CHARITY

[Written in a friend's book of autographs, 1876.]

Bear and forbear, I counsel thee,
Forgive and be forgiven,
For Charity is the golden key
That opens the gate of heaven.

SAILOR-BOY'S SONG

Away, away, o'er the bounding sea
My spirit flies like a gull;
For I know my Mary is watching for me,
And the moon is bright and full.

She sits on the rock by the sounding shore,
And gazes over the sea;
And she sighs, "Will my sailor-boy come no more?
Will he never come back to me?"

The moonbeams play in her raven hair;
And the soft breeze kisses her brow;
But if your sailor-boy, love, were there,
He would kiss your sweet lips I trow.

And mother—she sits in the cottage-door;
But her heart is out on the sea;
And she sighs, "Will my sailor-boy come no more?
Will he never come back to me?"

Ye winds that over the billows roam
With a low and sullen moan,
O swiftly come to waft me home;
O bear me back to my own.

For long have I been on the billowy deep,
On the boundless waste of sea;
And while I sleep there are two who weep,
And watch and pray for me.

When the mad storm roars till the stoutest fear
And the thunders roll over the sea,
I think of you, Mary and mother dear,
For I know you are thinking of me.

Then blow, ye winds, for my swift return;
Let the tempest roar o'er the main;
Let the billows yearn and the lightning burn;
They will hasten me home again.

MY DEAD

Last night in my feverish dreams I heard
A voice like the moan of an autumn sea,
Or the low, sad wail of a widowed bird,
And it said—"My darling, come home to me."

Then a hand was laid on my throbbing head—
As cold as clay, but it soothed my pain:
I wakened and knew from among the dead
My darling stood by my coach again.

DUST TO DUST

Dust to dust:
Fall and perish love and lust:
Life is one brief autumn day;
Sin and sorrow haunt the way
To the narrow house of clay,
Clutching at the good and just:
Dust to dust.

Dust to dust:
Still we strive and toil and trust,
From the cradle to the grave:
Vainly crying, "Jesus, save!"
Fall the coward and the brave,
Fall the felon and the just:
Dust to dust.

Dust to dust:
Hark, I hear the wintry gust;
Yet the roses bloom to-day,
Blushing to the kiss of May,
While the north winds sigh and say:
"Lo we bring the cruel frost—
Dust to dust."

Dust to dust:
Yet we live and love and trust,
Lifting burning brow and eye
To the mountain peaks on high:
From the peaks the ages cry,
Strewing ashes, rime and rust:
"Dust to dust!"

Dust to dust:
What is gained when all is lost?
Gaily for a day we tread—
Proudly with averted head
O'er the ashes of the dead—
Blind with pride and mad with lust:
Dust to dust.

Hope and trust:
All life springs from out the dust:
Ah, we measure God by man,
Looking forward but a span
On His wondrous, boundless plan;
All His ways are wise and just;
Hope and trust.

Hope and trust:
Hope will blossom from the dust;
Love is queen: God's throne is hers;
His great heart with loving force
Throbs throughout the universe;
We are His and He is just;
Hope and trust.

O LET ME DREAM THE DREAMS OF LONG AGO

Call me not back, O cold and crafty world:
I scorn your thankless thanks and hollow praise.
Wiser than seer or scientist—content
To tread no paths beyond these bleating hills,
Here let me lie beneath this dear old elm,
Among the blossoms of the clover-fields,
And listen to the humming of the bees.
Here in those far-off, happy, boyhood years,
When all my world was bounded by these hills,
I dreamed my first dreams underneath this elm.
Dreamed? Aye, and builded castles in the clouds;
Dreamed, and made glad a fond, proud mother's heart,
Now moldering into clay on yonder hill;
Dreamed till my day-dreams paved the world with gold;
Dreamed till my mad dreams made one desolate;
Dreamed—O my soul, and was it all a dream?

As I lay dreaming under this old elm,
Building my castles in the sunny clouds,
Her soft eyes peeping from the copse of pine,
Looked tenderly on me and my glad heart leaped
Following her footsteps. O the dream—the dream!
O fawn-eyed, lotus-lipped, white-bosomed Flore!
I hide my bronzed face in your golden hair:
Thou wilt not heed the dew-drops on my beard;
Thou wilt not heed the wrinkles on my brow;
Thou wilt not chide me for my long delay.

Here we stood heart to heart and eye to eye,
And I looked down into her inmost soul,
The while she drank my promise like sweet wine
O let me dream the dreams of long ago!
Soft are the tender eyes of maiden love;
Sweet are the dew-drops of a dear girl's lips
When love's red roses blush in sudden bloom:
O let me dream the dreams of long ago!
Hum soft and low, O bee-bent clover-fields;
Blink, blue-eyed violets, from the dewy grass;
Break into bloom, my golden dandelions;
Break into bloom, my dear old apple-trees.
I hear the robins cherup on the hedge,
I hear the warbling of the meadow-larks;
I hear the silver-fluted whippowil;
I hear the harps that moan among the pines
Touched by the ghostly fingers of the dead.
Hush!—let me dream the dreams of long ago.

And wherefore left I these fair, flowery fields,
Where her fond eyes and ever gladsome voice
Made all the year one joyous, warbling June,
To chase my castles in the passing clouds—
False as the mirage of some Indian isle
To shipwrecked sailors famished on the brine?
Wherefore?—Look out upon the babbling world—
Fools clamoring at the heels of clamorous fools!
I hungered for the sapless husks of fame.
Dreaming I saw, beyond my native hills,
The sunshine shimmer on the laurel trees.
Ah tenderly plead her fond eyes brimmed with tears;
But lightly laughing at her fears I turned,
Eager to clutch my crown of laurel leaves,
Strong-souled and bold to front all winds of heaven—
A lamb and lion molded into one—
And burst away to tread the hollow world.
Ah nut-brown boys that tend the lowing kine,
Ah blithesome plowmen whistling on the glebe,
Ah merry mowers singing in the swaths,
Sweet, simple souls, contented not to know,
Wiser are ye and ye may teach the wise.

Years trode upon the heels of flying years,
And still my Ignis Fatuus flew before;
On thorny paths my eager feet pursued,
Till she whose fond heart doted on my dreams
Passed painless to the pure eternal peace.
Years trode upon the heels of flying years
And touched my brown beard with their silver wands,
And still my Ignis Fatuus flew before;
Through thorns and mire my torn feet followed still,
Till she, my darling, unforgotten Flore,
Nursing her one hope all those weary years
Waiting my tardy coming, drooped and died.
I hear her low, sweet voice among the pines:
O let me dream the dreams of long ago:
I see her fond eyes peeping from the pines:
O let me dream the dreams of long ago
And hide my bronzed face in her golden hair.

Is this the Indian summer of my days—
Wealth without care and love without desire?
O misty, cheerless moon of falling leaves!
Is this the fruitage promised by the spring?
O blighted clusters withering on the vine!
O promised lips of love to one who dreams
And wakens holding but the hollow air!

Let me dream on lest, dead unto my dead,
False to the true and true unto the false,
Maddened by thoughts of that which might have been,
And weary of the chains of that which is,
I slake my heart-thirst at forbidden springs.
I hear the voices of the moaning pines;
I hear the low, hushed whispers of the dead,
And one wan face looks in upon my dreams
And wounds me with her sad, imploring eyes.

The dead sun sinks beyond the misty hills;
The chill winds whistle in the leafless elms;
The cold rain patters on the fallen leaves.
Where pipes the silver-fluted whippowil?
I hear no hum of bees among the bloom;
I hear no robin cherup on the hedge:
One dumb, lone lark sits shivering in the rain.
I hear the voices of the Autumn wind;
I hear the cold rain dripping on the leaves;
I hear the moaning of the mournful pines;
I hear the hollow voices of the dead.
O let me dream the dreams of long ago
And dreaming pass into the dreamless sleep—
Beyond the voices of the autumn winds,
Beyond the patter of the dreary rain,
Beyond compassion and all vain regret
Beyond all waking and all weariness:
O let me dream the dreams of long ago.

THE PIONEER

[MINNESOTA—1860-1875]

When Mollie and I were married from the dear old cottage-home,
In the vale between the hills of fir and pine,
I parted with a sigh in a stranger-land to roam,
And to seek a western home for me and mine.

By a grove-encircled lake in the wild and prairied West,
As the sun was sinking down one summer day,
I laid my knapsack down and my weary limbs to rest,
And resolved to build a cottage-home and stay.

I staked and marked my "corners," and I "filed" upon my claim,
And I built a cottage-home of "logs and shakes;"
And then I wrote a letter, and Mollie and baby came
Out to bless me and to bake my johnny-cakes.

When Mollie saw my "cottage" and the way that I had "bached",
She smiled, but I could see that she was "blue;"
Then she found my "Sunday-clothes" all soiled and torn and patched,
And she hid her face and shed a tear or two.

But she went to work in earnest and the cabin fairly shone,
And her dinners were so savory and so nice
That I felt it was "not good that the man should be alone"—
Even in this lovely land of Paradise.

Well, the neighbors they were few and were many miles apart,
And you couldn't hear the locomotive scream;
But I was young and hardy, and my Mollie gave me heart,
And my "steers" they made a fast and fancy team.

And the way I broke the sod was a marvel, you can bet,
For I fed my "steers" before the dawn of day;
And when the sun went under I was plowing prairie yet,
Till my Mollie blew the old tin horn for tea.

And the lazy, lousy "Injuns" came a-loafing round the lake,
And a-begging for a bone or bit of bread;
And the sneaking thieves would steal whatever they could take—
From the very house where they were kindly fed.

O the eastern preachers preach, and the long-haired poets sing
Of the "noble braves" and "dusky maidens fair;"
But if they had pioneered 'twould have been another thing
When the "Injuns" got a-hankering for their "hair."

Often when we lay in bed in the middle of the night,
How the prairie-wolves would howl their jubilee!
Then Mollie she would waken in a shiver and a fright,
Clasp our baby-pet and snuggle up to me.

There were hardships you may guess, and enough of weary toil
For the first few years, but then it was so grand
To see the corn and wheat waving o'er the virgin soil,
And two stout and loving hearts went hand in hand.

But Mollie took the fever when our second babe was born,
And she lay upon the bed as white as snow;
And my idle cultivator lay a rusting in the corn;
And the doctor said poor Mollie she must go.

Now I never prayed before, but I fell upon my knees,
And I prayed as never any preacher prayed;
And Mollie always said that it broke the fell disease;
And I truly think the Lord He sent us aid:

For the fever it was broken, and she took a bit of food,
And O then I went upon my knees again;
And I never cried before,—and I never thought I could,—
But my tears they fell upon her hand like rain.

And I think the Lord has blessed us ever since I prayed the prayer,
For my crops have never wanted rain or dew:
And Mollie often said in the days of debt and care,
"Don't you worry, John, the Lord will help us through."

For the "pesky," painted Sioux, in the fall of 'sixty-two,
Came a-whooping on their ponies o'er the plain,
And they killed my pigs and cattle, and I tell you it looked "blue,"
When they danced around my blazing stacks of grain.

And the settlers mostly fled, but I didn't have a chance,
So I caught my hunting-rifle long and true,
And Mollie poured the powder while I made the devils dance,
To a tune that made 'em jump and tumble, too.

And they fired upon the cabin; 'twas as good as any fort,
But the "beauties" wouldn't give us any rest;
For they skulked and blazed away, and I didn't call it sport,
For I had to do my very "level best."

Now they don't call me a coward, but my Mollie she's a "brick;"
For she chucked the children down the cellar-way,
And she never flinched a hair tho' the bullets pattered thick,
And we held the "painted beauties" well at bay.

But once when I was aiming, a bullet grazed my head,
And it cut the scalp and made the air look blue;
Then Mollie straightened up like a soldier and she said:
"Never mind it, John, the Lord will help us through."

And you bet it raised my "grit," and I never flinched a bit,
And my nerves they got as strong as steel or brass;
And when I fired again I was sure that I had hit,
For I saw the skulking devil "claw the grass."

Well, the fight was long and hot, and I got a charge of shot
In the shoulder, but it never broke a bone;
And I never stopped to think whether I was hit or not
Till we found our ammunition almost gone.

But the "Rangers" came at last—just as we were out of lead,—
And I thanked the Lord, and Mollie thanked Him, too;
Then she put her arms around my neck and sobbed and cried and said:
"Bless the Lord!—I knew that He would help us through."

And yonder on the hooks hangs that same old trusty gun,
And above it—I am sorry they're so few—
Hang the black and braided trophies[[BY]] yet that I and Mollie won
In that same old bloody battle with the Sioux.

Fifteen years have rolled away since I laid my knapsack down,
And my prairie claim is now one field of grain;
And yonder down the lake loom the steeples of a town,
And my flocks are feeding out upon the plain.

The old log-house is standing filled with bins of corn and wheat,
And the cars they whistle past our cottage-home;
But my span of spanking trotters they are "just about" as fleet,
And I wouldn't give my farm to rule in Rome.

For Mollie and I are young yet, and monarchs, too, are we—
Of a "section" just as good as lies out-doors;
And the children are so happy (and Mollie and I have three)
And we think that we can "lie upon our oars."

[Illustration: THE PIONEER]

So this summer we went back to the old home by the hill:
O the hills they were so rugged and so tall!
And the lofty pines were gone but the rocks were all there still,
And the valleys looked so crowded and so small;

And the dear familiar faces that I longed so much to see,
Looked so strangely unfamiliar and so old,
That the land of hills and valleys was no more a home to me,
And the river seemed a rivulet as it rolled.

So I gladly hastened back to the prairies of the West—
To the boundless fields of waving grass and corn;
And I love the lake-gemmed land where the wild-goose builds her nest,
Far better than the land where I was born.

And I mean to lay my bones over yonder by the lake—
By and by when I have nothing else to do—
And I'll give the "chicks" the farm, and I know for Mollie's sake,
That the good and gracious Lord will help 'em through.

FOOTNOTES

[BY]

Scalp-locks.

NIGHT THOUGHTS

"Le notte e madre dipensien."

I tumble and toss on my pillow,
As a ship without rudder or spars
Is tumbled and tossed on the billow,
'Neath the glint and the glory of stars.
'Tis midnight and moonlight, and slumber
Has hushed every heart but my own;
O why are these thoughts without number
Sent to me by the man in the moon?

Thoughts of the Here and Hereafter,—
Thoughts all unbidden to come,—
Thoughts that are echoes of laughter—
Thoughts that are ghosts from the tomb,—
Thoughts that are sweet as wild honey,—
Thoughts that are bitter as gall,—
Thoughts to be coined into money,—
Thoughts of no value at all.

Dreams that are tangled like wild-wood,
A hint creeping in like a hare;
Visions of innocent childhood,—
Glimpses of pleasure and care;
Brave thoughts that flash like a saber,—
Cowards that crouch as they come,—
Thoughts of sweet love and sweet labor
In the fields at the old cottage-home.

Visions of maize and of meadow,
Songs of the birds and the brooks,
Glimpses of sunshine and shadow,
Of hills and the vine-covered nooks;
Dreams that were dreams of a lover,—
A face like the blushing of morn,—
Hum of bees and the sweet scent of clover
And a bare-headed girl in the corn.

Hopes that went down in the battle,
Apples that crumbled to dust,—
Manna for rogues, and the rattle
Of hail-storms that fall on the just.
The "shoddy" that lolls in her chariot,—
Maud Muller at work in the grass:
Here a silver-bribed Judas Iscariot,—
There—Leonidas dead in the pass.

Commingled the good and the evil;
Sown together the wheat and the tares;
In the heart of the wheat is the weevil;
There is joy in the midst of our cares.
The past,—shall we stop to regret it?
What is,—shall we falter and fall?
If the envious wrong thee, forget it;
Let thy charity cover them all.

The cock hails the morn, and the rumble
Of wheels is abroad in the streets,
Still I tumble and mumble and grumble
At the fleas in my ears and—the sheets;
Mumble and grumble and tumble
Till the buzz of the bees is no more;
In a jumble I mumble and drumble
And tumble off—into a snore.

DANIEL

[Written at the grave of an old friend.]

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,—down into the darkness at last;
Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,—sleeping the dreamless sleep,—
Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn—the pure and the perfect rest:
Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain?
Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew?

Joy was there in the spring-time and hope like a blossoming rose,
When the wine-blood of youth ran tingling and throbbing in every vein;
Chirrup of robin and blue-bird in the white-blossomed apple and pear;
Carpets of green on the meadows spangled with dandelions;
Lowing of kine in the valleys, bleating of lambs on the hills;
Babble of brooks and the prattle of fountains that flashed in the sun;
Glad, merry voices, ripples of laughter, snatches of music and song,
And blue-eyed girls in the gardens that blushed like the roses they wore.

And life was a pleasure unvexed, unmingled with sorrow and pain?
A round of delight from the blink of morn till the moon rose laughing at night?
Nay, there were cares and cankers—envy and hunger and hate;
Death and disease in the pith of the limbs, in the root and the bud and the branch;
Dry-rot, alas, at the heart, and a canker-worm gnawing therein.

The summer of life came on with its heat and its struggle and toil,
Sweat of the brow and the soul, throbbing of muscle and brain,
Toil and moil and grapple with Fortune clutched as she flew—
Only a shred of her robe, and a brave heart baffled and bowed!
Stern-visaged Fate with a hand of iron uplifted to fell;
The secret stab of a friend that stung like the sting of an asp,
Wringing red drops from the soul and a stifled moan of despair;
The loose lips of gossip and then—a storm of slander and lies,
Till Justice was blind as a bat and deaf to the cries of the just,
And Mercy, wrapped up in her robe, stood by like a statue in stone.

Sear autumn followed the summer with frost and the falling of leaves
And red-ripe apples that blushed on the hills in the orchard of peace:
Red-ripe apples, alas, with worms writhing down to the core,
Apples of ashes and fungus that fell into rot at a touch;
Clusters of grapes in the garden blighted and sour on the vines;
Wheat-fields that waved in the valley and promised a harvest of gold,
Thrashing but chaff and weevil or cockle and shriveled cheat.
Fair was the promise of spring-time; the harvest a harvest of lies:
Fair was the promise of summer with Fortune clutched by the robe;
Fair was the promise of autumn—a hollow harlot in red,
A withered rose at her girdle and the thorns of the rose in her hand.

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,—down into the darkness at last;
Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel, sleeping the dreamless sleep—
Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn—the pure and the perfect rest:
Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain?
Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew?
Dead Ashes, what do you care if it storm, if it shine, if it shower?
Hail-storm, tornado or tempest, or the blinding blizzard of snow,
Or the mid-May showers on the blossoms with the glad sun blinking between,
Dead Ashes, what do you care?—they break not the sleep of the dead.

Proud stands the ship to the sea, fair breezes belly her sails;
Strong masted, stanch in her shrouds, stanch in her beams and her bones;
Bound for Hesperian isles—for the isles of the plantain and palm,
Hope walks her deck with a smile and Confidence stands at the helm;
Proudly she turns to the sea and walks like a queen on the waves.
Caught in the grasp of the tempest, lashed by the fiends of the storm,
Torn into shreds are her sails, tumbled her masts to the main;
Rudderless, rolling she drives and groans in the grasp of the sea;
Harbor or hope there is none; she goes to her grave in the brine:
Dead in the fathomless slime lie the bones of the ship and her crew.
Such was the promise of life; so is the promise fulfilled.

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,—down into the darkness at last;
Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,—sleeping the dreamless sleep,—
Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn—the pure and the perfect rest:
Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain?
Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew?
Over your grave the tempest may roar or the zephyr sigh;
Over your grave the blue-bells may blink or the snow-drifts whirl,—
Dead Ashes, what do you care?—they break not the sleep of the dead.
They that were friends may mourn, they that were friends may praise;
They that knew you and yet—knew you never—may cavil and blame;
They that were foes in disguise may strike at you down in the grave;
Slander, the scavenger-buzzard—may vomit her lies on you there;
Dead Ashes, what do you care?—they break not the sleep of the dead.

The hoarse, low voice of the years croaks on forever-and-aye:
Change! Change! Change! and the winters wax and wane.
The old oak dies in the forest; the acorn sprouts at its feet;
The sea gnaws on at the land; the continent crowds on the sea.
Bound to the Ixion wheel with brazen fetters of fate
Man rises up from the dust and falls to the dust again.
God washes our eyes with tears, and still they are blinded with dust:
We grope in the dark and marvel, and pray to the Power unknown—
Crying for help to the desert: not even an echo replies.
Doomed unto death like the moon, like the midget that men call man,
Wrinkled with age and agony the old Earth rolls her rounds;
Shrinking and shuddering she rolls—an atom in God's great sea—
Only an atom of dust in the infinite ocean of space.
What to him are the years who sleeps in her bosom there?
What to him is the cry wrung out of the souls of men?
Change, Change, Change, and the sea gnaws on at the land:
Dead Ashes, what do you care?—it breaks not the sleep of the dead.

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,—down into the darkness at last;
Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,—sleeping the dreamless sleep,—
Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn—the pure and the perfect rest:
Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain?
Aye, and is it not better if only the dead soul knew?

Up—out of the darkness at last, Daniel,—out of the darkness at last;
Into the light of the life eternal—into the sunlight of God,
Singing the song of the soul immortal freed from the fetters of flesh:
Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain?
Aye, and is it not better than sleeping the dreamless sleep?
Hark! from the reel of the spheres eternal the freed soul answereth "Aye."
Aye—Aye—Aye—it is better, brothers, if it be but the dream of the famished soul.

MINNETONKA[[BZ]]

I sit once more on breezy shore, at sunset in this glorious June,
I hear the dip of gleaming oar, I list the singers' merry tune.
Beneath my feet the waters beat, and ripple on the polished stones,
The squirrel chatters from his seat; the bag-pipe beetle hums and drones.
The pink and gold in blooming wold,—the green hills mirrored in the lake!
The deep, blue waters, zephyr-rolled, along the murmuring pebbles break.
The maples screen the ferns, and lean the leafy lindens o'er the deep;
The sapphire, set in emerald green, lies like an Orient gem asleep.
The crimson west glows like the breast of Rhuddin[[CB]] when he pipes in May,
As downward droops the sun to rest, and shadows gather on the bay.
In amber sky the swallows fly and sail and circle o'er the deep;
The light-winged night-hawks whir and cry; the silver pike and salmon leap.
The rising moon, o'er isle and dune, looks laughing down on lake and lea;
Weird o'er the waters shrills the loon; the high stars twinkle in the sea.
From bank and hill the whippowil sends piping forth his flute-like notes,
And clear and shrill the answers trill from leafy isles and silver throats.
The twinkling light on cape and height; the hum of voices on the shores;
The merry laughter on the night; the dip and plash of frolic oars,—
These tell the tale. On hill and dale the cities pour their gay and fair;
Along the sapphire lake they sail, and quaff like wine the balmy air.
'Tis well. Of yore from isle and shore the smoke of Indian teepees[[CC]] rose;
The hunter plied the silent oar; the forest lay in still repose.
The moon-faced maid, in leafy glade, her warrior waited from the chase;
The nut-brown, naked children played, and chased the gopher on the grass.
The dappled fawn on wooded lawn, peeped out upon the birch canoe,
Swift-gliding in the gray of dawn along the silent waters blue.
In yonder tree the great Wanm-dee[[CD]] securely built her spacious nest;
The blast that swept the landlocked sea[[CE]] but rocked her clamorous babes to rest.
By grassy mere the elk and deer gazed on the hunter as he came;
Nor fled with fear from bow or spear;—"so wild were they that they were tame."
Ah, birch canoe, and hunter, too, have long forsaken lake and shore;
He bade his fathers' bones adieu and turned away forevermore.
But still, methinks, on dusky brinks the spirit of the warrior moves;
At crystal springs the hunter drinks, and nightly haunts the spot he loves.
For oft at night I see the light of lodge-fires on the shadowy shores,
And hear the wail some maiden's sprite above her slaughtered warrior pours.
I hear the sob, on Spirit Knob,[[CA]] of Indian mother o'er her child;
And on the midnight waters throb her low yun-he-he's[[CF]] weird and wild:
And sometimes, too, the light canoe glides like a shadow o'er the deep
At midnight when the moon is low, and all the shores are hushed in sleep.
Alas,—Alas!—for all things pass; and we shall vanish too, as they;
We build our monuments of brass, and granite, but they waste away.

[Illustration: CRYSTAL BAY LAKE MINNETONKA]

FOOTNOTES

[BZ]

The Dakota name for this beautiful lake is We-ne-a-tan-ka—Broad Water. By dropping the "a" before "tanka" we have changed the name to Big Water.

[CA]

Spirit-Knob was a small hill upon a point in the lake in full view from Wayzata. It is now washed away by the waves. The spirit of a Dakota mother, whose only child was drowned in the lake during a storm many years ago, often wailed at midnight (so the Dakotas said), on this hill. So they called it Wa-na-gee Pa-zo-dan—Spirit-Knob. (Literally—little hill of the spirit.)

[CB]

The Welsh name for the robin.

[CC]

Lodges.

[CD]

Wanm-dee—the war-eagle of the Dakotas.

[CE]

Lake Superior.

[CF]

Pronounced Yoon-hay-hay—the exclamation used by Dakota women in their lament for the dead, and equivalent to "woe-is-me."

BEYOND

White-haired and hoary-bearded, who art thou
That speedest on, albeit bent with age,
Even as a youth that followeth after dreams?
Whence are thy feet, and whither trends thy way?

Stayed not his hurried steps, but as he passed
His low, hoarse answer fell upon the wind:
"Go thou and question yonder mountain-peaks;
Go thou and ask the hoary-heaving main;—
Nay, if thou wilt, the great, globed, silent stars
That sail innumerable the shoreless sea,
And let the eldest answer if he may.
Lo the unnumbered myriad, myriad worlds
Rolling around innumerable suns,
Through all the boundless, bottomless abyss,
Are but as grains of sand upwhirled and flung
By roaring winds and scattered on the sea.
I have beheld them and my hand hath sown.

"Far-twinkling faint through dim, immeasured depths,
Behold Alcyone—a grander sun.
Round him thy solar orb with all his brood
Glimmering revolves. Lo from yon mightier sphere
Light, flying faster than the thoughts of men,
Swift as the lightnings cleave the glowering storm,
Shot on and on through dim, ethereal space,
Ere yet it touched thy little orb of Earth,
Five hundred cycles of thy world and more.
Round him thy Sun, obedient to his power,
Thrice tenfold swifter than the swiftest wing,
His æon-orbit, million-yeared and vast,
Wheels through the void. Him flaming I beheld
When first he flashed from out his central fire—
A mightier orb beyond thine utmost ken.
Round upon round innumerable hath swung
Thy sun upon his circuit; grander still
His vaster orbit far Alcyone
Wheels and obeys the mightier orb unseen.

"Seest thou yon star-paved pathway like an arch
Athwart thy welkin?—wondrous zone of stars,
Dim in the distance circling one huge sun,
To whom thy sun is but a spark of fire—
To whom thine Earth is but a grain of dust:
Glimmering around him myriad suns revolve
And worlds innumerable as sea-beach sands.
Ere on yon Via Lactea rolled one star
Lo I was there and trode the mighty round;
Yea, ere the central orb was fired and hung
A lamp to light the chaos. Star on star,
System on system, myriad worlds on worlds,
Beyond the utmost reach of mortal ken,
Beyond the utmost flight of mortal dream,
Yet have mine eyes beheld the birth of all.
But whence I am I know not. We are three—
Known, yet unknown—unfathomable to man,
Time, Space, and Matter pregnant with all life,
Immortals older than the oldest orb.
We were and are forever: out of us
Are all things—suns and satellites, midge and man.
Worlds wax and wane, suns flame and glow and die;
Through shoreless space their scattered ashes float,
Unite, cohere, and wax to worlds again,
Changing, yet changless—new, but ever old—
No atom lost and not one atom gained,
Though fire to vapor melt the adamant,
Or feldspar fall in drops of summer rain.
And in the atoms sleep the germs of life,
Myriad and multiform and marvelous,
Throughout all vast, immeasurable space,
In every grain of dust, in every drop
Of water, waiting but the thermal touch.
Yea, in the womb of nature slumber still
Wonders undreamed and forms beyond compare,
Minds that will cleave the chaos and unwind
The web of fate, and from the atom trace
The worlds, the suns, the universal law:
And from the law, the Master; yea, and read
On yon grand starry scroll the Master's will."

Yea, but what Master? Lift the veil, O Time!
Where lie the bounds of Space and whither dwells
The Power unseen—the infinite Unknown?
Faint from afar the solemn answer fell:

"Æon on æon, cycles myriad-yeared,
Swifter than light out-flashing from the suns,
My flying feet have sought the bounds of space
And found not, nor the infinite Unknown.
I see the Master only in his work:
I see the Ruler only in his law:
Time hath not touched the great All-father's throne,
Whose voice unheard the Universe obeys,
Who breathes upon the deep and worlds are born.
Worlds wax and wane, suns crumble into dust,
But matter pregnant with immortal life,
Since erst the white-haired centuries wheeled the vast,
Hath lost nor gained. Who made it, and who made
The Maker? Out of nothing, nothing. Lo
The worm that crawls from out the sun-touched sand,
What knows he of the huge, round, rolling Earth?
Yet more than thou of all the vast Beyond,
Or ever wilt. Content thee; let it be:
Know only this—there is a Power unknown—
Master of life and Maker of the worlds."

LINES

On the death of Captain Hiram A. Coats, my old schoolmate and friend.

Dead? or is it a dream—
Only the voice of a dream?
Dead in the prime of his years,
And laid in the lap of the dust;
Only a handful of ashes
Moldering down into dust.

Strong and manly was he,
Strong and tender and true;
Proud in the prime of his years;
Strong in the strength of the just:
A heart that was half a lion's,
And half the heart of a girl;
Tender to all that was tender,
And true to all that was true;
Bold in the battle of life,
And bold on the bloody field;
First at the call of his country,
First in the front of the foe.
Hope of the years was his—
The golden and garnered sheaves;
Fair on the hills of autumn
Reddened the apples of peace.

Dead? or is it a dream?
Dead in the prime of his years,
And laid in the lap of the dust.

Aye, it is but a dream;
For the life of man is a dream:
Dead in the prime of his years
And laid in the lap of the dust;
Only a handful of ashes
Moldering down into dust.

Only a handful of ashes
Moldering down into dust?
Aye, but what of the breath
Blown out of the bosom of God?
What of the spirit that breathed
And burned in the temple of clay?
Dust unto dust returns;
The dew-drop returns to the sea;
The flash from the flint and the steel
Returns to its source in the sun.
Change cometh forever-and-aye,
But forever nothing is lost—
The dew-drop that sinks in the sand,
Nor the sunbeam that falls in the sea.
Ah, life is only a link
In the endless chain of change.
Death giveth the dust to the dust
And the soul to the infinite soul:
For aye since the morning of man—

Since the human rose up from the brute—
Hath Hope, like a beacon of light,
Like a star in the rift of the storm,
Been writ by the finger of God
On the longing hearts of men.
O follow no goblin fear;
O cringe to no cruel creed;
Nor chase the shadow of doubt
Till the brain runs mad with despair.
Stretch forth thy hand, O man,
To the winds and the quaking earth—
To the heaving and falling sea—
To the ultimate stars and feel
The throb of the spirit of God—
The pulse of the Universe.

MAULEY

THE BRAVE FERRY-MAN

[NOTE.—The great Sioux massacre in Minnesota commenced at the Agency village, on the Minnesota River, early in the morning of the 16th day of August, 1862, precipitated, doubtless, by the murders at Acton on the day previous. The massacre and the Indian war that followed developed many brave men, but no truer hero than Mauley, an obscure Frenchman, the ferry-man at the Agency. Continually under fire, he resolutely ran his ferry-boat back and forth across the river, affording the terror-stricken people the only chance for escape. He was shot down on his boat just as he had landed on the opposite shore the last of those who fled from the burning village to the ferry-landing. The Indians disemboweled his dead body, cut off the head, hands and feet and thrust them into the cavity. See Heard's Hist. Sioux War, p 67.]

Crouching in the early morning,
Came the swarth and naked "Sioux;"[[CG]]
On the village, without warning,
Fell the sudden, savage blow.
Horrid yell and crack of rifle
Mingle as the flames arise;—
With the tomahawk they stifle
Mothers' wails and children's cries.
Men and women to the ferry
Fly from many a blazing cot;—
Brave and ready—grim and steady,
Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

Can they cross the ambushed river?
'Tis for life the only chance;
Only this may some deliver
From the scalping-knife and lance.
Through the throng of wailing women
Frantic men in terror burst;—
"Back, ye cowards!" thundered Mauley,—
"I will take the women first!"
Then with brawny arms and lever
Back the craven men he smote.
Brave and ready—grim and steady,
Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

To and fro across the river
Plies the little mercy-craft,
While from ambushed gun and quiver
On it falls the fatal shaft.
Trembling from the burning village,
Still the terror-stricken fly,
For the Indians' love of pillage
Stays the bloody tragedy.
At the windlass-bar bare-headed—
Bare his brawny arms and throat—
Brave and ready—grim and steady,
Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

Hark!—a sudden burst of war-whoops!
They are bent on murder now;
Down the ferry-road they rally,
Led by furious Little Crow.
Frantic mothers clasp their children,
And the help of God implore;
Frantic men leap in the river
Ere the boat can reach the shore.
Mauley helps the weak and wounded
Till the last soul is afloat;—
Brave and ready—grim and steady,
Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

Speed the craft!—The fierce Dakotas
Whoop and hasten to the shore,
And a shower of shot and arrows
On the crowded boat they pour.
Fast it floats across the river,
Managed by the master hand,
Laden with a freight so precious,—
God be thanked!—it reaches land.
Where is Mauley—grim and steady,
Shall his brave deed be forgot?
Grasping still the windlass-lever,
Dead he lies upon the boat.

[Illustration: MAULEY THE BRAVE FERRY-MAN]

FOOTNOTES

[CG]

Pronounced Soo; a name given to the Dakotas in early days by the French traders.