Grand'ther Baldwin's Thanksgiving, with Other Ballads and Poems

FRIAR ANSELMO

     Friar Anselmo (God's grace may he win!)     Committed one sad day a deadly sin;     Which being done he drew back, self-abhorred,     From the rebuking presence of the Lord,     And, kneeling down, besought, with bitter cry,     Since life was worthless grown, that he might die.     All night he knelt, and, when the morning broke,     In patience still he waits death's fatal stroke.     When all at once a cry of sharp distress     Aroused Anselmo from his wretchedness;     And, looking from the convent window high,     He saw a wounded traveller gasping lie     Just underneath, who, bruised and stricken sore,     Had crawled for aid unto the convent door.     The friar's heart with deep compassion stirred,     When the poor wretch's groans for help were heard     With gentle hands, and touched with love divine,     He bathed his wounds, and poured in oil and wine.     With tender foresight cared for all his needs,—     A blessed ministry of noble deeds.     In such devotion passed seven days. At length     The poor wayfarer gained his wonted strength.     With grateful thanks he left the convent walls,     And once again on death Anselmo calls.     When, lo! his cell was filled with sudden light,     And on the wall he saw an angel write,     (An angel in whose likeness he could trace,     More noble grown, the traveller's form and face),     "Courage, Anselmo, though thy sin be great,     God grants thee life that thou may'st expiate.     "Thy guilty stains shall be washed white again,     By noble service done thy fellow-men.     "His soul draws nearest unto God above,     Who to his brother ministers in love."     Meekly Anselmo rose, and, after prayer,     His soul was lightened of its past despair.     Henceforth he strove, obeying God's high will,     His heaven-appointed mission to fulfil.     And many a soul, oppressed with pain and grief,     Owed to the friar solace and relief.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

THE CHURCH AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON

     One autumn day, when hedges yet were green,       And thick-branched trees diffused a leafy gloom,     Hard by where Avon rolls its silvery tide,       I stood in silent thought by Shakspeare's tomb.     O happy church, beneath whose marble floor       His ashes lie who so enriched mankind;     The many-sided Shakespeare, rare of soul,       And dowered with an all-embracing mind.     Through the stained windows rays of sunshine fall       In softened glory on the chancel floor;     While I, a pilgrim from across the sea,       stand with bare head in reverential awe.     Churches there are within whose gloomy vaults       Repose the bones of those that once were kings;     Their power has passed, and what remains but clay?       While in his grave our Shakspeare lives and sings.     Kings were his puppets, kingdoms but his stage,—       Faint shadows they without his plastic art,—     He waves his wand, and lo! they live again,       And in his world perform their mimic part.     Born in the purple, his imperial soul       Sits crowned and sceptred in the realms of mind.     Kingdoms may fall, and crumble to decay,       Time but confirms his empire o'er mankind.

MRS. BROWNING'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE

     FLORENCE wears an added grace,       All her earlier honors crowning;     Dante's birthplace, Art's fair home,       Holds the dust of Barrett Browning.     Guardian of the noble dead       That beneath thy soil lie sleeping,     England, with full heart, commends       This new treasure to thy keeping.     Take her, she is half thine own;       In her verses' rich outpouring,     Breathes the warm Italian heart,       Yearning for the land's restoring.     From thy skies her poet-heart       Caught a fresher inspiration,     And her soul obtained new strength,       With her bodily translation.     Freely take what thou hast given,       Less her verses' rhythmic beauty,     Than the stirring notes that called       Trumpet-like thy sons to duty.     Rarest of exotic flowers       In thy native chaplet twining,     To the temple of thy great       Add her—she is worth enshrining.

MY CASTLE

     I have a beautiful castle,       With towers and battlements fair;     And many a banner, with gay device,       Floats in the outer air.     The walls are of solid silver;       The towers are of massive gold;     And the lights that stream from the windows       A royal scene unfold.     Ah! could you but enter my castle       With its pomp of regal sheen,     You would say that it far surpasses       The palace of Aladeen.     Could you but enter as I do,       And pace through the vaulted hall,     And mark the stately columns,       And the pictures on the wall;     With the costly gems about them,       That send their light afar,     With a chaste and softened splendor       Like the light of a distant star!     And where is this wonderful castle,       With its rich emblazonings,     Whose pomp so far surpasses       The homes of the greatest kings?     Come out with me at morning       And lie in the meadow-grass,     And lift your eyes to the ether blue,       And you will see it pass.     There! can you not see the battlements;       And the turrets stately and high,     Whose lofty summits are tipped with clouds,       And lost in the arching sky?     Dear friend, you are only dreaming,       Your castle so stately and fair     Is only a fanciful structure,—       A castle in the air.     Perchance you are right. I know not       If a phantom it may be;     But yet, in my inmost heart, I feel       That it lives, and lives for me.     For when clouds and darkness are round me,       And my heart is heavy with care,     I steal me away from the noisy crowd,       To dwell in my castle fair.     There are servants to do my bidding;       There are servants to heed my call;     And I, with a master's air of pride,       May pace through the vaulted hall.     And I envy not the monarchs       With cities under their sway;     For am I not, in my own right,       A monarch as proud as they?     What matter, then, if to others       My castle a phantom may be,     Since I feel, in the depths of my own heart,       That it is not so to me?

APPLE-BLOSSOMS

     I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs,       In the fragrant orchard close,     And around me floats the scented air,       With its wave-like tidal flows.     I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss,       And call no king my peer;     For is not this the rare, sweet time,       The blossoming time of the year?     I lie on a couch of downy grass,       With delicate blossoms strewn,     And I feel the throb of Nature's heart       Responsive to my own.     Oh, the world is fair, and God is good,       That maketh life so dear;     For is not this the rare, sweet time,       The blossoming time of the year?     I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs,       The delicate blue of the sky,     And the changing clouds with their marvellous tints       That drift so lazily by.     And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my brain,       And Heaven, it seemeth near;     Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time,       The blossoming time of the year?

SUMMER HOURS

     It is the year's high noon,       The earth sweet incense yields,       And o'er the fresh, green fields     Bends the clear sky of June.     I leave the crowded streets,       The hum of busy life,       Its clamor and its strife,     To breathe thy perfumed sweets.     O rare and golden hours!       The bird's melodious song,       Wavelike, is borne along     Upon a strand of flowers.     I wander far away,       Where, through the forest trees,       Sports the cool summer breeze,     In wild and wanton play.     A patriarchal elm       Its stately form uprears,       Which twice a hundred years     Has ruled this woodland realm.     I sit beneath its shade,       And watch, with careless eye,       The brook that babbles by,     And cools the leafy glade.     In truth I wonder not,       That in the ancient days       The temples of God's praise     Were grove and leafy grot.     The noblest ever planned,       With quaint device and rare,       By man, can ill compare     With these from God's own hand.     Pilgrim with way-worn feet,       Who, treading life's dull round,       No true repose hast found,     Come to this green retreat.     For bird, and flower, and tree,       Green fields, and woodland wild,       Shall bear, with voices mild,     Sweet messages to thee.

JUNE

     Throw open wide your golden gates,       O poet-landed month of June,     And waft me, on your spicy breath,       The melody of birds in tune.     O fairest palace of the three,       Wherein Queen Summer holdeth sway,     I gaze upon your leafy courts       From out the vestibule of May.     I fain would tread your garden walks,       Or in your shady bowers recline;     Then open wide your golden gates,       And make them mine, and make them mine.

LITTLE CHARLIE

     A VIOLET grew by the river-side,       And gladdened all hearts with its bloom;     While over the fields, on the scented air,       It breathed a rich perfume.     But the clouds grew dark in the angry sky,       And its portals were opened wide;     And the heavy rain beat down the flower       That grew by the river-side.     Not far away in a pleasant home,       There lived a little boy,     Whose cheerful face and childish grace       Filled every heart with joy.     He wandered one day to the river's verge,       With no one near to save;     And the heart that we loved with a boundless love       Was stilled in the restless wave.     The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes,       And we bade farewell to joy;     For our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tie       To the grave of the little boy.     The birds still sing in the leafy tree       That shadows the open door;     We heed them not, for we think of the voice       That we shall hear no more.     We think of him at eventide,       And gaze on his vacant chair     With a longing heart that will scarce believe       That Charlie is not there.     We seem to hear his ringing laugh,       And his bounding step at the door;     But, alas! there comes the sorrowful thought,       We shall never hear them more!     We shall walk sometimes to his little grave,       In the pleasant summer hours;     We will speak his name in a softened voice,       And cover his grave with flowers;     We will think of him in his heavenly home,—       In his heavenly home so fair;     And we will trust with a hopeful trust       That we shall meet him there.

THE WHIPPOORWILL AND I

     IN the hushed hours of night, when the air quite still,     I hear the strange cry of the lone whippoorwill,     Who Chants, without ceasing, that wonderful trill,     Of which the sole burden is still, "Whip-poor-Will."     And why should I whip him? Strange visitant,     Has he been playing truant this long summer day?     I listened a moment; more clear and more shrill     Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."     But what has poor Will done? I ask you once more;     I'll whip him, don't fear, if you'll tell me what for.     I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hill     Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."     Has he come to your dwelling, by night or by day,     And snatched the young birds from their warm nest away?     I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hill     Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."     Well, well, I can hear you, don't have any fears,     I can hear what is constantly dinned in my ears.     The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill,     Still made but one answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will."     But what HAS poor Will done? I prithee explain;     I'm out of all patience, don't mock me again.     The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill,     Still made the same answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will."     Well, have your own way, then; but if you won't tell,     I'll shut down the window, and bid you farewell;     But of one thing be sure, I won't whip him until     You give me some reason for whipping poor Will.     I listened a moment, as if for reply,     But nothing was heard but the bird's mocking cry.     I caught the faint echo from valley and hill;     It breathed the same burden, that strange "Whip-poor-Will."

CARVING A NAME

     I wrote my name upon the sand,       And trusted it would stand for aye;     But, soon, alas! the refluent sea       Had washed my feeble lines away.     I carved my name upon the wood,       And, after years, returned again;     I missed the shadow of the tree       That stretched of old upon the plain.     To solid marble next, my name       I gave as a perpetual trust;     An earthquake rent it to its base,       And now it lies, o'erlaid with dust.     All these have failed. In wiser mood       I turn and ask myself, "What then?"     If I would have my name endure,       I'll write it on the hearts of men,     In characters of living light,       Of kindly deeds and actions wrought.     And these, beyond the touch of time,       Shall live immortal as my thought.

IN TIME OF WAR

GONE TO THE WAR

     My Charlie has gone to the war,       My Charlie so brave and tall;     He left his plough in the furrow,       And flew at his country's call.     May God in safety keep him,—       My precious boy—my all!     My heart is pining to see him;       I miss him every day;     My heart is weary with waiting,       And sick of the long delay,—     But I know his country needs him,       And I could not bid him stay.     I remember how his face flushed,       And how his color came,     When the flash from the guns of Sumter       Lit the whole land with flame,     And darkened our country's banner       With the crimson hue of shame.     "Mother," he said, then faltered,—       I felt his mute appeal;     I paused—if you are a mother,       You know what mothers feel,     When called to yield their dear ones       To the cruel bullet and steel.     My heart stood still for a moment,       Struck with a mighty woe;     A faint as of death came o'er me,       I am a mother, you know,     But I sternly checked my weakness,       And firmly bade him "Go."     Wherever the fight is fiercest       I know that my boy will be;     Wherever the need is sorest       Of the stout arms of the free.     May he prove as true to his country       As he has been true to me.     My home is lonely without him,       My hearth bereft of joy,     The thought of him who has left me       My constant sad employ;     But God has been good to the mother,—       She shall not blush for her boy.

WHERE IS MY BOY TO-NIGHT?

     When the clouds in the Western sky       Flush red with the setting sun,—     When the veil of twilight falls,       And the busy day is done,—     I sit and watch the clouds,       With their crimson hues alight,     And ponder with anxious heart,       Oh, where is my boy to-night?     It is just a year to-day       Since he bade me a gay good-by,     To march where banners float,       And the deadly missiles fly.     As I marked his martial step       I felt my color rise     With all a mother's pride,       And my heart was in my eyes.     There's a little room close by,       Where I often used to creep     In the hush of the summer night       To watch my boy asleep.     But he who used to rest       Beneath the spread so white     Is far away from me now,—       Oh, where is my boy to-night?     Perchance in the gathering night,       With slow and weary feet,     By the light of Southern stars,       He paces his lonely beat.     Does he think of the mother's heart       That will never cease to yearn,     As only a mother's can,       For her absent boy's return?     Oh, where is my boy to-night?       I cannot answer where,     But I know, wherever he is,       He is under our Father's care.     May He guard, and guide, and bless       My boy, wherever he be,     And bring him back at length       To bless and to comfort me.     May God bless all our boys       By the camp-fire's ruddy glow,     Or when in the deadly fight       They front the embattled foe;     And comfort each mother's heart,       As she sits in the fading light,     And ponders with anxious heart—       Oh, where is my boy to-night?

A SOLDIER'S VALENTINE

     Just from the sentry's tramp       (I must take it again at ten),     I have laid my musket down,       And seized instead my pen;     For, pacing my lonely round       In the chilly twilight gray,     The thought, dear Mary, came,       That this is St. Valentine's Day.     And with the thought there came       A glimpse of the happy time     When a school-boy's first attempt       I sent you, in borrowed rhyme,     On a gilt-edged sheet, embossed       With many a quaint design,     And signed, in school-boy hand,       "Your loving Valentine."     The years have come and gone,—       Have flown, I know not where,—     And the school-boy's merry face       Is grave with manhood's care;     But the heart of the man still beats       At the well-remembered name,     And on this St. Valentine's Day       His choice is still the same.     There was a time—ah, well!       Think not that I repine     When I dreamed this happy day       Would smile on you as mine;     But I heard my country's call;       I knew her need was sore.     Thank God, no selfish thought       Withheld me from the war.     But when the dear old flag       Shall float in its ancient pride,     When the twain shall be made one,       And feuds no more divide,—     I will lay my musket down,       My martial garb resign,     And turn my joyous feet       Toward home and Valentine.

LAST WORDS

     "DEAR Charlie," breathed a soldier,       "O comrade true and tried,     Who in the heat of battle       Pressed closely to my side;     I feel that I am stricken,       My life is ebbing fast;     I fain would have you with me,       Dear Charlie, till the last.     "It seems so sudden, Charlie,       To think to-morrow's sun     Will look upon me lifeless,       And I not twenty-one!     I little dreamed this morning,       Twould bring my last campaign;     God's ways are not as our ways,       And I will not complain.     "There's one at home, dear Charlie,       Will mourn for me when dead,     Whose heart—it is a mother's—       Can scarce be comforted.     You'll write and tell her, Charlie,       With my dear love, that I     Fought bravely as a soldier should,       And died as he should die.     "And you will tell her, Charlie,       She must not grieve too much,     Our country claims our young lives,       For she has need of such.     And where is he would falter,       Or turn ignobly back,     When Duty's voice cries 'Forward,'       And Honor lights the track?     "And there's another, Charlie       (His voice became more low),     When thoughts of HER come o'er me,       It makes it hard to go.     This locket in my bosom,       She gave me just before     I left my native village       For the fearful scenes of war.     "Give her this message, Charlie,       Sent with my dying breath,     To her and to my banner       I'm 'faithful unto death.'     And if, in that far country       Which I am going to,     Our earthly ties may enter,       I'll there my love renew.     "Come nearer, closer, Charlie,       My head I fain would rest,     It must be for the last time,       Upon your faithful breast.     Dear friend, I cannot tell you       How in my heart I feel     The depth of your devotion,       Your friendship strong as steel.     "We've watched and camped together       In sunshine and in rain;     We've shared the toils and perils       Of more than one campaign;     And when my tired feet faltered,       Beneath the noontide heat,     Your words sustained my courage,       Gave new strength to my feet.     "And once,—'twas at Antietam,—       Pressed hard by thronging foes,     I almost sank exhausted       Beneath their cruel blows,—     When you, dear friend, undaunted,       With headlong courage threw     Your heart into the contest,       And safely brought me through.     "My words are weak, dear Charlie,       My breath is growing scant;     Your hand upon my heart there,       Can you not hear me pant?     Your thoughts I know will wander       Sometimes to where I lie—     How dark it grows! True comrade       And faithful friend, good-by!"     A moment, and he lay there       A statue, pale and calm.     His youthful head reclining       Upon his comrade's arm.     His limbs upon the greensward       Were stretched in careless grace,     And by the fitful moon was seen       A smile upon his face.

SONG OF THE CROAKER.1

     An old frog lived in a dismal swamp,       In a dismal kind of way;     And all that he did, whatever befell,       Was to croak the livelong day.     Croak, croak, croak,       When darkness filled the air,     And croak, croak, croak,       When the skies were bright and fair.     "Good Master Frog, a battle is fought,       And the foeman's power is broke."     But he only turned a greener hue,       And answered with a croak.     Croak, croak, croak,       When the clouds are dark and dun,     And croak, croak, croak,       In the blaze of the noontide sun.     "Good Master Frog, the forces of right       Are driving the hosts of wrong."     But he gave his head an ominous shake,       And croaked out, "Nous verrons!"     Croak, croak, croak,       Till the heart is full of gloom,     And croak, croak, croak,       Till the world seems but a tomb.     To poison the cup of life,       By always dreading the worst.     Is to make of the earth a dungeon damp,       And the happiest life accursed.     Croak, croak, croak,       When the noontide sun rides high,     And croak, croak, croak,       Lest the night come by and by.     Farewell to the dismal frog;       Let him croak as loud as he may,     He cannot blot the sun from heaven,       Nor hinder the march of day,     Though he croak, croak, croak,       Till the heart is full of gloom,     And croak, croak, croak,       Till the world seems but a tomb.

KING COTTON

     KING COTTON looks from his window       Towards the westering sun,     And he marks, with an anguished horror,       That his race is almost run.     His form is thin and shrunken;       His cheek is pale and wan;     And the lines of care on his furrowed brow       Are dread to look upon.     But yesterday a monarch,       In the flush of his pomp and pride,     And, not content with his own broad lands,       He would rule the world beside.     He built him a stately palace,       With gold from beyond the sea;     And he laid with care the corner-stone,       And he called it Slavery:     He summoned an army with banners,       To keep his foes at bay;     And, gazing with pride on his palace walls,       He said, "They will stand for aye!"     But the palace walls are shrunken,       And partly overthrown,     And the storms of war, in their violence,       Have loosened the corner-stone.     Now Famine stalks through the palace halls,       With her gaunt and pallid train;     You can hear the cries of famished men,       As they cry for bread in vain.     The king can see, from his palace walls.       A land by his pride betrayed;     Thousands of mothers and wives bereft.       Thousands of graves new-made.     And he seems to see, in the lowering sky,       The shape of a flaming sword;     Whereon he reads, with a sinking heart,       The anger of the Lord.     God speed the time when the guilty king       Shall be hurled from his blood-stained throne;     And the palace of Wrong shall crumble to dust,       With its boasted corner-stone.     A temple of Freedom shall rise instead,       On the desecrated site:     And within its shelter alike shall stand       The black man and the white.

OUT OF EGYPT

     To Egypt's king, who ruled beside       The reedy river's flow,     Came God's command, "Release, O king,       And let my people go."     The king's proud heart grew hard apace;       He marked the suppliant throng,     And said, "Nay, they must here abide;       The weak must serve the strong."     Straightway the Lord stretched forth his hand,       And every stream ran blood;     The river swept towards the sea—       A full ensanguined flood.     The haughty king beheld the land,       By plagues afflicted sore,     But, as God's wonders multiplied,       Hardened his heart the more;     Until the angel of the Lord       Came on the wings of Night,     And smote first-born of man and beast,       In his destructive flight.     Throughout all Egypt, not a house       Was spared this crowning woe.     Then broke the tyrant's stubborn will;       He bade the people go.     They gathered up their flocks and herds,       Rejoicing to be free;     And, going forth, a mighty host,       Encamped beside the sea.     Then Pharaoh's heart repented him;       He called a mighty force,     And swiftly followed on their track,       With chariot and with horse.     Then Israel's host were sore afraid;       But God was on their side,     And, lo! for them a way is cleft,       The Red-sea waves divide.     At God's command the restless waves       Obey the prophet's rod;     And, through the middle of the sea,       The people marched dry-shod.     But, when the spoilers, following close,       Would hinder Israel's flight,     The waters to their course return,       The parted waves unite,     And Pharaoh's host is swept away,       The chariots and the horse;     And not a man is left alive       Of all that mighty force.     So in these days God looks from heaven,       And marks his servants' woe;     Hear ye his voice: "Break every yoke,       And let my people go!"     For them the Red-sea waves divide,       The streams with crimson flow;     Therefore we mourn for our first-born;—       Then let the people go.     They are not weak whom God befriends,       He makes their cause His own;     And they who fight against God's might       Shall surely be o'erthrown.