Hear the oft-repeated burden of their prayer-- Hear them asking for one boon above all others-- _Not_ for vengeance on the wrongs they have to bear; But imploring, as their Lord did, "G.o.d forgive them, For they know not what they do; Strike the sin, but spare the sinners--save them"-- Meaning, oh ye men and brothers, _you_!

For your heels have ground the women's faces; You have coined their blood and tears for gold; Have betrayed their kisses and embraces-- Returned their love with curses twentyfold; Made the wife's crown one of thorns and not of honor, Made her motherhood a pain and dread; Heaped life's toil unrecompensed upon her; Laid her sons upon her bosom, dead!

Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers?

Have you not one word to say?

Will a _just_ G.o.d be as gentle as these mothers, If you dare to say them nay?

Oh, ye men, G.o.d waits for _you_ to answer The prayers that to him rise, He waits to know if _you_ are just ere _He_ is-- There your deliverance lies!

Rise and a.s.sert the manhood of this nation, Its courage, honor, might-- Wipe off the dust of our humiliation-- Dare n.o.bly to do right!

Shall women plead from out the dust forever?

Will you not work, men, if you cannot pray?

Hold up the suppliant hands with your endeavor, And seize the world's salvation while you may.

Yes, from the eastern to the western ocean, The sound of prayer is heard; And in our hearts great billows of emotion At every breath are stirred.

From mountain tops of prayer down to sin's valley The voice of women sounds the cry, "Come up!"

O, men and brothers, heed that cry, and rally-- Help us to dash to earth the deadly cup!

"OUR LIFE IS TWOFOLD."

Sweet, kiss my eyelids close, and let me lie, On this old-fashioned sofa, in the dim And purple twilight, shut out from the sky, Which is too garish for my softer whim.

And while I, looking inward on my thought, Tell thee what phantoms thicken in its air.

Twine thou thy gentle fingers, slumber-fraught, With the loose shreds of my disheveled hair: I shall see inly better if thou keep My outer senses in a charmed sleep.

Sweet friend!--I love that pleasant name of friend-- We walk not ever singly, through the world; But even as our shadow doth attend Our going in the sunshine, and is furled About us in the darkness--so that shade Which haunts our other self, is faintly seen Beside us in our gladness, and is made To wrap us coldly life's bright hours between.

Unconsciously we court it. In our youth, While yet our morning sky is pink with joy, We, curious if our happiness be truth, Try to discern the shadow of alloy.

O, I remember well the earliest time A sorrow touched me, and I nursed it then; Tho' but few summers of our northern clime Had sunned my growth among the souls of men.

In an old wood, reputed for its age, And for its beauty wild and picturesque; The bound and goal of each day's pilgrimage, Where were all forms of graceful and grotesque; And countless hues, from the dark stately pine That whispered its wild mysteries to my ear, To the smooth silver of the birch-trees shine, Showing between the aspens straight and fair; With forest flowers, and delicate vines that crept From the rich soil far up among the trees, Seeking that light their boughs did intercept, And dalliance and caresses of the breeze.

In midst of these, sheltered from sun and wind Glimmered a lake, in long and shining curves, Like a bright fillet that should serve to bind That scene to earth--if she the gem deserves!

For gem it was, as proud upon her brow As jewels on the forehead of a queen; And one thought as one turned from it, of how Eve exiled, must have missed some just such scene.

O, there I type my life! I used to sigh Sitting on this side, with my lap piled up With violets of the real sapphire dye, For the gay gold of the bright b.u.t.tercup Spangling the green sod on the other side-- For the lake's breadth was but an arrow's flight, And the brief distance did not serve to hide What yet could not be reached except by sight.

Day after day I dreamed there, while my heart Gathered up knowledge in its childish way, Making fine pictures with unconscious art, And learning beauty more and more each day.

Ever and ever haunted I that spot-- Sitting in dells scooped out between the hills, That rising close around me, formed a grot Fragrant with ferns, and musical with rills.

Far up above me grew the long-armed beech, Dropping its branches down in graceful bent; While farther up, beyond my utmost reach, Stood dusky hemlocks, crowning the ascent.

And all about were sweeter sights and sounds Than elsewhere, but in poet's dream, abounds.

Thus, and because my life was all too fair, I sought to color it with thoughts I nursed In sylvan solitudes: and in the air Of these soft, silent influences, I first Saw, or felt, rather, that the shadow fell Upon my pathway from the light behind-- The light of youth's first joyousness. Ah, well, If it had stayed there, nor been more unkind!

My earliest sorrow was a flower's death-- At which I wept until my swollen eyes Refused to shed more tears--just that my wreath One morn in autumn lacked its choicest dyes.

So, knowing what it was to have a loss, I went on losing, and the shadow grew Darker and longer, 'till it lies across My pathway to the measure of my view.

We all remember sorrow's first impress-- No matter whether we had cause to grieve, Or whether sad in very willfulness-- The lesson is the same that we receive.

And afterwards, when the great shadow falls-- The tempest--when the lightning's flash reveals The darkness brooding o'er us, and appals Hope by the terror of the stroke it deals-- _Then_, how the shadow hugs us in its fold!

We see no light behind, and none to come; But dumbly shiver in the gloom and cold, Or with despair lie down, and wait our doom.

Sweet, press thy cheek upon my own again-- Even now my life's dark ghost is haunting nigh: Sing me to sleep with some old favorite strain-- Some gentle poet's loving lullaby; For I would dream, and in my dream forget Our twofold life is full of shadows set.

SOUVENIR.

You ask me, "Do you think of me?"

Dear, thoughts of thee are like this river, Which pours itself into the sea, Yet empties its own channel never.

All other thoughts are like these sail Drifting the river's surface over; _They_ veer about with every gale-- The _river_ keeps its course forever.

So deep and still, so strong and true, The current of my soul sets thee-ward, Thy river I, my ocean you, And all myself am running seaward.

I ONLY WISH TO KNOW.

Pray do not take the kiss again I risked so much in getting, Nor let my blushes make you vain To your and my regretting.

I'm sure I've heard your s.e.x repeat A thousand times or so, That stolen kisses are most sweet-- I only wished to know!

I own 'twas not so neatly done As you know how to do it, And that the fright out-did the fun, But still I do not rue it.

I can afford the extra beat My heart took at your "Oh!"

Which plainly said _that_ kiss was sweet-- _When I so wished to know!_

Nay, I will not give back the kiss, Nor will I take a second; _Creme de la creme_ of pain and bliss This one shall e'er be reckoned.

The pain was mine, the bliss was--_ours_, You smile to hear it so; But the same thought was surely yours, As I have cause to know.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALb.u.m.

The highest use of happy love is this; To make us loving to the loveless ones; Willing indeed to halve our meed of bliss, If our sweet plenty others' want atones: Of love's abundance may G.o.d give thee store, To spend in love's sweet charities, LENORE.

LOVE'S FOOTSTEPS.

I sang a song of olden times, Sitting upon our sacred hill-- Sang it to feel my bosom thrill To the sweet pathos of its rhymes.

I trilled the music o'er and o'er, And happy, gazed upon the scene, Thinking that there had never been So blue a sea, so fair a sh.o.r.e.

A vague half dream was in my mind; I hardly saw how sat the sun; I noted not the day was gone The rosy western hills behind.

'Till, soft as if Apollo blew For me the sweet Thessalian flute, I heard a sound which made me mute, And more than singing thrilled me through.

THY STEP--well known and well beloved!

No more I dreamed on sh.o.r.e or sea; I thought of, saw but only thee, Nor spoke, but blushed to be so moved.

THE POET'S MINISTERS.

POET.

Oh, my soul! the draught is bitter Yet it must be sweetly drunken: Heart and soul! the grinding fetter Galls, yet have ye never shrunken: Heart and soul, and pining spirit, Fail me not! no coward weakness Such as ye are should inherit-- Be ye strong even in your meekness.

Born were ye to these strange uses, To brief joy and crushing ill, To small good and great abuses; Yet oh, yield not, till they kill.

The stag wounded runneth steady With his blood in streams a-gushing; Soul and spirit, be ye ready For the arrows toward ye rushing.