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diff --git a/old/54912-0.txt b/old/54912-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 427ef3e..0000000 --- a/old/54912-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,13103 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Julia C. R. (Caroline Ripley) Dorr - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Poems - -Author: Julia C. R. (Caroline Ripley) Dorr - -Release Date: June 15, 2017 [EBook #54912] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Paul Marshall and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -Transcriber's Notes: - - Underscores "_" before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_ - in the original text. - Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals. - Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved. - Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations - in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered. - Where double quotes have been repeated at the beginnings of - consecutive stanzas, they have been omitted for clarity. - - - - - POEMS BY JULIA C. R. DORR - - - [Illustration: Julia C. R. Dorr.] - - POEMS - - BY JULIA C. R. DORR - - COMPLETE EDITION - - NEW YORK - - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS - MDCCCXCII - - COPYRIGHT, 1879, 1885, 1892, BY - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS - - TROW DIRECTORY - PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY - NEW YORK - - - - -_TO S. M. D._ - - - _Let us go forth and gather golden-rod! - O love, my love, see how upon the hills, - Where still the warm air palpitates and thrills, - And earth lies breathless in the smile of God, - Like plumes of serried hosts its tassels nod! - All the green vales its golden glory fills; - By lonely waysides and by mountain rills - Its yellow banners flaunt above the sod. - Perhaps the apple-blossoms were more fair; - Perhaps, dear heart, the roses were more sweet, - June’s dewy roses, with their buds half blown; - Yet what care we, while tremulous and rare - This golden sunshine falleth at our feet - And song lives on, though summer birds have flown? - August, 1884._ - - _Let the words stand as they were writ, dear heart! - Although no more for thee in earthly bowers - Shall bloom the earlier or the later flowers; - Although to-day ’tis springtime where thou art, - While I, with Autumn, wander far apart, - Yet, in the name of that long love of ours, - Tested by years and tried by sun and showers, - Let the words stand as they were writ, dear heart!_ - - - - - CONTENTS - - PAGE - DEDICATION. TO S. M. D. v - - EARLIER POEMS. - THE THREE SHIPS, 3 - MAUD AND MADGE, 6 - A MOTHER’S QUESTION, 8 - OVER THE WALL, 9 - OUTGROWN, 11 - A SONG FOR TWO, 14 - A PICTURE, 15 - HYMN TO LIFE, 16 - THE CHIMNEY SWALLOW, 18 - HEIRSHIP, 20 - HILDA, SPINNING, 22 - HEREAFTER, 25 - WITHOUT AND WITHIN, 27 - VASHTI’S SCROLL, 29 - WHAT MY FRIEND SAID TO ME, 37 - HYMN. For the Dedication of a Cemetery, 38 - YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY, 39 - LYRIC. For the Dedication of a Music-Hall, 41 - WHAT I LOST, 43 - ONCE! 45 - CATHARINE, 47 - THE NAME, 48 - UNDER THE PALM-TREES, 49 - NIGHT AND MORNING, 51 - AGNES, 53 - “INTO THY HANDS,” 55 - IDLE WORDS, 56 - THE SPARROW TO THE SKYLARK, 58 - THE BELL OF ST. PAUL’S, 60 - DECEMBER 26, 1910. - A Ballad of Major Anderson, 62 - FROM BATON ROUGE, 66 - IN THE WILDERNESS, 68 - CHARLEY OF MALVERN HILL, 70 - SUPPLICAMUS, 73 - THE LAST OF SIX, 75 - THE DRUMMER BOY’S BURIAL, 79 - EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE, 82 - OUR FLAGS AT THE CAPITOL, 84 - MY MOCKING-BIRD, 86 - COMING HOME, 88 - WAKENING EARLY, 90 - BLEST, 92 - HELEN, 94 - - “PRO PATRIA.” - THE DEAD CENTURY, 97 - THE RIVER OTTER, 106 - PAST AND PRESENT, 109 - VERMONT, 114 - GETTYSBURG. 1863-1889. 126 - “NO MORE THE THUNDER OF CANNON,” 133 - GRANT, 135 - - FRIAR ANSELMO, AND OTHER POEMS. - FRIAR ANSELMO, 141 - THE KING’S ROSEBUD, 146 - SOMEWHERE, 147 - PERADVENTURE, 148 - RENA. A Legend of Brussels, 150 - A SECRET, 159 - THIS DAY, 161 - “CHRISTUS!” 163 - THE KISS, 167 - WHAT SHE THOUGHT, 168 - WHAT NEED? 170 - TWO, 172 - UNANSWERED, 175 - THE CLAY TO THE ROSE, 178 - AT THE LAST, 180 - TO THE “BOUQUET CLUB,” 181 - EVENTIDE, 182 - MY LOVERS, 184 - THE LEGEND OF THE ORGAN-BUILDER, 186 - BUTTERFLY AND BABY BLUE, 190 - KING IVAN’S OATH, 192 - AT DAWN, 199 - IN MEMORIAM, 201 - WEAVING THE WEB, 203 - THE “CHRISTUS” OF OBERAMMERGAU, 205 - RABBI BENAIAH, 206 - A CHILD’S THOUGHT, 209 - “GOD KNOWS,” 211 - THE MOUNTAIN ROAD, 213 - ENTERING IN, 215 - A FLOWER FOR THE DEAD, 217 - THOU KNOWEST, 219 - WINTER, 220 - FIVE, 221 - UNSOLVED, 223 - QUIETNESS, 226 - THE DIFFERENCE, 227 - MY BIRTHDAY, 229 - A RED ROSE, 231 - TWENTY-ONE, 233 - SINGING IN THE DARK, 235 - THOMAS MOORE, 236 - A LAST WORD, 238 - - SONNETS. - THE SONNET. I. To a Critic. 241 - " " II. To a Poet. 241 - AT REST, 243 - TOO WIDE! 244 - MERCÉDÈS, 245 - GRASS-GROWN, 246 - TO ZÜLMA, I., II., 247 - SLEEP, 249 - IN KING’S CHAPEL, 250 - TO-DAY, 251 - F. A. F., 252 - DAY AND NIGHT, I., II., 253 - THY NAME, 255 - RESURGAMUS, 256 - AT THE TOMB, 257 - THREE DAYS, I., II., III., 258 - DARKNESS, 260 - SILENCE, 261 - SANCTIFIED, 262 - A MESSAGE, 263 - WHEN LESSER LOVES, 264 - GEORGE ELIOT, 265 - KNOWING, 266 - A THOUGHT, 267 - TO-MORROW, I., II., 268 - “O EARTH! ART THOU NOT WEARY?” 270 - ALEXANDER, 271 - THE PLACE, I., II., III., 272 - TO A GODDESS, 274 - O. W. H., 275 - GIFTS FOR THE KING, 276 - RECOGNITION, I., II., 277 - SHAKESPEARE, 279 - TO E. C. S., 280 - A CHRISTMAS SONNET, 281 - POVERTY, 282 - SURPRISES, I., II., 283 - C. H. R., 285 - A NEW BEATITUDE, 286 - COMPENSATION, I., II., 287 - QUESTIONINGS, 289 - REMEMBRANCE, 290 - IN THE HIGH TOWER, 291 - - AFTERNOON SONGS. - FOUR O’CLOCKS, 295 - A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG, 296 - QUESTIONING A ROSE, 304 - THE FALLOW FIELD, 306 - OUT AND IN, 309 - HER FLOWERS, 310 - THREE LADDIES, 312 - SUMMER, 314 - THORNLESS ROSES, 315 - TREASURE-SHIPS, 316 - CHOOSING, 318 - NOT MINE, 320 - THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE, 322 - THREE ROSES, 325 - FOUR LETTERS, 326 - VALDEMAR, 328 - JUBILATE! 338 - EASTER LILIES, 339 - “O, WIND THAT BLOWS OUT OF THE WEST,” 340 - A SUMMER SONG, 342 - THE URN, 344 - THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER, 345 - MARCH FOURTH, 1881-1882, 348 - ROY, 350 - THE PAINTER’S PRAYER, 351 - FROM EXILE, 354 - A MOTHER-SONG, 358 - EASTER MORNING, 359 - SEALED ORDERS, 363 - AN ANNIVERSARY, 365 - MARTHA, 367 - THE HOUR, 368 - THE CLOSED GATE, 369 - CONTENT, 371 - MY WONDERLAND, 373 - THE GUEST, 375 - AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN, 377 - DISCONTENT, 380 - THE DOVES AT MENDON, 383 - A LATE ROSE, 386 - PERIWINKLE, 387 - AFTERNOON, 389 - THE LADY OF THE PROW, 392 - THOU AND I, 395 - - LATER POEMS. - THE LEGEND OF THE BABOUSHKA. - A Christmas Ballad, 399 - DAYBREAK. An Easter Poem, 405 - THE APPLE-TREE, 411 - THE COMFORTER, 413 - SANTA-CLAUS, 415 - THE ARMORER’S ERRAND, 417 - FORESHADOWINGS, 423 - WON, 425 - BAPTISM OF FIRE, 427 - AT THE FEAST, 429 - OVER AND OVER, 430 - A LISTENING BIRD, 432 - THE FIRST FIRE, 433 - MIDNIGHT CHIMES, 436 - MY LADY SLEEP, 438 - THE KING’S TOUCH, 440 - “BY DIVERS PATHS,” 442 - THE BLIND BIRD’S NEST, 444 - TWO PATHS, 446 - ST. JOHN’S EVE, 447 - A LITTLE SONG, 449 - THE PRINCES’ CHAMBER, 450 - WONDERLAND, 453 - IN A GALLERY, 455 - IN MARBLE PRAYER, 457 - NOCTURNE, 459 - COME WHAT MAY, 460 - NUREMBERG, 462 - A MATER DOLOROSA, 464 - AFTER LONG WAITING, 470 - - - - -EARLIER POEMS - - -THE THREE SHIPS - - Over the waters clear and dark - Flew, like a startled bird, our bark. - - All the day long with steady sweep - Seagulls followed us over the deep. - - Weird and strange were the silent shores, - Rich with their wealth of buried ores; - - Mighty the forests, old and gray, - With the secrets locked in their hearts away. - - Semblance of castle and arch and shrine - Towered aloft in the clear sunshine; - - And we watched for the warder, stern and grim, - And the priest with his chanted prayer and hymn. - - Over that wonderful northern sea, - As one who sails in a dream, sailed we, - - Till, when the young moon soared on high, - Nothing was round us but wave and sky. - - Up in the tremulous space it swung,— - A crescent dim in the azure hung; - - While the sun lay low in the glowing west, - With bars of purple across his breast. - - The skies were aflame with the sunset glow, - The billows were all aflame below; - - The far horizon seemed the gate - To some mystic world’s enchanted state; - - And all the air was a luminous mist, - Crimson and amber and amethyst. - - Then silently into that fiery sea— - Into the heart of the mystery— - - Three ships went sailing, one by one, - The fairest visions under the sun. - - Like the flame in the heart of a ruby set - Were the sails that flew from each mast of jet; - - While darkly against the burning sky - Streamer and pennant floated high. - - Steadily, silently, on they pressed - Into the glowing, reddening west; - - Until, on the far horizon’s fold, - They slowly passed through its gate of gold. - - You think, perhaps, they were nothing more - Than schooners laden with common ore? - - Where Care clasped hands with grimy Toil, - And the decks were stained with earthly moil? - - Oh, beautiful ships, that sailed that night - Into the west from our yearning sight, - - Full well I know that the freight ye bore - Was laden not for an earthly shore! - - To some far realm ye were sailing on, - Where all we have lost shall yet be won; - - Ye were bearing thither a world of dreams, - Bright as that sunset’s golden gleams; - - And hopes whose tremulous, rosy flush, - Grew fairer still in the twilight hush. - - Ye were bearing hence to that mystic sphere - Thoughts no mortal may utter here,— - - Songs that on earth may not be sung,— - Words too holy for human tongue,— - - The golden deeds that we would have done,— - The fadeless wreaths that we would have won! - - And hence it was that our souls with you - Traversed the measureless waste of blue, - - Till you passed under the sunset gate, - And to us a voice said, softly, “Wait!” - - -MAUD AND MADGE - - Maud in a crimson velvet chair - Strings her pearls on a silken thread, - While, lovingly lifting her golden hair, - Soft airs wander about her head. - She has silken robes of the softest flow, - She has jewels rare and a chain of gold, - And her two white hands flit to and fro, - Fair as the dainty toys they hold. - - She has tropical birds and rare perfumes; - Pictures that speak to the heart and eye; - For her each flower of the Orient blooms,— - For her the song and the lute swell high; - But daintily stringing her gleaming pearls - She dreams to-day in her velvet chair, - While the sunlight sleeps in her golden curls, - Lightly stirred by the odorous air. - - Down on the beach, when the tide goes out, - Madge is gathering shining shells; - The sea-breeze blows her locks about; - O’er bare, brown feet the white sand swells. - Coarsest serge is her gown of gray, - Faded and torn her apron blue, - And there in the beautiful, dying day - The girl still thinks of the work to do. - - Stains of labor are on her hands, - Lost is the young form’s airy grace; - And standing there on the shining sands - You read her fate in her weary face. - Up with the dawn to toil all day - For meagre fare and a place to sleep; - Seldom a moment to dream or play, - Little leisure to laugh or weep. - - Beautiful Maud, you think, maybe, - Lying back in your velvet chair, - There is naught in common with her and thee,— - You scarce could breathe in the self-same air. - But the warm blood in her girlish heart - Leaps quick as yours at her nature’s call, - And ye, though moving so far apart, - Must share one destiny after all. - - Love shall come to you both one day, - For still must be what aye hath been; - And under satin or russet gray - Hearts will open to let him in. - Motherhood with its joy and woe - Each must compass through burning pain,— - You, fair Maud, with your brow of snow, - Madge with her brown hands labor-stained. - - Each shall sorrow and each shall weep, - Though one is in hovel, one in hall; - Over your gold the frost shall creep, - As over her jet the snows will fall. - Exquisite Maud, you lift your eyes - At Madge out yonder under the sun; - Yet know ye both by the countless ties - Of a common womanhood ye are one! - - -A MOTHER’S QUESTION - - What mother-angel tended thee last night, - Sweet baby mine? - Cradled upon what breast all soft and white - Didst thou recline? - - Who took thee, frail and tender as thou art, - Within her arms? - And shielded thee, close claspéd to her heart, - From all alarms? - - Surely that God who lured thee from the breast - That hoped to be - The softest pillow and the sweetest rest - Thenceforth to thee, - - Sent thee not forth into the dread unknown - Without a guide, - To grope in darkness, treading all alone - The path untried. - - Compassionate is He who called thee, child; - And well I know - He sent some Blessed One of aspect mild - With thee to go - - Through the dark valley, where the shadows dim - Forever brood, - That the low music of an angel’s hymn - Might cheer the solitude! - - -OVER THE WALL - - I know a spot where the wild vines creep, - And the coral moss-cups grow, - And where, at the foot of the rocky steep, - The sweet blue violets blow. - There all day long, in the summer-time, - You may hear the river’s dreamy rhyme; - There all day long does the honey-bee - Murmur and hum in the hollow tree. - - And there the feathery hemlock makes - A shadow cool and sweet, - While from its emerald wing it shakes - Rare incense at your feet. - There do the silvery lichens cling, - There does the tremulous harebell swing; - And many a scarlet berry shines - Deep in the green of the tangled vines. - - Over the wall at dawn of day, - Over the wall at noon, - Over the wall when the shadows say - That night is coming soon, - A little maiden with laughing eyes - Climbs in her eager haste, and hies - Down to the spot where the wild vines creep, - And violets bloom by the rocky steep. - - All wild things love her. The murmuring bee - Scarce stirs when she draws near, - And sings the bird in the hemlock-tree - Its sweetest for her ear. - The harebells nod as she passes by, - The violet lifts its tender eye, - The low ferns bend her steps to greet, - And the mosses creep to her dancing feet. - - Up in her pathway seems to spring - All that is sweet or rare,— - Chrysalis quaint, or the moth’s bright wing, - Or flower-buds strangely fair. - She watches the tiniest bird’s-nest hid - The thickly clustering leaves amid; - And the small brown tree-toad on her arm - Quietly hops, and fears no harm. - - Ah, child of the laughing eyes, and heart - Attuned to Nature’s voice! - Thou hast found a bliss that will ne’er depart - While earth can say, “Rejoice!” - The years must come, and the years must go; - But the flowers will bloom, and the breezes blow, - And bird and butterfly, moth and bee, - Bring on their swift wings joy to thee! - - -OUTGROWN - - Nay, you wrong her, my friend, she’s not fickle; her love she has - simply outgrown; - One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light - of one’s own. - - Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my - heart would say, - And you know we were children together, have quarreled and “made up” - in play. - - And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the - truth, - As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier - youth. - - Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you stood on the self-same - plane, - Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls could be - parted again. - - She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life’s - early May, - And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you - to-day. - - Nature never stands still, nor souls either. They ever go up or go - down; - And hers has been steadily soaring,—but how has it been with your - own? - - She has struggled, and yearned, and aspired,—grown stronger and - wiser each year; - The stars are not farther above you, in yon luminous atmosphere! - - For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, down yonder, five - summers ago, - Has learned that the first of our duties to God and ourselves is - to grow. - - Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer, but their vision is clearer - as well; - Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but it rings like a silver bell. - - Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his angels have - talked; - The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with whom - she has walked. - - And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and - prayed? - Have you looked upon evil unsullied? have you conquered it - undismayed? - - Have you, too, grown stronger and wiser, as the months and the years - have rolled on? - Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of victory - won? - - Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you. When to-day in her presence - you stood, - Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her - womanhood? - - Go measure yourself by her standard. Look back on the years that - have fled; - Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her - girlhood is dead! - - She cannot look down to her lover; her love, like her soul, aspires; - He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy - fires. - - Now, farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to - tell you the truth, - As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier - youth. - - -A SONG FOR TWO - - Not for its sunsets burning clear and low, - Its purple splendors on the eastern hills, - Bless I the Year that now makes haste to go - While sad Earth listens for its dying thrills. - - Not that its days were sweet with sun and showers; - Its summer nights all luminous with stars: - Not that its vales were studded thick with flowers; - Not that its mountains pierced the azure bars; - - Not that from our dear land, by slow degrees, - Some mists of error it hath blown away; - Not for its noble deeds—ah! not for these— - Fain would I twine this wreath of song to-day. - - But for one gift that it has brought to me - My grateful heart would crown the dying Year: - Because, O best-beloved, it gave me thee, - I drop this garland on the passing bier! - - -A PICTURE - - A lovely bit of dappled green - Shut in the circling hills between, - While farther off blue mountains stand - Like giant guards on either hand. - - The quiet road in still repose - Follows where’er the river flows; - And in and out it glides along, - Enchanted by the rippling song. - - Afar, I see the steepled town - From yonder hillside looking down; - And sometimes, when the south wind swells, - Hear the faint chiming of its bells. - - But under these embowering trees, - Lulled by the hum of droning bees, - The old brown farmhouse seems to sleep, - So calm its rest is and so deep. - - Yonder, beside the rustic bridge, - From which the path climbs yonder ridge, - The lazy cattle seek the shade - By the umbrageous willows made. - - The sky is like a hollow pearl, - Save where warm sunset clouds unfurl - Their flaming colors. Lo! a star, - Even as I gaze, gleams forth afar! - - -HYMN TO LIFE - - Ah, Life, dear Life, how beautiful art thou! - All day sweet, chiming voices in my heart - Have hymned thy praises joyfully as now, - Telling how fair thou art! - - This morn, while yet the dew was on the flowers, - They sang like skylarks, soaring while they sing; - This noon, like birds within their leafy bowers, - Warbled with folded wing. - - Slow fades the twilight from the glowing west, - And one pale star hangs o’er yon mountain’s brow; - With deeper joy, that may not be repressed, - O Life, they hail thee now! - - And not alone from this poor heart of mine - Do these glad notes of grateful love ascend; - Voices from mount and vale and woodland shrine - In the full chorus blend. - - The young leaves feel thy presence and rejoice - The while they frolic with the happy breeze; - And pæans sweeter than a seraph’s voice - Rise from the swaying trees. - - Each flower that hides within the forest dim, - Where mortal eye may ne’er its beauty see, - Waves its light censer, while it breathes a hymn - In humble praise of thee. - - Through quivering pines the gentle south winds stray, - Singing low songs that bid the tear-drops start; - And thoughts of thee are in each trembling lay, - Thrilling the listener’s heart. - - Old Ocean lifts his solemn voice on high, - Thy name, O Life, repeating evermore, - While sweeping gales and rushing storms reply - From many a far-off shore. - - The stars are gathering in the darkening skies, - But our dull ears their music may not hear, - Though, while we list, their swelling anthems rise - Exultingly and clear! - - O Earth is beautiful! She weareth still - The golden radiance of life’s early day; - Still Love and Hope for me their chalice fill,— - Life, turn not thou away! - - -THE CHIMNEY SWALLOW - - One night as I sat by my table, - Tired of books and pen, - With wandering thoughts far straying - Out into the world of men;— - That world where the busy workers - Such magical deeds are doing, - Each one with a steady purpose - His own pet plans pursuing; - - When the house was wrapt in silence, - And the children were all asleep, - And even the mouse in the wainscot - Had ceased to run and leap, - All at once from the open chimney - Came a hum and a rustle and whirring, - That startled me out of my dreaming, - And set my pulses stirring. - - What was it? I paused and listened; - The roses were all in bloom, - And in from the garden floated - The violet’s rich perfume. - So it could not be Kriss Kringle, - For he only comes, you know, - When the Christmas bells are chiming, - And the hills are white with snow. - - Hark! a sound as of rushing waters, - Or the rustle of falling leaves, - Or the patter of eager raindrops - Yonder among the eaves! - Then out from the dark, old chimney, - Blackened with soot and smoke, - With a whir of fluttering pinions - A startled birdling broke. - - Dashing against the window; - Lighting a moment where - My sculptured angel folded - Its soft white wings in prayer; - Swinging upon the curtains; - Perched on the ivy-vine; - At last it rested trembling - In tender hands of mine. - - No stain upon its plumage; - No dust upon its wings; - No hint of its companionship - With darkly soiling things! - O, happy bird, thou spirit! - Stretch thy glad plumes and soar - Where breath of soil or sorrow - Shall reach thee nevermore! - - -HEIRSHIP - - Little store of wealth have I; - Not a rood of land I own; - Nor a mansion fair and high - Built with towers of fretted stone. - Stocks, nor bonds, nor title-deeds, - Flocks nor herds have I to show; - When I ride, no Arab steeds - Toss for me their manes of snow. - - I have neither pearls nor gold, - Massive plate, nor jewels rare; - Broidered silks of worth untold, - Nor rich robes a queen might wear. - In my garden’s narrow bound - Flaunt no costly tropic blooms, - Ladening all the air around - With a weight of rare perfumes. - - Yet to an immense estate - Am I heir, by grace of God,— - Richer, grander than doth wait - Any earthly monarch’s nod. - Heir of all the Ages, I— - Heir of all that they have wrought, - All their store of emprise high, - All their wealth of precious thought. - - Every golden deed of theirs - Sheds its lustre on my way; - All their labors, all their prayers, - Sanctify this present day! - Heir of all that they have earned - By their passion and their tears,— - Heir of all that they have learned - Through the weary, toiling years! - - Heir of all the faith sublime - On whose wings they soared to heaven; - Heir of every hope that Time - To Earth’s fainting sons hath given! - Aspirations pure and high— - Strength to dare and to endure— - Heir of all the Ages, I— - Lo! I am no longer poor! - - -HILDA, SPINNING - - Spinning, spinning, by the sea, - All the night! - On a stormy, rock-ribbed shore, - Where the north winds downward pour, - And the tempests fiercely sweep - From the mountains to the deep, - Hilda spins beside the sea, - All the night! - - Spinning, at her lonely window, - By the sea! - With her candle burning clear, - Every night of all the year, - And her sweet voice crooning low, - Quaint old songs of love and woe, - Spins she at her lonely window, - By the sea. - - On a bitter night in March, - Long ago, - Hilda, very young and fair, - With a crown of golden hair, - Watched the tempest raging wild, - Watched the roaring sea—and smiled - Through that woeful night in March, - Long ago! - - What though all the winds were out - In their might? - Richard’s boat was tried and true; - Stanch and brave his hardy crew; - Strongest he to do or dare. - Said she, breathing forth a prayer, - “He is safe, though winds are out - In their might!” - - But at length the morning dawned, - Still and clear! - Calm, in azure splendor, lay - All the waters of the bay; - And the ocean’s angry moans - Sank to solemn undertones, - As at last the morning dawned, - Still and clear! - - With her waves of golden hair - Floating free, - Hilda ran along the shore, - Gazing off the waters o’er; - And the fishermen replied, - “He will come in with the tide,” - As they saw her golden hair - Floating free! - - Ah! he came in with the tide— - Came alone! - Tossed upon the shining sands— - Ghastly face and clutching hands— - Seaweed tangled in his hair— - Bruised and torn his forehead fair— - Thus he came in with the tide, - All alone! - - Hilda watched beside her dead, - Day and night. - Of those hours of mortal woe - Human ken may never know; - She was silent, and his ear - Kept the secret, close and dear, - Of her watch beside her dead, - Day and night! - - What she promised in the darkness, - Who can tell? - But upon that rock-ribbed shore - Burns a beacon evermore! - And beside it, all the night, - Hilda guards the lonely light, - Though what vowed she in the darkness, - None may tell! - - Spinning, spinning by the sea, - All the night! - While her candle, gleaming wide - O’er the restless, rolling tide, - Guides with steady, changeless ray - The lone fisher up the bay, - Hilda spins beside the sea, - Through the night! - - Fifty years of patient spinning - By the sea! - Old and worn, she sleeps to-day, - While the sunshine gilds the bay; - But her candle, shining clear, - Every night of all the year, - Still is telling of her spinning - By the sea! - - -HEREAFTER - - O land beyond the setting sun! - O realm more fair than poet’s dream! - How clear thy silver rivers run, - How bright thy golden glories gleam! - - Earth holds no counterpart of thine; - The dark-browed Orient, jewel-crowned, - Pales as she bows before thy shrine, - Shrouded in mystery profound. - - The dazzling North, the stately West, - Whose waters flow from mount to sea; - The South, flower-wreathed in languid rest— - What are they all, compared with thee? - - All lands, all realms beneath yon dome, - Where God’s own hand hath hung the stars, - To thee with humblest homage come, - O world beyond the crystal bars! - - Thou blest Hereafter! Mortal tongue - Hath striven in vain thy speech to learn, - And Fancy wanders, lost among - The flowery paths for which we yearn. - - But well we know that fair and bright, - Far beyond human ken or dream, - Too glorious for our feeble sight, - Thy skies of cloudless azure beam. - - We know thy happy valleys lie - In green repose, supremely blest; - We know against thy sapphire sky - Thy mountain-peaks sublimely rest. - - For sometimes even now we catch - Faint gleamings from thy far-off shore, - While still with eager eyes we watch - For one sweet sign or token more. - - The loved, the deeply loved, are there! - The brave, the fair, the good, the wise, - Who pined for thy serener air, - Nor shunned thy solemn mysteries. - - There are the hopes that, one by one, - Died even as we gave them birth; - The dreams that passed ere well begun, - Too dear, too beautiful for earth. - - The aspirations, strong of wing, - Aiming at heights we could not reach; - The songs we tried in vain to sing; - The thoughts too vast for human speech; - - Thou hast them all, Hereafter! Thou - Shalt keep them safely till that hour - When, with God’s seal on heart and brow, - We claim them in immortal power! - - -WITHOUT AND WITHIN - - Softly the gold has faded from the sky, - Slowly the stars have gathered one by one, - Calmly the crescent moon mounts up on high, - And the long day is done. - - With quiet heart my garden-walks I tread, - Feeling the beauty that I cannot see; - Beauty and fragrance all around me shed - By flower, and shrub, and tree. - - Often I linger where the roses pour - Exquisite odors from each glowing cup; - Or where the violet, brimmed with sweetness o’er, - Lifts its small chalice up. - - With fragrant breath the lilies woo me now, - And softly speaks the sweet-voiced mignonette, - While heliotropes, with meekly lifted brow, - Say to me, “Go not yet.” - - So for awhile I linger, but not long. - High in the heavens rideth fiery Mars, - Careering proudly ’mid the glorious throng, - Brightest of all the stars. - - But softly gleaming through the curtain’s fold, - The home-star beams with more alluring ray, - And, as a star led sage and seer of old, - So it directs my way; - - And leads me in where my young children lie, - Rosy and beautiful in tranquil rest; - The seal of sleep is on each fast-shut eye, - Heaven’s peace within each breast. - - I bring them gifts. Not frankincense nor myrrh— - Gifts the adoring Magi humbly brought - The young child, cradled in the arms of her - Blest beyond mortal thought; - - But love—the love that fills my mother-heart - With a sweet rapture oft akin to pain; - Such yearning love as bids the tear-drops start - And fall like summer rain. - - And faith—that dares, for their dear sakes, to climb - Boldly, where once it would have feared to go, - And calmly standing upon heights sublime, - Fears not the storm below. - - And prayer! O God! unto thy throne I come, - Bringing my darlings—but I cannot speak. - With love and awe oppressed, my lips are dumb: - Grant what my heart would seek! - - -VASHTI’S SCROLL - - Dethroned and crownless, I so late a queen! - Forsaken, poor and lonely, I who wore - The crown of Persia with such stately grace! - But yesterday a royal wife; but now - From my estate cast down, and fallen so low - That beggars scoff at me! Men toss my name - Backward and forward on their mocking tongues. - In all the king’s broad realm there is not one - To do poor Vashti homage. Even the dog - My hand had fondled, in the palace walls - Fawns on my rival. When I left the court, - Weeping and sore distressed, he followed me, - Licking my fingers, leaping in my face, - And frisking round me till I reached the gates. - Then with long pauses, as of one perplexed, - And frequent lookings backward, and low whines - Of puzzled wonder—that had made me smile - If I had been less lorn—with drooping ears, - Dropt eyes, and downcast forehead he went back, - Leaving me desolate. So went they all - Who, when Ahasuerus on my brow - Set his own royal crown and called me queen, - Made the air ring with plaudits! Loud they cried, - “Long live Queen Vashti, Persia’s fairest Rose, - Mother of Princes, and the nation’s Hope!” - The rose is withered now; the queen’s no more. - To these lorn breasts no princely boy shall cling - Or now, or ever. Yet on this poor scroll - I will rehearse the story of my woes, - And bid them lay it in the grave with me - When I depart to join the unnumbered dead. - - * * * * * - - Oh, thou unknown, unborn, who through the gloom - And mists of ages in my vaulted tomb - Shalt find this parchment, and with reverent care - Shalt bear it outward to the sun and air: - Oh, thou whose patient fingers shall unroll - With slow, persuasive touch this little scroll: - Oh, loving, tender eyes that, like twin stars, - I seem to see through yonder cloudy bars: - Read Vashti’s story, and I pray ye tell - The whole wide world if she did ill or well! - - Ahasuerus reigned. On Persia’s throne, - Lord of a mighty realm, he sat alone, - And stretched his sceptre from the farthest slope - Of India’s hills, to where the Ethiop - Dwelt in barbaric splendor. Kinglier king - Never did poet praise or minstrel sing! - He had no peers. Among his lords he shone - As shines a planet, single and alone; - And I, alas! I loved him, and we two - Such bliss as peasant lovers joy in, knew! - No lowly home in all our wide domain - Held more of peace than ours, or less of pain. - But one dark day—O, woeful day of days, - Whose hours I number now in sad amaze, - Thou hadst no prophet of the ills to be, - Nor sign nor omen came to succor me!— - That day Ahasuerus smiled and said, - “Since first I wore this crown upon my head - Thrice have the emerald clusters of the vine - Changed to translucent globes of ruby wine; - And thrice the peaches on the loaded walls - Have slowly rounded into wondrous balls - Of gold and crimson. I will make a feast. - Princes and lords, the greatest and the least, - All Persia and all Media, shall see - The pomp and splendor that encompass me. - The riches of my kingdom shall be shown, - And all my glorious majesty made known - Where’er the shadow of my sceptred hand - Sways a great people with its mute command!” - Then came from far and near a hurrying throng - Of skilled and cunning workmen. All day long - And far into the startled night, they wrought - Most quaint and beautiful devices—still - Responsive to their master’s eager will, - And giving form to his creative thought— - Till Shushan grew a marvel! - Never yet - Yon rolling sun on fairer scene has set: - The palace windows were ablaze with light; - And Persia’s lords were there, most richly dight - In broidered silks, or costliest cloth of gold, - That kept the sunshine in each lustrous fold, - Or softly flowing tissues, pure and white - As fleecy clouds at noonday. Clear and bright - Shone the pure gold of Ophir, and the gleam - Of burning gems, that mocked the pallid beam - Of the dim, wondering stars, made radiance there, - Splendor undreamed of, and beyond compare! - Up from the gardens floated the perfume - Of rose and myrtle, in their perfect bloom; - The red pomegranate cleft its heart in twain, - Pouring its life blood in a crimson rain; - The slight acacia waved its yellow plumes, - And afar off amid the starlit glooms - Were sweet recesses, where the orange bowers - Dropt their pure blossoms down in snowy showers, - And night reigned undisturbed. - From cups of gold - Diverse one from another, meet to hold - The king’s most costly wines, or to be raised - To princely lips, the gay guests drank, and praised - Their rich abundance. Rapturous music swept - Through the vast arches and the secret kept - Of its own joy; while in slow, rhythmic time - To clash of cymbal and the lute’s clear chime, - The dancing-girls stole through the fragrant night - With wreathéd arms, flushed cheeks and eyes alight, - And softly rounded forms that rose and fell - To the voluptuous music’s dreamy swell, - As if the air were pulsing waves that bore - Them up and onward to some longed-for shore! - - Wild waxed the revel. On an ivory throne - Inlaid with ebony and gems that shone - With a surpassing lustre, sat my lord, - The King Ahasuerus. His great sword, - Blazing with diamonds on hilt and blade,— - The mighty sword that made his foes afraid,— - And the proud sceptre he was wont to grasp, - With all the monarch in his kingly clasp, - Against the crouching lions (guard that kept - On either side the throne and never slept), - Leaned carelessly. And flowing downward o’er - The ivory steps even to the marble floor, - Swept the rich royal robes in many a fold - Of Tyrian purple flecked with yellow gold. - The jewelled crown his young head scorned to wear, - More fitly crowned by its own clustering hair, - Lay on a pearl-wrought cushion by his side, - Mute symbol of great Persia’s power and pride; - While on his brow some courtier’s hand had placed - The fairest chaplet monarch ever graced, - A wreath of dewy roses, fresh and sweet, - Just brought from out the garden’s cool retreat. - - Louder and louder grew the sounds of mirth; - Faster and faster flowed the red wine forth; - In high, exulting strains the minstrels sang - The monarch’s glory, till the great roof rang; - And flushed at length with pride and song and wine, - The king rose up and said, “O nobles mine! - Princes of Persia, Media’s hope and pride, - Stars of my kingdom, will ye aught beside? - Speak! and I swear your sovereign’s will shall be - On this fair night to please and honor ye!” - Then rose a shout from out the glittering throng - Drowning the voice of merriment and song, - Humming and murmuring like a hive of bees— - What would they more each charmèd sense to please? - - Out spoke at last a tongue that should have been - Palsied in foul dishonor there and then. - “O great Ahasuerus! ne’er before - Reigned such a king so blest a people o’er! - What shall we ask? What great and wondrous boon - To crown the hours that fly away too soon? - There is but one. ’Tis said that mortal eyes - Never yet gazed, in rapturous surprise, - Upon a face like that of her who wears - Thy signet-ring, and all thy glory shares,— - Thy fair Queen Vashti, she who yet shall be - Mother of him who reigneth after thee! - Show us that face, O king! For nought beside - Can make our cup of joy o’erflow with pride.” - - A murmur ran throughout the startled crowd, - Swelling at last to plaudits long and loud. - Maddened with wine, they knew not what they said. - Ahasuerus bent his haughty head, - And for an instant o’er his face there swept - A look his courtiers in their memory kept - For many a day—a look of doubt and pain, - They scarcely caught ere it had passed again. - “My word is pledged,” he said. Then to the seven - Lord chamberlains to whom the keys were given: - “Haste ye, and to this noble presence bring - Vashti, the Queen, with royal crown and ring; - That all my lords may see the matchless charms - Kind Heaven has sent to bless my kingly arms.” - - They did their errand, those old, gray-haired men, - Who should have braved the lion in his den, - Or ere they bore such message to their queen, - Or took such words their aged lips between. - What! I, the daughter of a royal race, - Step down, unblushing, from my lofty place, - And, like a common dancing-girl, who wears - Her beauty unconcealed, and, shameless, bares - Her brow to every gazer, boldly go - To those wild revellers my face to show? - I—who had kept my beauty pure and bright - Only because ’twas precious in his sight, - Guarding it ever as a holy thing, - Sacred to him, my lover, lord, and king,— - Could I unveil it to the curious eyes - Of the mad rabble that with drunken cries - Were shouting “Vashti! Vashti?”—Sooner far, - Beyond the rays of sun, or moon, or star, - I would have buried it in endless night! - Pale and dismayed, in wonder and affright, - My maidens hung around me as I told - Those seven lord chamberlains, so gray and old, - To bear this answer back: “It may not be. - My lord, my king, I cannot come to thee. - It is not meet that Persia’s queen, like one - Who treads the market-place from sun to sun, - Should bare her beauty to the hungry crowd, - Who name her name in accents hoarse and loud.” - With stern, cold looks they left me. Ah! I knew - If my dear lord to his best self were true, - That he would hold me guiltless, and would say, - “I thank thee, love, that thou didst not obey!” - But the red wine was ruling o’er his brain; - The cruel wine that recked not of my pain. - Up from the angry throng a clamor rose; - The flattering sycophants were now my foes; - And evil counsellors about the throne, - Hiding the jealous joy they dared not own, - With slow, wise words, and many a virtuous frown, - Said, “Be the queen from her estate cast down! - Let her not see the king’s face evermore, - Nor come within his presence as of yore; - So disobedient wives through all the land - Shall read the lesson, heed and understand.” - Up spoke another, eager to be heard, - In royal councils fain to have a word,— - “Let this commandment of the king be writ, - In the law of the Medes and Persians, as is fit,— - The perfect law that man may alter not - Nor of its bitter end abate one jot.” - Alas! the king was wroth. Before his face - I could not go to plead my piteous case; - But, pitiless, with scarce dissembled sneers, - And poisoned words that rankled in his ears, - My wily foes, afraid to let him pause, - Brought the great book that held the Persian laws, - And ere the rising of the morrow’s sun, - My bitter doom was sealed, the deed was done! - - Scarce had two moons passed when one dreary night - I sat within my bower in woeful plight, - When suddenly upon my presence stole - A muffled form, whose shadow stirred my soul - I knew not wherefore. Ere my tongue could speak, - Or with a breath the brooding silence break, - A low voice murmured “Vashti!” - Pale and still, - Hushing my heart’s cry with an iron will, - “What would the king?” I asked. No answer came, - But to his sad eyes leaped a sudden flame; - With clasping arms he raised me to his breast - And on my brow and lips such kisses pressed - As one might give the dead. I may not tell - All the wild words that I remember well. - Oh! was it joy or was it pain to know - That not alone I wept my weary woe? - Alas! I know not. But I know to-day— - If this be sin, forgive me, Heaven, I pray!— - That though his eyes have never looked on mine - Since that dark night when stars refused to shine, - And fair Queen Esther sits, a beauteous bride, - In stately Shushan at the monarch’s side, - The king remembers Vashti, even yet - Breathing her name sometimes with vain regret, - Or murmuring, haply, in a whisper low,— - “O pure, proud heart that loved me long ago!” - - -WHAT MY FRIEND SAID TO ME - - Trouble? dear friend, I know her not. God sent - His angel Sorrow on my heart to lay - Her hand in benediction, and to say, - “Restore, O child, that which thy Father lent, - For He doth now recall it,” long ago. - His blessed angel Sorrow! She has walked - For years beside me, and we two have talked - As chosen friends together. Thus I know - Trouble and Sorrow are not near of kin. - Trouble distrusteth God, and ever wears - Upon her brow the seal of many cares; - But Sorrow oft hast deepest peace within. - She sits with Patience in perpetual calm, - Waiting till Heaven shall send the healing balm. - - - HYMN - FOR THE DEDICATION OF A CEMETERY - - Ye Pines, with solemn grandeur crowned, - Put on your priestly robes to-day; - Henceforth ye stand on holy ground, - Where Love and Death hold equal sway. - - Lift up to Heaven each crested head, - And raise your giant arms on high, - And swear that o’er our slumbering dead - Ye will keep watch and ward for aye. - - For month by month, and year by year, - While shine the stars, and rolls the sea, - Our silent ones shall gather here, - To rest beneath the greenwood tree. - - Here no rude sight nor sound shall break - The calmness of their last, long sleep, - And Earth and Heaven, for Love’s sweet sake, - Shall o’er them ceaseless vigils keep. - - Our silent ones! Their very dust - Is precious in our longing eyes; - O, guard ye well the sacred trust, - Till God’s own voice shall bid them rise! - - -YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY - - But yesterday among us here, - One with ourselves in hope and fear: - Joying like us in little things, - The sheen of gorgeous insect wings, - The song of bird, the hum of bee, - The white foam of the heaving sea. - - But yesterday your simplest speech, - Your lightest breath, our hearts could reach; - Your very thoughts were ours. Our eyes - Found in your own no mysteries. - Your griefs, your joys, your prayers, we knew, - The hopes that with your girlhood grew. - - But yesterday we dared to say, - “’Twere better you should walk this way - Or that, dear child! Do thus or so; - Older and wiser we, you know.” - We gave you flowers and curled your hair, - And brought new robes for you to wear. - - To-day how far away thou art! - In all thy life we have no part. - Hast thou a want? We know it not; - Utterly parted from our lot, - The veriest stranger is to thee - All those who loved thee best can be. - - Deaf to our calls, our prayers, our cries, - Thou dost not lift thy heavy eyes; - Nor heed the tender words that flow - From lips whose kisses thrilled thee so - But yesterday! To-day in vain - We wait for kisses back again. - - To-day no awful mystery hid - The dark and mazy past amid - Is half so great as this that lies - Beneath the lids of thy shut eyes, - And in those frozen lips of stone, - Impassive lips, that smile nor moan. - - But yesterday with loving care - We petted, praised thee, called thee fair; - To-day, oppressed with awe, we stand - Before that ring-unfettered hand, - And scarcely dare to lift one tress - In mute and reverent caress. - - But yesterday with us. To-day - Where thou art dwelling, who can say? - In heaven? But where? Oh for some spell - To make thy tongue this secret tell! - To break the silence strange and deep, - That thy sealed lips so closely keep! - - - LYRIC - FOR THE DEDICATION OF A MUSIC-HALL - - No grand Cathedral’s vaulted space - Where, through the “dim, religious light,” - Gleam pictured saint and cross and crown, - We consecrate with song to-night; - - No stately temple lifting high - Its dome against the starlit skies, - Where lofty arch and glittering spire - Like miracles of beauty rise. - - Yet here beneath this humbler roof - With reverent hearts and lips we come; - Hail, music! Song and Beauty, hail! - Henceforth be these poor walls your home. - - Here speak to hearts that long have yearned - Your presence and your spells to know; - Here touch the lips athirst to drink - Where your perennial fountains flow. - - Here, where our glorious mountain-peaks - Sublimely pierce the ether blue, - Lift ye our souls, and bid them rise - In aspirations grand and true! - - O Music, Art, and Science, hail! - We greet you now with glad acclaims; - Ye bay-crowned ones! the listening air - Waits to re-echo with your names; - - Waits for your voices ringing clear - Above this weary, work-day world; - Waits till ye bid fair Truth arise, - While Error from her throne is hurled! - - -WHAT I LOST - - Wandering in the dewy twilight - Of a golden summer day, - When the mists upon the mountains - Flushed with purple splendor lay: - When the sunlight kissed the hilltops - And the vales were hushed and dim, - And from out the forest arches - Rose a holy vesper hymn— - I lost something. Have you seen it, - Children, ye who passed that way? - Did you chance to find the treasure - That I lost that summer day? - - It was neither gold nor silver, - Orient pearl nor jewel rare; - Neither amethyst nor ruby, - Nor an opal gleaming fair; - ’Twas no curious, quaint mosaic - Wrought by cunning master-hands, - Nor a cameo where Hebe, - Crowned with deathless beauty, stands. - Yet have I lost something precious; - Children, ye who passed that way— - Tell me, have you found the treasure - That I lost one summer day? - - Then, you say, it was a casket - Filled with India’s perfumes rare, - Or a tiny flask of crystal - Meet the rose’s breath to bear; - Or a bird of wondrous plumage, - With a voice of sweetest tone, - That, escaping from my bosom, - To the greenwood deep has flown. - Ah! not these, I answer vainly; - Children, ye who passed that way, - Ye can never find the treasure - That I lost that summer day! - - You may call it bird or blossom; - Name my treasure what you will; - Here no more its song or fragrance - Shall my soul with rapture fill. - But, thank God! our earthly losses - In no darksome void are cast; - Safely garnered, some to-morrow - Shall restore them all at last. - Somewhere in the great hereafter, - Children, ye who pass this way, - I shall find again the treasure - That I lost one summer day! - - -ONCE! - - Once in your sight, - As May buds swell in the sun’s warm light, - So grew her soul, - Yielding itself to your sweet control. - - Once if you spoke, - Echoing strains in her heart awoke, - Sending a thrill - All through its chambers sweet and still. - - Once if you said, - “Sweet, with Love’s garland I crown your head,” - Ah! how the rose - Flooded her forehead’s pale repose! - - Once if your lip - Dared the pure sweetness of hers to sip, - Softly and meek - Dark lashes drooped on a white rose cheek! - - Once if your name - Some one but whispered, a sudden flame - Burned on her cheek, - Telling a story she would not speak! - - You do but wait - At a sepulchre’s sealed gate! - Her love is dead, - Bound hand and foot in its narrow bed. - - Why did it die? - Ask of your soul the reason why! - Question it well, - And surely the secret it will tell. - - But if your heart - Ever again plays the lover’s part, - Let this truth be - Blent with the solemn mystery: - - Pure flame aspires; - Downward flow not the altar fires; - And skylarks soar - Up where the earth-mists vex no more. - - Now loose your hold - From her white garment’s spotless fold, - And let her pass— - While both hearts murmur, “Alas! alas!” - - -CATHARINE - - O wondrous mystery of death! - I yield me to thine awful sway, - And with hushed heart and bated breath - Bow down before thy shrine to-day! - - But yesterday these pallid lips - Breathed reverently my humble name; - These eyes now closed in drear eclipse - Brightened with gratitude’s soft flame. - - These poor, pale hands were swift to do - The lowliest service I might ask; - These palsied feet the long day through - Moved gladly to each wonted task. - - O faithful, patient, loving one, - Who from earth’s great ones shrank afar, - Canst bear the presence of The Son, - And dwell where holy angels are? - - Dost thou not meekly bow thine head, - And stand apart with humblest mien, - Nor dare with softest step to tread - The ranks of shining Ones between? - - Dost thou not kneel with downcast eyes - The hem of some white robe to touch, - While on thine own meek forehead lies - The crown of her who “lovèd much?” - - O vain imaginings! To-day - Earth’s loftiest prince is not thy peer. - Come, Sage and Seer! mute homage pay - To this Pale Wonder lying here! - - -THE NAME - - I know not by what name to call thee, thou - Who reignest supreme, sole sovereign of my heart! - Thou who the lode-star of my being art, - Thou before whom my soul delights to bow! - What shall I call thee? Teach me some dear name - Better than all the rest, that I may pour - All that the years have taught me of love’s lore - In one fond word. “Lover?” But that’s too tame, - And “Friend”’s too cold, though thou art both to me. - Art thou my King? Kings sit enthroned afar, - And crowns less meet for love than reverence are, - While both my heart gives joyfully to thee. - Art thou—but, ah! I’ll cease the idle quest: - I cannot tell what name befits thee best! - - -UNDER THE PALM-TREES - - We were children together, you and I; - We trod the same paths in days of old; - Together we watched the sunset sky, - And counted its bars of massive gold. - And when from the dark horizon’s brim - The moon stole up with its silver rim, - And slowly sailed through the fields of air, - We thought there was nothing on earth so fair. - - You walk to-night where the jasmines grow, - And the Cross looks down from the tropic skies; - Where the spicy breezes softly blow, - And the slender shafts of the palm-trees rise. - You breathe the breath of the orange-flowers, - And the perfumed air of the myrtle-bowers; - You pluck the acacia’s golden balls, - And mark where the red pomegranate falls. - - I stand to-night on the breezy hill, - Where the pine-trees sing as they sang of yore; - The north star burneth clear and still, - And the moonbeams silver your father’s door. - I can see the hound as he lies asleep, - In the shadow close by the old well-sweep, - And hear the river’s murmuring flow - As we two heard it long ago. - - Do you think of the firs on the mountain-side - As you walk to-night where the palm-trees grow? - Of the brook where the trout in the darkness hide? - Of the yellow willows waving slow? - Do you long to drink of the crystal spring, - In the dell where the purple harebells swing? - Would your pulses leap could you hear once more - The sound of the flail on the threshing-floor? - - Ah! the years are long, and the world is wide, - And the salt sea rolls our hearts between; - And never again at eventide - Shall we two gaze on the same fair scene. - But under the palm-trees wandering slow, - You think of the spreading elms I know; - And you deem our daisies fairer far - Than the gorgeous blooms of the tropics are! - - -NIGHT AND MORNING - - -I. - - Night and darkness over all! - Nature sleeps beneath a pall; - Not a ray from moon or stars - Glimmers through the cloudy bars; - Huge and black the mountains stand - Frowning upon either hand, - And the river, dark and deep, - Gropes its way from steep to steep. - Yonder tree, whose young leaves played - In the sunshine and the shade, - Stretches out its arms like one - Sudden blindness hath undone. - Pale and dim the rose-queen lies - Robbed of all her gorgeous dyes, - And the lily bendeth low, - Mourner in a garb of woe. - Never a shadow comes or goes, - Never a gleam its glory throws - Over cottage or over hall— - Darkness broodeth over all! - - -II. - - Lo! the glorious morning breaks! - Nature from her sleep awakes, - And, in purple pomp, the day - Bids the darkness flee away. - Crowned with light the mountains stand - Royally on either hand, - And the laughing waters run - In glad haste to meet the sun. - Stately trees, exultant, raise - Their proud heads in grateful praise; - Flowers, dew-laden, everywhere - Pour rich incense on the air, - And the ascending vapors rise - Like the smoke of sacrifice. - Birds are trilling, bees are humming, - Swift to greet the new day coming, - And earth’s myriad voices sing - Hymns of grateful welcoming. - Bursting from night’s heavy thrall, - Heaven’s own light is over all! - - -AGNES - - Agnes! Agnes! is it thus - Thou, at last, dost come to us? - From the land of balm and bloom, - Blandest airs and sweet perfume, - Where the jasmine’s golden stars - Glimmer soft through emerald bars, - And the fragrant orange flowers - Fall to earth in silver showers, - Agnes! Agnes! - With thy pale hands on thy breast, - Comest thou here to take thy rest? - - Agnes! Agnes! o’er thy grave - Loud the winter winds will rave, - And the snow fall fast around, - Heaping high thy burial mound; - Yet, within its soft embrace, - Thy dear form and earnest face, - Wrapt away from burning pain, - Ne’er shall know one pang again. - Agnes! Agnes! - Nevermore shall anguish vex thee, - Nevermore shall care perplex thee. - - Agnes! Agnes! wait, ah! wait - Just one moment at the gate, - Ere your pure feet enter in - Where is neither pain nor sin. - Thou art blest, but how shall we - Bear the pang of losing thee? - List! _we love thee!_ By that word - Once thy heart of hearts was stirred. - Agnes! Agnes! - By that love we bid thee wait - Just one moment at the gate! - - Agnes! Agnes! No! Pass on - To the heaven that thou hast won! - By thy life of brave endeavor, - Up the heights aspiring ever, - Whence thy voice, like clarion clear, - Rang out words of lofty cheer; - By thy laboring not in vain, - By thy martyrdom of pain, - Our Saint Agnes— - From our yearning sight pass on - To the rest that thou hast won! - - -“INTO THY HANDS” - - Into thy hands, O Father! Now at last, - Weary with struggling and with long unrest, - Vext by remembrances of conflicts past - And by a host of present cares opprest, - - I come to thee and cry, Thy will be done! - Take thou the burden I have borne too long. - Into thy hands, O mighty, loving One, - My weakness gives its all, for thou art strong! - - For life—for death. I cannot see the way; - I blindly wander on to meet the night; - The path grows steeper, and the dying day - Soon with its shadows will shut out the light. - - Hold thou my hand, O Father! I am tired - As a young child that wearies of the road; - And the far heights toward which I once aspired - Have lost the glory with which erst they glowed. - - Take thou my life, and mold it to thy will; - Into thy hands commit I all my way; - Fain would I lift each cup that thou dost fill, - Nor from its brim my pale lips ever stay. - - Take thou my life. I lay it at thy feet; - And in my death my sure support be thou; - So shall I sink to slumber calm and sweet, - And wake at morn before thy face to bow! - - -IDLE WORDS - - -I. - - Once I said, - Seeing two soft, starry eyes - Darkly bright as midnight skies,— - Eyes prophetic of the power - Sure to be thy woman’s dower, - When the years should crown thee queen - Of the realm as yet unseen,— - “Some time, sweet, those eyes shall make - Lovers mad for their sweet sake!” - - -II. - - Once I said, - Seeing tresses, golden-brown, - In a bright shower falling down - Over neck and bosom white - As an angel’s clad in light— - Odorous tresses drooping low - O’er a forehead pure as snow,— - “Some time, sweet, in thy soft hair - Love shall set a shining snare!” - - -III. - - Once I said, - Seeing lips whose crimson hue - Mocked the roses wet with dew,— - Warm, sweet lips, whose breath was balm,— - Pure, proud lips, serenely calm,— - Tender lips, whose smiling grace - Lit with splendor all the face,— - “Sweet, for kiss of thine some day - Men will barter souls away!” - - -IV. - - Idly said! - God hath taken care of all - Joy or pain that might befall! - Lover’s lip shall never thrill - At thy kisses, soft and still; - Lover’s heart shall never break - In sore anguish for thy sake; - Lover’s soul for thee shall know - Nor love’s rapture, nor its woe;— - All is said! - - -THE SPARROW TO THE SKYLARK - - O skylark, soaring, soaring, - Ere day is well begun, - Thy full, glad song outpouring - To greet the rising sun,— - So high, so high in heaven - Thy swift wing cleaves the blue, - We sparrows in the hedges - Can scarcely follow you! - - O strong, unwearied singer! - By summer winds caressed, - Among the white clouds floating - With sunshine on thy breast, - We hear thy clear notes dropping - In showers of golden rain, - A glad, triumphant music - That hath no thought of pain! - - We twitter in the hedges; - We chirp our little songs, - Whose low, monotonous murmur - To homeliest life belongs; - We perch in lowly places, - We hop from bough to bough, - While in the wide sky-spaces, - On strong wing soarest thou! - - Yet we—we share the rapture - And glory of thy flight— - Thou’rt still a bird, O skylark,— - Thou spirit glad and bright! - And ah! no sparrow knoweth - But its low note may be - Part of earth’s joy and gladness - That finds full voice in thee! - - -THE BELL OF ST. PAUL’S - -“The great bell of St. Paul’s, which only sounds when the King is dead.” - - - Toll, toll, thou solemn bell! - A royal head lies low, - And mourners through the palace halls - Slowly and sadly go. - Lift up thine awful voice, - Thou, silent for so long! - Say that a monarch’s soul has passed - To join the shadowy throng. - - Toll yet again, thou bell! - Mutely thine iron tongue, - Prisoned within yon lofty tower, - For many a year has hung. - But now its mournful peal - Startles a nation’s ear, - And swells from listening shore to shore, - That the whole world may hear. - - A whisper from the past - Blends with each solemn tone - That from those brazen lips of thine - Upon the air is thrown. - Never had trumpet’s peal, - On clarion sounding shrill, - Such power as that deep undertone - The listener’s heart to thrill. - - Come, tell us tales, thou bell, - Of those of old renown, - Those sturdy warrior kings who fought - For sceptre and for crown. - Tell of the lion-hearts - Whose pulses moved the world; - Whose banners flew so swift and far, - O’er land and sea unfurled! - - From out the buried years, - From many a vaulted tomb, - Whence neither pomp nor power could chase - The dim, sepulchral gloom, - Lo, now, a pale, proud line, - They glide before our eyes!— - Art thou a wizard, mighty bell, - To bid the dead arise? - - But toll, toll on, thou bell! - Toll for the royal dead; - Toll—for the hand now sceptreless; - Toll—for the crownless head; - Toll—for the human heart - With all its loves and woes; - Toll—for the soul that passes now - Unto its long repose! - - - DECEMBER 26, 1910 - A BALLAD OF MAJOR ANDERSON - - - Come, children, leave your playing this dark and stormy night, - Shut fast the rattling window-blinds, and make the fire burn bright; - And hear an old man’s story, while loud the fierce winds blow, - Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago. - - I was a young man then, boys, but twenty-nine years old, - And all my comrades knew me for a soldier brave and bold; - My eye was bright, my step was firm, I measured six feet two, - And I knew not what it was to shirk when there was work to do. - - We were stationed at Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor, then, - A brave band, though a small one, of scarcely seventy men; - And day and night we waited for the coming of the foe, - With noble Major Anderson, just fifty years ago. - - Were they French or English, ask you? Oh, neither, neither, child! - We were at peace with other lands, and all the nations smiled - On the stars and stripes, wherever they floated far and free, - And all the foes we had to meet we found this side the sea. - - But even between brothers bitter feuds will sometimes rise, - And ’twas the cloud of civil war that darkened in the skies; - I have not time to tell you how the quarrel first began, - Or how it grew, till o’er our land the strife like wildfire ran. - - I will not use hard words, my boys, for I am old and gray, - And I’ve learned it is an easy thing for the best to go astray; - Some wrong there was on either part, I do not doubt at all; - There are two sides to a quarrel—be it great or be it small! - - You scarce believe me, children. Grief and doubt are in your eyes, - Fixed steadily upon me in wonder and surprise; - Don’t forget to thank our Father, when to-night you kneel to pray, - That an undivided people rule America to-day. - - We were stationed at Fort Moultrie—but about a mile away, - The battlements of Sumter stood proudly in the bay; - ’Twas by far the best position, as he could not help but know, - Our gallant Major Anderson, just fifty years ago. - - Yes, ’twas just after Christmas, fifty years ago to-night; - The sky was calm and cloudless, the moon was large and bright; - At six o’clock the drum beat to call us to parade, - And not a man suspected the plan that had been laid. - - But the first thing a soldier learns is that he must obey, - And that when an order’s given he has not a word to say; - So when told to man the boats, not a question did we ask, - But silently, yet eagerly, began our hurried task. - - We did a deal of work that night, though our numbers were but few; - We had all our stores to carry, and our ammunition too; - And the guard-ship—’twas the Nina—set to watch us in the bay, - Never dreamed what we were doing, though ’twas almost light as day. - - We spiked the guns we left behind, and cut the flag-staff down,— - From its top should float no colors if it might not hold our own,— - Then we sailed away for Sumter as fast as we could go, - With our good Major Anderson, just fifty years ago. - - I never can forget, my boys, how the next day, at noon, - The drums beat and the band played a stirring martial tune, - And silently we gathered round the flag-staff, strong and high, - Forever pointing upward to God’s temple in the sky. - - Our noble Major Anderson was good as he was brave, - And he knew without His blessing no banner long could wave; - So he knelt, with head uncovered, while the chaplain read a prayer, - And as the last amen was said, the flag rose high in air. - - Then our loud huzzas rang out, far and widely o’er the sea! - We shouted for the stars and stripes, the standard of the free! - Every eye was fixed upon it, every heart beat warm and fast, - As with eager lips we promised to defend it to the last! - - ’Twas a sight to be remembered, boys—the chaplain with his book, - Our leader humbly kneeling, with his calm, undaunted look; - And the officers and men, crushing tears they would not shed,— - And the blue sea all around us, and the blue sky overhead! - - Now, go to bed, my children, the old man’s story’s told,— - Stir up the fire before you go, ’tis bitter, bitter cold; - And I’ll tell you more to-morrow night, when loud the fierce winds - blow, - Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago. - - -FROM BATON ROUGE - - From the fierce conflict and the deadly fray - A patriot hero comes to us this day. - - Greet him with music and with loud acclaim, - And let our hills re-echo with his name. - - Bring rarest flowers their rich perfume to shed, - Like sweetest incense, round the warrior’s head. - - Let heart and voice cry “welcome,” and a shout, - Upon the summer air, ring gayly out, - - To hail the hero, who from fierce affray - And deadly conflict comes to us this day. - - Alas! alas! for smiles ye give but tears, - And wordless sorrow on each face appears. - - And for glad music, jubilant and clear, - The tolling bell, the muffled drum, we hear. - - Woe to _us_, soldier, loyal, tried, and brave, - That we have naught to give thee but a grave. - - Woe that the wreath that should have decked thy brow, - Can but be laid upon thy coffin now. - - Woe that thou canst not hear us when we say,— - “Hail to thee, brother, welcome home to-day!” - - O God, we lift our waiting eyes to Thee, - And sadly cry, how long must these things be? - - How long must noble blood be poured like rain, - Flooding our land from mountain unto main? - - How long from desolated hearths must rise - The smoke of life’s most costly sacrifice? - - Our brothers languish upon beds of pain,— - Father, O Father, have they bled in vain? - - Is it for naught that they have drunken up - The very dregs of this most bitter cup? - - How long? how long? O God! our cause is just, - And in Thee only do we put our trust. - - As Thou didst guide the Israelites of old - Through the Red Sea, and through the desert wold, - - Lead Thou our leaders, and our land shall be - For evermore, the land where all are free! - - * * * * * - - Hail and farewell,—we whisper in one breath, - As thus we meet thee, hand in hand with death! - - God give thy ashes undisturbed repose - Where drum-beat wakens neither friend nor foes; - - God take thy spirit to eternal rest, - And, for Christ’s sake, enroll thee with the blest! - - - IN THE WILDERNESS - MAY 6, 1864 - - - How beautiful was earth that day! - The far blue sky had not a cloud; - The river rippled on its way, - Singing sweet songs aloud. - - The delicate beauty of the spring - Pervaded all the murmuring air; - It touched with grace the meanest thing - And made it very fair. - - The blithe birds darted to and fro, - The bees were humming round the hive, - So happy in that radiant glow! - So glad to be alive! - - And I? My heart was calmly blest. - I knew afar the war-cloud rolled - Lurid and dark, in fierce unrest, - Laden with woes untold. - - But on that day my fears were stilled; - The very air I breathed was joy; - The rest and peace my soul that filled - Had nothing of alloy. - - I took the flower he loved the best, - The arbutus,—fairest child of May,— - And with its perfume half oppressed, - Twined many a lovely spray - - About his picture on the wall; - His eyes were on me all the while, - And when I had arranged them all - I thought he seemed to smile. - - O Christ, be pitiful! That hour - Saw him fall bleeding on the sod; - And while I toyed with leaf and flower - His soul went up to God! - - For him one pang—and then a crown; - For him the laurels heroes wear; - For him a name whose long renown - Ages shall onward bear. - - For me the cross without the crown; - For me the drear and lonely life; - O God! My sun, not his, went down - On that red field of strife. - - -CHARLEY OF MALVERN HILL - - A war-worn soldier, bronzed and seamed - By weary march and battle stroke; - ’Twas thus, while leaning on his crutch, - The wounded veteran spoke,— - - “The blue-eyed boy of Malvern Hill! - A hero every inch was he, - Though scarcely larger than the child - You hold, sir, on your knee. - - Some mother’s darling! On that field - He seemed so strangely out of place, - With his pure brow, his shining hair, - His sweet, unconscious grace. - - But not a bearded warrior there - Watched with a more undaunted eye - The blackness of the battle-cloud, - As the fierce storm rose high. - - That morn—ah! what a morn was that!— - We thought to send him to the rear; - We loved the lad—and love, you know, - Is near akin to fear. - - We knew that many a gallant soul - Must pass away in one long sigh, - Ere nightfall. On that bloody field, - ’Twas not for boys to die. - - But he—could you have seen him then, - As, with his blue eyes full of fire, - He poured forth tears and pleadings, half - Of shame and half of ire! - - ‘Oh! do not bid me go!’ he cried; - ‘I love yon flag as well as you! - I did not join your ranks to run - When there is work to do! - - I did not come to beat my drum - Only upon some gala day.’ - The colonel shook his head, but said, - ‘Well, Charley, you may stay.’ - - Ah! then his tears were quickly dried, - A few glad words he strove to say; - But there was little time to talk, - And hardly time to pray. - - For bitter, bitter was the strife - That raged that day on Malvern Hill; - Blue coats and gray in great heaps lay, - Ere that wild storm grew still. - - At length we charged. My very heart - Sank down within me, cold and dumb, - When to the front, and far ahead, - Rushed Charley with his drum! - - Above the cannon’s thundering boom, - The din and shriek of shot and shell, - We heard its clear peal rolling out - Right gallantly and well. - - A moment’s awful waiting! Then - There came a sullen, angry roar,— - O God! An empty void remained - Where Charley stood before. - - What did we then? With souls on fire - We swept upon the advancing foe, - And bade good angels guard the dust - O‘er which no tears might flow!” - - - SUPPLICAMUS - 1864 - - - O laggard Sun! make haste to wake - From her long trance the slumbering earth; - Make haste this icy spell to break, - That she may give new glories birth! - - O April rain! so soft, so warm, - Bounteous in blessing, rich in gifts, - Drop tenderly upon her form, - And bathe the forehead she uplifts. - - O springing grass! make haste to run - With swift feet o’er the meadows bare; - O’er hill and dale, through forest dun, - And where the wandering brooklets are! - - O sweet wild flowers! the darksome mould - Hasten with subtle strength to rift; - Serene in beauty, meek yet bold, - Your fair brows to the sunlight lift! - - O haste ye all! for far away - In lonely beds our heroes sleep, - O’er which no wife may ever pray, - Nor child nor mother ever weep. - - No quaintly carved memorial stone - May tell us that their ashes lie - Where southern pines make solemn moan, - And wailing winds give sad reply. - - But deep in dreary, lonesome shades, - On many a barren, sandy plain, - By rocky pass, in tangled glades, - And by the rolling, restless main; - - By rushing stream, by silent lake, - Uncoffined in their lowly graves, - Until the earth’s last morn shall break, - Must sleep our unforgotten braves! - - O sun! O rain! O gentle dew! - O fresh young grass, and opening flowers! - With yearning hearts we leave to you - The holy task that should be ours! - - Light up the darkling forest’s gloom; - Cover the bare, unsightly clay - With tenderest verdure, with the bloom, - The beauty and perfume of May! - - O sweet blue violets! softly creep - Beside the slumbering warrior’s bed; - O roses! let your red hearts leap - For joy your rarest sweets to shed; - - O humble mosses! such as make - New England’s woods and pastures fair, - Over each mound, for Love’s sweet sake, - Spread your soft folds with tender care. - - Dear Nature, to your loving breast - Clasp our dead heroes! In your arms - Sweet be their sleep, serene their rest, - Unmoved by Battle’s loud alarms! - - -THE LAST OF SIX - - Come in; you are welcome, neighbor; all day I’ve been alone, - And heard the wailing, wintry wind sweep by with bitter moan; - And to-night beside my lonely fire, I mutely wonder why - I, who once wept as others weep, sit here with tearless eye. - - To-day this letter came to me. At first I could not brook - Upon the unfamiliar lines by strangers penned, to look; - The dread of evil tidings shook my soul with wild alarm— - But Harry’s in the hospital, and has only lost an arm. - - He is the last—the last of six brave boys as e’er were seen! - How short, to memory’s vision, seem the years that lie between - This hour and those most blessed ones, when round this hearth’s - bright blaze - They charmed their mother’s heart and eye with all their pretty - ways! - - My William was the eldest son, and he was first to go. - It did not at all surprise me, for I knew it would be so, - From that fearful April Sunday when the news from Sumter came, - And his lips grew white as ashes, while his eyes were all aflame. - - He sprang to join the three months’ men. I could not say him nay, - Though my heart stood still within me when I saw him march away; - At the corner of the street he smiled, and waved the flag he bore; - I never saw him smile again—he was slain at Baltimore. - - They sent his body back to me, and as we stood around - His grave, beside his father’s, in yonder burial-ground, - John laid his hand upon my arm and whispered, “Mother dear, - I have Willy’s work and mine to do. I cannot loiter here.” - - I turned and looked at Paul, for he and John were twins, you know, - Born on a happy Christmas, four-and-twenty years ago; - I looked upon them both, while my tears fell down like rain, - For I knew what one had spoken, had been spoken by the twain. - - In a month or more they left me—the merry, handsome boys, - Who had kept the old house ringing with their laughter, fun, and - noise. - Then James came home to mind the farm; my younger sons were still - Mere children, at their lessons in the school-house on the hill. - - O days of weary waiting! O days of doubt and dread! - I feared to read the papers, or to see the lists of dead; - But when full many a battle-storm had left them both unharmed, - I taught my foolish heart to think the double lives were charmed. - - Their colonel since has told me that no braver boys than they - Ever rallied round the colors, in the thickest of the fray; - Upon the wall behind you their swords are hanging still— - For John was killed at Fair Oaks, and Paul at Malvern Hill. - - Then came the dark days, darker than any known before; - There was another call for men—“three hundred thousand more;” - I saw the cloud on Jamie’s brow grow deeper day by day; - I shrank before the impending blow, and scarce had strength to pray. - - And yet at last I bade him go, while on my cheek and brow - His loving tears and kisses fell; I feel them even now, - Though the eyes that shed the tears, and the lips so warm on mine - Are hidden under southern sands, beneath a blasted pine! - - He did not die in battle-smoke, but for a weary year - He languished in close prison walls, a prey to hope and fear; - I dare not trust myself to think of the fruitless pangs he bore, - My brain grows wild when in my dreams I count his sufferings o’er. - - Only two left! I thought the worst was surely over then; - But lo! at once my school-boy sons sprang up before me—men! - They heard their brothers’ martyr blood call from the hallowed - ground; - A loud, imperious summons that all other voices drowned. - - I did not say a single word. My very heart seemed dead. - What could I do but take the cup, and bow my weary head - To drink the bitter draught again? I dared not hold them back; - I would as soon have tried to check the whirlwind on its track. - - You know the rest. At Cedar Creek my Frederick bravely fell; - They say his young arm did its work right nobly and right well; - His comrades breathe the hero’s name with mingled love and pride; - I miss the gentle blue-eyed boy, who frolicked at my side. - - For me, I ne’er shall weep again. I think my heart is dead; - I, who could weep for lighter griefs, have now no tears to shed. - But read this letter, neighbor. There is nothing to alarm, - For Harry’s in the hospital, and has only lost an arm! - - -THE DRUMMER BOY’S BURIAL - - All day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept; - All night long the stars in heaven o’er the slain sad vigils kept. - - Oh, the ghastly, upturned faces, gleaming whitely through the night! - Oh, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim, sepulchral light! - - One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke; - But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke. - - Slowly passed the golden hours of the long bright summer day, - And upon the field of carnage still the dead unburied lay; - - Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing - prayer, - For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air. - - Once again the night dropped round them—night so holy and so calm - That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or - psalm. - - On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest, - Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast. - - Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep; - Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber, calm and deep. - - For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face, - And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace - - To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose, - Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes. - - And the broken drum beside him all his life’s short story told; - How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o’er him rolled. - - Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars, - While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars. - - Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low— - Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet’s murmuring - flow? - - Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round - As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground, - - Came two little maidens—sisters—with a light and hasty tread, - And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread. - - And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they - stood - Where the Drummer-Boy was lying in that partial solitude. - - They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe’s scanty - store, - And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore. - - Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears, - For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears. - - And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame - Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame. - - For their saintly hearts yearned o’er it in that hour of sorest - need, - And they felt that Death was holy and it sanctified the deed. - - But they smiled and kissed each other when their new, strange task - was o’er, - And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore. - - Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out, - And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about. - - But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done, - And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun. - - And then those little maidens—they were children of our foes— - Laid the body of our Drummer-Boy to undisturbed repose. - - -1865 - - O darkest Year! O brightest Year! - O changeful Year of joy and woe, - To-day we stand beside thy bier, - Still loth to let thee go! - - We look upon thy brow, and say, - “How old he is,—how old and worn!” - Has but a twelvemonth passed away - Since thou wert newly born? - - So long it seems since on the air - The joy-bells rang to hail thy birth— - And pale lips strove to call thee fair, - And sing the songs of mirth! - - For dark the heavens that o’er thee hung; - By stormy winds thy couch was rocked; - Thy cradle-hymn the Furies sung, - While sneering Demons mocked! - - We held our very breath for dread; - Shadowed by clouds, that, like a pall, - Darkened the blue sky overhead, - And night hung over all. - - But thou wert better than our fears, - And bade our land’s long anguish cease; - And gave us, O thou Year of years, - The costly pearl of Peace! - - So dearly bought! By precious blood - Of patriot heroes—sire and son— - And that of him, the pure and good, - Our wearied, martyred One; - - Who bore for us the heavy load— - The cross our hands upon him laid; - Who trod for us the toilsome road - Meekly, yet undismayed! - - And for that gift—although thy graves - Lie thick beneath December’s snow, - Though every hamlet mourns its braves, - And bears its weight of woe— - - We bless thee! Yet, O bounteous year, - For more than Peace we thank thee now, - As bending o’er thine honored bier, - We crown thy pallid brow! - - We bless thee, though we scarcely dare - Give to our new-born joy a tongue; - O mighty Year, upon the air - Thy voice triumphant rung, - - Even in death! and at the sound, - From myriad limbs the fetters fell - Into the dim and vast profound, - While tolled thy passing bell! - - Farewell, farewell, thou storied Year! - Thou wondrous Year of joy and gloom! - With grateful hearts we crown thee, ere - We lay thee in thy tomb! - - -OUR FLAGS AT THE CAPITOL - - Remove them not! Above our fallen braves - Nature not yet her perfect work hath wrought; - Scarce has the turf grown green upon their graves, - The martyr graves for whose embrace they fought. - - The wounds of our long conflict are not healed; - Our land’s fair face is seamed with many a scar; - And woeful sights, on many a battle-field, - Show ghastly grim beneath the evening star. - - Still does the sad Earth tremble with affright, - Lest she the tread of armèd hosts should feel - Once more upon her bosom. Still the Night - Hears, in wild dreams, the cannon’s thundering peal. - - Still do the black-robed mothers come and go; - Still do lone wives by dreary hearth-stones weep; - Still does a Nation, in her pride and woe, - For her dead sons a mournful vigil keep. - - Ah, then, awhile delay! Remove ye not - These drooping banners from their place on high; - They make of each proud hall a hallowed spot, - Where Truth must dwell and Freedom cannot die. - - Now slowly waving in this tranquil air, - What wondrous eloquence is in their speech! - No prophet “silver tongued,” no poet rare, - Even in dreams may hope such heights to reach. - - They tell of Life that calmly looked on Death— - Of peerless valor and of trust sublime— - Of costly sacrifice, of holiest faith, - Of lofty hopes that ended not with Time. - - Oh! each worn fold is hallowed! set apart - To minister unto us in our needs— - To bear henceforth to many a fainting heart, - The cordial wine of noble thoughts and deeds. - - Then leave them yet awhile where, day by day, - The lessons that they teach, your souls may learn; - So shall ye work for righteousness alway, - And for its faithful service ever yearn. - - Now may God bless our land for evermore! - And from all strife and turmoil grant surcease; - While from the mountains to the farthest shore - Accordant voices softly whisper—Peace! - - -MY MOCKING-BIRD - - Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! swinging high - Aloft in your gilded cage, - The clouds are hurrying over the sky, - The wild winds fiercely rage. - But soft and warm is the air you breathe - Up there with the tremulous ivy wreath, - And never an icy blast can chill - The perfumed silence sweet and still. - - Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! from your throat - Breaks forth no flood of song, - Nor even one perfect golden note, - Triumphant, glad, and strong! - But now and then a pitiful wail, - Like the plaintive sigh of the dying gale, - Comes from that arching breast of thine - Swinging up there with the ivy-vine. - - Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! well I know - Your heart is far away, - Where the golden stars of the jasmine glow, - And the roses bloom alway! - For your cradle-nest was softly made - In the depth of a blossoming myrtle’s shade; - And you heard the chant of the southern seas - Borne inland by the favoring breeze. - - But, ah, my beautiful mocking-bird! - Should I bear you back again, - Never would song of yours be heard - Echoing through the glen. - For once, ah! once at the dawn of day, - You waked to the roar of the deadly fray, - When the terrible clash of armèd foes - Startled the vale from its dim repose. - - At first you sat on a swaying bough, - Mocking the bugle’s blare, - Fearless and free in the fervid glow - Of the heated, sulphurous air. - Your voice rang out like a trumpet’s note, - With a martial ring in its upward float, - And stern men smiled, for you seemed to be - Cheering them on to victory! - - But at length, as the awful day wore on, - You flew to a tree-top high, - And sat like a spectre grim and wan, - Outlined against the sky; - Sat silently watching the fiery fray - Till, heaps upon heaps, the Blue and Gray - Lay together, a silent band, - Whose souls had passed to the shadowy land. - - Ah, my mocking-bird! swinging there - Under the ivy-vine, - You still remember the bugle’s blare, - And the blood poured forth like wine. - The soul of song in your gentle breast - Died in that hour of fierce unrest, - When like a spectre grim and wan, - You watched to see how the strife went on. - - -COMING HOME - - When the winter winds were loud, - And Earth wore a snowy shroud, - Oft our darling wrote to us, - And the words ran ever thus— - “I am coming in the spring! - With the mayflower’s blossoming, - With the young leaves on the tree, - O my dear ones, look for me!” - - And she came. One dreary day, - When the skies were dull and gray, - Softly through the open door - Our belovèd came once more. - Came with folded hands that lay - Very quietly alway— - Came with heavy-lidded eyes, - Lifted not in glad surprise. - - Not a single word she spoke; - Laugh nor sigh her silence broke - As across the quiet room, - Darkening in the twilight gloom, - On she passed in stillest guise, - Calm as saint in Paradise, - To the spot where—woe betide!— - Four years since she stood a bride. - - Then, you think, we sprang to greet her— - Sprang with outstretched hands, to meet her; - Clasped her in our arms once more, - As in happy days of yore; - Poured warm kisses on her cheek, - Passive lips and forehead meek, - Till the barrier melted down - That had thus between us grown. - - Ah no!—Darling, did you know - When we bent above you so? - When our tears fell down like rain, - And our hearts were wild with pain? - Did you pity us that day, - Even as holy angels may - Pity mortals here below, - While they wonder at their woe? - - Who can tell us? Word nor sign - Came from those pale lips of thine; - Loving hearts and yearning breast - Lay in coldest, calmest rest. - Is thy Heaven so very fair - That thou dost forget us there? - Speak, belovèd! Woe is me - That in vain I call on thee! - - -WAKENING EARLY - - In loving jest you wrote—“Ah, me! - My babe’s blue eyes are fair to see; - And sweet his cooing love-notes be - That waken me too early!” - - Oh! would to God, beloved, to-day - That merry shout or gleeful play - Might drive your heavy sleep away, - And bid you waken early. - - But vain are all our prayers and cries; - From your low bed you will not rise; - No kisses falling on your eyes, - Can waken you right early. - - Bright are the skies above your bed, - And through the elm-boughs overhead - Are golden sunbeams softly shed, - That wake you late nor early. - - Beside you through these summer days - The murmuring fountain, as it plays, - Fills the soft air with diamond sprays, - But does not wake you early! - - We bring the flowers you loved so well, - The pure white rose and lily bell; - Their sweets break not this fearful spell; - They do not wake you early! - - We sing your songs; we pause to hear - Your bird-like voice rise full and clear; - Ah! dull and heavy is your ear; - We cannot wake you early. - - You will not wake? Then may your sleep, - If it be long, be calm and deep; - Thank God, the eyes forget to weep - That do not waken early! - - - BLEST - Dec. 1865 - - - Sinking to thine eternal rest, - O dying Year! I call thee blest; - Blest as no coming year may be - This side of vast Eternity! - - Thy cheek is pale, thy brow is worn; - Thine arms are weary, that have borne - The heaviest burdens ever laid - On any, since the world was made. - - But thou didst know her whom to-day - My fond heart mourns, and must alway; - She loved thee, claimed thee, called thee dear, - Hailing with joy the glad New Year! - - Thou didst behold her, fair and good, - The perfect flower of womanhood; - Simple and pure in thought and deed, - Yet strong in every hour of need. - - Ah! other years shall come and go, - Bidding the sweet June roses blow; - But never on their yearning eyes - Shall her fair presence once arise! - - The Spring shall miss her, and the long, - Bright Summer days hear not her song; - And hoary Winter, draped in snow, - Finding her not, shall haste to go! - - Therefore, Old Year, I call thee blest, - Thus sinking to eternal rest; - Blest as no other Year may be - This side of vast Eternity! - - -HELEN - - Dear Helen, if thine earnest eyes, - So deeply blue, so darkly bright, - Look downward from the azure skies - That hide thee from my yearning sight: - - Think not, because my days go on - Just as they did when thou wert here, - Sometimes in shade, sometimes in sun, - From month to month, from year to year, - - That I forget thee! Fresh and green - Over each grave the grass must grow - In God’s good time, and, all unseen, - The violets take deep root below. - - But yet the grave itself remains - Beneath the verdure and the bloom; - And all kind Nature’s loving pains - Can but conceal the enduring tomb. - - I work, I read, I sing, I smile, - I train my vines and tend my flowers; - But under thoughts of thee, the while, - Haunt me through all the passing hours. - - And still my heart cries out for thee, - As it must cry till life is past, - And in some land beyond the sea - I meet thy clasping hand at last! - - - - -“PRO PATRIA” - - -THE DEAD CENTURY - - -I. - - Lo! we come - Bearing the Century, cold and dumb! - Folded above the mighty breast - Lie the hands that have earned their rest; - Hushed are the grandly speaking lips; - Closed are the eyes in drear eclipse; - And the sculptured limbs are deathly still, - Responding not to the eager will, - As we come - Bearing the Century, cold and dumb! - - -II. - - Lo! we wait - Knocking here at the sepulchre’s gate! - Souls of the ages passed away, - A mightier joins your ranks to-day; - Open your doors and give him room, - Buried Centuries, in your tomb! - For calmly under this heavy pall - Sleepeth the kingliest of ye all, - While we wait - At the sepulchre’s awful gate! - - -III. - - Yet—pause here, - Bending low o’er the narrow bier! - Pause ye awhile and let your thought - Compass the work that he hath wrought; - Look on his brow so scarred and worn; - Think of the weight his hands have borne; - Think of the fetters he hath broken, - Of the mighty words _his_ lips have spoken - Who lies here - Dead and cold on a narrow bier! - - -IV. - - Ere he goes - Silent and calm to his grand repose— - While the Centuries in their tomb - Crowd together to give him room, - Let us think of the wondrous deeds - Answering still to the world’s great needs, - Answering still to the world’s wild prayer, - He hath been first to do and dare! - Ah! he goes - Crowned with bays to his last repose. - - -V. - - When the earth - Sang for joy to hail his birth, - Over the hill-tops, faint and far, - Glimmered the light of Freedom’s star. - Only a poor, pale torch it seemed— - Dimly from out the clouds it gleamed— - Oft to the watcher’s eye ’twas lost - Like a flame by fierce winds rudely tossed. - Scarce could Earth - Catch one ray when she hailed his birth! - - -VI. - - But erelong - His young voice, like a clarion strong, - Rang through the wilderness far and free, - Prophet and herald of good to be! - Then with a shout the stalwart men - Answered proudly from mount and glen, - Till in the brave, new, western world - Freedom’s banners were wide unfurled! - And ere long - The Century’s voice, like a clarion strong, - - -VII. - - Cried, “O Earth, - Pæans sing for a Nation’s birth! - Shout hosannas, ye golden stars, - Peering through yonder cloudy bars! - Burn, O Sun, with a clearer beam! - Shine, O Moon, with a softer gleam! - Join, ye winds, in the choral strain! - Swell, rolling seas, the glad refrain, - While the Earth - Pæans sings for a Nation’s birth!” - - -VIII. - - Ah! he saw— - This young prophet, with solemn awe— - How, after weary pain and sin, - Strivings without and foes within, - Fruitless prayings and long suspense, - And toil that bore no recompense— - After peril and blood and tears, - Honor and Peace should crown the years! - This he saw - While his heart thrilled with solemn awe. - - -IX. - - His clear eyes, - Gazing forward in glad surprise, - Saw how our land at last should be - Truly the home of the brave and free! - Saw from the old world’s crowded streets, - Pestilent cities, and close retreats, - Forms gaunt and pallid with famine sore - Flee in hot haste to our happy shore, - Their sad eyes - Widening ever in new surprise. - - -X. - - From all lands - Thronging they come in eager bands; - Each with the tongue his mother spoke; - Each with the songs her voice awoke; - Each with his dominant hopes and needs, - Alien habits and varying creeds. - Bringing strange fictions and fancies they came, - Calling old truths by a different name, - When the lands - Sent their sons hither in thronging bands. - - -XI. - - But the Seer— - This dead Century lying here— - Rising out of this chaos, saw - Peace and Order and Love and Law! - Saw by what subtle alchemy - Basest of metals at length should be - Transmuted into the shining gold, - Meet for a king to have and hold. - Ah! great Seer! - This pale Century lying here! - - -XII. - - So he taught - Honest freedom of speech and thought; - Taught that Truth is the grandest thing - Painter can paint, or poet sing; - Taught that under the meanest guise - It marches to deeds of high emprise; - Treading the paths the prophets trod - Up to the very mount of God! - Truth, he taught, - Claims full freedom of speech and thought. - - -XIII. - - Bearing long - Heavy burdens of hate and wrong, - Still has the arm of the Century been - Waging war against crime and sin. - Still has he plead humanity’s cause; - Still has he prayed for equal laws; - Still has he taught that the human race - Is one in despite of hue or place, - Even though long - It has wrestled with hate and wrong. - - -XIV. - - And at length— - A giant arising in his strength— - The fetters of serf and slave he broke, - Smiting them off by a single stroke! - Over the Muscovite’s waste of snows, - Up from the fields where the cotton grows, - Clearly the shout of deliverance rang, - When chattel and serf to manhood sprang, - As at length - The giant rose up in resistless strength. - - -XV. - - Far apart— - Each alone like a lonely heart— - Sat the Nations, until his hand - Wove about them a wondrous band; - Wrought about them a mighty chain - Binding the mountains to the main! - Distance and time rose dark between - Islands and continents still unseen, - While apart - None felt the throb of another’s heart. - - -XVI. - - But to-day - Time and space hath he swept away! - Side by side do the Nations sit - By ties of brotherhood closer knit; - Whispers float o’er the rolling deep; - Voices echo from steep to steep; - Nations speak, and the quick replies - Fill the earth and the vaulted skies; - For to-day - Time and distance are swept away. - - -XVII. - - If strange thrills - Quicken Rome on her seven hills; - If afar on her sultry throne - India wails and makes her moan; - If the eagles of haughty France - Fall as the Prussian hosts advance, - All the continents, all the lands, - Feel the shock through their claspèd hands. - And quick thrills - Stir the remotest vales and hills. - - -XVIII. - - Yet these eyes, - Dark on whose lids Death’s shadow lies, - Let their far-reaching vision rest - Not alone on the mountain’s crest; - Nor did these feet with stately tread - Follow alone where the Nations led; - Nor these pale hands, so weary-worn, - Minister but where States were born!— - These clear eyes, - Soft on whose lips Death’s slumber lies, - - -XIX. - - Turned their gaze, - Earnest and pitiful, on the ways - Where the poor, burdened sons of toil - Earned their bread amid dust and moil. - Saw the dim attics where, day by day, - Women were stitching their lives away, - Bending low o’er the slender steel - Till heart and brain began to reel, - And their days - Stretched on and on in a dreary maze. - - -XX. - - Then he spoke; - Lo! at once into being woke - Muscles of iron, arms of steel, - Nerves that never a thrill could feel! - Wheels and pulleys and whirling bands - Did the work of the weary hands, - And tireless feet moved to and fro - Where the aching limbs were wont to go, - When he spoke - And all his sprites into being woke. - - -XXI. - - Do you say - He was no saint who has passed away? - Saint or sinner, he did brave deeds - Answering still to humanity’s needs! - Songs he hath sung that shall live for aye; - Words he hath uttered that ne’er shall die; - Richer the world than when the earth - Sang for joy to hail his birth, - Even though you say - He was no saint whom we sing to-day. - - -XXII. - - Lo! we wait - Knocking here at the sepulchre’s gate! - Souls of the Ages passed away, - A mightier joins your ranks to-day; - Open your doors, ye royal dead, - And welcome give to this crownèd head! - For calmly under this sable pall - Sleepeth the kingliest of ye all, - While we wait - At the sepulchre’s awful gate! - - -XXIII. - - Give him room - Proudly, Centuries! in your tomb. - Now that his weary work is done, - Honor and rest he well hath won. - Let him who is first among you pay - Homage to him who comes this day, - Bidding him pass to his destined place, - Noblest of all his noble race! - Make ye room - For the kingly dead in the silent tomb! - - - THE RIVER OTTER - A FRAGMENT - - A hundred times the Summer’s fragrant blooms - Have laden all the air with sweet perfumes; - A hundred times, along the mountain-side, - Autumn has flung his crimson banners wide; - A hundred times has kindly Winter spread - His snowy mantle o’er the violet’s bed; - A hundred times has Earth rejoiced to hear - The Spring’s light footsteps in the forest sere, - Since on yon grassy knoll the quick, sharp stroke - Of the young woodman’s axe the silence broke. - Not then did these encircling hills look down - On quaint old farmhouse, or on steepled town. - No church-spires pointed to the arching skies; - No wandering lovers saw the moon arise; - No childish laughter mingled with the song - Of the fair Otter, as it flowed along - As brightly then as now. Ah! little recked - The joyous river, when the sunshine flecked - Its dancing waters, that no human eye - Gave it glad welcome as it frolicked by! - The long, uncounted years had come and flown, - And it had still swept on, unseen, unknown, - Biding its time. No minstrel sang its praise, - No poet named it in immortal lays. - It played no part in legendary lore, - And young Romance knew not its winding shore. - But in her own loveliness Nature is glad, - And little she cares for man’s smile or his frown; - In the robes of her royalty still she is clad, - Though his eye may behold not her sceptre or crown! - And over our beautiful Otter the trees - Swayed lightly as now in the frolicsome breeze; - And the tremulous violet lifted an eye - As blue as its own to the laughing blue sky. - The harebell trembled on its stem - Down where the rushing waters gleam, - A sapphire on the broidered hem - Of some fair Naiad of the stream. - The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold, - Held up their chalices of gold - To catch the sunshine and the dew, - Gayly as those that bloom for you. - And deep within the forest shade, - Where broadest noon mere twilight made, - Ten thousand small, sweet censers swung, - And tiny bells by zephyrs rung, - Made tinkling music till the day - In solemn splendor died away. - The woods were full of praise and prayer, - Although no human tongue was there; - For every pine and hemlock sung - The grand cathedral aisles among, - And every flower that gemmed the sod - Looked up and whispered, “Thou art God.” - The birds sung as they sing to-day, - A song of love and joy alway. - The brown thrush from its golden throat - Poured out its long, melodious note; - The pigeons cooed; the veery threw - Its mellow thrill from spray to spray; - The wild night-hawk its trumpet blew, - And the owl cried, “Tu whit, tu whoo,” - From set of sun to break of day. - The partridge reared her fearless brood - Safe in the darkling solitude, - And the bald eagle built its nest - High on the tall cliff’s craggy crest. - And often, when the still moonlight - Made all the lonely valley bright, - Down from the hills its thirst to slake, - The deer trod softly through the brake; - While far away the spotted fawn - Waited the coming of the dawn, - And trembled when the panther’s scream - Startled it from a troubled dream. - The black bear roamed the forest wide; - The fierce wolf tracked the mountain-side; - The wild-cat’s silent, stealthy tread - Was, even there, a fear and dread; - The red fox barked—a strange, weird sound, - That woke the slumbering echoes round; - And the burrowing mink and otter hid - In their holes the tangled roots amid. - Lords of their limitless domain, - Of hill and dale, of mount and plain, - The wild things dreamed not of the hour - When they should own their Master’s power! - - - PAST AND PRESENT - (DRIFTWOOD) - - . . . Grand, heroic, true, - Faithful and brave thine earnest work to do, - O glorious present! we rejoice in thee, - Thou noble nurse of great deeds yet to be! - Hast thou not shown us that our mother Earth - Still, in exultant joy, gives heroes birth? - Do not the old romances that our youth, - Revered and honored as the truest truth, - Grow pale and dim before the facts sublime - Thy pen has written on the scroll of Time? - Ah! never yet did poet’s tongue, - Though like a silver bell it rung; - Or minstrel, o’er his sounding lyre - Breathing the old, prophetic fire; - Or harper, in the storied walls - Of Scotia’s proud, baronial halls— - Where mail-clad men with sword and spear - Waited entranced the song to hear, - That through the stormy midnight hour - Fast held them in its spell of power— - Ah! never yet did they rehearse, - In flowing rhyme or stately verse, - The praise of deeds more nobly done, - Or tell of fields more grandly won! - We laud thee, we praise thee, we bless thee to-day! - At thy feet, lowly bending, glad homage we pay! - Thou hast taught us that men are as brave as of yore; - That the day of great deeds and great thought is not o’er; - That the courage undaunted, the far-reaching faith, - The strength that unshaken looks calmly on death, - The self-abnegation that hastens to lay - Its all on the altar, have not passed away. - Thou hast taught us that “country” is more than a name; - That honor unsullied is better than fame; - Thou hast proved that while man can still battle for truth, - Even boyhood can give up the promise of youth, - And, yielding its life with a smile and a sigh, - Say, “’Tis sweet for my God and my country to die.” - O heart-searching Present, thy sons have gone down - To the night of the grave in their day of renown! - Thy daughters have watched by the hearth-stone in vain - For the loved and the lost that returned not again. - No Spartans were they—yet with tears falling fast, - Their faith and their patience endured to the last; - And God gave them strength to their dearest to say, - “Go ye forth to the fight, while we labor and pray!” - Thou hast opened thy coffers on land and on sea, - And broad-handed Charity, noble and free, - Has lavished thy bounties on friend and on foe, - Like the rain that, descending, falls softly and slow - On the just and the unjust, and never may know - The one from the other. When thy story is told - By some age that looks backward and calls thee “the old,” - It shall puzzle its sages, all great as thou art, - To tell which was greatest, thy head or thy heart! - Mighty words thy lips have spoken— - Strongest fetters thou hast broken— - And in tones like those of thunder, - When the clouds are rent asunder, - Thou hast made the Nations hear thee— - Thou hast bade the Tyrants fear thee— - And our hearts to-day proclaim thee, - As they oft have done before, - Fit to lead the glorious legions - Of the glorious days of yore! - Yet still, we pray thee, veil awhile - Thy splendor from our dazzled eyes - And hide the glory of thy smile, - Lest our souls wake to new surprise! - Bear with us while our feet to-day - Retrace a dim and shadowy way, - In search of what, it well may be, - Shall help to make us worthier thee! - - * * * * * - - And now, O, spirit of the Past, draw near, - And let us feel thy blessed presence here! - With reverent hearts and voices hushed and low, - We wait to hear thy garments’ rustling flow! - From all the conflicts of our busy life, - From all its bitter and enduring strife, - Its eager yearnings and its wild turmoil, - Its cares, its joys, its sorrows and its toil, - Its aspirations, that too often seem - Like the remembered phantoms of a dream, - We turn aside. This hour is thine alone, - And none shall share the grandeur of thy throne. - Ah! thou art here! Beneath these whispering trees - Thy breath floats softly on the passing breeze; - We feel the presence that we cannot see, - And every moment draws us nearer thee. - Could we but see thee with thy solemn eyes, - In whose rare depths such wondrous meaning lies— - Thy dark robes sweeping this enchanted ground— - Thy midnight hair with purple pansies crowned— - Thy lip so sadly sweet, thy brow serene! - There is no expectation in thy mien, - For thou hast done with dreams. Nor joy nor pain - Can e’er disturb thy placid calm again. - What is this veil that hides thee from our sight? - Breathe it away, thou spirit darkly bright! - It may not be! Our eyes are dim, - Perhaps with age, perhaps with tears; - We hear no more the choral hymn - The angels sing among the spheres. - Weary and worn and tempest-tossed, - Much have we gained—and something lost— - Since in the sunbeams golden glow, - The rippling river’s silvery flow, - The song of bird or murmuring bee, - The fragrant flower, the stately tree, - The royal pomp of sunset skies, - And all earth’s varied harmonies, - We saw and heard what nevermore - Can Earth or Heaven to us restore, - And felt a child’s unquestioning faith - In childhood’s mystic lore! - - * * * * * - - Yet could our voices reach the slumbering dead - Who rest so calmly in yon grass-grown bed, - This truth would seem with greatest wonder fraught— - _That they are heroes to our eyes and thought_. - For they were men who never dreamed of fame: - They did not toil to make themselves a name; - They little fancied that when years had passed, - And the long century had died at last, - Another age should make their graves a shrine, - And humble chaplets for their memory twine. - They simply strove, as other men may strive, - Full, earnest lives in sober strength to live; - They did the duty nearest to their hand; - Subdued wild nature as at God’s command; - Laid the broad acres open to the sun, - And made fair homes in forests dark and dun; - Built churches, founded schools, established laws, - Kindly and just and true to freedom’s cause; - Resisted wrong, and with stout hands and hearts, - In war, as well as peace, played well their parts. - Their men were brave; their women pure and true; - Their sons ashamed no honest work to do; - And while they dreamed no dreams of being great, - They did great deeds, and conquered hostile Fate. - We laud them, we praise them, we bless them to-day; - At their graves, as their right, tearful homage we pay! - And the laurel-crowned Present comes humbly at last, - And bends by our side at the shrine of the Past. - With the hands that such burdens unshrinking have borne, - From the brow weary cares have so furrowed and worn, - She takes off the chaplet, and lays it with tears, - That she cares not to hide, at the feet of the Years. - Hark! a breath of faint music, a murmur of song! - A form of strange beauty is floating along - On the soft summer air, and the Future draws near, - With a light on her young face, unshadowed and clear. - Two garlands she bears in the arms that not yet - Have toiled ’neath the burden and heat of the day; - Lo! both are of amaranth, fragrant and wet - With the dew of remembrance, and fadeless alway. - Oh! well may we hush our vain babblings—and wait! - He who merits the crown, wears it sooner or late! - On the brow of the Present, the grave of the Past, - The wreaths they have earned shall rest surely at last! - - -VERMONT - -(WRITTEN FOR THE VERMONT CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, AT BENNINGTON, -AUGUST 15, 1877.) - - -I. - - O woman-form, majestic, strong and fair, - Sitting enthroned where in upper air - Thy mountain-peaks in solemn grandeur rise, - Piercing the splendor of the summer skies— - Vermont! Our mighty mother, crowned to-day - In all the glory of thy hundred years, - If thou dost bid me sing, how can I but obey? - What though the lips may tremble, and the verse - That fain would grandly thy grand deeds rehearse - May trip and falter, and the stammering tongue - Leave all unrhymed the rhymes that should be sung? - I can but do thy bidding, as is meet, - Bowing in humble homage at thy feet— - Thy royal feet—and if my words are weak, - O crownèd One, ’twas thou didst bid me speak! - - -II. - - Yet what is there to say, - Even on this proud day, - This day of days, that hath not oft been said? - What song is there to sing - That hath not oft been sung? - What laurel can we bring - That ages have not hung - A thousand times above their glorious dead? - What crown to crown the living - Is left us for our giving, - That is not shaped to other brows - That wore it long ago? - Our very vows but echo vows - Breathed centuries ago! - Earth has no choral strain, - No sweet or sad refrain, - No lofty pæan swelling loud and clear, - That Virgil did not know, - Or Danté, wandering slow - In mystic trances, did not pause to hear! - When gods from high Olympus came - To touch old Homer’s lips with flame, - The morning stars together sung - To teach their raptures to his tongue. - For him the lonely ocean moaned; - For him the mighty winds intoned - Their deep-voiced chantings, and for him - Sweet flower-bells pealed in forests dim. - From earth and sea and sky he caught - The spell of their divinest thought, - While yet it blossomed fresh and new - As Eden’s rosebuds wet with dew! - Oh! to have lived when earth was young, - With all its melodies unsung! - The dome of heaven bent nearer then - When gods and angels talked with men— - When Song itself was newly born, - The Incarnation of the Morn! - But now, alas! all thought is old, - All life is but a story told, - And poet-tongues are manifold; - And he is bold who tries to wake, - Even for God or Country’s sake, - In voice, or pen, or lute, or lyre, - Sparks of the old Promethean fire! - - -III. - - And yet—O Earth, thank God!—the soul of song - Is as immortal as the eternal stars! - O trembling heart! take courage and be strong. - Hark! to a voice from yonder crystal bars: - - _“Did the roses blow last June? - Do the stars still rise and set? - And over the crests of the mountains - Are the light clouds floating yet? - Do the rivers run to the sea - With a deep, resistless flow? - Do the little birds sing north and south - As the seasons come and go?_ - - _Are the hills as fair as of old? - Are the skies as blue and far? - Have you lost the pomp of the sunset, - Or the light of the evening star? - Has the glory gone from the morning? - Do the wild winds wail no more? - Is there now no thunder of billows - Beating the storm-lashed shore?_ - - _Is Love a forgotten story? - Is Passion a jester’s theme? - Has Valor thrown down its armor? - Is Honor an idle dream? - Is there no pure trust in woman? - No conquering faith in God? - Are there no feet strong to follow - In the paths the martyrs trod?_ - - _Did you find no hero graves - When your violets bloomed last May— - Prouder than those of Marathon, - Or ‘old Platea’s day’? - When your red and white and blue - On the free winds fluttered out, - Were there no strong hearts and voices - To receive it with a shout? - Oh! let the Earth grow old! - And the burning stars grow cold! - And, if you will, declare man’s story told! - Yet, pure as faith is pure, - And sure as death is sure, - As long as love shall live, shall song endure!_” - - -IV. - - When, one by one, the stately, silent Years - Glide like pale ghosts beyond our yearning sight, - Vainly we stretch our arms to stay their flight, - So soon, so swift they pass to endless night! - We hardly learn to name them, - To praise them or to blame them, - To know their shadowy faces, - Ere we see their empty places! - Only once the glad Spring greets them; - Only once fair Summer meets them; - Only once the Autumn glory - Tells for them its mystic story; - Only once the Winter hoary - Weaves for them its robes of light! - Years leave their work half-done; like men, alas! - With sheaves ungathered to their graves they pass, - And are forgotten. What they strive to do - Lives for a while in memory of a few; - Then over all Oblivion’s waters flow— - The Years are buried in the long ago! - But when a Century dies, what room is there for tears? - Rather in solemn exaltation let us come, - With roll of drum - (Not muffled as in woe), - With blare of bugles, and the liquid flow - Of silver clarions, and the long appeal - Of the clear trumpets ringing peal on peal; - With clash of bells, and hosts in proud array, - To pay meet homage to its burial day! - For its proud work is done. Its name is writ - Where all the ages that come after it - Shall read the eternal letters, blazoned high - On the blue dome of the impartial sky. - What ruthless fate can darken its renown, - Or dim the lustre of its starry crown? - On mountain-peaks of Time each Century stands alone; - And each, for glory or for shame, hath reaped what it hath sown! - - -V. - - But this—the one that gave thee birth - A hundred years ago, O beauteous mother! - This mighty Century had a mightier brother, - Who from the watching earth - Passed but last year! Twin-born indeed were they— - For what are twelve months to the womb of time - Pregnant with ages?—Hand in hand they climbed - With clear, young eyes uplifted to the stars; - With great, strong souls that never stopped for bars, - Through storm and darkness up to glorious day! - Each knew the other’s need; each in his breast - The subtle tie of closest kin confessed; - Counted the other’s honor as his own; - Nor feared to sit upon a separate throne; - Nor loved each other less when—wondrous fate!— - One gave a Nation life, and one a State! - - -VI. - - Oh! rude the cradle in which each was rocked, - The infant Nation, and the infant State! - Rough nurses were the Centuries, that mocked - At mother-kisses, and for mother-arms - Gave their young nurslings sudden harsh alarms, - Quick blows and stern rebuffs. They bade them wait, - Often in cold and hunger, while the feast - Was spread for others, and, though last not least, - Gave them sharp swords for playthings, and the din - Of actual battle for the mimic strife - That childhood glories in! - Yet not the less they loved them. Spartans they, - Who could not rear a weak, effeminate brood. - Better the forest’s awful solitude, - Better the desert spaces, where the day - Wanders from dawn to dusk and finds no life! - - -VII. - - But over all the tireless years swept on, - Till side by side the Centuries grew old, - And the young Nation, great and strong and bold, - Forgot its early struggles, in triumphs later won! - It stretched its arms from East to West; - It gathered to its mighty breast - From every clime, from every soil, - The hunted sons of want and toil; - It gave to each a dwelling-place; - It blent them in one common race; - And over all, from sea to sea, - Wide flew the banner of the free! - It did not fear the wrath of kings, - Nor the dread grip of deadlier things— - Gaunt Famine with its ghastly horde, - Dishonor sheathing its foul sword, - Nor faithless friend, nor treacherous blow - Struck in the dark by stealthy foe; - For over all its wide domain, - From shore to shore, from main to main, - From vale to mountain-top, it saw - The reign of plenty, peace, and law! - - -VIII. - - Thus fared the Nation, prosperous, great, and free, - Prophet and herald of the good to be; - And on its humbler way, in calm content, - The lesser State, the while, serenely went. - Safe in her mountain fastnesses she dwelt, - Her life’s first cares forgot, its woes unfelt, - And thought her bitterest tears had all been shed, - For peace was in her borders, and God reigned overhead. - - -IX. - - But suddenly over the hills there came - A cry that rent her with grief and shame— - A cry from the Nation in sore distress, - Stricken down in the pride of its mightiness! - With passionate ardor up she sprang, - And her voice like the peal of a trumpet rang— - “What ho! what ho! brave sons of mine, - Strong with the strength of the mountain pine! - To the front of the battle, away! away! - The Nation is bleeding in deadly fray, - The Nation, it may be, is dying to-day! - On, then, to the rescue! away! away!” - - -X. - - Ah! how they answered let the ages tell, - For they shall guard the sacred story well! - Green grows the grass to-day on many a battle-field; - War’s dread alarms are o’er; its scars are healed; - Its bitter agony has found surcease; - A re-united land clasps hands in peace. - But, oh! ye blessed dead, whose graves are strown - From where our forests make perpetual moan, - To those far shores where smiling Southern seas - Give back soft murmurs to the fragrant breeze— - Oh! ye who drained for us the bitter cup, - Think ye we can forget what ye have offered up? - The years will come and go, and other centuries die, - And generation after generation lie - Down in the dust; but, long as stars shall shine, - Long as Vermont’s green hills shall bear the pine, - As long as Killington shall proudly lift - Its lofty peak above the storm-cloud’s rift, - Or Mansfield hail the blue, o’erarching skies, - Or fair Mount Anthony in grandeur rise, - So long shall live the deeds that ye have done, - So deathless be the glory ye have won! - - -XI. - - Not with exultant joy - And pride without alloy, - Did the twin Centuries rejoice when all was o’er. - What though the Nation rose - Triumphant o’er its foes? - What though the State had gained - The meed of faith unstained? - Their mighty hearts remembered the dead that came no more! - Remembered all the losses, - The weary, weary crosses, - Remembered earth was poorer for the blood that had been shed, - And knew that it was sadder for the story it had read! - So, clasping hands with somewhat saddened mien, - And eyes uplifted to the Great Unseen - That rules alike o’er Centuries and men, - Onward they walked serenely toward—the End! - - -XII. - - One reached it last year. Ye remember well— - The wondrous tale there is no need to tell— - How the whole world bowed down beside its bier; - How all the Nations came, from far or near, - Heaping their treasures on its mighty pall— - Never had kingliest king such funeral! - Old Asia rose, and, girding her in haste, - Swept in her jewelled robes across the waste, - And called to Egypt lying prone and hid - Where waits the Sphinx beside the pyramid; - Fair Europe came with overflowing hands, - Bearing the riches of her many lands; - Dark Afric, laden with her virgin gold, - Yet laden deeper with her woes untold; - Japan and China in grotesque array, - And all the enchanted islands of Cathay! - - -XIII. - - To-day the other dies. - It walked in humbler guise, - Nor stood where all men’s eyes - Were fixed upon it. - Earth may not pause to lay - A wreath upon its bier, - Nor the world heed to-day - Our dead that lieth here! - - Yet well they loved each other— - It and its greater brother. - To loftiest stature grown, - Each earned its own renown; - Each sought of Time a crown, - And each has won it; - - -XIV. - - But what to us are Centuries dead, - And rolling Years forever fled, - Compared with thee, O grand and fair - Vermont—our Goddess-mother? - Strong with the strength of thy verdant hills, - Fresh with the freshness of mountain-rills, - Pure as the breath of the fragrant pine, - Glad with the gladness of youth divine, - Serenely thou sittest throned to-day - Where the free winds that round thee play - Rejoice in thy waves of sun-bright hair, - O thou, our glorious mother! - Rejoice in thy beautiful strength and say - Earth holds not such another! - Thou art not old with thy hundred years, - Nor worn with toil, or care, or tears: - But all the glow of the summer-time - Is thine to-day in thy glorious prime! - Thy brow is fair as the winter-snows, - With a stately calm in its still repose; - While the breath of the rose the wild bee sips, - Half-mad with joy, cannot eclipse - The marvellous sweetness of thy lips; - And the deepest blue of the laughing skies - Hides in the depths of thy fearless eyes, - Gazing afar over land and sea - Wherever thy wandering children be! - Fold on fold, - Over thy form of grandest mould - Floweth thy robe of forest green, - Now light, now dark, in its emerald sheen. - Its broidered hem is of wild flowers rare, - With feathery fern-fronds light as air - Fringing its borders. In thy hair - Sprays of the pink arbutus twine, - And the curling rings of the wild grape vine. - Thy girdle is woven of silver streams; - Its clasp with the opaline lustre gleams - Of a lake asleep in the sunset beams; - And, half concealing - And half revealing, - Floats over all a veil of mist - Pale-tinted with rose and amethyst! - - -XV. - - Arise, O noble mother of great sons, - Worthy to rank among earth’s mightiest ones, - And daughters fair and beautiful and good, - Yet wise and strong in loftiest womanhood— - Rise from thy throne, and, standing far and high - Outlined against the blue, adoring sky, - Lift up thy voice, and stretch thy loving hands - In benediction o’er the waiting lands! - Take thou our fealty! at thy feet we bow, - Glad to renew each oft-repeated vow! - No costly gifts we bring to thee to-day; - No votive wreaths upon thy shrine we lay; - Take thou our hearts, then!—hearts that fain would be - From this day forth, O goddess, worthier thee! - - - GETTYSBURG - 1863-1889 - - -I. - - Brothers, is this the spot? - Let the drums cease to beat; - Let the tread of marching feet, - With the clash and clang of steel - And the trumpet’s long appeal - (Cry of joy and sob of pain - In its passionate refrain) - Cease awhile, - Nor beguile - Thoughts that would rehearse the story - Of the past’s remembered glory; - Thoughts that would revive to-day - Stern War’s rude, imperious sway; - Waken battle’s fiery glow - With its ardor and its woe, - With its wild, exulting thrills, - With the rush of mighty wills, - And the strength to do and dare— - Born of passion and of prayer! - - -II. - - Let the present fade away, - And the splendors of to-day; - For our hearts within us burn - As our glances backward turn. - What rare memories awaken - As the tree of life is shaken, - And its storied branches blow - In the winds of long ago! - Do ye not remember, brothers, - Ere the war-days how ’twas said - Grand, heroic days were over - And proud chivalry was dead? - Still we saw the glittering lances - Gleaming through the old romances, - Still beheld the watch-fires burning - On the cloudy heights of Time; - And from fields that they had won, - When the stormy fight was done, - Saw victorious knights returning - Flushed with triumph’s joy sublime! - For the light of song and story - Kindled with supernal glory - Plains where ancient heroes fought; - And illumined, with a splendor - Rare and magical and tender, - All the mighty deeds they wrought. - But we thought the sword of battle, - Long unused, had lost its glow, - And the sullen war-gods slumbered - Where their altar-fires burned low! - - -III. - - _Was_ the nation dull and sodden, - Buried in material things? - ’Twas the chrysalis, awaiting - The sure stirring of its wings! - For when rang the thrilling war-cry - Over all the startled land, - And the fiery cross of battle, - Flaming, sped from hand to hand, - Then how fared it, O my brothers? - Were men false or craven then? - Did they falter? - Did they palter? - Did they question why or when? - Oh, the story shall be told - Until earth itself is old, - How, from mountain and from glen, - More than thrice ten thousand men - Heard the challenge of the foe, - Heard the nation’s cry of woe, - Heard the summoning to arms, - And the battle’s loud alarms! - In tumultuous surprise, - Lo, their answer rent the skies; - And its quick and strong heart-thrills - Rocked the everlasting hills! - Forth from blossoming fields they sped - To the fields with carnage red! - Left the plowshare standing still; - Left the bench, the forge, the mill; - Left the quiet walks of trade - And the quarry’s marble shade; - Left the pulpit and the court, - Careless ease and idle sport; - Left the student’s cloistered halls - In the old, gray college walls; - Left young love-dreams, dear and sweet, - War’s stern front, unblenched, to meet! - Oh, the strange and sad amaze - Of those unforgotten days, - When the boys whom we had guided, - Nursed and loved, caressed and chided, - Suddenly, as in a night, - Sprang to manhood’s proudest height; - And with calmly smiling lips, - As who life’s rarest goblet sips, - Dauntless, with unhurried breath, - Marched to danger and to death! - - -IV. - - Soldiers, is this the spot? - Fair the scene is, calm and fair, - In this still October air; - Far blue hills look gently down - On the happy, tranquil town, - And the ridges nearer by - Steeped in autumn sunshine lie. - Laden orchards, smiling fields, - Rich in all that nature yields; - Bright streams winding in and out - Fertile meadows round about, - Lowing herds and hum of bee, - Birds that flit from tree to tree, - Children’s voices ringing clear, - All we touch or see or hear— - Fruit of gold in silver set— - Tell of joy and peace. And yet— - Soldiers, is this the spot - That can never be forgot? - Was it here that shot and shell - Poured as from the mouth of hell, - Drenched the shrinking, trembling plain - With a flood of fiery rain? - Was it here the awful wonder - Of the cannon’s crashing thunder - Shook the affrighted hills, and made - Even the stolid rocks afraid? - Was it here an armèd host, - Like two clouds where lightnings play, - Or two oceans, tempest tost, - Clashed and mingled in the fray? - Here that, ’mid the din and smoke, - Roar of guns and sabre stroke, - Tramp of furious steeds, where moan - Horse and rider, both o’erthrown, - Lurid fires and battle yell, - Forty thousand brave men fell? - - -V. - - O brothers, words are weak! - What tongue shall dare to speak? - Even song itself grows dumb - In this high presence.—Come - Forth, ye whose ashes lie - Under this arching sky! - Speak ye in accents clear - Words that we fain would hear! - Tell us when your dim eyes, - Holy with sacrifice, - Looked through the battle smoke - Up to the skies; - Tell us, ye valiant dead, - When your souls starward fled, - How from the portals far - Where the immortals are, - Chieftains and vikings old, - Heroes and warriors bold, - Men whom old Homer sung, - Men of each age and tongue, - Knights from a thousand fields - Bearing their blazoned shields - Thronged forth to meet ye! - Tell us how, floating down, - Each with a martyr’s crown, - They who had kept the faith, - Grandly defying death; - They who for conscience’ sake - Felt their firm heartstrings break; - They who for truth and right - Unshrinking fought the fight; - They who through fire and flame - Passed on to deathless fame, - Hastened to greet ye! - Tell how they welcomed ye, - Hailed and applauded ye, - Claimed ye as comrades true, - Brave as the world e’er knew; - Led your triumphant feet - Up to the highest seat, - Crowned ye with amaranth, - Laurel and palm. - - -VI. - - Alas, alas! They speak not! - The silence deep they break not! - Heaven keeps its martyred ones - Beyond or moon or suns; - And Valhalla keeps its braves, - Leaving to us their graves! - Then let these graves speak for them - As long as the wind sweeps o’er them! - As long as the sentinel ridges - Keep guard on either hand; - As long as the hills they fought for - Like silent watch-towers stand! - - -VII. - - Yet not of them alone - Round each memorial stone - Shall the proud breezes whisper as they pass, - Rustling the faded leaves - On chilly autumn eves, - And swaying tenderly the sheltering grass! - O ye who on this field - Knew not the joy to yield - Your young, glad lives in glorious conflict up; - Ye who as bravely fought, - Ye who as grandly wrought, - Draining with them war’s darkly bitter cup, - As long as stars endure - And God and Truth are sure; - While Love still claims its own, - While Honor holds its throne - And Valor hath a name, - Still shall these stony pages - Repeat to all the ages - The story of your fame! - - -VIII. - - O beautiful one, my Country, - Thou fairest daughter of Time, - To-day are thine eyes unclouded - In the light of a faith sublime! - No thunder of battle appals thee; - From thy woe thou hast found release; - From the graves of thy sons steals only - This one soft whisper,—“PEACE!” - - -“NO MORE THE THUNDER OF CANNON” - - No more the thunder of cannon, - No more the clashing of swords, - No more the rage of the contest, - Nor the rush of contending hordes; - But, instead, the glad reunion, - The clasping of friendly hands, - The song, for the shout of battle, - Heard over the waiting lands. - - O brothers, to-night we greet you - With smiles, half sad, half gay— - For our thoughts are flying backward - To the years so far away— - When with you who were part of the conflict, - With us who remember it all, - Youth marched with his waving banner, - And his voice like a bugle call! - - We would not turn back the dial, - Nor live over the past again; - We would not the path re-travel, - Nor barter the “now” for the “then.” - Yet, oh, for the bounding pulses, - And the strength to do and dare, - When life was one grand endeavor, - And work clasped hands with prayer! - - But blessed are ye, O brothers, - Who feel in your souls alway - The thrill of the stirring summons - You heard but to obey; - Who, whether the years go swift, - Or whether the years go slow, - Will wear in your hearts forever - The glory of long ago! - - - GRANT - AUGUST 8, 1885 - - - God sends his angels where he will, - From world to world, from star to star; - They do his bidding as they fly, - Whether or near or far! - - Whither it went, or what its quest, - I know not; but one August day - A great white angel through the far - Dim spaces took its way; - - Until below it our fair earth, - Like a rich jewel fitly hung— - An emerald set with silver gleams— - In the blue ether swung. - - The angel looked; the angel paused; - Then down the starry pathway swept, - Till mount and valley, hill and plain, - Beneath its vision slept. - - Poised on a far blue mountain peak, - It saw the land, from sea to sea, - Lifting in veilèd splendor up - The banner of the free! - - From tower and turret, spire and dome, - From stately halls, and cabins rude, - Where crag and cliff and forest meet - In awful solitude, - - It saw strange, sombre pennants float, - Black shadows on the summer breeze - That bore, from shore to shore, the wail - Of solemn symphonies. - - It saw long files of armèd men, - Clad in a garb of faded blue, - Pass up and down the sorrowing land - As if in grand review. - - It saw through crowded city streets, - Funereal trains move to and fro, - With tolling bells, and muffled drums, - And trumpets wailing low. - - Descending then the angel sought - A stern, sad man of many cares— - Ah, oft before have mortals talked - With angels, unawares! - - The angel spake, as man to man— - “What does it mean, O friend?” it cried, - “These sad-browed hosts, these weeds of woe, - This mourning far and wide?” - - The stranger answered in amaze— - “Know you not what the whole world knows? - To his long home, thus grandly borne, - Earth’s greatest warrior goes. - - The foremost soldier of his age, - The victor on full many a field— - Who saw the bravest of the brave - To his stern prowess yield.” - - The angel sighed. “That means,” it said, - “Tumult and anguish, pain and death, - And countless sons of men borne down - By the fierce cannon’s breath!” - - Then passed from sight the heavenly guest, - And from the mountain-top again - Took its far flight from North to South, - Above the homes of men. - - But still, where’er it went, it saw - The starry banners half mast high, - And tower and turret hung with black - Against the reddening sky! - - Still saw long ranks of armèd men - Who for the blue had worn the gray— - Still saw the sad processions pass, - Darkening the summer day! - - “Was this _their_ conqueror whom you mourn?” - The angel said to one who kept - Lone watch where, deep in grass-grown graves, - Young Southern soldiers slept. - - “Victor, yet friend,” the answer came, - “Even theirs who here their life-blood poured! - He, when the bitter field was won, - Was first to sheathe the sword, - - And cry: ‘O brothers, take my hand— - Brave foemen, let us be at peace! - O’er all the undivided land - Let clash of conflict cease!’” - - The wondering angel went its way - From world to world, from star to star, - Where planet unto planet turned, - And suns blazed out afar. - - “Learn, learn, O universe,” it cried, - “How great is he whose foemen lay - Their love and homage at his feet, - On this—his burial day!” - - - - -FRIAR ANSELMO AND OTHER POEMS - - -FRIAR ANSELMO - - FRIAR ANSELMO for a secret sin - Sat bowed with grief the convent cell within; - Nor dared, such was his shame, to lift his eyes - To the low wall whereon, in dreadful guise, - The dead CHRIST hung upon the cursèd tree, - Frowning, he thought, upon his misery. - What was his sin it matters not to tell. - But he was young and strong, the records say: - Perhaps he wearied of his narrow cell; - Perhaps he longed to work, as well as pray; - Perhaps his heart too warmly beat that day! - Perhaps—for life is long—the weary road - That he must travel, bearing as a load - The slow, monotonous hours that, one by one, - Dragged in a lengthening chain from sun to sun, - Appalled his eager spirit, and his vow - Pressed like an iron hand upon his brow. - Perhaps some dream of love, of home, of wife, - Had stirred this tumult in his lonely life, - Tempting his soul to barter heavenly bliss, - And sell its birthright for a woman’s kiss! - At all events, the struggle had been hard; - And as a bird from the glad ether barred, - So had he beat his wings till, bruised and torn, - He wished that night he never had been born! - And still the dead CHRIST on the cursèd tree - Seemed but to mock his hopeless misery; - Still Mary mother turned her eyes away, - Nor saint nor angel bent to hear him pray! - - The calm, cold moonlight through the casement shone; - Weird shadows darkened on the floor of stone; - Without, what solemn splendors! and within - What fearful wrestlings with despair and sin! - Sudden and loud the cloister bell outrang; - Afar a door swung to with sullen clang; - And overhead he heard the rhythmic beat, - The measured monotone of many feet - Seeking the chapel for the midnight prayer. - Black wings seemed hovering round him in the air, - Beating him back when with a stifled moan - He would have sought the holy altar stone. - Then with a swift, sharp cry, prostrate he fell - Before the crucifix. “The gates of hell - Shall not prevail against me!” loud he cried, - Stretching his arms to CHRIST, the crucified. - “By Thy dread cross, Thy dying agony, - Thine awful passion, LORD, deliver me!” - - Was it a dream? The taunting demons fled; - Through the dim cell a wondrous glory spread; - And all the air was filled with rare perfumes - Wafted from censers rich with heavenly blooms. - Transfigured stood the CHRIST before his eyes, - Clothed in white samite, woven in Paradise, - And from the empty cross upon the wall - Streamed a wide splendor that encompassed all! - Was it a dream? Anselmo’s sight grew dim; - The cloistered chamber seemed to reel and swim; - Yet well his spirit knew the glorious guest, - And all his manhood rose to meet the test. - “What wilt Thou have me, LORD, to do?” he cried - With pallid lips, and kissed the sacred feet. - And then in accents strangely calm, yet sweet, - These words he heard from CHRIST, the crucified, - The pitying CHRIST his inmost soul who read, - With all its wild unrest, its doubt and dread: - “MAKE THOU A COPY OF MY HOLY WORD!” - Then mystic presences about him stirred; - The vision faded. At the dawn of day - Prostrate and pallid in the dusk he lay. - Was it a dream? GOD knows! The narrow cell - Wore the old aspect he had learned so well, - And from the crucifix upon the wall - No glory streamed illuminating all! - Yet still a subtile fragrance filled the room; - And looking round him in the soft, gray gloom, - Anselmo saw upon the fretted floor - An eagle’s quill that this grave legend bore: - “He works most nobly for his fellow-men - Who gives My word to them, by tongue or pen!” - - Henceforth Anselmo prayed, but worked as well, - Nor felt the bondage of his cloister cell; - For all his soul was filled with high intent, - He had no dream since its accomplishment— - To make a copy of the Holy Word, - Fairer than eye had seen, or ear had heard, - Or heart conceived of! Day by day he wrought, - His fingers guided by a single thought; - Forming each letter with the tenderest care, - With points of richest color here and there; - With birds on swaying boughs, and butterflies - Poised on gay wings o’er sprays of eglantine; - With tangled tracery of flower and vine - Through which gleamed cherub faces, half divine; - With fading leaves that drift when summer dies, - And angels floating down the evening skies— - Each word an orison, each line a prayer! - Slowly the work went on from day to day; - The seasons came and went; May followed May; - Year after year passed by with stately tread - To join the countless legions of the dead, - Till Fra Anselmo, wan and bowed with age, - Bent, a gray monk, above the parchment page. - Death waited till he wrote the last fair line, - Then touched his hand and closed the Book Divine! - - * * * * * - - The world has grown apace since then. - He who would give GOD’S word to men, - In cloistered cell, o’er parchment page, - No longer bends from youth to age. - Countless as leaves by autumn strewn - The leaves of His great Book are blown - Over the earth as wide and far - As seeds by wandering breezes are! - Yet none the less He speaks to-day - As to Anselmo in his cell; - Bidding men speed upon their way - His later messages as well. - For not alone in Holy Book, - In revelations dim and old, - In sweetest stories simply told, - In grand, prophetic strains that reach - The loftiest heights of human speech, - In martial hymn, or saintly psalm, - In fiery threat, or logic calm, - GOD’S messages are writ to-day— - And He whose voice Mount Sinai shook - Still bids men hearken and obey! - He writes His name upon the hills; - He whispers in the mountain rills; - He speaks through every flower that blows, - In breath of lily, tint of rose; - In sultry calms; in furious beat - Of the wild storm’s tempestuous feet; - In starlit night, and dewy morn, - And splendor of the day new-born! - He uttereth His thunders where - The shock of battle rends the air; - He guides the fiery steeds of War; - He rules unseen the maddening jar, - The hate and din of party strife, - And bids it serve the nation’s life; - He leads fair Science, where she walks - With stately tread among the stars, - Or where, with reverent voice, she talks - With Nature through the eternal bars! - His Word is uttered wheresoe’er - A human soul has ears to hear. - The royal message never errs; - GOD send it true interpreters! - - -THE KING’S ROSEBUD - - Only a blushing rosebud, folding up - Such wealth of sweetness in its dewy cup - That the whole air was like rare incense flung - From golden censers round high altars swung! - One day the king passed by with stately tread, - And, reaching forth his hand, he lightly said, - “All sweets are mine; therefore this rose I take, - And wear it in my bosom for Love’s sake.” - Then, while the king passed on with smiling face, - The sweet rose gloried in its pride of place. - - But ah! the deeds that in Love’s name are done! - The woeful wrack wrought underneath the sun! - Still with that smile upon his lip, the king - Laid his rash hand upon the beauteous thing; - In hot haste tore the crimson leaves apart, - And drained the sweetness from its glowing heart; - Seared the soft petals with its fiery breath, - Then tossed it from him to ignoble death! - When next with idle steps I passed that way, - Prone in the mire the king’s fair rosebud lay. - - -SOMEWHERE - - How can I cease to pray for thee? Somewhere - In God’s great universe thou art to-day: - Can He not reach thee with His tender care? - Can He not hear me when for thee I pray? - - What matters it to Him, who holds within - The hollow of His hand all worlds, all space, - That thou art done with earthly pain and sin? - Somewhere within His ken thou hast a place. - - Somewhere thou livest and hast need of Him: - Somewhere thy soul sees higher heights to climb; - And somewhere still there may be valleys dim - That thou must pass to reach the hills sublime. - - Then all the more, because thou canst not hear - Poor human words of blessing, will I pray, - O true, brave heart! God bless thee, whereso’er - In His great universe thou art to-day! - - -PERADVENTURE - - I am thinking to-night of the little child - That lay on my breast three summer days, - Then swiftly, silently, dropped from sight, - While my soul cried out in sore amaze. - - It is fifteen years ago to-night; - Somewhere, I know, he has lived them through, - Perhaps with never a thought or dream - Of the mother-heart he never knew! - - Is he yet but a babe? or has he grown - To be like his brothers, fair and tall, - With a clear, bright eye, and a springing step, - And a voice that rings like a bugle call? - - I loved him. The rose in his waxen hand - Was wet with the dew of my falling tears; - I have kept the thought of my baby’s grave - Through all the length of these changeful years. - - Yet the love I gave him was not like that - I give to-day to my other boys, - Who have grown beside me, and turned to me - In all their griefs and in all their joys. - - Do you think he knows it? I wonder much - If the dead are passionless, cold, and dumb; - If into the calm of the deathless years - No thrill of a human love may come! - - Perhaps sometimes from the upper air - He has seen me walk with his brothers three; - Or felt in the tender twilight hour - The breath of the kisses they gave to me! - - Over his birthright, lost so soon, - Perhaps he has sighed as the swift years flew; - O child of my heart! you shall find somewhere - The love that on earth you never knew! - - - RENA - (A LEGEND OF BRUSSELS) - - -I. - - St. Gudula’s bells were chiming for the midnight, sad and slow, - In the ancient town of Brussels, many and many a year ago, - - And St. Michael, poised so grandly on his lofty, airy height, - Seemed transfigured in the glory of the full moon’s tender light, - - When, a fair and saintly maiden crowned with locks of palest gold, - Rena stood beside her lover, son of Hildebrand the Bold. - - She with grief and tears was pallid; but his face was hard and - stern: - All the passion of his being in his dark eyes seemed to burn. - - “Never dream that I will give thee back thy plighted faith,” he - cried, - “By St. Michael’s sword I swear it, thou, my love, shalt be my - bride!” - - “Nay, but hear me,” she responded; “hear the words that I must - speak; - I must speak, and thou must hearken, though my heart is like to - break. - - Yestermorn, as I sat spinning blithely at my cottage door, - Straightway fell a stately shadow in the sunshine on the floor; - - And a figure stood before me, so majestic and so grand, - That I knew it in a moment for the mighty Hildebrand— - - Stood and gazed on me till downward at my feet the distaff dropped, - And in all my veins the pulsing of the swift life-current stopped. - - ‘Thou art Rena,’ then he uttered, and he swore a dreadful oath, - And the tempest of his anger beat on me and on us both. - - ‘She who thinks to wed with Volmar must have lands and gold,’ said - he, - ‘Or must come of noble lineage, fit to mate with mine and me! - - Thou art but a peasant maiden, empty-handed, lowly born; - All the ladies of my castle would look down on thee with scorn. - - Even he will weary of thee when his passion once is spent, - Vainly cursing her who doomed him to an endless discontent!’ - - Then I, trembling, rose up slowly, and I looked him in the face, - Though the dreadful frown it wore seemed to darken all the place. - - ‘Sir, I thank you for this warning,’ said I, speaking low and clear, - ‘But the laughter of your ladies I must teach my heart to bear. - - For the rest—your son is noble—and my simple womanhood - He will hold in loving honor, as a saint the holy rood!’ - - Oh! then his stern face whitened, and a bitter laugh laughed he: - ‘Truly this my son is noble, and he shall not wed with thee. - - Hear my words now, and remember! for by this good sword I swear, - And by Michael standing yonder, watching us from upper air, - - If he dares to place a wedding-ring upon your dowerless hand, - On his head shall fall a father’s curse—the curse of Hildebrand!’ - - O, my Volmar! Then the earth rocked, and I fell down in a swoon; - When I woke the room was silent; it was past the hour of noon; - - And I waited for thy coming, as the captive waits for death, - With a mingled dread and longing, and a half-abated breath!” - - Straight the young man bowed before her, as before a holy shrine: - “Never hand of high-born lady was more richly dowered than thine! - - What care I for gold or honors, or—my—father’s—curse?” he said; - But the words died out in shudders, and his face grew like the dead. - - Then she twined her white arms round him, and she murmured, sweet - and low, - As the night wind breathing softly over banks where violets blow: - - “‘He who is accursed of father, he shall be accursed of God,’ - Long ago said one who followed where the holy prophets trod. - - Kiss me once, then, O my Volmar! just once more, my Volmar dear, - Even as you would kiss my white lips if I lay upon my bier! - - For a gulf as dark as death has opened wide ’twixt thee and me; - Neither thou nor I can cross it, and thy wife I may not be!” - - -II. - - Once again the bells of midnight chimed from St. Gudula’s towers, - While St. Michael watched the city slumbering through the ghostly - hours. - - But no slumber came to Rena where she moaned in bitter pain, - For the anguish of that parting wrought its work on heart and brain. - - Suddenly the air grew heavy as with magical perfume, - And a weird and wondrous splendor filled the dim and silent room. - - In the middle of the chamber stood a lady fair and sweet, - With bright tresses falling softly to her small and sandalled feet. - - Flushed her cheeks were as a wild rose, and the glory of her eyes - Was the laughing light and glory of the kindling morning skies. - - Airy robes of lightest tissue from her white arms floated free; - They seemed woven of the mist that curls above the azure sea, - - Wrought in curious devices, star and wheel and leaf and flower, - That, like frost upon a window-pane, might vanish in an hour. - - In her hands she bore a cushion, quaintly fashioned, strangely set - With small silver pins that spanned it like a branching coronet; - - And from threads of finest texture swung light bobbins to and fro, - As the lady stood illumined in the weird and wondrous glow. - - Not a single word she uttered; but, as silent as a shade, - Down the room she swiftly glided and beside the startled maid - - Knelt, a radiant vision, smiling into Rena’s wondering eyes, - Giving arch yet gracious answer to her tremulous surprise. - - Then she laid the satin cushion on the wondering maiden’s knee, - And to all her mute bewilderment, no syllable spake she. - - But, as in and out and round about, the silver pins among, - Flashed the white hand of the lady, and the shining bobbins swung, - - Lo! a web of fairy lightness like the misty robe she wore, - Swiftly grew beneath her fingers, drifting downward to the floor! - - And as Rena looked and wondered, inch by inch the marvel grew, - Till the eastern windows brightened as the gray dawn struggled - through. - - Then the lady’s hand touched Rena’s, and she pointed far away, - Where the palace towers were gleaming in the first red light of day. - - But when once again the maiden turned her glance within the room, - With the lady fair had vanished all the splendor and perfume. - - Still the satin cushion lay there, quaintly fashioned, strangely set - With the silver pins that spanned it like a branching coronet; - - Still the light web she had woven lay in drifts upon the floor, - Like the mist wreaths resting softly on some lone, enchanted shore! - - -III. - - Slowly Rena raised the cushion, with her sweet eyes shining clear, - Lightly tossed the fairy bobbins, half in gladness, half in fear. - - Ah! not vain had been her watching as the lovely lady wrought; - All the magic of her fingers her own cunning hand had caught! - - Many a day above the cushion Rena’s peerless head was bent, - And through many a solemn night she labored on with sweet intent. - - For, mayhap, the mystic marvels that she wove might bring her gold— - A fair dowry fit to match the pride of Hildebrand the Bold! - - Then she braided up her long hair, and put on her russet gown, - And with wicker basket laden passed she swiftly through the town, - - To the palace where Queen Ildegar, with dames of high degree, - In a lofty oriel window sat, the beauteous morn to see. - - In the door-way she stood meekly, till the queen said, “Maiden fair, - What have you in yonder basket that you carry with such care?” - - Eagerly she raised her blue eyes, hovering smiles and tears between, - Then across the room she glided, and knelt down before the queen. - - Lifting up the wicker cover, “Saints in heaven!” cried Ildegar, - “Here are tissues fit for angels, wrought with wreath and point and - star, - - In most curious devices! Never saw I aught so rare— - Where found you these frail webs woven of the lightest summer air?” - - “Well they may be fit for angels,” said she, underneath her breath; - “O my lady, hear a story that is strange and true as death.” - - But ere yet the tale was ended, up rose good Queen Ildegar, - And she sent her knights and pages to the castle riding far. - - “Bring me Hildebrand and Volmar, ere the sun goes down!” she cried, - “Ho! my ladies, for a wedding, and your queen shall bless the bride! - - I will buy these airy wonders, and this maiden in her hand - Shall a dowry hold as royal as the noblest in the land.” - - So they combed her shining tresses, and they brought her robes of - silk, - Broidered thick with gold and silver, on a ground as white as milk. - - But she whispered, “Sweetest ladies, let me wear my russet gown, - That I wore this happy morning walking blithely through the town. - - I am but a peasant maiden, all unused to grand estate, - And for robes of silken splendor, dearest ladies, let me wait!” - - Then the good queen, smiling brightly, from the wicker basket took - Lightest web of quaintest pattern, and its filmy folds out-shook. - - With her own white hand she laid it over Rena’s golden hair, - And she cried, “Oh, look, my ladies! Ne’er before was bride so fair!” - - -A SECRET - - - It is your secret and mine, love! - Ah, me! how the dreary rain - With a slow persistence, all day long - Dropped on the window-pane! - The chamber was weird with shadows - And dark with the deepening gloom - Where you in your royal womanhood, - Lay waiting for the tomb. - - They had robed you all in white, love; - In your hair was a single rose— - A marble rose it might well have been - In its cold and still repose! - O, paler than yonder carven saint, - And calm as the angels are, - You seemed so near me, my beloved, - Yet were, alas, so far! - - I do not know if I wept, love; - But my soul rose up and said— - “My heart shall speak unto her heart, - Though here she is lying—dead! - I will give her a last love-token - That shall be to her a sign - In the dark grave—or beyond it— - Of this deathless love of mine.” - - So I sought me a little scroll, love; - And thereon, in eager haste, - Lest another’s eye should read them - Some mystic words I traced. - Then close in your claspèd fingers, - Close in your waxen hand, - I placed the scroll for an amulet, - Sure you would understand! - - The secret is yours and mine, love! - Only we two may know - What words shine clear in the darkness, - Of your grave so green and low. - But if when we meet hereafter, - In the dawn of some fairer day, - You whisper those mystical words, love, - It is all I would have you say! - - -THIS DAY - - I wonder what is this day to you, - Looking down from the upper skies! - Is there a pang at your gentle heart? - Is there a shade in your tender eyes? - Do you think up there of the whispered words - That thrilled your soul long years ago? - Does ever a haunting undertone - Blend with the chantings sweet and low? - - When this day dawned (if where you are - Skies grow red when the morn is near) - Did you know that before its close - The love once yours would be on its bier? - Did you know that another’s lip - Would redden with kisses once your own, - And the golden cup of a younger life - O’erflow with the wine once yours alone? - - Do you remember? Ah, my saint, - Bend your ear from the ether blue! - Have you risen to heights so far - That earth and its loves are nought to you? - Do you care that your place is filled? - Does it matter that now at last - The turf above you has grown so deep - That its shadow overlies your past? - - O, belovèd, I may not know! - Heaven is afar, and the grave is dumb, - And out of the silence so profound - Neither token nor voice may come! - We try to think that we understand; - But whether you wake, or whether you sleep, - Or whether our deeds are aught to you, - Is still a mystery strange and deep! - - -“CHRISTUS!” - - Over the desolate sea-side town - With a terrible tumult the night came down, - And the fierce wind swept through the empty street, - With the drifting snow for a winding-sheet. - Elsie, the fisherman’s daughter, in bed - Lay and listened in awe and dread, - But sprang to her feet in sudden fear - When over the tempest, loud and clear, - A voice cried, “Christus!” - - “Christus! Christus!” and nothing more. - Was it a cry at the cottage-door? - She left her chamber with flying feet; - She loosened the bolts with fingers fleet; - She lifted the latch, but only the din - Of the furious storm and the snow swept in. - She looked without: not a soul was there, - But still rang out on the startled air - The strange cry, “Christus!” - - “Christus! Christus!” She slept at last, - Though the old house rocked in the wintry blast; - And when she awoke the world was still, - A wide, white silence from sea to hill. - No creature stirred in the morning glow; - There was not a footprint in the snow; - Yet again through the hush, as faint and far - As if it came from another star, - A voice sighed “Christus!” - - “Christus! Christus!” Who can it be, - O Christ our Lord, that is calling Thee - In a foreign tongue, with a woe as wild - As that of some lost, forsaken child? - She turned from the window with a startled gaze: - She clasped her hands in a pale amaze, - Hearkening still, till again she heard, - As in a waking dream, the word— - That strange word, “Christus!” - - Then over the hill with weary feet - She toiled through the drifts to the village-street. - The villagers gathered in eager haste, - And all day long in the snowy waste - They sought in vain for the one who cried - To Him who of old was crucified: - Then, turning away with a laugh, they said, - “’Twas only the wild wind overhead, - Your cry of ‘Christus!’” - - She watched their going with earnest eyes: - Hark! what voice to the taunt replies? - The trees were still as if struck with death; - The wind was soft as a baby’s breath; - The sobbing sea was asleep at last, - Scourged no more by the furious blast; - Yet, surely as ever from human tongue - A cry of grief or despair was wrung, - Some voice sighed, “Christus!” - - Burned on her cheek a sudden flame - As her heart’s strong throbbings went and came, - And she stood alone on the lonely shore, - Gazing the wide black waters o’er. - “Whether it comes from heaven or hell, - This voice I have learned to know too well— - Whether from lips alive or dead, - Or from the hovering air,” she said— - “Whether it comes from sea or land, - I will not sleep till I understand - This cry of ‘Christus!’” - - “Christus! Christus!” Faint and slow - Rose the wail from the drifted snow - Under a low-browed, beetling rock, - Strong to withstand the whirlwind’s shock. - There, in the heart of the snowy mound, - The buried form of a man she found— - A Spanish sailor, with beard of brown - Over his red scarf flowing down, - And jewelled ears that were strange to see. - She was bending over it, when—ah me! - The shrill cry, “Christus!” - - Rang out as if from the stony lips - Whence life had parted in drear eclipse, - As if the soul of the dead man cried - Again unto Christ the Crucified. - The rose had fled from her cheeks so red, - But still she knelt by his side and said, - Under her breath, “I must understand - Whether from heaven or sea or land - Comes that cry, ‘Christus!’” - - She laid her hand on the pulseless breast! - What fluttered beneath the crimson vest? - A bird with plumage of green and gold, - Nestling away from the piercing cold, - Was folded close to the silent heart - From which it had felt the life depart; - And when she held it against her cheek, - As plainly as ever a bird could speak - It sobbed out, ‘Christus!’” - - And evermore when the winds blew loud, - And the trees in the grasp of the storm were bowed, - And the lowering wings of the tempest beat - The drifting snow in the village-street, - Just as its master in death had cried - To Christ, the Holy, the Crucified, - Pouring his soul in one wild word— - Pray God that the cry in heaven was heard!— - The bird cried, “Christus!” - - -THE KISS - - When you lay before me dead, - In your pallid rest, - On those passive lips of thine - Not one kiss I pressed! - - Did you wonder—looking down - From some higher sphere— - Knowing how we two had loved - Many and many a year? - - Did you think me strange and cold - When I did not touch, - Even with reverent finger-tips, - What I had loved so much? - - Ah! when last you kissed me, dear, - Know you what you said? - “Take this last kiss, my beloved, - Soon shall I be dead! - - Keep it for a solemn sign, - Through our love’s long night, - Till you give it back again - On some morning bright.” - - So I gave you no caress; - But, remembering this, - Warm upon my lips I keep - Your last living kiss! - - -WHAT SHE THOUGHT - - Marion showed me her wedding-gown - And her veil of gossamer lace to-night, - And the orange-blooms that to-morrow morn - Shall fade in her soft hair’s golden light. - But Philip came to the open door: - Like the heart of a wild-rose glowed her cheek, - And they wandered off through the garden-paths - So blest that they did not care to speak. - - I wonder how it seems to be loved; - To know you are fair in someone’s eyes; - That upon someone your beauty dawns - Every day as a new surprise; - To know that, whether you weep or smile, - Whether your mood be grave or gay, - Somebody thinks you, all the while, - Sweeter than any flower of May. - - I wonder what it would be to love: - That, I think, would be sweeter far,— - To know that one out of all the world - Was lord of your life, your king, your star! - They talk of love’s sweet tumult and pain: - I am not sure that I understand, - Though—a thrill ran down to my finger-tips - Once when—somebody—touched my hand! - - I wonder what it would be to dream - Of a child that might one day be your own; - Of the hidden springs of your life a part, - Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone. - Marion stooped one day to kiss - A beggar’s babe with a tender grace; - While some sweet thought, like a prophecy, - Looked from her pure Madonna face. - - I wonder what it must be to think - To-morrow will be your wedding-day, - And you, in the radiant sunset glow - Down fragrant flowery paths will stray, - As Marion does this blessed night, - With Philip, lost in a blissful dream. - Can she feel his heart through the silence beat? - Does he see her eyes in the starlight gleam? - - Questioning thus, my days go on; - But never an answer comes to me: - All love’s mysteries, sweet as strange, - Sealed away from my life must be. - Yet still I dream, O heart of mine! - Of a beautiful city that lies afar; - And there, some time, I shall drop the mask, - And be shapely and fair as others are. - - -WHAT NEED? - - _“What need has the singer to sing? - And why should your poet to-day - His pale little garland of poesy bring, - On the altar to lay? - High-priests of song the harp-strings swept - Ages before he smiled or wept!”_ - - What need have the roses to bloom? - And why do the tall lilies grow? - And why do the violets shed their perfume - When night-winds breathe low? - They are no whit more bright and fair - Than flowers that breathed in Eden’s air! - - What need have the stars to shine on? - Or the clouds to grow red in the west, - When the sun, like a king, from the fields he has won, - Goes grandly to rest? - No brighter they than stars and skies - That greeted Eve’s sweet, wondering eyes! - - What need has the eagle to soar - So proudly straight up to the sun? - Or the robin such jubilant music to pour - When day is begun? - The eagles soared, the robins sung, - As high, as sweet, when earth was young! - - What need, do you ask me? Each day - Hath a song and a prayer of its own, - As each June hath its crown of fresh roses, each May - Its bright emerald throne! - Its own high thought each age shall stir, - Each needs its own interpreter! - - And thou, O, my poet, sing on! - Sing on until love shall grow old; - Till patience and faith their last triumphs have won, - And truth is a tale that is told! - Doubt not, thy song shall still be new - While life endures and God is true! - - -TWO - - We two will stand in the shadow here, - To see the bride as she passes by; - Ring soft and low, ring loud and clear, - Ye chiming bells that swing on high! - Look! look! she comes! The air grows sweet - With the fragrant breath of the orange blooms, - And the flowers she treads beneath her feet - Die in a flood of rare perfumes! - - She comes! she comes! The happy bells - With joyous clamor fill the air, - While the great organ dies and swells, - Soaring to trembling heights of prayer! - Oh! rare are her robes of silken sheen, - And the pearls that gleam on her bosom’s snow; - But rarer the grace of her royal mien, - Her hair’s fine gold, and her cheek’s young glow. - - Dainty and fair as a folded rose, - Fresh as a violet dewy sweet, - Chaste as a lily, she hardly knows - That there are rough paths for other feet. - For Love hath shielded her; Honor kept - Watch beside her by night and day; - And Evil out from her sight hath crept, - Trailing its slow length far away. - - Now in her perfect womanhood, - In all the wealth of her matchless charms, - Lovely and beautiful, pure and good, - She yields herself to her lover’s arms. - Hark! how the jubilant voices ring! - Lo! as we stand in the shadow here, - While far above us the gay bells swing, - I catch the gleam of a happy tear! - - The pageant is over. Come with me - To the other side of the town, I pray, - Ere the sun goes down in the darkening sea, - And night falls around us, chill and gray. - In the dim church porch an hour ago, - We waited the bride’s fair face to see; - Now Life has a sadder sight to show, - A darker picture for you and me. - - No need to seek for the shadow here; - There are shadows lurking everywhere; - These streets in the brightest day are drear, - And black as the blackness of despair. - But this is the house. Take heed, my friend, - The stairs are rotten, the way is dim; - And up the flights, as we still ascend, - Creep stealthy phantoms dark and grim. - - Enter this chamber. Day by day, - Alone in this chill and ghostly room, - A child—a woman—which is it, pray?— - Despairingly waits for the hour of doom! - Ah! as she wrings her hands so pale, - No gleam of a wedding ring you see; - There is nothing to tell. You know the tale— - God help her now in her misery! - - I dare not judge her. I only know - That love was to her a sin and a snare, - While to the bride of an hour ago - It brought all blessings its hands could bear! - I only know that to one it came - Laden with honor, and joy, and peace; - Its gifts to the other were woe and shame, - And a burning pain that shall never cease! - - I only know that the soul of one - Has been a pearl in a golden case; - That of the other a pebble thrown - Idly down in a way-side place, - Where all day long strange footsteps trod, - And the bold, bright sun drank up the dew! - Yet both were women. O righteous God, - Thou only canst judge between the two! - - -UNANSWERED - - Where mountain-peaks rose far and high - Into the blue, unclouded sky, - And waves of green, like billowy seas, - Tossed proudly in the freshening breeze, - - I rode one morning, late in June. - The glad winds sang a pleasant tune; - The air, like draughts of rarest wine, - Made every breath a joy divine. - - With roses all the way was bright; - Yet there upon that upland height - The darlings of the early spring— - Blue violets—were blossoming. - - And all the meadows, wide unrolled, - Were green and silver, green and gold, - Where buttercups and daisies spun - Their shining tissues in the sun. - - Over its shallow, pebbly bed, - A sparkling river gayly sped, - Nor cared that deeper waters bore - A grander freight from shore to shore. - - It sung, it danced, it laughed, it played, - In sunshine now, and now in shade; - While every gnarled tree joyed to make - A greener garland for its sake. - - Deep peace was in the summer air, - A peace all nature seemed to share; - Yet even there I could not flee - The shadow of life’s mystery! - - A farmhouse stood beside the way, - Low-roofed and rambling, quaint and gray; - And where the friendly door swung wide - Red roses climbed on either side. - - And thither, down the winding road - Near which the sparkling river flowed, - In groups, in pairs, the neighbors pressed, - Each in his Sunday raiment dressed. - - A sober calm was on each face; - Sweet stillness brooded o’er the place; - Yet something of a festal air - The youths and maidens seemed to wear. - - But, as I passed, an idle breeze - Swept through the quivering maple-trees; - Chased by the winds in merry rout, - A fair, light curtain floated out. - - And this I saw: a quiet room - Adorned with flowers of richest bloom— - A lily here, a garland there— - Fragrance and silence everywhere. - - Then on I rode. But if a bride - Should there her happy blushes hide, - Or if beyond my vision lay - Some pale face shrouded from the day, - - I could not tell. O joy and Pain, - Your voices join in one refrain! - So like ye are, we may not know - If this be gladness, this be woe! - - -THE CLAY TO THE ROSE - - O beautiful, royal Rose, - O Rose, so fair and sweet! - Queen of the garden art thou, - And I—the Clay at thy feet! - - The butterfly hovers about thee; - The brown bee kisses thy lips; - And the humming-bird, reckless rover, - Their marvellous sweetness sips. - - The sunshine hastes to caress thee - Flying on pinions fleet; - The dew-drop sleeps in thy bosom, - But I—I lie at thy feet! - - The radiant morning crowns thee; - And the noon’s hot heart is thine; - And the starry night enfolds thee - In the might of its love divine; - - I hear the warm rain whisper - Its message soft and sweet; - And the south-wind’s passionate murmur, - While I lie low at thy feet! - - It is not mine to approach thee; - I never may kiss thy lips, - Or touch the hem of thy garment - With tremulous finger-tips. - - Yet, O thou beautiful Rose! - Queen rose, so fair and sweet, - What were lover or crown to thee - Without the Clay at thy feet? - - -AT THE LAST - - Will the day ever come, I wonder, - When I shall be glad to know - That my hands will be folded under - The next white fall of the snow? - To know that when next the clover - Wooeth the wandering bee, - Its crimson tide will drift over - All that is left of me? - - Will I ever be tired of living, - And be glad to go to my rest, - With a cool and fragrant lily - Asleep on my silent breast? - Will my eyes grow weary of seeing, - As the hours pass, one by one, - Till I long for the hush and the darkness - As I never longed for the sun? - - God knoweth! Sometime, it may be, - I shall smile to hear you say: - “Dear heart! she will not waken - At the dawn of another day!” - And sometime, love, it may be, - I shall whisper under my breath: - “The happiest hour of my life, dear, - Is this—the hour of my death!” - - -TO THE “BOUQUET CLUB” - - O Rosebud garland of girls! - Who ask for a song from me, - To what sweet air shall I set my lay? - What shall its key-note be? - The flowers have gone from wood and hill; - The rippling river lies white and still; - And the birds that sang on the maple bough, - Afar in the South are singing now! - - O Rosebud garland of girls! - If the whole glad year were May; - If winds sang low in the clustering leaves, - And roses bloomed alway; - If youth were all that there is of life; - If the years brought nothing of care or strife, - Nor ever a cloud to the ether blue, - It were easy to sing a song for you! - - Yet, O my garland of girls! - Is there nothing better than May? - The golden glow of the harvest time! - The rest of the Autumn day! - This thought I give to you all to keep: - Who soweth good seed shall surely reap; - The year grows rich as it groweth old, - And life’s latest sands are its sands of gold! - - -EVENTIDE - - Whenever, with reverent footsteps, - I pass through the open door - Of Memory’s stately palace, - Where dwell the days of yore, - One scene, like a lovely vision, - Comes to me o’er and o’er. - - ’Tis a dim, fire-lighted chamber; - There are pictures on the wall; - And around them dance the shadows - Grotesque and weird and tall, - As the flames on the storied hearth-stone - Wavering rise and fall. - - An ancient cabinet stands there, - That came from beyond the seas, - With a breath of spicy odors - Caught from the Indian breeze; - And its fluted doors and moldings - Are dark with mysteries. - - There’s an old arm-chair in the corner, - Straight-backed and tall and quaint; - Ah! many a generation— - Sinner and sage and saint— - It hath held in its ample bosom - With murmur nor complaint! - - In the glow of the fire-light playing, - A tiny, blithesome pair, - With the music of their laughter - Fill all the tranquil air— - A rosy, brown-eyed lassie, - A boy serenely fair. - - A woman sits in the shadow - Watching the children twain, - With a joy so deep and tender - It is near akin to pain, - And a smile and tear blend softly— - Sunshine and April rain! - - Her heart keeps time to the rhythm - Of love’s unuttered prayer, - As, with still hands lightly folded, - She listens, unaware, - Through all the children’s laughter, - For a footfall on the stair. - - I know the woman who sits there; - Time hath been kind to her, - And the years have brought her treasures - Of frankincense and myrrh - Richer, perhaps, and rarer, - Than Life’s young roses were. - - But I doubt if ever her spirit - Hath known, or yet shall know, - The bliss of a happier hour, - As the swift years come and go, - Than this in the shadowy chamber - Lit by the hearth-fire’s glow! - - -MY LOVERS - - I have four noble lovers, - Young and gallant, blithe and gay, - And in all the land no maiden - Hath a goodlier troupe than they! - And never princess, guarded - By knights of high degree, - Knew sweeter, purer homage - Than my lovers pay to me! - - One of my noble lovers - Is a self-poised, thoughtful man, - Gravely gay, serenely earnest, - Strong to do, and bold to plan. - And one is sweet and sunny, - Pure as crystal, true as steel, - With a soul responding ever - When the truth makes high appeal. - - And another of my lovers, - Bright and _debonair_ is he, - Brave and ardent, strong and tender, - And the flower of courtesie. - Last of all, an eager student, - Upon lofty aims intent: - Manly force and gentle sweetness - In his nature rarely blent. - - But when of noble lovers - All alike are dear and true, - And her heart to choose refuses, - Pray, what can a woman do? - Ah, my sons! For this I bless ye, - Even as I myself am blest, - That I know not which is dearest, - That I care not which is best! - - -THE LEGEND OF THE ORGAN-BUILDER - - Day by day the Organ-Builder in his lonely chamber wrought; - Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought; - - Till at last the work was ended, and no organ voice so grand - Ever yet had soared responsive to the master’s magic hand. - - Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom or bride - Who in God’s sight were well pleasing in the church stood side by - side, - - Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play, - And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray. - - He was young, the Organ-Builder, and o’er all the land his fame - Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame. - - All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled, - By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled. - - So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set: - Happy day—the brightest jewel in the glad year’s coronet! - - But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride— - Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with - pride. - - “Ah!” thought he, “how great a master am I! When the organ plays, - How the vast cathedral arches will re-echo with my praise!” - - Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar, - With its every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star. - - But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or - prayer, - For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there. - - All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest’s low monotone, - And the bride’s robe trailing softly o’er the floor of fretted - stone. - - Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him - Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim? - - Whose the fault, then? Hers—the maiden standing meekly at his side! - Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him—his bride. - - Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth; - On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth. - - * * * * * - - Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name. - For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and - shame. - - Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day - Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray— - - Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good; - Thought of his relentless anger that had cursed her womanhood; - - Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete, - And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet. - - * * * * * - - Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night, - Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight! - - Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread; - There he met a long procession—mourners following the dead. - - “Now, why weep ye so, good people? and whom bury ye to-day? - Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way? - - Has some saint gone up to Heaven?” “Yes,” they answered, weeping - sore: - “For the Organ-Builder’s saintly wife our eyes shall see no more; - - And because her days were given to the service of God’s poor, - From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door.” - - No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain; - No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like - rain. - - “’Tis someone whom she has comforted who mourns with us,” they said, - As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin’s head. - - Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle, - Set it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the - while: - - When, oh, hark! the wondrous organ of itself began to play - Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day! - - All the vaulted arches rang with the music sweet and clear; - All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near; - - And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin’s head, - With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it—dead. - - They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride; - Down the aisle and o’er the threshold they were carried side by - side; - - While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before, - And then softly sank to silence—silence kept for evermore. - - -BUTTERFLY AND BABY BLUE - - Butterfly and Baby Blue, - Did you come together - Floating down the summer skies, - In the summer weather? - Seems to me you’re much alike, - Airy, fairy creatures, - Though I small resemblance find - In your tiny features! - - Butterfly has gauzy wings, - Bright with jewelled splendor; - Baby Blue has pink-white arms, - Rosy, warm, and tender. - Butterfly has golden rings, - Charming each beholder; - Baby wears a knot of blue - On each dimpled shoulder. - - Butterfly is never still, - Always in a flutter; - And of dainty Baby Blue - The same truth I utter! - Butterfly on happy wing - In the sunshine dances; - Baby Blue for sunshine has - Mother’s smiles and glances! - - Butterfly seeks honey-dew - In a lily palace; - Baby Blue finds nectar sweet - In a snow-white chalice. - Butterfly will furl its wings - When the air grows colder; - While dear Baby Blue will be - Just a trifle older! - - Ah! the days are growing short, - Soon the birds will leave us, - And of all the garden flowers - Cruel frost bereave us. - Butterfly and Baby Blue, - Do not go together, - Sailing through the autumn skies - In the autumn weather! - - -KING IVAN’S OATH - - King Ivan ruled a mighty land - Girt by the sea on either hand; - A goodly land as e’er the sun - In its long journey looked upon! - His knights were loyal, brave, and true, - Eager their lord’s behests to do; - His counsellors were wise and just, - Nor ever failed his kingly trust; - The nations praised him, and the state - Grew powerful, and rich, and great; - While still with long and loud acclaim, - His people hailed their monarch’s name! - - Fronting the east, a stately pile, - The palace caught the sun’s first smile; - Lightly its domes and arches sprung, - As earth’s glad hills when earth was young; - And miracles of airy grace, - Each tower and turret soared in space. - Within——But here no rhythmic flow - Of words with light and warmth aglow - Can tell the story. Not more fair - Are your own castles hung in air! - Painter and sculptor there had wrought - The utmost beauty of their thought; - There the rich fruit of Persian looms - Glowed darkly bright as tropic blooms; - There fell the light like golden mist, - Filtered through clouds of amethyst; - There bright-winged birds and odorous flowers - With song and fragrance filled the hours; - There Pleasure flung the portals wide, - And soul and sense were satisfied! - - The queen? No fairer face than hers - E’er smiled upon its worshippers; - And she was good as fair, ’twas said, - And loved the king ere they were wed. - And he? No doubt he loved her, too, - After a kingly fashion—knew - She had a right his throne to share, - And would be mother of his heir. - But yet, to do him justice, he - Sometimes forgot his royalty— - Forgot his kingly crown, and then - Loved, and made love, like other men! - - There seemed no shadow near the throne; - Yet oft the great king walked alone, - Hands clasped behind him, head bowed down, - And on his royal face a frown. - Sat Mordecai within his gate? - What scoffing spectre mocked his state? - What demon held him in a spell? - Alas! the sweet queen knew too well! - Apples of Sodom ate he, since - She had not borne to him a prince, - Though thrice his hope had budded fair, - And he had counted on an heir. - Three little daughters, dainty girls - With sunshine tangled in their curls, - Bloomed in the palace; but no son— - The long-expected, waited one, - Flower of the state, and pride of all— - Grew at the king’s side, straight and tall! - - The king was angered. It may be - No worse than other men was he; - But—a high tower upon a hill— - His light shone far for good or ill! - In from the chase one day he rode; - To the queen’s chamber fierce he strode; - Where bending o’er her ’broidery frame, - Her pale cheeks burned with sudden flame - At his quick coming. Up she rose, - Stirred from her wonted calm repose, - A lily flushing when the sun - Its stately beauty looked upon! - Alas! alas! so blind was he— - Or else he did not care to see— - He had no pity, though she stood - In perfect flower of womanhood! - “You bear to me no son,” he said; - Then flinging back his haughty head: - “Each base-born peasant has an heir, - His name to keep, his crust to share, - While I—the king of this broad land— - Have no son near my throne to stand! - Who, then, shall reign when I am dead? - Who wield the sceptre in my stead? - Inherit all my pride and power, - And wear my glory as his dower? - Give me a man-child, who shall be - Lord of the realm, himself, and me!” - - Then pallid lips made slow reply— - “God ordereth. Not you nor I!” - His brow flushed hot; a sudden clang - As of arms throughout the chamber rang, - And turning on his heel, he threw - Back wrathful answer: “That may do - For puling women—not for me! - Now, by my good sword, we shall see! - So help me Heaven, I will not brook - On a girl’s face again to look! - And when you next shall bear a child, - Though fair a babe as ever smiled, - If it be not a princely heir, - By all the immortal gods, I swear - I ne’er will speak to it, nor break - My soul’s stern silence for Love’s sake!” - - Then forth he fared and rode away, - Nor saw the queen again that day— - The hapless queen, who to the floor - Sank prone and breathless, as the door - Swung to behind him, and his tread - Down the long arches echoèd. - In truth she was in sorry plight - When her maids found her late that night, - The king learned that which spoiled his rest, - But kept the secret in his breast! - - * * * * * - - At length, when months had duly sped, - High streamed the banners overhead, - And all the bells rang out at morn - In jubilant peals—a Prince was born! - Now let the joyous music ring! - Now let the merry minstrels sing! - Now pour the wine and crown the feast - With fruits and flowers of all the East! - Now let the votive candles shine - And garlands bloom on every shrine! - Now let the young, with flying feet - Time to bewildering music beat, - And let the old their joys rehearse - In stirring tale, or flowing verse! - Now fill with shouts the waiting air, - And scatter largess everywhere! - - Ah! who so happy as the king? - Swift flew the hours on eager wing; - And the boy grew apace, until - The second summer, sweet and still, - Dropped roses round him as he played - Where arched the leafy colonnade. - How fair he was tongue cannot say, - But he was fairer than the day; - And never princely coronet - On brow of nobler mould was set; - Nor ever did its jewels gleam - Above an eye of brighter beam; - And never yet where sunshine falls, - Flooding with light the cottage walls, - ’Mid hum of bee, or song of birds, - Or tenderest breath of loving words, - Blossomed a sweeter child than he! - How the king joyed his strength to see, - Counting the weeks that flew so fast— - Each fuller, happier than the last! - Six months had passed since he could walk; - Was it not time the prince should talk? - Ah! baby words with tripping feet! - Ah! baby laughter, silver sweet! - - At length within the palace rose - Rumor so strange that friends and foes - Forgot their love, forgot their hate, - Pausing to croon and speculate. - Vague whispers floated in the air; - A hint of mystery here and there; - A sudden hush, a startled glance, - Quick silences and looks askance. - Thus day by day the wonder grew, - Till o’er the kingdom wide it flew. - The prince—his father—what was this - Strange tale so surely told amiss? - The young prince dumb? Who dared to say - That nature such a prank could play? - _Dumb to the king?_ In silence bound, - With voiceless lips that gave no sound - When the king questioned?—Yet, no lute, - Nor chiming bell, nor silver flute, - Nor lark’s song, high in ether hung, - Rang clearer than the prince’s tongue! - - The court physicians came and went; - Learned men from all the continent - Gave wise opinions, talked of laws, - Stroked their gray beards, nor found the cause. - Then bribes were tried, and threats. The child, - As one bewildered, sighed and smiled, - In a wild storm of weeping broke, - Moved its red lips, but never spoke. - - The changeful years rolled on apace; - The young prince wore a bearded face; - The good queen died; the king grew gray; - A generation passed away. - Courtiers forgot to tell the tale; - Gossip itself grew old and stale. - But never once, in all the years - That bore such freight of joys and tears, - Was the spell broken: not one word - From son to sire was ever heard. - Mutely his father’s face he scanned— - Mutely he clasped his agèd hand— - Mutely he kissed him when at last - To death’s long slumber forth he passed! - Come weal or woe, he could not break - The mystic silence for Love’s sake! - - -AT DAWN - - At dawn, when the jubilant morning broke, - And its glory flooded the mountain side, - I said, “’Tis eleven years to-day, - Eleven years since my darling died!” - - And then I turned to my household ways, - To my daily tasks, without, within, - As happily busy all the day - As if my darling had never been!— - - As if she had never lived, or died! - Yet when they buried her out of my sight - I thought the sun had gone down at noon, - And the day could never again be bright. - - Ah, well! As the swift years come and go, - It will not be long ere I shall lie - Somewhere under a bit of turf, - With my pale hands folded quietly. - - And then someone who has loved me well— - Perhaps the one who has loved me best— - Will say of me as I said of her, - “She has been just so many years at rest”— - - Then turn to the living loves again, - To the busy life, without, within, - And the day will go on from dawn to dusk, - Even as if I had never been! - - Dear hearts! dear hearts! It must still be so! - The roses will bloom, and the stars will shine, - And the soft green grass creep still and slow, - Sometime over a grave of mine— - - And over the grave in your hearts as well! - Ye cannot hinder it if ye would; - And I—ah! I shall be wiser then— - I would not hinder it if I could! - - -IN MEMORIAM - -[Cyrus M. and Mary Ripley Fisher, lost on steamship Atlantic, April 1, -1873.] - - - Once, long ago, with trembling lips I sung - Of one who, when the earliest flowers were seen, - So sweet, so dear, so beautiful and young, - Came home to sleep where kindred graves were green. - - Soft was the turf we raised to give her room; - Clear were the rain-drops, shining as they fell; - Sweet the arbutus, with its tender bloom - Brightening the couch of her who loved it well. - - Yet, in our blindness, how we wept that day, - When the earth fell upon her coffin-lid! - O, ye beloved whom I sing _this_ day, - Could we but know where your dear forms lie hid! - - Could we but lay you down by her dear side, - Wrapped in the garments of eternal rest, - Where the still hours in slow succession glide, - And not a dream may stir the pulseless breast— - - Where all day long the shadows come and go, - And soft winds murmur and sweet song-birds sing— - Where all night long the starlight’s tender glow - Falls where the flowers you loved are blossoming— - - Then should the tempest of our grief grow calm; - Then moaning gales should vex our souls no more; - And the clear swelling of our thankful psalm - Should drown the beat of surges on the shore. - - But the deep sea will not give up its dead. - O, ye who know where your belovèd sleep, - Bid heart’s-ease bloom on each love-guarded bed, - And bless your God for graves whereon to weep! - - -WEAVING THE WEB - - “This morn I will weave my web,” she said, - As she stood by her loom in the rosy light, - And her young eyes, hopefully glad and clear, - Followed afar the swallow’s flight. - “As soon as the day’s first tasks are done, - While yet I am fresh and strong,” said she, - “I will hasten to weave the beautiful web - Whose pattern is known to none but me! - - I will weave it fine, I will weave it fair, - And ah! how the colors will glow!” she said; - “So fadeless and strong will I weave my web - That perhaps it will live after I am dead.” - But the morning hours sped on apace; - The air grew sweet with the breath of June; - And young Love hid by the waiting loom, - Tangling the threads as he hummed a tune. - - “Ah, life is so rich and full!” she cried, - “And morn is short though the days are long! - This noon I will weave my beautiful web, - I will weave it carefully, fine and strong.” - But the sun rode high in the cloudless sky; - The burden and heat of the day she bore - And hither and thither she came and went, - While the loom stood still as it stood before. - - “Ah! life is too busy at noon,” she said; - “My web must wait till the eventide, - Till the common work of the day is done, - And my heart grows calm in the silence wide.” - So, one by one, the hours passed on - Till the creeping shadows had longer grown; - Till the house was still, and the breezes slept, - And her singing birds to their nests had flown. - - “And now I will weave my web,” she said, - As she turned to her loom ere set of sun, - And laid her hand on the shining threads - To set them in order one by one. - But hand was tired, and heart was weak: - “I am not as strong as I was,” sighed she, - “And the pattern is blurred, and the colors rare - Are not so bright, or so fair to see! - - I must wait, I think, till another morn; - I must go to my rest with my work undone; - It is growing too dark to weave!” she cried, - As lower and lower sank the sun. - She dropped the shuttle; the loom stood still; - The weaver slept in the twilight gray. - Dear heart! Will she weave her beautiful web - In the golden light of a longer day? - - -THE “CHRISTUS” OF THE PASSION PLAY OF OBERAMMERGAU - - How does life seem to thee? I long to look - Into thine inmost soul, and see if thou - Art even as other men! Oh, set apart - And consecrate so long to purpose high, - Canst thou take up again our common lot, - And live as we live? Canst thou buy and sell, - Stoop to small needs, and petty ministries, - Work and get gain, eat, drink, and soundly sleep, - Sin and repent, as these thy brethren do? - Unto what name less sacred answerest thou - Who hast been called the Christ of Nazareth? - Thou who hast worn the awful crown of thorns, - Hanging like Him upon the dreadful Tree, - Canst thou, uncrowned, forget thy royalty? - - -RABBI BENAIAH - - Rabbi Benaiah at the close of day, - When the low sun athwart the level sands - Shot his long arrows, from far Eastern lands - Homeward across the desert bent his way. - - Behind him trailed the lengthening caravan— - The slow, weird camels, with monotonous pace; - Before him, lifted in the clear, far space, - From east to west the towers of his city ran! - - Impatiently he scanned the darkening sky; - Then girding in hot haste, “What ho!” cried he, - “Bring the swift steed Abdallah unto me! - As rode his Bedouin master, so will I!” - - Soon like a bird across the waste he flew, - Nor drew his rein till at the massive gate - That guards the citadel’s supremest state - He paused a moment, slowly entering through. - - Then down the shadowy, moonlit streets he sped; - The city slept; but like a burning star, - Where his own turret-chamber rose afar, - A clear, strong light its steady radiance shed! - - Into his court he rode with sudden clang. - The startled slaves bowed low, but spake no word; - By no quick tumult was the midnight stirred, - No shouts of welcome on the night air rang! - - But with slow footsteps down the turret-stairs, - With trembling lips that hardly breathed his name, - And sad, averted eyes, his fair wife came— - The lady Judith—wan with tears and prayers. - - Then swift he cried out, less in wrath than fear, - “Now, by my beard! is this the way ye keep - My welcome home? Go! wake my sons from sleep, - And let their glad tongues break the silence here!” - - “Not so, my dear lord! Let them rest,” she said. - “Young eyes need slumber. But come thou with me. - I have a trouble to make known to thee - Ere I before thee can lift up my head.” - - Into an inner chamber led she him, - And with her own hands brought him meat and wine, - A purple robe, and linen pure and fine. - He half forgot that her sweet eyes were dim! - - “Now for thy trouble!” cried he, laughing loud. - “Hast torn thy kirtle? Are thy pearls astray? - What! Tears? My camels o’er yon desert way - Bring treasures that had made Queen Esther proud!” - - Slowly she spake, nor in his face looked she. - “My lord, long years ago a friend of mine - Left with me jewels, costly, rare, and fine, - Bidding me guard them carefully till he - - Again should call for them. The other day - He sent his messenger. But I have learned - To prize them as my own! Have I not earned - A right to keep them? Speak, my lord, I pray!” - - “Strange sense of honor hath a woman’s heart!” - The rabbi answered hotly. “Now, good lack! - Where are the jewels? I will send them back - Ere yet the sun upon his course may start! - - Show me the jewels!” Up she rose as white - As any ghost, and mutely led the way - Into the turret-chamber whence the ray - Seen from afar had blessed the rabbi’s sight. - - Then with slow, trembling hands she drew aside - The silken curtain from before the bed - Whereon, in snowy calm, their boys lay dead. - “There are the jewels, O, my lord!” she cried. - - -A CHILD’S THOUGHT - - Softly fell the twilight; - In the glowing west - Purple splendors faded; - Birds had gone to rest; - All the winds were sleeping; - One lone whip-poor-will - Made the silence deeper, - Calling from the hill. - - Silently, serenely, - From his mother’s knee, - In the gathering darkness, - Still as still could be, - A young child watched the shadows; - Saw the stars come out; - Saw the weird bats flitting - Stealthily about; - - Saw across the river - How the furnace glow, - Like a fiery pennant, - Wavered to and fro; - Saw the tall trees standing - Black against the sky, - And the moon’s pale crescent - Swinging far and high. - - Deeper grew the darkness; - Darker grew his eyes - As he gazed around him, - In a still surprise. - Then intently listening, - “What is this I hear - All the time, dear mother, - Sounding in my ear?” - - “I hear nothing,” said she, - “Earth is hushed and still.” - But he hearkened, hearkened, - With an eager will, - Till at length a quick smile - O’er the child-face broke, - And a kindling lustre - In his dark eyes woke. - - “Listen, listen, mother! - For I hear the sound - Of the wheels, the great wheels - That move the world around!” - Oh, ears earth has dulled not! - In your purer sphere, - Strains from ours withholden - Are you wise to hear? - - -“GOD KNOWS” - - Wild and dark was the winter night - When the emigrant ship went down, - But just outside of the harbor bar, - In the sight of the startled town. - The winds howled, and the sea roared, - And never a soul could sleep, - Save the little ones on their mothers’ breasts, - Too young to watch and weep. - - No boat could live in the angry surf, - No rope could reach the land: - There were bold, brave hearts upon the shore, - There was many a ready hand— - Women who prayed, and men who strove - When prayers and work were vain; - For the sun rose over the awful void - And the silence of the main. - - All day the watchers paced the sands, - All day they scanned the deep, - All night the booming minute-guns - Echoed from steep to steep. - “Give up thy dead, O cruel sea!” - They cried athwart the space; - But only an infant’s fragile form - Escaped from its stern embrace. - - Only one little child of all - Who with the ship went down - That night when the happy babies slept - So warm in the sheltered town. - Wrapped in the glow of the morning light, - It lay on the shifting sand, - As fair as a sculptor’s marble dream, - With a shell in its dimpled hand. - - There were none to tell of its race or kin. - “God knoweth,” the pastor said, - When the wondering children asked of him - The name of the baby dead. - And so, when they laid it away at last - In the church-yard’s hushed repose, - They raised a stone at the baby’s head, - With the carven words, “God knows.” - - -THE MOUNTAIN ROAD - - Only a glimpse of mountain road - That followed where a river flowed; - Only a glimpse—then on we passed - Skirting the forest dim and vast. - - I closed my eyes. On rushed the train - Into the dark, then out again, - Startling the song-birds as it flew - The wild ravines and gorges through. - - But, heeding not the dangerous way - O’erhung by sheer cliffs, rough and gray, - I only saw, as in a dream, - The road beside the mountain stream. - - No smoke curled upward in the air, - No meadow-lands stretched broad and fair; - But towering peaks rose far and high, - Piercing the clear, untroubled sky. - - Yet down the yellow, winding road - That followed where the river flowed, - I saw a long procession pass - As shadows over bending grass. - - The young, the old, the sad, the gay, - Whose feet had worn that narrow way, - Since first within the dusky glade - Some Indian lover wooed his maid; - - Or silent crept from tree to tree— - Spirit of stealthy vengeance, he! - Or breathless crouched while through the brake - The wild deer stole his thirst to slake. - - The barefoot school-boys rushing out, - An eager, crowding, roisterous rout; - The sturdy lads; the lassies gay - As bobolinks in merry May; - - The farmer whistling to his team - When first the dawn begins to gleam; - The loaded wains that one by one - Drag slowly home at set of sun; - - Young lovers straying hand in hand - Within a fair, enchanted land; - And many a bride with lingering feet; - And many a matron calm and sweet; - - And many an old man bent with pain; - And many a solemn funeral train; - And sometimes, red against the sky, - An army’s banners waving high! - - All mysteries of life and death - To which the spirit answereth, - Are thine, O lonely mountain road, - That followed where the river flowed! - - -ENTERING IN - - The church was dim and silent - With the hush before the prayer, - Only the solemn trembling - Of the organ stirred the air; - Without, the sweet, still sunshine; - Within, the holy calm - Where priest and people waited - For the swelling of the psalm. - - Slowly the door swung open, - And a trembling baby girl, - Brown-eyed, with brown hair falling - In many a wavy curl, - With soft cheeks flushing hotly, - Shy glances downward thrown, - And small hands clasped before her, - Stood in the aisle alone. - - Stood half abashed, half frightened, - Unknowing where to go, - While like a wind-rocked flower, - Her form swayed to and fro, - And the changing color fluttered - In the little troubled face, - As from side to side she wavered - With a mute, imploring grace. - - It was but for a moment; - What wonder that we smiled, - By such a strange, sweet picture - From holy thoughts beguiled? - Then up rose someone softly: - And many an eye grew dim, - As through the tender silence - He bore the child with him. - - And I—I wondered (losing - The sermon and the prayer) - If when sometime I enter - The “many mansions” fair, - And stand, abashed and drooping, - In the portal’s golden glow, - Our God will send an angel - To show me where to go! - - -A FLOWER FOR THE DEAD - - You placed this flower in her hand, you say? - This pure, pale rose in her hand of clay? - Could she but lift her sealèd eyes, - They would meet your own with a grieved surprise! - - She has been your wife for many a year, - When clouds hung low and when skies were clear; - At your feet she laid her life’s glad spring, - And her summer’s glorious blossoming. - - Her whole heart went with the hand you won; - If its warm love waned as the years went on, - If it chilled in the grasp of an icy spell, - What was the reason? I pray you tell! - - You cannot? I can; and beside her bier - My soul must speak and your soul must hear. - If she was not all that she might have been, - Hers was the sorrow, yours the sin. - - Whose was the fault if she did not grow - Like a rose in the summer? Do you know? - Does a lily grow when its leaves are chilled? - Does it bloom when its root is winter-killed? - - For a little while, when you first were wed, - Your love was like sunshine round her shed; - Then a something crept between you two, - You led where she could not follow you. - - With a man’s firm tread you went and came; - You lived for wealth, for power, for fame; - Shut in to her woman’s work and ways, - She heard the nation chant your praise. - - But ah! you had dropped her hand the while; - What time had you for a kiss, a smile? - You two, with the same roof overhead, - Were as far apart as the sundered dead! - - You, in your manhood’s strength and prime; - She, worn and faded before her time. - ’Tis a common story. This rose, you say, - You laid in her pallid hand to-day? - - When did you give her a flower before? - Ah, well!—what matter when all is o’er? - Yet stay a moment; you’ll wed again. - I mean no reproach; ’tis the way of men. - - But I pray you think when some fairer face - Shines like a star from her wonted place, - That love will starve if it is not fed; - That true hearts pray for their daily bread. - - -THOU KNOWEST - - Thou knowest, O my Father! Why should I - Weary high heaven with restless prayers and tears? - Thou knowest all! My heart’s unuttered cry - Hath soared beyond the stars and reached Thine ears. - - Thou knowest—ah, Thou knowest! Then what need, - O, loving God, to tell Thee o’er and o’er, - And with persistent iteration plead - As one who crieth at some closèd door? - - “Tease not!” we mothers to our children say— - “Our wiser love will grant whate’er is best.” - Shall we, Thy children, run to Thee alway, - Begging for this and that in wild unrest? - - I dare not clamor at the heavenly gate, - Lest I should lose the high, sweet strains within; - O, Love Divine! I can but stand and wait - Till Perfect Wisdom bids me enter in! - - -WINTER - - O my roses, lying underneath the snow! - Do you still remember summer’s warmth and glow? - Do you thrill, remembering how your blushes burned - When the Day-god on you ardent glances turned? - - Great tree, wildly stretching bare arms up to heaven, - Do you think how softly, on some warm June even, - All your young leaves whispered, all your birds sang low, - As with rhythmic motion boughs swayed to and fro? - - River, lying whitely in a frozen sleep, - Know you how your pulses used to throb and leap? - How you danced and sparkled on your happy way, - In the summer mornings when the world was gay? - - Dear Earth, dumbly waiting God’s appointed time, - Are you faint with longing for the voice sublime? - Wrapped in stony silence, does your great heart beat, - Listening in the darkness for the coming of His feet? - - -FIVE - - “But a week is so long!” he said, - With a toss of his curly head. - “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven!— - Seven whole days! Why, in six you know - (You said it yourself—you told me so) - The great GOD up in heaven - Made all the earth and the seas and skies, - The trees and the birds and the butterflies! - How can I wait for my seeds to grow!” - - “But a month is so long!” he said, - With a droop of his boyish head. - “Hear me count—one, two, three, four— - Four whole weeks, and three days more; - Thirty-one days, and each will creep - As the shadows crawl over yonder steep. - Thirty-one nights, and I shall lie - Watching the stars climb up the sky! - How can I wait till a month is o’er?” - - “But a year is so long!” he said, - Uplifting his bright young head. - “All the seasons must come and go - Over the hills with footsteps slow— - Autumn and winter, summer and spring; - Oh, for a bridge of gold to fling - Over the chasm deep and wide, - That I might cross to the other side, - Where she is waiting—my love, my bride!” - - “Ten years may be long,” he said, - Slow raising his stately head, - “But there’s much to win, there is much to lose; - A man must labor, a man must choose, - And he must be strong to wait! - The years may be long, but who would wear - The crown of honor, must do and dare! - No time has he to toy with fate - Who would climb to manhood’s high estate!” - - “Ah! life is not long!” he said, - Bowing his grand white head. - “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven! - Seven times ten are seventy. - Seventy years! as swift their flight - As swallows cleaving the morning light, - Or golden gleams at even. - Life is short as a summer night— - How long, O GOD! is eternity?” - - -UNSOLVED - - ’Tis the old unanswered question! Since the stars together sung, - In the glory of the morning, when the earth was fair and young, - - Man hath asked it o’er and over, of the heavens so far and high, - And from out the mystic silence never voice hath made reply! - - Yet again to-night I ask it, though I know, O friend of mine, - There will come, to all my asking, never answering voice of thine. - - Ah! how many times the grasses have grown green above thy grave, - And how many times above it have we heard the cold winds rave! - - Thou hast solved the eternal problem that the ages hold in fee; - Thou dost know what we but dream of; where we marvel, thou dost see. - - What is truth, and what is fable; what the prophets saw who trod - In their rapt, ecstatic visions up the holy mount of God! - - Not of these high themes I question—but, O friend, I fain would know - How beyond the silent river all the long years come and go! - - Where they are, our well-belovèd, who have vanished from our sight, - As the stars fade out of heaven at the dawning of the light; - - How they live and how they love there, in the “somewhere” of our - dreams; - In the “city lying four-square” by the everlasting streams! - - Oh, the mystery of being! Which is better, life or death? - Thou hast tried them both, O comrade, yet thy voice ne’er answereth! - - Hast thou grown as grow the angels? Doth thy spirit still aspire - As the flame that soareth upward, mounting higher still, and higher? - - In the flush of early manhood all thy earthly days were done; - Short thy struggle and endeavor ere the peace of heaven was won. - - But for us who stayed behind thee—oh! our hands are worn with toil, - And upon our souls, it may be, are the stains of earthly moil. - - Hast thou kept the lofty beauty and the glory of thy youth? - Dost thou see our temples whitening, smiling softly in thy ruth? - - But for us who bear the burdens that you dropped so long ago, - All the cares you have forgotten, and the pains you missed, we know. - - Yet—the question still remaineth! Which is better, death or life? - The not doing, or the doing? Joy of calm, or joy of strife? - - Which is better—to be saved from temptation and from sin, - Or to wrestle with the dragon and the glorious fight to win? - - Ah! we know not, but God knoweth! All resolves itself to this— - That He gave to us the warfare, and to thee the heavenly bliss. - - It was best for thee to go hence in the morning of the day; - Till the evening shadows lengthen it is best for us to stay! - - -QUIETNESS - - I would be quiet, Lord, - Nor tease, nor fret; - Not one small need of mine - Wilt Thou forget. - - I am not wise to know - What most I need; - I dare not cry too loud - Lest Thou shouldst heed: - - Lest Thou at length shouldst say, - “Child, have thy will; - As thou hast chosen, lo! - Thy cup I fill!” - - What I most crave, perchance - Thou wilt withhold, - As we from hands unmeet - Keep pearls, or gold; - - As we, when childish hands - Would play with fire, - Withhold the burning goal - Of their desire. - - Yet choose Thou for me—Thou - Who knowest best; - This one short prayer of mine - Holds all the rest! - - -THE DIFFERENCE - - Only a week ago and thou wert here! - I touched thy hand, I saw thy dear, dark eyes, - I kissed thy tender lips, I felt thee near, - I spake, and listened to thy low replies. - - To-day what leagues between us! Hill and vale, - The rolling prairies and the mighty seas; - Gray forest reaches where the wild winds wail, - And mountain crests uplifted to the breeze! - - So far thou art, who wert of late so near! - The stars we watched have changed not in the skies; - Still do thy hyacinth bells their beauty wear, - Yet half a continent between us lies! - - But swift as thought along the “singing wires” - There flies a message like a bright-winged bird— - “All’s well! All’s well!” and ne’er from woodland choirs - By gladder music hath the air been stirred! - - * * * * * - - But thou, O thou, who but a week ago - Passed calmly out beyond our yearning gaze, - As some grand ship, all solemnly and slow, - Sails out of sight beyond the gathering haze— - - Oh, where art _thou_? In what far distant realm, - What star in yon resplendent fields of light, - On what fair isle that no rude seas may whelm, - Dost thou, O brother, find thy home to-night? - - Or art thou near us? There are those who say - That but a breath divides our world from thine; - A little cloud that may be blown away— - A gossamer veil than spider’s web more fine. - - Dost thou, a shadowy presence, linger near - The happy paths that thou wert wont to tread, - Where woods were still, and shining brooks ran clear, - And waving boughs arched greenly overhead? - - Oh! be thou far or near, it is the same! - From thee there floats no message thro’ the air; - No glad “All’s well” comes to us in thy name - That we the joy of thy new life may share! - - -MY BIRTHDAY - - My birthday!—“How many years ago? - Twenty or thirty?” Don’t ask me! - “Forty or fifty?”—How can I tell? - I do not remember my birth, you see! - - It is hearsay evidence—nothing more! - Once on a time, the legends say, - A girl was born—and that girl was I. - How can I vouch for the truth, I pray? - - I know I am here, but when I came - Let some one wiser than I am tell! - Did this sweet flower you plucked for me - Know when its bud began to swell? - - How old am I? You ought to know - Without any telling of mine, my dear! - For when I came to this happy earth - Were you not waiting for me here? - - A dark-eyed boy on the northern hills, - Chasing the hours with flying feet, - Did you not know your wife was born, - By a subtile prescience, faint yet sweet? - - Did never a breath from the south-land come, - With sunshine laden and rare perfume, - To lift your hair with a soft caress, - And waken your heart to richer bloom? - - Not one? O mystery strange as life! - To think that we who are now so dear - Were once in our dreams so far apart, - Nor cared if the other were far or near! - - But—how old am I? You must tell. - Just as old as I seem to you! - Nor shall I a day older be - While life remaineth and love is true! - - -A RED ROSE - - O Rose, my red, red Rose, - Where has thy beauty fled? - Low in the west is a sea of fire, - But the great white moon soars high and higher, - As my garden walks I tread. - - Thy white rose-sisters gleam - Like stars in the darkening sky; - They bend their brows with a sudden thrill - To the kiss of the night-dews soft and still, - When the warm south wind floats by. - - And the stately lilies stand - Fair in the silvery light, - Like saintly vestals, pale in prayer; - Their pure breath sanctifies the air, - As its fragrance fills the night. - - But O, my red, red Rose! - My Rose with the crimson lips! - So bright thou wert in the sunny morn, - Yet now thou art hiding all forlorn, - And thy soul is in drear eclipse! - - Dost thou mourn thy lover dead— - Thy lover, the lordly Sun? - Didst thou see him sink in the glowing west - With pomp of banners above his rest? - He shall rise again, sweet one! - - He shall rise with his eye of fire— - And thy passionate heart shall beat, - And thy radiant blushes burn again, - With the joy of rapture after pain - At the coming of his feet! - - -TWENTY-ONE - - Grown to man’s stature! O my little child! - My bird that sought the skies so long ago! - My fair, sweet blossom, pure and undefiled, - How have the years flown since we laid thee low! - - What have they been to thee? If thou wert here - Standing beside thy brothers, tall and fair, - With bearded lip, and dark eyes shining clear, - And glints of summer sunshine in thy hair, - - I should look up into thy face and say, - Wavering, perhaps, between a tear and smile, - “O my sweet son, thou art a man to-day!”— - And thou wouldst stoop to kiss my lips the while. - - But—up in heaven—how is it with thee, dear? - Art thou a man—to man’s full stature grown? - Dost thou count time as we do, year by year? - And what of all earth’s changes hast thou known? - - Thou hadst not learned to love me. Didst thou take - Any small germ of love to heaven with thee, - That thou hast watched and nurtured for my sake, - Waiting till I its perfect flower may see? - - What is it to have lived in heaven always? - To have no memory of pain or sin? - Ne’er to have known in all the calm, bright days, - The jar and fret of earth’s discordant din? - - Thy brothers—they are mortal—they must tread - Ofttimes in rough, hard ways, with bleeding feet; - Must fight with dragons, must bewail their dead, - And fierce Apollyon face to face must meet. - - I, who would give my very life for theirs, - I cannot save them from earth’s pain or loss; - I cannot shield them from its griefs or cares; - Each human heart must bear alone its cross! - - Was God, then, kinder unto thee than them, - O thou whose little life was but a span?— - Ah, think it not! In all his diadem - No star shines brighter than the kingly man, - - Who nobly earns whatever crown he wears, - Who grandly conquers, or as grandly dies; - And the white banner of his manhood bears, - Through all the years uplifted to the skies! - - What lofty pæans shall the victor greet! - What crown resplendent for his brow be fit! - O child, if earthly life be bitter-sweet, - Hast thou not something missed in missing it? - - -SINGING IN THE DARK - - O ye little warblers, flying fast and far - From the balmy south-land, where the roses are, - Robins red and blue-birds, do ye faint to see - How the chill snow-blossoms whiten shrub and tree? - - Through the snowy valley cold the north winds sweep; - Mother earth, half-wakened, turns again to sleep; - Silent lies the river in an icy trance, - And the frozen meadows wait the sun’s hot glance. - - Dull and gray the skies are. Soft and blue were those - That so late above you bent at daylight’s close; - Do ye grieve, remembering all the balm and bloom, - All the warmth and sweetness of the starlit gloom? - - Do ye sadly wonder what strange impulse drew - All your flashing pinions the far ether through? - Do ye count it madness that so wide ye strayed - From the starry jasmine and the orange shade? - - Yet this morn I heard ye singing in the dark, - Songs of such rare sweetness that the world might hark! - O ye blessed minstrels, silent not for pain, - God is in the heavens, and your sun shall shine again! - - - THOMAS MOORE - MAY 28, 1779-1879 - - - Hush! O be ye silent, all ye birds of May! - Cease the high, clear trilling of your roundelay! - Be the merry minstrels mute in vale, on hill, - And in every tree-top let the song be still! - - O ye winds, breathe softly! Let your voices die - In a low, faint whisper, sweet as love’s first sigh; - O ye zephyrs, blowing over beds of flowers, - Be ye still as dews are in the starry hours! - - O ye laughing waters, leaping here and there, - Filling with sweet clamor all the summer air, - Can ye not be quiet? Hush, ye mountain streams, - Dancing to glad music from the world of dreams! - - And thou, mighty ocean, beating on the shore, - Bid thy angry billows stay their thunderous roar! - O ye waves, lapse softly, in such slumberous calm - As ye know when circling isles of crested palm! - - Bells in tower and steeple, be ye mute to-day - As the bell-flowers rocking in the winds of May! - Cease awhile, ye minstrels, though your notes be clear - As the strains that soar in heaven’s high atmosphere! - - Earth, bid all thy children hearken—for a voice, - Sweeter than a seraph’s, bids their hearts rejoice; - Floating down the silence of a hundred years, - Lo! its deathless music thrills our listening ears! - - ’Tis the voice our fathers loved so long ago, - Songs to which they listened warbling clear and low; - Hark, “Ye Disconsolate!” while the minstrel pure - Sings—“Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot cure!” - - Sings of love’s wild rapture triumphing o’er pain, - Glorying in giving, counting loss but gain; - Sings the warrior’s passion and the patriot’s pride, - And the brave, unshrinking, who for glory died— - - Sings of Erin smiling through a mist of tears; - Of her patient waiting all the weary years; - Sings the pain of parting, and the joy divine - When the bliss of meeting stirs the heart like wine; - - Sings of memories waking in “the stilly night;” - Of the “young dreams” fading in the morning light; - Of the “rose of summer” perishing too soon; - Of the early splendors waning ere the noon! - - O thou tender singer! All the air to-day - Trembles with the burden of thy “farewell” lay; - Crowns and thrones may crumble, into darkness hurled, - Yet is song immortal; song shall rule the world! - - -A LAST WORD - - Where will it go to reach thine ears - My father, thou dost wear - Somewhere beyond the stars to-night - Thy crown of silver hair. - - Somewhere thou _art_. No wandering ghost - In vast, vague realms of space— - But thine own self, majestic, fair, - In thine appointed place. - - By one long look thy soul replied - When last I cried to thee, - As thou wert drifting out of sight - Upon the unknown sea; - - And well I know that thou wouldst turn - Even from joys divine, - If but thy listening ears could hear - One faltering word of mine. - - Yet, knowing this, I cannot lay - My book upon thy knee, - Saying, “O father, once again - I bring my sheaves to thee!” - - - - -SONNETS - - -THE SONNET - - -I. TO A CRITIC - - - “It is but cunning artifice,” you say? - “To it no throb of nature answereth? - It hath no living pulse, no vital breath, - This puppet, fashioned in an elder day, - Through whose strait lips no heart can cry or pray?” - O deaf and blind of soul, these words that saith! - If that thine ear is dull, what hindereth - That quicker ears should hear the bugles play - And the trump call to battle? Since the stars - First sang together, and the exulting skies - Thrilled to their music, earth hath never heard, - Above the tumult of her worldly jars, - Or loftier songs or prayers than those that rise - Where the high sonnet soareth like a bird! - - -II. TO A POET - - Thou who wouldst wake the sonnet’s silver lyre, - Make thine hands clean! Then, as on eagles’ wings, - Above the soiling touch of sordid things, - Bid thy soul soar till, mounting high and higher, - It feels the glow of pure celestial fire, - Bathes in clear light, and hears the song that rings - Through heaven’s high arches when some angel brings - Gifts to the Throne, on wings that never tire! - It hath a subtile music, strangely sweet, - Yet all unmeet for dance or roundelay, - Or idle love that fadeth like a flower. - It is the voice of hearts that strongly beat, - The cry of souls that grandly love and pray, - The trumpet-peal that thrills the battle-hour! - - -AT REST - - “‘When Greek meets Greek,’ you know,” he sadly said, - “‘Then comes the tug of war.’ I deem him great, - And own him wise and good. Yet adverse fate - Hath made us enemies. If I were dead, - And buried deep with grave-mould on my head, - I still believe that, came he soon or late - Where I was lying in my last estate, - My dust would quiver at his lightest tread!” - The slow years passed; and one fair summer night, - When the low sun was reddening all the west, - I saw two grave-mounds, where the grass was bright, - Lying so near each other that the crest - Of the same wave touched each with amber light. - But, ah, dear hearts! how undisturbed their rest! - - -TOO WIDE! - - O mighty Earth, thou art too wide, to wide! - Too vast thy continents, too broad thy seas, - Too far thy prairies stretching fair as these - Now reddening in the sunset’s crimson tide! - Sundered by thee how have thy children cried - Each to some other, until every breeze - Has borne a burden of fond messages - That all unheard in thy lone wastes have died! - Draw closer, O dear Earth, thy hills that soar - Up to blue skies such countless leagues apart! - Bid thou thine awful spaces smaller grow! - Compass thy billows with a narrower shore, - That yearning lips may meet, heart beat to heart, - And parted souls forget their lonely woe! - - - MERCÉDÈS - (June 27, 1878) - - - O fair young queen, who liest dead to-day - In thy proud palace o’er the moaning sea, - With still, white hands that never more may be - Lifted to pluck life’s roses bright with May— - Little is it to you that, far away, - Where skies you knew not bend above the free, - Hearts touched with tender pity turn to thee, - And for thy sake a shadow dims the day! - But youth and love and womanhood are one, - Though across sundering seas their signals fly; - Young Love’s pure kiss, the joy but just begun, - The hope of motherhood, thy people’s cry— - O thou fair child! was it not hard to die - And leave so much beneath the summer sun? - - -GRASS-GROWN - - Grass grows at last above all graves, you say? - Why, therein lies the sharpest sting of all! - To think that stars will rise and dews will fall, - Hills flush with purple splendor, soft winds play - Where roses bloom and violets of May, - Robin to robin in the tree-tops call, - And all sweet sights and sounds the senses thrall, - Just as they did before that strange, sad day! - Does that bring comfort? Are we glad to know - That our eyes sometime must forget to weep, - Even as June forgets December’s snow? - Over the graves where our belovèd sleep, - We charge thee, Time, let not the green grass grow, - Nor your relentless mosses coldly creep! - - -TO ZÜLMA - - -I. - - - Sometimes my heart grows faint with longing, dear— - Longing to see thy face, to touch thy hand. - But mountains rise between us; leagues of land - Stretch on and on where mighty lakes lie clear - In the far spaces, and great forests rear - Their sombre crowns on many a lonely strand! - Yet, O my fair child, canst thou understand, - Thou whose dear place was once beside me here, - How yet I dare not pray that thou and I - Again may dwell together as of old? - There is a gate between us, locked and barred, - Over which we may not climb; and standing nigh - Is the white angel Sorrow, who doth hold - The only key that may unlock its ward! - - -II. - - Yet think not I would have it otherwise! - Our God, who knoweth women’s hearts, knows best— - And every little bird must build its nest - From whence it soareth, singing, to the skies. - What though the one that thou hast builded lies - Where sinks the sun to its enchanted rest, - If, on each breeze that bloweth east or west, - To thee, on swiftest wing, my spirit flies? - We are not far apart, and ne’er shall be! - For Love, like God, knoweth not time, nor space, - And it is freer than the viewless air; - And well I know, belovèd, that if we - Trod different planets in yon starry space - We should reach out, and find each other there! - - -SLEEP - - Who calls thee “gentle Sleep?” O! rare coquette, - Who comest crowned with poppies, thou shouldst wear - Nettles instead, or thistles, in thine hair; - For thou ’rt the veriest elf that ever yet - Made weary mortals sigh and toss and fret! - Thou dost float softly through the drowsy air - Hovering as if to kiss my lips and share - My restless pillow; but ere I can set - My arms to clasp thee, without sign or speech, - Save one swift, mocking smile thou ’rt out of reach! - Yet, sometime, thou, or one as like to thee - As sister is to sister, shalt draw near - With such soft lullabies for my dull ear, - That neither life nor love shall waken me! - - - IN KING’S CHAPEL - (BOSTON, November 3, 1878) - - - O, Lord of Hosts, how sacred is this place, - Where, though the tides of time resistless flow, - And the long generations come and go, - Thou still abidest! In this holy space - The very airs are hushed before Thy face, - And wait in reverent calm, as voices low - Blend in the prayers and chantings, soft and slow, - And the gray twilight stealeth on apace. - Hark! There are whispers from the time-worn walls; - The mighty dead glide up the shadowy aisle; - And there are rustlings as of angels’ wings - While from the choir the heavenly music falls! - Well may we bow in grateful praise the while— - In the King’s Chapel reigns the King of Kings! - - -TO-DAY - - What dost thou bring to me, O fair To-day, - That comest o’er the mountains with swift feet? - All the young birds make haste thy steps to greet, - And all the dewy roses of the May - Turn red and white with joy. The breezes play - On their soft harps a welcome low and sweet; - All nature hails thee, glad thy face to meet, - And owns thy presence in a brighter ray. - But my poor soul distrusts thee! One as fair - As thou art, O To-day, drew near to me, - Serene and smiling, yet she bade me wear - The sudden sackcloth of a great despair! - O, pitiless! that through the wandering air - Sent no kind warning of the ill to be! - - -F. A. F. - - When upon eyes long dim, to whom the light - Of sun and stars had unfamiliar grown— - Eyes that so long in deepening shades had known - The mystic visions of the inner sight— - Day broke, at last, after the weary night, - I cannot think its sudden glory shone - In pitiless brightness, dazzling, clear, and white— - A piercing splendor on the darkness thrown! - Softly as moonlight steals upon the skies, - Slowly as shadows creep at set of sun, - Gently as falls a mother’s tender kiss, - So softly stole the light upon his eyes; - So slowly passed the shadows one by one; - So gently dawned the morning of his bliss! - - -DAY AND NIGHT - - -I. - - When I awake at morn, refreshed, renewed, - Glad with the gladness of the jocund day - And jubilant with all the birds of May, - My spirit shrinks from Night’s dull quietude. - With it and Sleep I have a deadly feud. - I hear the young winds in the maples play, - The river singing on its happy way, - The swallows twittering to their callow brood. - The fresh, fair earth is full of joyous life; - The tree-tops toss in billowy unrest; - The very mountain shadows are astir! - With eager heart I thrill to join the strife; - Doing, not dreaming, to my soul seems best, - And I am lordly Day’s true worshipper! - - -II. - - But when with Day’s long weariness oppressed, - With folded hands I watch the sun go down, - Lighting far torches in the steepled town, - And kindling all the glowing, reddening west; - When every sleepy bird has sought its nest; - When the long shadows from the hills are thrown, - And Night’s soft airs about the world are blown, - Thou heart of mine, how sweet it is to rest! - O, Israfil! Thou of the tuneful voice! - It will be nightfall when thy voice I hear, - Summoning me to slumber soft and low! - Day will be done. Then will I not rejoice - That all my tasks are o’er and rest is near, - And, like a tired child, be glad to go? - - -THY NAME - - What matters it what men may call Thee, Thou, - The Eternal One, who reign’st supreme, alone, - The boundless universe Thy mighty throne? - When souls before Thee reverently bow, - Oh, carest Thou what name the lips breathe low - Jove, or Osiris, or the God Unknown - To whom the Athenians raised their altar stone, - Or Thine, O Holiest, unto whom we vow? - The sun hath many names in many lands; - Yet upon all its golden splendors fall, - Where’er, from age to age entreating still, - The adoring earth uplifts its waiting hands. - Love knows all names and answereth to all— - Who worships Thee may call Thee what he will! - - -RESURGAMUS - - What though we sleep a thousand leagues apart, - I by my mountains, you beside your sea? - What though our moss-grown graves divided be - By the wide reaches of a continent’s heart? - When from long slumber we at length shall start - Wakened to stronger life, exultant, free, - This mortal clothed in immortality, - Where shall I find my heaven save where thou art? - Straight as a bird that hasteth to its nest, - Glad as an eagle soaring to the light, - Swift as the thought that bears my soul to thine - When yon lone star hangs trembling in the west, - So straight, so glad, so swift to thee my flight, - Led on through farthest space by love divine! - - -AT THE TOMB - - O Soul! rememberest thou how Mary went - In the gray dawn to weep beside the tomb - Where one she loved lay buried? Through the gloom, - Pallid with pain, and with long anguish spent, - Still pressed she on with solemn, high intent, - Bearing her costly gifts of rare perfume - And spices odorous with eastern bloom, - Unto the Master’s sepulchre! But rent - Was the great stone from its low door away; - And when she stooped to peer with startled eyes - Into the dark where slept the pallid clay, - Lo, it was gone! And there in heavenly guise, - So grandly calm, so fair in morn’s first ray, - She found an angel from the upper skies! - - -THREE DAYS - - -I. - - What shall I bring to lay upon thy bier - O Yesterday! thou day forever dead? - With what strange garlands shall I crown thy head, - Thou silent One? For rose and rue are near - Which thou thyself didst bring me; heart’s-ease clear - And dark in purple opulence that shed - Rare odors round; wormwood, and herbs that fed - My soul with bitterness—they all are here! - When to the banquet I was called by thee - Thou gavest me rags and royal robes to wear; - Honey and aloes mingled in the cup - Of costly wine that thou didst pour for me; - Thy throne, thy footstool, thou didst bid me share; - On crusts and heavenly manna bade me sup! - - -II. - - Thou art no dreamer, O thou stern To-day! - The dead past had its dreams; the real is thine. - An armored knight, in panoply divine, - It is not thine to loiter by the way, - Though all the meads with summer flowers be gay, - Though birds sing for thee, and though fair stars shine, - And every god pours for thee life’s best wine! - Nor friend nor foe hath strength to bid thee stay. - Gleaming beneath thy brows with smouldering fire - Thine eyes look out upon the eternal hills - As forth thou ridest with thy spear in rest. - From the far heights a voice cries, “Come up higher!” - And in swift answer all thy being thrills, - When lo! ’tis night—thy sun is in the west! - - -III. - - But thou, To-morrow! never yet was born - In earth’s dull atmosphere a thing so fair— - Never yet tripped, with footsteps light as air, - So glad a vision o’er the hills of morn! - Fresh as the radiant dawning—all unworn - By lightest touch of sorrow, or of care, - Thou dost the glory of the morning share - By snowy wings of hope and faith upborne! - O fair To-morrow! what our souls have missed - Art thou not keeping for us, somewhere, still? - The buds of promise that have never blown— - The tender lips that we have never kissed— - The song whose high, sweet strain eludes our skill— - The one white pearl that life hath never known! - - -DARKNESS - - Come, blessed Darkness, come, and bring thy balm - For eyes grown weary of the garish Day! - Come with thy soft, slow steps, thy garments gray, - Thy veiling shadows, bearing in thy palm - The poppy-seeds of slumber, deep and calm! - Come with thy patient stars, whose far-off ray - Steals the hot fever of the soul away, - Thy stillness, sweeter than a chanted psalm! - O blessed Darkness, Day indeed is fair, - And Light is dear when summer days are long, - And one by one the harvesters go by; - But so is rest sweet, and surcease from care, - And folded palms, and hush of evensong, - And all the unfathomed silence of the sky! - - -SILENCE - - O golden Silence, bid our souls be still, - And on the foolish fretting of our care - Lay thy soft touch of healing unaware! - Once, for a half hour, even in heaven the thrill - Of the clear harpings ceased the air to fill - With soft reverberations. Thou wert there, - And all the shining seraphs owned thee fair— - A white, hushed Presence on the heavenly hill. - Bring us thy peace, O Silence! Song is sweet; - Tuneful is baby laughter, and the low - Murmur of dying winds among the trees, - And dear the music of Love’s hurrying feet; - Yet only he who knows thee learns to know - The secret soul of loftiest harmonies. - - -SANCTIFIED - - A holy presence hath been here, and, lo, - The place is sanctified! From off thy feet - Put thou thy shoes, my soul! The air is sweet - Even yet with heavenly odors, and I know - If thou dost listen, thou wilt hear the flow - Of most celestial music, and the beat - Of rhythmic pinions. It is then most meet - That thou shouldst watch and wait, lest to and fro - Should pass the heavenly messengers and thou, - Haply, shouldst miss their coming. O my soul, - Count this fair room a temple from whose shrine, - Led by an angel, though we know not how, - Thy friend and lover dropped the cup of dole, - And passed from thy love to the Love Divine! - - -A MESSAGE - - I bid thee sing the song I would have sung— - The high, pure strain that since my soul was born, - Clearer and sweeter than the bells of morn, - Through all its chambers hath divinely rung! - In thee let my whole being find a tongue; - Pluck thou the rose where I have plucked the thorn, - Nor leave the perfect flower to fade forlorn. - Youth holds the world in fee—and thou art young! - O my glad singer of the tuneful voice, - Where my wing falters be thou strong to soar, - Striking the deep, clear notes beyond my reach, - Beyond the plummet of a woman’s speech. - Sing my songs for me, and from some far shore - My happy soul shall hear thee and rejoice! - - -WHEN LESSER LOVES - - When lesser loves by the relentless flow - Of mighty currents from my arms were torn - And swept, unheeding, to that silent bourn - Whose mystic shades no living man may know, - By night, by day, I sang my songs; and so, - Out of the sackcloth that my soul had worn, - Weaving my purple, I forgot to mourn, - Pouring my grief out in melodious woe! - Now am I dumb, dear heart. My lips are mute. - Yet if from yonder blue height thou dost lean - Earthward, remembering love’s last wordless kiss, - Know thou no trembling thrills of harp or lute, - Dying soft wails and tender songs between, - Were half so voiceful as this silence is! - - -GEORGE ELIOT - - Pass on, O world, and leave her to her rest! - Brothers, be silent while the drifting snow - Weaves its white pall above her, lying low - With empty hands crossed idly on her breast. - O sisters, let her sleep! while unrepressed - Your pitying tears fall silently and slow, - Washing her spotless, in their crystal flow, - Of that one stain whereof she stands confessed. - Are we so pure that we should scoff at her, - Or mock her now, low lying in her tomb? - God knows how sharp the thorn her roses wore, - Even what time their petals were astir - In the warm sunshine, odorous with perfume. - Leave her to Him who weighed the cross she bore! - - -KNOWING - - One summer day, to a young child I said, - “Write to thy mother, boy.” With earnest face, - And laboring fingers all unused to trace - The mystic characters, he bent his head - (That should have danced amid the flowers instead) - Over the blurred page for a half-hour’s space; - Then with a sigh that burdened all the place - Cried, “Mamma knows!” and out to sunshine sped. - O soul of mine, when tasks are hard and long, - And life so crowds thee with its stress and strain - That thou, half fainting, art too tired to pray, - Drink thou this wine of blessing and be strong! - God knows! What though the lips be dumb with pain, - Or the pen drops? He knows what thou wouldst say. - - - A THOUGHT - (SUGGESTED BY READING “A MIRACLE IN STONE”) - - - Oh, thou supreme, all-wise, eternal One, - Thou who art Lord of lords, and King of kings, - In whose high praise each flaming seraph sings; - Thou at whose word the morning stars begun - With song and shout their glorious course to run; - Thou unto whom the great sea lifts its wings, - And earth, with laden hands, rich tribute brings - From every shore that smiles beneath the sun; - Thou who didst write thy name upon the hills - And bid the mountains speak for thee alway, - Yet gave sweet messages to murmuring rills, - And to each flower that breathes its life away— - Oh! dost thou smile, or frown, when man’s conceit - Seeks in this pile of stone the impress of thy feet? - - -TO-MORROW - - -I. - - Mysterious One, inscrutable, unknown, - A silent Presence, with averted face - Whose lineaments no mortal eye can trace, - And robes of trailing darkness round thee thrown, - Over the midnight hills thou comest alone! - What thou dost bring to me from farthest space, - What blessing or what ban, what dole, what grace, - I may not know. Thy secrets are thine own! - Yet, asking not for lightest word or sign - To tell me what the hidden fate may be, - Without a murmur, or a quickened breath, - Unshrinkingly I place my hand in thine, - And through the shadowy depths go forth with thee - To meet, as thou shalt lead, or life, or death! - - -II. - - Then, if I fear not thee, thou veilèd One - Whose face I know not, why fear I to meet - Beyond the everlasting hills her feet - Who cometh when all Yesterdays are done? - Shall I, who have proved thee good, thy sister shun? - O thou To-morrow, who dost feel the beat - Of life’s long, rhythmic pulses, strong and sweet, - In the far realm that hath no need of sun— - Thou who art fairer than the fair To-day - That I have held so dear, and loved so much— - When, slow descending from the hills divine, - Thou summonest me to join thee on thy way, - Let me not shrink nor tremble at thy touch, - Nor fear to break thy bread and drink thy wine! - - -“O EARTH! ART THOU NOT WEARY?” - - O Earth! art thou not weary of thy graves? - Dear, patient mother Earth, upon thy breast - How are they heaped from farthest east to west! - From the dim north, where the wild storm-wind raves - O’er the cold surge that chills the shore it laves, - To sunlit isles by softest seas caressed, - Where roses bloom alway and song-birds nest, - How thick they lie—like flecks upon the waves! - There is no mountain-top so far and high, - No desert so remote, no vale so deep, - No spot by man so long untenanted, - But the pale moon, slow marching up the sky, - Sees over some lone grave the shadows creep! - O Earth! art thou not weary of thy dead? - - -ALEXANDER - - There was a man whom all men called The Great. - Low lying on his death-bed, we are told, - He bade his courtiers (when he should be cold, - Breathless, and silent in his last estate, - And they who were to bury him should wait - Outside the palace) that no cerecloth’s fold - Or winding-sheet should round his hands be rolled: - Those helpless hands that once had ruled the state! - Thus spake he: “On the black pall let them lie, - Empty and lorn, that all the world may see - How of his riches there was nothing left - To Alexander when he came to die.” - Lord of two worlds, as treasureless was he - As any beggar of his crust bereft! - - - THE PLACE - “I GO TO PREPARE A PLACE FOR YOU” - - -I. - - O Holy Place, we know not where thou art! - Though one by one our well-beloved dead - From our close claspings to thy bliss have fled, - They send no word back to the breaking heart; - And if, perchance, their angels fly athwart - The silent reaches of the abyss wide-spread, - The swift white-wings we see not, but instead - Only the dark void keeping us apart. - Where did he set thee, O thou Holy Place? - Made he a new world in the heavens high hung, - So far from this poor earth that even yet - Its first glad rays have traversed not the space - That lies between us, nor their glory flung - On the old home its sons can ne’er forget? - - -II. - - But what if on some fair, auspicious night, - Like that on which the shepherds watched of old, - Down from far skies, in burning splendor rolled, - Shall stream the radiance of a star more bright - Than ever yet hath shone on mortal sight— - Swift shafts of light, like javelins of gold, - Wave after wave of glory manifold, - From zone to zenith flooding all the height? - And what if, moved by some strange inner sense, - Some instinct, than pure reason wiser far, - Some swift clairvoyance that annulleth space, - All men shall cry, with sudden joy intense, - “Behold, behold this new resplendent star— - Our heaven at last revealed!—the Place! the Place!” - - -III. - - Then shall the heavenly host with one accord - Veil their bright faces in obeisance meet, - While swift they haste the Glorious One to greet. - Then shall Orion own at last his Lord, - And from his belt unloose the blazing sword, - While pale proud Ashtaroth with footsteps fleet, - Her jewelled crown drops humbly at his feet, - And Lyra strikes her harp’s most rapturous chord. - O Earth, bid all your lonely isles rejoice! - Break into singing, all ye silent hills; - And ye, tumultuous seas, make quick reply! - Let the remotest desert find a voice! - The whole creation to its centre thrills, - For the new light of Heaven is in the sky! - - -TO A GODDESS - - Lift up thy torch, O Goddess, grand and fair! - Let its light stream across the waiting seas - As banners float upon the yielding breeze - From the king’s tent, his presence to declare. - And as his heralds haste to do their share, - Shouting his praise and sounding his decrees, - So let the waves in loftiest symphonies - Proclaim thy glory to the listening air! - Thou star-crowned one, the nations watch for thee, - For thee the patient earth has waited long— - To thee her toiling millions stretch their hands - From the far hills and o’er the rolling sea. - Lift up thy torch, O beautiful and strong, - A beacon-light to earth’s remotest lands. - - - O. W. H. - (August 29, 1809.) - - - “How shall I crown this child?” fair Summer cried. - “May wasted all her violets long ago; - No longer on the hills June’s roses glow, - Flushing with tender bloom the pastures wide. - My stately lilies one by one have died: - The clematis is but a ghost—and lo! - In the fair meadow-lands no daisies blow; - How shall I crown this Summer child?” she sighed. - Then quickly smiled. “For him, for him,” she said, - “On every hill my golden-rod shall flame, - Token of all my prescient soul foretells. - His shall be golden song and golden fame— - Long golden years with love and honor wed— - And crowns, at last, of silver immortelles!” - - - GIFTS FOR THE KING - (H. W. L., February 27th) - - - What good gifts can we bring to thee, O King, - O royal poet, on this day of days? - No golden crown, for thou art crowned with bays; - No jewelled sceptre, and no signet ring, - O’er distant realms far-flashing rays to fling; - For well we know thy beckoning finger sways - A mightier empire, and the world obeys. - No lute, for thou hast only need to sing; - No rare perfumes, for thy pure life makes sweet - The air about thee, even as when the rose - Swings its bright censer down the garden-path. - Love drops its fragrant lilies at thy feet; - Fame breathes thy name to each sweet wind that blows. - What can we bring to him who all things hath? - - - RECOGNITION - (H. W. L.) - - -I. - - Who was the first to bid thee glad all-hail, - O friend and master? Who with wingèd feet - Over the heavenly hills flew, fast and fleet, - To bring thee welcome from beyond the veil? - The mighty bards of old?—Thy Dante, pale - With high thoughts even yet, Virgil the sweet, - Old Homer, trumpet-tongued, and Chaucer, meet - To clasp thy stainless hand? What nightingale - Of all that sing in heaven sang first to thee? - Through all the hallelujahs didst thou hear - Spencer still pouring his melodious lays, - Majestic Milton’s clarion, strong and free, - Or, golden link between the far and near, - Bryant’s clear chanting of the eternal days? - - -II. - - Nay, but not these! not these! Even though apace, - Long rank on rank, with swift yet stately tread - They came to meet thee—the immortal dead— - Yet Love ran faster! All the lofty place, - All the wide, luminous, enchanted space - Glistened with Shining Ones who thither sped— - The countless host thy song had comforted! - What light, what love illumed each radiant face! - The Rachels thou hadst sung to in the dark, - The Davids who for Absaloms had wept, - The fainting ones who drank thy balm and wine, - High souls that soared with thee as soars the lark, - Children who named thee, smiling, ere they slept— - These gave thee first the heavenly countersign! - - - SHAKESPEARE - (April 23, 1664-1889) - - - Nay, Master, dare we speak? O mighty shade, - Sitting enthroned where awful splendors are, - Beyond the light of sun, or moon, or star, - How shall we breathe thy high name undismayed? - Poet, in royal majesty arrayed, - Walking with mute gods through the realms afar— - Seer, whose wide vision time nor death can bar, - We would but kiss thy feet, abashed, afraid! - But yet we love thee, and great love is bold. - Love, O our master, with his heart of flame - And eye of fire, dares even to look on thee, - For whom the ages lift their gates of gold; - And his glad tongue shall syllable thy name - Till time is lost in God’s unsounded sea! - - - TO E. C. S. - WITH A ROSE FROM CONWAY CASTLE - - - On hoary Conway’s battlemented height, - O poet-heart, I pluck for thee a rose! - Through arch and court the sweet wind wandering goes; - Round each high tower the rooks, in airy flight, - Circle and wheel, all bathed in amber light; - Low at my feet the winding river flows; - Valley and town, entranced in deep repose, - War doth no more appall, nor foes affright! - Thou knowest how softly on the castle walls, - Where mosses creep, and ivys far and free - Fling forth their pennants to the freshening breeze, - Like God’s own benizon this sunshine falls. - Therefore, O friend, across the sundering seas - Fair Conway sends this sweet wild rose to thee! - - -A CHRISTMAS SONNET - - I wake at midnight from a slumber deep. - Hark! are the clear stars singing? Sweet and low, - As from far skies, floats music’s liquid flow, - Waking earth’s happy children from their sleep. - Now, from the bells a myriad voices leap, - And all the brazen lilies are aglow - With rapturous heart-beats, swinging to and fro - As the glad chimes their rhythmic pulsing keep. - O soul of mine, join thou the high refrain - That rings from shore to shore, from sea to sea, - Like song of birds that do but soar and sing! - O heart of mine, what room hast thou for pain? - With love and joy make holy symphony, - And keep to-day the birthday of thy King! - - -POVERTY - - The city woke. Down the long market-place - Her sad eyes wandered, but no tears they shed. - In her bare home a little child lay dead; - Yet she was here, with white, impassive face, - And hands that had no beauty and no grace, - Selling her small wares for a bit of bread! - Since they who live must eat though sore bestead - What time had she to weep—what breathing space? - Poor even in words, she had no fitting phrase - Wherein to tell the story of her dole, - But stood, like Niobe, a thing of stone, - Or mutely went on her accustomed ways, - Or counted her small gains, while her dumb soul, - Shut in with grief, could only make its moan! - - -SURPRISES - - -I. - - O Earth, that had so long in darkness lain, - Waiting and listening for the Voice that cried, - “Let there be light!”—on thy first eventide - What woe, what fear, wrung thy dumb soul with pain! - In darkling space down dropt the red sun, slain, - With all his banners drooping. Far and wide - Spread desolation’s vast and blackening tide. - How couldst thou know that day would dawn again? - But the long hours wore on, till lo! pale gleams - Of faint, far glory lit the eastern skies, - Broadening and reddening till the sun’s full beams - Broke in clear, golden splendor on thine eyes. - Darkness and brooding anguish were but dreams, - Lost in a trembling wonder of surprise! - - -II. - - Even so, O Life, all tremulous with woe, - Thou too didst cower when, without sound or jar, - From the high zenith sinking fast and far, - Thy sun went out of heaven! How couldst thou know - In that dark hour, that never tide could flow - So ebon-black, nor ever mountain-bar - Breast night so deep, without or moon or star, - But that the morning yet again must glow? - God never leaves thee in relentless dark. - Slowly the dawn on unbelieving eyes - Breaketh at last. Day brightens—and, oh hark! - A flood of bird-song from the tender skies! - From storm and darkness thou hast found an ark, - Shut in with this great marvel of surprise! - - - C. H. R. - (LOST OFF HAI-MUN IN THE CHINA SEA) - - - In what wide Wonderland, or near, or far, - Press on to-day thy swift adventurous feet— - Thou who wert wont the Orient skies to greet - With song and laughter, and to climb the bar - Of mountain ranges where the Cloud-gods are, - With brave, glad steps, as eager and as fleet - As a young lover’s, who, on errand sweet, - Seeks the one face that is his guiding star? - The far blue seas engulfed thee, oh! my brother, - But could not quench thy spirit’s lofty fire, - Nor daunt the soul that knew not how to quail. - Earth-quest thou didst but barter for another, - Where Alps on Alps before thee still aspire, - And where, in God’s name, thou shalt yet prevail! - - - A NEW BEATITUDE - L. G. W. - - - “A new beatitude I write for thee, - ‘_Blessed are they who are not sure of things_,’ - Nor strive to mount on feeble, finite wings - To heights where God’s strong angels, soaring free, - Halt and are silent.” Ah, the mystery! - To-day, O friend, beyond earth’s reckonings - Of time and space, beyond its jars and stings, - Thou enterest where the eternal secrets be! - Ay, thou art sure to-day! No more the bars - Of earth’s poor limitations hold thee back, - Setting their bounds to thine advancing feet. - Soar, lofty soul, beyond the farthest stars, - Where hope nor yearning e’er shall suffer lack, - Nor knowledge fail to any that entreat! - - -COMPENSATION - - -I. - - Life of my life, do you remember how, - At our fair pleasance gate, a stately tree - Kept silent watch and ward? Majestic, free, - Its head reached heaven, while its lowest bough - Swept the green turf, and all between was row - On row of crested waves—a sleeping sea— - Or heaving billows tossed tumultuously, - When the fierce winds that smote the mountain’s brow - Lashed it to sudden passion. It was old. - Storm-rocked for many centuries, it had grown - One with the hills, the river and the sod; - Yet young it was, with largess of red gold - For every autumn, and from stores unknown - Bringing each springtime treasure-trove to God. - - -II. - - Then came a night of terror and dismay, - Uproar and lightning, with the furious sweep - Of mighty winds, that raged from steep to steep, - And ere it passed the great tree prostrate lay! - Sleepless I mourned until the morning gray; - Then forth I crept, as one who goes to keep - Watch by his dead, too heartsick even to weep, - And hardly daring to behold the day. - Lo! what vast splendor met my startled eyes, - What unimagined space, what vision wide! - Turrets and domes, now blue, now softest green, - In one unbroken circuit kissed the skies; - While, veiled in soft clouds, radiant as a bride, - Shone one far sapphire peak till then unseen! - - -QUESTIONINGS - - Forth from earth’s councils thou hast passed, O friend, - To those high circles where God’s angels are, - Angels that need no light of sun or star! - No eye may follow thee as thou dost wend - Thy lofty way where heaven’s pure heights ascend— - Above the reach of earthly fret or jar, - Where no rude touch the blissful peace can mar, - Where all harsh sounds in one soft concord blend. - What have ye seen, O beauty-loving eyes? - What have ye heard, O ears attuned to hear - And to interpret heaven’s high harmonies? - What problems hast thou solved, thou who with clear - Undaunted gaze didst search the farthest skies? - And dost thou still love on, O heart most dear? - - -REMEMBRANCE - - I do remind me how, when, by a bier, - I looked my last on an unanswering face - Serenely waiting for the grave’s embrace, - One who would fain have comforted said: “Dear, - This is the worst. Life’s bitterest drop is here. - Impartial fate has done you this one grace, - That till you go to your appointed place, - Or soon or late, there is no more to fear.” - It was not true, my soul! it was not true! - “Thou art not lost while I remember thee, - Lover and friend!” I cry, with bated breath. - What if the years, slow-creeping like the blue, - Resistless tide, should blot that face from me? - Not to remember would be worse than death! - - -IN THE HIGH TOWER - - Safe in the high tower of thy love I wait, - Secure and still whatever winds may blow, - Although no more thy banners, bending low, - Salute me from afar, when, all elate, - I haste to meet thee at the postern-gate. - No more I hear thy trumpet’s eager flow - Through the far, listening silence come and go - To greet me where I bide in lonely state. - Thy King hath sent thee on some high emprise, - Some lofty embassage, some noble quest, - To a strange land whence cometh sound nor sign. - Yet evermore I lift my tranquil eyes, - Knowing that Love but doeth Love’s behest— - Afar or near, my dear lord still is mine! - - - - -AFTERNOON SONGS - - -FOUR-O’CLOCKS - - It is mid-afternoon. Long, long ago - Each morning-glory sheathed the slender horn - It blew so gayly on the hills of morn, - And fainted in the noontide’s fervid glow. - - Gone are the dew-drops from the rose’s heart— - Gone with the freshness of the early hours, - The songs that filled the air with silver showers, - The lovely dreams that were of morn a part. - - Yet still in tender light the garden lies; - The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low; - Brown bees and butterflies flit to and fro; - The peace of heaven is in the o’erarching skies. - - And here be four-o’clocks, just opening wide - Their many colored petals to the sun, - As glad to live as if the evening dun - Were far away, and morning had not died! - - -A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG - - Whence it came I did not know, - How it came I could not tell, - But I heard the music flow - Like the pealing of a bell; - Up and down the wild-wood arches, - Through the sombre firs and larches, - Long I heard it rise and swell; - Long I lay, with half-shut eyes, - Wrapped in dreams of Paradise! - - Then the wondrous music poured - Yet a fuller, stronger strain, - Till my soul in rapture soared - Out of reach of toil and pain! - Then, oh then, I know not how, - Then, oh then, I know not where, - I was borne, serene and slow, - Through the boundless fields of air— - Past the sunset’s golden bars, - Past long ranks of glittering stars, - To a realm where time was not, - And its secrets were forgot! - - Land of shadows, who may know - Where thy golden lilies blow? - Land of shadows, on what star - In the blue depths shining far, - Or in what appointed place - In the unmeasured realms of space, - High as heaven, or deep as hell, - Thou dost lie what tongue can tell? - Send from out thy mystic portals - With the holy chrism to-day, - One of all thy high immortals - Who shall teach me what to say! - - O beloveds, all the air - Was a faint, ethereal mist - Touched with rose and amethyst— - Glints of gold, and here and there - Purple splendors that were gone, - Like the glory of the dawn, - Ere one caught them. Soft and gray, - Lit by many a pearly ray, - Were the low skies bending dim - To the far horizon’s rim; - And the landscape stretched away, - Fair, illusive, like a dream - Wherein all things do but seem! - There were mountains, but they rose - O’er the subtile vale’s repose, - Light as clouds that far and high - Soar to meet the untroubled sky. - There were trees that overhead - Wide their sheltering branches spread, - Yet were empty as the shade - By the quivering vine-leaves made. - There were roses, rich with bloom, - Swinging censers of perfume - Sweet as fragrant winds of May - Blowing through spring’s secret bowers; - Yet so phantom-like were they - That they seemed the ghosts of flowers. - - Oh, the music sweet and strange - In that land’s enchanted range! - Like the pealing of the bells - When the brazen flowers are swinging - And the angelus is ringing, - Soaring, echoing, far and near, - Through the vales and up the dells— - Softly on the enraptured ear - A melodious murmur swells! - As the rhythm of the river - Day and night goes on forever, - So that pulsing stream of song - Rolls its silver waves along. - Even silence is but sound, - Deeper, softer, more profound! - - All the portals were thrown wide! - Stretching far on either side - Ran the streets, like silver mist, - By the moon’s pale splendor kissed; - And adown the shadowy way, - Forth from many a still retreat, - One by one, and two by two, - Or in goodly companies; - Gliding on in long array, - Light and fleet, with silent feet, - One by one, and two by two, - Phantoms that I could not number, - Countless as the wraiths of slumber, - Passed before my wondering eyes! - - Then I grew aware of one - Standing by me in the dun, - Gray half-twilight. All the place - Grew softly radiant; but his face, - Albeit unveiled, I could not see - For the awe that compassed me. - Swift I spoke, by longings swayed - Deeper than my words betrayed: - “Master,” with clasped hands I prayed, - “Who are these? Are they the dead?” - “Nay, they never lived,” he said; - “Whence art thou? How camest thou here?” - Low I answered, then, in fear: - “Sir, I know not; as I lay - Dreaming at the close of day, - Wondrous music, thrilling through me, - To this land of phantoms drew me, - Though I knew not how or why, - Even as instinct draws the bird - Where Spring’s far-off voice is heard. - Tell me, Master, where am I?” - “Thou art in the border-land, - On the farthest, utmost strand - Of the sea that lies between - All that is and is not seen. - Thou art where the wraiths of song - Come and go, a phantom throng. - ’Tis their heart’s melodious beat - Fills the air with whispers sweet! - These, O child, are songs unsung— - Songs unbreathed by human tongue; - These are they that all in vain - Mightiest masters wooed amain— - Children of their heart and brain - That they could not warm to life - By their being’s utmost strife. - Every bard that ever sung - Since the hoary earth was young - Knew the song he could not sing - Was his soul’s best blossoming, - Knew the thought he could not hold - Shrined his spirit’s purest gold. - Look!” - Where rose the city’s gate - In majestic, sculptured state, - From a far-off battle-plain, - Through the javelins’ silver rain - Bearing buckler, lance, and shield, - And their standard’s glittering field, - Eager, yet with shout nor din, - Came a great host trooping in. - Burned their eyes with martial fire, - And the glow of proud desire, - Such as gods and hero’s filled - When their mighty souls were thrilled - By old Homer’s golden lyre! - - Under dim cathedral arches - Pacing sad, pacing slow, - As to beat of funeral marches - Or to music’s rhythmic flow— - With their solemn brows uplifted, - And their hands upon their breasts, - Where the deepest shadows drifted, - One by one pale phantoms pressed. - Lost in dreams of heights supernal, - Mystic dreams of Paradise, - Or of woful depths infernal, - Slow they passed before mine eyes. - Oh, the vision’s pallid splendor! - Oh, the grandeur of their mien— - Kin, by birthright proud and tender, - To the matchless Florentine! - In stately solitude, - Whereon might none intrude— - Majestic, grand and calm, - And bearing each the palm; - Dwelling, serene and fair, - In most enchanted air, - Where softest music crept - O’er harp-strings deftly swept, - And organ-thunders rolled - Like storm-winds through the wold, - They stood in strength sublime - Beyond the bounds of time— - They who had been a part - Of Milton’s mighty heart! - - And where, mysterious ones, - Are Shakespeare’s princely sons, - Bearing in lavish hands - The spoil of many lands? - From castles lifted far - Against the evening star, - Where royal banners float - O’er rampart, tower, and moat, - And the white moonlight sleeps - Upon the Donjon keeps; - From fairy-haunted dells - Among the lonely fells; - From banks where wild thyme grows - And the blue violet blows; - From caverns grim, and caves - Lashed by the deep sea-waves; - From darkling forest shade, - From busy haunts of trade, - From market, court, and camp, - Where folly rings her bells, - Or sorrow tolls her knells, - Or where in cloister cells - The scholar trims his lamp— - Wearing the sword, the gown, - The motley of the clown, - The beggar’s rags, the dole - Of the remorseful soul, - The wedding-robe, the ring, - The shroud’s white blossoming, - O myriad-minded man, - Thus thine immortal clan - Passed down the endless ways - Of the eternal days! - - Then said I to my spirit: - “These are they who wore the crown; - Well the king’s sons may inherit - All his glory and renown. - Where are they—the songs unsung - By the humbler bards whose lyres - Through earth’s lowly vales have rung, - Like the notes of woodland choirs? - They whose silver-sandalled feet - Never climbed the clouds to meet?” - - Where?—The air grew full of laughter - Low and sweet, and following after - Came the softest breath of singing - As if lily bells were ringing; - And from all the happy closes, - Crowned with daisies, crowned with roses, - Bearing woodland ferns for palm-boughs in their hands, - From the dim secluded places, - Through the wide enchanted spaces, - With their song-illumined faces - Swept the shadowy minstrel bands! - - Songs unsung, the high and lowly, - Songs, the holy and unholy, - In that purest air grown wholly - Clean from every spot and stain! - And I knew as endless ages - Still were turning life’s full pages, - Each should find his own again— - Find the song he could not sing, - As his soul’s best blossoming! - - -QUESTIONING A ROSE - - It was fair, it was sweet, - And it blossomed at my feet. - “O thou peerless rose!” I said, - “Art thou heir to roses dead— - Roses that their petals shed - In the winds of long ago? - Who bequeathed to thee the glow - Of thy perfect, radiant heart? - What proud queen of fire and snow - Lived to make thee what thou art? - - Who gave thee thy nameless grace - And the beauty of thy face, - Touched thy lips with fragrant wine, - Pledging thee in cups divine? - On some long-forgotten day, - When earth kept glad holiday, - One bright rose was born, I think, - Dewy, sweet, and soft and pink— - Born, more blest than others are, - To be thy progenitor! - - Oh, the roses that have died - In the unremembered Junes! - Oh, the roses that have sighed - Unto long-forgotten runes! - Dost thou know their secrets dear? - Have they whispered in thine ear - Mysteries of the rain and dew, - And the sunshine that they knew? - Have they told thee how the breeze - Wooed them, and the amorous bees? - - Silent, art thou? Thy repose - Mocks me, yet I fain would know - Art thou kin to one rare rose - Of a summer long ago? - It was sweet, it was fair; - Someone twined it in my hair, - When my young cheek, blushing red, - Shamed the roses, someone said. - Dust and ashes though it be, - Still its soul lives on in thee.” - - -THE FALLOW FIELD - - The sun comes up and the sun goes down; - The night mist shroudeth the sleeping town; - But if it be dark or if it be day, - If the tempests beat or the breezes play, - Still here on this upland slope I lie, - Looking up to the changeful sky. - - Naught am I but a fallow field; - Never a crop my acres yield. - Over the wall at my right hand - Stately and green the corn-blades stand, - And I hear at my left the flying feet - Of the winds that rustle the bending wheat. - - Often while yet the morn is red - I list for our master’s eager tread. - He smiles at the young corn’s towering height, - He knows the wheat is a goodly sight, - But he glances not at the fallow field - Whose idle acres no wealth may yield. - - Sometimes the shout of the harvesters - The sleeping pulse of my being stirs, - And as one in a dream I seem to feel - The sweep and the rush of the swinging steel, - Or I catch the sound of the gay refrain - As they heap their wains with the golden grain. - - Yet, O my neighbors, be not too proud, - Though on every tongue your praise is loud. - Our mother Nature is kind to me, - And I am beloved by bird and bee, - And never a child that passes by - But turns upon me a grateful eye. - - Over my head the skies are blue; - I have my share of the rain and dew; - I bask like you in the summer sun - When the long bright days pass, one by one, - And calm as yours is my sweet repose - Wrapped in the warmth of the winter snows. - - For little our loving mother cares - Which the corn or the daisy bears, - Which is rich with the ripening wheat, - Which with the violet’s breath is sweet, - Which is red with the clover bloom, - Or which for the wild sweet-fern makes room. - - Useless under the summer sky - Year after year men say I lie. - Little they know what strength of mine - I give to the trailing blackberry vine; - Little they know how the wild grape grows, - Or how my life-blood flushes the rose. - - Little they think of the cups I fill - For the mosses creeping under the hill; - Little they think of the feast I spread - For the wild wee creatures that must be fed: - Squirrel and butterfly, bird and bee, - And the creeping things that no eye may see. - - Lord of the harvest, thou dost know - How the summers and winters go. - Never a ship sails east or west - Laden with treasures at my behest, - Yet my being thrills to the voice of God - When I give my gold to the golden-rod. - - -OUT AND IN - - A ship went sailing out to sea, - A gallant ship and gay, - When skies were bright as skies could be, - One sunny morn in May. - The light winds blew, - The white sails flew, - The pennants floated far; - No stain I saw, - Nor any flaw, - From deck to shining spar! - And from the prow, with eager eyes, - Hope gazed afar—to Paradise. - - A ship came laboring in from sea, - One wild December night; - Ah! never ship was borne to lee - In sadder, sorrier plight! - Rent were her sails - By furious gales, - No pennants floated far; - Twisted and torn - And all forlorn - Were shuddering mast and spar! - But from the prow Faith’s steady eyes - Caught the near light of Paradise! - - -HER FLOWERS - - “Nay, nay,” she whispered low, - “I will not have these buds of folded snow, - Nor yet the pallid bloom - Of the chill tuberose, heavy with perfume, - Nor lilies waxen white, - To go with her into the grave’s dark night. - - But now that she is dead - Bring ye the royal roses blushing red, - Roses that on her breast - All summer long, by these pale hands caressed, - Have lain in happy calm, - Breathing their lives away in bloom and balm!” - - Roses for all the joy - Of perfect hours when life had no alloy; - When hope was glad and gay, - And young Love sang his blissful roundelay; - And to her eager eyes - Each new day oped the gates of Paradise. - - But, for that she hath wept, - And over buried hopes long vigil kept, - Bring mystic passion-flowers, - To tell the tale of sacrificial hours - When, lifting up her cross, - She bore it bravely on through pain and loss! - - Then at her blessèd feet, - That never more shall haste on errands sweet, - Lay fragrant mignonette - And fair sweet-peas in dainty garlands set,— - Dear humble flowers, that make - Each passer-by the gladder for their sake! - - For she who lieth here - Trod not alone the high paths shining clear, - With light of star and sun - Falling undimmed her lofty place upon; - But stooped to lowliest ways, - Filling with fragrance all the passing days! - - -THREE LADDIES - - O sailors sailing north, - Where the wild white surges roar, - And fierce winds and strong winds - Blow down from Labrador— - Have you seen my three brave laddies, - My merry red-cheeked laddies, - Three bold, adventurous laddies, - On some tempestuous shore? - - O sailors sailing south, - Where the seas are calm and blue, - And light clouds and soft clouds - Are floating over you, - Say, have you seen my laddies, - My three bright, winsome laddies, - My brown-haired, smiling laddies, - With hearts so leal and true? - - O sailors sailing east, - Ask the sea-gulls sweeping by; - O sailors sailing west, - Ask the eagles soaring high, - If they have seen my laddies, - My careless, heedless laddies, - Three debonair young laddies, - Beneath the wide, wide sky? - - O sailors, if you find them, - Pray send them back to me; - For them the winds go sighing - Through every lonely tree— - For these three wandering laddies, - My tender, bright-eyed laddies, - The laughter-loving laddies, - Whom they no longer see. - - There are three men who love me, - Three men with bearded lips; - But oh! ye gallant sailors - Who sail the sea in ships— - In elf-land, or in cloud-land, - Or on the dreamland shore, - Can you find the little laddies - Whom I can find no more? - Three quiet, thoughtful laddies, - Three merry, winsome laddies, - Three rollicking, frolicking laddies, - On any far-off shore? - - - SUMMER, 1882 - R. W. E. - - - O Summer, thou fair laggard, where art thou? - In what far sunlit land of balm and bloom, - What slumbrous bowers of beauty and perfume, - Are roses crowning thine imperial brow? - - Where art thou, Summer? We should see thy feet - Even now upon the mountains. All the hills - Rise up to greet thee. Nature’s great heart thrills, - Faint with expectant joy. Where art thou, sweet? - - And Summer answered: “Lo! I wait! I wait! - To the far North I bend my listening ear; - By day, by night, my soul keeps watch to hear - One high, clear strain that rises soon nor late! - - Why should I haste where light and song have fled? - The ‘Woodnotes’ wake no more the Master’s lyre; - The ‘haughty day’ fills no ‘blue urn with fire’ - When its great lover lieth cold and dead!” - - -THORNLESS ROSES - - “No rose may bloom without a thorn?” - Come down the garden paths and see - How brightly in the scented air - They bloom for you and me! - - See how, like rosy clouds, they lie - Against the perfect, stainless blue! - See how they toss their airy heads, - And smile for me, for you! - - No scanty largess, meanly doled— - No pallid blooms, by two, by three, - But a whole crowd of pink-white wings - Fluttering for you and me. - - So fair they are I cannot choose; - I pluck the rich spoils here and there; - I heap them on your waiting arms; - I twine them in your hair. - - There is no thorn among them all— - No sharp sting in the heart of bliss— - No bitter in the honeyed cup— - No burning in the kiss. - - Nay, quote the proverb if you must, - And mock the truth you will not see; - Nathless, Love’s thornless roses blow - Somewhere for you and me. - - -TREASURE-SHIPS - - O beautiful, stately ships, - Ye come from over the seas, - With every sail full spread - To the glad, rejoicing breeze! - Ye come from the dusky East, - Ye come from the golden West, - As birds that out of the far blue sky - Fly each to its sheltered nest. - - All spoils of the earth ye bring; - From the isles of far Cathay, - From the fabled shores of the Orient, - The realms of eternal day. - The prisoned light of a thousand gems, - The gleam of the virgin gold, - Lustre of silver, and sheen of pearl, - Shut up in the narrow hold. - - Shawls from the looms of Ispahan; - Ivory white as milk; - Shimmer of satin and rare brocade, - And fold upon fold of silk; - Gauzes that India’s maidens wear; - Spices, and rare perfumes; - Fruits that hold in their honeyed cups - The wealth of the summer blooms. - - The blood of a thousand vines; - The cotton’s drifted snow; - The fragrant heart of the precious woods - That deep in the tropics grow; - The strength of the giant hills; - The might of the iron ore; - The golden corn, and the yellow wheat - From earth’s broad threshing-floor. - - Yet, O ye beautiful ships! - There are ships that come not back, - With flying pennant and swelling sail, - Over yon shining track! - Who can reckon their precious stores, - Or measure the might have been? - Who can tell what they held for us— - The ships that will ne’er come in? - - -CHOOSING - - Meadow-sweet or lily fair— - Which shall it be? - Clematis or brier-rose, - Blooming for me? - Spicy pink, or violet - With the dews of morning wet, - Sweet peas or mignonette— - Which shall it be? - - Flowers in the garden-beds, - Flowers everywhere; - Blue-bells and yellow-bells - Swinging in the air; - Purple pansies, golden pied; - Pink-white daisies, starry-eyed; - Gay nasturtiums, deeply dyed, - Climbing everywhere! - - Oh, the roses darkly red— - See, how they burn! - Glows with all the summer heat - Each crimson urn. - Bridal roses pure as snow, - Yellow roses all a-blow, - Sweet blush-roses drooping low, - Wheresoe’er I turn! - - Life is so full, so sweet— - How can I choose? - If I gather _this_ rose, - _That_ I must lose! - All are not for me to wear; - I can only have my share; - Thorns are hiding here and there; - How can I choose? - - -NOT MINE - - It is not mine to run - With eager feet - Along life’s crowded ways, - My Lord to meet. - - It is not mine to pour - The oil and wine, - Or bring the purple robe - And linen fine. - - It is not mine to break - At his dear feet - The alabaster-box - Of ointment sweet. - - It is not mine to bear - heavy cross, - Or suffer, for his sake, - All pain and loss. - - It is not mine to walk - Through valleys dim, - Or climb far mountain-heights - Alone with him. - - He hath no need of me - In grand affairs, - Where fields are lost, or crowns - Won unawares. - - Yet, Master, if I may - Make one pale flower - Bloom brighter, for thy sake, - Through one short hour; - - If I, in harvest-fields - Where strong ones reap, - May bind one golden sheaf - For Love to keep; - - May speak one quiet word - When all is still, - Helping some fainting heart - To bear thy will; - - Or sing one high, clear song, - On which may soar - Some glad soul heavenward, - I ask no more! - - -THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE - - One autumn day we three, - Who long had borne each other company— - Grief, and my Heart, and I— - Walked out beneath a dull and leaden sky. - - The fields were bare and brown; - From the still trees the dead leaves fluttered down; - There were no birds to sing, - Or cleave the air on swift, rejoicing wing. - - We sought the barren sand - Beside the moaning sea, and, hand in hand, - Paced its slow length, and talked - Of our supremest sorrows as we walked. - - Slow shaking each bowed head, - “There is no anguish like to ours,” we said; - “The glancing eyes of morn - Fall on no souls more utterly forlorn.” - - But suddenly, across - A narrow fiord wherein wild billows toss, - We saw before our eyes, - High hung above the tide, a temple rise— - - A temple wondrous fair, - Lifting its shining turrets in the air, - All touched with golden gleams, - Like the bright miracles we see in dreams. - - Grief turned and looked at me. - “We must go thither, O my friends,” said she; - Then, saying nothing more, - With rapid, gliding step passed on before. - - And we—my Heart and I— - Where Grief went, we went, following silently, - Till in sweet solitude - Beneath the temple’s vaulted roof we stood. - - ’Twas like a hollow pearl— - A vast white sacred chamber, where the whirl - Of passion stirred not, where - A luminous splendor trembled in the air. - - “O friends, I know this place,” - Said Grief at last, “this lofty, silent space, - Where, either soon or late, - I and my kindred all shall lie in state.” - - “But do Griefs die?” I cried. - “Some die—not all,” full calmly she replied. - “Yet all at last will lie - In this fair chamber, slumbering quietly. - - Chamber of Silence, this; - Who brings his Grief here doth not go amiss. - Mine hour hath come. We three - Will walk, O friends, no more in company.” - - Then was I dumb. My Heart - And I—how could we with our dear Grief part, - Who for so many a day - Had walked beside us in our lonely way? - - But she, with matchless grace, - And a sweet smile upon her tear-wet face, - Said, “Leave me here to sleep, - Where every Grief forgets at last to weep.” - - What could we do but go? - We turned with slow, reluctant feet, but lo! - The pearly door had closed, - Shutting us in where all the Griefs reposed. - - “Nay, go not back,” she said; - “Retrace no steps. Go farther on instead.” - Then, on the other side, - On noiseless hinge another door swung wide, - - Through which we onward passed - Into a chamber lowlier than the last, - But, oh! so sweet and calm - That the hushed air was like a holy psalm. - - “Chamber of Peace” was writ - Where the low vaulted roof arched over it. - Then knew we Grief must cease - When sacred Silence leadeth unto Peace. - - -THREE ROSES - - “Oh, shall it be a red rose, a red rose, a red rose, - A deep-tinted red rose?” said she. - “In the sunny garden closes, - How they burn, the dark-red roses, - How they lift up their glowing cups to me!” - - “Oh, shall it be a blush rose, a blush rose, a blush rose, - A dewy, dainty blush rose?” said she. - “At its heart a flush so tender, - With what veiled and softened splendor - Droopeth now its languid head toward me!” - - “Oh, shall it be a white rose, a white rose, a white rose, - A fair and fragrant white rose?” said she. - “With its pale cheek tinted faintly, - ’Tis a vestal, pure and saintly, - Yet its silver lamp is shining now for me!” - - - FOUR LETTERS - (INSCRIBED TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES) - -[In an old almanac of the year 1809, against the date August 29th, -there is this record, “Son b.” The sand that was thrown upon the fresh -ink seventy years ago can still be seen upon the page.] - - Four letters on a yellow page - Writ when the century was young; - A few small grains of shining sand - Across it lightly flung! - - A child was born—child nameless yet; - A son to love till life was o’er; - But did no strange, sweet prescience stir, - Teaching of something more? - - Thy son! O father, hadst thou known - What now the wide world knows of him, - How had thy pulses thrilled with joy, - How had thine eye grown dim! - - Couldst thou, through all the swift, bright years, - Have looked, with glad, far-reaching gaze, - And seen him as he stands to-day, - Crowned with unfading bays— - - While Love’s red roses at his feet - Pour all their wealth of rare perfume, - And Truth’s white lilies, pure as snow, - His lofty way illume— - - How had thy heart’s strong throbbing shook - The eager pen, the firm right hand, - That threw upon this record quaint - These grains of glittering sand! - - O irony of Time and Fate! - That saves and loses, makes and mars, - Keeps the small dust upon the scales, - And blotteth out the stars! - - Kingdoms and thrones have passed away; - Conquerors have fallen, empires died, - And countless sons of men gone down - Beneath War’s crimson tide. - - The whole wide earth has changed its face; - Nations clasp hands across the seas; - They speak, and winds and waves repeat - The mighty symphonies. - - Mountains have bowed their haughty crests, - And opened wide their ponderous doors; - The sea hath gathered in its dead, - Love-wept on alien shores. - - Proud cities, wrapped in fire and flame, - Have challenged all the slumbering land; - Yet neither Time nor Change has touched - These few bright grains of sand! - - -VALDEMAR - - Within a city quaint and old, - When reigned King Alcinor the Bold, - There dwelt a sculptor whose renown - With pride and wonder filled the town. - And yet he had not reached his prime; - The first warm glow of summer-time - Had but just touched his radiant face, - And moulded to a statelier grace - The stalwart form that trod the earth - As it had been of princely birth. - So fair, so strong, so brave was he, - With such a sense of mastery, - That Alcinor upon his throne - No kinglier gifts from life could own - Than those it brought from near and far - To the young sculptor, Valdemar! - Mayhap he was not rich—for Fame, - To lend its magic to his name, - Had outrun Fortune’s swiftest pace - And conquered in the friendly race. - But a fair home was his, where bees - Hummed in the laden mulberry-trees; - Where cyclamens, with rosy flush, - Brightened the lingering twilight hush, - And the gladiolus’ fiery plume - Mocked the red rose’s brilliant bloom; - Where violet and wind-flower hid - The acacia’s golden gloom amid; - Where starry jasmines climbed, and where, - Serenely calm, divinely fair, - Like a white lily, straight and tall, - The loveliest flower among them all, - His sweet young wife, Hermione, - Sang to the child upon her knee! - - Here beauteous visions haunted him, - Peopling the shadows soft and dim; - Here the old gods around him cast - The glamour of their splendors past. - Jove thundered from the awful sky; - Proud Juno trod the earth once more; - Pale Isis, veiled in mystery, - Her smile of mystic meaning wore; - Apollo joyed in youth divine, - And Bacchus wreathed the fragrant vine. - Here chaste Diana, crescent-crowned, - With virgin footsteps spurned the ground; - Here rose fair Venus from the sea, - And that sad ghost, Persephone, - Wandered, a very shade of shades, - Amid the moonlit myrtle glades. - Nor they alone. The Heavenly Child, - The Holy Mother, meek and mild, - Angels on glad wing soaring free, - Pale, praying saints on bended knee, - Martyrs with palms, and heroes brave - Who for their guerdon won a grave, - Earth’s laughing children, rosy sweet, - And the soul’s phantoms, fair and fleet— - All these were with him night and day, - Charming the happy hours away! - Oh, who so rich as Valdemar? - What ill his joyous life can mar? - With home and glorious visions blest, - Glad in the work he loveth best! - - But Love’s clear eyes are quick to see; - And one fair spring, Hermione. - Sitting beneath her mulberry-tree - With her young children at her knee, - Saw Valdemar from day to day, - As one whose thoughts were far away, - With folded arms and drooping head - Pace the green aisles with silent tread; - Saw him stand moodily apart - With idle hands and brooding heart, - Or gaze at his still forms of clay, - Himself as motionless as they! - “O Valdemar!” she cried, “you bear - Some burden that I do not share! - I am your wife, your own true wife; - Shut me not out from heart and life! - Why brood you thus in silent pain?” - As shifts the changing weather-vane, - So came the old smile to his face, - Saluting her with courtly grace. - “Nay, nay, Hermione, not so! - No secret, bitter grief I know; - But, haunting all my dreams by night - And thoughts by day, one vision bright, - One nameless wonder, near me stands, - Claiming its birthright at my hands. - It hath your eyes, Hermione, - Your tender lips that smile for me; - It hath your perfect, stately grace, - The matchless beauty of your face. - But it hath more! for never yet - On brow of earthly mould was set - Such splendor and such light as streams - From this rare phantom of my dreams!” - - Lightly she turned, and led him through - Under the jasmines wet with dew, - Into a wide, cool room, shut in - From the great city’s whirl and din— - Then, smiling, touched a heap of clay. - “Dear idler, do thy work, I pray! - Thy radiant phantom lieth hid - The mould of centuries amid, - Waiting till thou shalt bid it rise - And live beneath the wondering skies!” - - Then rose a hot flush to his cheek; - His stammering lips were slow to speak. - “Hermione,” he said at length, - As one who gathers up his strength, - “Hermione, my wife, I go - Far from thee on a journey slow - And long and perilous; for I know - Somewhere upon the earth there is - A finer, purer clay than this, - From which I’ll mould a shape more fair - Than ever breathed in earthly air! - I go to seek it!” - - “Ah!” she said, - With smiling lips, but tearful eyes, - Half lifted in a grieved surprise, - “How shall I then be comforted? - Not always do we find afar - The good we seek, my Valdemar! - This common, way-side clay thy hand - Hath been most potent to command. - Yet I—I will not bid thee stay. - Go, if thou must, and find thy clay!” - - Then his long journeyings began, - And still his hope his steps outran. - O’er desert sands he came and went; - He crossed a mighty continent; - Plunged into forests dark and lone; - In jungles heard the panther’s moan; - Climbed the far mountains’ lofty heights; - Watched alien stars through weary nights; - While more than once, on trackless seas, - His white sails caught the eddying breeze. - Yet all his labor was for nought, - And never found he what he sought, - Or far or near. The finer clay - But mocked his eager search alway. - - Ofttimes he came, with weary feet, - Back to the home so still and sweet - Where his fair wife, Hermione, - Dwelt with her children at her knee; - But never once his eager hand - Thrilled the mute clay with high command. - One day she spoke: “O Valdemar, - Cease from your wanderings wide and far! - Life is not long. Why waste it, then, - Chasing false fires through marsh and fen? - Mould your fair statue while you may; - High purpose sanctifies the clay.” - - He answered her, “My dream must wait, - Fortune will aid me, soon or late! - Perhaps the clay I may not find— - But a strange tale is in the wind - Of an old man whose life has been - Shut up wild solitudes within - On Alpine mountains. He has found - What I have sought the world around. - A learnèd, godly man, he knows - How the full tide of being flows; - And he, in some mysterious way, - Makes, if he cannot find, the clay. - He will his secret share with me— - I go to him, Hermione!” - - “But, Valdemar,” she cried, “time flies, - And while you dream, the vision dies! - And look! Our children suffer lack; - There is no coat for Claudio’s back; - Theresa’s little feet, unshod, - Are torn by shards on which they trod; - And Marcius cried but yesterday - When the lads mocked him at their play. - The very house is crumbling down; - The broken hearth-stone needs repair; - The roof is open to the air— - It wakes the laughter of the town! - O Valdemar! if you must go - Up to those trackless fields of snow, - Mould first from yonder common clay - Something to keep the wolf away— - A Virgin for some humble shrine, - A soldier clad in armor fine, - Or even such toys as Andrefels - To laughing, wondering children sells.” - - “Now murmur not, Hermione, - But be thou patient,” answered he. - “Why mind the laughter of the town? - It cannot shake my fair renown! - A touch of hardship, now and then, - Will never harm our little men; - And as for this old, crumbling roof, - Let rude winds put it to the proof, - And fierce heats gnaw the hearth-stone! I - Surely the Land of Promise spy, - Where the fair vision of my dreams, - Clothed in transcendent beauty, gleams! - In its white hand it holdeth up - For us, my love, a brimming cup - Where wealth and fame and joy divine - Mingle in life’s most sparkling wine. - Bid me God-speed, Hermione, - And kiss me, ere I go from thee!” - - So on he sped, from day to day— - Past wheat-fields yellowing in the sun, - Where scarlet-coated poppies run, - Gay soldiers ready for the fray— - Past vineyards purpling on the hills, - Past sleeping lakes and dancing rills, - And homes like dovecotes nestling high - Midway between the earth and sky! - Then on he passed through valleys dim - Crowded with shadows gaunt and grim, - Up towering heights whence glaciers launch - Their swift-winged ships for seaward flight, - Or where, dread messenger of fright, - Sweeps down the awful avalanche! - And still upon the mountain side - To every man he met he cried, - “Where shall I find, oh! tell me where, - The hermit of this upper air, - Who Nature’s inmost secret knows?” - And, pointing to the eternal snows, - Each man replied, with wagging head, - “Up yonder, somewhere, it is said.” - - At length one day, as sank the sun, - He reached a low hut, dark and dun, - And, entering unbidden, found - An old man stretched upon the ground: - A white-haired, venerable man, - Whose eyes had hardly light to scan - The face that, blanched with awful fear, - Bent down, his failing breath to hear. - “_Pax vobiscum_” he murmured low, - “Shrive me, O brother, ere I go!” - - “No priest am I,” cried Valdemar. - “Alas! alas! I came from far - To learn thy secret of the clay— - Speak to me, sire, while yet you may!” - But while he wet the parchèd lips, - The dull eyes closed in death’s eclipse; - And the old seer in silence lay, - Himself a thing of pallid clay, - With all his secrets closely hid - As Ramses’ in the pyramid. - - Long time within that lonely place - Valdemar lived, but found no trace - In learnèd book or parchment scroll - (The ink scarce dry upon the roll) - Of aught the stars had taught to him. - Within the wide horizon’s rim, - Nor earth, nor sky, nor winds at play, - Knew the lost secret of the clay. - - Then sought he, after journeyings hard, - The holy monks of St. Bernard. - But they—ah, yes!—they knew him well, - A man not ruled by book and bell. - Godly, perhaps—but much inclined - Some newer road to heaven to find. - And was he dead? God rest his soul, - After this life of toil and dole! - - And that was all! O Valdemar! - Fly to thy desolate home afar, - Where wasted, worn, Hermione, - With her pale children at her knee, - Beside the broken hearth-stone weeps! - - He finds her, smiling as she sleeps, - For night more tender is than day, - And softly wipes our tears away. - “Oh, wake, Hermione!” he cries, - As one whose spirit inly dies; - “Hear me confess that I have been - False to thee in my pride and sin! - God give me grace from this blest day - To do His work in common clay! ” - - Next morn, in humble, sweet content, - Into his studio he went, - Eager to test his willing hand, - And rule the clay with wise command. - But no fair wonder first he wrought, - No marvel of creative thought, - Not even a Virgin for a shrine, - Or soldier clad in armor fine— - Only such toys as Andrefels - To laughing, wondering children sells! - - One day he knelt him gravely down - Beside the hearth-stone, rent and brown. - “And now, my patient wife,” said he, - “What can be done with this, we’ll see.” - With straining arm and crimsoned face - He pried the mortar from its place, - Lifted the heavy stone aside, - And left a cavern yawning wide. - Oh, wondrous tale! At set of sun - The guerdon of his search was won; - And where his broken hearth-stone lay - He found at last the perfect clay! - - -JUBILATE! - - Jubilate! Jubilate! - Christ the Lord is risen to-day! - Hear the mighty chorus swelling - Over land and over sea! - River calls aloud to river, - Mountain peak to mountain peak— - Jubilate! Jubilate! - Christ the Lord is risen to-day! - - Waken, roses, from your slumbers! - Lilies, wake—for he is near! - Happy bells in wild-wood arches, - Ring and swing in sweet accord! - Lift your voices, O ye maples, - Sing aloud, ye stately pines, - Jubilate! Jubilate! - Christ the Lord is risen to-day! - - O thou goddess of the springtime, - Fair Ostera, thou art dead! - Never more shall priests and vestals - Weave fresh garlands for thy shrine; - But the happy voices ringing - Over land and over sea, - Swell the mighty jubilate— - “Christ the Lord is risen to-day!” - - -EASTER LILIES - - O ye dear and blessed ones who are done with sighing, - Do the Easter Lilies blow for you to-day? - Do the shining angels, through Heaven’s arches flying, - Bear the snow-white blossoms on your breasts to lay? - - For we cannot reach you, O our well belovèd— - Nothing can we do for you save to hold you dear; - From our close embraces ye are far removèd, - And our empty yearnings cannot bring you near. - - Once on Easter mornings glad we gave you greeting— - Gave you fair flowers, singing, “Christ is risen to-day!” - Hands were clasped together, hearts and lips were meeting— - Earth and we together sang a roundelay! - - Now—yet why repine we?—ye are done with sorrow; - Life and Lent are over, with their prayers and tears; - After night of watching came the glad to-morrow, - Came the blessed sunshine of the eternal years. - - Surely in Jerusalem, where the Lord Christ reigneth, - Ye with saints and martyrs keep this festal day— - And the holy angels, ere its glory waneth, - Heaven’s own Easter Lilies on your breasts shall lay! - - -“O WIND THAT BLOWS OUT OF THE WEST” - - O wind that blows out of the West, - Thou hast swept over mountain and sea, - Dost thou bear on thy swift, glad wings - The breath of my love to me? - Hast thou kissed her warm, sweet lips? - Or tangled her soft brown hair? - Or fluttered the fragrant heart - Of the rose she loves to wear? - - O sun that goes down in the West, - Hast thou seen my love to-day, - As she sits in her beautiful prime - Under skies so far away? - Hast thou gilded a path for her feet, - Or deepened the glow on her cheeks, - Or bent from the skies to hear - The low, sweet words she speaks? - - O stars that are bright in the West - When the hush of the night is deep, - Do ye see my love as she lies - Like a chaste, white flower asleep? - Does she smile as she walks with me - In the light of a happy dream, - While the night winds rustle the leaves, - And the light waves ripple and gleam? - - O birds that fly out of the West, - Do ye bring me a message from her, - As sweet as your love-notes are, - When the warm spring breezes stir? - Did she whisper a word of me - As your tremulous wings swept by, - Or utter my name, mayhap, - In a single passionate cry? - - O voices out of the West, - Ye are silent every one, - And never an answer comes - From wind, or stars, or sun! - And the blithe birds come and go - Through the boundless fields of space, - As reckless of human prayers - As if earth were a desert place! - - -A SUMMER SONG - - Roly-poly honey-bee, - Humming in the clover, - Under you the tossing leaves, - And the blue sky over, - Why are you so busy, pray? - Never still a minute, - Hovering now above a flower, - Now half-buried in it! - - Jaunty robin-redbreast, - Singing loud and cheerly, - From the pink-white apple tree - In the morning early, - Tell me, is your merry song - Just for your own pleasure, - Poured from such a tiny throat, - Without stint or measure? - - Little yellow buttercup, - By the way-side smiling, - Lifting up your happy face, - With such sweet beguiling, - Why are you so gayly clad— - Cloth of gold your raiment? - Do the sunshine and the dew - Look to you for payment? - - Roses in the garden beds, - Lilies, cool and saintly, - Darling blue-eyed violets, - Pansies, hooded quaintly, - Sweet-peas that, like butterflies, - Dance the bright skies under, - Bloom ye for your own delight, - Or for ours, I wonder! - - -THE URN - - Across the blue Atlantic waves - She sent a little gift to me: - A golden urn—a graceful toy - As one need care to see. - - Smiling, I held it in my hand, - Thinking her message o’er and o’er, - Nor dreamed her swift feet pressed so near - The undiscovered shore. - - Oh! had it been a funeral urn— - The gift my darling sent to me - With loving thoughts and tender words - Across the heaving sea— - - A funeral urn which might have held - Her sacred ashes, sealed in rest - Utter as that which holds in thrall - Some pulseless marble breast! - - Where drifts she now? On what far seas - Floateth to-day her golden hair? - What stars behold her pale hands, clasped - In ecstasy of prayer? - - Forever in this thought of mine, - Like the fair Lady of Shalott, - She drifteth, drifteth with the tide, - But never comes to Camelot! - - -THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER - - “What, ho!” he cried, as up and down - He rode through the streets of Windham town— - “What, ho! for the day of peace is done, - And the day of wrath too well begun! - Bring forth the grain from your barns and mills; - Drive down the cattle from off your hills; - For Boston lieth in sore distress, - Pallid with hunger and long duress: - Her children starve, while she hears the beat - And the tramp of the red-coats in every street!” - - “What, ho! What, ho!” Like a storm unspent, - Over the hill-sides he came and went; - And Parson White, from his open door - Leaning bareheaded that August day, - While the sun beat down on his temples gray, - Watched him until he could see no more. - Then straight he strode to the church, and flung - His whole soul into the peal he rung; - Pulling the bell-rope till the tower - Seemed to rock in the sudden shower— - - The shower of sound the farmers heard, - Rending the air like a living word! - Then swift they gathered with right good-will - From field and anvil and shop and mill, - To hear what the parson had to say - That would not keep till the Sabbath-day. - For only the women and children knew - The tale of the horsemen galloping through— - The message he bore as up and down - He rode through the streets of Windham town. - - That night, as the parson sat at ease - In the porch, with his Bible on his knees, - (Thanking God that at break of day - Frederic Manning would take his way, - With cattle and sheep from off the hills, - And a load of grain from the barns and mills, - To the starving city where General Gage - Waited unholy war to wage), - His little daughter beside him stood, - Hiding her face in her muslin hood. - - In her arms her own pet lamb she bore, - As it struggled down to the oaken floor: - “It must go; I must give my lamb,” she said, - “To the children that cry for meat and bread,” - Then lifted to his her holy eyes, - Wet with the tears of sacrifice. - “Nay, nay,” he answered. “There is no need - That the hearts of babes should ache and bleed. - Run away to your bed, and to-morrow play, - You and your pet, through the livelong day.” - - He laid his hand on her shining hair, - And smiled as he blessed her, standing there, - With kerchief folded across her breast, - And her small brown hands together pressed, - A quaint little maiden, shy and sweet, - With her lambkin crouched at her dainty feet. - Away to its place the lamb she led, - Then climbed the stairs to her own white bed, - While the moon rose up and the stars looked down - On the silent streets of Windham town. - - But when the heralds of morning came, - Flushing the east with rosy flame, - With low of cattle and scurry of feet, - Driving his herd down the village street, - Young Manning heard from a low stone wall - A child’s voice clearly yet softly call; - And saw in the gray dusk standing there - A little maiden with shining hair, - While crowding close to her tender side - Was a snow-white lamb to her apron tied. - - “Oh, wait!” she cried, “for my lamb must go - To the children crying in want and woe. - It is all I have.” And her tears fell fast - As she gave it one eager kiss—the last. - “The road will be long to its feet. I pray - Let your arms be its bed a part of the way; - And give it cool water and tender grass - Whenever a way-side brook you pass.” - Then away she flew like a startled deer, - Nor waited the bleat of her lamb to hear. - - Young Manning lifted his steel-blue eyes - One moment up to the morning skies; - Then, raising the lamb to his breast, he strode - Sturdily down the lengthening road. - “Now God be my helper,” he cried, “and lead - Me safe with my charge to the souls in need! - Through fire and flood, through dearth and dole, - Though foes assail me and war-clouds roll, - To the city in want and woe that lies - I will bear this lamb as a sacrifice.” - - - MARCH FOURTH - 1881-1882 - - - One year ago the plaudits of the crowd, - The drum’s long thunder and the bugle’s blare, - The bell’s gay clamor, pealing clear and loud, - And rapturous music filling all the air; - - One year ago, on roofs and domes and spires, - Ten thousand banners bursting into bloom - As the proud day advanced its golden fires, - And all the crowding centuries gave it room; - - One year ago the laurel and the palm, - The upward path, the height undimmed and far, - And in the clear, strong light, serene and calm, - One high, pure spirit, shining like a star! - - To-day—for loud acclaims the long lament; - For shouts of triumph, tears that fall like rain; - A world remembering, with anguish rent, - Thy long, unmurmuring martyrdom of pain! - - The year moves on; the seasons come and go; - Day follows day, and pale stars rise and set; - Oh! in yon radiant heaven dost thou know - The land that loved thee never can forget? - - It doth not swerve—it keeps its onward way, - Unfaltering still, from farthest sea to sea; - Yet, while it owns another’s rightful sway, - It patient grows and strong, remembering thee! - - -ROY - - Our Prince has gone to his inheritance! - Think it not strange. What if, with slight half-smile, - Some crownèd king to leave his throne should chance, - And try the rough ways of the world awhile? - - Ere he had wearied of its storm and stress, - Would he not hasten to his own again? - Why should he bear its labor and duress, - And all the untold burden of its pain? - - Or what if from the golden palace gate - The king’s fair son on some bright morn should stray? - Would he not send his lords of high estate - To lead him back ere fell the close of day? - - Even so our King from Heaven’s high portals saw - The fair young Prince where earth’s dull shades advance, - And sent his messengers of love and law - To bear him home to his inheritance! - - - THE PAINTER’S PRAYER - “NEC ME PRÆTERMITTAS, DOMINE!” - -(An incident in the painting of Holman Hunt’s “Light of the World.”) - - “Nay,” he said, “it is not done! - At to-morrow’s set of sun - Come again, if you would see - What the finished thought may be.” - Straight they went. The heavy door - On its hinges swung once more, - As within the studio dim - Eye and heart took heed of Him! - - How the Presence filled the room, - Brightening all its dusky gloom! - Saints and martyrs turned their eyes - From the hills of Paradise; - Rapt in holy ecstasy, - Mary smiled her Son to see, - Letting all her lilies fall - At His feet—the Lord of all! - - But the painter bowed his head, - Lost in wonder and in dread, - And as at a holy shrine - Knelt before the form divine. - All had passed—the pride, the power, - Of the soul’s creative hour— - Exaltation’s soaring flight - To the spirit’s loftiest height. - - Had he dared to paint the Lord? - Dared to paint the Christ, the Word? - Ah, the folly! Ah, the sin! - Ah, the shame his soul within! - Saints might turn on him their eyes - From the hills of Paradise, - But the painter could not brook - On that pictured face to look. - - Yet the form was grand and fair, - Fit to move a world to prayer; - God like in its strength and stress, - Human in its tenderness. - From it streamed the Light divine, - O’er it drooped the heavenly vine, - And beneath the bending spray - Stood the Life, the Truth, the Way! - - Suddenly with eager hold, - Back he swept the curtain’s fold, - Letting all the sunset glow - O’er the living canvas flow. - Surely then the wondrous eyes - Met his own in tenderest wise, - And the Lord Christ, half revealed, - Smiled upon him as he kneeled! - - Trembling, throbbing, quick as thought, - Up he brush and palette caught, - And where deepest shade was thrown - Set one sign for God alone! - Years have passed—but, even yet, - Where the massive frame is set - You may find these words: “_Nec me - Prætermittas, Domine!_” - - “Neither pass me by, O Lord!” - Christ, the Life, the Light, the Word, - Low we bow before thy feet, - Thy remembrance to entreat! - In our soul’s most secret place, - For no eye but thine to trace, - Lo! this prayer we write: “_Nec me - Prætermittas, Domine!_” - - - FROM EXILE - PARIS, SEPTEMBER 3, 1879 - -(_A Mother speaks_) - - Ah, dear God, when will it be day? - I cannot sleep, I cannot pray. - Tossing, I watch the silent stars - Mount up from the horizon bars: - Orion with his flaming sword, - Proud chieftain of the glorious horde; - Auriga up the lofty arch - Pursuing still his stately march— - So patient and so calm are they. - Ah, dear God! when will it be day? - - O Mary, Mother! Hark! I hear - A cock crow through the silence clear! - The dawn’s faint crimson streaks the east, - And, afar off, I catch the least - Low murmur of the city’s stir - As she shakes off the dreams of her! - List! there’s a sound of hurrying feet - Far down below me in the street. - Thank God! the weary night is past, - The morning comes—’tis day at last. - - Wake, Rosalie! Awake! arise! - The sun is up, it gilds the skies. - She does not stir. The young sleep sound - As dead men in their graves profound. - Ho, Rosalie! At last? Now haste! - To-day there is no time to waste. - Bring me fresh water. Braid my hair. - Hand me the glass. Once I was fair - As thou art. Now I look so old - It seems my death-knell should be tolled. - - Ill? No! (I want no wine.) So pale? - Like a white ghost, so wan and frail? - Well, that’s not strange. All night I lay - Waiting and watching for the day. - But—there! I’ll drink it; it may make - My cheeks burn brighter for his sake - Who comes to-day. My boy! my boy! - How can I bear the unwonted joy? - I, who for eight long years have wept - While happier mothers smiling slept; - While others decked their sons first-born - For dance, or fête, or bridal morn, - Or proudly smiled to see them stand - The stateliest pillars of the land! - For he, so gallant and so gay, - As young and debonair as they, - My beautiful, brave boy, my life, - Went down in the unequal strife! - The right or wrong? Oh, what care I? - The good God judgeth up on high. - - And now He gives him back to me! - I tremble so—I scarce can see. - How full the streets are! I will wait - His coming here beside this gate, - From which I watched him as he went, - Eight years ago, to banishment. - Let me sit down. Speak, Rosalie, when - You see a band of stalwart men, - With one fair boy among them—one - With bright hair shining in the sun, - Red, smiling lips, and eager eyes, - Blue as the blue of summer skies. - My boy! my boy!—Why come they not? - O Son of God! hast Thou forgot - Thy Mother’s agony? Yet she, - Was she not stronger far than we, - We common mothers? Could she know - From her far heights such pain and woe?— - Run farther down the street, and see - If they’re not coming, Rosalie! - - Mother of Christ! how lag the hours! - What? just beyond the convent towers, - And coming straight this way? O heart, - Be still and strong, and bear thy part, - Thy new part, bravely. Hark! I hear - Above the city’s hum the near - Slow tread of marching feet; I see— - Nay, I can _not_ see, Rosalie; - Your eyes are younger. Is he there, - My Antoine, with his sunny hair? - It is like gold; it shines in the sun: - Surely you see it? What? Not one— - Not one bright head? All old, old men, - Gray-haired, gray-bearded, gaunt? Then—then - He has not come—he is ill, or dead! - O God, that I were in thy stead, - My son! my son! Who touches me? - Your pardon, sir. I am not she - For whom you look. Go farther on - Ere yet the daylight shall be gone. - - ‘Mother!’ Who calls me ‘Mother?’ _You?_ - You are not he—my Antoine! You— - A bowed, gray-bearded man, while he - Was a mere boy who went from me, - Only a boy! I’m sorry, sir. - God bless you! Soon you will find her - For whom you seek. But I—ah, I— - Still must I call and none reply! - You—kiss me? Antoine? O my son! - Thou art mine own, my banished one! - - -A MOTHER-SONG - - Sleep, baby, sleep! The Christmas stars are shining, - Clear and bright the Christmas stars climb up the vaulted sky; - Low hangs the pale moon, in the west declining: - Sleep, baby, sleep, the Christmas morn is nigh! - - Hush, baby, hush! For Earth her watch is keeping; - Watches and waits she the angels’ song to hear; - Listening for the swift rush of their wings downsweeping, - Joy and Peace proclaiming through the midnight clear. - - Dream, baby, dream! The far-off chimes are ringing; - Tenderly and solemnly the music soars and swells; - With soft reverberation the happy bells are swinging, - While each to each responsive the same sweet story tells! - - Hark, baby, hark! Hear how the choral voices, - All jubilantly singing, take up the glad refrain, - “Unto you is born a Saviour,” while heaven with earth rejoices, - And all its lofty battlements re-echo with the strain! - - Wake, baby, wake! For, lo! in floods of glory - The Christmas Day advances over the hills of morn! - Wake, baby, wake! and smile to hear the story - How Christ, the Son of Mary, in Bethlehem was born! - - -EASTER MORNING - - Dame Margaret spake to Annie Blair, - To Annie Blair spake she, - As from beneath her wrinkled hand - She peered far out to sea. - - “Look forth, look forth, O Annie Blair, - For my old eyes are dim; - See you a single boat afloat - Within the horizon’s rim?” - - Sweet Annie looked to east, to west, - To north and south looked she: - There was no single boat afloat - Upon the angry sea. - - The sky was dark, the winds were high, - The breakers lashed the shore, - And louder and still louder swelled - The tempest’s sullen roar. - - “Look forth again,” Dame Margaret cried; - “Doth any boat come in?” - And scarce she heard the answering word - Above the furious din. - - “Pray God no boat may put to sea - In such a gale!” she said; - “Pray God no soul may dare to-night - The rocks of Danger Head!” - - “This is Good Friday, Annie Blair,” - Dame Margaret cried again, - “When Mary’s Son, the Merciful, - On Calvary was slain. - - The earth did quake, the rocks were rent, - The graves were opened wide, - And darkness like to this fell down - When He—the Holy—died. - - Give me your hand, O Annie Blair; - Your two knees fall upon; - Christ send to you your lover back— - To me, my only son!” - - All night they watched, all night they prayed, - All night they heard the roar - Of the fierce breakers dashing high - Upon the lonely shore. - - Oh, hark! strange footsteps on the sand, - A voice above the din: - “Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret! - Is Annie Blair within? - - High on the rocks of Danger Head - Her lover’s boat is cast, - All rudderless, all anchorless— - Mere hull and splintered mast.” - - Oh, hark! slow footsteps on the sand, - And women wailing sore: - “Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret! - Your son you’ll see no more! - - God pity you! Christ comfort you!” - The weeping women cried; - But “May God pity Annie Blair!” - Dame Margaret replied. - - “For life is long and youth is strong, - And it must still bear on. - Leave us alone to make our moan— - My son! alas, my son!” - - * * * * * - - The Easter morning, flushed with joy, - Saw all the winds at rest, - And far and near the blue sea smiled - With sunshine on its breast. - - The neighbors came, the neighbors went; - They sought the house of prayer; - But on the rocks of Danger Head - The dame and Annie Blair, - - With still, white faces, watched the deep - Without a tear or moan. - “I cannot weep,” said Annie Blair— - “My heart is turned to stone.” - - Forth from the church the pastor came, - And up the rocks strode he, - Baring his thin white locks to meet - The salt breath of the sea. - - “The rocks shall rend, the earth shall quake, - The sea give up its dead, - For Christ our Lord is risen indeed— - ’Tis Easter morn,” he said. - - Oh, hark! oh, hark! A startled cry, - A rush of hurrying feet, - The swarming of a hundred men - Adown the village street. - - “Now unto God and Christ the Lord - Be praise and thanks alway! - The sea hath given up its dead - This blessed Easter-day.” - - -SEALED ORDERS - - “Oh, whither bound, my captain? - The wind is blowing free, - And overhead the white sails spread - As we go out to sea.” - - He looked to north, he looked to south, - Or ever a word he spake; - “With orders sealed my sails I set— - Due east my course I take.” - - “But to what port?” “Nay, nay,” he cried, - “This only do I know, - That I must sail due eastward - Whatever wind may blow.” - - For many a day we sailéd east. - “O captain, tell me true, - When will our good ship come to port?” - “I cannot answer you!” - - “Then, prithee, gallant captain, - Let us but drift awhile! - The current setteth southward - Past many a sunny isle, - - Where cocoas grow, and mangoes, - And groves of feathery palm, - And nightingales sing all night long - To roses breathing balm.” - - “Nay, tempt me not,” he answered, - “This only do I know, - That I must sail due eastward - Whatever winds may blow!” - - Then sailed we on, and sailed we east - Into the whirlwind’s track. - Wild was the tempest overhead, - The sea was strewn with wrack. - - “Oh, turn thee, turn thee, captain, - Thou’rt rushing on to death!” - But back he answer shouted, - With unabated breath: - - “Turn back who will, I turn not! - For this one thing I know, - That I must sail due eastward - However winds may blow!” - - “Oh, art thou fool or madman? - Thy port is but a dream, - And never on the horizon’s rim - Will its fair turrets gleam.” - - Then smiled the captain wisely, - And slowly answered he, - The while his keen glance widened - Over the lonely sea: - - “I carry sealéd orders. - This only thing I know, - That I must sail due eastward - Whatever winds may blow!” - - -AN ANNIVERSARY - - _So long, so short, - So swift, so slow, - Are the years of man - As they come and go!_ - - O love, it was so long ago! - So long, so long that we were young, - And in the cloisters of our hearts - Hope all her joy-bells rung! - So long, so long that since that hour - Full half a lifetime hath gone by— - How ran the days ere first we met, - Belovéd, thou and I? - - We had our dreams, no doubt. The dawn - Must still presage the rising sun, - And rose and crimson flush the east - Ere day is well begun. - We had our dreams—fair, shadowy wraiths - That fled when Day’s full splendor kissed - Our souls’ high places, and its winds - Swept the vales clear of mist! - - _So long, so short, - So swift, so slow, - Are the years of man - As they come and go!_ - - O love, it was but yesterday! - Who said it was so long ago? - How many times the rose hath bloomed, - Why should we care to know? - For it was just as sweet last June, - As dewy fresh, as fair, as red, - As when our first glad Eden knew - The rare perfumes it shed! - - O love, it was but yesterday! - If yesterday is far away, - As brightly on the hill-tops lies - The sunshine of to-day. - Sing thou, my soul! O heart, be glad! - O circling years, fly swift or slow! - Your ripening harvests shall not fail, - Nor autumn’s utmost glow. - - -MARTHA - - Yea, Lord!—Yet some must serve. - Not all with tranquil heart, - Even at thy dear feet, - Wrapped in devotion sweet, - May sit apart! - - Yea, Lord!—Yet some must bear - The burden of the day, - Its labor and its heat, - While others at thy feet - May muse and pray! - - Yea, Lord!—Yet some must do - Life’s daily task-work; some - Who fain would sing, must toil - Amid earth’s dust and moil, - While lips are dumb! - - Yea, Lord!—Yet man must earn, - And woman bake the bread! - And some must watch and wake - Early, for others’ sake, - Who pray instead! - - Yea, Lord!—Yet even thou - Hast need of earthly care. - I bring the bread and wine - To thee, O Guest Divine! - Be this my prayer! - - -THE HOUR - - What is the hour of the day? - O watchman, can you tell? - Hark! from the tower of Time - Strikes the alarum-bell! - - The strokes I cannot count. - O watchman, can you see - On the misty dial-plate - What hours remain for me? - - I know the rosy dawn - Faded—how long ago!— - Lost in the radiant depths - Of morning’s golden glow. - - Then all the mountain tops - Stood breathless at high noon, - While earth for brief repose - Put off her sandal shoon. - - Now faster fly the hours— - The afternoon is here; - O watchman in the tower, - Tell me, is sunset near? - - Yet—why care I to know?— - Beyond the sunset bars - Upon the dead day wait - The brightest of the stars! - - -THE CLOSED GATE - - I walked along a narrow way; - The sun was shining everywhere; - The jocund earth was glad and gay, - With morning freshness in the air. - - The grass was green beneath my feet; - The skies were blue and soft o’erhead; - The robin carolled clear and sweet, - And flowers their fragrance round me shed. - - How shone the great hills far away; - How clear they rose against the blue; - How fair the tranquil meadows lay, - Where the bright river glances through! - - But suddenly, as on I pressed, - Before me frowned a closéd gate; - Filled with dismay, and sore distressed, - I strove in vain to conquer fate! - - Beyond, the hills for which I sighed— - Beyond, the valleys still and fair— - Beyond, the meadows stretching wide, - And all the shining fields of air! - - * * * * * - - What does it mean, O Father! when - Thy children reach some closéd gate, - Which, though they knock and knock again, - Will not its watch and ward abate? - - Still shall they batter at the walls? - Or still, like children, cry and fret, - While the loud clamor of their calls - Swells high in turbulent regret? - - When thou hast barred the door, shall they - Challenge thy wisdom, God of love? - Or humbly wait beside the way - Till thou the barrier shalt remove? - - Too oft we cannot hear thee speak, - So loud our voices and our prayers, - While to the patient and the meek - The gate thou openest unawares! - - -CONTENT - - Not asking how or why, - Before thy will, - O Father, let my heart - Lie hushed and still! - - Why should I seek to know? - Thou art all-wise; - If thou dost bid me go, - Let that suffice. - - If thou dost bid me stay, - Make me content - In narrow bounds to dwell - Till life be spent. - - If thou dost seal the lips - That fain would speak, - Let me be still till thou - The seal shalt break. - - If thou dost make pale Pain - Thy minister, - Then let my patient heart - Clasp hands with her. - - Or, if thou sendest Joy - To walk with me, - My Father, let her lead - Me nearer thee! - - Teach me that Joy and Pain - Alike are thine; - Teach me my life to leave - In hands divine! - - -MY WONDERLAND - - They tell me you have been in Wonderland. - Why, so have I! No boat’s keel touched the strand, - No white sails flew, no swiftly gliding car - Bore me to mystic realms, unknown and far. - - And yet I, too, with these same questioning eyes, - Have seen its mountains and beheld its skies; - I, too, have been in Wonderland, and know - How through its secret vales the weird winds blow. - - One morn, in Wonderland—one chill spring morn— - I saw a princess sleeping, pale and lorn, - Cold as a corse; when, lo! from out the south - A young knight rode, and kissed her sad, sweet mouth. - - She smiled, she woke! Then rang from far and near - Her minstrels’ voices, jubilant and clear; - While in a trice, with eager, noiseless feet, - All the young maiden grasses, fair and fleet, - - Ran over hill and dale, to bring to her - Green robes with wild flowers ’broidered. All astir - Were the gay, courtier butterflies; the trees - Flung forth their fluttering banners to the breeze; - - The soft airs fanned her; and, in russet dressed, - Her happy servitors around her pressed, - Bearing strange sweets, and curious flagons filled - With life’s new wine, that all her pulses thrilled. - - In this same Wonderland, one sweet spring day, - In a gray casket, deftly hidden away, - I found two pearls; but as I looked they grew - To living jewels, that took wing and flew. - - And once a creeping worm, within my sight - Wove its own shroud and coffin, sealed and white - Then, bursting from its cerements, soared in air, - A radiant vision, most supremely fair. - - Out of the darksome mould, before my eyes - I saw a shaft of emerald arise, - Bearing a silver chalice veined with gold, - And set with gems of splendors manifold. - - Once in a vast, pale, hollow pearl I stood, - When o’er the vaulted dome there swept a flood - Of lurid waves, and a dark funeral pyre - Took to its heart a globe of crimson fire. - - The pageant faded. Lo! the pearl became - A liquid sapphire, touched with rosy flame; - And as I gazed, a silver crescent hung - In violet depths, a thousand stars among. - - I saw a woman, marvellously fair, - Flushed with warm life, and buoyant as the air; - Next morn she was a statue, breathless, cold, - A marble goddess of transcendent mould. - - I saw a folded bud, in one short hour, - Open its sweet, warm heart and be a flower. - O Wonderland! thou art so near, so far; - Near as this rose, remote as yonder star! - - -THE GUEST - - O thou Guest so long delayed, - Surely, when the house was made, - In its chambers wide and free, - There was set a place for thee. - Surely, in some room was spread - For thy sake a snowy bed, - Decked with linen white and fine, - Meet, O Guest, for use of thine. - - Yet thou hast not kept the tryst. - Other guests our lips have kissed: - Other guests have tarried long, - Wooed by sunshine and by song; - For the year was bright with May, - All the birds kept holiday, - All the skies were clear and blue, - When this house of ours was new. - - Youth came in with us to dwell, - Crowned with rose and asphodel, - Lingered long, and even yet - Cannot quite his haunts forget. - Love hath sat beside our board, - Brought us treasures from his hoard, - Brimmed our cups with fragrant wine, - Vintage of the hills divine. - - Down our garden path has strayed - Young Romance, in light arrayed; - Joy hath flung her garlands wide; - Faith sung low at eventide; - Care hath flitted in and out; - Sorrow strewn her weeds about; - Hope held up her torch on high - When clouds darkened all the sky. - - Pain, with pallid lips and thin, - Oft hath slept our house within; - Life hath called us, loud and long, - With a voice as trumpet strong. - Sometimes we have thought, O Guest, - Thou wert coming with the rest, - Watched to see thy shadow fall - On the inner chamber wall. - - For we know that, soon or late, - Thou wilt enter at the gate, - Cross the threshold, pass the door, - Glide at will from floor to floor. - When thou comest, by this sign - We shall know thee, Guest divine: - Though alone thy coming be, - Someone must go forth with thee! - - -AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN - - An old-fashioned garden? Yes, my dear, - No doubt it is. I was thinking here - Only to-day, as I sat in the sun, - How fair was the scene I looked upon; - Yet wondered still, with a vague surprise, - How it might look to other eyes. - - ’Tis a wide old garden. Not a bed - Cut here and there in the turf; instead, - The broad straight paths run east and west, - Down which two horsemen could ride abreast, - And north and south with an equal state, - From the gray stone wall to the low white gate. - - And, where they cross on the middle line, - Virgin’s-bower and wild woodbine - Clamber and climb at their own sweet will - Over the latticed arbor still; - Though since they were planted years have flown, - And many a time have the roses blown. - - To the right the hill runs down to the river, - Where the willows droop and the aspens shiver, - And under the shade of the hemlock-trees - The low ferns nod to the passing breeze; - There wild flowers blossom, and mosses creep - With a tangle of vines o’er the wooded steep. - - So quiet it is, so cool and still, - In the green retreat of the shady hill! - And you scarce can tell, as you look within, - Where the garden ends and the woods begin. - But here, where we stand, what a blaze of light, - What a wealth of color, makes glad the sight! - - Red roses burn in the morning glow; - White roses proffer their cups of snow; - In scarlet and crimson and cloth-of-gold - The zinnias flaunt, and the marigold; - And stately and tall the lilies stand, - Like vestal virgins, on either hand. - - Here gay sweet-peas, like butterflies, - Flutter and dance under summer skies; - Blue violets here in the shade are set, - With a border of fragrant mignonette; - And here are pansies and columbine, - And the burning stars of the cypress-vine. - - Stately hollyhocks, row on row, - Golden sunflowers, all aglow, - Scarlet poppies, and larkspurs blue, - Asters of every shade and hue; - And over the wall, like a trail of fire, - The red nasturtium climbs high and higher. - - My lady’s-slippers are fair to see, - And her pinks are as sweet as sweet can be, - With gilly-flowers and mourning-brides, - And many another flower besides. - Do you see that rose without a thorn? - It was planted the year my Hal was born. - - And he is a man now. Yes, my dear, - An old-fashioned garden! But, sitting here, - I think how often lover and maid - Down these long flowery paths have strayed, - And how little feet have over them run - That will stir no more in shade or sun. - - As one who reads from an open book, - On these fair luminous scrolls I look; - And all the story of life is there— - Its loves and losses, hope and despair. - An old-fashioned garden—but to my eyes - Fair as the hills of Paradise. - - -DISCONTENT - - -I. - -(_The Brier Rose speaks._) - - I cling to the garden wall - Outside, where the grasses grow; - Where the tall weeds flaunt in the sun, - And the yellow mulleins blow. - The dock and the thistle crowd - Close to my shrinking feet, - And the gypsy yarrow shares - My cup and the food I eat. - - The rude winds toss my hair, - The wild rains beat me down, - The way-side dust lies white - And thick on my leafy crown. - I cannot keep my robes - From wanton fingers free, - And the veriest beggar dares - To stop and gaze at me. - - Sometimes I climb and climb - To the top of the garden wall, - And I see her where she stands, - Stately and fair and tall— - My sister, the red, red Rose, - My sister, the royal one, - The fairest flower that blows - Under the summer sun! - - What wonder that she is fair? - What wonder that she is sweet? - The treasures of earth and air - Lie at her dainty feet; - The choicest fare is hers, - Her cup is brimmed with wine; - Rich are her emerald robes, - And her bed is soft and fine. - - She need not lift her head - Even to sip the dew; - No rude touch makes her shrink - The whole long summer through. - Her servants do her will; - They come at her beck and call. - Oh, rare is life in my lady’s bowers - Inside of the garden wall! - - -II. - -(_The Garden Rose speaks._) - - The garden path runs east, - And the garden path runs west; - There’s a tree by the garden gate, - And a little bird in a nest. - It sings and sings and sings! - Does the bird, I wonder, know - How, over the garden wall, - The bright days come and go? - - The garden path runs north, - And the garden path runs south; - The brown bee hums in the sun, - And kisses the lily’s mouth; - But it flies away, away, - To the birch-tree, dark and tall. - What do you find, O brown bee, - Over the garden wall? - - With ruff and farthingale, - Under the gardener’s eye, - In trimmest guise I stand— - Oh, who so fine as I? - But even the light wind knows - That it may not play with me, - Nor touch my beautiful lips - With a wild caress and free. - - Oh, straight is the garden path, - And smooth is the garden bed, - Where never an idle weed - Dares lift its careless head. - But I know outside the wall - They gather, a merry throng; - They dance and flutter and sing, - And I listen all day long. - - The Brier Rose swings outside; - Sometimes she climbs so high - I can see her sweet pink face - Against the blue of the sky. - What wonder that she is fair, - Whom no strait bonds enthrall? - Oh, rare is life to the Brier Rose, - Outside of the garden wall! - - -THE DOVES AT MENDON - - “Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, - Calling the doves at Mendon! - - Under the vine-clad porch she stands, - A gentle maiden with willing hands, - Dropping the grains of yellow corn. - Low and soft, like a mellow horn, - While the sunshine over her falls, - Over and over she calls and calls - “Coo! coo! coo!” to the doves— - The happy doves at Mendon. - - “Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, - Calling the doves at Mendon! - - Down they flutter with timid grace, - Lured by the voice and the tender face, - Till the evening air is all astir - With the happy strife and the eager whir. - One by one, and two by two, - And then a rush through the ether blue; - While Arné scatters the yellow corn - For the gentle doves at Mendon. - - “Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, - Calling the doves at Mendon! - - They hop on the porch where the baby sits, - They come and go as a shadow flits, - Now here, now there, while in and out - They crowd and jostle each other about; - Till one, grown bolder than all the rest— - A snow-white dove with an arching breast— - Softly lights on her outstretched hand - Under the vines at Mendon. - - “Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, - Calling the doves at Mendon! - - With a rush and a whir of shining wings, - They hear and obey—the dainty things! - Dun and purple and snowy white, - Clouded gray, like the soft twilight, - Straight as an arrow shot from a bow, - Wheeling and circling high and low, - Down they fly from the slanting roof - Of the old red barn at Mendon. - - “Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, - Calling the doves at Mendon! - - Baby Alice with wide blue eyes - Watches them ever with new surprise, - While she and Wag on the mat together - Joy in the soft midsummer weather. - Hither and thither she sees them fly, - Gray and white on the azure sky, - Light and shadow against the green - Of the maple grove at Mendon. - - “Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, - Calling the doves at Mendon! - - A sound, a motion, a flash of wings— - They are gone—like a dream of heavenly things. - The doves have flown and the porch is still, - And the shadows gather on vale and hill. - Then sinks the sun, and the mountain breeze - Stirs in the tremulous maple-trees; - While Love and Peace, as the night comes down, - Brood over quiet Mendon! - - -A LATE ROSE - - I sent a little maiden - To pluck for me a rose, - The sweetest and the fairest - That in the garden grows— - A blush-rose, proud and tender, - Upon its stem so slender, - Swaying in dreamy splendor - Where yellow sunshine glows. - - Back came the little maiden - With drooping, downcast head, - And slow, reluctant footsteps, - And this to me she said: - “I find no sweet blush-roses - In all the garden closes: - There are no summer roses; - It must be they are dead!” - - Then bent I to the maiden - And touched her shining hair— - Dear heart! in all the garden - Was nothing half so fair! - “Nay!” said I, “let the roses - Die in the garden closes - Whenever fate disposes, - If I _this_ rose may wear!” - - -PERIWINKLE - - Tinkle, tinkle, - Periwinkle! - Soft and clear, - Far or near, - Still the mellow notes I hear! - Up and down the sunny hills, - Here you go, there you go, - Where the happy mountain rills - Tinkle soft, tinkle low; - Where the willows, all a-quiver, - Dip their long wands in the river, - And the hemlock shadows fall - By the gray rocks, cool and tall— - In and out, - And round about, - Here you go, - There you go! - - Tinkle, tinkle, - Periwinkle! - Here and there, - Everywhere, - Floats the music on the air! - Through the pastures wide and free, - Here you go, there you go, - Making friends with bird and bee, - Flying high, flying low; - In and out, where lilies blowing - Nod above wild grasses growing, - Where the sweet-fern and the brake - All around rich odors make, - Where the mosses cling and creep - To the rocks, and up the steep— - In and out - You wind about, - Here and there, - Everywhere! - - Tinkle, tinkle, - Periwinkle! - Day is done, - And the sun - Now its royal couch hath won! - Homeward through the winding lane, - Here you go, there you go, - While the bell in sweet refrain - Tinkles clear, tinkles low— - Tinkles softly through the gloaming, - “Drop the bars—I’m tired of roaming - Here and there, everywhere - Through the pastures wide and fair. - Home is best, - Home and rest!” - Through the bars goes Periwinkle, - While the bell goes tinkle, tinkle, - Low and clear, - Saying, softly, “Night is here!” - - -AFTERNOON - - O perfect day, - I bid thee stay! - Too fast thy glad hours slip away; - The morn, the noon, - Have fled too soon— - Delay, O golden afternoon! - - O peerless Sun, - Thou radiant one - Whose dazzling course is half-way run, - Stay, stay thy flight - Down yon blue height, - Nor haste thee to the arms of night! - - The west wind blows - O’er beds of rose, - But does not stir my deep repose. - In dreamful guise - I close mine eyes, - Borne on its wings to Paradise. - - Beneath this tree - Half consciously. - I share the life of all things free, - Hearing the beat - Of rhythmic feet, - As the grasses run my hand to meet. - - The wild bee’s hum, - The lone bird’s drum, - O’er the wide pastures faintly come; - And soft and clear - Falls on my ear - The cow-bell’s tinkle, far and near! - - Before my eyes - Three blue peaks rise, - Piercing the bright autumnal skies; - Silent and grand, - On either hand, - Far mountain heights majestic stand. - - By wreaths of mist - The vales are kissed— - Fair, floating clouds of amethyst, - That follow on, - Through shade and sun, - Where’er the river’s course may run. - - Here, looking down - On roof-trees brown, - I catch fair glimpses of the town. - There, far away, - The shadows play - On crags and bowlders, huge and gray. - - All whispering low, - The breezes go— - The wandering birds flit to and fro; - Winged motes float by - Me as I lie, - And yellow leaves drop silently. - - The morn, the noon, - Have fled too soon— - Delay, O golden afternoon, - While with rapt eyes - My spirit flies - From yon blue peaks to Paradise! - - - THE LADY OF THE PROW - BERMUDA, MAY, 1883 - - - The salt tides ebb, the salt tides flow, - From the near isles the soft airs blow; - From leagues remote, with roar and din, - Over the reefs the waves rush in; - The wild white breakers foam and fret, - Day follows day, stars rise and set; - Yet, grandly poised, as calm and fair - As some proud spirit of the air, - Unmoved she lifts her radiant brow— - She, the White Lady of the Prow! - - The winds blow east, the winds blow west, - From woodlands low to the eagle’s nest; - The winds blow north, the winds blow south. - To steal the sweets from the lily’s mouth! - We come and go; we spread our sails - Like sea-gulls to the favoring gales; - Or, soft and slow, our oars we dip - Under the lee of the stranded ship. - Yet little recks she when or how, - The grand White Lady of the Prow. - - We laugh, we love, we smile, we sigh, - But never she heeds as we glide by— - Never she cares for our idle ways - Nor turns from the brink of the world her gaze! - What does she see when her steadfast eyes - Peer into the sunset mysteries, - And all the secrets of time and space - Seem unfolded before her face? - What does she hear when, pale and calm, - She lists for the great sea’s evening psalm? - - Speak, Lady, speak! Thy sealèd lip, - Thou fair white spirit of the ship, - Could tell such tales of high emprise, - Of valorous deeds and counsels wise! - What prince shall rouse thee from thy trance, - And meet thy first revealing glance, - Or what Pygmalion from her sleep - Bid Galatea wake and weep? - The wave’s wild passion stirs thee not— - Oh, is thy life’s long love forgot? - - How canst thou bear this trancèd calm - By sunlit isles of bloom and balm— - Thou who hast sailed the utmost seas, - Empress alike of wave and breeze; - Thou who hast swept from pole to pole, - Where the great surges swell and roll; - Breasted the billows white with wrath, - Rode in the tempest’s fiery path, - And proudly borne to waiting hands - The glorious spoil of farthest lands? - - How canst thou bear this silence, deep - And tranquil as an infant’s sleep— - Thou who hast heard above thy head - The white sails sing with wings outspread; - Thou whose strong soul has thrilled to feel - The swift rush of the ploughing keel, - The dash of waves, and the wild uproar - Of ocean lashed from shore to shore? - How canst thou bear this changeless rest, - Thou who hast made the world thy quest? - - O Lady of the stranded ship, - Once more our lingering oars we dip - In the clear blue that round thee lies, - Fanned by the airs of Paradise! - Farewell! farewell! But oft when day - On our far hill-tops dies away, - And night’s cool winds the pine-trees bow, - Our eyes will see thee, even as now, - Waiting—a spirit pale and calm— - To hear the great sea’s evening psalm! - - -THOU AND I - - April days are over! - O my gay young lover, - Forth we fare together - In the soft May weather; - Forth we wander, hand in hand, - Seeking an enchanted land - Underneath a smiling sky, - So blithely—thou and I! - - Soft spring days are over! - O my ardent lover, - Many a hill together, - In the July weather, - Climb we when the days are long - And the summer heats are strong, - And the harvest wains go by, - So bravely—thou and I! - - July days are over! - O my faithful lover, - Side by side together - In the August weather, - When the swift, wild storms befall us, - And the fiery darts appall us, - Wait we till the clouds sweep by, - And stars shine—thou and I! - - Summer days are over! - O my one true lover, - Sit we now alone together - In the early autumn weather! - From our nest the birds have flown - To fair dreamlands of their own, - And we see the days go by, - In silence—thou and I! - - Storm and stress are over! - O my friend and lover, - Closer now we lean together - In the Indian-summer weather; - See the bright leaves falling, falling, - Hear the low winds calling, calling, - Glad to let the world go by - Unheeding—thou and I! - - Winter days are over! - O my life-long lover, - Rest we now in peace together - Out of reach of changeful weather! - Not a sound can mar our sleeping— - Breath of laughter, or of weeping, - May not reach us where we lie - Uncaring—thou and I! - - - - -LATER POEMS - - - THE LEGEND OF THE BABOUSHKA - A CHRISTMAS BALLAD - - “There’s a star in the East!” he cried, - Jasper, the gray, the wise, - To Melchior and to Balthazar - Up-gazing to the skies. - - “Last night from my high tower - I watched it as it burned, - While all my trembling soul - In awe and wonder yearned. - - For I know the midnight heavens; - I can call the stars by name— - Orion and royal Ashtaroth - And Cimah’s misty flame. - - I know where Hesper glows, - And where, with fiery eye, - Proud Mars in burning splendor leads - The armies of the sky. - - But never have I seen - A star that shone like this— - The star so long foretold - By sage and seer it is! - - When first I, sleepless, saw it - Slow breaking through the dark— - Nay, hear me, Balthazar, - And thou, O Melchior, hark!— - - When first I saw the star - It bore the form of a child, - It held in its hand a sceptre, - Or the cross of the undefiled. - - Lo! somewhere on the earth - It shines above His rest— - The Royal One, the Babe, - On mortal mother’s breast. - - Now haste we forth to find Him— - To worship at His feet, - To Him of whom the prophets sang - Bearing oblations meet!” - - Then the Three Holy Kings - Went forth in eager haste, - With servants and with camels, - Toward the desert waste. - - Ah! knew they what they bore? - Gold for the earthly king— - Frankincense for the God— - Myrrh for man’s suffering. - - With breath of costly spices - And precious gums of Isis, - The desert air was sweet, - As on they fared by day and night - Judea’s King to greet. - - The strange star went before them, - They followed where it led; - “’Twill guide us to His presence,” - Jasper, the holy, said. - - They crossed deep-flowing rivers, - They climbed the mountains high, - They slept in dreary places - Under the lonely sky. - - One day, where stretched the desert - Before them far and wide, - They saw a smoke-wreath curling - A spreading palm beside; - - And from a lowly dwelling, - On household cares intent, - A woman gazed upon them, - In mute bewilderment. - - “O come with us!” cried Melchior, - And ardent Balthazar, - “We go to find the Christ-child, - Led by yon blazing star! - - Thou knowest how the prophets - His coming long foretold; - We go to kneel before Him - With gifts of myrrh and gold.” - - But she, delaying, answered, - “My lords, your words are good, - And I your pious mission - Have gladly understood, - - Yet I, ere I can join you, - Have many things to do: - I must set my house in order, - Must spin and bake and brew. - - Go ye to find Messiah! - And when my work is done - I will your footsteps follow, - Mayhap ere set of sun.” - - Across the shining desert - The slow train passed from sight; - She set her house in order, - She bleached her linen white. - - With busy hands she labored - Till all at last was done— - But thrice the moon had risen, - And thrice the lordly sun! - - Then bound she on her sandals, - Her pilgrim staff she took; - With bread of wheat and barley, - And water from the brook; - - And forth she went to find Him— - The babe Emmanuel, - Who should be born in Bethlehem - By David’s sacred well. - - All that long day she journeyed; - She scanned the desert wide, - In all its lonely reaches - There was no soul beside— - - No track to guide her onward, - No footprints in the sand, - Only the vast, still spaces - Wide-stretched on either hand! - - Night came—but where the Wise Men - Had seen His burning star, - No glorious sign beheld she - Clear beaming from afar, - - Though Orion and Arcturus - Shone bright above her head, - And up the heavenly arches - Proud Mars his legions led! - - * * * * * - - She did not find the Christ-child. - ’Tis said she seeks Him still, - Over the wide earth roaming - With swift, remorseful will. - - Her thin white locks the dew-fall - Of every clime has wet— - In palace and in hovel - She seeks Messiah yet! - - In every child she fancies - The Hidden One may be, - On each bright head she gazes - The mystic crown to see. - - She twines the Christmas garlands, - She lights the Christmas fires, - She leads the joyful carols - Of all the Christmas choirs; - - She feeds the poor and hungry, - And on her tender breast - She soothes all suffering children - To softest, sweetest rest. - - Attend her, holy Angels! - Guard her, ye Cherubim! - For whatsoe’er she does for these - She does it as to Him! - - - DAYBREAK - AN EASTER POEM - - - Mary Magdalenè, - At the break of day, - Wan with tears and watching - Hasted on her way; - - Bearing costly spices, - Myrrh, and sweet perfume, - Through the shadowy garden - To the Master’s tomb. - - Slowly broke the gray dawn: - On her head the breeze - Shook a rain of dew-drops - From the cypress-trees. - - Rose and lily parted - As to let her pass, - And the violets blessed her - From the tender grass. - - Little heed she paid them; - Christ, the Lord, was dead; - All at last was over, - All at last was said. - - What of hope remainèd? - Black against the sky, - Calvary’s awful crosses - Stretched their arms on high! - - Mary Magdalenè - Made her bitter moan: - “From the sealèd sepulchre - Who shall roll the stone?” - - Swift she ran, her spirit - Filled with awe and fear; - Wide the door stood open - As her feet drew near! - - All the place was flooded - With a radiance bright; - Forth into the darkness - Streamed a holy light. - - Down she stooped, and peering - The dread tomb within, - Saw a great white angel - Where the Lord had been! - - Sore she cried in anguish: - “Who hath him betrayed? - They have taken away my Lord! - Where is he laid?” - - “Nay,” the shining angel, - Calmly smiling, said— - “Why seek ye the living - Down among the dead? - - He is not here, but risen!” - All her soul stood still; - Through her trembling pulses - Ran a conscious thrill. - - “Mary!” said a low voice; - “Rabboni!” answered she. - Then life was brought to light - And immortality! - - Mary Magdalenè, - First of woman born - To see the clear light streaming - O’er the hills of morn; - - First to hail the Lord Christ, - Conqueror of Death, - First to bow before Him - With abated breath; - - First to hear the Master - Say—“From Death’s dark prison, - From its bonds and fetters, - Lo! I have arisen! - - Now to God, my Father— - Mine and yours—I go; - And because I live - Ye shall live also!” - - Didst thou grasp the meaning? - Know that Death was dead? - That the seed of woman - Had bruised the serpent’s head? - - Didst thou know Messiah - The gates of hell had broken, - And life unto its captives - Once for all had spoken? - - O! through all the ages, - Every son of man, - Be he slave or monarch, - Born to bliss or ban— - - Lord, or prince, or peasant, - Jester, sage, or seer, - Wife, or child, or mother, - Priest, or worshipper— - - Through the grave’s lone portals - Soon or late had passed, - But no sign or token - Back to earth had cast! - - In Ramah was a voice heard - Sounding through the years— - Rachel for her children - Pouring sighs and tears; - - Rizpah for her slain sons - Woful vigils keeping; - David for young Absalom - In the chamber weeping! - - All earth’s myriad millions - To their dead had cried, - Empty arms outreaching - In the silence wide, - - Yet from out the darkness - Came nor word, nor sound, - As the long ranks vanished - In the black profound— - - Came no word till Mary - Heard the Angel say— - “Christ the Lord is risen; - The Lord Christ lives to-day!” - - From the empty sepulchre - Streamed the Light Divine; - Grave where is thy victory? - Where, O Death, is thine? - - Mary Magdalenè, - Hope is born again; - Clear the Day-star rises - To the eyes of men. - - Lo! the mists are fleeing! - Shine, O Olivet, - For the crown of promise - On thy brow is set! - - Lift your heads, ye mountains! - Clap your hands, ye hills! - Into rapturous singing - Break, ye murmuring rills! - - Shout aloud, O forests! - Swell the song, O seas! - Wake, resistless ocean, - All your symphonies! - - Wave your palms, O tropics! - Lonely isles, rejoice! - O ye silent deserts, - Find a choral voice! - - Winds, on mighty trumpets, - Blow the strains abroad, - While each star in heaven - Hails its risen Lord! - - “Alleluia! Alleluia!”— - How the voices ring! - “Alleluia! Alleluia!” - Earth and heaven sing! - - Alleluia! Christ is risen! - Chant his praise alway! - From the sealèd sepulchre - Christ is risen to-day! - - -THE APPLE-TREE - - Graceful and lithe and tall, - It stands by the garden wall, - In the flush of its pink-white bloom - Elate with its own perfume. - Tossing its young bright head - In the first glad joy of May, - While its singing leaves sing back - To the bird on the dancing spray. - “I’m alive! I’m abloom!” it cries - To the winds and the laughing skies. - Ho! for the gay young apple-tree - That stands by the garden wall! - - Sturdy and broad and tall, - Over the garden wall - It spreads its branches wide— - A bower on either side. - For the bending boughs hang low; - And with shouts and gay turmoil - The children gather like bees - To garner the golden spoil; - While the smiling mother sings, - “Rejoice for the gift it brings! - Ho! for the laden apple-tree - That stands by our garden wall!” - - The strong swift years fly past, - Each swifter than the last; - And the tree by the garden wall - Sees joy and grief befall. - Still from the spreading boughs - Some golden apples swing; - But the children come no more - For the autumn harvesting. - The tangled grass lies deep - Where the long path used to creep; - Yet ho! for the brave old apple-tree - That leans o’er the crumbling wall! - - Now generations pass, - Like shadows on the grass. - What is there that remains - For all their toil and pains? - A little hollow place - Where once a hearthstone lay; - An empty, silent space - Whence life hath gone away; - Tall brambles where the lilacs grew, - Some fennel, and a clump of rue, - And this one gnarled old apple-tree - Where once was the garden wall! - - -THE COMFORTER - - How dost thou come, O Comforter? - In heavenly glory dressed, - Down floating from the far-off skies, - With lilies on thy breast? - With silver lilies on thy breast, - And in thy falling hair, - Bringing the bloom and balm of heaven - To this dim, earthly air? - - How dost thou come, O Comforter? - With strange, unearthly light, - And mystic splendor aureoled, - In trances of the night? - In lone, mysterious silences, - In visions rapt and high, - And holy dreams, like pathways set - Betwixt the earth and sky? - - Not thus alone, O Comforter! - Not thus, thou Guest Divine, - Whose presence turns our stones to bread, - Our water into wine! - Not always thus—for thou dost stoop - To our poor, common clay, - Too faint for saintly ecstasy, - Too impotent to pray. - - How does God send the Comforter? - Ofttimes through byways dim; - Not always by the beaten path - Of sacrament and hymn; - Not always through the gates of prayer, - Or penitential psalm, - Or sacred rite, or holy day, - Or incense, breathing balm. - - How does God send the Comforter? - Perchance through faith intense; - Perchance through humblest avenues - Of sight, or sound, or sense. - Haply in childhood’s laughing voice - Shall breathe the voice divine, - And tender hands of earthly love - Pour for thee heavenly wine! - - How will God send the Comforter? - Thou knowest not, nor I! - His ways are countless as the stars - His hand hath hung on high. - His roses bring their fragrant balm, - His twilight hush its peace, - Morning its splendor, night its calm, - To give thy pain surcease! - - -SANTA CLAUS - - A voice from out of the northern sky: - “On the wings of the limitless winds I fly, - Swifter than thought over mountain and vale, - City and moorland, desert and dale! - From the north to the south, from the east to the west, - I hasten regardless of slumber or rest; - Oh, nothing you dream of can fly as fast - As I on the wings of the wintry blast! - - The wondering stars look out to see - Who he that flieth so fast may be, - And their bright eyes follow my earthward track - By the gleam of the jewels I bear in my pack. - For I have treasures for high and for low: - Rubies that burn like the sunset glow; - Diamond rays for the crownèd queen; - For the princess, pearls with their silver sheen. - - I enter the castle with noiseless feet— - The air is silent and soft and sweet; - And I lavish my beautiful tokens there— - Fairings to make the fair more fair! - I enter the cottage of want and woe— - The candle is out, and the fire burns low; - But the sleepers smile in a happy dream - As I scatter my gifts by the moon’s pale beam. - - There’s never a home so low, no doubt, - But I in my flight can find it out; - Nor a hut so hidden but I can see - The shadow cast by the lone roof-tree! - There’s never a home so proud and high - That I am constrained to pass it by, - Nor a heart so happy it may not be - Happier still when blessed by me! - - What is my name? Ah, who can tell, - Though in every land ’tis a magic spell! - Men call me that, and they call me this; - Yet the different names are the same, I wis! - Gift-bearer to all the world am I, - Joy-giver, Light-bringer, where’er I fly; - But the name I bear in the courts above, - My truest and holiest name, is—LOVE!” - - - THE ARMORER’S ERRAND - A BALLAD OF 1775 - - - Where the far skies soared clear and bright - From mountain height to mountain height, - In the heart of a forest old and gray, - Castleton slept one Sabbath day— - Slept and dreamed, on the seventh of May, - Seventeen hundred and seventy-five. - - But hark! a humming, like bees in a hive; - Hark to the shouts—“They come! they come!” - Hark to the sound of the fife and drum! - For up from the south two hundred men— - Two hundred and fifty—from mount and glen, - While the deep woods rang with their rallying cry - Of “Ticonderoga! Fort Ti! Fort Ti!” - Swept into the town with a martial tread, - Ethan Allen marching ahead! - - Next day the village was all astir - With unwonted tumult and hurry. There were - Gatherings here and gatherings there, - A feverish heat in the very air, - The ominous sound of tramping feet, - And eager groups in the dusty street. - To Eben’s forge strode Gershom Beach - (Idle it stood, and its master away); - Blacksmith and armorer stout was he, - First in the fight and first in the breach, - And first in work where a man should be. - “I’ll borrow your tools, my friend,” he said, - “And temper these blades if I lose my head!” - - So he wrought away till the sun went down, - And silence fell on the turbulent town; - And the flame of the forge through the darkness glowed, - A square of light on the sandy road. - Then over the threshold a shadow fell, - And he heard a voice that he knew right well. - It was Ethan Allen’s. He cried: “I knew - Where the forge-fire blazed I must look for you! - But listen! more arduous work than this, - Lying in wait for someone is; - And tempering blades is only play - To the task I set for him this day— - Or this night, rather.” A grim smile played - O’er the armorer’s face as his hand he stayed. - “Say on. I never have shirked,” said he; - “What may this wonderful task-work be?” - - “To go by the light of the evening star - On an urgent errand, swift and far— - From town to town and from farm to farm - To carry the warning and sound the alarm! - Wake Rutland and Pittsford! Rouse Neshobè, too, - And all the fair valley the Otter runs through— - For we need more men! Make no delay, - But hasten, hasten, upon your way!” - He doffed his apron, he tightened his belt, - To fasten the straps of his leggings he knelt. - “Ere the clock strikes nine,” said Gershom Beach, - “Friend Allen, I will be out of reach; - And I pledge you my word, ere dawn of day - Guns and men shall be under way. - But where shall I send these minute-men?” - “Do you know Hand’s Cove?” said Allen then, - “On the shore of Champlain? Let them meet me there - By to-morrow night, be it foul or fair!” - - “Good-by, I’m off!” Then down the road - As if on seven-league boots he strode, - While Allen watched from the forge’s door - Till the stalwart form he could see no more. - Into the woods passed Gershom Beach; - By nine of the clock he was out of reach. - But still, as his will his steps outran, - He said to himself, with a laugh, “Old man, - Never a minute have you to lose, - Never a minute to pick or choose; - For sixty miles in twenty-four hours - Is surely enough to try your powers. - So square your shoulders and speed away - With never a halt by night or day.” - - ’Twas a moonless night; but over his head - The stars a tremulous lustre shed, - And the breath of the woods grew strangely sweet, - As he crushed the wild ferns under his feet, - And trampled the shy arbutus blooms, - With their hoarded wealth of rare perfumes. - He sniffed as he went. “It seems to me - There are May-flowers here, but I cannot see. - I’ve read of the ‘hush of the silent night’; - Now hark! there’s a wolf on yonder height; - There’s a snarling catamount prowling round; - Every inch of the ‘silence’ is full of sound; - The night-birds cry; the whip-poor-wills - Call to each other from all the hills; - A scream comes down from the eagle’s nest; - The bark of a fox from the cliff’s tall crest; - The owls hoot; and the very trees - Have something to say to every breeze!” - - The paths were few and the ways were rude - In the depths of that virgin solitude. - The Indian’s trail and the hunter’s tracks, - The trees scarred deep by the settler’s axe, - Or a cow-path leading to the creek,— - These were the signs he had to seek; - Save where, it may be, he chanced to hit - The Crown Point road and could follow it— - The road by the British troops hewn out - Under General Amherst in fifty-nine, - When he drove the French from the old redoubt, - Nor waited to give the countersign! - - The streams were many and swift and clear; - But there was no bridge, or far or near. - It was midnight when he paused to hear - At Rutland, the roar of the waterfall, - And found a canoe by the river’s edge, - In a tangled thicket of reeds and sedge. - With a shout and a cheer, on the rushing tide - He launched it and flew to the other side; - Then giving his message, on he sped, - By the light of the pale stars overhead, - Past the log church below Pine Hill, - And the graveyard opposite. All was still, - And the one lone sleeper lying there - Stirred not either for cry or prayer. - - Only pausing to give the alarm - At rude log cabin and lonely farm. - From hamlet to hamlet he hurries along, - Borne on by a purpose deep and strong. - Look! there’s a deer in the forest glade, - Stealing along like a silent shade! - Hark to the loon that cries and moans - With a living grief in its human tones! - At Pittsford the light begins to grow - In the wakening east; and drifting slow, - From valley and river and wild-wood, rise, - Like the smoke of a morning sacrifice, - Clouds of translucent, silver mist, - Flushing to rose and amethyst; - While thrush and robin and bluebird sing - Till the woods with jubilant music ring! - - It was day at last! He looked around, - With a firmer tread on the springing ground; - “Now the men will be all afield,” said he, - “And that will save many a step for me. - Each man will be ready to go; but still, - I must confess, if I’d had my will, - I’d have waited till after planting-time, - For now the season is in its prime. - The young green leaves of the oak-tree here - Are just the size of a squirrel’s ear; - And I’ve known no rule, since I was born, - Safer than that for planting corn!” - - He threaded the valleys, he climbed the hills, - He forded the rivers, he leaped the rills, - While still to his call, like minute-men - Booted and spurred, from mount and glen, - The settlers rallied. But on he went - Like an arrow shot from a bow, unspent, - Down the long vale of the Otter to where - The might of the waterfall thundered in air; - Then across to the lake, six leagues and more, - Where Hand’s Cove lay in the bending shore. - The goal was reached. He dropped to the ground - In a deep ravine, without word or sound; - And Sleep, the restorer, bade him rest - Like a weary child, on the earth’s brown breast. - - At midnight he woke with a quick heart-beat, - And sprang with a will to his throbbing feet;— - For armed men swarmed in the dim ravine, - And Ethan Allen, as proud of mien - As a king on his throne, smiled down on him, - While he stretched and straightened each stiffened limb. - “Nay, nay,” said the Colonel, “take your rest, - As a knight who has done his chief’s behest!” - - “Not yet!” cried the armorer. “Where’s my gun? - A knight fights on till the field is won!” - And into Fort Ti, ere dawn of day, - He stormed with his comrades to share the fray! - - -FORESHADOWINGS - - Wind of the winter night, - Under the starry skies - Somewhere my lady bright, - Slumbering lies. - Wrapped in calm maiden dreams, - Where the pale moonlight streams, - Softly she sleeps. - - I do not know her face, - Pure as the lonely star - That in yon darkling space - Shineth afar; - Never with soft command - Touched I her willing hand, - Kissed I her lips. - - I have not heard her voice, - I do not know her name; - Yet doth my heart rejoice, - Owning her claim; - Yet am I true to her; - All that is due to her - Sacred I keep. - - Never a thought of me - Troubles her soft repose; - Courant of mine may be - Lily nor rose. - They may not bear to her - This heart’s fond prayer to her, - Yet—she is mine. - - Wind of the winter night, - Over the fields of snow, - Over the hill so white, - Tenderly blow! - Somewhere red roses bloom; - Into her warm, hushed room, - Bear thou their breath. - - Whisper—Nay, nay, thou sprite, - Breathe thou no tender word; - Wind of the winter night, - Die thou unheard. - True love shall yet prevail, - Telling its own sweet tale: - Till then I wait. - - -WON - - Bird, by her garden gate - Singing thy happy song, - Round thee the listening leaves - Joyously throng. - Tell them that yesternight - Under the stars so bright, - I wooed and won her! - - Red rose, rejoice with me! - Swing all thy censers low, - Bid each fair bud of thine - Hasten to blow. - Lift every glowing cup - Brimming with sweetness up, - For—I have won her! - - Wind, bear the tidings far, - Far over hill and dale; - Let every breeze that blows - Swell the glad tale. - River, go tell the sea, - Boundless and glad and free, - That I have won her! - - Stars, ye who saw the blush - Steal o’er her lovely face, - When first her tender lips - Granted me grace, - Who can with her compare, - Queen of the maidens rare? - Yet—I have won her! - - Sun, up yon azure height - Treading thy lofty way, - Ruler of sea and land, - King of the Day— - Where’er thy banners fly, - Who is so blest as I? - I—who have won her! - - Oh, heart and soul of mine, - Make ye the temple clean, - Make all the cloisters pure - Seen and unseen! - Bring fragrant balm and myrrh, - Make the shrine meet for her, - Now ye have won her! - - -BAPTISM OF FIRE - - Happy birds caroling love-songs, winds in the tree-tops at play, - Earth, like an Eden, rejoicing in the beautiful gladness of May! - - Over the mountains a splendor of crimson and amethyst swept: - Gray mists stole up from the valley, the dense shadows after them - crept. - - Down the green aisles of the orchard, pink-white with the promise of - bloom, - Stood the apple-trees, wooing already the brown bees with wealth of - perfume. - - Then sounded the blast of a trumpet, like the cry of a soul in pain, - Crashing of thunder-bolts warring with the hosts of the scourging - rain. - - Till when the raging battalions swept on with resistless sway, - Prone in the path of the tempest the pride of the orchard lay! - - “O beautiful buds close folded, that never will bloom!” I cried, - “Alas for the unfulfilment, alas for the bliss denied!” - - But filling my arms with the branches, I carried them in, where the - fire - Blazed on the glowing hearth-stone like a sacrificial pyre. - - And into the flames I tossed them, when before my startled eyes, - As in a miraculous vision, shone a marvel, a surprise. - - In the heart of the fiery splendor the pale buds, one by one, - Opened to heat of the burning as to kiss of the summer sun! - - - AT THE FEAST - “And the Lord of the Castle is Time.” - - - When the hour has come and the servants wait - The tramp of steeds at the castle gate, - When the lamps aglow in the banquet-hall - Like a thousand stars burn over all, - When the board is spread and the feast is set, - And the dew on the roses lingers yet, - Whom shall the Master summon - To sit at his right hand? - - Let the music soar to the vaulted roof, - Let the flute-notes swell, alow, aloof, - While chief and retainer alike await - The Lord of the Castle who cometh late; - The guests are bidden, the red wine flows, - But not the wisest among them knows - Whom the Master shall summon - To sit at his right hand! - - For the Lord of the Castle, who cometh late, - When he comes, at length, in pomp and state, - And with glitter of mail, and clang of sword, - Strides to his place at the head of the board, - Ofttimes reverses the order set, - Nor beckons to crown or coronet! - Whom he will the Master summons - To sit at his right hand! - - -OVER AND OVER - - “Just the same thing over and over!” - But that is the way of the world, my dear; - Over and over, over and over, - Old things repeated from year to year! - - Hear what the sun saith: “Patient still, - The vaulted heavens I climb and climb, - Over and over with tireless will, - Day after day till the end of time! - - Never a pause and never a rest; - Yet every morning the earth is new, - And ever the clouds in the golden west - Have a fresh glory shining through.” - - Hear what the grass saith: “Up the hills - And through the orchard I creep and creep, - Over the meadows, and where the rills - Laugh in the shadows cool and deep. - - Every spring it is just the same! - And because it is, I am sure to see - The oriole’s flash of vivid flame - In the pink-white bloom of the apple-tree.” - - Hear what dear Love saith: “Ah, I hear - The same old story over and over; - Mother and maiden year by year - Whisper it still to child and lover! - - But sweeter it grows from age to age, - The song begotten so long ago, - When first man came to his heritage, - And walked with God in the even-glow.” - - -A LISTENING BIRD - - A little bird sat on an apple-tree, - And he was as hoarse as hoarse could be; - He preened and he prinked, and he ruffled his throat, - But from it there floated no silvery note. - “Not a song can I sing,” sighed he, sighed he— - “Not a song can I sing,” sighed he. - - In tremulous showers the apple-tree shed - Its pink and white blossoms on his head; - The gay sun shone, and, like jubilant words, - He heard the gay song of a thousand birds. - “All the others can sing,” he dolefully said— - “All the others can sing,” he said. - - So he sat and he drooped. But as far and wide - The music was borne on the air’s warm tide, - A sudden thought came to the sad little bird, - And he lifted his head as within him it stirred. - “If I cannot sing, I can listen,” he cried; - “Ho! ho! I can listen!” he cried. - - -THE FIRST FIRE - - O Virgin hearth, as chaste and cold - As one who waits for burial mould, - Whom shall we summon here to keep - Watch while thou wakest from thy sleep? - - Not from the far sky spaces, blue - As those that Zeus and Hera knew, - May Hestia wing her airy flight, - Bringer of holy warmth and light. - - Pan may not come. By stream and shore - Fair Naiads dry their locks no more; - No Oread dwells in mount and glen; - No Dryad flees from gods or men. - - Yet still do forest voices clear - Greet him whose soul hath ears to hear; - The murmur of the rustling pine - Is sweet as Hermes’s harp divine. - - The winds that rend the mighty oak - Clash loud as Ares’s battle stroke; - The maples toss each leafy crown - Though Dian’s votive wreaths are brown. - - Here, as to sacrificial pyre - Kindled with pure celestial fire, - Shall hemlock, pine, and maple bring - The deep wood’s fragrant offering, - - As incense to this household shrine. - O hearth, no richer spoil were thine - If all Dodona’s oaks had shed - Their life-blood and for thee lay dead! - - Thou waiting one, doth no strange thrill - Thy quickening veins with wonder fill? - Have the far-seeing, prescient years - No presage for thy listening ears? - - Life hath its phases manifold, - Yet still the new repeats the old; - There is no truer truth than this: - What was, is still the thing that is. - - Therefore we know that thou wilt hear - Childhood’s light laughter ringing clear; - The flow of song, the breath of prayer, - Whisper of love, and sigh of care. - - Thou wilt see youth go forth to gauge - His being’s lofty heritage, - And manhood in the autumn eves - Come homeward laden with his sheaves. - - O life and death, O joy and woe, - In mingling streams your tides shall flow, - While sun and storm alike fulfil - The mandates of the Eternal Will! - - Now bring the torch and light the fire, - Let the swift flames leap high and higher, - Let the red radiance stream afar, - Dearer than glow of moon or star! - - Burn, burn, O fire, burn still and clear, - And fill the house with warmth and cheer! - Soar, soar, O fire, so brave, so bright, - And souls shall soar to share thy flight! - - -MIDNIGHT CHIMES - - _Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!_ - Down yon lonely height - Hear the joyous summons pealing - Through the starry night. - _Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!_ - Ring the Christmas bells; - From the church-tower on the hill - Clear the music swells. - - Far and near the listening mountains - Bend to catch the strain, - Dome, and peak, and shadowy fastness - Join the glad refrain,— - _Noel! Noel!_ All the pine-trees - Feel a subtile thrill, - And the hemlock groves, responsive, - Whisper and are still. - - _Noel! Noel!_ Through the valley - Where the river goes - In and out between the meadows, - Soft the music flows, - And the river, dumbly sleeping, - Feels its cold heart beat - Answering to the pulsing rhythm - Of the anthem sweet. - - _Noel! Noel!_ Hark! a rustling - On the frosty air, - Where the aspens, all a-quiver, - Bend their branches bare; - Airy birches, stately maples, - Black against the sky, - Wave their leafless boughs like banners - When a king goes by. - - _Noel! Noel!_ Sweet-breathed oxen, - In the farm-yard close, - Lift their horned heads to listen, - Startled from repose; - Then they sleep as slept the white flocks - On Judea’s hills, - While again the olden glory - Earth with rapture fills. - - _Noel! Noel!_ Little children - In their soft nests smile, - Dreaming of fair choiring angels - Floating near the while; - Voiceless snow-birds, half awakened, - Stir their drowsy wings - With, mayhap, a vague, unconscious - Sense of heavenly things. - - _Noel! Noel!_ In the church-yard, - Where the low graves lie, - Light winds bear the strains melodious, - Soft as spirit’s sigh; - Do ye hear it, O ye sleepers, - As it dies and swells? - Hear your ears the mystic music - Of earth’s Christmas bells? - - -MY LADY SLEEP - - In cool gray cloisters walks my Lady Sleep, - Telling her smooth beads slowly, one by one; - Along the wall the stealthy shadows creep; - Night holds the world in thrall, and day is done. - - Sometimes, while winds sigh soft above her head, - Down the long garden path my Lady strays, - And kneeling by the pansies’ purple bed, - Counts the small faces in the moonlit haze. - - Sometimes she lies upon the silver sands, - Following the sea-birds, as they wheel and dip; - Or idly clasps, in still persistent hands, - The shining grains that through her fingers slip. - - Or paces long, with flowing locks all wet, - Where the low thunder booms forevermore, - And the great waves no man hath numbered yet, - Roll, one by one, to break upon the shore. - - Sometimes she counts the brightening twilight stars, - The daisies smiling in the meadow grass, - The slow kine trailing through the pasture bars, - The white sheep loitering in the mountain pass. - - But evermore her hands are cool and calm— - Her quiet voice is ever hushed and low; - And evermore her tranquil lips breathe balm, - And silent as a dream her garments flow. - - She comes, she goes—whence, whither—who can tell? - Angels of God, do ye her secret keep? - Know ye the talisman, the sign, the spell, - The mystic password of my Lady Sleep? - - -THE KING’S TOUCH - - “The King’s touch—there is magic in it! - When the early dawn in the east is red, - And I hear the song of the lark and linnet, - I will rise like a wraith from my sleepless bed. - - Then wrapped in a cloak of hodden gray - I will steal like a shadow over the hills, - And down where the pendulous willows sway, - And the rich, ripe grape its scent distils— - - Till I reach the edge of the forest wide; - And there will I bide, where the still shades are, - Till the King and his huntsmen forth do ride, - And the sweet wild horn rings out afar. - - I will wait and listen until I see - The nodding plumes of the merry men - And the glancing pennants floating free, - A gleam of light in the lonely glen. - - Then low in the dust at his royal feet - I will kneel for the touch of his healing hand; - Perchance he will give ere I entreat, - Before I cry he may understand! - - The King’s proud Leech will be there I trow— - A wise old man with a reverent air— - And the laughing courtiers, row on row; - Yet not unto them will I make my prayer. - - ’Tis the King, the King, who will know it all. - His eye will discover the wound concealed; - He will bend to hear me before I call. - Whom the King touches shall be healed!” - - Was the maiden cured? Ah, none can tell! - She was dust and ashes long ago, - With the proud young king and his leech as well, - And the smiling courtiers, row on row. - - But whether the dawn in the east be red, - Or whether the stars bloom out afield, - This truth remaineth, tho’ myths lie dead: - “Whom the King touches shall be healed!” - - -“BY DIVERS PATHS” - - Unknown to me thy name or state, - Save that a mantle saintly - Of rare and sweet unworldliness - Enfolded thee most quaintly. - - We came and went by divers paths; - We planned nor time, nor meeting; - We spake not, save by nod, or smile, - Or glance of casual greeting. - - Yet, led by some strange chance or fate - To-day by ruined altars, - Where, strained through clustering ivy leaves, - The pitying sunshine falters; - - To-morrow where your blue lakes shine, - And bloom your English daisies; - Or on Helvellyn’s lofty crest - The sunset splendor blazes; - - Or where deep organ-thunders roll - Through grand cathedral arches, - And stately Durham’s triple towers - Look toward the Scottish marches; - - Thus, here and there, we met, nor knew - Each other’s name nor mission, - The while a subtile kinship grew - To silent recognition. - - At length where stretched a princely street - In long, receding splendor, - Down which the golden sunshine threw - A radiance warm and tender; - - While far above us, frowning, hung - A castle old and hoary, - Stern on its battlemented heights - Renowned in song and story; - - And near us, throned in marble state, - O’er time and death victorious, - _He_ sat, the magic of whose pen - Made king and castle glorious— - - There, face to face, once more we met, - Like leaves in autumn weather, - That blown afar by varying winds, - Yet drift again together. - - A look, a smile, and “Is it thou?” - A little low, sweet laughter, - Just one close clasp of meeting hands, - And then, a moment after, - - Between us swept the surging crowd - And we were borne asunder. - O, friend unknown, in what far land - Will we next meet, I wonder? - - -THE BLIND BIRD’S NEST - -“The nest of the blind bird is built by God.”—TURKISH PROVERB. - - Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nest, - Am I not blind? - Each bird that flyeth east or west - The track can find. - - Each bird that flies from north to south - Knows the far way; - From mountain’s crest to river’s mouth - It does not stray. - - Not one in all the lengthening land, - In all the sky, - Or by the ocean’s silver strand, - Is blind as I! - - And dost Thou build the blind bird’s nest? - Build Thou for me - Some shelter where my soul may rest - Secure in Thee. - - Close clinging to the bending bough, - Bind it so fast - It shall not loose if high or low - Blows the loud blast. - - If fierce storms break, and the wild rain - Comes pelting in, - Cover the shrinking nest, restrain - The furious din. - - At sultry noontide, when the air - Trembles with heat, - Draw close the leafy covert where - Cool shadows meet. - - And when night falleth, dark and chill, - Let one fair star, - Love’s star all luminous and still, - Shine from afar. - - Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nest - Build Thou for me; - So shall my being find its rest - Forevermore in Thee. - - -TWO PATHS - - A Path across a meadow fair and sweet, - Where clover-blooms the lithesome grasses greet, - A path worn smooth by his impetuous feet. - - A straight, swift path—and at its end, a star - Gleaming behind the lilac’s fragrant bar, - And her soft eyes, more luminous by far! - - * * * * * - - A path across the meadow fair and sweet, - Still sweet and fair where blooms and grasses meet— - A path worn smooth by his reluctant feet. - - A long, straight path—and, at its end, a gate - Behind whose bars she doth in silence wait - To keep the tryst, if he comes soon or late! - - -ST. JOHN’S EVE - - The veil is thin between - The seen and the unseen— - Thinner to-night than the transparent air; - All heaven and earth are still, - Save when from some far hill - Floateth the nightbird’s unavailing prayer; - Up from the mountain bars - Climb the slow, patient stars, - Only to faint in moonlight white and rare! - - Ere earth had grown too wise - To commerce with the skies, - On this midsummer night the men of old - Believed the dead drew near, - Believed that they could hear - Voices long silent speaking from the mould, - Believed whoever slept - Unearthly vigil kept - Where his own death-knell should at last be tolled. - - In solemn midnight marches - Beneath dark forest arches - They fancied that their hungry souls found God; - His angels clad in light - Stole softly through the night, - Leaving no impress on the yielding sod, - And bore to mortal ears - Tidings from other spheres, - The undiscovered way no man hath trod. - - Ah! what if it were true? - Then would I call ye who - Have one by one beyond my vision flown; - I would set wide the door - Ye enter now no more - Crying, “Come in from out the void unknown! - Come as ye came of old - Laden with love untold”— - Hark! was that nothing but the night wind’s moan? - - -A LITTLE SONG - - Little song I fain would sing, - Why dost thou elude me so? - Like a bird upon the wing, - Sailing high, sailing low, - Yet forever out of reach, - Thou dost vex me beyond measure, - Unallured by prayer or speech, - Waiting thine own time and pleasure! - - Well I know thee, tricksy sprite— - I could call thee by thy name; - I have wooed thee day and night, - Yet thou wilt not own my claim. - Hark! thou’rt hovering even now - In the soft still air above me— - Fantasy or dream art thou, - That my heart’s cry cannot move thee? - - Little song I never sang, - Thou art sweeter than the strain - That through starry mazes rang, - First-born child of joy and pain. - I shall sing thee not; but surely - From some all-compelling voice - Swelling high, serenely, purely, - I shall hear thee and rejoice! - - -THE PRINCES’ CHAMBER - - I stood upon Tower Hill, - Bright were the skies and gay, - Yet a cloud and a sudden chill - Passed over the summer day— - A thrill, and a nameless dread, - As of one who waits alone - Where gather the silent dead - Under the charnel stone. - - For before my shrinking eyes - They glided, one by one, - The great, the good, the wise, - Who here to death were done; - Sinners and saints they came - With blood-stained garments on, - Reckless of praise or blame, - Or battles lost or won. - - Then over the moat I passed - And paused at the Traitors’ Gate; - Did I hear a trumpet’s blast, - Forerunner of deadly fate? - Lo! up the stairs from the river, - Where the sombre shadows crept, - With none to help or deliver, - Kings, queens, and princes swept! - - O, some of those royal dames - Drooped, with dishevelled hair, - And mien of one who claims - Close kindred with despair! - And some were proud and cold, - With eyes that blazed like stars, - As under that archway old - They passed to their prison-bars. - - To prison-bars or death! - Fair, hapless Anne Boleyn; - That haughty maid, Elizabeth; - Northumberland’s pale queen; - Margaret Plantagenet, - Her gray locks floating wild— - How the line lengthens yet, - Knight, prelate, statesman, child! - - Fiercely the black portcullis - Frowned as I onward went; - The Bloody Tower is this— - Strong tower of dread portent! - “Show me the Princes’ Chamber,” - To the Yeoman Guard I said; - O, the stairs were steep to clamber, - And the rough vault dark o’erhead! - - No sigh in the sunny room, - No moan from the groined roof, - No wail of expectant doom - Echoed alow, aloof! - But instead a mother sang - To a child upon her knee, - Whose peals of laughter rang - Like sweet bells mad with glee. - - Sunshine for murky air, - Smiles for the sob of pain, - Joy for dark despair, - Hope where sweet hope was slain! - “Art thou happy here,” I cried, - “Where once was lonely woe, - And the royal children died,— - Murdered so long ago?” - - She smiled. “O, lady, yes! - Earth hath forgotten them; - See how my roses press, - Blooming on each fair stem! - The princes, they sleep sound, - But love nor joy are dead; - I fear no haunted ground, - I have my child,” she said. - - -WONDERLAND - - Wonderland is here and there; - Wonderland is everywhere; - Fly not then to east or west - On some far, uncertain quest. - - Seek not India nor Japan, - Nor the city Ispahan, - Where to-day the shadows brood - Over lonely Zendarood. - - Somewhere smileth far Cathay - Through the long resplendent day; - Somewhere, moored in purple seas, - Sleep the fair Hesperides. - - Somewhere, in vague realms remote - Over which strange banners float, - Lies, all bathed in silver gleams, - The dear Wonderland of dreams. - - Yet no need to sail in ships - Where the blue sea dips and dips, - Nor on wings of cloud to fly - Where the haunts of faery lie. - - For by miracle of morn - Each successive day is born; - And wherever shines the sun, - There enchanted rivers run! - - Would you go to Wonderland? - Lo! it lieth close at hand; - Wonderland is wheresoe’er - Eyes can see and ears can hear! - - - IN A GALLERY - (ANTWERP, 1891) - - - The Virgin floating on the silver moon; - Madonna Mary with her holy child; - Pale Christs on shuddering crosses lifted high; - Sweet angel faces, bending from the blue; - Saints rapt from earth in ecstasy divine, - And martyrs all unmindful of their pain; - Bold, mail-clad knights; fair ladyes whom they loved; - Brown fisher-boys and maidens; harvest-fields, - Where patient women toiled; with here and there - The glint of summer skies and summer seas, - And the red glow of humble, household fires! - - Breathless I stood and silent, even as one - Who, seeing all, sees nothing. Then a face - Down the long gallery drew me as a star; - A winsome, beckoning face, with bearded lips - Just touched with dawning laughter, and clear eyes - That kept their own dear secret, smiling still - With a soft challenge. Dark robes lost in shade, - Laces at throat and wrist, an ancient chair, - And a long, slender hand whose fingers held - Loosely a parchment scroll—and that was all. - Yet from those high, imperial presences, - Those lofty ones uplifted from dear earth - With all its loves and longings, back I turned - Again and yet again, lured by the smile - That called me like a voice, “Come hither, friend!” - - “Simon de Vos,” thus saith the catalogue, - And “Painted by himself.” - Three hundred years - Thou hast been dust and ashes. I who write - And they who read, we know another world - From that thine eyes looked out on. Wouldst thou smile, - Even as here thou smilest, if to-day - Thou wert still of us? O, thou joyous one, - Whose light, half-mocking laughter hath outlived - So much earth held more precious, let thy lips - Open and answer me! Whence was it born, - The radiance of thy tender, sparkling face? - What manner of man wert thou? For the books - Of the long generations do not tell! - Art thou a name, a smile, and nothing more? - What dreams and visions hadst thou? Other men - Would pose as heroes; would go grandly down - To coming ages in the martyr’s _rôle_; - Or, if perchance they’re poets, set their woes - To wailing music, that the world may count - Their heart-throbs in the chanting of a song. - Immortal thou, by virtue of one smile! - - - IN MARBLE PRAYER - (CANTERBURY, 1891) - - - So still, so still they lie - As centuries pass by, - Their pale hands folded in imploring prayer; - They never lift their eyes - In sudden, sweet surprise; - The wandering winds stir not their heavy hair - Forth from their close-sealed lips - Nor moan, nor laughter, slips, - Nor lightest sigh to wake the entrancèd air! - - Yet evermore they pray! - We creatures of a day - Live, love, and vanish from the gaze of men; - Nations arise and fall; - Oblivion’s heavy pall - Hides kings and princes from all human ken, - While these in marble state, - From age to age await - The rolling thunder of the last amen! - - Not in dim crypts alone, - Or aisles of fretted stone, - Where high cathedral altars gleam afar; - And the red light streams down - On mitre and on crown, - Till each proud jewel blazes like a star; - But where the tall grass waves - O’er long-forgotten graves, - Their silent worship no rude sounds can mar! - - Dost Thou not hear and heed? - O, in Earth’s utmost need - Wilt Thou not hearken, Thou who didst create? - Not for themselves they pray - Whose woes have passed for aye; - For us, for us, before Thy throne they wait! - Thou Sovereign Lord of All, - On whom they mutely call, - Hear Thou and answer from thine high estate! - - -NOCTURNE - - O bird beneath the midnight sky! - As on my lonely couch I lie, - I hear thee singing in the dark— - Why sing not I? - - No star-gleams meet thy wakeful eye; - No fond mate answers to thy cry; - No other voice, through all the dark, - Makes sweet reply. - - Yet never skylark soaring high - Where sunlit clouds rejoicing lie, - Sang as thou singest in the dark, - Not mute as I! - - O lone, sweet spirit! tell me why - So far thy ringing love-notes fly, - While other birds, hushed by the dark, - Are mute as I? - - No prophecy of morn is nigh; - Yet as the sombre hours glide by, - Bravely thou singest in the dark— - Why sing not I? - - -COME WHAT MAY - - Come what may— - Though what remaineth I may not know, - Nor how many times the rose may blow - For my delight, or whether the years - Shall be set to the chime of falling tears, - Or go on their way rejoicing— - Yet, come what may, - I have had my day! - - Come what may— - The lurid storm or the sunset peace, - The lingering pain or the swift release, - Lonely vigils and watchings long, - Passionate prayer or soaring song, - Or silence deep and golden— - Still, come what may, - I have had my day! - - Come what may, - I have known the fiery heart of youth, - Its rapturous joy, its bitter ruth; - I have felt the thrill of the eager doer, - The quick heart-throb of the swift pursuer, - The flush of glad possession— - And, come what may, - I have had my day! - - Come what may, - I have learned that out of the night is born - The mystic flower of the early morn; - I have learned that after the frost of pain - The lily of peace will bloom again, - And the rose of consolation. - Then, come what may, - I have had my day! - - -NUREMBERG - - Over the wide, tumultuous sea - In trancèd hours I dream of thee, - Ancient city of song and myth, - Whose name is a name to conjure with, - And make the heart throb, Nuremberg! - - I see thee fair in the white moonlight; - The stars are asleep at noon of night, - Save one that between St. Lawrence’ spires - Kindles aloft its silver fires— - A flaming cresset, Nuremberg! - - Leaning over thy river’s brim - Crowd the red roofs and oriels dim, - While under its bridges glide and gleam - The rippling waves of a silent stream, - Sparkling and darkling, Nuremberg! - - Oh, the charm of each haunted street, - Ways where Beauty and Duty meet; - Sculptured miracles soaring free - In temple and mart for all to see, - Wherever the light falls, Nuremberg! - - Even thy beggars lift their eyes, - Finding ever some new surprise; - Even thy children pause from play, - To hear what thy graven marbles say, - Thy myriad voices, Nuremberg! - - Other cities for crown and king - Wide their glorious banners fling, - Lifting high on the azure field - Blazoned trophies of sword and shield, - That pierce the far skies, Nuremberg! - - But thou, O city of old renown, - Thou dost painter and sculptor crown; - Thou dost give to the poet bays, - Immortelles for the deathless lays - Chanted for thee, fair Nuremberg! - - They are thy Lords of High Degree, - Marvels of art who wrought for thee, - Toiling on with tireless will - Till the wondrous hands in death were still. - Being dead, they yet speak, Nuremberg! - - They were dust and ashes long ago; - Over their graves the sweet winds blow; - Yet they are alive whom men call dead— - This is thy spell, when all is said; - This is thy glory, Nuremberg! - - -A MATER DOLOROSA - - Then down the street came Giacomo, flushed - With wine and laughter. I can see him now, - With Giulio, Florian, and young Angelo, - Arms interlaced, hands clasped, a roisterous crew - Of merry, harmless idlers. Ah, so long, - So long ago it was! Yet I can see - Just how the campanile shone that night - Like molten silver, while its carven saints - Prayed in the moonlight. Then a shadow crept - Over the moon’s face; and it grew so dark - That the red star in Giacomo’s cap - Paled and went out, and Giulio’s shoulder-clasp - Lost all the lustre of its burnished gold, - And faded out of sight. Strange, how we lose - So much we would remember, and yet keep - Trifles like this until the day of doom! - They had swept past me where I stood in shade - When Giacomo turned. Just then the moon - Shone out again, illumining the place, - And he paused laughing, catching sight of me - There by the fountain.—Nay, sweet Signor, nay! - I was young then, and some said I was fair; - But I loved not Giacomo, nor he me.— - Back he came crying, “Little one, take heed! - Know you Fra Alessandro? He would have - A model for his picture. Go you then - To-morrow to his studio and say - Giacomo sent you. At the convent there, - Near Santa Croce.” - So I thither went - Early next morning, trembling as I stole - Into the master’s presence. A grave man - Of most unworldly aspect, with bowed head - And pale chin resting on his long, thin hand, - He sat before an easel, lost in thought. - “Giacomo sent me,” said I, creeping in, - And then stood breathless. Swift as light he turned, - But smiled not, spoke not, while his searching eye - For minutes that seemed hours scanned my face, - Reading it line by line. Signor, it seemed - As if the judgment-day had come, and God - Sat on the great white throne! At length he spoke, - Nodding as one content—“To-morrow morn - I pray thee come thou hither. Canst thou bring - A little child with thee—some fair, sweet child - Whose eyes are like the morning?” - Then I said, - Bethinking me of Beppo’s little boy - Whose mother died last week—“Yes, I will come - Surely, my father, and will bring with me - The fairest child in Florence.” “It is well,” - Softly he answered, and a sudden light - Made his pale face all glorious. At the door - I paused, and looking backward saw him bow - Before the easel as before a shrine. - I know not if he prayed, but never saint - Had aspect more divine. - Next day I went - With little Nello to the studio. - Impatiently the Frate greeted us, - Palette in hand. “So!—Thou art come at last?” - But as I drew the cap from Nello’s head - And the moist tendrils of his golden hair - Fell softly on his forehead, he cried out: - “The boy is like an angel! And thy face, - Thy face, my daughter, I have seen in dreams, - But in dreams only. So, then, stand thou there, - And let the boy sit throned upon thine arm, - As thus, or thus.” - The child was half afraid; - And round my neck he clasped his clinging arms, - Lifting his face to mine, a questioning face, - Filled with soft, startled wonder. While I held - Him close and soothed him, Alessandro cried, - “O, hold him thus forever! Do not stir! - I paint a virgin for an altar-piece. - And thou and this fair child——” - Even while he spoke - He turned back to the easel; but I sprang - From the low pedestal, and, with the boy - Still in my arms, I fell down at his feet. - “Not that, not that, my father!” swift I cried, - While my hot forehead touched his garment’s hem; - “Not that, for God’s sake! Paint me otherwise. - Paint me as martyr, or as Magdalen, - As saint, or sibyl—whatsoe’er you will, - Only not that, not that!” - Smiling he stooped - And raised me from the ground, and took the child - In unaccustomed arms all tenderly, - Placing his brown beads in the dimpled hand. - “But why ‘not that,’ my daughter? Nothing else - Ever paint I! Not saint, nor Magdalen, - Only the Virgin and her Holy Child.” - Then suddenly I saw it all—the light - Dim in cathedral aisles, the kneeling crowds, - The swinging censers, candles burning clear, - With flash of jewels, splendor and perfume, - The high white altar, and above a face, - _My_ face, pale shining through the scented gloom - Like a lone star! Then in the hush a voice - Chanted “Hail, Mary”—and my heart stood still. - I who had been a sinner, could I dare - Thus to mock God and man? Low at his feet - Again I fell, and there I told him all - As he had been my soul’s confessor, poured - My very heart out. Signor, life is hard - And cruel to child-women, when the street - Is their sole nursing mother. I had had - No friend, no home, save when old Barbara - In some rare mood of pity let me creep - Under her wing for shelter. Then she died, - And even that poor semblance of a home - Was mine no longer. Yet, as the years went on, - Out of the dust and moil I grew as tall - And fair as lily in a garden plot, - Shut in by ivied cloisters—Let it pass!— - God knows how girls are tempted when false love - Comes with beguiling words and tender lips, - Promising all things, and their barren lives - Break into sudden bloom as when a bud - Unfolds its shining petals in the sun - And joys to be a rose! - No word he spake, - Fra Alessandro, sitting mute and pale. - But Nello, wondering at my sighs and tears, - Dropped the brown rosary and thrust his hands - Into the shining masses of my hair, - Pulling the bodkin out, and lifted up - My wet, wan face to kiss it. God is good; - And even in that dark hour a thrill of joy - Ran through my soul as the pure lips met mine. - Still I knelt, waiting judgment, with the child - Clasped to my bosom, daring not to raise - My eyes to the face above me. Well I knew - It was the priest’s face, not the painter’s, now! - Was it his voice that through the silence stole, - “A little child shall lead them,” murmuring low? - Just for one instant on my head a hand - Fell as in benediction. Then he said - “Arise, my daughter, and come thou with me - Where bide the holy sisters of St. Clare, - Ruled by their abbess, saintliest of all - The saintly sisterhood. By work and prayer, - Fasting and penance, thou shalt purge thy soul - Of all iniquity, and make it clean.” - Startled I answered him—“But who will care - For Nello then? His mother died last week, - And Beppo’s heart is buried in her grave— - He cares not for the child, nor gives him love.” - But with a wide sweep of his beckoning arm - Down the long cloisters strode he, and across - The heated pavement of the market-place, - Nor looked to see if we were following him - Until he paused before the convent gate; - Then rang the bell, and in the pause I heard - The sisters chanting, and grew faint with shame. - “Fear not, my child,” Fra Alessandro said. - “Here comes Jacinta. Go you in with her, - And straightway tell the abbess all the tale - Told unto me this day. Farewell! ”The gate - Swung to with iron clang, and Nello’s arms - Half strangled me as round my neck he clung, - Awed by the holy stillness. - Since that hour - I with the humble sisters of St. Clare - Have given myself to deeds of mercy, works - Meet for repentance, ministering still - Unto all souls that suffer, even as now - I minister to you. - But what, you ask, - Of the boy Nello? Beppo died that year— - God rest his soul!—and the child ’bode with us. - But when the lad drew nigh to man’s estate— - Too old for women’s guidance—he was found - Oftener than elsewhere at the studio - Of old Fra Alessandro. He became - A painter, Signor, and men call him great. - I know not if he is—but you can see - His pictures yonder in San Spirito. - You’ve seen them? seen my face there? now you know - Whence comes the semblance that has puzzled you - Through all these weeks of languor? - It may be. - I am too old to care now, have outlived - Youth and its petty consciousness. My face - Is mine no longer. It is God’s alone. - A Mater Dolorosa?—It is well! - - -AFTER LONG WAITING - - After long waiting when my soul puts off - This mortal vesture and is free to go - Through all God’s universe in search of thee, - How shall it find thee, O, beloved and lost? - - Through the wide, shadowy spaces, through the deep - Profound abysses where the dim spheres roll; - Through starry mazes and through violet seas, - And purple reaches stretched from world to world; - - Beyond the bounds of all it hath conceived, - Where knowledge falters and where reason fails, - And only faith’s strong pinion dares to soar, - How shall it make its lonely way to thee? - - In that far realm what myriads abide! - When I have reached it, wilt thou find me, dear? - One grain of sand beside the unresting sea— - One blade of grass where endless prairies roll! - - I shall have changed, O love, I shall have changed! - The face you knew I shall no longer wear; - For few or many though the years may be, - My youth fled with thee to the shore unknown. - - I have grown older here, whilst thou beneath - The tree of life hast found thy youth again; - I have grown faint, while strong, exultant, free, - Thy swift, glad feet scale the blue heights of God. - - O friend and lover, go thou not too far! - Delay, delay, thine upward soaring flight, - Lest when I come, all tremulous with joy, - I fail to find thee on the heavenly hills! - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Poems, by Julia C. 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