Freeman Edwin Miller

The brazen bells of laughing lands In swelling echoes wildly ring, And over seas and hoary strands

We gentler grow by sorrow; not the breast That never crouches in the nights of tears, That never bends beneath the loads of years,

At eventide, when glories lie In crimson curtains hung on high, And all the breast of heaven glows

Crowds! Crowds! Crowds! Suddenly here as if come from the clouds That faded away as they came;

The water-wheel goes 'round and 'round With heavy sighs of mournful sound, While dismal cries and weary moans

Away, away, from the sultry ways Where the pleasures fall and fade, To the bannered corn and the meadowed bloom

How sweet the brazen belfries chime Across the hills and through the dales, And o'er the breasts of meadowed vales,

The softest beams of the stars are born in the farthest skies, And fairest rays of the sun where evening shadows rise; The sweetest songs of the bird are sung in the darkest days,

Dear songs of my country! How sweetly thy measures Come stealthily stealing o'er mountain and wave, To sweeten the riches of liberty's treasures

O, gloomy world that rolls in weary space, And moans wild music to the broken spheres, Whose rivers wander into seas of tears,

The sun comes up in the east And the sun goes down in the west, And man to me is a heartless beast

Oh, to be able to capture and bring And bind in the bonds of control, Some of the carols that warble and sing

Though far apart, my darling, side by side We wander still and our fond yearnings meet, As when our hearts with highest raptures beat

The gloomy hours of silence wake Remembrance and her train, And phantoms through the fancies chase

'Tis not by selfish miser's greed The great rewards of love are given; 'Tis not the cynic's haughty creed

Good night, my little love, good-night! May angels keep With fondest watch thy slumbers, till the light

Great natures live apart; the mountain gray May call no comrade to his lonely side; The giant ocean, wrapped in storm and spray,

Had we not met, the brooding woe And all the griefs that greater grow, Might not have been, and happy-wise

He sleeps at last! The vales of rest Are waiting for the war-worn breast, And glorious angels fondly spread

When man from pure perfection fell, And bathed his life in grief and woe, His angel heart had overthrow

If Love were king, That sacred Love which knows not selfish pleasure, But for its children spends its fondest treasure,

If we but knew the weary way, The poisoned paths of hostile hate, The roughened roads of fiercest fate,

If we don't or if we do. What's the odds to me and you? Fame is e'er a heartless jade,

When from these vales I go, That slumber on in dreams, O, will the summer winds dance to and fro,

Hail, glorious morning of Columbia's birth, Celestial dawn of freedom! There shall be In recognition of thy wondrous worth

There is no soul of anguish or repining, That doubts and trembles in the shades of gloom, But love can lead where softest suns are shining

Lo, all the age is rank with wrong! The nations kneel to monstrous might, And horrid cries that haunt the night,

Love, thou gayest fancy-weaver, Heart-betrayer, soul-deceiver, Come with all thy clinging kisses;

Angelic theme of ancient lays! By Doric hills, Athenian vales, The nations bound thy brows with bays

Make the most of this life; where the shadow reposes The beams of the summer shall gather in glee, And the snow on the graves of the lilies and roses

'Twas in the summer's sweet perfume, When roses bloomed and holly, O, That in the brightness of her bloom,

A something, not of earth or sky, Beside me walks the ways I go, And I--I never truly know,

Nature has a thousand choirs Singing in the sylvan shadows, And the music of her lyres

O, gentle shade of quiet woods, Where nature dwells in leafy halls, I love the sacred voice that falls

O sacred souls that grandly sing The secret songs of human hearts, Where your wild music madly starts,

O weak and weary world Forever struggling on, When will thy toils in comfort be impearled,

Here, through the ages old, the desert slept In solitudes unbroken, save when passed The bison herds, and savage hunters swept

Oklahoma! Oklahoma! Land, O, land of the Fair God, Land where ancient, savage races

Poems are holy things. Eternal Truth, Borrowing the robes of song and lovely grown, In them her glory unto man proclaims

Quaff the glass, the wine is red, And the rose of youth is glowing, While the toils of life are fled

We meet again beyond the barren past, Beyond the pride, the sorrows and the tears; And yearnings leave the strife and hate of years

They will find in this life who are grieved with its gladness No songs for the heart and no hopes for the soul, But will faint in the glooms where the dirges of sadness

Sing me a song, O, Wind, Of musical cadence sweet, Which in the wood around

Our souls are the deserts of sorrow, Our hearts are the ashes of hope, And madly from gladness we borrow

Sing not of beauty's grace to me; Its very name a story tells Of doubly dark inconstancy,

A singer sang in sorrow long And breathed his life into his song. Unknown, unheard, the song went wide,

Somehow, someway, I can not see the light; The giant hills of doubting reach the skies, Abiding shadows bring eternal night,

Alone, alone, in the twilight gray, In the shadows so dark and dim, I watch through all of the weary hours,

Spring, among her sylvan shades, And the gladness of her glades, Once in dreamy hours was straying,

God bless the man who gave us rest And him who taught us play, For kindness reigned within his breast

Put not trust nor tenderness to sleep, In sorrow sad; The heart, in which a little love may creep,

Sweet eyes of blue! The stars by night, That swoon the world with laughing light, And touch the hills with tender glow

Sweet fairies from the isles of song, Bewitching choirs from music land, The pleasures of your wondrous band

Like a thousan' birds o' brightness from the isles o' summer seas, Rickollections, full o' gladness, come with songs and lullabies, An' I listen to the carols that with gentle voices roll,

His greatness hath not left him; till the years Have won the nation from her children dead, And robbed her of remembrance where she rears

Let nations encircle the brows of the brave With glory the greatest that glitters below, Who make in the blood of the battle a grave

A tender song in shadows grew, And humble hearts were homes it knew. But through its wondrous music stole

APRIL 22, 1889. Behold! As from the shades of night, An army gathers full of might,

The songs that mother used to sing! How tenderly those ditties roll, And to the dirges in my soul

Since Adam's first sin in the garden of song, Where the hopes of the race were empearled, Whenever a mortal does anything wrong,

A song for the willow, the wild weeping willow, That murmurs a dirge to the rapturous days, And moans when the kiss of the breeze laden billow

God bless the brawny arms of toil, The noble hearts and royal hands, That plow the plain and seed the soil,

Our dearest joys forever flow From fountains of the Long Ago, That from the heights of pleasures past

Within this false world we may count ourselves blest, If we have but one friend who is faithful and true; And so in your friendship contented I'll rest,

All worthies are not sung in song. That live their lives and do their deeds Where wounded nature writhes and bleeds

Two infants in their cradles lie, Where lullabies of peace In gentle strains of tender music die.

When Christmas comes, what pleasures spring From drooping hearts on happy wing, Like joyous birds that soaring rise

When fortunes frown, the woes, bedight With brooding shadows, bring the night, While dismal sorrows darkness dole,

When thou art near, with gladdest grace My heart is held in fond embrace, For laughing lips with raptures bless

When we shall meet, I strangely know The mad emotions that shall flow Across my heart all quivering,

Glad winters on the olden farm! How raptures from those early times Commingle into fairy chimes

Wild years that are to be The sad completion of my weary life, In ghostly mantles of despairing strife