The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And quick as a flash she turned, and mado For that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out, Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore." Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. And here all hope soured on me And the rivers seaward run; The stars are the children of the sky, Before you crossed the main; - And ours is the ancient wisdom, The lore of Earth and cloud: We know what the awful lightnings mean, Wi-lo-lo-a-ne with arrows keen, And the thunder crashing loud; And why with his glorious, burning shield His face the Sun-God hides, As, glad from the east, while night recedes, Over the Path of Day he speeds To his home in the ocean tides; For the Deathless One at eve must die, fo flame anew in the nether sky, Must die, to mount when the Morning Star, First of his warrior-host afar, Bold at the dawning rides! And we carry our new-born children forth His earliest beams to face, And pray he will make them strong and brave As he looks from his shining place, Fair from the azure vault of heaven While her sister laughs from the tranquil lake, Soft-robed in rippling sheen; For the Moon is the bride of the glowing Sun, O'er wood and waste and hill; To the brown fields summer bear, And the balmy breath of the Corn-maidsfloats In June's enchanted air; And when to pluck the Medicine flowers. That brighten the faded check, And the hunter worn and weak; And setting our prayer-plumes in the midst And the deepest springs are dry, HEAVEN, O LORD, I CANNOT LOSE Now Summer finds her perfect prime; Sweet blows the wind from western calms; On every bower red roses climb; The meadows sleep in mingled balms. Nor stream, nor bank the wayside by, But lilies float and daisies throng; Nor space of blue and sunny sky That is not cleft with soaring song. O flowery morns, O tuneful eves, Fly swift! my soul ye cannot fill! Bring the ripe fruit, the garnered sheaves, The drifting snows on plain and bill. Alike, to me, fall frosts and dews; But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose ! Warm hands to-day are clasped in mine; Fond hearts my mirth or mourning share; And, over hope's horizon line, The future dawns, serenely fair. Yet still, though fervent vow denies, I know the rapture will not stay; Some wind of grief or doubt will rise Aud turn my rosy sky to gray. I shall awake, in rainy morn, To find my hearth left lone and drear; Thus, half in sadness, half in scorn, I let my life burn on as clear Though friends grow cold or fond love woos; But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose! In golden hours the angel Peace Comes down and broods me with her wings: I gain from sorrow sweet release; Charlotte Fiske Bates (MADAME ROGÉ) A CHARACTER His face is truly of the Roman mould, He never would be false to truth or you. And deepest feeling hides about the mouth; Ilis soul-wind blows not always from the north, But sometimes also from the gentle south, And then, like flowers, the tender words steal forth. The light and fickle still have love to spare, If Death has taken from them even thrice; Hark to an exiled son's appeal, My Mother State, to thee I kneel, For life and death, for woe and weal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland! Remember Carroll's sacred trust, Remember Howard's warlike thrust, And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland, my Maryland! Come 't is the red dawn of the day, Come with thy panoplied array, With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, Virginia should not call in vain, |