For long have I been on the billowy deep, On the boundless waste of sea; And while I sleep there are two who weep, And watch and pray for me.

When the mad storm roars till the stoutest fear And the thunders roll over the sea, I think of you, Mary and mother dear, For I know you are thinking of me.

Then blow, ye winds, for my swift return; Let the tempest roar o'er the main; Let the billows yearn and the lightning burn; They will hasten me home again.

MY DEAD

Last night in my feverish dreams I heard A voice like the moan of an autumn sea, Or the low, sad wail of a widowed bird, And it said--"My darling, come home to me."

Then a hand was laid on my throbbing head-- As cold as clay, but it soothed my pain: I wakened and knew from among the dead My darling stood by my coach again.

DUST TO DUST

Dust to dust: Fall and perish love and l.u.s.t: Life is one brief autumn day; Sin and sorrow haunt the way To the narrow house of clay, Clutching at the good and just: Dust to dust.

Dust to dust: Still we strive and toil and trust, From the cradle to the grave: Vainly crying, "Jesus, save!"

Fall the coward and the brave, Fall the felon and the just: Dust to dust.

Dust to dust: Hark, I hear the wintry gust; Yet the roses bloom to-day, Blushing to the kiss of May, While the north winds sigh and say: "Lo we bring the cruel frost-- Dust to dust."

Dust to dust: Yet we live and love and trust, Lifting burning brow and eye To the mountain peaks on high: From the peaks the ages cry, Strewing ashes, rime and rust: "Dust to dust!"

Dust to dust: What is gained when all is lost?

Gaily for a day we tread-- Proudly with averted head O'er the ashes of the dead-- Blind with pride and mad with l.u.s.t: Dust to dust.

Hope and trust: All life springs from out the dust: Ah, we measure G.o.d by man, Looking forward but a span On His wondrous, boundless plan; All His ways are wise and just; Hope and trust.

Hope and trust: Hope will blossom from the dust; Love is queen: G.o.d's throne is hers; His great heart with loving force Throbs throughout the universe; We are His and He is just; Hope and trust.

O LET ME DREAM THE DREAMS OF LONG AGO

Call me not back, O cold and crafty world: I scorn your thankless thanks and hollow praise.

Wiser than seer or scientist--content To tread no paths beyond these bleating hills, Here let me lie beneath this dear old elm, Among the blossoms of the clover-fields, And listen to the humming of the bees.

Here in those far-off, happy, boyhood years, When all my world was bounded by these hills, I dreamed my first dreams underneath this elm.

Dreamed? Aye, and builded castles in the clouds; Dreamed, and made glad a fond, proud mother's heart, Now moldering into clay on yonder hill; Dreamed till my day-dreams paved the world with gold; Dreamed till my mad dreams made one desolate; Dreamed--O my soul, and was it all a dream?

As I lay dreaming under this old elm, Building my castles in the sunny clouds, Her soft eyes peeping from the copse of pine, Looked tenderly on me and my glad heart leaped Following her footsteps. O the dream--the dream!

O fawn-eyed, lotus-lipped, white-bosomed Flore!

I hide my bronzed face in your golden hair: Thou wilt not heed the dew-drops on my beard; Thou wilt not heed the wrinkles on my brow; Thou wilt not chide me for my long delay.

Here we stood heart to heart and eye to eye, And I looked down into her inmost soul, The while she drank my promise like sweet wine O let me dream the dreams of long ago!

Soft are the tender eyes of maiden love; Sweet are the dew-drops of a dear girl's lips When love's red roses blush in sudden bloom: O let me dream the dreams of long ago!

Hum soft and low, O bee-bent clover-fields; Blink, blue-eyed violets, from the dewy gra.s.s; Break into bloom, my golden dandelions; Break into bloom, my dear old apple-trees.

I hear the robins cherup on the hedge, I hear the warbling of the meadow-larks; I hear the silver-fluted whippowil; I hear the harps that moan among the pines Touched by the ghostly fingers of the dead.

Hush!--let me dream the dreams of long ago.

And wherefore left I these fair, flowery fields, Where her fond eyes and ever gladsome voice Made all the year one joyous, warbling June, To chase my castles in the pa.s.sing clouds-- False as the mirage of some Indian isle To shipwrecked sailors famished on the brine?

Wherefore?--Look out upon the babbling world-- Fools clamoring at the heels of clamorous fools!

I hungered for the sapless husks of fame.

Dreaming I saw, beyond my native hills, The sunshine shimmer on the laurel trees.

Ah tenderly plead her fond eyes brimmed with tears; But lightly laughing at her fears I turned, Eager to clutch my crown of laurel leaves, Strong-souled and bold to front all winds of heaven-- A lamb and lion molded into one-- And burst away to tread the hollow world.

Ah nut-brown boys that tend the lowing kine, Ah blithesome plowmen whistling on the glebe, Ah merry mowers singing in the swaths, Sweet, simple souls, contented not to know, Wiser are ye and ye may teach the wise.

Years trode upon the heels of flying years, And still my _Ignis Fatuus_ flew before; On th.o.r.n.y paths my eager feet pursued, Till she whose fond heart doted on my dreams Pa.s.sed painless to the pure eternal peace.

Years trode upon the heels of flying years And touched my brown beard with their silver wands, And still my _Ignis Fatuus_ flew before; Through thorns and mire my torn feet followed still, Till she, my darling, unforgotten Flore, Nursing her one hope all those weary years Waiting my tardy coming, drooped and died.

I hear her low, sweet voice among the pines: O let me dream the dreams of long ago: I see her fond eyes peeping from the pines: O let me dream the dreams of long ago And hide my bronzed face in her golden hair.

Is this the Indian summer of my days-- Wealth without care and love without desire?

O misty, cheerless moon of falling leaves!

Is this the fruitage promised by the spring?

O blighted cl.u.s.ters withering on the vine!

O promised lips of love to one who dreams And wakens holding but the hollow air!

Let me dream on lest, dead unto my dead, False to the true and true unto the false, Maddened by thoughts of that which might have been, And weary of the chains of that which is, I slake my heart-thirst at forbidden springs.

I hear the voices of the moaning pines; I hear the low, hushed whispers of the dead, And one wan face looks in upon my dreams And wounds me with her sad, imploring eyes.

The dead sun sinks beyond the misty hills; The chill winds whistle in the leafless elms; The cold rain patters on the fallen leaves.

Where pipes the silver-fluted whippowil?

I hear no hum of bees among the bloom; I hear no robin cherup on the hedge: One dumb, lone lark sits shivering in the rain.

I hear the voices of the Autumn wind; I hear the cold rain dripping on the leaves; I hear the moaning of the mournful pines; I hear the hollow voices of the dead.

O let me dream the dreams of long ago And dreaming pa.s.s into the dreamless sleep-- Beyond the voices of the autumn winds, Beyond the patter of the dreary rain, Beyond compa.s.sion and all vain regret Beyond all waking and all weariness: O let me dream the dreams of long ago.

THE PIONEER

[MINNESOTA--1860-1875]

When Mollie and I were married from the dear old cottage-home, In the vale between the hills of fir and pine, I parted with a sigh in a stranger-land to roam, And to seek a western home for me and mine.

By a grove-encircled lake in the wild and prairied West, As the sun was sinking down one summer day, I laid my knapsack down and my weary limbs to rest, And resolved to build a cottage-home and stay.

I staked and marked my "corners," and I "filed" upon my claim, And I built a cottage-home of "logs and shakes;"

And then I wrote a letter, and Mollie and baby came Out to bless me and to bake my johnny-cakes.

When Mollie saw my "cottage" and the way that I had "bached", She smiled, but I could see that she was "blue;"

Then she found my "Sunday-clothes" all soiled and torn and patched, And she hid her face and shed a tear or two.

But she went to work in earnest and the cabin fairly shone, And her dinners were so savory and so nice That I felt it was "not good that the man should be alone"-- Even in this lovely land of Paradise.

Well, the neighbors they were few and were many miles apart, And you couldn't hear the locomotive scream; But I was young and hardy, and my Mollie gave me heart, And my "steers" they made a fast and fancy team.