I will cherish the dreams I am dreaming tonight, Will upbuild the old homestead once more, And perhaps when I'm dead, for another's delight It will bloom by the Delaware's sh.o.r.e.

REFRAIN.

Norma

A Legend of the Wayne Highlands

Along the lake's wild northern sh.o.r.e An island dark with trees Lies shadow-like, and o'er and o'er At midnight thru a leafy door Comes music on the breeze, Sweet music on the breeze, Where sad-eyed Norma dreams, And o'er the wave, in thru the trees The mellow moonlight streams.

And Norma's voice is sweet to hear As the breathing of a bell; But while so welcome to the ear Of any one afar or near, The notes, O few can tell!

The notes, O few can tell!

Falling so wildly sweet, Like the mournful ringing of a bell With the tones still incomplete.

How came this maid upon the isle Within the Hills of Wayne?

Why sings she sweetly all the while As if to ease her self-denial?

Why sings she a refrain At the lonely midnight hour On an island dark with trees, Enchanting souls unto her bower By such sweet melodies?

The legend runs:--That long ago A lover came to woo, But left her--why?--(no man doth know) For while her love like wine did flow Away from her he drew-- He drew from her away, While she was left forlorn And ever (so the legends say) Did daily for him mourn.

But Norma left her home one night When all were fast asleep And angel-like she trod the light Moonpath across the waters bright Until she ceased to weep, Until she ceased to weep, Singing a sweet, sweet song That on the lake that lay asleep The night-wind did prolong.

And after Norma's death, one day A knock at her father's door Announced the lad who went away When both were lovers young and gay, Who now would love her more Than any other maid, Yes, any other maid, Saying, O where is Norma now, Where is my sweetheart now?

O Youth, my daughter is not here-- She waited, waited long To hear the voice she held more dear Than all the rest--nor could we cheer Her with another song; But many hear her sing By the island,--sing so sweet That never, never can they bring The song to me complete.

The lover sadly turned away And vowed that he would know The song complete e'er dawn of day And followed where the moonpath lay Upon the lake below, Where Norma sang of love On the island dark with trees That cast deep shadows on the cove, And his heart was ill at ease.

At midnight o'er the moonlit wave He bent his little boat, Till he heard the song the soft winds gave, But if his life that song might save, He could not tell a note!

He could not learn a note!

Tho' many, and many, and many a night In the lovely moonpath gleaming bright He listened from his boat.

But the song he never, never knew Altho' he listened long, And so it is--is ever true When hearts withhold a love long due; For Love sings one sweet song, One sweet familiar song, At thy heart's door today, And knocking, waits, but waiting long Forever turns away.

Plant a Tree

The Past unto the Present cries-- Arise, ye more than blind, arise!

For I who fell the forest low Would now another forest grow, But what is done I cannot mend, So unto you a message send-- Much did I do for you, for me Plant a tree, Plant a tree.

The Present, waking from its sleep, Across the hills began to creep, And saw where Past had fallen far A n.o.ble forest, with a scar On many a wounded mountain side That from the elements would hide-- And answered:--Past, I will for thee Plant a tree, A forest tree.

The feeling Future, yet unborn, Heard Present echoing her horn, And stirring somewhat in Life's cell Did try her dearest wish to tell, Whispering in an undertone: I--I shall reap as ye have sown, O heed the Past! and--thanks to thee-- Plant a tree, Plant a tree.

Maid of Shehawken

Maid of Shehawken, kind and true, I sing a fond farewell, But, maiden, though I sing adieu, My love I cannot tell-- My love I cannot tell to thee For parting gives me pain, Oh may I in the days to be Meet with thee once again.

Maid of Shehawken, sweet and fair, Accept my humble praise, And may thy path be free from care, Full happy be thy days, And ever mid the lure of life Where e'er thy lot may be, In pleasant paths or weary strife-- Remember, I love thee.

Maid of Shehawken, kind and true, Tho' far away we roam, Few places will we find, O few As sweet as our highland home, And tho' Life's pathway lead along The shining streets of gold, Our lips will never know a song As sweet as the songs of old.

Maid of Shehawken, dearer far Than any that I know, Lighting my pathway like a star, Afar from thee I go, But tho' I leave the Hills of Wayne My heart is still with thee, O maiden, may we meet again In the days that are to be.

To the Delaware

Cease thy murmuring, Delaware, For thy many braves so fair Who are sleeping by thy stream-- Rouse them not--there let them dream.

For upon that silent sh.o.r.e Indian's cry shall sound no more.

There, where still the owlets cry And the solemn night-winds sigh, Let the victor's head remain With the spirits of the slain, Leave the warriors fast asleep Where the willows o'er them weep, For thy murmuring, Delaware, Cannot wake those sleeping there, For thy voice deep in the foam Cannot ever call them home.

There, where low and high degree Sleep beneath the self-same tree, And where warriors small and great, Share in death a common fate, Leave the pale-face and the braves Side by side within their graves.

There, where ridges lifting high Try to bridge the endless sky, And where willows bend like lead O'er the footprints of the dead-- To each brother slumbering there, Sing sweet songs, my Delaware.

REQUIEM:

Brave!--thy happy days have fled Into silence with the dead; Thy canoe, thy well-worn way, And thy bow are in decay.

And no more thy camp-fires gleam By thy sweet, complaining stream; And I mourn thy ruthless fate; Weeping am I--but too late-- For upon that silent sh.o.r.e Indian's cry shall sound no more.

Starlight Lake

Well named thou art, O little lake Set in among the hills; Well named art thou,--each star doth make Reflected forms that fancies wake And memory fondly fills.

And nightly on the rugged sh.o.r.e Each cot with ruddy beam Lights up thy face from pane and door And throws a stream of silver o'er Thy bosom like a dream.

Thy hemlock hills, now dimly grown, Fling shadows on thy face, And to their branch the birds have flown, Except the owl, whose monotone The listening ear can trace.

There, where the starlight thickly trails A path across thy wave, A pa.s.sing boat a boatman hails Whose maiden crew still softly sails As with a pilot brave.