Its lesson all may heed, For all have sinned in thought, or word, or deed, Or, like the Prophet, through neglect have erred.
All need forgiveness, all have debts to pay Ere the night cometh, while it still is day.
1885.
THE HOMESTEAD.
AGAINST the wooded hills it stands, Ghost of a dead home, staring through Its broken lights on wasted lands Where old-time harvests grew.
Unploughed, unsown, by scythe unshorn, The poor, forsaken farm-fields lie, Once rich and rife with golden corn And pale green breadths of rye.
Of healthful herb and flower bereft, The garden plot no housewife keeps; Through weeds and tangle only left, The snake, its tenant, creeps.
A lilac spray, still blossom-clad, Sways slow before the empty rooms; Beside the roofless porch a sad Pathetic red rose blooms.
His track, in mould and dust of drouth, On floor and hearth the squirrel leaves, And in the fireless chimney's mouth His web the spider weaves.
The leaning barn, about to fall, Resounds no more on husking eves; No cattle low in yard or stall, No thresher beats his sheaves.
So sad, so drear! It seems almost Some haunting Presence makes its sign; That down yon shadowy lane some ghost Might drive his spectral kine! O home so desolate and lorn! Did all thy memories die with thee?
Were any wed, were any born, Beneath this low roof-tree?
Whose axe the wall of forest broke, And let the waiting sunshine through?
What goodwife sent the earliest smoke Up the great chimney flue?
Did rustic lovers hither come?
Did maidens, swaying back and forth In rhythmic grace, at wheel and loom, Make light their toil with mirth?
Did child feet patter on the stair?
Did boyhood frolic in the snow?
Did gray age, in her elbow chair, Knit, rocking to and fro?
The murmuring brook, the sighing breeze, The pine's slow whisper, cannot tell; Low mounds beneath the hemlock-trees Keep the home secrets well.
Cease, mother-land, to fondly boast Of sons far off who strive and thrive, Forgetful that each swarming host Must leave an emptier hive.
O wanderers from ancestral soil, Leave noisome mill and chaffering store: Gird up your loins for sturdier toil, And build the home once more! Come back to bayberry-scented slopes, And fragrant fern, and ground-nut vine; Breathe airs blown over holt and copse Sweet with black birch and pine.
What matter if the gains are small That life's essential wants supply?
Your homestead's title gives you all That idle wealth can buy.
All that the many-dollared crave, The brick-walled slaves of 'Change and mart, Lawns, trees, fresh air, and flowers, you have, More dear for lack of art.
Your own sole masters, freedom-willed, With none to bid you go or stay, Till the old fields your fathers tilled, As manly men as they! With skill that spares your toiling hands, And chemic aid that science brings, Reclaim the waste and outworn lands, And reign thereon as kings 1886.
HOW THE ROBIN CAME.
AN ALGONQUIN LEGEND.
HAPPY young friends, sit by me, Under May's blown apple-tree, While these home-birds in and out Through the blossoms flit about.
Hear a story, strange and old, By the wild red Indians told, How the robin came to be: Once a great chief left his son,-- Well-beloved, his only one,-- When the boy was well-nigh grown, In the trial-lodge alone.
Left for tortures long and slow Youths like him must undergo, Who their pride of manhood test, Lacking water, food, and rest.
Seven days the fast he kept, Seven nights he never slept.
Then the young boy, wrung with pain, Weak from nature's overstrain, Faltering, moaned a low complaint "Spare me, father, for I faint!" But the chieftain, haughty-eyed, Hid his pity in his pride.
"You shall be a hunter good, Knowing never lack of food; You shall be a warrior great, Wise as fox and strong as bear; Many scalps your belt shall wear, If with patient heart you wait Bravely till your task is done.
Better you should starving die Than that boy and squaw should cry Shame upon your father's son!" When next morn the sun's first rays Glistened on the hemlock sprays, Straight that lodge the old chief sought, And boiled sainp and moose meat brought.
"Rise and eat, my son!" he said.
Lo, he found the poor boy dead! As with grief his grave they made, And his bow beside him laid, Pipe, and knife, and wampum-braid, On the lodge-top overhead, Preening smooth its breast of red And the brown coat that it wore, Sat a bird, unknown before.
And as if with human tongue, "Mourn me not," it said, or sung; "I, a bird, am still your son, Happier than if hunter fleet, Or a brave, before your feet Laying scalps in battle won.
Friend of man, my song shall cheer Lodge and corn-land; hovering near, To each wigwam I shall bring Tidings of the corning spring; Every child my voice shall know In the moon of melting snow, When the maple's red bud swells, And the wind-flower lifts its bells.
As their fond companion Men shall henceforth own your son, And my song shall testify That of human kin am I." Thus the Indian legend saith How, at first, the robin came With a sweeter life from death, Bird for boy, and still the same.
If my young friends doubt that this Is the robin's genesis, Not in vain is still the myth If a truth be found therewith Unto gentleness belong Gifts unknown to pride and wrong; Happier far than hate is praise,-- He who sings than he who slays.
BANISHED FROM MASSACHUSETTS.
1660.
On a painting by E.A.Abbey.The General Court of Massachusetts enacted Oct.

19, 1658, that "any person or persons of the cursed sect of Quakers" should, on conviction of the same, be banished, on pain of death, from the jurisdiction of the common-wealth.
OVER the threshold of his pleasant home Set in green clearings passed the exiled Friend, In simple trust, misdoubting not the end.
"Dear heart of mine!" he said, "the time has come To trust the Lord for shelter." One long gaze The goodwife turned on each familiar thing,-- The lowing kine, the orchard blossoming, The open door that showed the hearth-fire's blaze,-- And calmly answered, "Yes, He will provide." Silent and slow they crossed the homestead's bound, Lingering the longest by their child's grave-mound.
"Move on, or stay and hang!" the sheriff cried.
They left behind them more than home or land, And set sad faces to an alien strand.
Safer with winds and waves than human wrath, With ravening wolves than those whose zeal for God Was cruelty to man, the exiles trod Drear leagues of forest without guide or path, Or launching frail boats on the uncharted sea, Round storm-vexed capes, whose teeth of granite ground The waves to foam, their perilous way they wound, Enduring all things so their souls were free.
Oh, true confessors, shaming them who did Anew the wrong their Pilgrim Fathers bore For you the Mayflower spread her sail once more, Freighted with souls, to all that duty bid Faithful as they who sought an unknown land, O'er wintry seas, from Holland's Hook of Sand! So from his lost home to the darkening main, Bodeful of storm, stout Macy held his way, And, when the green shore blended with the gray, His poor wife moaned: "Let us turn back again." "Nay, woman, weak of faith, kneel down," said he, And say thy prayers: the Lord himself will steer; And led by Him, nor man nor devils I fear! So the gray Southwicks, from a rainy sea, Saw, far and faint, the loom of land, and gave With feeble voices thanks for friendly ground Whereon to rest their weary feet, and found A peaceful death-bed and a quiet grave Where, ocean-walled, and wiser than his age, The lord of Shelter scorned the bigot's rage.
Aquidneck's isle, Nantucket's lonely shores, And Indian-haunted Narragansett saw The way-worn travellers round their camp-fire draw, Or heard the plashing of their weary oars.
And every place whereon they rested grew Happier for pure and gracious womanhood, And men whose names for stainless honor stood, Founders of States and rulers wise and true.
The Muse of history yet shall make amends To those who freedom, peace, and justice taught, Beyond their dark age led the van of thought, And left unforfeited the name of Friends.
O mother State, how foiled was thy design The gain was theirs, the loss alone was thine.
THE BROWN DWARF OF RUGEN.
The hint of this ballad is found in Arndt's Murchen, Berlin, 1816.

The ballad appeared first in St.Nicholas, whose young readers were advised, while smiling at the absurd superstition, to remember that bad companionship and evil habits, desires, and passions are more to be dreaded now than the Elves and Trolls who frightened the children of past ages.
THE pleasant isle of Rugen looks the Baltic water o'er, To the silver-sanded beaches of the Pomeranian shore; And in the town of Rambin a little boy and maid Plucked the meadow-flowers together and in the sea-surf played.
Alike were they in beauty if not in their degree He was the Amptman's first-born, the miller's child was she.
Now of old the isle of Rugen was full of Dwarfs and Trolls, The brown-faced little Earth-men, the people without souls; And for every man and woman in Rugen's island found Walking in air and sunshine, a Troll was underground.
It chanced the little maiden, one morning, strolled away Among the haunted Nine Hills, where the elves and goblins play.
That day, in barley-fields below, the harvesters had known Of evil voices in the air, and heard the small horns blown.
She came not back; the search for her in field and wood was vain They cried her east, they cried her west, but she came not again.
"She's down among the Brown Dwarfs," said the dream-wives wise and old, And prayers were made, and masses said, and Rambin's church bell tolled.
Five years her father mourned her; and then John Deitrich said "I will find my little playmate, be she alive or dead." He watched among the Nine Hills, he heard the Brown Dwarfs sing, And saw them dance by moonlight merrily in a ring.
And when their gay-robed leader tossed up his cap of red, Young Deitrich caught it as it fell, and thrust it on his head.
The Troll came crouching at his feet and wept for lack of it.
"Oh, give me back my magic cap, for your great head unfit!" "Nay," Deitrich said; "the Dwarf who throws his charmed cap away, Must serve its finder at his will, and for his folly pay.
"You stole my pretty Lisbeth, and hid her in the earth; And you shall ope the door of glass and let me lead her forth." "She will not come; she's one of us; she's mine!" the Brown Dwarf said; The day is set, the cake is baked, to-morrow we shall wed." "The fell fiend fetch thee!" Deitrich cried, "and keep thy foul tongue still.
Quick! open, to thy evil world, the glass door of the hill!" The Dwarf obeyed; and youth and Troll down, the long stair-way passed, And saw in dim and sunless light a country strange and vast.
Weird, rich, and wonderful, he saw the elfin under-land,-- Its palaces of precious stones, its streets of golden sand.
He came unto a banquet-hall with tables richly spread, Where a young maiden served to him the red wine and the bread.
How fair she seemed among the Trolls so ugly and so wild! Yet pale and very sorrowful, like one who never smiled! Her low, sweet voice, her gold-brown hair, her tender blue eyes seemed Like something he had seen elsewhere or some.
thing he had dreamed.
He looked; he clasped her in his arms; he knew the long-lost one; "O Lisbeth! See thy playmate--I am the Amptman's son!" She leaned her fair head on his breast, and through her sobs she spoke "Oh, take me from this evil place, and from the elfin folk, "And let me tread the grass-green fields and smell the flowers again, And feel the soft wind on my cheek and hear the dropping rain! "And oh, to hear the singing bird, the rustling of the tree, The lowing cows, the bleat of sheep, the voices of the sea; "And oh, upon my father's knee to sit beside the door, And hear the bell of vespers ring in Rambin church once more!" He kissed her cheek, he kissed her lips; the Brown Dwarf groaned to see, And tore his tangled hair and ground his long teeth angrily.
But Deitrich said: "For five long years this tender Christian maid Has served you in your evil world and well must she be paid! "Haste!--hither bring me precious gems, the richest in your store; Then when we pass the gate of glass, you'll take your cap once more." No choice was left the baffled Troll, and, murmuring, he obeyed, And filled the pockets of the youth and apron of the maid.
They left the dreadful under-land and passed the gate of glass; They felt the sunshine's warm caress, they trod the soft, green grass.
And when, beneath, they saw the Dwarf stretch up to them his brown And crooked claw-like fingers, they tossed his red cap down.
Oh, never shone so bright a sun, was never sky so blue, As hand in hand they homeward walked the pleasant meadows through! And never sang the birds so sweet in Rambin's woods before, And never washed the waves so soft along the Baltic shore; And when beneath his door-yard trees the father met his child, The bells rung out their merriest peal, the folks with joy ran wild.
VOLUME II.

POEMS OF NATURE plus POEMS SUBJECTIVE AND REMINISCENT and RELIGIOUS POEMS CONTENTS POEMS OF NATURE: THE FROST SPIRIT THE MERRIMAC HAMPTON BEACH A DREAM OF SUMMER THE LAKESIDE AUTUMN THOUGHTS ON RECEIVING AN EAGLE'S QUILL FROM LAKE SUPERIOR APRIL PICTURES SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE THE FRUIT-GIFT FLOWERS IN WINTER THE MAYFLOWERS THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN THE FIRST FLOWERS THE OLD BURYING-GROUND THE PALM-TREE THE RIVER PATH MOUNTAIN PICTURES I.FRANCONIA FROM THE PEMIGEWASSET II.

MONADNOCK FROM WACHUSET THE VANISHERS THE PAGEANT THE PRESSED GENTIAN A MYSTERY A SEA DREAM HAZEL BLOSSOMS SUNSET ON THE BEARCAMP THE SEEKING OF THE WATERFALL THE TRAILING ARBUTUS ST.