Poems by Hattie Howard Part 12

Where, round each simple burial stone, The gra.s.s for decades twain has grown, Protecting them in dreamless slumber Who perished long ago, The mult.i.tudes defying number, A part of war's tableau.

Along the winding avenue A vast procession came in view; The mourners' slow, advancing column With reverent step drew near, The "Dead March" playing, sad and solemn, Above a soldier's bier.

There were the colonels, brigadiers, Comrades in arms of other years, Civilians, true and loyal-hearted To him their bravest man, Who seemed to say to those departed, "Make room for Sheridan!"

Anon, beside the new-made mound, The warworn veterans gathered round, And spake of Lyon and of Lander, And others ranked as high, Recalling each his old commander, One not afraid to die.

Thus, silent tenants one by one Are crowding in at Arlington; Thus Sheridan, the horseman daring, Has joined the honored corps Of those, their true insignia wearing, Who battle nevermore.

Potomac's wave shall placid flow, And sing his requiem soft and low, His terrace grave be sweet with clover, And daisies star his bed, For Sheridan's last ride is over-- The General is dead!

A Bit of Gladness.

As I near my lonely cottage, At the close of weary day, There's a little bit of gladness Comes to meet me on the way: Dimpled, tanned, and petticoated, Innocent as angels are, Like a smiling, straying sunbeam Is my Stella--like a star.

Soon a hand of tissue-softness Slips confidingly in mine, And with tender look appealing Eyes of beauty sweetly shine; Like a gentle shepherd guiding Some lost lamb unto the fold, So she leads me homeward, prattling Till her stories are all told.

"Papa, I'm so glad to see you-- Cousin Mabel came today-- And the gas-man brought a letter That he said you'd better pay-- Yes, and _awful_ things is happened: My poor kitty's drowned to death-- Mamma's got the 'Pigs in Clover'--"

Here she stops for want of breath.

I am like the bold knight-errant, From his castle who would roam, Trusting her, my faithful steward, For a strict account of home; And each day I toil, and hazard All that any man may dare, For a resting-place at even, And the love that waits me there.

And sometimes I look with pity On my neighbor's mansion tall: There are chambers full of pictures, There are marbles in the hall, Yet with all the signs of splendor That may gild a pile of stone, Not a living thing about it But the owner, grim and lone.

I believe that all his millions He would give without repine For a little bit of gladness In his life, like that in mine; This it is that makes my pathway Beautiful, wherever trod, Keeps my soul from wreck and ruin, Keeps me nearer to my G.o.d.

The Charity Ball.

There was many a token of festal display, And reveling crowds who were never so gay, And, as it were aeolus charming the hours, An orchestra hidden by foliage and flowers; There were tapestries fit for the home of a queen, And mirrors that glistened in wonderful sheen; There was feasting and mirth in the banqueting-hall, For this was the annual Charity Ball.

There were pompous civilians, in wealth who abide, Displaying their purses, the source of their pride; And plethoric dealers in margins and stocks, And owners of acres of elegant blocks, And tenement-landlords who cling to a cent When from the poor widow exacting her rent-- Immovable, stern, as an adamant wall-- And yet, who "came down" to this Charity Ball.

There was Beauty whose toilet, superb and unique, Cost underpaid industry many a week Of arduous labor of eye, and heartache, Its starving inadequate pittance to make; There were mischievous maidens and cavaliers bold, Whose blushes and glances and coquetry told A tale of the monarch who held them in thrall-- Who met, as by chance, at the Charity Ball.

There were delicate viands the poor never taste, And dollars were lavished in prodigal waste To pamper the palate of epicures rich; Who drew from the wine cellar's cavernous niche "Excelsior" brands of the rarest champagnes To loosen their tongues--though it pilfered their brains-- Oh, sad if a step in some woeful downfall Should ever be traced to a Charity Ball!

Outside of the window, pressed close to the pane, And furrowed by tears that had fallen like rain, Was the face of a woman, so spectral in hue, With great liquid eyes, like twin oceans of blue, And cheeks in whose hollows were written the lines That pitiless hunger so often defines, Who muttered, as closer she gathered the shawl, "Oh, never for me is this Charity Ball!"

From liveried hirelings who bade her begone, By uniformed minions compelled to move on, Out into the street again driven to roam-- For friends she had none, neither fortune nor home; While carnival-goers in morning's dull gray As homeward returning, fatigued and _blase_, A vision encountered their hearts to appall, And banish all thought of the Charity Ball.

As if seeking warmth from the icy curb-stone, A form half-reclining, half-clad, and unknown.

Dead eyes looking up with a meaningless stare, Lay close to the crowded and broad thoroughfare; A form so emaciate the spirit had fled-- But the pulpit and press and the public all said, As society's doings they sought to recall, That a "brilliant success" was the Charity Ball.

The Bell(e) of Baltimore.

[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), A million, and two more, The latter stiff and sore, While perspiration formed a part Of every reeking pore, I viewed the city like a chart Spread out upon the floor.

And said: "Great guide Jehoiakin, To me is meagre pleasure in The height of spires and domes, Of walls like ancient Rome's; Nor care I for the marts of trade, Or shelves of musty tomes, Nor yet for yonder colonnade Before your palace homes;

"But curiosity is keen To know the city's reigning queen, Who suiteth well the score Of suitors at her door; Oh, which of your divinities Is she whom all adore?

Embodiment of truth, _who is_ The belle of Baltimore?"

Veracity's revolving eyes Looked up as if to read the skies: "Why, Lor'-a-miss, see dar-- De bell is in de air!

Lan' sakes! of all de missteries Yo' nebber learn before!

Why, don' yo' know 'Big Sam'? _He_ is De bell of Baltimore!"

Christmas at Church.

'Twas drawing near the holiday, When piety and pity met In whisp'ring council, and agreed That Christmas time, in homes of need, Should be remembered in a way They never could forget.

Then n.o.ble generosity Took youth and goodness by the hand, And planned a thousand charming ways To celebrate this best of days, While hearts were held in sympathy By love's encircling band.

So mult.i.tudes together came, Like wandering magi from the East With precious gifts unto the King, With every good and perfect thing To satisfy a shivering frame Or amplify a feast.

The angels had looked long and far The happy scene to parallel, When through the sanctuary door Were carried gifts from shop and store, The treasures of the rich bazaar, To give--but not to sell.

As once the apostolic twelve Of goods allotment made, So equity dealt out with care The widow's and the orphan's share, And of the aged forced to delve At drudging task or trade.

Oh, could the joy which tears express That out of gladness come Be mirrored in its tender glow, Before the beautiful tableau Ingrat.i.tude and selfishness Would shrink abashed and dumb!

If every year and everywhere Could kindness thus expand In bounteous gratuity, To all her children earth would be A flowery vale like Eden fair, A milk-and-honey land.

Mysterious.

The morning sun rose bright and fair Upon a lovely village where Prosperity abounded, And ceaseless hum of industry In lines of friendly rivalry From day to day resounded.