Poems

Front matter

BY

MARY HUNT McCALEB

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

The Broken Lens

Oh! the world is fair, my darling, Too fair to the eyes of youth; We look through a lens, at its units and tens, And count them as millions of truth.

Time shivers the glass, my darling, And shatters our castle towers; The millions and tens go down with the lens, And only the units are ours.

Only the units, my darling, We hold with a sense of pain, And we vainly sigh, as the years go by, To look through the lens again.

Out in the World

Just as hot tears begin to flow, Soft loving fingers clasp my own. I feel sweet kisses on my cheek, Two loving arms around me twine; Two great, brown eyes that almost speak, Look up in childish trust to mine.

Thank God! I have one blessing yet— One rose upon my tree of joy— One single star that has not set Amid the clouds—my darling boy— My precious only child—the last Of four sweet children that I had— One living baby left to cheer, Three little graves to make me sad.

Dear little Fannie went before Her baby lips had drawn a breath; And Frank was scarcely eight months old When his blue eyes were closed in death; The next—the purest of my pearls,— With bright blue eyes, and shining hair That clustered in such sunny curls About her brow so smooth and fair,—

My little Maggie, whose sweet eyes Looked into mine for two brief years, Died, and my very heart turned cold, And froze the fountain of my tears. I could not weep, tho' others knelt Beside my child in sobbing woe; The deepest grief I ever felt Was when my tears refused to flow.

My little ones have passed away— My home, and fortune, too, have gone, And on this cheerless wintry day I wander in the world alone. Out in the pitiless falling rain— Out in the chill November weather— We wander forth to earn our bread, My only child and I together.

To My Mother

Whose smile we can never, no never recall— 'T is lying so still 'neath the white silken pall— Is more than all others to me,

In the same cherished home where you dwelt as his bride, Where your little ones clung to your breast, You lovingly walked through the years at his side, And wept all your heart-broken grief when he died, And they laid him away to his rest.

The years have been seven and thirty to-day, Dear mother, since first you were wed; Your bright cheek has faded, your hair has grown gray, While his is like snow on his forehead of clay, As he lies in the midst of the dead.

O mother, how well I remember this day Last year, and how happy we were, As we sat at your table so merry and gay, And father would count us—he said 't was his way— To be sure that the last one was there!

But now, far away from the place of my birth, I sit in my sorrow and weep; Death's shadow is clinging about the old hearth, And long summer grass rustles over the earth Where my father is resting asleep.

When Faith's holy crown shone upon his white hair, As through the dark valley he trod, He lifted his soul in this passionate prayer: "Let none—oh! not one of them be missing there When I count them before Thee, O God."

My Husband's Birthday

Bearing one another's burdens, Soothing one another's fears. Through the light and through the darkness That was cast upon our way— Watched the shadows turn to sunshine, And the sunshine turn to gray.

We have borne the heated burden Of our life's warm summer noon, And the deeper glow of twilight Will be gathered o'er us soon. And the night of death in blackness, "Like a mantle over all," Shrouding earthly joys and sorrows In one great immortal pall.

When the Angel shall arouse us From our last unbroken sleep, And shall call the silent dwellers From the earth and from the deep, May we stand again together In that golden-tinted land, Always close beside each other, Walking ever hand in hand.

Over the River

Over the river, the waveless river, Where never a ripple is cast, Where darkness reigns and no lights quiver, We all must cross at last.

Over the river, the shaded river, Where wait our loved and lost, We'll ind our treasures safe whenever Our weary souls have crossed.

Over the river, the sweet, sweet river, We will lay our crosses down, To wear on sinless brows forever The Saviour's promised crown.

Little Relics

Only a little slipper That my pretty darling wore The first time that she tottered Across the chamber floor.

Why do I keep and love them, When so many years have fled? Don't you know? They were my baby's, And the little one is dead.

The Better Part

His little ones may cry for bread, His hapless widow freeze— Our sympathies are with the dead, But not with such as these.

We pass them in the busy street, Nor heed their pleading moans; Their hearts may bleed beneath our feet— We honor dead men's bones.

We give our tears, we heap our gold, Above their crumbling dust; Forgetting that we still may hold A higher, purer trust.

Forgetting that a loaf of bread Fed to a soldier's child, Is worth more to those heroes dead Than all the stones we have piled.

Sic Transit

It all comes back to me to-night, With deep, heart-thrilling power, Until I seem to live again That soul-enchanting hour. The stars are shining just the same, The sky is still as blue; Ah! John, the change is not in them; It rests on me and you.

It matters not to either now What could or might have been, Since all these years, like drifting snow, Lie pale and cold between. I only know that once we loved, And that we loved in vain— That deep, sweet pulse of happiness Will never throb again.

That evening—eighteen years ago— Do you remember still? Or have you quite forgotten, John, The old house on the hill; The sofa by the folding-door, The great arm-chair so near, Where on that fragrant summer night, You said I was so dear?

I sat and listened silently, As though I never heard, While you were pleading earnestly For just one little word. I felt the blood my forehead tinge, And mantle in my cheek; You must have seen I loved you, John, Although I could not speak.

You pulled to pieces as you talked A rose that I had worn, And the lace upon my handkerchief I know was sadly torn. You took my hand in yours, John, And pressed it with a sigh; I raised my head an instant then, And met your deep blue eye.

That glance—what may one look reveal, Of passion or regret— I see it still, and know that you Can never quite forget. Ah, well, that rosy-tinted hour Passed o'er us like a dream; Our lives are never half so bright, As 1n our youth they seem.

A few bright, golden months, and then The parting hour came; Our daily paths are far apart, Yet life is just the same. The stars shine just as clear to-night, The sky is still as blue, As when in youth the hours sped So happily with you.

My children cling about me now, Yours climb upon your knee; The harp of life has changed its tone, Not hushed its minstrelsy. I smile when thinking how you praised My midnight eyes and hair— Your wife has eyes of clearest blue, And tresses bright and fair.

Our youth, with all its memories, Is passing fast away; Yet some old dreams will linger, John, About our hearts to-day. In every life some memory Retains its magic powers, That half-awakened thing around Our resurrected hours.

To My Mother

And crowed for you to take him in his pretty baby way. Then you put aside your sewing, rocked your little one to rest, While I kissed his chubby fingers as they lay upon your breast. Many years beneath the violets his sunny head has lain, I can never see his darling, little dimpled hand again. Beside my older brother, who had been the first to They laid your precious "Tommy" gently, tenderly, and low. I remember, too, the letter.saying grandmamma had died— And father read it to you sitting on the steps, and cried. She had left a little daughter, eight years old the letter said, And they wanted you to have her, now that grandmamma was dead. She came—you called her "Betty," as you kissed her childish brow, And told me I must love her as an older sister now;

When we grew and played together through many varied years— Some hours bright and golden, some embalmed in precious tears. Ah! those visions of my childhood, how they crowd about me now, As memory's hand is sweeping back the shadow from my brow! I love to think upon them, love the dreamy light they cast About the silent chambers of the unforgotten past, I cannot tell you, Mother, all the burning thoughts that come And fill my heart, when thinking of my childhood's happy home. The friends that now are scattered, who in youth were gathered there. One by one they glide before me, like sweet spirits in the air; They come around me lovingly, and bear my spirit back So gently and so tenderly along the olden track. They carry me, dear Mother, to the old house on the hill, With its quaint old-fashioned parlor—how well I love it still!

I see again In memory the bright and happy throng Around the old piano, joining in the evening song. There Mary sung the sweetest, and woke the deepest thrill Of all the youthful voices that floated o'er the hill. Poor "Mary," how we loved her, with her bright and laughing ways; Her spirit steals upon me now, a "light of other days," But trouble came upon her from the day she was a bride, Though she never, never murmured; of her silent grief she died. And he who won her from us sleeps in death beside her now— Spring flowers bright are blossoming above his icy brow. Two little orphan children, playing 'round the cottage door, Recall their mother's childhood from the happy days of yore. My father's younger brother, scarcely older than the rest, Is wedded to the playmate that I always loved the best.

"Betty" married and is widowed, she is childless and alone— Her path was strewn with roses that are faded now and gone. Ah! life is full of changes, full of partings and of tears, While time is slowly filling up the graves of early years. Our happy band is broken, we are scattered far and wide, For time has borne us onward with its ever-rushing tide. I, too, have wandered, mother, from the place I loved so well, To wear another name, and in another's home to dwell. I know he loves me dearly, and my heart is full of joy When I gaze upon my husband, and my laughing baby boy. Life's sweetest draught I 've tasted when the cup was running o'er, But I often wish, dear Mother, I could be a child once more,

Carrier's Address of the Vicksburg Business Chronicle, January 1, 1876

Ah! there are whispers of regret We breathe above its tomb, Our wasted moments mocking us From out its silent gloom. And there are words of bitterness That now we wish unspoken, And haunting spectres gathered there, Of idols we have broken.

We all have shattered dreams that lie Within that darkened vale, Perchance a dear one yielded up— A little life grown pale. And some have partings to recall Of loving hands that met, Whose clinging pressure left a pain We never can forget. For whom does life this wintry night, Beneath the starry glow, Wear still the self-same hue it wore This night twelve months ago?

We cannot stay the tide; as Surely as the grayish pall Of ashes steals on dying coals, Change creeps upon us all,

'T is but a year,—a single heave Of Life's unresting wave,— Yet every surge impels us on Toward the end—the grave. As one by one we lay them down, These years that come and go, The sunshine gilds a few, but more Are cold with falling snow.

And some are dark with heavy clouds, Or sadly falling rain, That patters drearily upon Life's misty window-pane. Yet sages tell us life is only What we mortals make it; That time is like a looking-glass,— Reflecting till we break it. The images we see within— Let them be foul or fair— Are our own deeds, both good and ill, As plainly mirrored there.

We write the judgments on ourselves, Frail mortals though we be; Time takes the written scroll into The vast eternity.

Our buried years,—who can recall The days that once have fled? Of all our friends they, only they Lie dead among the dead; For them no resurrection morn On earth or heaven shall dawn Where we have kissed their clay-cold brows, They are forever gone.

Hark! as we muse upon the past, The bells ring loud and clear, The nation welcomes with delight The great Centennial year. The Democratic banner waves Untarnished as of yore; A hundred years lie in its folds, 'T will see a hundred more. Let every heart beat light to-day, And swell with proudest joy; And may no man forget to pay The faithful Carrier Boy.

Maggie to Frank

I can only hear the angels Singing in their shining home Far beyond the rolling river, Happy on the golden shore,— I can hear the music stealing Softly through the open door.

Calling, ever calling to me, From across the silent sea Lying dark and cold between us— Little brother, come for me. Now, I feel your clasping fingers Folding closely over mine, And across the waveless water Golden lights begin to shine. Brother, lead your little sister Up before the great white throne, Where the loving Saviour tells us Little children are His own.

Kate Nailer

'T was the pure white light of heaven We saw on her sinless brow. A bright, brief season of gladness Swept over the bridegroom and bride, Then Kate and her brave young lover Slept silently side by side.

To-day as I stand in her chamber And draw back the curtain of years, The floods of the past break upon me And deluge my spirit with tears. I turn from the sorrowful picture, The curtain falls back in its place, And closely beside me is breaking Her smile on a frank, boyish face.

"Kate's smile, with the eyes of his father," How often 't is lovingly said, With a kiss for the boy they have left us And tenderest thoughts of the dead. Asleep in their dreamless resting— Twin graves on the green hillside— They lie in their clay-cold chamber, The bridegroom and beautiful bride.

Tribute to the Hon. Jacob S. Terger

With him the brightness of the day departed, And darkness broods above us like a spell— Blind justice stood aghast and broken-hearted When the great key-stone of her temple fell. His intellect, beneath her magic fingers, All other minds bowed humbly down before; His place is vacant, but his glory lingers, Fadeless and bright, till time shall be no more.

A mournful dirge through countless hearts is wailing, In solemn silence sable emblems wave; The cypress branches now are sadly trailing, Their tear-wet leaves about his honored grave. Rest then, in peace, thou pale and dreamless sleeper, Reposing in thy dark and silent bed, Till roused again by that Almighty keeper, Who ceaseless guards the slumbers of the dead.

Again

We dared not love each other, Yet a something half divine— A something I would not forget For Peru's golden mine—

Embalmed the precious, holy hours, The hours spent with you, As night the many sleeping flowers Begems with crystal dew.

But had we both been free to feel "The passion of the heart," Would fate's unrolling scroll reveal That we but met to part?

Say, would you then have turned aside Your glances from my own? Would I have buried in my pride My heart's deep undertone?

And now we call each other friend, And walk our separate ways— While memory rainbows brightly bend Above the olden days.

Little Maggie

With eager grasp your fingers clasp Life's ever-dipping oars; Oh, row with care, sweet baby fair, A woman's bark is yours!

Your hands so frail must guide your sail O'er waters high and wild, Whose smoothest sea will never be A placid one, my child.

Your soul will meet with storm and sleet, With tempests on your way; For clouds will rise in brightest skies, Cast anchor where you may.

O'er womanhood should sorrow brood To bow your woman's pride, Like stars at night, let hope's pure light Reflect upon the tide.

The darkest fate that dares await Your voyage to enshroud, Its power will lose if faith's bright hues Are arched upon the cloud.

Tho' smiles or tears may tinge your years, Shall light or quench their flame, My purest love will ever prove For you, my child, the same.

A mother's prayers, a mother's tears, Fresh from the heart and eye, Upon your curls, my pearl of pearls In benediction lie.

Above her brow the willows now In solemn silence wave; In soft perfume the daisies bloom About her little grave.

Two years of love had smiled above My darling's golden head, When she was laid in gloom and shade Among the early dead.

My Baby's Shoe

My one, sweet, precious baby girl, With eyes of deepest blue— The little feet are cold and still That wore this pretty shoe.

The waxen hands are folded now, No more to grasp my dress; The childish lips that death had kissed I never more shall press.

I lift my eyes to heaven, and feel That she is happy there; But tears fall on the little shoe My baby used to wear.

Plighted

As we know by the fragrance near tropical vines That flowers are bursting apart. And I read in those womanly signals my love, Sweet pledge of our "by-and-by," As we see when the shadows are thickest above God's promise gleam out in the sky.

Nevermore

Oh, the wide, wide waves between us, dear, May never again be crossed, But over the sea, for you and for me, Is waiting the love we lost!

Little Children

A simple child may lead us To the heights of faith sublime; Or a baby's dimpled fingers Draw a man away from crime.

A mother's soul is purer For the soul her own has borne, And her breast a sacred altar For the jewel it has worn.

And when we lay our darlings Down to sleep beneath the sod; The little folded fingers clasp Us closer to our God.

Then we turn all sorrow-stricken From this weary world of sin To follow up the stairway Where those little feet have been.

They make life fairer, sweeter, With their innocence and love; They sanctify "God's Acre," And they gem His court above.

We welcome little children To our hearts with bended knees, Thanking God that He should trust us With the care of such as these.

To My Husband

Deemed my love a priceless thing, That the gods could not improve.

But there came a time, my darling— Such a precious time of joy, When two years had glided o'er, Then I knew I loved you more, Oh, my husband, than before I had kissed our baby boy.

Other little ones, my darling, Come, our happy hearts to fill, And, as on my loving breast Curly heads were rocked to rest, Every little cheek I pressed Made me love you better still

In the time of grief, my darling, When death's cruel shadow lay On the young lamb of our fold, And the little hands grew cold Slipping softly from our hold— How I loved you on that day!

Three precious babes, my darling, We have laid away to rest— When our jewels we had given To the Savior's crown in heaven, When our hearts were tempest-riven Then, I think I loved you best.

Thirteen varied years, my darling, Our plighted lives have known; Thirteen swiftly vanished years, Bringing more of hopes than fears— Many more of smiles than tears These eventful years have shown.

In the sweet hereafter, darling, When the paths our feet have trod Pass beyond the river clear, May the love we cherished here Brighten far each vanished tear— Bless us in the home of God.

Those Eyes

How they woo my weary spirit Back unto the olden shrine! Words can never paint the power Of the fairy spell that lies In the speaking, magic circle, Of those deep, heart-searching eyes.

I can see them in the twilight, And they look up with the dew; Even in the deepest darkness They can read my being through. Ah! those dancing eyes of azure— Precious jewels of the past— Do they sparkle still as brightly As they shone upon me last?

Or within their olden lustre Does a shadowed sorrow sleep, Like the faintest cloud reflected In the bosom of the deep? Underneath those drooping lashes Lies a dream forever hid, Like a shrined and sacred relic, Shrouded 'neath a coffin lid.

But I know the restless spirit From its sepulchre must rise, And often veil the splendor Of those unforgotten eyes. I have idolized their beauty In the by-gone happy years, But I love them best when thinking They are wet with memory's tears.

To

The chords that thrilled beneath her hand Would wake no note of joy to mine, The bright and blissful past has fled, For thee it never can return; Yet if my smile can bring thee joy, On friendship's altar let it burn.

February, 1864.

The Little Boy I Lost

My lovely boy whose very thought Still makes his mother's eyes grow dim. Once when his little feet had dipped Almost in death's cold, cruel wave, I felt as if my heart would lie A broken thing upon his grave.

He loved me so—my baby son— His little hands would creep to mine, And mingling with my darker hair, His golden curls would glint and shine. Kiss after kiss his rosy lips Against my cheek would often press, And many times his playful hands Left finger-marks upon my dress.

Sweet, precious touches, I would prize And smile upon as mothers will; How gladly I would see again Those little hand-prints on me still. But many years have come and gone, My sunny child has passed away, And vainly I stretch out my arms To clasp him to my heart to-day.

I know I have forever lost The darling boy I loved so well; The wild pain sweeping through my heart, No verse of mine can ever tell. His little golden head will rest Upon his mother's knee no more, The tiny bark whose sails I set Has stranded on a barren shore.

The other little ones who went, Before me to the golden land I hope sometimes to claim again, And feel them clinging to my hand, But this, my first and best beloved, The sweetest joy my heart has known, Has drifted far away from me, Beyond my loving arms has grown.

The rosy lips are wearing now The down of manhood's early dawn; And from the ruddy, velvet cheek The childish dimples long have gone. The timid feet I taught to step Ring out now with a manly tread;

The baby fingers slipped from mine, A strong hand clasps my own instead.

The boy I once bent down to kiss Must bend to kiss his mother now; The golden curls no longer cling In clustered glory on his brow. A man among the world of men, My little son, no longer mine; The very life within my heart Is offered on another shrine.

The world has taken from my arms The treasure God himself hath spared; The pure, sweet love I thought all mine It seems, at best, I only shared. The shining curl of golden hair That I have kept so many years— I look upon it sadly now, And dim its beauty with my tears.

The children lying in their graves Asleep beyond the rippling sea; The treasures that I gave to God Seem nearer to me now than he.

The busy, rushing, careless world Another to its ranks has won— A man to meet life as a man, But I have lost my little son.

July, 1882.

The Head that Sheltered Mine

INSCRIBED TO MY FATHER AND MOTHER, MR. AND MRS. HARPER P. HUNT, VICKSBURG, MISS.

"Your hair is still as dark, dear wife. As when we both were young, And scarcely one gray thread I find Amid your tresses strung; Your clear brown eyes look into mine With all their early light; I gaze into their depths and feel I am not old to-night.

"Yet thirty years have laid their leaves In blossom on your brow, Since my young bosom thrilled to hear Your low-toned bridal vow. Thrice ten sweet years for me have borne Their fruitage in your life— A harvest of unfailing love, My noble, dear old wife.

"And here we sit alone to-night, The wind wails through the trees, No little ones are clinging now Nor toddling round our knees. The brown-eyed boy who lies asleep Upon the old hill's brow, Of all our little nurslings, is Our only baby now.

"The others we have lost as well, God knows—perhaps 't is best— They fill their places in the world, We hold the empty nest. I sometimes think, dear wife, that I Would like to turn the tide, And fling it backward till I stood A bridegroom at your side.

"Would tread the early years again On upward day by day, With children's laughter ringing out Once more in joyous play. We were so very happy then, Our little ones were ours: But time has swept them from our arms As fruit must follow flowers.

"Now you and I together stand Beneath life's falling snow, To meet the winter as we met The spring of long ago. My hair is almost white, but yours Is dark and rippling yet, As in the sweet dawn of the year, Sweet wife, when first we met."

The soft brown eyes look up to his, A trembling hand is laid Upon the snowy locks that time And care have caused to fade. A tender smile of perfect love Breaks like a sudden dawn Upon her face, then tear-drops come Before the smile is gone.

"Ah! love, the storms of life have beat On your uncovered brow As fiercely as the wind that sweeps About the old house now; But from the tempest and the snow, With love almost divine, This dear old head has always bent And ever sheltered mine."

Wedded to Another

Recalling to my saddened heart, The dream I should forget. Forget! How easily the word By careless lips is spoken As though the woven ties of love Could easily be broken.

'T was fate she told me—not her will— That severed us for aye; Her father frowned upon our love; She dared not disobey. I know she loved me by her tears, And by the kiss she gave, The shadow of our parting hour Will fall into my grave.

To-day we met—she veiled her eyes From mine with firmest will; Ah! did she fear that I might read In them, she loved me still? Did some sweet bell from out the past Send forth its magic chime That bore within its mellow tone Thoughts of the olden time?

Did retrospection on her soul With subtle power steal; Awaking in her eyes a light She dares not now reveal? The present hour belongs to him, And he may deem it fair; The past I claim, for well I know, My image triumphs there.

Though fate has parted us, and now Her life with his will twine, Thank God! he may not—cannot know The love that once was mine.

Our Starlit Hour

That earth was heaven, and heaven was ours, As we stood there in the midst of flowers All bright with the sparkling dew.

The music swelled, we could see the dance Through curtains of falling lace; Ah! beauty and wealth were there that night, But all I saw was the quivering light Of love on your passionate face.

That once our souls had purely met, That once our paths had crossed— The wine of love, as it sparkled up, We drank till we drained the golden cup, And the hour was lived and—lost.

Back to the world we went at last, Back from the stars and flowers! Away from that fragrant bower of bliss, Yet, all through life remembering this, One beautiful dream of ours.

Disappointed

Shining beneath the autumn's frown, No marble shaft for your renown, Shall rise above your tomb.

Like human hearts that bleed and break In silence underneath the cross— No tear-drop trembles for your sake, No sobbing voice will ever make A requiem for your loss.

A Broken Hope

I must! well, then, good-night, love; I cannot say good-bye, Nor promise to forget you— I shall not even try.

I love you with a man's deep love, That time can never dim. While yours was but a passing thought, A transient girlish whim.

I know you did not mean it, dear, Nor think to give me pain, But life for me can never be The same bright thing again.

Not One to Spare

A sudden dashing of the light, A cloud of deepest, darkest gloom; The rustle of an angel's wing, A casket crowned with snowy bloom. A little lamp unlighted on The altar of a pulseless breast; A broken hope, twin souls in heaven, A man's despair, a woman's rest.

Remembrance

She looks to the house and the children, And 'tends 'em while I am away. That boy with the holes in his elbows, And eyes that are sparkling so? Give him! I could n't indeed, ma'am, I never could spare little Joe.