Ere on yon _Via Lactea_ rolled one star Lo I was there and trode the mighty round; Yea, ere the central orb was fired and hung A lamp to light the chaos. Star on star, System on system, myriad worlds on worlds, Beyond the utmost reach of mortal ken, Beyond the utmost flight of mortal dream, Yet have mine eyes beheld the birth of all.

But whence I am I know not. We are three-- Known, yet unknown--unfathomable to man, Time, s.p.a.ce, and Matter pregnant with all life, Immortals older than the oldest orb.

We were and are forever: out of us Are all things--suns and satellites, midge and man.

Worlds wax and wane, suns flame and glow and die; Through sh.o.r.eless s.p.a.ce their scattered ashes float, Unite, cohere, and wax to worlds again, Changing, yet changless--new, but ever old-- No atom lost and not one atom gained, Though fire to vapor melt the adamant, Or feldspar fall in drops of summer rain.

And in the atoms sleep the germs of life, Myriad and multiform and marvelous, Throughout all vast, immeasurable s.p.a.ce, In every grain of dust, in every drop Of water, waiting but the thermal touch.

Yea, in the womb of nature slumber still Wonders undreamed and forms beyond compare, Minds that will cleave the chaos and unwind The web of fate, and from the atom trace The worlds, the suns, the universal law: And from the law, the Master; yea, and read On yon grand starry scroll the Master's will."

Yea, but what Master? Lift the veil, O Time!

Where lie the bounds of s.p.a.ce and whither dwells The Power unseen--the infinite Unknown?

Faint from afar the solemn answer fell:

"aeon on aeon, cycles myriad-yeared, Swifter than light out-flashing from the suns, My flying feet have sought the bounds of s.p.a.ce And found not, nor the infinite Unknown.

I see the Master only in his work: I see the Ruler only in his law: Time hath not touched the great All-father's throne, Whose voice unheard the Universe obeys, Who breathes upon the deep and worlds are born.

Worlds wax and wane, suns crumble into dust, But matter pregnant with immortal life, Since erst the white-haired centuries wheeled the vast, Hath lost nor gained. Who made it, and who made The Maker? Out of nothing, nothing. Lo The worm that crawls from out the sun-touched sand, What knows he of the huge, round, rolling Earth?

Yet more than thou of all the vast Beyond, Or ever wilt. Content thee; let it be: Know only this--there is a Power unknown-- Master of life and Maker of the worlds."

LINES

On the death of Captain Hiram A. Coats, my old schoolmate and friend.

Dead? or is it a dream-- Only the voice of a dream?

Dead in the prime of his years, And laid in the lap of the dust; Only a handful of ashes Moldering down into dust.

Strong and manly was he, Strong and tender and true; Proud in the prime of his years; Strong in the strength of the just: A heart that was half a lion's, And half the heart of a girl; Tender to all that was tender, And true to all that was true; Bold in the battle of life, And bold on the b.l.o.o.d.y field; First at the call of his country, First in the front of the foe.

Hope of the years was his-- The golden and garnered sheaves; Fair on the hills of autumn Reddened the apples of peace.

Dead? or is it a dream?

Dead in the prime of his years, And laid in the lap of the dust.

Aye, it _is_ but a dream; For the life of man is a dream: Dead in the prime of his years And laid in the lap of the dust; Only a handful of ashes Moldering down into dust.

Only a handful of ashes Moldering down into dust?

Aye, but what of the breath Blown out of the bosom of G.o.d?

What of the spirit that breathed And burned in the temple of clay?

Dust unto dust returns; The dew-drop returns to the sea; The flash from the flint and the steel Returns to its source in the sun.

Change cometh forever-and-aye, But forever nothing is lost-- The dew-drop that sinks in the sand, Nor the sunbeam that falls in the sea.

Ah, life is only a link In the endless chain of change.

Death giveth the dust to the dust And the soul to the infinite soul: For aye since the morning of man--

Since the human rose up from the brute-- Hath Hope, like a beacon of light, Like a star in the rift of the storm, Been writ by the finger of G.o.d On the longing hearts of men.

O follow no goblin fear; O cringe to no cruel creed; Nor chase the shadow of doubt Till the brain runs mad with despair.

Stretch forth thy hand, O man, To the winds and the quaking earth-- To the heaving and falling sea-- To the ultimate stars and feel The throb of the spirit of G.o.d-- The pulse of the Universe.

MAULEY

THE BRAVE FERRY-MAN

[NOTE.--The great Sioux ma.s.sacre in Minnesota commenced at the Agency village, on the Minnesota River, early in the morning of the 16th day of August, 1862, precipitated, doubtless, by the murders at Acton on the day previous. The ma.s.sacre and the Indian war that followed developed many brave men, but no truer hero than Mauley, an obscure Frenchman, the ferry-man at the Agency. Continually under fire, he resolutely ran his ferry-boat back and forth across the river, affording the terror-stricken people the only chance for escape. He was shot down on his boat just as he had landed on the opposite sh.o.r.e the last of those who fled from the burning village to the ferry-landing. The Indians disemboweled his dead body, cut off the head, hands and feet and thrust them into the cavity. See _Heard's Hist. Sioux War_, p 67.]

Crouching in the early morning, Came the swarth and naked "Sioux;"[CF]

On the village, without warning, Fell the sudden, savage blow.

Horrid yell and crack of rifle Mingle as the flames arise;-- With the tomahawk they stifle Mothers' wails and children's cries.

Men and women to the ferry Fly from many a blazing cot;-- Brave and ready--grim and steady, Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

Can they cross the ambushed river?

'Tis for life the only chance; Only this may some deliver From the scalping-knife and lance.

Through the throng of wailing women Frantic men in terror burst;-- "Back, ye cowards!" thundered Mauley,-- "I will take the women first!"

Then with brawny arms and lever Back the craven men he smote.

Brave and ready--grim and steady, Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

To and fro across the river Plies the little mercy-craft, While from ambushed gun and quiver On it falls the fatal shaft.

Trembling from the burning village, Still the terror-stricken fly, For the Indians' love of pillage Stays the b.l.o.o.d.y tragedy.

At the windla.s.s-bar bare-headed-- Bare his brawny arms and throat-- Brave and ready--grim and steady, Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

Hark!--a sudden burst of war-whoops!

They are bent on murder now; Down the ferry-road they rally, Led by furious Little Crow.

Frantic mothers clasp their children, And the help of G.o.d implore; Frantic men leap in the river Ere the boat can reach the sh.o.r.e.

Mauley helps the weak and wounded Till the last soul is afloat;-- Brave and ready--grim and steady, Mauley mans the ferry-boat.

Speed the craft!--The fierce Dakotas Whoop and hasten to the sh.o.r.e, And a shower of shot and arrows On the crowded boat they pour.

Fast it floats across the river, Managed by the master hand, Laden with a freight so precious,-- G.o.d be thanked!--it reaches land.

Where is Mauley--grim and steady, Shall his brave deed be forgot?

Grasping still the windla.s.s-lever, Dead he lies upon the boat.

[CF] p.r.o.nounced Soo; a name given to the Dakotas in early days by the French traders.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MAULEY THE BRAVE FERRY-MAN]

MEN

Man is a creature of a thousand whims; The slave of hope and fear and circ.u.mstance.

Through toil and martyrdom a million years Struggling and groping upward from the brute, And ever dragging still the brutish chains, And ever slipping backward to the brute.

Shall he not break the galling, brazen bonds That bind him writhing on the wheel of fate?

Long ages groveling with his brother brutes, He plucked the tree of knowledge and uprose And walked erect--a G.o.d; but died the death: For knowledge brings but sadness and unrest Forever, insatiate longing and regret.

Behold the brute's unerring instinct guides True as the pole-star, while man's reason leads How oft to quicksands and the hidden reefs!

Contented brute, his daily wants how few!

And these by Nature's mother-hand supplied.

Man's wants unnumbered and unsatisfied, And multiplied at every onward step-- Insatiate as the cavernous maw of time.

His real wants how simple and how few!

Behold the kine in yonder pasture-field Cropping the clover, or in rest reclined, Chewing meek-eyed the cud of sweet content.

Ambition plagues them not, nor hope, nor fear; No demons fright them and no cruel creeds; No pangs of disappointment or remorse.

See man the picture of perpetual want, The prototype of all disquietude; Full of trouble, yet ever seeking more; Between the upper and the nether stone Ground and forever in the mill of fate.

Nature and art combine to clothe his form, To feed his fancy and to fill his maw; And yet the more they give the more he craves.