Oh, What Shall Be My Song To-Night?

Oh, what shall be my song to-night ?
The earth, the sea, or sky,
The star-gems, with their trembling light,
Or night-bird's plaintive cry?
Not such can fill the lonely heart
With thoughts of bliss divine;
Not such a holy thrill impart
To spirit warm as thine.

The dawning of a lovely form
Upon the raptured eye;
The hand's soft touch, so true and warm,
The red lip's answering sigh ;
The gentle voice for which we yearn
In crowds or lonely dell,
The beaming eye to which we turn
Enthralled by beauty's spell,—

These be the burden of my song,
While dreams of heaven are thine,
Made glorious by the angel throng
Bowed at an earthly shrine.
Then turn thee once from them to-night
To one who wanders free,
To sing how all things pure and bright
Have found a home in thee.

Sung by the graduating class of the Keokuk High School, May 3, 1872.

Our farewell must to-day be spoken,
The time draws near when we must part,
Yet Friendship holds our chain unbroken,
And clasps the links that bind each heart.
And ever, in the years before us,
Will Memory guard with jealous care
The golden hours that floated o'er us
When youth flew by with visions fair.

While o'er the Past our thoughts are yearning,
Our deepest gratitude is due
To him who, all our needs discerning,
Has kept life's highest aims in view.
The guiding hand so ready ever
To point our feet to Wisdom's way,
The voice that strengthened each endeavor,
We leave with fond regret to-day.

And ere we go take our places
'Mid changing scenes on earth's broad mart,
Love stamps these dear familiar faces
In deathless lines on every heart.
Though future joys be crushed by sorrow,
Though hopes be changed to doubts and fears,
Undimmed throughout our life's To-morrow
Will gleam the light of other years.

A Temperance Song For The Fourth Of July.

Tune.— 'Rose of Allandale.'

A voice is heard upon the gale,
Shrill joy it bears along ;
From city, hamlet, hill and dale,
Bursts forth the welcome song.
And echo sends it, long and loud,
Through all the land with glee ;
Upon the air glad voices crowd,
Proclaiming— WE ARE FREE.

The cup that foamed with deadly bane
Is dashed upon the ground.
'Twas death to millions at the fane
Where misery was found.
An angel near that Dagon drew,
She bade the prisoners flee,
And sent the pledge the nation through
Proclaiming— THEY ARE FREE.

The mother's heart with joy beats high,
Her son's no more a wreck ;
The beam of hope is in her eye,
His arms around her neck.
A freeman, him her bosom claims
With all a mother's glee,
'My child !' her raptured tongue exclaims,
' My child ! my boy is free !'

And freemen such, this day, in throngs
To country homage pay ;
They welcome Freedom by their songs
On this, her holy-day.
Then let the temperance flag, unfurled,
Our country's standard be ;
And wave this motto to the world,
' Columbia is free !'

Old Settler's Song

Tune, 'Way down upon the Swanee River'.

Right here, where Indian fires were lighted,
Long, long ago;
Where dusky forms, by rum incited,
Danced wildly to and fro;
We, Old Settlers, come to greet you,
Proffer heart and hand;
Breathe, too, a fervent prayer to meet you
Yonder, in the spirit-land.

Gone tawny chief, whose war-cry sounded—
All but his name,
That far and near has been resounded,
Linked with our rising fame.
Keokuk! with pride we gather
On thy golden strand;
While from the skies a loving Father
Blesses our sunset land.

O brothers! there are dear old faces
Hid 'neath the mold;
Forms missing from their wonted places,
Hands we have clasped, still and cold.
While the scores of years behind us
Tell we're hastening on,
And that, when friends return to find us,
Softly may fall, 'They are gone.'

Here, brothers, where our noble river
Chants through its waves,
May we remain till called to sever,—
Make here and guard our graves.
And with welcoming shouts we'll greet you
When you reach heaven's strand;
Fling wide the golden gates and meet you,
Brothers in the Eden-land.

She perished in beauty,
As withers a rose
When its delicate petals
Begin to unclose.
She passed from among us,
And left us to pine
For the treasure we could not
With calmness resign.
The light of our home
Has grown dim since the hour
It lost the dear presence
Of Madeline Bower.

Her voice was like music
That trembles along,
When the last strain is sung
Of a soul-thrilling song.
So witchingly mellow,
You'd stand by her side,
And drink in its echo
Long after it died.
Now vainly we list
At the still, twilight hour
For the notes of our song-bird—
Lost Madeline Bower.

Her tresses of light
Seemed o'er marble to flow,
For her brow could have rivaled
The purest of snow.
Ah ! none but bereaved ones,
Who've wept o'er the clay,
Can know of our pangs
When 'twas hidden away.
One tress from its sisters
Was severed that hour :
'Twas all we might claim
Of sweet Madeline Bower.

Oh, would they could waft us—
Our treasures above—
Some tender remembrance,
Some token of love,—
A mystical sign
That they do not forget ;
A blessed assurance
They yearn for us yet !

Or is it designed
That we hear not nor see
One trace of our loved ones
Till death sets us free ?
Do we pass through the vale,
With its shadow and blight,
That the glory of heaven
May burst on our sight ?
If so, how ecstatic,
How rapturous the hour
Our freed souls are welcomed
By Madeline Bower !

My Father's Birthday

October 15, 1859

It is dreamy, soft October,
And there's brightness everywhere;
From the golden sheaves of sunlight
Gleaming in broad fields of air,
To the sparkling, dancing ripples
That go singing to the shore,
Breathing low, to drooping branches,
' Sweet October's come once more.'

Hallowed month ! thy lights and shadows
Waft me back to other years;
Thou hast led me to the greensward
Where my childhood's home appears.
And I pause, expectant, listening
For a footfall as of yore;
For the tender words of welcome
I shall hear Qn earth no more.

Oh, he loved thee, rare October,
With thy mellow, dreamy skies !
And he called thy breezy murmurs
Nature's soothing lullabies
To the shivering, palsied blossoms
That she gathered to her breast,
Spreading o'er them leaves of scarlet,
That the weary things might rest.

Ne'er till now, sweet Psalm of Autumn,
Heard I thy familiar strain,
But I heard his voice, in chorus,
Chant a jubilant refrain.
Mine the loss,—the mist that gathers
Veils thy smiles but from my eyes,
For I know that he is keeping
This October in the skies.

Has his chainless spirit wandered
From the realms of perfect day,
Through earth's shades and damps to greet me
Upon this, his natal day ?
Oh, it is not far for loved ones
When the silken cord is riven,
For they only close their eyelids
To re-open them in heaven.

'Lift me up into the twilight;'
When my failing sight grows dim,
May the light of Faith be near me,
As heaven's twilight was to him!
When I've quaffed the latest portion
Of this life's mysterious cup,
May his soul be near, in waiting,
To enfold and lift me up!

The Feast Of The Fairies

One holy-night the fays convened,
All in full mirth and glee;
And formed a gay, fantastic ring
To Zephyrs' minstrelsy.

The fairy-dance went round and round,
All merriment and sheen,
Till one fay o'er a moonbeam fell,
And broke the magic scene.

And now 'twas feast-time; Fancy called
Each airy-footed sprite;
And oh, the riot that prevailed
Upon that festal night!

For Fancy, mistress of the spell,
Presided o'er the cheer;
And, at her beck, each joyous fay,
With viands choice, drew near.

The dish that Love had ordered
Proved a medley, tough and tart;
Among its contents she discerned
A dry and shriveled heart.

It was a bachelor''s. She tore
And twisted, wrenched and wrung,—
At length she spurned the gristly thing,
And then the fairies sung:

' A bachelor's heart does not belong
To heaven or earth, we trow;
We'll toss it up, and we'll toss it down,
And we'll toss it to and fro.'

And then that heart, oh, how it flew
The laughing fays among !
As football some the odd thing struck,
And some with fury flung.

But Fancy frowned upon the scene,
And, when the frolic ceased,
She mixed in one the dishes all,
And spoiled the fairies' feast.

Oh, then, a pretty mess appeared!
Smiles, kisses, hearts betrayed,
Forget-me-nots, and broken vows
Were, in rude plight, displayed.

The elves they had not feasted yet,
Shrill chanticleer crowed—one ;
The moon withdrew her golden beams,—
The fairy-feast was done.

But ere they parted, though provoked
At Fancy's churlish ire,
They sang the song they'd sung before,
And Zephyrs joined the choir :

'A bachelor's heart does not belong
To heaven or earth, we trow;
We'll toss it up, and we'll toss it down,
And we'll toss it to and fro.'

Apostrophe To The Galaxy

What are ye, arrayed in your robings of white,
Beyond where the sun drinks in oceans of light;
Surmounting the stars, ay, the farthest we see
Just penciling heaven to prove that ye be?
A cluster so dreamy, expanding, and fair
Creates in the mind a fond wish to be there.
Your orbit our vision can never descry:
What are ye, in fleecy attiring on high ?

Bright orbs, do ye give to the comet its ray,
Careering through space with impetuous sway?
Or, destined as vigils, watch over expanse,
To guard other worlds from the comet's advance?
So clustering are ye, so dense in your path,
Ye may save this fair earth from the wanderer's wrath.

What are ye? Oh, say, does your circuit extend
Round orbs where the angels their minstrelsy blend ?
And do ye pour forth on the throng and the choir
The splendor of light from the disk of your fire?
If such be your destiny, Galaxy bright,
The music how rapturous, blended with light!
Like the songs of the spheres when the Deity's voice
In the light of creation made angels rejoice.

What are ye? If not what the muse has defined,
Then are ye not orbits of beautiful mind ?
Are the white, stainless robes ye expand to our view
la chasteness the emblems of mind among you?
In fancy's excursions behold I not there
In your orbs so resplendent, your region so fair,
Intelligence, rising by intellect's force
Still nearer to Him, of perfection the source,
With natures immortal, all spotless in soul,
And cherishing mind, as in splendor ye roll?

Behold I not, grouped round your altars of praise,
Your children, at even, their orisons raise?
Or, cheerful and happy, in youth's ardent glow,
All sporting in fields where the wild-flowers grow?
A father bends over his boy with a smile,
A mother caresses her infant the while;
Joy blended with joy, and bliss mingled with bliss,
In the fond interchange of a smile and a kiss.

Methinks I can see, by your rills and bland streams,
Your poets, entranced in elysian dreams,
Or, waked from their raptures among your green bowers,
Rehearsing their numbers while culling the flowers;
The learned of your system—philosophers wise,
Astronomers, mapping the stars of your skies,
Vast oceans expanding, your landscapes serene,
Your redolent groves and your valleys of green.

If systems of mind ye are not, still the word,
What are ye ? No answer but echo is heard.
Do ye lead in the van of the spheres as they whirl?
Is the vision of whiteness the flag ye unfurl ?
And, on the reverse, are there emblems displayed
Of orbs in full splendor and glory arrayed ?

Whate'er ye may seem to our dim, mortal view,
Bright star-isles that gleam in your ocean of blue,
We will deem you a stellar assemblage refined,
And with you compare the bright grouping of mind,
To show how it can, like the stars, by its glow,
Relieve our life's orb from the gloom of its woe.

Legend Of The Indian Summer

I have learned a simple legend,
Never found in books of lore,
Copied not from old tradition,
Nor from classics read of yore ;

But the breezes sang it to me
With a low and soft refrain,
While the golden leaves and scarlet
Fluttered down to catch the strain.

And the grand old trees above me,
As their stately branches swayed,
Threw across my couch of crimson
More of sunlight than of shade.

I had lain there dreaming, musing
On the summer's vanished bloom,
Wondering if each penciled leaflet
Did not mark some flow'ret's tomb ;

Thinking how each tree could tell me
Many a tale of warrior's fame;
Gazing at the sky, and asking
How the ''Indian Summer' came.

Then methought a whispered cadence
Stole from out the haunted trees,
While the leaves kept dropping, dropping,
To the music of the breeze.

'I will tell thee,' said the whisper,
'What I've learned from Nature's book;
For the sunbeams wrote this legend
On the margin of a brook.

' 'Tis about an Indian maiden,
She the star-flower of her race,
With a heart whose soft emotions
Rippled through her soul-lit face.

'All her tribe did homage to her,
For her father was their chief;
He was stern, and she forgiving,—
He brought pain, and she relief.

'And they called him 'Indian Winter,'
All his actions were so cold ;
Her they named the 'Indian Summer,'
For she seemed a thread of gold

' Flashing through her native forest,
Beaming in the wigwam lone,
Singing to the birds, her playmates,
Till they warbled back her tone.

' When the summer days were ended,
And the chilling months drew near,
When the clouds hung, dull and leaden,
And the leaves fell, brown and sere,

' Brought they to the chieftain's presence
One, a ' pale-face,' young and brave,
But whom youth nor manly valor
Could from savage vengeance save.

' ' Bring him forth !' in tones of thunder
Thus the 'Indian Winter' cried,
While the gentle ' Indian Summer'
Softly flitted to his side.

' When the tomahawk was lifted,
And the scalping-knife gleamed high,
Pride, revenge, and bloody hatred
Glared within the warrior's eye;

'And the frown upon his forehead
Darker, deeper, sterner grew ;
While the lowering clouds above them
Hid the face of heaven from view.

' ' Spare him ! oh, my father, spare him!'
Friend and foe were thrust apart,
While the golden thread of sunlight
Twined around the red man's heart.

' And her eye was full of pity,
And her voice was full of love,
As she told him of the wigwam
On the hunting-ground above,

' Where great Manito was talking,—
She could hear him in the breeze ;
How he called the ' pale-face' brother—
Smoked with him the pipe of peace.

' Then the warrior's heart relented,
And the glittering weapon fell:
1 For the maiden's sake,' he muttered,
' Thou art pardoned,— fare thee well !'

' And the sun, that would have slumbered
Till the spring-time came again,
Earthward from his garnered brightness
Threw a flood of golden rain;

'And the 'Indian Summer' saw it,
She, the gentle forest child ;
And to ' Indian Winter' whispered,
* See how Manito has smiled !'

'All the tribe received the omen,
And they called it by her name :
Indian Summer, Indian Summer,
It will ever be the same.

'Though the ' pale-face' gave another
To the lovely maid he won,
Nature still receives her tribute
From the wigwam of the sun.

' Here, alone, this shining symbol
Gilds the streamlet, warms the sod,
For no Indian Summer cometh
Save where Indian feet have trod.'