotten that is yet untold — 
  Is this, in truth, your story, surging waves? 
  Are all these secrets hidden in your grave? 
   
  
  THE MISER 
   
  Bowed in shameful reverence of gold, 
          Quaking with the fear of sudden theft; 
  Groping with the blinded weight untold 
          Of   soulless   love   and   yellow-hearted 
  quest. 
  Starving with the husks of meanly fare, 
          Feasting on the glitter of his hoard; 
  Clothed with the rags of worthless wear — 
           Shiv'ring fireless oft in his abode. 
   
  Oft there 're others, too, who share this life. 
          And hear his lie of poverty each day — 
  Children, an only daughter — or a wife 
          Weep with the suf'rings that his gold 
  could stay ! 
   
  Foolish man ! We pity you. We know 
          The glitter of your gold that now you 
   see — 
  Alas! some day you'll leave it here, and go 
          Crushed by its weight, into eternity! 
   
  
  THE SPENDTHRIFT 
   
  Tripping the time of his frivolous heart, 
  Playing in life a ridiculous part, 
  Foolish with money and thoughtless with 
          health, 
  Careless with love and indifferent with 
          wealth;
   
  Heedlessly racing away from advice, 
          Reveling in pleasures more evil than nice; 
  Giddily pacing a dizzy pursuit 
  Of squandering measures of shameful repute 
   
  Treating e'en lightly life's serious scenes, 
  While gaily discarding his valuable means ; 
  Crazed with Vanity's teachings of fun, 
  The sorrows of life and its joys are one. 
   
  Merrily laughing when, really, he should cry 
  Enriching the vices that surely should die; 
  Trif’ling away many comforts so sweet 
  For which the sad paupers now cry in the 
          street! 
   
  'Tis a blessing to him when his money is 
          spent, 
  Then if he consider and thoroughly repent;
  For if his gay heart in atonement he'll give 
  He'll surely be taught how he really should 
         live. 
   
  
  ANITA 
   
  WRITTEN WHILE A SOLDIER IN 
  MANILLA, P. I. AN ACTUAL CASE 
   
  Far out in the dreamy ocean, by Nature's beauty 
          planned, 
  Lie the Islands of the Philippines — the Flower 
          Blossom Land — 
  With flow'rs that seem most surely blown by the 
          rainbow's magic wand. 
   
  Their shores are kissed by the foaming waves 
          that race from the dancing seas, 
  As lambs that frolic in their play to their bound- 
          ing gay hearts' ease — 
  They wash the Sand-beach's feet to see just how 
          much they can tease. 
   
  Tall, massive, sturdy trees here stand, great 
          sentinels of might, 
  That seem to do their faithful watch so bravely 
          day and night; 
  One sees in these undaunted forms a sermon for 
          the right. 
   
  The glowing brightness of the sun; the chyming 
          of the streams ; 
  The whispers of the leafy trees as the breezes 
          pass — It seems 
  That Nature gives one here a touch of all her 
          fairy dreams. 
   
  There seems to be a misty spell o'er all the world 
          above 
  And all below — and all around — I wonder if it's 
          love! 
  And if it is the "sweety" kind that poets oft 
          write of! 
   
  There lived in this bright picture-land, not many 
          years ago, 
  A native maid; I'll try to make her lovely 
          picture show 
  Before your eyes, for I am sure that you fair 
          beauty know. 
   
  Anita was this maiden's name — her people called 
          her "Nete," 
  And th' love they showered over her to her was 
          always sweet; 
  Her happy heart shone in her hands and dainty 
          little feet. 
   
  It seems as if the chestnut came and begged its 
          leave to place 
  Within the dimples of her cheeks and o'er her 
          pretty face 
  Its richest hue, that it might here receive her 
          smiling grace. 
   
  The moonbeams gave their streaming light to her 
          dark and wond'ring eyes, 
  They seemed to cast a flick'ring light twixt love 
          and fond surprise 
  One moment then the next they'd droop as a 
          wounded pansy dies. 
  
  But, of every touch of Nature's hand that made 
          this beauty fair. 
  The greatest glory of them all was clustered in 
          her hair — 
  A blending of the sunbeams' gold and th' flow- 
          ing midnight air. 
   
  Anita loved a soldier boy, a colored youth called 
          Bob, 
  A soldier in her land.     He heard a love sigh in 
          each sob 
  When she lisped his name the best she could — a 
          tiny little "Vob." 
   
  At first Bob seemed as true in love as duty's 
          soldier boy; 
  They were both happy day by day — but not with 
          lasting joy! 
  For when Bob learned of her great love he made 
          her heart his toy. 
   
  Time brought to Bob these sorrowing words 
          "To America you'll return" — 
  Now on his cheeks Anita's tears fell fast; and 
          seemed to burn 
  Their way into his dizzy brains! — Can he such 
          love e'er spurn? 
   
  Oh! take me to your dear homeland, "querido," 
          will you, please? 
  I love you and I want to go with you o'er land or 
          seas!" 
  "I'll take you with me home, my Love," Bob 
          smilingly agrees. 
   
  "Let's go before the altar, dear, within your 
           holy church, 
  For there alone can e'er we find the tie for which 
          we search; 
  Let's fly into one little nest on Love's exalted 
          perch." 
   
  "O, is this, really, true, now, Vob? — oh! say 
          when may we go 
  Before the altar in the church that we, by this, 
   
         may show 
  The love we've cherished now so long and must 
          so surely know?" 
   
  Bob named the day, then in her eyes he saw her 
          happy heart, 
  But, lo ! the day he named to wed was his evasive 
          art. 
  For on the day before he knew his home-boat 
          would depart. 
   
  Time brought, at last, Anita's day and found her 
          all prepared — 
  And at her window all the day she stood and 
          looked and stared; 
  But, Bob ne'er came to greet her there — and e'en 
          the waves were sad! 
   
  Bob tried to cheer his murm'ring heart while 
          sailing home that day: — 
  "O, well, I could not marry th' girl," he bravely 
           tried to say 
  But his heart rose up and choked his words in a 
          strang'ling kind of way. 
   
  "Come eat your porridge, ‘Nete,’ my dear, 'tis 
          plain this man has lied." 
  "No, no, mama! O, no, papa! I cannot eat," she 
          cried, 
  "I'll wait for 'Vob,' he'll, surely, come to claim 
          me for his bride." 
   
  Day after day Anita stood and looked, but 
          would not eat ! 
  Grief crept into her dark blue veins and coursed 
           from head to feet; 
  He stole her breaths of beauty that had graced 
            her village street; 
   
  And stole the moonlight from her eyes and fixed 
   
          dark pools, instead, 
  Of tears so deep and still that shone a tint of 
          evening's red — 
  Also, the cruel sorrow, too, by which her life was 
          fed. 
   
  He chased the chestnut shades away and gave 
          them to the seas; 
  He stole the roundings of her cheeks and flung 
          them to the breeze; 
  And being thus so shorn of strength she sank 
          upon her knees. 
   
  Thus was she found by Time, who came and 
           brought his servant, too. 
  Death, and he bade him, "Gently take this 
           broken hearted, true 
  And saddened, wasted love away to blossom in a 
          new 
  And better world! away from life that's now to 
           her so blue!" 
   
  "Oh, 'Nete,' please speak to us once more! we 
          cannot let you go!" 
  Her mother, father, brothers, cried — "Don't 
           leave us, love — oh, no!" 
  Her spirit dropped, now, in its flight, her whisper 
          "‘Vob,' you know!" 
   
  
  AN ELEGY TO JOHN BROWN 
  (The Would-be Liberator) 
   
  Sleep on! 
  True martyr for your principle of right! 
          True hero of the cause for which you 
  fought ! 
  True life of lofty, grand, courageous might! 
          Sincerity with manly motives fraught! 
  Sleep on! 
   
  Sleep on! 
  Your grand and noble presence here is done, 
          Your noble heart revolted for sweet 
  peace! 
  Your noble march to victory was won 
          When from embittered life you smiled 
  release ! 
           Sleep on! 
   
  Sleep on! 
  Your choice was death! none would your 
  life enthrall! 
          You struck for liberty for all your clan ' 
  Your enemies e'en at your scaffold's fall 
          Looked and declared, "Here is in 
  truth, a man!" 
  Sleep on! 
   
  
   THE TREASURED CURL 
   
  How dear to my heart is this tress which I trea- 
  sure! 
          Such fond recollections it brings to my 
  mind: 
  I think of the dear loving fingers that cut it — 
          The donor so gentle — so noble and kind. 
   
  Ah! sweet were the moments I passed in her 
  presence, 
          While roaming through woodland so happy 
  were we; 
  O, how I admired those dear silken tresses! 
          She knew it, and kindly gave this one to me. 
   
  So lovely and bright were the trees of the forest, 
          So green were the leaves with the flowers in 
  bloom: 
  Fair Nature had clothed the dear woodland with 
  grandeur — 
          Together we scented its fragrant perfume. 
   
  It seems I now see her all laden with flowers, 
          And hear her sweet nightingale voice soft 
  and low 
  In silvery ripples re-echoing the forest, 
  As sweetly she sang the dear songs I well 
        know.
   
  O, Alice, dear Alice, oft now do I see you, 
          In love's sweetest dreams I behold your 
  sweet face! 
  But when I awake I have naught to console me — 
          Ah! naught but this curl with its beauty and 
  grace! 
   
  Ah! when comes the day that I lifeless am lying— 
         My soul then departed forever to rest — 
  When friends are preparing my body for burial 
          Oh, may this dear treasure be placed on my 
  breast ! 
   
  UNCLE IKE'S OPINION OF WIN- 
  TERPOCK'S COLLEGE 
   
  WRITTEN FOR THE ORGANIZER OF 
  A COUNTRY INDUSTRIAL SCHOOL 
   
  Hab yer heahed 'bout dat norm'l schuul dat dey 
          is tryin' ter start? — 
  De white fo'ks calls de black man a fool, but now 
          he's gwine ter be smart. 
   
  At Winterpock is whah dey's tryin' ter hab dis 
          schuul located, 
  F'om what I heahed I fink dey's gwine ter hab it 
          des as stated. 
   
  Dat Rebrent Tyler ober dar is gittin up dis plan, 
  Tell yer de trufe, I see des whah dat 'twill be 
          mouty gran'. 
   
  I heah dey's gwine ter fix it so de scarlars ken 
          larn er trade — 
  Sich as carp'nter, blacksmiff an' sheenest, yer 
          kno' dey’ll be smart wid dat in der hades. 
   
  F'om what I heahed de tother day de charges 
          gwine ter be small — 
  I tell yer what, dey re'ly say, six dollers er munt 
          is all. 
   
  Besize dey'll take yer butter an' aiggs as he'p 
          in payin' debill, 
  An' I spose ef yer poot up sum taters in kaigs, an' 
          grap'l some tunnups out de kil', 
   
  An' sen' dem ober ter de manager 'would make 
          de bil’ more small; 
  Den when we sells our backer we could, certny, 
          pay it all. 
   
  Dey say we wont hab ter dres' our chilluns in 
          finery an' sich stuff, 
  But de cloth we gits free yahds fer er shillin' will 
          be des good ernuff. 
   
  I finks dat p'int is mouty fine, kase yer kno' dat 
          we aint able 
  Ter dres' our chilluns in ebery kine of fin'ry dat 
          is costful. 
   
  I specks ter sen' my gal ober dar, sho as I's two 
          foot hi' — 
  Dat gal, I tell yer, br'er Cezar, gwine ter be 
          sup'n bime bime. 
   
  She's fah f'om bein' er fool rite now — I tell yer 
          dat fing ternite — 
  She's always cerreckin me somehow, an' sez I 
          doan tahk des rite. 
   
  Whehoo! I didn't fink dat 'twas so late! 'tis ten 
          by dat clock dar; 
  I orter bin gone at eny rate — so good nite br'er 
          Cezar. 
  
   
  FADED LEAVES 
   
  Now the days are growing colder, 
  As each day the year grows older; 
  Seared grass with frost is white — 
  Summer now is out of sight , 
  And the faded leaves are falling. 
   
  Now the days seem melancholly 
  As we think of things so jolly 
  That have faded from our sight — 
  But 'mid thoughts of things so bright 
  Are the faded leaves now falling. 
   
  Just as leaves we all are fading, 
  Just as leaves do now cease shading 
  All must go — aye, one and all — 
  The rich and poor, the great and small –
  As the faded leaves now falling. 
   
  
  CHRISTMAS MORN 
   
  Come wake up and sing, "All hail to the King," 
           aurora is dawning the sky; 
  Rejoice and be glad, let no one be sad, let " Peace 
          and good will be our cry." 
   
  Ye people be gay for this is the day that Jesus, 
          our Savior, was born; 
  O! let the bells ring, and may we all sing sweet 
          praise and thanksgiving this morn. 
   
  
  “I LOVE YOU, TOO”
   
  WRITTEN WHILE A SOLDIER, 
  AT FORT WASHAKIE, WYO. 
   
  One afternoon of May's sweet gift, when all the 
          world was gay 
  With singing birds and humming bees and 
          flowers' bright array, 
  I sat beside the girl I love of all the world the 
          best, 
  And held her hand most tenderly, and thus my 
          love confessed:
  "O, Alice dear, you are, indeed, my first and 
          only love! 
  "The truth of this is known to God and angels up 
          above!" 
  O, how my heart did leap with joy, sweet, serene 
          and true,
  As in a voice sweet and low she said. “I love you, 
          too." 
   
  REFRAIN 
   
  "I love you, too ! I love you, too ! The angels 
          know 'tis true ! 
  "I am so glad you do love me, because I love 
           you, too!" 
  The music of her loving voice was so sweet to me, 
  As thus she spoke so tenderly these words in true 
          love's key. 
  Long years have passed since that bright day, 
          but ne'er will I forget 
  The one so fair who won my heart — for, O, I 
          love her, yet! 
  I love her, yet, and ever will while 'tis I breathe 
          in life, 
   No happiness will e'er be mine 'till I may call her 
          wife! 
  Long years I've passed away from her, clad in 
   
          my country's blue, 
  But, soon I'm going back to her who said, "I 
          love you, too." 
   
  
  HAVE I DONE WRONG? 
   
  WRITTEN WHILE A SOLDIER 
  AT FORT CLARK, TEXAS 
   
  Father says that he is sorry that I choose a  
    soldier's life, 
           And he says he feels as if I now am dead;
  In the letters from my sister there is oft a doleful  
    strain — 
          Though she tries her best at cheerfulness, 
    instead. 
  Brother said when last I left him that "the idea  
    is absurd," 
          Saying "Army life is not for such as you;" 
  I have letters from my friends in which they ask  
    the question thus — 
          "Tell us why you joined the U. S. 'boys in 
    blue?' " 
  Have I done wrong, O father, sister, brother, 
    friends and kindred dear? 
  Have I done wrong, O God of heaven? Am I  
    wrong? Should I be here? 
   
  I have letters from the "fair sex" asking, "Is it 
    really, true?" 
          And the dearest of them all pleads "O, come 
    back!" 
  For she says she cannot bear it, since I am so far 
    away, 
          Yet, for years I must remain away — sad 
    fact! 
  And she asks me if I'll leave her there so long 
    a weeping girl, 
          For she says this cruel grief gnaws her sad 
    heart; 
  And she tells me all the sunshine of her life has 
    vanished now 
          Since it is we are so sadly far apart. 
  Have I done wrong, O father, sister, brother, 
    friends and sweetheart dear? 
  Have I done wrong, O God of heaven? Am I 
    wrong? Should I be here?
  
  
  A DIVIDED LOVE 
   
  I'm feeling sad to-night, love, and I cannot rest 
  in bed; 
          Sleep has fled far from my eyes of misty 
  tears. 
  Why is it I'm unhappy? though your love for me 
  you've said — 
          Ah, there comes to me the bitter thought of 
  years! 
   
   REFRAIN 
   
       Sad will I wander where e'er I go! 
  My love will ever dwell with you, I 
       know; 
  An undivided love is what I crave, 
  But to my heart such love you will not 
       give. 
   
  Though you love me and confess it there's 
  another one, you know, 
          Whom you tell me has a claim within your 
  heart; 
  O'er these words I oft have pondered, and 
  although it pains me so 
          It is plain that we must ever live apart! 
   
  Though my heart will never cease to beat in love 
  for you, my pet, 
          And a happy life I wish you from my heart; 
  To another's arms I yield you with a longing, 
  sad regret! 
          Ah, farewell, "first love" if we must live
  apart! 
  
  
  MY FATHER'S LETTER 
   
  WRITTEN WHILE A SOLDIER, 
  AT FORT CLARK, TEXAS. 
   
  I've a letter from my father,
          And it is a doleful one — 
  Sad, for, I must say, it is his 
               First to me, his soldier son. 
   
   REFRAIN 
   
  Father, do not grieve about me, for I do not fear 
           the gun; 
  I will do my duty bravely while I'm now your 
  soldier son. 
   
  When I left my home in springtime 
               I ne'er thought of enlistment, 
       But when last I wrote my father 
          You can guess the news I sent. 
   
  "My Dear Son" — thus he commences, 
               "I have just received your news 
  "Be you ever true and faithful 
               "Since it is this life you choose. 
   
  "Son, to tell the truth, I must say 
               "I now feel as if you're dead:
  "And must ever have this feeling 
               " 'Til you're home again," he said. 
   
  "Many of your friends are grieving, 
               "Bitter tears fill many eyes 
       “For these strange and sudden tidings 
          "Give us all a great surprise. 
  "Son My Dear, do not cease praying, 
               "Pray and be both kind and brave: 
       "Pray that you may live forever 
               "In the life beyond the grave." 
  
  
  THANKSGIVING 
   
  WRITTEN WHILE A SOLDIER, AT LEON, 
  PANAY, P. I., THANKSGIVING DAY, 19O1, 
   
  O, Lord above, my prayer to Thee 
  Is that my heart, to-day, may be 
  Clothed in sincere humility
  And tuned with pure thanksgiving. 
   
  REFRAIN 
  
  Thanks, thanks, to Thee — O, thanks, to Thee! 
  Dear Lord, to-day, my song is thanks, thanks, 
          to Thee ! 
   
  So many thanks now crowd my mind 
  No words to tell them can I find, 
  But, Thou who art so good and kind 
  Dost know my heart's thanksgiving. 
   
  Then, as my heart, to-day, dost speak –
  The contrite heart Thou hath made meek –
  Accept these thanks though faint and 
               weak. 
  Yet, they are my thanksgiving. 
  
  
   THE FROZEN RAIN 
   
  O! the frozen rain upon the ground, 
  Upon the trees and all around: 
  And e'en the tiny bits of grass 
  Are crystal white.    What can surpass 
          The picturesque frozen rain? 
   
  When e'er my eyes this scene behold 
  Sweet visions of the things untold 
  Light up my heart.    I can but gaze 
  As, sparkling 'neath the sun's bright rays, 
          I view the frozen rain. 
   
  These diamond-studded twinkles bright 
  Must be of heaven a sweet foresight! 
       Tis not of earth they seem a part — 
  They're food for every anxious heart! 
          Enchanting frozen rain! 
  
  
   A WINTER'S SUNRISE 
   
  There comes now o'er the eastern hills the 
    glorious sun, 
          His face now glows with radiance of pure 
    light; 
  He now views man and many works that must 
    be done 
          Before the darkness of the coming night. 
   
  We gladly welcome thee, O, powerful king of 
    day! 
           Glad are we now to feel thou art in sight; 
  We missed thy warmth so much whilst thou 
    wast far away — 
          The warmth thou bringeth with thy bril- 
    liant light. 
   
  The cold and bitter frost canst not withstand 
    thy gaze, 
          And sheets of ice before thee disappear; 
  Thou showeth many glories of the God of praise, 
    As daily thou dost shed thy light so dear. 
  
  
  THE DEATH OF A SOLDIER- 
  COMRADE 
   
  WRITTEN WHILE A SOLDIER AT FORT WASHAKIE, 
  WYO., AUTUMN, 1902. A TRUE NARRATIVE 
   
  Among the sad-tinted shadows 
          That've painted for me the past, 
       There's one which in tender touching 
          Is a shade of different cast. 
   
  I once knew a youthful soldier, 
               Full of hope's ambition and skill; 
       From his comrades he won true friend- 
                 ship — 
          From his cavalry steed — good will. 
   
  Fast friends we became together, 
               And laughed in our comradeship's 
                 way — 
       I'm sure no friendship was greater 
          In David and Jonathan's day. 
   
  He told me of his home in Ohio, 
               Of a mother who queened this home: 
  Of a sister, I think, and a brother, 
          Who longed that he home would 
  come. 
   
  He told me a sweetheart was waiting — 
          This gave me the tenderest touch — 
  I told him of mine, true and loving, 
               Who was longing for me — oh, so 
  much. 
   
  One day he came into the office 
          (Where I sat as clerk of the troop), 
  And said he was going out hunting — 
          With pleasure he was ready to whoop 
   
  I learned that a party of officers, 
          And ladies, and some troop-men. 
       Were going to hunt in the mountains 
          ('Twas Wyoming where we were 
  then). 
   
  The party went out for this pleasure, 
          In the late autumn's eve of this State 
  With wagons, provision and laughter — 
          A departure of merriest rate. 
   
  In autumn the mountains of Wyoming 
          Steal the mantle of cold Winter's 
  shroud,
       By their artful ways of teasing 
               The soft'ning will of the cloud. 
  
  While hunting, it seems, that my comrade 
          Strayed too far all alone, 
  To follow elk- tracks of such freshness 
               That it seemed but recently gone. 
   
  He lost his way in the snowdrift, 
               But, ne'er found the game that he 
       sought — 
  His tired limbs became helpless, 
               While his brain had the power of 
  thought. 
   
  He plowed away with his fingers 
               The cold and cruel snow, 
  In which was hidden the ghastly 
               Great Hand that he soon would know. 
   
  There was no fire to warm him, 
               And none that he could make — 
       The chilly winds brought for him 
               Their offerings of cheerless ache. 
   
  He lay with a log for his comfort, 
               And thought of the sweets of the 
          past: — 
  Of mother and sister and sweetheart, 
           Who had now surely seen him their 
      last. 
   
  He thought of the pleasures now blighted 
          Ambitions he never could tell — 
  Ah! what means this cold, chilling numb- 
      ing? 
  Yea, the meaning he knew now too 
      well! 
       *     *    *    *    
  
  At his party's camp he was missing, 
               And a diligent search was then made, 
       But all of one day and another's 
               Daylight was beginning to fade 
       When they found his yet breathing body — 
          Pleading eyes beyond any aid! 
   
  At the camp he talked and told them 
               How he wandered away and was lost; 
       But, no healing art could e'er reach him. 
          Though his party felt keenly the cost 
       In their hearts for the youth now blighted 
          As a flower heart-deadened by frost. 
   
  Back to post they brought him for burial — 
          My heart seemed to melt in its grief! 
       The sight of his face brought mem'ries 
          From which I could find no relief!
   
  The sending to his mother his letters 
          And valuables that she could keep, 
       Was a part of my soldierly duty, 
               And a one that was tearfully deep.
   
  He had read me some of these letters,
               So breathing with fond mother's love; 
       So full of endearing "God-bless-you's" 
          That are touched with the mercies 
  above. 
   
  O, mother of him who was my comrade! 
          Your blessings I return to your hand, 
  Your boy will need them no more — 
               He's, I hope, in a better land. 
   
  But, this "bread" that you casted so 
          fondly 
  Upon the waters of Life, which to 
          you 
  Is returning — oh, may it be laden 
          With blessings for you all anew! 
   
  He was loved by all who knew him,
               His departure is bathed with the 
  tears 
  Of many who were 'bove him in the 
  station 
          Of his useful, tender years. 
   
  Look above for your comfort, dear 
           mother, 
               You'll find there one peaceful and 
           deep; 
       We know that your heart is bursting! — 
               'Tis cruel to tell you, “Don't weep!”
  Be resigned to the will of the Father, 
          He'll send then His spirit to heal — 
       The bright star of hope for the future 
          Will make many a woe a weal. 
  
  
  SCAEVOLA 
   
  All honor to undaunted fortitude 
  Where ever such a spirit breathe in life! 
  The legendary history of Rome, 
  Of ancient date, relates one truly grand: 
  A Roman youth — One Gacius Macius — 
  Resolved to end a certain pressing siege 
  Against his city; driven by a man, 
  One king Porsenna was his famous name. 
  Into his camp this youth stole secretly, 
  With willed intent to kill this man of war, 
  But by an error killed another who 
  Was secretary for the one he sought. 
   
  Be'ng captured in this deed he then was brought 
  Before the king who threat 'nd him with fire, 
  Demanding that this youth should tell him all 
  The plots of what the Romans sought to do. 
   
  "Tell you my people's plots?" replied the youth, 
  "Or you will place me in your burning flames?" 
  Then, walking silently toward the fire, 
  Thrusted his hand — the right one — in to burn; 
  Unflinchingly he stood 'til it was charred! 
   
  The king and all his men in wonder stood; 
  And whispered, "Gods! what fortitude is this!" 
  Go to your people, youth," the king replied; 
  Such dauntlessness shall ne'er burn in my 
          flames!" 
   
  "Scaevola" afterward was called this youth — 
  Left-handed lived he for the cause he loved. 
  O, what a lesson of courageous vim! 
  A trueness for the principle of right! 
  Live for the right!    Be maimed, or die for it ! 
  "Fear not those who the body kill, but fear 
  Him, who hath after death, the power still 
  To cast the soul into eternal flames!" 
  
  
  THE BEAUTY OF IMAGINATION 
  AND ITS INFLUENCE UPON LIFE 
   
  An Address Delivered Before a Literary Circle, Manila 
  P. I., November, 1906, by the Author of This Book. 
   
  I believe, to the average mind the word "im- 
  agination" suggests childish “daydreams," 
   foolish "air castles," “idle fancies," and "sweet 
   nothings." Let us see if the word has not a 
  deeper meaning. Let us see if we cannot find in 
  it something of real value to life. 
   
  First — Imaginations, like our thoughts, are 
  either good or bad. Bad thoughts debase and 
  dehumanize; bad imaginations demonize. Good 
  thoughts inspire noble actions; good imagin- 
  ations actuate great deeds. But, my subject 
  deals with the lofty summit— the acme of im- 
  agination. The beauty of Imagination is the 
  poetry of Life: It is the fragrant breath of the 
  flower; the whisper of the breeze; the wooing of 
  the bird; the murmur of the brook; the voice of 
  the wave; the awakening tread of spring; the 
  joyous laugh of summer; the crowning gold of 
  autumn's eve, and the spotless shroud of winter. 
  It is the eye of the moon; the jewels of the stars; 
  the glorying pride of day; the trailing robes of 
  night; the silver of the moonlight, and the kiss of 
  the sunbeams. 
   
     Its Influence upon Life: Upon consideration, 
  it is astonishing to note how many of our im- 
  aginations are "possibilties." Imagination 
  gives to the poverty of youth a sight of the 
  wealth and splendor that may be for him; to the 
  despairing lover a view of the love and happiness 
  that may be his; to the tired soldier it presents 
  the laudatory sounds of victory that are ahead of 
  him; it reveals the glowing light of Fame and 
  Honor to the longing eye of Ambition. It 
  sweetens childhood's play, and enriches declin- 
  ing age.     It is the spark of hope to the work- 
  ing-man, and the lamp of happiness to the 
  millionaire.    It is the wolf of want; and the lap 
  of luxury.    It is the love-light of mother's eyes; 
  and the heaven under the roof of the lover.    It 
  is the hand of Friendship; and the arms of Love. 
  It is the source of fruitful endeavors, and the 
  root of renowned accomplishments.    It is the 
  forerunning "will" of the persevering "way." 
  It is the view of sin's torture below, and the 
  sight of celestial glories above; the view of Death, 
  and the sight of Life; the view of Earth's frowns, 
  and the sight of Heaven's smiles. 
   
  O, weird, fleeting phantasm of Muse, 
  That playeth 'mid the pearly dews of life ! 
  And through the twink'ling, jeweled portals 
          bright 
  Of heaven's purity thou soareth oft. 
  And to thy fond abode returneth sweet 
  And dreamy whispers that to Life unfold 
  The smiles that speak of blissful hope, and, of 
  The glowing faith within the blithesome heart. 
  
  Sweet Dreamer! that rejoices with the songs 
  Of silv'ry twitters that the winged hosts 
  Of earth resound their inward hearts of love 
  And gratitude unto their Maker!   That 
  Dreams 'mid the sun's departing tints to Day; 
  His welcome smiles to Morn's sweet breath; the 
          streams 
  Of silvered lights of moonbeams'   flick'ring 
          gifts 
  To Night; the faultless diamond twinkles of 
  The studded firmament above; the bright 
  Hued panorama of the covenant 
  Of God to Noah; and, the dancing blue 
  Of ocean's balmy mists; the fragrance and 
  The varied hues of Nature's flowered dress; 
  The sermons of the fading shades of gold 
  Of Autumn's eve; the lifeless rocks and hills; 
  The curse of sin; the hand of death; and, all 
  That Life proclaims. 
  Heart of the heart, that feels 
  The warmth of love! Soul of the soul, that 
          hears 
  Celestial songs, and sees the smiles above 
  Of angels' love!   Sweet of the sweets of Life!
  
  
  RETROSPECTION 
   
  Now through dim mists of years I view the past 
          And many scenes of which my heart holds 
      dear 
  To my interior vision thick and fast 
          They are presented very bright and clear. 
   
  I see the dear old home where I was born, 
          And where a part of childhood's days I 
      spent; 
  'Twas there the radiant rising sun each morn 
          Viewed many scenes of quietness and con- 
          tent. 
   
  There is my dear old father, hale and strong, 
          Moving with gentle tread about the place, 
  While mother sings a dear old sacred song 
          With cheerful countenance and smiling face. 
   
  There mother, with a loving lullaby, 
          Holds me, her babe, within her gentle arm — 
  Methinks I hear her whisper with a sigh, 
          "May God protect thee, dear one, from all 
      harm." 
   
  'Twas there my little sister, sweet and kind, 
          Was with me and we played so glad and 
           free: 
  When ne'er we had a thought of troubled mind, 
          Nor of the many future things to be. 
   
  But mother's voice and little sister's, too, 
          Are silenced now — no more they speak to 
          me! 
  For they have long bade me a last adieu 
          And left me lonely here on life's wild sea. 
   
  But, soon I, too, must leave this world behind — 
          When I have run the mighty race of life — 
  Then may I rest from troubles of the mind, 
         And every daily care of toil and strife. 
  
  
  TEACH ME 
   
  Teach me, O God, the story of Thy Son! 
          Teach me to feel Thy Pentacost within; 
  Teach me to pray, in truth, "Thy will be 
  done" — 
          Oh, teach me! 
   
  Teach me to see the world about my feet; 
          Teach me to hear its music's sweetest 
  strains; 
  Teach me to know the bitter from the sweet — 
          Oh, teach me! 
   
  Teach me a word of loving truth within, 
           Teach me a look to show this precious 
  truth; 
  Teach me a touch of tenderness to win — 
          Oh, teach me! 
   
  Teach me the faith that leadeth to the light; 
          Teach me a song of ever joyous day; 
  Teach me a step to walk within the right — 
          Oh, teach me! 
   
  
  “REST IN JESUS”
   
  The Dying Words of My Sister, to Whom I Dedi- 
  cated ''The Household Queen," and Who Went to Her 
  ''Rest" March 17, 1903. 
   
  Dear sister, to "rest in Jesus " 
          You told us you would go; 
  And now that you've gone and left us, 
          As others have before, 
  We think of these words with rapture — 
          We know your "rest" is sweet — 
  Although our hearts droop in mourning, 
          Farewell, until we meet 
  With you in the great eternal 
          To share with you your "rest," 
  Where there is no pain of parting 
          And ever we are blessed. 
   
  
  THE ! ! ! 
   
  THE END !   Sickle of Time, 
  That's bladed with farewells of many tears! 
  And Nevermore is thine 
  Own countersign to moments, days and years. 
   
  Thou art the sacred break 
  That marks the sever of the silver cord 
  Of Life.    The sad mistake 
  That marks the "might-have-been" where Life 
               hath trod! 
   
  Where love begins to wane, 
  Thou standeth with the drooping shades of night 
  For that which yet remains — 
  The Life's divided shadow from the light. 
   
  Thou art the period 
  That Nature uses for her written book — 
       Her chapter's marked-retard — 
  The grave of "It is finished's'' parting look. 
   
  But, yet we find in thee 
  A truly dear and sympathizing friend — 
  The sweetest liberty 
  From sorrowed past — our future hope, THE 
          END!