If you could sit with me upon the shore to-day,
  And hold my hand in yours as in the days of old,
  I think I should not mind the chill baptismal spray,
  Nor find my hand and heart and all the world so cold.

  If you could walk with me upon the strand to-day,
  And tell me that my longing love had won your own,
  I think all my sad thoughts would then be put away,
  And I could give back laughter for the Ocean’s moan!

THE PATH

  There are no beaten paths to Glory’s height,
  There are no rules to compass greatness known;
  Each for himself must cleave a path alone,
  And press his own way forward in the fight. 
  Smooth is the way to ease and calm delight,
  And soft the road Sloth chooseth for her own;
  But he who craves the flower of life full-blown,
  Must struggle up in all his armor dight! 
  What though the burden bear him sorely down
  And crush to dust the mountain of his pride,
  Oh, then, with strong heart let him still abide;
  For rugged is the roadway to renown,
  Nor may he hope to gain the envied crown,
  Till he hath thrust the looming rocks aside.

THE LAWYERS’ WAYS

  I ‘ve been list’nin’ to them lawyers
    In the court house up the street,
  An’ I ’ve come to the conclusion
    That I’m most completely beat. 
  Fust one feller riz to argy,
    An’ he boldly waded in
  As he dressed the tremblin’ pris’ner
    In a coat o’ deep-dyed sin.

  Why, he painted him all over
    In a hue o’ blackest crime,
  An’ he smeared his reputation
    With the thickest kind o’ grime,
  Tell I found myself a-wond’rin’,
    In a misty way and dim,
  How the Lord had come to fashion
    Sich an awful man as him.

  Then the other lawyer started,
    An’ with brimmin’, tearful eyes,
  Said his client was a martyr
    That was brought to sacrifice. 
  An’ he give to that same pris’ner
    Every blessed human grace,
  Tell I saw the light o’ virtue
    Fairly shinin’ from his face.

  Then I own ’at I was puzzled
    How sich things could rightly be;
  An’ this aggervatin’ question
    Seems to keep a-puzzlin’ me. 
  So, will some one please inform me,
    An’ this mystery unroll—­
  How an angel an’ a devil
    Can persess the self-same soul?

ODE FOR MEMORIAL DAY

  Done are the toils and the wearisome marches,
    Done is the summons of bugle and drum. 
  Softly and sweetly the sky over-arches,
    Shelt’ring a land where Rebellion is dumb. 
  Dark were the days of the country’s derangement,
    Sad were the hours when the conflict was on,
  But through the gloom of fraternal estrangement
    God sent his light, and we welcome the dawn. 
  O’er the expanse of our mighty dominions,
    Sweeping away to the uttermost parts,
  Peace, the wide-flying, on untiring pinions,
    Bringeth her message of joy to our hearts.