Is there a Death? The light of day At eventide shall fade away; From out the sod's eternal gloom The flowers, in their season, bloom; Bud, bloom and fade, and soon the spot Whereon they flourished knows them not; Blighted by chill, autumnal frost; "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"

Is there a Death? Pale forms of men To formless clay resolve again; Sarcophagus of graven stone, Nor solitary grave, unknown, Mausoleum, or funeral urn, No answer to our cries return; Nor silent lips disclose their trust; "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"

Is there a Death? All forms of clay Successively shall pa.s.s away; But, as the joyous days of spring Witness the glad awakening Of nature's forces, may not men, In some due season, rise again?

Then why this calm, inherent trust, "If ashes to ashes, dust to dust?"

Despair.

Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled; When vanishes each prospect fair, When the last flickering ray has sped, And naught remains but mute despair; When inky blackness doth enshroud The hopes the heart once held in store, As some tall pine, by great winds bowed, Doth snap, and when the tempest's o'er, Its n.o.ble form, magnificent and proud, Doth prostrate lie, nor ever riseth more; Thus breaks the heart, which sees no hope before.

Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled; That heart is as some ruin old, With ancient arch and wall, o'erspread With moss, and desolating mold; Whose banquet halls, where once the sound Of revelry rang unconfined, Now, with the hoot of owls resound, Or echo back the mournful wind; In whose foul nooks the gruesome bat is found.

The heart a ruin is, when unresigned; No hope before, and but regret behind.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Its n.o.ble form magnificent and proud, Doth prostrate lie, nor ever riseth more."

IRONTON PARK, OURAY COUNTY, COLORADO.]

Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled; That heart, to fate unreconciled, Though throbbing, is as truly dead As though by foul decay defiled; That heart is as a grinning skull, With smiling mockery, and stare Of eyeless sockets, or the hull Of shipwrecked vessel, bleached and bare, Derelict, morbid, apathetic, dull, As drowning men, who clutch the empty air, The heart goes down, which feels but blind despair.

Hidden Sorrows.

For some the river of life would seem Free from the shallow, the reef, or bar, As they gently glide down the silvery stream With scarcely a ripple, a lurch, or jar; But under the surface, calm and fair, Lurk the hidden snags, and the secret care; The waters are deepest where still, and clear, And the sternest anguish forbids a tear.

For others, the pathway of life is strewn With many a thorn, for each rose or bud; And their journey o'er mountain, o'er moor, and dune, Can be plainly tracked by footprints of blood; But deeper still lies the hidden smart Of some secret sorrow, which gnaws the heart, And rankles under a surface clear; For the sternest anguish forbids a tear.

But, when the journey's end we see, At the bar of the Judge of quick and dead, The cross, which the one bore silently May outweigh his of the bloodstained tread.

The cross unseen, and the cross of light, May balance in that Judge's sight; O'er the heart that is breaking a smile may appear, For the sternest anguish forbids a tear.

O, a Beautiful Thing Is the Flower That Fadeth!

O, a beautiful thing is the flower that fadeth, And perishing, smiles on the chill autumn wind; A sweet desolation its ruin pervadeth, A fragrant remembrance still lingers behind.

O, a beautiful thing is the glad consummation Of a life that is upright, untarnished and pure; That spirit, when freed from this earth's animation, Shall live, as the heavens eternal endure!

Smiles.

There is the warm, congenial smile, Benign, and honest, too, Free from deception, fraud, and guile; The smile of friendship true.

There is the smile most fair to see, Which wreathes the modest glance Of spotless maiden purity; The smile of innocence.

There is the smile of woman's love, That potent, siren spell, Which uplifts men to heaven above, Or lures them down to h.e.l.l!

There is the vain, derisive smile, Of cynical conceit; The drunken leer, the grimace vile, Of lives with crime replete.

There is the smile of vacancy, Expressionless, we find On idiot physiognomy, The vacuum of a mind.

There is a smile, which more than tears Or language can express; The grim disguise which anguish wears, The mask of dire distress

There is a smile of practiced art, More false than treason's kiss; But penetrate that dual heart, And hear the serpent's hiss.

A smile, the visage shall embrace, When nature's cup is full; Behind the stern and frowning face There lies a grinning skull.

A Request.

When close by my bed the Death Angel shall stand And deliver his summons, at last; When my brow feels the chill of his cold, clammy hand, And mortality's struggles are past; When my pain throbbing temples, with death sweat are cold, And the spirit its strivings shall cease, As with muscular shrug, it relaxes its hold, And the suffering clay is at peace;

E'er my spirit shall plunge through the shadowy vale, My lips shall this wish have expressed, That all which remains of mortality frail, In some fair enclosure may rest; Where disorganized, this pale form shall sustain The fragrant and beautiful flowers, And reproduce beauty, again and again, Through nature's grand organic powers.

Battle Hymn.

Almighty Power! Who through the past Our Nation's course has safely led; Behold again the sky o'ercast, Again is heard the martial tread!

Our stay in each contingency, Our Father's G.o.d, we turn to thee!

For lo! The bugle note of war Is wafted from a southern strand!

O Lord of Battles! we implore The guidance of Thy mighty hand, While as of yore, the hero draws His sword in Freedom's sacred cause!

And when at last the oaken wreath Shall crown afresh the victor's brow; And Peace the conquering sword resheath, Be with us then, as well as now!

Our stay in each contingency, In peace or war, we turn to Thee!

The Nations Peril.