The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems, by Cora C. Bass

Thanks are due to The New York Observer, The Churchman, Zion's Herald, Christian Register, The Standard, Outing, Boston Transcript, Portland Transcript, The New England Home Magazine, and others, for permission to re-print poems of mine that have appeared in their columns.

THE SWEETEST SONGS.

The sweetest songs are left unsung,

The sweetest themes unread,

The sweetest chords are left unstrung,

The sweetest words unsaid.

How strange it is, and yet how true,

Surpassing mortal ken,

We still can catch a blessed view

Of thought and times and men.

Though brightest paths remain unknown,

And few the heights we tread,

Though we must struggle on alone

With deepest tears unshed;

Although our hearts are anguish wrung

And ev'ry effort pain,

If we can keep another young,

We have not lived in vain.

'Tis said the fairest buds decay;

Perhaps they do, and yet,

Upon the darkest, dullest way

How many flowers are met.

The happy hours so quickly flee

We sigh to see them go,

When out upon life's troubled sea

The moments move so slow.

Shall sweetest songs be left unsung?

The sweetest themes unread?

The sweetest chords be left unstrung?

The sweetest words unsaid?

When we have but to do our best,

The very best we can,

To have the future richly blest

Of God and truth and man.

The lurid breakers dash in rifts of white

Upon the reef, rebounding to the sky,

And yet by yonder point the trembling surf

In distance dies; as darkness coils around

Our rugged path we pause, each nerve alert.

How grand the march majestic of the night

Amid the raging tempest's grim display

Of rain and hail and that too vivid flash

Which makes the inky blackness more intense!

But now the pall is riven and behold!

The beauteous sun, whose rich, prismatic glow

Illumes a jewelled curtain, poised thereon

A rainbow plumed for flight, while earth lies wrapped

In golden glory. Many a sail full set

Is homeward speeding, bearing happy hearts

To where love anxious waits and eager eyes

Will sweetest welcome give. O, World rejoice!

Confronted by the swift incoming tide,

With hurried step we scale the dizzy cliff,

Delivered by the one all-potent hand,

That ever waits to still life's sternest storms.

It was given him in youth,

Bestowed by a kingly hand;

Sweet as the flower of truth,

When its first fair buds expand.

It was given him to prize,

To guard with a jealous care;

This gift in a humble guise

But precious beyond compare.

It was given him—he turned

From promise so close concealed,

Although in his soul he yearned

To follow the unrevealed.

He turned from a gift which came

In the flush of boyhood days,

It clung to him just the same

As he trod the world's wild maze.

It was given him—it slept,

But would not be cast aside;

Till into his heart it crept

A-quiver with love and pride.

Yes, into his heart it crept,

He worked with a new-born skill;

And whether he laughed or wept

He worked with a steadfast will.

It was given him—he caught

It close to his heaving breast

And a miracle was wrought,

For a genius stood confessed.

The gift which he held the least

Was the gift the Lord had sent;

Lo, the angel at the feast

He had misnamed, discontent.

Chill not the heart that trusts thee, O, my soul!

Be brave to bear, to suffer, to forgive;

Life's tempestuous billows wildly roll

But love and live.

Chill not the heart that trusts thee, though thine eyes

With tears are dim, and ev'ry effort pain;

A day reveals, perchance, this sad surprise,

Eternal gain.

Chill not the heart that trusts thee, dark indeed

The way may seem, but sacred is the trust

Of faith, which while it may not stoop to plead

Is ever just.

Chill not the heart that trusts thee, cares defeat

The true, the good, the noble, who can tell?

Truth's eagle glance may yet direct thy feet

And all be well.

Chill not the heart that trusts thee, O, my soul!

Be brave to bear, to suffer—to forgive;

Life's tempestuous billows wildly roll

But love and live.

Written by request, and read at Huntington Hall, Memorial Evening Services, 1896.

Dead on the field of battle, the sacrifice complete,

With none to tell the story of that last sublime retreat,

The fearless rush to conquer and the awful price it cost

When riven lines were reeling like a vessel tempest tossed.

Dead on the field of battle, the glowing words inspire

The courage of the hero as he meets the foeman's fire;

His bayonet is flashing in the thickest of the fight,

An invincible avenger of liberty and right.

Dead on the field of battle, away from home and friends

And dying for the country ev'ry loyal son defends,

The clash of arms around him with the battlefield his bier,

He gives his life a ransom for the flag he holds so dear.

Dead on the field of battle, untroubled by its roar

The willing hands are quiet as they never were before;

The eager eyes are fading and the pleasant smile has flown,

But the record he is leaving is evermore his own.

Dead on the field of battle, we search but search in vain

To find the missing martyr 'mid the legions of the slain;

Downtrodden in the conflict there is nothing left to show

The consecrated service of the one who lies below.

* * * * *

Dead on the field of battle, let patient mourners weep,

Nor dream that eulogies alone can bless the watch they keep;

For sacred is the hallowed spot where fairest blossoms bloom,

And where our starry banner waves above the soldiers' tomb.

Dead on the field of battle, in nameless graves they lie,

A host of gallant comrades 'neath a tender southern sky;

And no man knows the number, or beheld them as they fell,

Or hopes to pierce the silence where they now so calmly dwell.

Dead on the field of battle,—on Freedom's holy shrine,

But Honor's hand shall point us to their monument divine,

A catafalque of glory that abides above the brave,

This great and growing Union they so freely died to save.

Dead on the field of battle,—the battlefield of life,

Unmindful of its turmoil and the ceaseless din of strife;

Though many still may linger of the brave, the tried, the true,

They all must quickly gather for the final grand review.

Dead on the field of battle? Nay, living heroes come

With martial note, with banners furled, with sadly muffled drum;

We hear the dirges wailing past upon the fragrant breeze,

And know they swell and sob and die, o'er thousands such as these.

Dead on the field of battle, the bugle sweet and clear

Is telling how they fought and bled, these soldiers we revere;—

These noble comrades, honor crowned, now moving on abreast

To love's eternal camping ground and to eternal rest.

Written by request and read at Huntington Hall, Memorial Evening Services, 1897.

Listen, comrades, deep and tender is the burden of the strain,

Like a restful benediction to the battle weary brain.

Over vale and wood and mountain, it shall echo far and wide,

Praising those who fought and conquered, praising those who fought and died.

In the beauty of the springtime with what rapture we have heard

Thrilling notes of martial music till the palsied limbs have stirred,

And we felt to still be marching, marching as we used to do,

With the grand old flag before us and the victory in view.

We were brothers, heroes, comrades, as the charging lines advanced

And the brilliant flash of weapons down the surging columns glanced;

How we struck for home and country through a storm of shot and shell,

And as one we fought and conquered, or as one we fought and fell.

How we struck for home and country 'mid the ardor of the fray,

With our comrades falling 'round us and an eager foe at bay:

Oh, our willing hands were steady and our willing hearts were strong,

Though the furloughs were so fleeting and the way so dark and long.

Oh, our willing hands were steady and our hearts were strong to win,

Though the way was rough and rugged and the serried ranks grew thin;

Though the way was rough and rugged and our eyes were dim with pain,

We beheld the spires of Richmond over hillocks of the slain.

We beheld the spires of Richmond, with prophetic light they shone

In the tranquil southern sunshine as proclaiming her our own;

Yet how solemn was the moment when downtrodden at our feet

Lay the patriot, the comrade, with his martyr's work complete.

We beheld the spires of Richmond and Columbia at peace;—

An eternal badge of glory in the stricken slave's release.

Names, alone, may be forgotten in the ceaseless rush of years,

But our deeds are doubly hallowed by a nation's smiles and tears.

Will the future find us ready:—ready as in sixty-one,

When we heard the voice of freedom in the boom of Sumter's gun?

Faith and hope and love sustain us, e'en as when we sought to stand

In the forefront of the conflict, the defenders of our land.

From the Union constellation not a single star was rent,

For the wealth of pride and party in a common cause were blent;

And the graceful folds above us, bullet scarred and blood embossed

Are a peerless proclamation of the sacrifice and cost.

Well we know the sacred standard guarding ev'ry soldier's grave

Must remain what we have made it, the insignia of the brave;

Precious, speaking of the partings that have sanctified the past,

Holy—for the great reunion we are looking to at last.

Can we, dare we, be despondent, should we hear the midnight call?

Would we shun the gracious welcome, with its day of rest for all?

Nay! a clearer light is dawning when each trusting soul shall seem

Like a vessel gently gliding homeward, heavenward, with the stream.

Honor's meed of fragrant blossoms brightly blooming o'er the dead,

Marks the dear, familiar pathway that their feet were wont to tread;

They are waiting, as are many in this world so sweet and fair,

Waiting, waiting, only waiting, but the waiting is a prayer.

Sweet is the breath of the springtime, when the sound of the bugle is heard,

Its soul thrilling pæans swift echo the clear ringing notes of a bird;

And bright is the face of the hillside for summer's own coming arrayed,

The voice of the singer must falter, the beautiful flowers must fade.

Precious and far more enduring than the blessings kind nature bestows

Is Liberty, firmly abiding, a peerless memorial of those

Who turned from their calm avocations to cheerfully hurry away;

For a grateful people preserving the freedom we cherish to-day.

We see them; lo! here is a father, a brother, a lover, a friend,

They are marching, and marching, and marching till their kindred forces blend;

And boldly they strive to press forward, unawed by the battle's dread din,

So ready to struggle and suffer, to struggle and suffer and win.

Steadfast and faithful and fearless, though every advantage they gain

Is a legacy, cruel, of sorrow to the loved ones of the slain.

Hark! to the booming of cannon, to the shrill piercing scream of a shell,

And yonder poor widow is weeping a lad who at Gettysburg fell.

Leaden hail raining around him, at the head of the column he stood,

Determined if needs be to die there as only a patriot could;

And fighting as brave as a lion; ay, brave as a lion at bay,

He shouted "The Union forever!" and sank in the midst of the fray.

Then holy, thrice holy the record, the blood written record of deeds

Which proves, by the fruit of his effort, the work of the martyr succeeds;

And fitting it is that the blossoms should ever be destined to shed

A shower of delicate perfume o'er the hallowed graves of the dead.

Blessed it is to do homage to the men who would willingly give

The promises fair of the future, that we as a nation might live;

And whether they fell in the conflict, or wounded and weary returned,

May theirs be the glorious tribute the true hearted heroes have earned.

Sweet is the voice of the springtime when the soldiers assemble as one

To eulogize those who have fallen in the wake of service well done;

Many are quietly sleeping 'neath the blush of the warm southern sky,

But the lilies are blooming above them and the old flag floats on high.

They have bivouacked oft in the south-land, the enemy fully in view,

With cities and armies to conquer, herculean duties to do;

With the earth itself for a pillow, their shelter the heaven's blue dome,

But now all too swiftly and surely, the comrades are gathering home.

Into the Guardian Presence neither peril nor passion intrude,

When low at the feet of the Saviour the fountain of life is renewed;

As long as our country shall prosper, as long as our banner shall wave,

Sever the bonds of oppression as they severed the bonds of the slave.

Arise, my soul! forsake the shadows dreary,

Where dark and dread battalions line the way;

The grandest heights refuse to make us weary

When we can struggle upward day by day.

Arise, my soul! do swift and valiant battle,

Tread down the foe beneath thy steadfast feet;

Fear not the stern assault, the cannon's rattle,

A moment's failure makes the end more sweet.

Arise, my soul! lo! victory is waiting,

Be not afraid to suffer and to dare;

Push boldly on, no jot of strength abating,

The crown is brighter for the cross we bear.

Arise, my soul! forsake the shadows dreary,

Though dark and dread battalions line the way;

The grandest heights can never make us weary

If we but struggle upward day by day.

O what gracious gifts are ours, when on every hand

Bursting buds and blushing flowers beautify the land;

Till a host of treasures lie, delicate and sweet,

'Neath the mantle of the sky, crushed by careless feet.

Many a floral gem is hid in a casket green,

But a zephyr lifts the lid and its worth is seen;

Through the meadows broad and fair, violets demure

Scatter incense rich and rare, happy and secure.

As the seasons glide along, earth's a pleasant place,

Just a miracle of song, typical of grace:

Wondrous visions charm the eye while the moments flee,

Each a message from on high sent to you and me.

See the swallows, how they roam in a ceaseless flight,

Ever on the wing for home chanting their delight.

Dare we steep our raptured souls in external bliss

As life's mystery uprolls from fate's dull abyss?

Hark! the magic touch of Spring wakes a tender chord,

O it is a joy to bring tribute to our Lord;

Jesus calls us from despair, offers peace for strife;

Our's the gift of praise and prayer; His, eternal life.

No bridges stood uniting shore with shore

And houses, bounded by the busy stream

On either hand, were few; men caught a gleam

Of crippled Boston, through whose highways tore

The troops; embarking, on they swiftly bore

'Mid roaring cannon and the awful scream

Of shells; poor puppets of a royal scheme

To King Taxation's iron rule restore.

The honest sod recoiled from their hot tread,

But baffled fury trod with reckless haste

Till hemmed about by their own slaughtered dead

When twice the dizzy charge had been retraced;

They found no weakling foe was that ahead

And shivered at the task which yet they faced.

Above doomed Charlestown bombs were bursting shrill,

And flaming steeples pierced the pitying sky

As eager feet kept marching, marching by

To where the cheer triumphant sent a thrill

Athwart the loyal breast of Bunker Hill.

"Aim low and fire!" Well might the red-coats fly

Before the "echo" of brave Prescott's cry,

A cry that speared them with defeat's cold chill.

Though twice Columbia's pulse victorious stirred,

Ere twilight could her sable shield prepare,

A long derisive "British yell" was heard

To summon forth battalions of despair;

When it was only victory deferred

To even lure the "Lion" from his lair.

With muskets clubbed our fathers held the slope

Which midnight saw them arming for the fray,

And still they strove to keep the foe at bay;

Beside the fence they saw their comrades cope

With those who would fore'er the star of hope

Eclipse behind the slavery cloud and say:—

"Thus Monarchy subdues her rebel prey."

Although the fields were red they would not grope

But dared the "Glasgow," dared the lance, the gun;

And, founders of a nation, boldly sought

On Prospect's brow the rest so nobly won,

While other lands the blessed tidings caught

Of daring deeds by "mere provincials" done,

And marveled at the skill with which they fought.

On echo's pinions words inspired went ringing through the land,

To bid the colonies as one for Independence stand,

And Adams, Franklin, Livingston, were typical of men

Who watched the march prophetic of the Jeffersonian pen,

Which wrote: "We are and ought to be" and lo! they seemed to see

A wreath of golden glory frame the magic emblem "free!"

Oh, deep the joy that stirred the brave as Philadelphia's bell

Gave forth the grateful tidings in a fervent "all is well!"

And sternest voices quivered while the laughter born of tears

Disclosed a richer cadence in the quick, triumphant cheers;

Though gazing down the vale of time, how could they then behold

The beauty of a government of so divine a mould?

While booming cannon shook the shore for many a dreary day,

Columbia stood majestic 'mid the ardor of the fray;

And in the act which swept aside the royalty of birth

Beheld a matchless kingdom, and the emperor was Worth.

No more could Monarchy pretend to plant an iron heel

Upon a weary people or the last forlorn appeal;

And when Britannia rashly strove to break the spell defeat,

She only made the footing of the Union more complete.

For, by Mount Vernon's sacred shade, on Erie's broad expanse,

The foe again was banished by the steady cry: "Advance!"

And laurel wreathed must Perry's name indelibly be traced

Upon the roll of honor which can never be effaced.

The "Glorious Fourth" of Sixty-three saw Vicksburg doomed to fall,

As gallant sons of Freedom pressed rebellion to the wall;

And while progression's brilliant light illumes the tender sky

The heroes of the present must the present need supply.

What happiness to meditate on how the nation grew

Till swift electric chargers dare the steeds of steam pursue;

How good it is to feel, to know, the truth of this decree

That "God made all men equal" and beyond denial "Free."

"The Lord will provide," a blackbird sings,

Folding to rest his raptured wings;

List to the song of the drowsy wind,—

"The Lord will provide for he is kind."

"The Lord will provide," a farmer's stay,

When storms, like foemen, throng the way;

"Though blight bewilder the crops this year,

The Lord will provide, good wife, no fear."

"The Lord will provide," a widow's moan

Longing for joy the past has known;

The weary needle forgets its woe

As "He will provide," she whispers low.

"The Lord will provide," a sore heart sighed,

"I in his boundless love confide."

A step came staggering to the door;

The Lord will provide forever more.

"The Lord will provide," a father said,

My darlings will not want for bread;

He who sees the wounded sparrow fall

Will surely provide for one and all.

"The Lord will provide," sang Baby Nell;

How sweetly the assurance fell

On the spirit worn with grief and pain,

Till the fainting faith revived again.

"The Lord will provide, my mamma, dear,"

And swift she kisses the healing tear

From the grateful mother's pallid cheek;

"The Lord provides for the poor and weak."

"The Lord will provide," an orphan wails,

As every spring of living fails;

"The Lord will provide," the martyr cries

And, lo! with a smiling face he dies.

Why should it seem so pleasant, the path we missed to-day?

With flowers fair and fragrant that ran along the way;

The sky all bright above it; the breezes balmy sweet,

Why should it seem so pleasant, the path we fain would meet.

Why should it seem so pleasant, although we could not see

Its living lines of beauty unfolding full and free?

Well we knew each winding would our weary feet invite,

Gliding upward, onward, through the realms of life and light.

Why should it seem so pleasant, the path we missed to-day,

Blooming fresh and fragrant as the flowers of the May?

The sky all bright above it; the breezes balmy sweet,

Why should it seem so pleasant, the path we fain would meet?

Do not say that the world is cold,

The world is a glorious place,

And friends are the same as of old

For each has a generous face.

It is only ourselves that have changed,

The present eclipses the past,

And we are too early estranged

From the love which endures to the last.

This pride, is it never to blame?

Is the word so easy to speak

Withheld, while we barter for fame

The life we are yearning to seek?

'Mid the desolate tracks of the soul,

Full oft an oasis is hid

By turning aside from the goal,

Or the too sudden droop of a lid.

Alas! as we go on alone,

How little we value the cost

Of sacrifice, save for our own,

In the joy another has lost.

Should we pause to consider the heart,

And fathom the depth of its grief,

No power could keep us apart,

Though the parting were never so brief.

It is ours to bask if we will

Within the bright sunlight of truth:

To sip of the cup which we fill

In the fair, sweet morning of youth.

And our friends, they are ever our own

To comfort, to cherish, sustain;

Though often the care is unknown,

'Tis enough if we banish the pain.

Enough, when we give of our best,

A brother is cheered on his way;

Enough, if the weary may rest

'Mid the fervid heat of the day.

'Tis enough if the burden we bear

But eases the load of a friend;

Enough, if the burden we share,

We are worthy to share to the end.

The drowsy waves are lulled to rest,

Are lulled to rest on ocean's breast;

On ocean's breast that gently swells

Like Moore's delightful "Evening Bells."

Those bells that with bewitching chime

Go pealing down the vale of time;

On echo's wing they swiftly spring,

And then athwart the world they ring.

Oh, dainty zephyr sweep the deep

And bid the languid pulses leap;

Oh, sweep the deep with fragrant sighs,

In sweet communion with the skies.

From favored regions far beyond,

We catch a glimmer of thy wand;

Thy magic wand whose happy charm

Shall every foe of love disarm.

So what care we for idle fear,

For idle fear when thou art near;

When thou art near to waft along

The kindred graces—joy and song.

Oh, dainty zephyr, sweep the deep

Where dimpled muses softly sleep;

Asleep in ocean's arms they lie,

Like autumn in the tranquil sky.

Fulfil the soul's supreme desire,

To liquid notes the harp inspire;

To music sweet as wood and lake

When fair Aurora cries "Awake!"

Ay, dainty zephyr, fan the sea

And bid yon schooner dance with glee;

Yon schooner dance with glee, to breast

The billows in their vague unrest.

Come, O spirit of the breeze,

I hear a whisper in the trees;

A whisper in the trees, and now

I feel fair fingers on my brow.

The harp to sweeter pitch is strung,

To sweeter pitch the chords are rung

Till liquid sweetness stirs the air,

As if an angel floated there.

Floated there in bliss divine,

In bliss too holy to define;

In bliss so high I sigh, I faint,

The image of that bliss to paint.

I have thought of you many times

On blissful heights; in the vale of woe;

Memory's chorus smoothly chimes

To a rhythmic measure's mellow flow,

The joyful echo of long ago.

I have prayed for you o'er and o'er,

'Mid a fleet of shadows dark and drear

Coasting close by the silent shore;

My grateful spirit is ever near,

Unchecked by peril, unawed by fear.

I have trusted you, faithful, true,

Though the tempest's wrathful fingers rend

Hope's tortured sails and doubts pursue,

What matter whither the storm may trend?

With love my compass and you my friend.

I have wanted you more and more

While threading the world's delusive maze;

Deaf to its ceaseless rush and roar

Through a dreary medley of weary days,

We still could journey in kindred ways.

I have watched for you, watched in vain,

To the smiling future clinging fast;

The even-time of grief, of pain

Must yield to a beautiful dawn at last

When the heavy clouds have drifted past.

True, ah, true, the roses fall,

And in drops the springs run dry;

Slowly, surely, past recall,

Summer beauties hasten by.

True, the roses bloom again

And the springs gush forth anew,

Singing sweeter for the pain

That could check but not subdue.

Ay, we know how deepest gloom

Makes the springs of gladness fail;

But when in their richest bloom

Droop the roses, wan and pale;

Search and find the hope that strives,

Poor, downtrodden germ apart;

Nurture kindly till it thrives,

Fairest blossom of the heart.

Dark may be the days and years

Strewn with leaves of roses dead;

Smile we brighter for the tears

When the northern winds have fled.

Singer sweet, the thought is true,—

Roses fade and springs run dry;

But there's nothing old or new

That has life can ever die.

Sweetest hopes must needs be fed

If they'd spring to life anew,

When grief's winter shall have fled,

Giving place to sun and dew;

When earth withers like the rose,

All its treasure leaves closed up,

Then that other blossom blows

Life immortal in its cup.

Alone, amid the wild secluded heights

Where Winter holds his solitary sway,

We wrestle with the fury of the storm,

The savage sleet and passion-laden gale;

A sleeping avalanche beneath our feet

And ice-capped giants menacing the way.

Behold, athwart the ebon brow of night

The "fire-zoned orb" with beauteous light illumes

A distant mountain's irridescent rim;

And morning flits with swift, impetuous step

Adown the snow-clad slopes, benignant, free.

Below us lie the valleys, urns of gloom,

Concealing nature's precious treasure trove.

From thence a hundred peaks

Proclaim the royal conquest of the dawn;

All rosy-robed and golden-crowned they stand,

Their rich prismatic splendors softly limned

Upon the dappled curtain of the sky.

How tender we are of our dear ones, we never can smile at their pain;

We never can laugh when they sorrow, we never can love them in vain.

How careful we are of our dear ones, what sympathy wakes at a glance;

What happiness waits on their presence to ev'ry new blessing enhance.

How patient we are with our dear ones, though hearts may with anguish be wrung;

We ever are one with their sadness, no matter how timid or young.

How gentle we are with our dear ones when swiftly the tide rushes by;

How ready to share in each trouble, how ready to echo each sigh.

How loving we are with our dear ones, ambitious to lighten the cross;

More anxious to carry the burden, the greater the pain and the loss.

How pleasant we are with our dear ones, how gladly with them we rejoice;

How eager to follow their footsteps, from duty, and pleasure, and choice.

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The Sweetest Songs	7
Unbidden Guests	9
Sea and Cliff	10
The March of Time	11
A Gift	12
Would We Dwell on the Mountain Height?	14
Chill not the Heart that Trusts Thee	15
He Lies in State	16
Hope-On-River	17
At Sea	18
Mirth	19
Flora	20
Where Passaconaway Was Wont to Stand	21
Spring	22
Kearsarge	23
Dead on the Field of Battle	24
Listen, Comrades	28
Memorial Poem	33
Arise, My Soul	37
A Hymn of Praise	38
Bright as the Sunshine After Showers	40
Bunker Hill	41
Rising Tide	43
The Glorious Fourth	44
The Lord will Provide	47
Joy	49
The Missing Path	50
Life	51
Another Day	52
The Future	53
6Do Not Say That the World is Cold	54
A Song to the Zephyr	56
Laugh and be Happy	58
Spare the Trees	59
Thoughts of You	60
True, Ah, True, the Roses Fall	62
Laugh On	64
The Worker Bee	65
The Comforter	66
The Clouds Cannot Last Forever	67
The Heart That is Hard to Win	68
Sleep, Minstrel, Sleep	69
The Storm	70
'Mid Eternal Snow	71
Our Dear Ones	72
Even-Tide	74
Press On!	75

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems

Poems.

PREFACE.

CONTENTS.

THE SWEETEST SONGS.

UNBIDDEN GUESTS.

SEA AND CLIFF.

THE MARCH OF TIME.

A GIFT.

WOULD WE DWELL ON THE MOUNTAIN HEIGHT?

CHILL NOT THE HEART THAT TRUSTS THEE.

HE LIES IN STATE.

HOPE-ON-RIVER.

AT SEA.

MIRTH.

FLORA.

WHERE PASSACONAWAY WAS WONT TO STAND.

SPRING.

KEARSARGE.

DEAD ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

LISTEN, COMRADES.

MEMORIAL POEM.

ARISE, MY SOUL!

A HYMN OF PRAISE.

BRIGHT AS THE SUNSHINE AFTER SHOWERS.

THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL.

RISING TIDE.

THE GLORIOUS FOURTH.

THE LORD WILL PROVIDE.

JOY.

THE MISSING PATH.

LIFE.

ANOTHER DAY.

THE FUTURE.

DO NOT SAY THAT THE WORLD IS COLD.

A SONG TO THE ZEPHYR.

LAUGH AND BE HAPPY.

SPARE THE TREES.

THOUGHTS OF YOU.

TRUE, AH, TRUE, THE ROSES FALL.

LAUGH ON.

THE WORKER BEE.

THE COMFORTER.

THE CLOUDS CANNOT LAST FOREVER.

THE HEART THAT IS HARD TO WIN.

SLEEP, MINSTREL, SLEEP!

THE STORM.

'MID ETERNAL SNOW.

OUR DEAR ONES.

EVEN-TIDE.

PRESS ON.

Transcriber's Note

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

WOULD WE DWELL ON THE MOUNTAIN
HEIGHT?

CHILL NOT THE HEART THAT TRUSTS
THEE.

WHERE PASSACONAWAY WAS WONT TO
STAND.

BRIGHT AS THE SUNSHINE AFTER
SHOWERS.