air wild birds are calling,
Nature’s solemn hymn.
In the deep, dark forest lingers,
Imprints of his icy lingers,
Chill, and dark, and cold.
And the little streamlets flowing,
Wintry sun so softly glowing,
Through the maple’s gold.
So, Old Year, gird on your armor,
Let not age, nor fear, nor favor,
Hurry you along.
List! the farewell echoes pealing,
List! the midnight hour is stealing,
Hark! thy dying song.
Say, Old Year, ere yet your death knell
Rings from out yon distant church bell,
Say, what have you done?
Tell of hearts you’ve sadly broken,
Tell of love dead and unspoken,
Ere your course is run.
Tell the mother who doth languish,
O’er her graves in silent anguish,
She will see again,
Blooming bright “beyond the river”
Living on for aye and ever,
Every bright-eyed gem.
Ah! full many a spirit weary,
You have wooed from paths so dreary,
Wafted them above.
Now they say Old Year, we bless thee,
Raise thy head, we would caress thee
For this home of love.
On thy brow lies many a furrow,
And thy eyes tell many a sorrow
Hath its shadow cast.
But thy task is almost ended,
Soon the path which thou hast wended,
Will be called the Past.
Then, old dying year we hold thee,
To our hearts we fondly fold thee,
Ere the midnight bell.
Soon thy race will now be ended,
With Eternity be blended,
So, Old Year, farewell.
Sonnet to My Firstborn
Oh! waves in the sunlight gleaming,
Oh! billows with ceaseless roar,
Bring back to this aching heart of mine,
The laddie you bore long ago.
Far out on on your restless bosom,
Far away from his boy-hood’s home,
I charge you waves of the deep, blue sea
To bid my wanderer come.
Oh! stars in the heavens twinkling
Like lamps hung up in the sky,
Oh! moon look down through the darkness,
His trysting-place you may descry.
Then tell him a fond heart is aching,
In love for the dear one she bore,
Oh! surely to thee he will hearken,
And haste to his own cottage door.
The winds of the autumn are sighing,
The leaves from the trees falling fast,
The roses that erstwhile were blooming,
Say mournfully—Summer is past.
The daisies have long ago slumbered,
Their blossoms I search for in vain;
But surely for thee I will look, love,
Ere spring time brings them again.
When the Frost-King’s robe is glistening
O’er hill, and valley, and glen,
When the bright sleigh-bells are jingling,
I know he’ll come to me then.
So sunlight, or starlight, or moonlight,
Wherever my truant you see,
Just tell him you left me a-waiting
Far over the deep blue sea.
Lines to ⸻
O come to me in my dreams love!
When the world is wrapped in sleep,
And the silver moon like virgin queen,
Her lonely vigils keep.
When all is hushed in calm repose—
The earth, and sky, and sea,
Then hasten love to this far-off land,
And dwell one hour with me.
O come to me in my dreams love!
And cheer me on my way;
And bid me look to a higher land
For the dawn of a brighter day.
Then breathe to heaven an earnest prayer
To bless, ere you depart,
With perfect love and childlike faith,
This sad, despondent heart.
O, do not forget to come, love,
But on rosy pinions haste,
And deluge my willing ear, with
Mementoes of the past.
And tell me, too, of that distant land,
Its sunshine and its flowers;
And in return my strain shall be
Magnolia’s bright bowers.
Ah, do not fail to come love,
For I’ll woo my slumber to-night;
I’ll lay me down to sweet repose,
And wait for thee and light.
Then hie to my bower on wings of love,
Ah, linger not by the way,
But solace this heart and bid it hope,
For the dawn of a brighter day.
Highland Mary
Will you leave the hills of Scotland?
Your childhood’s happy home,
To brave the dangers of the deep,
In foreign lands to roam—
Say, Mary, will you, for my sake
Leave yonder joyous cot—
Your youthful friends and scenes so dear,
To share a soldier’s lot?
The battle’s din, my Mary,
Has never met thine ear,
The woodlands’ songsters melody
Is all that thou dost hear.
The vivid flash of musketry—
The cannon’s thundering roar
Must meet thine eye, burst on thine ear
Sounds never heard before.
And now, fond one, I’ve told you all.
And I can say no more—
“Will you go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave old Scotia’s shore?”
The Cherokee
’Twas a cloudless morn and the sun shone bright,
And dewdrops sparkled clear;
And the hills and the vales of this Western land
Were wreathed with garlands rare.
For verdant spring with her emerald robe
Had decked the forest trees;
Whilst e’er and anon the vine-clad boughs
Waved in the playful breeze.
All, all was still, not a sound was heard,
Save the music of each tree,
As gracefully it bent and bowed
Its branches o’er the lea.
But hark! a sound, ’tis the Red man’s tread,
Breaks on the silent air;
And a sturdy warrior issues forth,
Robed in his native gear.
And wandering on, he neared the brook;
Then sat him down to rest;
’Twas a noble sight—that warrior free—
That Monarch of the West.
He gazed around. O! a wistful gaze
Saddened his upturned brow,
As he thought of those he’d fondly loved,
Of those now laid so low.
He mused aloud “Great Spirit!” list
To the Indian’s earnest plea;
And tell me why, from his own loved home,
Must the Indian driven be.
When the “Pale Face” came to our genial clime,
We wondered and were glad;
Then hied us to our chieftain’s lodge,
Our noble “Flying Cloud.”
We told him all, and he calmly said
He’d gladly give them place;
And if friends they proved, perchance, extend
The calumet of peace.
But soon, alas! the dread truth rang
That the Pale Face was our foe;
For he made our warriors bite the dust—
Our children lie so low.
So now, my own, dear, sunny land,
Each, woodland and each dell,
Once the Indian’s home, now the Indian’s grave,
I bid a last farewell.
To the “Great Spirit’s” hunting-ground,
To meet my long-lost bride,
My “Raven Wing” I gladly hie—
He said, then calmly died.
