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diff --git a/3757.txt b/3757.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7c7aeb7 --- /dev/null +++ b/3757.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2548 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The White Bees, by Henry Van Dyke + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The White Bees + +Author: Henry Van Dyke + +Posting Date: May 13, 2009 [EBook #3757] +Release Date: February, 2003 +First Posted: August 21, 2001 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE BEES *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Franks, Robert Rowe, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + + + + +The White Bees + + +by + +Henry van Dyke + + + + + +CONTENTS + +THE WHITE BEES + + + NEW YEAR'S EVE + + SONGS FOR AMERICA + Sea-Gulls of Manhattan + Urbs Coronata + America + Doors of Daring + A Home Song + A Noon Song + An American in Europe + The Ancestral Dwellings + Francis Makemie + National Monuments + + IN PRAISE OF POETS + Mother Earth + Milton: Three Sonnets + Wordsworth + Keats + Shelley + Robert Browning + Longfellow + Thomas Bailey Aldrich + Edmund Clarence Stedman + + LYRICS, DRAMATIC AND PERSONAL + Late Spring + Nepenthe + Hesper + Arrival + Departure + The Black Birds + Without Disguise + Gratitude + Master of Music + Stars and the Soul + To Julia Marlowe + Pan Learns Music + "Undine" + Love in a Look + My April Lady + A Lover's Envy + The Hermit Thrush + Fire-Fly City + The Gentle Traveller + Sicily, December, 1908 + The Window + Twilight in the Alps + Jeanne D'Arc + Hudson's Last Voyage + + + + + THE WHITE BEES AND OTHER POEMS + + THE WHITE BEES + + I + + LEGEND + + + Long ago Apollo called to Aristaeus, youngest + of the shepherds, + Saying, "I will make you keeper of my bees." + Golden were the hives, and golden was the honey; + golden, too, the music, + Where the honey-makers hummed among the trees. + + Happy Aristaeus loitered in the garden, wandered + in the orchard, + Careless and contented, indolent and free; + Lightly took his labour, lightly took his pleasure, + till the fated moment + When across his pathway came Eurydice. + + Then her eyes enkindled burning love within him; + drove him wild with longing, + For the perfect sweetness of her flower-like face; + Eagerly he followed, while she fled before him, + over mead and mountain, + On through field and forest, in a breathless + race. + + But the nymph, in flying, trod upon a serpent; + like a dream she vanished; + Pluto's chariot bore her down among the dead; + Lonely Aristaeus, sadly home returning, found his + garden empty, + All the hives deserted, all the music fled. + + Mournfully bewailing,--"ah, my honey-makers, + where have you departed?"-- + Far and wide he sought them, over sea and shore; + Foolish is the tale that says he ever found them, + brought them home in triumph,-- + Joys that once escape us fly for evermore. + + Yet I dream that somewhere, clad in downy + whiteness, dwell the honey-makers, + In aerial gardens that no mortal sees: + And at times returning, lo, they flutter round us, + gathering mystic harvest,-- + So I weave the legend of the long-lost bees. + + II + + THE SWARMING OF THE BEES + + I + + Who can tell the hiding of the white bees' + nest? + Who can trace the guiding of their swift home + flight? + Far would be his riding on a life-long quest: + Surely ere it ended would his beard grow + white. + + Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring, + Never in the passing of the wine-red Fall, + May you hear the humming of the white bee's + wing + Murmur o'er the meadow, ere the night bells + call. + + Wait till winter hardens in the cold grey sky, + Wait till leaves are fallen and the brooks all + freeze, + Then above the gardens where the dead flowers + lie, + Swarm the merry millions of the wild white + bees. + + II + + Out of the high-built airy hive, + Deep in the clouds that veil the sun, + Look how the first of the swarm arrive; + Timidly venturing, one by one, + Down through the tranquil air, + Wavering here and there, + Large, and lazy in flight,-- + Caught by a lift of the breeze, + Tangled among the naked trees,-- + Dropping then, without a sound, + Feather-white, feather-light, + To their rest on the ground. + + III + + Thus the swarming is begun. + Count the leaders, every one + Perfect as a perfect star + Till the slow descent is done. + Look beyond them, see how far + Down the vistas dim and grey, + Multitudes are on the way. + Now a sudden brightness + Dawns within the sombre day, + Over fields of whiteness; + And the sky is swiftly alive + With the flutter and the flight + Of the shimmering bees, that pour + From the hidden door of the hive + Till you can count no more. + + IV + + Now on the branches of hemlock and pine + Thickly they settle and cluster and swing, + Bending them low; and the trellised vine + And the dark elm-boughs are traced with a line + Of beauty wherever the white bees cling. + Now they are hiding the wrecks of the flowers, + Softly, softly, covering all, + Over the grave of the summer hours + Spreading a silver pall. + Now they are building the broad roof ledge, + Into a cornice smooth and fair, + Moulding the terrace, from edge to edge, + Into the sweep of a marble stair. + Wonderful workers, swift and dumb, + Numberless myriads, still they come, + Thronging ever faster, faster, faster! + Where is their queen? Who is their master? + The gardens are faded, the fields are frore,-- + How will they fare in a world so bleak? + Where is the hidden honey they seek? + What is the sweetness they toil to store + In the desolate day, where no blossoms gleam? + Forgetfulness and a dream! + + V + + But now the fretful wind awakes; + I hear him girding at the trees; + He strikes the bending boughs, and shakes + The quiet clusters of the bees + To powdery drift; + He tosses them away, + He drives them like spray; + He makes them veer and shift + Around his blustering path. + In clouds blindly whirling, + In rings madly swirling, + Full of crazy wrath, + So furious and fast they fly + They blur the earth and blot the sky + In wild, white mirk. + They fill the air with frozen wings + And tiny, angry, icy stings; + They blind the eyes, and choke the breath, + They dance a maddening dance of death + Around their work, + Sweeping the cover from the hill, + Heaping the hollows deeper still, + Effacing every line and mark, + And swarming, storming in the dark + Through the long night; + Until, at dawn, the wind lies down, + Weary of fight. + The last torn cloud, with trailing gown, + Passes the open gates of light; + And the white bees are lost in flight. + + VI + + Look how the landscape glitters wide and still, + Bright with a pure surprise! + The day begins with joy, and all past ill, + Buried in white oblivion, lies + Beneath the snowdrifts under crystal skies. + New hope, new love, new life, new cheer, + Flow in the sunrise beam,-- + The gladness of Apollo when he sees, + Upon the bosom of the wintry year, + The honey-harvest of his wild white bees, + Forgetfulness and a dream! + + III + + LEGEND + + Listen, my beloved, while the silver morning, + like a tranquil vision, + Fills the world around us and our hearts with + peace; + Quiet is the close of Aristaeus' legend, happy is + the ending-- + Listen while I tell you how he found release. + + Many months he wandered far away in sadness, + desolately thinking + Only of the vanished joys he could not find; + Till the great Apollo, pitying his shepherd, loosed + him from the burden + Of a dark, reluctant, backward-looking mind. + + Then he saw around him all the changeful beauty + of the changing seasons, + In the world-wide regions where his journey + lay; + Birds that sang to cheer him, flowers that bloomed + beside him, stars that shone to guide him,-- + Traveller's joy was plenty all along the way! + + Everywhere he journeyed strangers made him + welcome, listened while he taught them + Secret lore of field and forest he had learned: + How to train the vines and make the olives fruit- + ful; how to guard the sheepfolds; + How to stay the fever when the dog-star burned. + + Friendliness and blessing followed in his foot- + steps; richer were the harvests, + Happier the dwellings, wheresoe'er he came; + Little children loved him, and he left behind him, + in the hour of parting, + Memories of kindness and a god-like name. + + So he travelled onward, desolate no longer, + patient in his seeking, + Reaping all the wayside comfort of his quest; + Till at last in Thracia, high upon Mount Haemus, + far from human dwelling, + Weary Aristaeus laid him down to rest. + + Then the honey-makers, clad in downy whiteness, + fluttered soft around him, + Wrapt him in a dreamful slumber pure and + deep. + This is life, beloved: first a sheltered garden, + then a troubled journey, + Joy and pain of seeking,--and at last we sleep! + + + + + NEW YEAR'S EVE + + I + + The other night I had a dream, most clear + And comforting, complete + In every line, a crystal sphere, + And full of intimate and secret cheer. + Therefore I will repeat + That vision, dearest heart, to you, + As of a thing not feigned, but very true, + Yes, true as ever in my life befell; + And you, perhaps, can tell + Whether my dream was really sad or sweet. + + II + + The shadows flecked the elm-embowered street + I knew so well, long, long ago; + And on the pillared porch where Marguerite + Had sat with me, the moonlight lay like snow. + But she, my comrade and my friend of youth, + Most gaily wise, + Most innocently loved,-- + She of the blue-grey eyes + That ever smiled and ever spoke the truth,-- + From that familiar dwelling, where she moved + Like mirth incarnate in the years before, + Had gone into the hidden house of Death. + I thought the garden wore + White mourning for her blessed innocence, + And the syringa's breath + Came from the corner by the fence, + Where she had made her rustic seat, + With fragrance passionate, intense, + As if it breathed a sigh for Marguerite. + My heart was heavy with a sense + Of something good forever gone. I sought + Vainly for some consoling thought, + Some comfortable word that I could say + To the sad father, whom I visited again + For the first time since she had gone away. + The bell rang shrill and lonely,--then + The door was opened, and I sent my name + To him,--but ah! 't was Marguerite who came! + There in the dear old dusky room she stood + Beneath the lamp, just as she used to stand, + In tender mocking mood. + "You did not ask for me," she said, + "And so I will not let you take my hand; + "But I must hear what secret talk you planned + "With father. Come, my friend, be good, + "And tell me your affairs of state: + "Why you have stayed away and made me wait + "So long. Sit down beside me here,-- + "And, do you know, it seemed a year + "Since we have talked together,--why so late?" + + Amazed, incredulous, confused with joy + I hardly dared to show, + And stammering like a boy, + I took the place she showed me at her side; + And then the talk flowed on with brimming tide + Through the still night, + While she with influence light + Controlled it, as the moon the flood. + She knew where I had been, what I had done, + What work was planned, and what begun; + My troubles, failures, fears she understood, + And touched them with a heart so kind, + That every care was melted from my mind, + And every hope grew bright, + And life seemed moving on to happy ends. + (Ah, what self-beggared fool was he + That said a woman cannot be + The very best of friends?) + Then there were memories of old times, + Recalled with many a gentle jest; + And at the last she brought the book of rhymes + We made together, trying to translate + The Songs of Heine (hers were always best). + "Now come," she said, + "To-night we will collaborate + "Again; I'll put you to the test. + "Here's one I never found the way to do,-- + "The simplest are the hardest ones, you know,-- + "I give this song to you." + And then she read: + Mein kind, wir waren Kinder, + Zwei Kinder, jung und froh. + + But all the while a silent question stirred + Within me, though I dared not speak the word: + "Is it herself, and is she truly here, + "And was I dreaming when I heard + "That she was dead last year? + "Or was it true, and is she but a shade + "Who brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear, + "Cold though so kind, and will she gently fade + "When her sweet ghostly part is played + "And the light-curtain falls at dawn of day?" + But while my heart was troubled by this fear + So deeply that I could not speak it out, + Lest all my happiness should disappear, + I thought me of a cunning way + To hide the question and dissolve the doubt. + "Will you not give me now your hand, + "Dear Marguerite," I asked, "to touch and hold, + "That by this token I may understand + "You are the same true friend you were of old?" + She answered with a smile so bright and calm + It seemed as if I saw new stars arise + In the deep heaven of her eyes; + And smiling so, she laid her palm + In mine. Dear God, it was not cold + But warm with vital heat! + "You live!" I cried, "you live, dear Marguerite!" + Then I awoke; but strangely comforted, + Although I knew again that she was dead. + + III + + Yes, there's the dream! And was it sweet or + sad? + Dear mistress of my waking and my sleep, + Present reward of all my heart's desire, + Watching with me beside the winter fire, + Interpret now this vision that I had. + But while you read the meaning, let me keep + The touch of you: for the Old Year with storm + Is passing through the midnight, and doth shake + The corners of the house,--and oh! my heart + would break + Unless both dreaming and awake + My hand could feel your hand was warm, warm, + warm! + + + + + SONGS FOR AMERICA + + SEA-GULLS OF Manhattan + + Children of the elemental mother, + Born upon some lonely island shore + Where the wrinkled ripples run and whisper, + Where the crested billows plunge and roar; + Long-winged, tireless roamers and adventurers, + Fearless breasters of the wind and sea, + In the far-off solitary places + I have seen you floating wild and free! + + Here the high-built cities rise around you; + Here the cliffs that tower east and west, + Honeycombed with human habitations, + Have no hiding for the sea-bird's nest: + Here the river flows begrimed and troubled; + Here the hurrying, panting vessels fume, + Restless, up and down the watery highway, + While a thousand chimneys vomit gloom. + + Toil and tumult, conflict and confusion, + Clank and clamor of the vast machine + Human hands have built for human bondage-- + Yet amid it all you float serene; + Circling, soaring, sailing, swooping lightly + Down to glean your harvest from the wave; + In your heritage of air and water, + You have kept the freedom Nature gave. + + Even so the wild-woods of Manhattan + Saw your wheeling flocks of white and grey; + Even so you fluttered, followed, floated, + Round the Half-Moon creeping up the bay; + Even so your voices creaked and chattered, + Laughing shrilly o'er the tidal rips, + While your black and beady eyes were glistening + Round the sullen British prison-ships. + + Children of the elemental mother, + Fearless floaters 'mid the double blue, + From the crowded boats that cross the ferries + Many a longing heart goes out to you. + Though the cities climb and close around us, + Something tells us that our souls are free, + While the sea-gulls fly above the harbor, + While the river flows to meet the sea! + + URBS CORONATA + + (Song for the City College of New York) + + O youngest of the giant brood + Of cities far-renowned; + In wealth and power thou hast passed + Thy rivals at a bound; + And now thou art a queen, New York; + And how wilt thou be crowned? + + "Weave me no palace-wreath of pride," + The royal city said; + "Nor forge an iron fortress-wall + To frown upon my head; + But let me wear a diadem + Of Wisdom's towers instead." + + And so upon her island height + She worked her will forsooth, + She set upon her rocky brow + A citadel of Truth, + A house of Light, a home of Thought, + A shrine of noble Youth. + + Stand here, ye City College towers, + And look both up and down; + Remember all who wrought for you + Within the toiling town; + Remember all they thought for you, + And all the hopes they brought for you, + And be the City's Crown. + + AMERICA + + I Love thine inland seas, + Thy groves of giant trees, + Thy rolling plains; + Thy rivers' mighty sweep, + Thy mystic canyons deep, + Thy mountains wild and steep, + All thy domains; + + Thy silver Eastern strands, + Thy Golden Gate that stands + Wide to the West; + Thy flowery Southland fair, + Thy sweet and crystal air,-- + O land beyond compare, + Thee I love best! + + Additional verses for the National Hymn, March, 1906. + + DOORS OF DARING + + The mountains that enfold the vale + With walls of granite, steep and high, + Invite the fearless foot to scale + Their stairway toward the sky. + + The restless, deep, dividing sea + That flows and foams from shore to shore, + Calls to its sunburned chivalry, + "Push out, set sail, explore!" + And all the bars at which we fret, + That seem to prison and control, + Are but the doors of daring, set + Ajar before the soul. + + Say not, "Too poor," but freely give; + Sigh not, "Too weak," but boldly try. + You never can begin to live + Until you dare to die. + + A HOME SONG + + I Read within a poet's book + A word that starred the page: + "Stone walls do not a prison make, + Nor iron bars a cage!" + + Yes, that is true; and something more + You'll find, where'er you roam, + That marble floors and gilded walls + Can never make a home. + + But every house where Love abides, + And Friendship is a guest, + Is surely home, and home-sweet-home: + For there the heart can rest. + + A NOON SONG + + There are songs for the morning and songs + for the night, + For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon; + But who will give praise to the fulness of light, + And sing us a song of the glory of noon? + Oh, the high noon, and the clear noon, + The noon with golden crest; + When the sky burns, and the sun turns + With his face to the way of the west! + + How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength; + How slowly he crept as the morning wore by; + Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length + To the height of his throne in the blue summer + sky. + Oh, the long toil, and the slow toil, + The toil that may not rest, + Till the sun looks down from his journey's + crown, + To the wonderful way of the west! + + AN AMERICAN IN EUROPE + + 'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up + and down + Among the famous palaces and cities of renown, + To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of + the kings,-- + But now I think I've had enough of antiquated + things. + + So it's home again, and home again, America for + me I + My heart is turning home again, and there I long to + be, + In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean + bars, + Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full + of stars. + + Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in + the air; + And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in + her hair; + And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great + to study Rome; + But when it comes to living there is no place like + home. + + I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions + drilled; + I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing + fountains filled; + But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble + for a day + In the friendly western woodland where Nature + has her way! + + I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something + seems to lack: + The Past is too much with her, and the people + looking back. + But the glory of the Present is to make the + Future free,-- + We love our land for what she is and what she + is to be. + + Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for + me I + I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the + rotting sea. + To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the + ocean bars, + Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full + of stars. + + THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS + + Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings + of America, + Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of + royal splendour; + These are the homes that were built by the brave + beginners of a nation, + They are simple enough to be great, and full of + a friendly dignity. + + I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New + England valleys, + Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feather- + ing over them: + Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old- + fashioned flowers, + A fan-light above the door, and little square panes + in the windows, + The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and + hickory ready for winter, + The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with + household relics,-- + All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of + self-reliance. + + I love the look of the shingled houses that front + the ocean; + Their backs are bowed, and their lichened sides + are weather-beaten; + Soft in their colour as grey pearls, they are full + of patience and courage. + They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is + something indomitable about them: + Pacing the briny wind in a lonely land they stand + undaunted, + While the thin blue line of smoke from the + square-built chimney rises, + Telling of shelter for man, with room for a hearth + and a cradle. + + I love the stately southern mansions with their + tall white columns, + They look through avenues of trees, over fields + where the cotton is growing; + I can see the flutter of white frocks along their + shady porches, + Music and laughter float from the windows, the + yards are full of hounds and horses. + They have all ridden away, yet the houses have + not forgotten, + They are proud of their name and place, and + their doors are always open, + For the thing they remember best is the pride + of their ancient hospitality. + + In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil + Quaker dwellings, + With their demure brick faces and immaculate + white-stone doorsteps; + And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their + high stoops and iron railings, + (I can see their little brass knobs shining in the + morning sunlight); + And the solid houses of the descendants of the + Puritans, + Fronting the street with their narrow doors and + dormer-windows; + And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions + of Charleston, + Standing sideways in their gardens full of roses + and magnolias. + + Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my + eyes they are beautiful; + For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts + that have made the nation; + The glory and strength of America came from + her ancestral dwellings. + + FRANCIS MAKEMIE + + (Presbyter of Christ in America, 1683-1708) + + To thee, plain hero of a rugged race, + We bring the meed of praise too long delayed! + Thy fearless word and faithful work have made + For God's Republic firmer path and place + In this New World: thou hast proclaimed the + grace + And power of Christ in many a forest glade, + Teaching the truth that leaves men unafraid + Of frowning tyranny or death's dark face. + + Oh, who can tell how much we owe to thee, + Makemie, and to labour such as thine, + For all that makes America the shrine + Of faith untrammeled and of conscience free? + Stand here, grey stone, and consecrate the sod + Where rests this brave Scotch-Irish man of God! + + NATIONAL MONUMENTS + + Count not the cost of honour to the dead! + The tribute that a mighty nation pays + To those who loved her well in former days + Means more than gratitude for glories fled; + For every noble man that she hath bred, + Lives in the bronze and marble that we raise, + Immortalized by art's immortal praise, + To lead our sons as he our fathers led. + + These monuments of manhood strong and high + Do more than forts or battle-ships to keep + Our dear-bought liberty. They fortify + The heart of youth with valour wise and deep; + They build eternal bulwarks, and command + Eternal strength to guard our native land. + + + + + IN PRAISE OF POETS + + MOTHER EARTH + + Mother of all the high-strung poets and + singers departed, + Mother of all the grass that weaves over their + graves the glory of the field, + Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep- + bosomed, patient, impassive, + Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sor- + rows! + Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth + below thy breast, + Issued in some Strange way, thou lying motion- + less, voiceless, + All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate, + yearning, + Coming in music from earth, but not unto earth + returning. + + Dust are the blood-red hearts that beat in time + to these measures, + Thou hast taken them back to thyself, secretly, + irresistibly + Drawing the crimson currents of life down, down, + down + Deep into thy bosom again, as a river is lost in + the sand. + + But the souls of the singers have entered into + the songs that revealed them,-- + Passionate songs, immortal songs of joy and + grief and love and longing: + Floating from heart to heart of thy children, they + echo above thee: + Do they not utter thy heart, the voices of those + that love thee? + + Long hadst thou lain like a queen transformed by + some old enchantment + Into an alien shape, mysterious, beautiful, speech- + less, + Knowing not who thou wert, till the touch of thy + Lord and Lover + Working within thee awakened the man-child to + breathe thy secret. + All of thy flowers and birds and forests and flow- + ing waters + Are but enchanted forms to embody the life of + the spirit; + Thou thyself, earth-mother, in mountain and + meadow and ocean, + Holdest the poem of God, eternal thought and + emotion. + + MILTON + + I + + Lover of beauty, walking on the height + Of pure philosophy and tranquil song; + Born to behold the visions that belong + To those who dwell in melody and light; + Milton, thou spirit delicate and bright! + What drew thee down to join the Roundhead + throng + Of iron-sided warriors, rude and strong, + Fighting for freedom in a world half night? + + Lover of Liberty at heart wast thou, + Above all beauty bright, all music clear: + To thee she bared her bosom and her brow, + Breathing her virgin promise in thine ear, + And bound thee to her with a double vow,-- + Exquisite Puritan, grave Cavalier! + + II + + The cause, the cause for which thy soul resigned + Her singing robes to battle on the plain, + Was won, O poet, and was lost again; + And lost the labour of thy lonely mind + On weary tasks of prose. What wilt thou find + To comfort thee for all the toil and pain? + What solace, now thy sacrifice is vain + And thou art left forsaken, poor, and blind? + + Like organ-music comes the deep reply: + "The cause of truth looks lost, but shall be + won. + For God hath given to mine inward eye + Vision of England soaring to the sun. + And granted me great peace before I die, + In thoughts of lowly duty bravely done." + + III + + O bend again above thine organ-board, + Thou blind old poet longing for repose! + Thy Master claims thy service not with those + Who only stand and wait for his reward. + He pours the heavenly gift of song restored + Into thy breast, and bids thee nobly close + A noble life, with poetry that flows + In mighty music of the major chord. + + Where hast thou learned this deep, majestic + strain, + Surpassing all thy youthful lyric grace, + To sing of Paradise? Ah, not in vain + The griefs that won at Dante's side thy place, + And made thee, Milton, by thy years of pain, + The loftiest poet of the Saxon race! + + WORDSWORTH + + Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls + Among the mountains, and thy song is fed + By living springs far up the watershed; + No whirling flood nor parching drought controls + The crystal current; even on the shoals + It murmurs clear and sweet; and when its bed + Darkens below mysterious cliffs of dread, + Thy voice of peace grows deeper in our souls. + + But thou in youth hast known the breaking stress + Of passion, and hast trod despair's dry ground + Beneath black thoughts that wither and de- + stroy. + Ah, wanderer, led by human tenderness + Home to the heart of Nature, thou hast found + The hidden Fountain of Recovered Joy. + + KEATS + + The melancholy gift Aurora gained + From Jove, that her sad lover should not + see + The face of death, no goddess asked for thee, + My Keats! But when the crimson blood-drop + stained + Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained,-- + Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy! + And then,--a shadow fell on Italy: + Thy star went down before its brightness waned. + + Yet thou hast won the gift Tithonus missed: + Never to feel the pain of growing old, + Nor lose the blissful sight of beauty's truth, + But with the ardent lips that music kissed + To breathe thy song, and, ere thy heart grew + cold, + Become the Poet of Immortal Youth. + + SHELLEY + + Knight-errant of the Never-ending + Quest, + And Minstrel of the Unfulfilled Desire; + For ever tuning thy frail earthly lyre + To some unearthly music, and possessed + With painful passionate longing to invest + The golden dream of Love's immortal fire + In mortal robes of beautiful attire, + And fold perfection to thy throbbing breast! + + What wonder, Shelley, if the restless wave + Should claim thee and the leaping flame con- + sume + Thy drifted form on Viareggio's beach? + Fate to thy body gave a fitting grave, + And bade thy soul ride on with fiery plume, + Thy wild song ring in ocean's yearning + speech! + + ROBERT BROWNING + + How blind the toil that burrows like the mole, + In winding graveyard pathways under- + ground, + For Browning's lineage! What if men have + found + Poor footmen or rich merchants on the roll + Of his forbears? Did they beget his soul? + Nay, for he came of ancestry renowned + Through all the world,--the poets laurel- + crowned + With wreaths from which the autumn takes no + toll. + + The blazons on his coat-of-arms are these: + The flaming sign of Shelley's heart on fire, + The golden globe of Shakespeare's human + stage, + The staff and scrip of Chaucer's pilgrimage, + The rose of Dante's deep, divine desire, + The tragic mask of wise Euripides. + + LONGFELLOW + + In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour + and riches and confusion, + Where there were many running to and fro, and + shouting, and striving together, + In the midst of the hurry and the troubled noise, + I heard the voice of one singing. + + "What are you doing there, O man, singing + quietly amid all this tumult? + This is the time for new inventions, mighty + shoutings, and blowings of the trumpet." + But he answered, "I am only shepherding my + sheep with music." + + So he went along his chosen way, keeping his + little flock around him; + And he paused to listen, now and then, beside + the antique fountains, + Where the faces of forgotten gods were refreshed + with musically falling waters; + + Or he sat for a while at the blacksmith's door, + and heard the cling-clang of the anvils; + Or he rested beneath old steeples full of bells, + that showered their chimes upon him; + Or he walked along the border of the sea, drink- + ing in the long roar of the billows; + + Or he sunned himself in the pine-scented ship- + yard, amid the tattoo of the mallets; + Or he leaned on the rail of the bridge, letting + his thoughts flow with the whispering river; + He hearkened also to ancient tales, and made + them young again with his singing. + + Then a flaming arrow of death fell on his flock, + and pierced the heart of his dearest! + Silent the music now, as the shepherd entered + the mystical temple of sorrow: + Long he tarried in darkness there: but when he + came out he was singing. + + And I saw the faces of men and women and + children silently turning toward him; + The youth setting out on the journey of life, and + the old man waiting beside the last mile-stone; + The toiler sweating beneath his load; and the + happy mother rocking her cradle; + + The lonely sailor on far-off seas; and the grey- + minded scholar in his book-room; + The mill-hand bound to a clacking machine; and + the hunter in the forest; + And the solitary soul hiding friendless in the + wilderness of the city; + + Many human faces, full of care and longing, were + drawn irresistibly toward him, + By the charm of something known to every heart, + yet very strange and lovely, + And at the sound of that singing wonderfully + all their faces were lightened. + + "Why do you listen, O you people, to this old + and world-worn music? + This is not for you, in the splendour of a new + age, in the democratic triumph! + Listen to the clashing cymbals, the big drums, the + brazen trumpets of your poets." + + But the people made no answer, following in + their hearts the simpler music: + For it seemed to them, noise-weary, nothing + could be better worth the hearing + Than the melodies which brought sweet order + into life's confusion. + + So the shepherd sang his way along, until he + came unto a mountain: + And I know not surely whether it was called + Parnassus, + But he climbed it out of sight, and still I heard + the voice of one singing. + + THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH + + I + + BIRTHDAY VERSES + + Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days + Have brought another Festa round to you, + You can't refuse a loving-cup of praise + From friends the fleeting years have bound to + you. + + Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear Bad + Boy, + Prudence, and Judith the Bethulian, + And many more, to wish you birthday joy, + And sunny hours, and sky caerulean! + + Your children all, they hurry to your den, + With wreaths of honour they have won for + you, + To merry-make your threescore years and ten + You, old? Why, life has just begun for you! + + There's many a reader whom your silver songs + And crystal stories cheer in loneliness. + What though the newer writers come in throngs? + You're sure to keep your charm of only-ness. + + You do your work with careful, loving touch,-- + An artist to the very core of you,-- + you know the magic spell of "not-too-much": + We read,--and wish that there was more of + you. + + And more there is: for while we love your books + Because their subtle skill is part of you; + We love you better, for our friendship looks + Behind them to the human heart of you. + + November 24,1906. + + II + + MEMORIAL SONNET + + This is the house where little Aldrich read + The early pages of Life's wonder-book: + With boyish pleasure, in this ingle-nook + He watched the drift-wood fire of Fancy spread + Bright colours on the pictures, blue and red: + Boy-like he skipped the longer words, and took + His happy way, with searching, dreamful look + Among the deeper things more simply said. + + Then, came his turn to write: and still the flame + Of Fancy played through all the tales he told, + And still he won the laurelled poet's fame + With simple words wrought into rhymes of + gold. + Look, here's the face to which this house is + frame,-- + A man too wise to let his heart grow old! + + (Dedication of the Aldrich Memorial at Portsmouth, June 11, 1908.) + + EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN + + Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch + Of beauty or of truth, + Rich in the thoughtfulness of age, + The hopefulness of youth, + The courage of the gentle heart, + The wisdom of the pure, + The strength of finely tempered souls + To labour and endure! + + The blue of springtime in your eyes + Was never quenched by pain; + And winter brought your head the crown + Of snow without a stain. + The poet's mind, the prince's heart, + You kept until the end, + Nor ever faltered in your work, + Nor ever failed a friend. + + You followed, through the quest of life, + The light that shines above + The tumult and the toil of men, + And shows us what to love. + Right loyal to the best you knew, + Reality or dream, + You ran the race, you fought the fight, + A follower of the Gleam. + + We lay upon your well-earned grave + The wreath of asphodel, + We speak above your peaceful face + The tender word Farewell! + For well you fare, in God's good care, + Somewhere within the blue, + And know, to-day, your dearest dreams + Are true,--and true,--and true! + + (Read at the funeral of Mr. Stedman, January 21, 1908.) + + + + + LYRICS + + DRAMATIC AND PERSONAL + + LATE SPRING + + I + + Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days, + Why the sweet Spring delays, + And where she hides,--the dear desire + Of every heart that longs + For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire + Of maple-buds along the misty hills, + And that immortal call which fills + The waiting wood with songs? + The snow-drops came so long ago, + It seemed that Spring was near! + But then returned the snow + With biting winds, and all the earth grew sere, + And sullen clouds drooped low + To veil the sadness of a hope deferred: + Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain + Beat on the window-pane, + Through which I watched the solitary bird + That braved the tempest, buffeted and tossed, + With rumpled feathers, down the wind again. + Oh, were the seeds all lost + When winter laid the wild flowers in their tomb? + I searched their haunts in vain + For blue hepaticas, and trilliums white, + And trailing arbutus, the Spring's delight, + Starring the withered leaves with rosy bloom. + The woods were bare: and every night the frost + To all my longings spoke a silent nay, + And told me Spring was far and far away. + Even the robins were too cold to sing, + Except a broken and discouraged note,-- + Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat + Music has put her triple finger-print, + Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint,-- + "Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!" + + II + + But now, Carina, what divine amends + For all delay! What sweetness treasured up, + What wine of joy that blends + A hundred flavours in a single cup, + Is poured into this perfect day! + For look, sweet heart, here are the early flowers, + That lingered on their way, + Thronging in haste to kiss the feet of May, + And mingled with the bloom of later hours,-- + Anemonies and cinque-foils, violets blue + And white, and iris richly gleaming through + The grasses of the meadow, and a blaze + Of butter-cups and daisies in the field, + Filling the air with praise, + As if a silver chime of bells had pealed! + The frozen songs within the breast + Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods, + Melt into rippling floods + Of gladness unrepressed. + Now oriole and blue-bird, thrush and lark, + Warbler and wren and vireo, + Confuse their music; for the living spark + Of Love has touched the fuel of desire, + And every heart leaps up in singing fire. + It seems as if the land + Were breathing deep beneath the sun's caress, + Trembling with tenderness, + While all the woods expand, + In shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green, + To veil the joys too sacred to be seen. + + III + + Come, put your hand in mine, + True love, long sought and found at last, + And lead me deep into the Spring divine + That makes amends for all the wintry past. + For all the flowers and songs I feared to miss + Arrive with you; + And in the lingering pressure of your kiss + My dreams come true; + And in the promise of your generous eyes + I read the mystic sign + Of joy more perfect made + Because so long delayed, + And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise. + Ah, think not early love alone is strong; + He loveth best whose heart has learned to wait + Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long, + You're doubly dear because you come so late. + + NEPENTHE + + Yes it was like you to forget, + And cancel in the welcome of your smile + My deep arrears of debt, + And with the putting forth of both your hands + To sweep away the bars my folly set + Between us--bitter thoughts, and harsh de- + mands, + And reckless deeds that seemed untrue + To love, when all the while + My heart was aching through and through + For you, sweet heart, and only you. + + Yet, as I turned to come to you again, + I thought there must be many a mile + Of sorrowful reproach to cross, + And many an hour of mutual pain + To bear, until I could make plain + That all my pride was but the fear of loss, + And all my doubt the shadow of despair + To win a heart so innocent and fair; + And even that which looked most ill + Was but the fever-fret and effort vain + To dull the thirst which you alone could still. + + But as I turned the desert miles were crossed, + And when I came the weary hours were sped! + For there you stood beside the open door, + Glad, gracious, smiling as before, + And with bright eyes and tender hands outspread + Restored me to the Eden I had lost. + Never a word of cold reproof, + No sharp reproach, no glances that accuse + The culprit whom they hold aloof,-- + Ah, 't is not thus that other women use + The power they have won! + For there is none like you, beloved,--none + Secure enough to do what you have done. + Where did you learn this heavenly art,-- + You sweetest and most wise of all that live,-- + With silent welcome to impart + Assurance of the royal heart + That never questions where it would forgive? + + None but a queen could pardon me like this! + My sovereign lady, let me lay + Within each rosy palm a loyal kiss + Of penitence, then close the fingers up, + Thus--thus! Now give the cup + Of full nepenthe in your crimson mouth, + And come--the garden blooms with bliss, + The wind is in the south, + The rose of love with dew is wet-- + Dear, it was like you to forget! + + HESPER + + Her eyes are like the evening air, + Her voice is like a rose, + Her lips are like a lovely song, + That ripples as it flows, + And she herself is sweeter than + The sweetest thing she knows. + + A slender, haunting, twilight form + Of wonder and surprise, + She seemed a fairy or a child, + Till, deep within her eyes, + I saw the homeward-leading star + Of womanhood arise. + + ARRIVAL + + Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred + leagues of land, + Along a path I had not traced and could not + understand, + I travelled fast and far for this,--to take thee + by the hand. + + A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where he would + bend his knee, + A mariner without a dream of what his port + would be, + So fared I with a seeking heart until I came to + thee. + + O cooler than a grove of palm in some heat-weary + place, + O fairer than an isle of calm after the wild sea + race, + The quiet room adorned with flowers where first + I saw thy face! + + Then furl the sail, let fall the oar, forget the paths + of foam! + The Power that made me wander far at last has + brought me home + To thee, dear haven of my heart, and I no more + will roam. + + DEPARTURE + + Oh, why are you shining so bright, big Sun, + And why is the garden so gay? + Do you know that my days of delight are done, + Do you know I am going away? + If you covered your face with a cloud, I'd dream + You were sorry for me in my pain, + And the heads of the flowers all bowed would + seem + To be weeping with me in the rain. + + But why is your head so low, sweet heart, + And why are your eyes overcast? + Are they clouded because you know we must part, + Do you think this embrace is our last? + Then kiss me again, and again, and again, + Look up as you bid me good-bye! + For your face is too dear for the stain of a tear, + And your smile is the sun in my sky. + + THE BLACK BIRDS + + I + + Once, only once, I saw it clear,-- + That Eden every human heart has dreamed + A hundred times, but always far away! + Ah, well do I remember how it seemed, + Through the still atmosphere + Of that enchanted day, + To lie wide open to my weary feet: + A little land of love and joy and rest, + With meadows of soft green, + Rosy with cyclamen, and sweet + With delicate breath of violets unseen,-- + And, tranquil 'mid the bloom + As if it waited for a coming guest, + A little house of peace and joy and love + Was nested like a snow-white dove + + From the rough mountain where I stood, + Homesick for happiness, + Only a narrow valley and a darkling wood + To cross, and then the long distress + Of solitude would be forever past,-- + I should be home at last. + But not too soon! oh, let me linger here + And feed my eyes, hungry with sorrow, + On all this loveliness, so near, + And mine to-morrow! + + Then, from the wood, across the silvery blue, + A dark bird flew, + Silent, with sable wings. + Close in his wake another came,-- + Fragments of midnight floating through + The sunset flame,-- + Another and another, weaving rings + Of blackness on the primrose sky,-- + Another, and another, look, a score, + A hundred, yes, a thousand rising heavily + From that accursed, dumb, and ancient wood,-- + They boiled into the lucid air + Like smoke from some deep caldron of despair! + And more, and more, and ever more, + The numberless, ill-omened brood, + Flapping their ragged plumes, + Possessed the landscape and the evening light + With menaces and glooms. + Oh, dark, dark, dark they hovered o'er the place + Where once I saw the little house so white + Amid the flowers, covering every trace + Of beauty from my troubled sight,-- + And suddenly it was night! + + II + + At break of day I crossed the wooded vale; + And while the morning made + A trembling light among the tree-tops pale, + I saw the sable birds on every limb, + Clinging together closely in the shade, + And croaking placidly their surly hymn. + But, oh, the little land of peace and love + That those night-loving wings had poised + above,-- + Where was it gone? + Lost, lost forevermore! + Only a cottage, dull and gray, + In the cold light of dawn, + With iron bars across the door: + Only a garden where the withering heads + Of flowers, presaging decay, + Hung over barren beds: + Only a desolate field that lay + Untilled beneath the desolate day,-- + Where Eden seemed to bloom I found but these! + So, wondering, I passed along my way, + With anger in my heart, too deep for words, + Against that grove of evil-sheltering trees, + And the black magic of the croaking birds. + + WITHOUT DISGUISE + + If I have erred in showing all my heart, + And lost your favour by a lack of pride; + If standing like a beggar at your side + With naked feet, I have forgot the art + Of those who bargain well in passion's mart, + And win the thing they want by what they + hide; + Be mine the fault as mine the hope denied, + Be mine the lover's and the loser's part. + + The sin, if sin it was, I do repent, + And take the penance on myself alone; + Yet after I have borne the punishment, + I shall not fear to stand before the throne + Of Love with open heart, and make this plea: + "At least I have not lied to her nor Thee!" + + GRATITUDE + + Do you give thanks for this?--or that?" + No, God be thanked + I am not grateful + In that cold, calculating way, with blessing + ranked + As one, two, three, and four,--that would be + hateful. + + I only know that every day brings good above + My poor deserving; + I only feel that, in the road of Life, true Love + Is leading me along and never swerving. + + Whatever gifts and mercies in my lot may fall, + I would not measure + As worth a certain price in praise, or great or + small; + But take and use them all with simple pleasure. + + For when we gladly eat our daily bread, we bless + The Hand that feeds us; + And when we tread the road of Life in cheer- + fulness, + Our very heart-beats praise the Love that leads + us. + + MASTER OF MUSIC + + (In memory of Theodore Thomas, 1905) + + Glory of architect, glory of painter, and sculp- + tor, and bard, + Living forever in temple and picture and statue + and song,-- + Look how the world with the lights that they lit + is illumined and starred, + Brief was the flame of their life, but the lamps + of their art burn long! + + Where is the Master of Music, and how has he + vanished away? + Where is the work that he wrought with his + wonderful art in the air? + Gone,--it is gone like the glow on the cloud + at the close of the day! + The Master has finished his work, and the glory + of music is--where? + + Once, at the wave of his wand, all the billows of + musical sound + Followed his will, as the sea was ruled by the + prophet of old: + Now that his hand is relaxed, and his rod has + dropped to the ground, + Silent and dark are the shores where the mar- + vellous harmonies rolled! + + Nay, but not silent the hearts that were filled by + that life-giving sea; + Deeper and purer forever the tides of their + being will roll, + Grateful and joyful, O Master, because they have + listened to thee,-- + The glory of music endures in the depths of + the human soul. + + STARS AND THE SOUL + + (To Charles A. Young, Astronomer) + + "Two things," the wise man said, "fill me + with awe: + The starry heavens and the moral law." + Nay, add another wonder to thy roll,-- + The living marvel of the human soul! + + Born in the dust and cradled in the dark, + It feels the fire of an immortal spark, + And learns to read, with patient, searching eyes, + The splendid secret of the unconscious skies. + + For God thought Light before He spoke the word; + The darkness understood not, though it heard: + But man looks up to where the planets swim, + And thinks God's thoughts of glory after Him. + + What knows the star that guides the sailor's way, + Or lights the lover's bower with liquid ray, + Of toil and passion, danger and distress, + Brave hope, true love, and utter faithfulness? + + But human hearts that suffer good and ill, + And hold to virtue with a loyal will, + Adorn the law that rules our mortal strife + With star-surpassing victories of life. + + So take our thanks, dear reader of the skies, + Devout astronomer, most humbly wise, + For lessons brighter than the stars can give, + And inward light that helps us all to live. + + The world has brought the laurel-leaves to crown + The star-discoverer's name with high, renown; + Accept the flower of love we lay with these + For influence sweeter than the Pleiades! + + TO JULIA MARLOWE + + (Reading Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn) + + Long had I loved this "Attic shape," the brede + Of marble maidens round this urn divine: + But when your golden voice began to read, + The empty urn was filled with Chian wine. + + PAN LEARNS MUSIC + + Limber-limbed, lazy god, stretched on the + rock, + Where is sweet Echo, and where is your flock? + What are you making here? "Listen," said + Pan,-- + "Out of a river-reed music for man!" + + "UNDINE" + + 'Twas far away and long ago, + When I was but a dreaming boy, + This fairy tale of love and woe + Entranced my heart with tearful joy; + And while with white Undine I wept, + Your spirit,--ah, how strange it seems, + Was cradled in some star, and slept, + Unconscious of her coming dreams. + + LOVE IN A LOOK + + Let me but feel thy look's embrace, + Transparent, pure, and warm, + And I'll not ask to touch thy face, + Or fold thee with mine arm. + For in thine eyes a girl doth rise, + Arrayed in candid bliss, + And draws me to her with a charm + More close than any kiss. + + A loving-cup of golden wine, + Songs of a silver brook, + And fragrant breaths of eglantine, + Are mingled in thy look. + More fair they are than any star, + Thy topaz eyes divine-- + And deep within their trysting-nook + Thy spirit blends with mine. + + MY APRIL LADY + + When down the stair at morning + The sunbeams round her float, + Sweet rivulets of laughter + Are bubbling in her throat; + The gladness of her greeting + Is gold without alloy; + And in the morning sunlight + I think her name is Joy. + + When in the evening twilight + The quiet book-room lies, + We read the sad old ballads, + While from her hidden eyes + The tears are falling, falling, + That give her heart relief; + And in the evening twilight, + I think her name is Grief. + + My little April lady, + Of sunshine and of showers, + She weaves the old spring magic, + And breaks my heart in flowers! + But when her moods are ended, + She nestles like a dove; + Then, by the pain and rapture, + I know her name is Love. + + A LOVER'S ENVY + + I envy every flower that blows + Along the meadow where she goes, + And every bird that sings to her, + And every breeze that brings to her + The fragrance of the rose. + + I envy every poet's rhyme + That moves her heart at eventime, + And every tree that wears for her + Its brightest bloom, and bears for her + The fruitage of its prime. + + I envy every Southern night + That paves her path with moonbeams white, + And silvers all the leaves for her, + And in their shadow weaves for her + A dream of dear delight. + + I envy none whose love requires + Of her a gift, a task that tires: + I only long to live to her, + I only ask to give to her + All that her heart desires. + + THE HERMIT THRUSH + + O wonderful! How liquid clear + The molten gold of that ethereal tone, + Floating and falling through the wood alone, + A hermit-hymn poured out for God to hear! + O holy, holy, holy! Hyaline, + Long light, low light, glory of eventide! + Love far away, far up,--up,--love divine! + Little love, too, for ever, ever near, + Warm love, earth love, tender love of mine, + In the leafy dark where you hide, + You are mine,--mine,--mine! + + Ah, my beloved, do you feel with me + The hidden virtue of that melody, + The rapture and the purity of love, + The heavenly joy that can not find the word? + Then, while we wait again to hear the bird, + Come very near to me, and do not move,-- + Now, hermit of the woodland, fill anew + The cool, green cup of air with harmony, + And we will drink the wine of love with you. + + FIRE-FLY CITY + + Like a long arrow through the dark the train + is darting, + Bearing me far away, after a perfect day of + love's delight: + Wakeful with all the sad-sweet memories of + parting, + I lift the narrow window-shade and look out + on the night. + + Lonely the land unknown, and like a river flow- + ing, + Forest and field and hill are gliding backward + still athwart my dream; + Till in that country strange, and ever stranger + growing, + A magic city full of lights begins to glow and + gleam. + + Wide through the landscape dim the lamps are lit + in millions; + Long avenues unfold clear-shining lines of gold + across the green; + Clusters and rings of light, and luminous pa- + vilions,-- + Oh, who will tell the city's name, and what + these wonders mean? + + Why do they beckon me, and what have they to + show me? + Crowds in the blazing street, mirth where the + feasters meet, kisses and wine: + Many to laugh with me, but never one to know + me: + A cityful of stranger-hearts and none to beat + with mine! + + Look how the glittering lines are wavering and + lifting,-- + Softly the breeze of night, scatters the vision + bright: and, passing fair, + Over the meadow-grass and through the forest + drifting, + The Fire-Fly City of the Dark is lost in empty + air! + + Girl of the golden eyes, to you my heart is + turning: + Sleep in your quiet room, while through the + midnight gloom my train is whirled. + Clear in your dreams of me the light of love is + burning,-- + The only never failing light in all the phantom + world. + + THE GENTLE TRAVELLER + + "Through many a land your journey ran, + And showed the best the world can boast + Now tell me, traveller, if you can, + The place that pleased you most." + + She laid her hands upon my breast, + And murmured gently in my ear, + "The place I loved and liked the best + Was in your arms, my dear!" + + SICILY, DECEMBER, 1908 + + O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea,-- + Whose bluest billows kiss thy curving bays, + Whose amorous light enfolds thee in warm + rays + That fill with fruit each dark-leaved orange- + tree,-- + What hidden hatred hath the Earth for thee? + Behold, again, in these dark, dreadful days, + She trembles with her wrath, and swiftly lays + Thy beauty waste in wreck and agony! + + Is Nature, then, a strife of jealous powers, + And man the plaything of unconscious fate? + Not so, my troubled heart! God reigns above + And man is greatest in his darkest hours: + Walking amid the cities desolate, + The Son of God appears in human love. + + Tertius and Henry van Dyke, January, 1909. + + THE WINDOW + + All night long, by a distant bell, + The passing hours were notched + On the dark, while her breathing rose and fell, + And the spark of life I watched + In her face was glowing or fading,--who could + tell?-- + And the open window of the room, + With a flare of yellow light, + Was peering out into the gloom, + Like an eye that searched the night. + + Oh, what do you see in the dark, little window, and + why do you fear? + "I see that the garden is crowded wtth creeping forms + of fear: + Little white ghosts in the locust-tree, that wave in the + night-wind's breath, + And low in the leafy laurels the lurking shadow of + death." + + Sweet, clear notes of a waking bird + Told of the passing away + Of the dark,--and my darling may have heard; + For she smiled in her sleep, while the ray + Of the rising dawn spoke joy without a word, + Till the splendor born in the east outburned + The yellow lamplight, pale and thin, + And the open window slowly turned + To the eye of the morning, looking in. + + Oh, what do you see in the room, little window, that + makes you so bright? + "I see that a child is asleep on her pillow, soft and + white. + With the rose of life on her lips, and the breath of life + in her breast, + And the arms of God around her as she quietly takes + her rest." + + Neuilly, June, 1909. + + TWILIGHT IN THE ALPS + + I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair + And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells + To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells + Go chiming after her across the fair + And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare + Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells, + And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells + Of peace are woven through the purple air. + + Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems + To walk before the dark by falling rills, + And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams; + She opens all the doors of night, and fills + With moving bells the music of my dreams, + That wander far among the sleeping hills. + + Gstaad, August, 1909. + + JEANNE D'ARC + + The land was broken in despair, + The princes quarrelled in the dark, + When clear and tranquil, through the troubled air + Of selfish minds and wills that did not dare, + Your star arose, Jeanne d'Arc. + + O virgin breast with lilies white, + O sun-burned hand that bore the lance, + You taught the prayer that helps men to unite, + You brought the courage equal to the fight, + You gave a heart to France! + + Your king was crowned, your country free, + At Rheims you had your soul's desire: + And then, at Rouen, maid of Domremy, + The black-robed judges gave your victory + The martyr's crown of fire. + + And now again the times are ill, + And doubtful leaders miss the mark; + The people lack the single faith and will + To make them one,--your country needs you + still,-- + Come back again, Jeanne d'Arc! + + O woman-star, arise once more + And shine to bid your land advance: + The old heroic trust in God restore, + Renew the brave, unselfish hopes of yore, + And give a heart to France! + + Paris, July, 1909. + + HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE + + June 22,1611 + + THE SHALLOP ON HUDSON BAY + + One sail in sight upon the lonely sea + And only one, God knows! For never ship + But mine broke through the icy gates that guard + These waters, greater grown than any since + We left the shores of England. We were first, + My men, to battle in between the bergs + And floes to these wide waves. This gulf is mine; + I name it! and that flying sail is mine! + And there, hull-down below that flying sail, + The ship that staggers home is mine, mine, mine! + My ship Discoverie! + The sullen dogs + Of mutineers, the bitches' whelps that snatched + Their food and bit the hand that nourished them, + Have stolen her. You ingrate Henry Greene, + I picked you from the gutter of Houndsditch, + And paid your debts, and kept you in my house, + And brought you here to make a man of you! + You Robert Juet, ancient, crafty man, + Toothless and tremulous, how many times + Have I employed you as a master's mate + To give you bread? And you Abacuck Prickett, + You sailor-clerk, you salted puritan, + You knew the plot and silently agreed, + Salving your conscience with a pious lie! + Yes, all of you--hounds, rebels, thieves! Bring + back + My ship! + Too late,--I rave,--they cannot hear + My voice: and if they heard, a drunken laugh + Would be their answer; for their minds have + caught + The fatal firmness of the fool's resolve, + That looks like courage but is only fear. + They'll blunder on, and lose my ship, and + drown,-- + Or blunder home to England and be hanged. + Their skeletons will rattle in the chains + Of some tall gibbet on the Channel cliffs, + While passing mariners look up and say: + "Those are the rotten bones of Hudson's men + "Who left their captain in the frozen North!" + + O God of justice, why hast Thou ordained + Plans of the wise and actions of the brave + Dependent on the aid of fools and cowards? + Look,--there she goes,--her topsails in the sun + Gleam from the ragged ocean edge, and drop + Clean out of sight! So let the traitors go + Clean out of mind! We'll think of braver things! + Come closer in the boat, my friends. John King, + You take the tiller, keep her head nor'west. + You Philip Staffe, the only one who chose + Freely to share our little shallop's fate, + Rather than travel in the hell-bound ship,-- + Too good an English seaman to desert + These crippled comrades,--try to make them rest + More easy on the thwarts. And John, my son, + My little shipmate, come and lean your head + Against your father's knee. Do you recall + That April morn in Ethelburga's church, + Five years ago, when side by side we kneeled + To take the sacrament with all our men, + Before the Hopewell left St. Catherine's docks + On our first voyage? It was then I vowed + My sailor-soul and years to search the sea + Until we found the water-path that leads + From Europe into Asia. + I believe + That God has poured the ocean round His world, + Not to divide, but to unite the lands. + And all the English captains that have dared + In little ships to plough uncharted waves,-- + Davis and Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher, + Raleigh and Gilbert,--all the other names,-- + Are written in the chivalry of God + As men who served His purpose. I would claim + A place among that knighthood of the sea; + And I have earned it, though my quest should + fail! + For, mark me well, the honour of our life + Derives from this: to have a certain aim + Before us always, which our will must seek + Amid the peril of uncertain ways. + Then, though we miss the goal, our search is + crowned + With courage, and we find along our path + A rich reward of unexpected things. + Press towards the aim: take fortune as it fares! + + I know not why, but something in my heart + Has always whispered, "Westward seek your + goal!" + Three times they sent me east, but still I turned + The bowsprit west, and felt among the floes + Of ruttling ice along the Groneland coast, + And down the rugged shore of Newfoundland, + And past the rocky capes and wooded bays + Where Gosnold sailed,--like one who feels his + way + With outstretched hand across a darkened + room,-- + I groped among the inlets and the isles, + To find the passage to the Land of Spice. + I have not found it yet,--but I have found + Things worth the finding! + + Son, have you forgot + Those mellow autumn days, two years ago, + When first we sent our little ship Half-Moon,-- + The flag of Holland floating at her peak,-- + Across a sandy bar, and sounded in + Among the channels, to a goodly bay + Where all the navies of the world could ride? + A fertile island that the redmen called + Manhattan, lay above the bay: the land + Around was bountiful and friendly fair. + But never land was fair enough to hold + The seaman from the calling of the sea. + And so we bore to westward of the isle, + Along a mighty inlet, where the tide + Was troubled by a downward-flowing flood + That seemed to come from far away,--perhaps + From some mysterious gulf of Tartary? + Inland we held our course; by palisades + Of naked rock where giants might have built + Their fortress; and by rolling hills adorned + With forests rich in timber for great ships; + Through narrows where the mountains shut us in + With frowning cliffs that seemed to bar the + stream; + And then through open reaches where the banks + Sloped to the water gently, with their fields + Of corn and lentils smiling in the sun. + Ten days we voyaged through that placid land, + Until we came to shoals, and sent a boat + Upstream to find,--what I already knew,-- + We travelled on a river, not a strait. + + But what a river! God has never poured + A stream more royal through a land more rich. + Even now I see it flowing in my dream, + While coming ages people it with men + Of manhood equal to the river's pride. + I see the wigwams of the redmen changed + To ample houses, and the tiny plots + Of maize and green tobacco broadened out + To prosperous farms, that spread o'er hill and + dale + The many-coloured mantle of their crops; + I see the terraced vineyard on the slope + Where now the fox-grape loops its tangled vine; + And cattle feeding where the red deer roam; + And wild-bees gathered into busy hives, + To store the silver comb with golden sweet; + And all the promised land begins to flow + With milk and honey. Stately manors rise + Along the banks, and castles top the hills, + And little villages grow populous with trade, + Until the river runs as proudly as the Rhine,-- + The thread that links a hundred towns and + towers! + And looking deeper in my dream, I see + A mighty city covering the isle + They call Manhattan, equal in her state + To all the older capitals of earth,-- + The gateway city of a golden world,-- + A city girt with masts, and crowned with spires, + And swarming with a host of busy men, + While to her open door across the bay + The ships of all the nations flock like doves. + My name will be remembered there, for men + Will say, "This river and this isle were found + By Henry Hudson, on his way to seek + The Northwest Passage into Farthest Inde." + Yes! yes! I sought it then, I seek it still,-- + My great adventure and my guiding star! + For look ye, friends, our voyage is not done; + We hold by hope as long as life endures! + Somewhere among these floating fields of ice, + Somewhere along this westward widening bay, + Somewhere beneath this luminous northern night, + The channel opens to the Orient,-- + I know it,--and some day a little ship + Will push her bowsprit in, and battle through! + And why not ours,--to-morrow,--who can tell? + The lucky chance awaits the fearless heart! + These are the longest days of all the year; + The world is round and God is everywhere, + And while our shallop floats we still can steer. + So point her up, John King, nor'west by north. + We'll keep the honour of a certain aim + Amid the peril of uncertain ways, + And sail ahead, and leave the rest to God. + + Oberhofen, July, 1909. + + + +THE END + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The White Bees, by Henry Van Dyke + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE BEES *** + +***** This file should be named 3757.txt or 3757.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/5/3757/ + +Produced by Charles Franks, Robert Rowe, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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