Rose Hartwick Thorpe: Verses about Nature

I stood where the starlit heavens
Spread away over field and glen,
Like the hands of loving angels
Reaching down to the hearts of men.

And the sea, with a glow, reflected
The infinite lights above;
The quivering resplendent heavens
All smiling with peaceful love.

And the waves o'er the white sand creeping
Brought ripples of joyous glee,
As the lips of the purple heaven
Bent over to kiss the sea.

'O treacherous sea!' I murmured,
'Restore to my arms, I pray,
The treasure I gave to your keeping
One beautiful autumn day.'

A ship with its precious burden
Sailed out from my longing gaze,
Away from the peaceful harbor
In the bright October haze.

And a sweet face looking backward,
With a tear and a smile for me, ―
The dearest of all my treasures
I gave to the treacherous sea.

Old Ocean, all darkly hidden
In thy secret bosom lies
The face that I fondly cherished,
The beautiful lovelit eyes.

For the ship that left the harbor
In the calm October haze
Bore its precious freight forever
Away from my longing gaze.

Silk and diamonds and trailing lace,
Haughty carriage and fair proud face;
Out from the palace towering high
Grand and gray 'neath the bending sky,
O'er the lawn with its carpet green,
Lightly stepping, came Austria's Queen,
Flashing gems in the summer's sun,
Tender Mother and Queen in one.

Jewels gleam on her royal hands,
Clasp her arms with their shining bands,
Sparkle and glow where the sunbeams fall;
But the most precious of them all
The nurse is holding with tender care, ―
The royal baby, rosy and fair;
Pressing fond kisses on cheek and brow,
The Queen is only a Mother now.

Down the lawn, in its shadow deep,
A beggar-woman lies asleep.
Hunger, poverty, pain, and care
Darken the face once young and fair;
There by the wayside, seeking rest,
Clasping a babe upon her breast,
Its hungry wail across the green
Stirs the heart of the Mother Queen.

Down on the green grass kneeling low,
Baring her bosom as white as snow,
Laying the child without a name
Where only royal babes have lain,
Feeding it from her own proud breast.
Hungry, starving, ― ah! there's the test, ―
Mother-love spans the chasm wide;
Queen and station must stand aside!

'Twas seed-time in Heaven; the angel whose care
Is for Eden's blossoms, - that angel more fair
Than all her fair sisters, twin spirits of air, -
That angel whose footsteps, wherever they tread,
Spring up into blossoms blue, yellow, and red, -
That angel whose tear-drops, wherever they fall,
Give birth to white lilies, the fairest of all, -
That angel whose breath is the perfume of flowers,
Had spent all the jewel-gemmed paradise hours
Of the roseate morn where beauties unfold
In calyx of crimson and purple and gold.

Beside the great portals she paused and looked through,
Down, down the vast distance of star-lighted blue, -
Beheld the gray rocks without beauty or bloom,
And sighed for earth's children away in the gloom.

'No beauty or bloom have the children of woe;
No brightness, no sweetness; my hand will bestow
One heaven-born seed for their garden below,'

She said as she loosened her girdle to find
One seed which was fairest, and best of its kind.
Her eager hand trembled, the girdle slipped through
Her rosy-tipped fingers, and down through the blue,
Down, down the vast distance, her golden seeds flew.

Some caught in the crevice of rocks, others fell
In lone desert places, by wayside and dell;
On hills and in valleys, in forest and glen,
To gladden and brighten the journeys of men

At the portals of heaven, with sorrowful face,
The little flower-angel looks out into space
In search of her treasures. Her tears, as they fall,
Find all her lost seedlings, and water them all.

Fair Margaret! beautiful Margaret!
In the hush of the twilight cold.
The sun on a dazzling throne has set
In a cloud of amber and gold;
And the great green waves, with their white caps wet,
O'er the beach to her feet have rolled.

She waits for the lover whose kiss one day
Was pressed on her quivering lips, -
The lover who went from her side away
In one of those swift-sailing ships,
O'er the waves that bright in the sunlight lay
'Neath the glow of its finger-tips.

O the sea! the stormy, tempestuous sea!
The sea with its roar and its gloom, -
The treacherous sea, how it shouts in glee
O'er each jewel-decked coral tomb!
The glorious, grand, resplendent sea,
In the light of a golden noon!

Whenever the shadowy twilight creeps
O'er the earth, with her fair feet wet, -
When the stars come out and the great world sleeps,
When the murmuring waters fret
On the sandy shore, - then she waits and weeps,
Lonely, sorrowful Margaret!

There she sits alone mid the gleaming sands,
By the shadowy ivied wall,
While over the clasp of her trembling hands
Like a shower the tear-drops fall;
And the sea brings murmurs of far-off lands,
And the blue sky bends over all.

'O bring back my lover once!' she cries,
'As I sit by the sea alone;
O pitiful Father in Paradise!
Stoop down from thy glorious throne,
And grant to the light of my waiting eyes
One glimpse of his face, - only one!'

Now the sea rolls in with a mighty swell, -
Will it bring a curse or a crown?
For, alas! no echoing murmurs tell
Of the home-bound ship that went down
Mid the hidden reefs, with never a knell
From the slumbering harbor town.

All about her the water moans and raves,
She is drenched with the falling sleet;
Something lies dark in the arms of the waves
Where the sky and the waters meet:
Lo! a victim snatched from the coral graves
Is cast on the beach at her feet!

O beautiful Margaret, pale and fair!
By the sea no longer alone;
For two faces lie in the starlight there,
With features like chiselled stone.
And the seaweed drifts from his tangled hair
To the sunny locks of her own.

A legend of the fuchsia.

Clasping her close in his strong young arms,
As his blue eyes met her own,
He said: 'I have brought a lovely plant
From the far-off tropic zone,
With clusters of leaves like satin green,
And blossoms ― ah, who can tell? ―
Some day you will see each bud will be
A wonderful little bell.'

'Though sorrow comes to your waiting heart
When my ship has sailed away,
Remember I said, 'These bells will ring
On your happy wedding-day.'
A fortune I've brought you, sister mine,
From the sun-crowned southern dells;
Go and set it where the sweet south air
Will open the little bells.'

In the southern window, bright and warm,
'Neath the low-roofed cottage eaves,
She placed her treasure, and day by day
She watched its unfolding leaves;
There were tears in her sweet English eyes,
Tears gleamed on her lashes brown,
For a ship one day, far, far away
In a storm-tossed sea went down.

The young earl rode by the cot one day
When the plant was all in bloom;
He lingered long ere he rode away
In the dusk of twilight's gloom.
'The loveliest flowers on earth,' he said,
'They bloom by a cottage wall;
They would grace a throne; they shall be my own,
And bloom in my palace hall.'

He met the maid at the cottage door:
'A fortune,' he said, 'for these.'
'No, no,' she cried, as a vision came
Of the stormy southern seas,
'The hand that gave them lies cold and still
In one of the ocean dells;
It would break my heart to ever part
With my dainty little bells.'

He turned his gaze on the maiden's face, ―
A face that was shy and sweet;
She was wondrous fair, from her gold-kissed hair
To her pretty sandalled feet.
''Tis the fairest face on earth,' he thought,
'As pure as an angel's own;
She shall be my bride; 't is a shame to hide
Such grace in a cottage home!'

O, the palace halls were wide and grand,
And the palace towers were high!
There were lawns and parks wide spreading 'neath
The dome of the English sky.
And still to the listening children
At twilight a grandsire tells
Of a lady bright who was wed one night
Mid the chime of little bells.

'My Fred! I can't understand it,'
And his voice quivered with pain,
While the tears kept slowly dropping
On his trembling hands like rain.
'For Fred was so brave and loyal,
So true ― but my eyes are dim,
And I cannot read the letter,
The last I shall get from him.
Please read it, sir, while I listen ―
In fancy I see him ― dead;
My boy, shot down like a traitor,
My noble, my brave boy Fred.'

'Dear Father,' ― so ran the letter, ―
'To-morrow when twilight creeps
Along the hill to the churchyard,
O'er the grave where mother sleeps,
When the dusky shadows gather,
They'll lay your boy in his grave
For nearly betraying the country
He would give his life to save.
And, father, I tell you truly,
With almost my latest breath,
That your boy is not a traitor,
Though he dies a traitor's death.'

'You remember Bennie Wilson?
He's suffered a deal of pain.
He was only that day ordered
Back into the ranks again.
I carried all of his luggage,
With mine, on the march that day;
I gave him my arm to lean on,
Else he had dropped by the way.
'T was Bennie's turn to be sentry;
But I took his place, and I ―
Father, I fell asleep, and now
I must die as traitors die.'

'The Colonel is kind and generous,
He has done the best he can,
And they will not bind or blind me ―
I shall meet death like a man.
Kiss little Blossom; but, father,
Need you tell her how I fall?'
A sob from the shadowed corner, ―
Yes, Blossom had heard it all!
As she kissed the precious letter
She said with faltering breath,
'Our Fred is never a traitor,
Though he dies a traitor's death.'

And a little sun-brown maiden,
In a shabby time-worn dress,
Took her seat a half-hour later
In the crowded night express.
The conductor heard her story
As he held her dimpled hand,
And sighed for the sad hearts breaking
All over the troubled land.
He tenderly wiped the teardrop
From the blue eyes brimming o'er,
And guarded her footsteps safely
Till she reached the White House door.

The President sat at his writing;
But the eyes were kind and mild
That turned with a look of wonder
On the little shy-faced child.
And he read Fred's farewell letter
With a look of sad regret.
''Tis a brave young life,' he murmured,
'And his country needs him yet.
From an honored place in battle
He shall bid the world good-by;
If that brave young life is needed,
He shall die as heroes die.'

Beside St. Joseph's shallow stream,
Whose crystal waters wander,
With drowsy ripple, glint, and gleam,
The bending willows under,

In the resplendent twilight hour,
When western skies were golden,
And solitude held magic power
With superstition olden, ―

Just where the glory flushed the stream,
A shy-faced, sun-brown maiden,
Whose eyes had caught the sunset gleam,
Whose hands were blossom-laden,

Oft lingered there, wide boughs beneath,
The twilight hush around her,
To cull sweet flowers and weave a wreath,
Some day, perchance, to crown her.

Her blossoms were those simple blooms
Which nature sometimes wedges,
In crowded places, mid the glooms
Of shady hazel hedges;

That push their heads above the sod,
In many a rude fence-corner, ―
But still they were the flowers of God,
Fit jewels to adorn her.

Many a rose she wove, betimes,
Mid simple, wayside posies;
For love, so sweet and thorny, finds
Its counterpart in roses.

And still her garland grew and grew,
While summner skies were hazy,
With here and there a pansy blue,
And here and there a daisy,

And here and there a buttercup,
Plucked where the bees were humming;
For all her blossom-world looked up
And smiled to greet her coming.

Once, in a leafy, woodland bower
By girlhood's sunny portal,
She found a sweeter, rarer flower,
That grew from seed immortal.

The great world said: ''Tis wondrous fair!
We do not want your posies;
But give to us this blossom rare,
This regal queen of roses.'

She plucked it forth from bud and leaf
That clustered close about it,
She gave it - but her rosy wreath
Was incomplete without it.

The great world said: ''Tis wondrous fair!
Unlike your wayside posies.
Go thou, and find more blossoms rare, ―
Bring us more queens of roses.'

Her sweet hedgerows are left behind,
Long past is girlhood's portal;
Perchance she never more will find
Flowers grown from seed immortal.

But she has other rosy blooms,
Not quite devoid of graces,
Gleaned here and there among life's glooms
And in its sunny places.

Accept the many for the one, ―
The starry lights, God-given,
Are countless, while a single sun
Illumes the dome of heaven.

Some weary one along life's way,
Dazed by the sun's fierce splendor,
Would miss those starry eyes if they,
More brilliant, were less tender.

Sweet clover-bloom and cowslip fair,
Though field and meadow posies,
May still be loved, and honors share
With Love's bright queen of roses.

Take a seat in the shade here, lady;
It's tiresome, I know, to wait;
But when the train reaches Verona
It's always sure to be late, ―
'Specially when any one's waitin'.
Been gatherin' flowers, I see?
Ah, well! they're better company
Than a rough old fellow like me.

You noticed the graves 'neath the willows,
Down there where the blossoms grew?
Well, yes, there's a story about them,
Almost too strange to be true;
'Tis a stranger, sweeter story
Than was ever written in books;
And God made the endin' so perfect ―
There, now I see by your looks

I will have to tell the story:
Let me see; 'twas eight years ago
One blusterin' night in winter,
When the air was thick with snow;
As the freight came round the curve there
They beheld a man on the track,
Bravin' the storm before him, but
Not heedin' the foe at his back.

And ere a hand could grasp the bell-rope,
Or a finger reach the rod,
One sweep from the cruel snow-plough
Had sent the man's soul to its God!
They laid him out here in the freight-house,
And I stayed with him that night;
He'd one of the pleasantest faces,
So hopeful and young and bright.

There was only a worn-out letter;
I know it by heart ― it said:
'Dear John: Baby May grows finely,
I send you this curl from her head.
We will meet you at Brackenboro'.
The grandfather's sad and lone,
But I read him your kind words, sayin',
When we've a home of our own,'

'He shall sing the songs of old England
Beneath our own willow tree.'
That was all there was of it, lady,
And 't was signed just 'Alice Leigh.'
So we made a grave in the mornin'
And buried the man out there
Alone, unmourned, in a stranger's land,
With only a stranger's prayer.

But when he'd slept in his lonely grave
Out there nigh on to a year,
Ray's freight ran into a washout
By the culvert, away down here;
There were only two passengers that night,
Dead when we found them there, ―
A sweet little Englishwoman,
And a baby with golden hair.

On her breast lay the laughing baby,
With its rosy finger-tips
Still warm, and the fair young mother
With a frozen smile on her lips.
We laid them out here in the freight-house,
I stayed that night with the dead;
I shall never forget the letter
We found in her purse; it said:

'Dear Alice: Praise God I've got here!
I'll soon have a home for you now;
But you must come with the baby
As soon as you can anyhow.
Comfort the grandfather, and tell him
That by and by he shall come,
And sing the songs of old England
'Neath the willows beside our home;'

'For, close by the door of our cottage
I'll set out a willow tree,
For his sake and the sake of old England.
Lovingly yours. John Leigh.'

The tears filled my eyes as I read it;
But I whispered, 'God is just!'
For I knew the true heart yonder ―
Then only a handful of dust ―
Had drawn this sweet little woman
Right here, and God's merciful love
Had taken her from the sorrow
To the glad reunion above!

So, close by the grave of the other
We laid her away to rest, ―
The golden-haired English mother,
With the baby upon her breast.
I planted those trees above them,
For I knew their story, you see;
And I thought their rest would be sweeter
'Neath their own loved willow tree.

Five years rolled along; and, lady,
My story may now seem to you
Like a wonderful piece of fiction;
But I tell you it is true, ―
As true as that God is above us!
One summer day, hot and clear,
As the train rolled into the station
And stopped to change engines here,

Among a company of Mormons
Came a tremblin' white-haired man;
He asked me in waverin' accents,
'Will you tell me, sir, if you can,
Of a place called Brackenboro'?
And how far have I got to go?'
'It's the next station north,' I answered,
'Only thirteen miles below.'

His old face lit up for a moment
With a look of joy complete;
Then he threw up his hands toward Heaven,
And dropped down dead at my feet!
'Old Hugh Leigh is dead!' said a Mormon,
'And sights o' trouble he's be 'n.
Nothin' would do when we started
But that he must come with us then,'

'To find Alice, John, and the baby;
And his heart was well-nigh broke
With waitin' and watchin' in England
For letters they never wrote.'
So we buried him there with the others,
Beneath the willow tree.
'T was God's way of endin' the story ―
More perfect than man's could be.

The war-cry at San Jacinto, Texas.

Two student lads one morning met
Under the blue-domed Texas skies;
Strangers by birth and station, yet
Youth's heart lies close beneath youth's eyes.
A thousand miles lay 'twixt their homes,
Watered by many a crystal stream;
Dame Nature reared a thousand domes,
And spread a thousand plains between.
They met, clasped hands, scorned bolt and bar,
Which cautious age puts on the heart;
Shared room and purse, then wandered far
By quiet ways and busy mart.
By San Antonio's winding stream,
Through narrow streets, the two lads passed,
Saw antique ruins, like some dream
Of ancient times.

They came, at last,
Where the Alamo's moss-grown walls
Stand gray and silent in the sun.
Where'er its sombre shadow falls
Is hallowed ground, ― more sacred none!

Within its portals stood a man
Like some grim shadow on Time's shore,
Gray as the walls about him, and
Like them a memory, nothing more, ―
A page from out the deathless past!
Through film of years and rising smoke
From his old pipe he saw at last
The stranger lads, then gravely spoke:

'Come you to worship at our shrine,
The shrine o' Texas liberty?
Or come to speed the work o' time,
An' mar these stones grown dear to me?
Rome had her heroes, so have we;
I don't know what the big word means,
But this is our Thermopylae,
An' matches Rome's for bloody scenes.
My story?'

''T isn't much to tell,
'T was more to live, but e'en that seems
At times a sort o' misty spell, ―
A somethin' shaped from dreamin' dreams.
An' then again 'tis wondrous real;
I seem to see the smokin' plains,
I hear the cannon's roar, an' feel
The young blood rushin' through my veins;
For I was with Sam Houston there
At San Jacinto. All the tricks
That sneakin' Mexicans will dare,
An' did, we paid in '36.'

'We were three brothers. Brother Jim
The tallest, stoutest o' the three,
Then me, hot-headed, next to him,
An' Will was mother's pet, you see!
For Will was slender, like a girl,
Brave to the heart an' true as steel;
An' me an' Jim, 'long side o' him,
Were not much 'count.'

'The past seems real
Enough just now. My eyes are dim,
Grown weak with years. Well, lads, we three
Shouldered our muskets. Brother Jim
Was here with Travis. Will an' me
Heard how our Texas heroes fought
With death behind an' death before,
To right an' left o' them, an' naught
But death when they could fight no more.
It fires my blood to think o' it,
The desperate scene comes back to me,
How, like wild beasts trapped in a pit
They fought, as round 'em surged a sea
O' swarthy faces, black with hate
Like their black hearts.'

'Six thousand strong
They swarmed about, nor wall nor gate
Nor rifle-shot could hold 'em long.
Like flies about a pot o' sweet,
Like savage fiends let loose from hell,
Like starvin' wolves in sight o' meat,
They filled the place.'

'There Crockett fell,
Here Bowie, on his dyin' bed
Was butchered, so was all o' them.
This room was filled with Texans dead,
The bravest, truest, best o' men.'

The old man paused. Low drooped his head;
Upon his breast his beard lay white.
'These dead men nerved our arms,' he said,
'For somethin' more than human might.
Will flushed up when he spoke Jim's name;
There wasn't time for weepin' then,
But in his eyes I saw the flame
That burns the softness out o' men.'

'We were at Colita. Mayhap you
Have read the story? Fannin's men
'Gainst fearful odds surrendered. True
Their numbers sort o' start us then,
But later we forgot all fear,
An' fought like men gone sudden mad.
They wrote their own death-warrant here,
But it was signed at Goliad.
Yes, we were prisoners, confined
At Goliad, but soon to be
Sent home, an' so we didn't mind
Our prison-walls, for Will an' me
Still had each other.'

'That last night
We, a right jolly set o' men,
Sang 'Home, sweet Home,' with all our might,
An' talked o' home like boys o' ten.
I reckon that with home so near
An' mother, too, we grew a bit
Soft-hearted. Will dashed off a tear
Quick like as if ashamed o' it,
An' me ―'

'Well, mornin' came, an' we
Was ordered out. The air was sweet
With scent o' flowers. I seem to see
The posies noddin' at our feet,
As their wee faces nodded there
Beside the Mission walls, where we
In long lines stood with freezin' blood
A-waitin' for the liberty
They promised us. My God! it came
Too soon! 'T was home we'd thought about,
An' wife an' child, but not the flame
O' death that let our life-blood out.
One wild thought o' the future, then
A flash o' fire an' nothin'ness.
Shot down like dogs. Three hundred men
Sent home! 'T was murder, nothin' less.'

'All day I lay still feignin' death
Among the dead, an' when the night
Came down, I searched with pantin' breath
For Will's dead face, in the dim light.
Yes, lads, I found him where he fell,
An', kneelin' 'neath the starry skies ―
Mayhap 't want soldier-like, but ― well
I choked, an' somethin' filled my eyes.'

'I can't tell how I got away.
I reckon angel wings swooped down,
An' sort o' hid me night an' day,
For eyes were peerin' all around.
An' I was saved. I don't know why,
Unless God sent an' drafted me
From 'mong the dead to start the cry
That gave us Texas liberty.
How did it end?'

'No Texas lad
Would ask me that. I reckon you
Came from the North? Well, lads, we had
Our 'counts all ready, what was due
Us marked in figures plain, then we
At San Jacinto took our pay,
The price we set was Liberty;
An' it was paid that very day,
An' they were two to one of us;
But we went in for vengeance then.
The Alamo dead stood side of us,
An' gave each man the strength o' ten.
The plan o' battle?'

'I can't tell,
My brain, somehow, forgets the plan,
But white flowers turned to red where fell
Each sneakin', savage Mexican.
The debt o' blood we paid in blood:
'Remember, boys, the Alamo!'
Fired every Texan where he stood,
An' nerved his arm for deadly blow.
We whipped 'em, lads, an' Liberty
Was born, that day, through fire an' smoke.
This one old comrade's left to me.'
He lit his clay pipe as he spoke.