Hattie Howard

As I near my lonely cottage, At the close of weary day, There's a little bit of gladness

I hope I'm not too orthodox To give a joke away, That took me like the chicken-pox

If every friend who meditates In soft, unspoken thought With winning courtesy and tact

Such oranges! so fresh and sweet, So large and lovely - and so cheap! They lay in one delicious heap,

The artist and the loom unseen, In textures soft as crepe de chine Spring weaves her royal robe of green,

Where I can see him all day long And hear his wild, spontaneous song, Before my window in his cage,

Oh, what a blessed interval A rainy day may be! No lightning flash nor tempest roar,

When I was young, my heart elate With ardent notions warm, I thirsted to inaugurate

Oh, sing me a merry song! My heart is sad tonight; The day has been so drear and long,

A common wayside flower it grew, Unhandsome and unnoticed too, Except in deprecation

Of all the lovely blossoms That decorate the trees, And shower down their petals

Afar my loyal spirit stirred At mention of his name; Afar in ringing notes I heard

Like music heard in mellow chime, The charm of her transforming time Upon my senses steals

Ah, yes; why not? Is one more adventitious born Than others - shekels richer, honors fuller, and all that - That he can pass his fellows by with lofty scorn,

"Be careful for nothing," Phil. iv. 6. Revised version, "Be not anxious." Of all the precepts in the Book By word of inspiration given,

O charming blossom of the sea Atlantic waters bosomed in! Abiding-place of gayety,

Yes, it is drawing nigh - The time of blossoming; The waiting heart beats stronger

Sweet resting place! that long hath been A boon Elysian 'mid the din Of city life, 'mid city smoke;

I am longing to dwell by the sea, And dip in the surf every day, And - height of subaqueous glee -

Ring out, O bells, in joyful chime! Again we hail the Christmas time; In melting, mellow atmosphere,

'Twas drawing near the holiday, When piety and pity met In whisp'ring council, and agreed

Let working-clothes be laid aside, And Industry in festal garb arrayed; Let busy brain and hand from toil and trade

As one long struggling to be free, O suffering isle! we look to thee In sympathy and deep desire

I. "Whom God hath joined" - ah, this sententious phrase A meaning deeper than the sea conveys,

Into my disappointment-cup The snowflakes fell and blocked the road, And so I thought I'd finish up

Of all the sweet visions that come unto me Of happy refreshment by land or by sea, Like oases where in life's desert I roam,

He was a man whose lot was cast, As some might think, in lines severe; In humble toil whose life was passed

If all the sermons good men preach And all the precepts that they teach Were gathered into one

Along the avenue I pass Huge piles of wood and stone, And glance at each amorphous mass,

Is it not our bounden duty Harsh and bitter thoughts to quell, Wild, ambitions schemes repel,

No, this is January, dear, The almanac's untrue; For roaring Boreas, 'tis clear,

These winter days are passing fair! As if a breath of spring Had permeated all the air,

If we have lived another year And, counting friends by regiments Who share our love and confidence,

Around my vine-wreathed portico, At evening, there's a perfect glow Of little lights a-flashing -

November? 'tis a summer's day! For tropic airs are blowing As soft as whispered roundelay

I saw her for a moment, Her presence haunts me yet, In oft-recurring visions

One summer time, with love imbued, To climb the mount, explore the wood, Or rove from pole to pole,

Subdued and sad, I trod the place Where he, the hero, lived and died; Where, long-entombed beneath the shade

My head is aching, and I wish That I could feel tonight One well-remembered, tender touch

The morning sun rose bright and fair Upon a lovely village where Prosperity abounded,

Fresh from piano, school, and books, A happy girl with rosy looks Young Plowman wooed and won; despite

They are not gone whose lives in beauty so unfolding Have left their own sweet impress everywhere; Like flowers, while we linger in beholding,

We look up to the stars tonight, Idolatrous of them, And dream that Heaven is in sight,

On Bancroft height Aurora's face Shines brighter than a star, As stepping forth in dewy grace,

We met on "Boston Common" - Of course it was by chance - A sudden, unexpected,

'Twas on a day of cold and sleet, A little nomad of the street With tattered garments, shoeless feet,

So that's the way you pass your time! Indeed your charming, frank confession Betrays no sort of heinous crime,

He lives but half who never stood By the grave of one held dear, And out of the deep, dark loneliness

If there is one gift that I prize above others, That tinges with brightness whatever I do, And gives to the sombre a roseate hue,

In hours of meditation fraught With mem'ries of departed days, Comes oft a tender, loving thought

Beside my window day and night, Its tendrils reaching left and right, A morning glory grew;

The days are long and lonely, The weary eve comes on, And the nights are filled with dreaming

While Phoebus lent his hottest rays To signalize midsummer days, I stood in that far-famed enclosure

Of specious weight like tissue freight The snowflakes are - in sparkle pure As the rich parure

Upon my smile let none pass compliment If it but gleam like an enchanting ray Of sunshine caught from some sweet summer day,

In sad procession borne away To sound of funeral knell, Affection's tribute thus we pay,

My careful plans all storm-subdued, In disappointing solitude The weary hours began;

One morn I looked across the way, And saw you fling your window wide To welcome in the breath of May

By helpful fingers taught to twine Around its trellis, grew A delicate and dainty vine;

The smallest flower beside my path, In loveliness of bloom, Some element of comfort hath

Nature, erewhile so marvelously lovely, is bereft Of her supernal charm; And with the few dead garlands of departed splendor left,

Millions have been and passed from view Benignity who never knew; No aspiration theirs, nor aim;

Has ever a tree from the earth upsprung Around whose body have children clung, Whose bounteous branches the birds among

Oh bud and leaf and blossom, How beautiful they are! Than last year's vernal season

[One of the notable features of Baltimore is the big bell that hangs in the city hall tower, to strike the hour and sound the fire alarm. It is called "Big Sam," and weighs 5,000 pounds] A million feet above the ground (For so it seemed in winding round),

There was many a token of festal display, And reveling crowds who were never so gay, And, as it were 'olus charming the hours,

I seem to see the old tree stand, Its sturdy, giant form A spectacle remembered, and

Kind friend, you do not know how much I prize this time-ly treasure, So dainty, diligent, and such

The type of enterprise is he, Of sense and thrift and toil; Who reckons less on pedigree

What touch is like the Spring's? By dainty fingerings Such rare delight to give,

'Twas not rare versatility, Nor gift of poesy or art, Nor piquant, sparkling jeux d'esprit

The salt of the earth - what a meaningful phrase From the lips of the Saviour, and one that conveys A sense of the need of a substance saline

O sunny Sangamon! thy name to me, Soft-syllabled like some sweet melody, Familiar is since adolescent years

So soon he fell, the world will never know What possibilities within him lay, What hopes irradiated his young life,

Oh, who in creation would fail to descend That wonderful hole in the ground? - That, feeling its way like a hypocrite-friend

Midway upon the lawn it stands, So picturesque and pretty; Upreared by patient artist hands,

From other men he stands apart, Wrapped in sublimity of thought Where futile fancies enter not;

Valiant sons of the sea, All the vast deep, your home, Holds no terror so dread

Lo! carpet-bag and bagger occupy the land, And prove the touring season actively begun; His personnel and purpose can none misunderstand,

I love the woods when the magic hand Of Spring, as if sweeping the keys Of a wornout instrument, touches the earth;

Sometimes the silver cord of life Is loosed at one brief stroke; As when the elements at strife,

The melody of autumn Is the only tune I know, And I sing it over and over

Oh, the rare exhilaration, Oh, the novel delectation Of a ride down the slide!

I've a friend beyond the ocean So regardful, so sincere, And he sends me in a letter

Fair summer home peninsula, Enriched by every breeze From fragrant islands, wafted far

The congregation was devout, The minister inspired, Their attitude to those without

Sometimes I long to write an ode And magnify his name, The man of honor, on the road