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diff --git a/old/62614-0.txt b/old/62614-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index d5638e1..0000000 --- a/old/62614-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7233 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The lost chimes, and other poems, by Gustav Melby - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The lost chimes, and other poems - -Author: Gustav Melby - -Release Date: July 11, 2020 [EBook #62614] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOST CHIMES, AND OTHER POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - THE LOST CHIMES - _And Other Poems_ - - GUSTAV MELBY - - - [Illustration: colophon] - - - BOSTON - RICHARD G. BADGER - THE GORHAM PRESS - - - Copyright, 1918, by Gustav Melby - - All Rights Reserved - - - THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A. - - - _To the Memory of My Friend_ - - DR. FRANK J. CRESSY - - _Whose Skill as a Physician Saved My - Child’s Life, and Whose Kindness as - a Friend Lent Inspiration to Life’s - Pursuits_ - - - - -CONTENTS - - - Page - -The Lost Chimes 13 - -The Sibyl’s Prophecy 91 - - -Elegiacs - - In Memoriam 105 - - The Farewell 117 - - Baby Bruce 119 - - A Funeral of a Child on Christmas Eve 120 - - The Wreath 121 - - Lines Written on Receiving News of My Father’s Death 122 - - -The Great Strife - - War and Providence 127 - - The Yellow Peril 128 - - The Veteran 129 - - Dies Irae 130 - - A May Morning, 1917 131 - - My Sailor-Lad’s Letter 132 - - The Bugle Call 134 - - Flag-Raising 136 - - The Red Cross 137 - - The Doleful Mother of Mankind 138 - - Midwinter’s Dream (1918) 139 - - -By the Wayside - - The Canadian Prairies 143 - - The Rocky Mountains 143 - - Mount Shasta 144 - - Verses 145 - - To an Unknown Musician 146 - - Seattle 147 - - Gjoa 148 - - The Grave in the Desert 149 - - The Mountains of the Prophet 150 - - Chicago 151 - - The Isle of Dreams 152 - - Lake Harriet 153 - - The Cubist 154 - - The Handclasp 155 - - A Country Store 156 - - Sunsets on Clearwater Lake, Minn. 158 - - Twilight 162 - - April 162 - - I’m a Part of the Wind and the Curling Wave 164 - - The Chipping Sparrow 165 - - In the Lilac-Blossom-Time 166 - - The Runnel’s Ditty 168 - - The Child and the Gospel of St. John 169 - - The Birthday Cake 170 - - My Goldfish 170 - - The Fiddler’s Christmas Music 172 - - Cruel Kitty 175 - - To 176 - - Farewell 177 - - Alone 178 - - Lines on an Old Songbook 178 - - Pearls and Palaces 180 - - Victor Hugo 183 - - To a Friend 184 - - To a “Knocker” 185 - - A Vision 186 - - Signs Celestial 187 - - Despair 188 - - Hope 188 - - Be Still My Soul, Be Still 190 - - Awake 190 - - The Awakening 192 - - Asters 192 - - Butterflies 193 - - The Rosebush 194 - - Two Aspects 195 - - The Great “I Am” 196 - - The Death Chant 196 - - The Letter 197 - - God’s Truth-Teller 199 - - The Death of the Poet 200 - - In Search of the Perfect 202 - - The Christmas Cactus 203 - - Christmas Night 204 - - A New Year’s Invocation, 1918 205 - - Easter 207 - - -Sonnets - - Lux Ex Oriente 211 - - On the Statue of Voltaire 212 - - A Venetian Well Head 213 - - The Prospect 214 - - The Harvest 215 - - The Reward of Epimenides 215 - - - - - THE LOST CHIMES - - - “Count not the cost, a thousand more or less - Is not the question, but a perfect tone, - A clang as clear as the Italian sky, - As strong and joyful as the victor’s cry, - As deep and mellow as the ocean’s moan, - And tender as a mother’s fond caress.” - - “And let there be no stint of pure alloy, - Of bronze and silver, no, not even of gold, - Yea, let this be thy very master-piece, - In all its making,--if it doth me please, - Half of my fortune shall to thee be told, - And to its praise my life I shall employ.” - - Thus spake Sordino, noble Florentine, - To one who was renowned for casting bells, - Who now was asked to make a set of chimes, - A task he had accomplished many times, - But this, he thought, the highest skill compels, - And yet the work he promised to begin. - - But first for thoughts and dreams he leisure found, - For consecration to the work at hand, - Since this the glory of his life should be, - A grand creation, a sweet symphony - Of human life, which all might understand, - Their souls re-echoed in the liquid sound. - - - II - - He was a man of many changing moods, - Impetuous, like mighty Angelo, - And kindly, like the saintly Raphael, - His patience, like Palissy’s, nought could quell, - In worship, like the good Angelico, - And yet the “fickled Fame” his name excludes. - - He nature loved, and wandered oft alone - Mid deep recesses of some shady wood, - And listened to the many varied sounds, - From notes of birds to noise of baying hounds, - And oftentimes as if enraptured stood, - Held by the music of the undertone. - - Once had he loved a maiden, in whose eyes - He read the happiness of human life, - And mystery of the immortal soul, - A love to which he gave himself and all, - With but one aim, to win her as his wife, - And realize his dream of Paradise. - - But death did also mark her for his own, - With hectic flushes on the pallid cheek, - And growing languor in the sprightly limbs; - And as the day before night’s darkness dims, - So did her youthful buoyancy grow weak, - And like a vision fair, she soon was gone. - - And sorrow, with its wintry blast did chill - His manly nature to the very core, - And many months he spent in utter woe; - But, like the flow’r which grows beneath the snow, - A life which he had never known before - Rose from submission to the Higher Will. - - These elements did pass into his work, - His love and grief, his dreams and changing moods, - And all he was seemed mingle in the mold - Of molten metal, and was subtly told - By silver tonguéd bells in solitudes - Of monastery, or of country kirk. - - - III - - As one who summons all the latent pow’r - Within his soul, for one last great attempt - To reach an aim of lifelong beckoning, - Thus did he give himself to this one thing, - Began his task in spotless white, and kempt, - Emerging from the sacramental hour. - - He days and nights upon his labor fixed, - Forgetful both of hunger and of sleep,-- - His soul reflected in the fiery glow; - And some did say, he let his life-blood flow, - And others, that he sometimes stopped to weep, - And with his blood and tears the metal mixed. - - And when at last the chimes were cast, there came - A great collapse of utter weariness - Upon him, and he slept for many days; - The finishing, with all artistic ways, - Was patience’s work, more like a fond caress - Of something born of inspiration’s flame. - - The day of testing came, the final test; - Sordino coming early in the morn, - Since eager was his soul to know for sooth, - If its ideal of the highest truth-- - Of harmony--incarnate can be born, - And with the works of man itself invest. - - And when two skilful hands intoned a hymn, - And gave the chimes a chance for utterance,-- - As shining on a scaffold high they hung,-- - It seemed to him, it was by angels sung, - So pure, so sweet, it did his soul entrance, - And with the tears of joy his eyes make dim. - - The task was done, a work of perfect art; - And handsome was the price Sordino paid, - A fortune to the maker of those bells, - Of whom, henceforth, tradition nothing tells, - We know not where his future course was laid, - Nor when or where from life he did depart. - - - IV - - The chimes found their exalted place within - A high cathedral tow’r, Sordino’s gift - To a beloved fane of Italy, - And that their melodies might always be - Within his hearing, he his home did shift - From country silence to the city’s din. - - Where, like some voices from an unseen realm - Their music did announce each fleeting hour - To all the throngs which moved in streets below, - And as their harmonies upon the air did flow, - They seemed to have a superhuman pow’r - O’er listening hearts, yea, even to overwhelm - The meditative mind with such a joy - Of loveliness and beauty, that a tear - Would glisten in the upward look of pray’r; - And they would lift the heavy loads of care - From souls oppressed, and banish carking fear, - And grief and black remorse which life destroy. - - And thus they day and night gripped human souls - With hope and cheer mid life’s divers pursuits; - But on the Sabbath and the sacred days, - When man is called to think of better ways, - They seemed so jubliant with heavenly truths, - That none did doubt that God His children calls. - - They had a gladness which at sundry times - Was almost riotous, like children’s play, - And seemed to send out peals of laughter sweet, - When they a merry bridal train did greet, - As to the church it gaily made its way, - Transported with the rapture of the chimes. - - But when the dead were carried to their rest, - Its dirges were of all most wonderful, - A depth of sadness--such as none can tell-- - A sadness which the gayest did compel - To see a shadow of the ghastly skull, - And yet to feel that even the grave is blest. - - - V - - In all these cadences Sordino found - A true delight, but most in solemn dirge, - For melancholy was his common mood, - Though sometimes he was in an altitude - Of such hilarity, that it did verge - Upon the wildness of a mind unsound. - - Indeed, the whisper passed, he was insane, - Since only one with shattered reason could - Half of his fortune spend for such a thing: - To hear a set of golden churchbells ring, - And none of his few friends quite understood - His pleasure in a funeral refrain. - - He loved to walk ’mongst tombs and ancient graves, - And read the epitaphs on crumbling stones, - Or muse beside some gloomy cypress tree, - While list’ning to a mournful melody, - Mark how the harmony of all the tones - Did vanish far away o’er sunlit waves. - - He was a seeker after harmony, - Such harmony in which all life shall blend, - In perfect peace and concord, this he heard - Expressed in those deep tones which moved and stirred - His brooding mind, and seemed an answer lend - To all its questions of life’s destiny. - - Unhappiness had marred his early life; - His marriage to a girl who loved him not, - And yet who lived within his childless home, - For binding was the tie once made by Rome, - Until at last her ways became a blot, - And by her sins she ceased to be his wife. - - Since then he lived a recluse more or less, - Except when boon-companions with him met, - To dine, or rather to a revelry, - When wine and music set his spirit free, - When he life’s disappointments could forget, - And when some transient bliss he did caress. - - But feasts, of such a nature, yearly grew - Less frequent, for his real self was good, - And governed him, as he in age advanced; - And now the chimes his being so entranced, - That all the hunger of his heart found food - In their sweet intonations, ever new. - - They fed his innate philosophic bent, - And made him delve into the subtlest lore - Of Metaphysics and Theology, - That he through these, perchance, might clearer see - The truth which echoed from another shore, - Each time their sovereign voice the silence rent. - - And he waxed confident, the human cry - Is wafted somewhere to a higher sphere, - Where it is answered with a perfect peace,-- - That not a soul from earth does find release, - Release from darkness and the night of fear, - Without a morn of better hope on high. - - - VI - - The grave has, after all, the truest peace; - The graveyard is the greatest moralist; - And it was wisdom that in days of eld, - The living with the dead communion held, - For they did worship in their very midst, - A custom which in our good times must cease. - - No longer can we lay our dead within - The shadow of the church, but far away, - In some secluded spot where seldom seen - Is their last resting-place, beneath the green, - Where some good farmer makes his loads of hay, - And murmurs that it is in places thin. - - We do not, in this shallow age, endure - To think of death, such thoughts do not amuse, - But mock the things which we are striving after; - It tickles not our vein of silly laughter, - The subject is unpleasant and obtruse, - Of which the preachers even are not sure. - - The graveyard, ne’ertheless, is preaching more - To thinking minds than many homilies,-- - It tells in no uncertain language of - The vanity in all which here we love,-- - That all our restless seeking after bliss - Is but the drifting to another shore. - - That men and empires have their little day, - Then turn to dust, as others have before, - That death is still the monarch of the world, - Before whose feet all things at last are hurled, - Before whose realm there is no closing door, - And has for all but one sad, darksome way. - - - VII - - Of all the seasons of the year there’s none - To melancholy people, like the fall, - That is, to persons of poetic mind, - For in this season they a beauty find - In earth and sky, which is transcending all - The wondrous glory of the summer gone. - - For all its mellow beauty has a sadness, - Twixt tears and smiles, a sadness seen and heard - In nature’s varied aspects and its notes, - Upon the air’s dim haziness it floats: - The shrill cry of the migratory bird, - And tunes of vintage-reapers in their gladness. - - ’Tis in the fatal drooping of the flower, - ’Tis in the stubble of the fields and meads, - Where crickets hold a concert day and night, - ’Tis in the stormcloud’s shadow and its flight - Across the waters and the sighing reeds, - ’Tis in the gold and crimson of the bower. - - ’Tis in the rain that strikes against the pane - And leaves its diamonds on the bending straw, - ’Tis in the mist which follows nightly shower, - A floating mantle of the Morning Hour, - ’Tis in the swelling brooks which onward go, - With mystic songs to the majestic main. - - And Melancholy is the Truth, said one, - Whose genius pierced through the life of man, - Who hated cant, deriding the Tartuffe, - And saw beneath the robe the devil’s hoof, - A wandering exile from his native land, - The fascinating bard, the great Byron. - - Forgive, O, lustrous name, that I should use - Thy music for a lyre so poorly strung! - But I did often in my youth, even now, - Admire the glory of his laurelled brow, - And felt that truth and freedom ne’er was sung, - As by this suff’ring highpriest of the Muse. - - O, all ye learned critics of his art, - Who analyze by a mechanic rule, - Ye fail to see the grandeur of his soul, - That soared above the petty and the small, - Indifferent to the existing school, - Preferring Pegasus to any cart. - - With the sublime he ever was in tune, - ’Mid Alpen heights, or on “the boundless deep,” - Or ’mid the storm and deaf’ning thunders crash, - In darkest night, lit by the lightning’s flash, - Or on the plains where vanished empires sleep, - Time’s desolation ’neath a waning moon. - - His harp did catch the minor music’s flow - From nature’s heart and human tragedy, - And when he laughed it was the cynic’s smile, - Though he at heart was tender as a child, - But death to him had sweeter harmony, - Than life’s brief dream with its relentless woe. - - Likewise Sordino, after years of thinking, - Found in the dirge the acme of his search, - The home-call to a truer life’s beginning, - When man shall cease from sorrow and from sinning, - The great, the final welcome of the church, - The note of peace which heav’n to earth is linking. - - - VIII - - At length there came upon Sordino’s city - An enemy with armies great and strong, - And laid a siege about its buttressed walls, - And since the strongest bulwark sometime falls - Before a cannonading fierce, and long, - So did its self-defences, without pity. - - The conqueror did loot and kill and ravage, - While o’er it all the chimes sang forth the hour, - In notes which shamed the horror of that day, - And as he listened said: “Take them away, - Their music hath upon my men a pow’r, - Which makes a saint out of a bloody savage!” - - Then from the lofty tow’r they were removed, - Against Sordino’s pleadings, these to spare, - And carried hence, none but the victor knew-- - And captive toilers whom at last he slew,-- - Their value he surmised and used such care, - As for their preservation it behooved. - - - IX - - O, heinous War, Hell’s very incarnation! - Whose countenance is black with darkest hate, - Whose eyes have serpent’s gleam of greed and lust, - And fiendish satisfaction, when the dust - Of God’s fair earth with precious blood is sate, - Who laughs at the destruction of a nation. - - Whose breath is pois’nous fumes and dire disease, - And darting flames, devouring man’s abodes, - Whose voice with terror fills all living things, - And nought attracts except the vulture’s wings, - Its rending roar the very heaven goads - Until the dark’ning cloud a-weeping flees. - - Whose brutish hands, with gore and grime polluted, - Are strangling innocents and ripping wombs, - And gagging Virtue’s cry, and sundering - The maiden from her mother; plundering - The aged and the sick, yea, even the tombs - Of those “at rest” are by this monster looted. - - It rules the empires, and it rules the seas, - It is the prince of power in the air, - And kings and nations worship it with fear, - But drunk with blood they loud and wildly cheer, - And think its glory great beyond compare, - Yea, worth all loss and human miseries. - - O, Christ, who stood on storm-tossed Galilee, - Reproaching evil, saying: “Peace be still!” - So all the fury of the storm and wave - Abated, and the struggling ship was safe, - Speak thou again that word divine, until - The world shall hear, and war shall cease to be! - - O, may the day-spring from on High appear, - When this foul monster shall be chained in Hell, - When man, freed from its tyranny, shall be - The blessed of the Lord, in harmony - With every race which under heaven dwell, - And all his life be like a golden year! - - - X - - Sordino from the fated city fled, - When he beheld destruction’s hand engaged - In Vandalism on the house of God; - It seemed to him an awful chastening-rod, - Because of sin which heaven had enraged, - For which the blood of thousands now was shed. - - When he perceived resistance was in vain, - The city’s doom declared in blood and fire, - He left it under cover of the night, - With thousand others. Pausing in his flight - He saw the flames from the cathedral spire - Leap ’gainst the angry clouds of storm and rain. - - He first sought safety at his country-seat, - A villa rich in orchard and in field, - Where he did shelter homeless refugees, - And here, for many days they lived in peace, - Until the country, too, itself must yield, - And valiant men before the foe retreat. - - We will not here relate the conflict’s trend, - Sufficient that at last the enemy - Was driven from the land by armies strong, - And as in days of the heroic song, - With plunder rich, across the stormy sea, - They to their home-land shores the course did wend. - - Deep sadness fell upon Sordino’s heart - For all the sorrow of his countrymen, - For all the ravages wrought by the foe, - But most of all his cup seemed overflow - With grief beyond the measure of our ken, - Because he from his chimes did have to part. - - He restless grew, no place found him content, - No pleasure could his spirit satisfy, - His former love of study him forsook, - And e’en on nature he did cease to look - With that true, heartfelt joy of years gone by,-- - His days in gloom and ennui were spent. - - At last he in his heart resolved to go - Upon a journey--he knew hardly where-- - In quest of his beloved bells, though none - For certain seemed to know where they had gone, - Still he would travel over land and mere,-- - With this resolve his soul was soon aglow. - - - XI - - To France he first of all did make his way,-- - Enduring hardship on the boistrous sea, - And dangers on the shores of sullen foes, - But since to hearts of purpose strong no woes - Insufferable seem, thus agony, - Of any kind, could not his zeal allay. - - He reached the wondrous city of the Seine, - The metropole of Europe’s art and modes, - Where ever dazzling Show and Pleasure sweet, - Like youths in Daphne’s grove alaughing meet, - Where Grecian deities have their abodes, - And genius hath reared a matchless fane.[A] - - [A] The Louvre. - - Where stands the armless Venus, unto whom - Poor Heine cried for help, but none received, - Since pagan culture is quite impotent - To save a soul in doubt and error spent, - Though for poor Heine none needs to be grieved, - Whose glory mingles with the maid of foam. - - Great Paris, scene of most momentous deeds, - Far reaching consequences to the race; - Where monarchs died like vilest criminals, - While Anarchy did sing her bacchanals, - And trampled in the mire, what once did grace, - The highest places and most hallowed creeds. - - Where great Napoleon, a demigod, - Ascended to the pinnacle of fame - And pow’r most dread, who made the monarchs quail - Before his genius, until a wail - Of anguish rose mid ruin and the shame - Of empires, struck by heav’n’s avenging rod. - - But even his greatness could not have its sway - O’er equilibriums by ages fixed; - His life was like the wierd and dazzling light - Of some stray star in its erratic flight, - Or like the image where the metals mixed, - The gold and silver with ignoble clay. - - The head of gold, the feet of clay, and so - The little stone of Fate the giant felled, - The star erratic into exile sent, - Its lustre in ignominy misspent, - Still it had closed an age--whose doom was spelled, - The slave is free, the tyrant, too, must go. - - But this was not the France Sordino knew, - Long time before the Corsican he lived, - Ere France had lost her faith in monks and nuns, - While chiming bells were more than roaring guns, - And in their potency the land believed, - Rejoicing that their fathers’ faith was true. - - His life fell in the days of Charles the Great, - When wars were pleasant pastime for the kings, - Who fought for many reasons quite terrestrial, - But sometimes, as they thought, for things celestial, - And nothing like the latter valor brings, - Inspired by bigotry and hellish hate. - - When France was warring for her very life, - And Guise, the mighty lion, held at bay, - When Florence beat her foe at Marciano, - And poor Sordino lost his sweet campana, - ’Twas in that age he lived and made his way - To Paris, weary from the worldly strife. - - He traveled like a scholar, incognito, - And sought the company of learned men, - Disputing with them in the classic lore; - This helped him churchly places to explore, - Where might have been, perchance, a robber’s den, - Since that of old has ever had a ditto. - - “My Father’s house ye made a den of thieves,” - Said Christ to priests who wrought for Him a cross, - But afterwards, full often, in His name - The priesthood has been guilty of the same: - What was a sister nation’s grievous loss, - They proudly stored in dusky sacristies. - - Such was the plunder of the noble art, - Which Philip from the Netherlands did take, - Such, too, the treasures which Napoleon - With ruthless warfare from the nations won; - Thus ever, where the priest his sign doth make - Upon the sin which pierced the sacred heart. - - Such guilt may, even in Sordino’s times, - Have rested upon some Parisian church, - Or abbey in its strange seclusiveness, - But everywhere he found but weariness, - Resulting from his all persistent search, - And nowhere did he see nor hear his chimes. - - - XII - - Why should a soul consume its power and peace - In quest of that which useless seems and vague, - In following mirages of ideals, - And pass through many harassing ordeals, - Endure the cruel sneer of mobs that plague, - When one may dwell ’mongst them in mental ease? - - Why follow, like a fettered slave, one’s longing - Which sometimes leads through dun and dreary wilds, - O’er pathless hills and mountain tops afar, - And then points to a dim and distant star, - With faith a-smiling, like a little child’s, - While spectral shadows round one’s soul is thronging? - - Because a gleam--as from a fiery globe-- - Illumined souls before their incarnation, - And bound them with love’s chain eternally, - That Beauty’s face for ever they might see, - And ne’er be happy in their earthly station, - Unless their life in heav’n’s pure light they robe. - - This gleam was ever glowing in the heart - Of him whom men might say was “lacking sense,” - The light of beauty and a smould’ring love.-- - Since strait-laced folk may now his acts reprove, - And fearing this, we shall the tale condense, - Of what took place, before he did depart. - - One day he met a scholar from Vienna, - Whose home was on the banks of that fair stream, - Renowned in history and minstrel’s song, - O’er whose blue waters, as they flow along, - Some olden romance hovers like a dream, - In saffron hues of terra di Sienna. - - There traveled with this scholar a young woman - Whose beauty smote Sordino at first sight, - And made him captive unaware; how strange! - Since he had thought himself outside the range, - Now two score ten, ev’n of the wildest flight - Of any arrow from the little bow-man. - - But such is man, who thinks, he knows himself, - And--like Sordino--very much besides, - Quite fortified by wisdom’s splendid armor, - Who thinks his heart is dead to any charmer, - Will suddenly discover that there hides - Within its chambers still a little elf. - - She was a coy, elusive little creature, - Uncaptured yet by suitors manifold, - Her father’s only child, and motherless, - Whose cheerfulness his saddened heart did bless, - Whose eyes of Danube blue and hair of gold, - Commingled with her Mother’s Grecian feature. - - She was proficient in the classic learning, - Read Greek and Latin like her native tongue, - Italian, too, and did on Dante dote, - And metaphysics studied, but by rote, - For mental subtleties she was too young, - And was to Hella’s songs too often turning. - - Anacreon she knew by heart and set - His lyric and erotic odes to tunes, - And most of all she did with fondness love - His ἐραςμίη πέλεια--the dove - Of Venus, odorous with sweet perfumes, - Her payment for the poet’s canzonet. - - And like an Amathusia she seemed, - To fond Sordino, who had ne’er beheld - Such loveliness of mind and body wed, - And then he knew that ’mid the past and dead - Of his own life, no being had compelled - His love like she whom he a goddess deemed. - - But when he saw her father’s jealous care, - He did not dare his hand to tender her, - But first of all sought to ingratiate - Himself to both, but most to the sedate, - Pedantic scholar, ready to concur - In all his views, though fallacy lay bare. - - Thus suavity did win the learned man, - And he became Sordino’s ardent friend, - And asked him to return with them to Wien, - Another thing he failed not to agree in, - And when their stay in Paris had an end, - He gladly journeyed with this Austrian. - - - XIII - - On Danube’s shores, ’mid wooded hills, a villa - Was smiling welcome to its lord and guest, - But most of all to her--whose name was Stella, - (Her father called her “pulchra me’ puella”) - For whom the servants ready had ein Fest, - Where once encamped the hosts of Attila. - - A Florentine among Teutonic scenes, - Led thither by a love, yet unexpressed, - Forgot his sorrows, yea, forgot his bells, - Since nought like love its victim so compels - To full submission to a sweet behest, - The looks and smiles of one still in her teens. - - Her beauty was the centre of all scenes, - Her voice the only music of each sound, - Her presence, sole embodiment of bliss, - And heaven itself it would have been, a kiss, - For which the Shibboleth he had not found, - Behind the garden-trees and flow’ry screens. - - On horseback did they sometimes ride along - The winding roads, and most in early morn, - While yet the dew was trembling on the blade, - And all the minstrelsy of dreamy glade - Was like a stream Elysian to them borne, - With pure delight, estranged to earthly wrong. - - And sometimes on the noble river’s breast - They sailed, below the stately castle walls, - Or hoary ruins on o’erhanging cliffs, - Of ancient lore the sacred hieroglyphs, - Upon whose mystery the moonlight falls, - With fairy-charm which age of knighthood blessed. - - ’Mongst such are those of famous Dürrenstein - Which once imprisoned Richard Lionhearted,-- - Returning from a holy pilgrimage,-- - The English lion in an unknown cage,-- - For ev’n his minstrel, from whom he had parted, - Knew not what walls his good lord did confine. - - But he, the faithful Blondel, sought him long, - And traveled in disguise through Germany, - Until he learned of some great personage, - On whom king Leopold had wreaked his rage, - And now he sought this place most eagerly, - Without an aid or weapon, but a song. - - A song which he, together with the king, - Had made one night among Judean hills, - A ballad full of stirring battle-scenes, - Of Crusaders in strife with Saracens, - Of victories, defeats and untold ills, - And this below the tow’r he now did sing. - - And in the stillness of the summer night - His voice rose clear up to the battlement, - But none did deem it but a common lay, - Except the one who watched a flick’ring ray - Of one bright star, to him the song’s ascent - Came like God’s angels on the gleam of light. - - He reached the middle of his song and ceased, - Then harkened for an answer from the tow’r, - When all at once he heard his master’s voice - Conclude the lay, it made his heart rejoice. - He homeward sped, and soon a ransom’s power - The monarch from captivity released. - - This story Stella told the Florentine, - Who found it charming in her quaint Italian, - But would have substituted some fair lady - For doughty Richard, though perhaps more shady, - If held a ransom by a noble villain, - Found by her lover while she did repine. - - A thing she disagreed with very strongly, - Since heroes she preferred to amorettes, - And poets, singing monarchs out of prison, - To luting minstrels whose life’s mission - Is sentimental ditties and regrets, - Though she in heart felt this was stated wrongly. - - And such is, after all, a maiden’s heart, - Unknown to her, unsearchable to man, - It quotes one thing, while feeling quite another, - Though guileless like a sister to her brother, - Her head and heart are like a sprightly span - Of untrained colts which ever pull apart. - - But we must shun continuous digression, - And turn to him, the hero of our tale, - Who made the rather sad discovery, - That Stella ne’ertheless did worship Chivalry, - But not in men of fifty, though all hale, - For he received a “No” to his confession. - - Her heart cleaved to a youth in far off land, - A youth of prowess in her country’s cause, - Though not bethrothed, she hoped the day would come, - When that should be, ev’n in her father’s home, - This to Sordino a great sorrow was, - Since he had hoped to win her heart and hand. - - He said adieu to these his friends, by chance, - And drew away, he cared but little whither, - Since wounded love has lost its grip on life, - And sees it like a night with horror rife, - Until the victim on some morning blither, - Does damn such meetings as that one in France. - - For men at fifty may as truly love, - As boys of fifteen, and a little truer, - And, disappointed, feel the keenest pang, - But yet I have not heard a suitor hang - Himself, because he flatly failed to woo her, - Nor worth the while with rivals, have a row. - - For wisdom grows with years, and manly reason - Becomes the load-star of the wanderer, - And man doth cease to be a woman’s slave, - For which she may despise him as a knave; - The “superman” she made, doth ponder her, - And knows, beneath her love is sometimes treason. - - - XIV - - Vienna has a noble shrine; ev’n then - It vied in glory with all Europe’s fanes, - St. Stephen;--thither did he go one day, - To see its beauty, more perchance, to pray, - For he would fain seek solace ’mongst the manes - Of the departed than the crowds of men. - - There in the dimness of the lofty nave - He tarried long and mused upon the past, - On visored knights who thither came to find - Forgiveness, and assurance to their mind, - That God did sanction that their lot was cast - With them who fought for the Redeemer’s grave. - - Their sacred task he almost envied them, - To have a noble aim and be assured - That heaven its benediction on it smiles, - And loving hearts are with the weary miles, - For such a quest all things might be endured, - And death itself be life’s great diadem. - - A mission and a woman’s love is all - A man should crave for earthly happiness, - Sordino thought, while absently his gaze - Did fall upon the sweet Madonna’s face, - And he had none of these to lift and bless - His aimless, dark and love-tormented soul. - - He humbly knelt before the ancient altar, - A stranger mid the holy solitude, - But what he said in pray’r must not be told - To all the world, whose cynic smile is cold; - Sufficient that the Saviour on the Rood - Imparted strength to him who seemed to falter. - - Just then a clear-tongued bell rang from the tower, - With notes akin to one of his lost chimes, - Reminding him of his neglected quest; - He rose as if by a new zeal possest, - As when a mountaineer, who upward climbs, - Is fascinated by the vision’s power. - - - XV - - That night he had a dream, in which he heard - The music of his bells across the seas, - Whose notes came clearly from a purple haze, - And wandered with the breeze from place to place, - A-dancing with the billows’ wild caprice, - And mingled with the cries of many a bird. - - And floated round a many-colored sail, - Half-hoisted, flapping, listening between, - And eager to depart for that fair land, - Whence came the music, on whose purple strand - The ocean shifted from the dazzling sheen, - To emerald and amethystine pale. - - And in the stern the smiling Stella stood, - A-beckoning to come with her away, - And he did hasten to the rocky shore, - But as he reached it, she was there no more, - The ship had carried her far out the bay, - And in its wake the waves were red as blood. - - Then did he weep, until a gentle hand - Was laid upon his head, now bending low, - And looking up, a stranger met his eye, - Who said: “Why art thou here, why dost thou cry? - The melodies which o’er the waters go, - Proceed from chimes made in thy native land; - Thy own they are, go seek them till thou findest, - Then is thy journey ended, and the strife, - Then shalt thou know the joy which heaven will give, - So overwhelming that thou canst not live; - Now, henceforth thou must sacrifice thy life, - To those who bear the cross our God is kindest.” - - When from his dream he woke, he pondered long - Its meaning, and at last waxed confident, - It was an angel that had spoken thus; - For calling in distress, God heareth us, - His unseen ministers to us are sent, - To give us light, and weeping change to song. - - He also felt assured, his chimes had found - A place across the seas, though not in France, - May be in England or some British isle,-- - This thought provoked a melancholy smile, - For Richard’s fame and knightly lance, - And Blondel’s song were with it bound. - - And he determined to depart full soon, - Yet one thing did his heart desire to see,-- - The face of Stella, which both night and day - Did follow him, where-e’er he turned his way, - Her beck’ning in his dream might mean to be - A change of mind, before another moon. - - Yea, might he but behold those eyes once more, - Receive again one look of kindliness, - And feast his famished heart upon her beauty, - And hear her speak, as once, forgetting duty, - And give him one adieu of hope to bless, - Then would he seek his chimes on any shore. - - - XVI - - How man is ever living by illusions! - The more the better, why then shatter them? - Why kill the birds of Paradise with science? - Why meet old Superstition with defiance, - Since in the past her very garments’ hem - Gave from life’s guiltiness sweet absolution? - - Why not let lore of Middle Ages reign, - The lore of fairy--and of elfin-land? - A world of strange, imaginary things, - Which gave to human mind its soaring wings, - And bore the simplest to a golden strand, - Where he forgot his poverty and pain. - - What are your knowledge and inventions worth, - If they destroy man’s fleeting happiness,-- - Illusion’s chiefest offspring, and life’s goal? - Far better then the hut and back-log coal - Than mansions lighted by the magic press, - But without fairies and a glowing hearth. - - Sordino’s age was not like ours--of engines; - No Kipling to bid romance a farewell, - No wonders in the realm of rods and wheels, - No squeaking phonographs and Chaplin reels, - No railroads, autos, and, what was as well, - No Zeppelins, no bombs and submarines. - - His was the vanished day of simple living, - Of child-like faith in man, and things unseen, - When next God’s footstool poet, prophet stood, - And told that all which makes man glad is good, - That ever Eden’s Tree of Life is green, - And to the world its leaves of healing giving. - - And such a leaf was any happy dream,-- - An omen or a message from beyond, - As truly as in good Hellenic days, - When at the Sibyl’s cave men found their ways,-- - And to Sordino its illusion fond - Became a prophecy, a guiding gleam. - - - XVII - - A Catholic he was and had his passport, - And did not fear to take a ship for London, - Though rumor owned it, things were lively there, - And travellers had better take a care, - Where “Bloody Mary” ruled with fierce abandon, - Suspecting strangers to be of the base sort. - - The base sort being chiefly protestant, - Or sympathizers with the cause of Cranmer; - And since he was not either, he might venture - To see the city without fearing censure, - And so, at last, he started out to wander - Through Germany, whose scenes did him enchant. - - At last he reached the port of old Calais, - And bought a passage ’cross the English Channel, - According as the angel had him bidden, - Believing that his chimes were used or hidden - In London town, where back of pane or panel - He’d seek and find them on some happy day. - - Now as the wind bore gently ’gainst the sail, - And slowly eked their distance from the shore, - The western sun lay ruddy on the wave, - His dream thereby made real, all things, save - The one whose face his heart did still adore, - She was not there this pilgrim strange to hail. - - Upon him fell a sadness, which alone - The homeless, longing traveller doth know, - Augmented by a disappointed love, - And standing musing at the vessel’s prow, - The only thing his wistful vision saw, - Was that red glow which on the water shone. - - He stood there when the evening shadows fell, - And darkening storm-clouds rose o’er England’s coast, - He stood there when the night closed from his view - The shores of France, within the deepest blue, - Through which a glim’ring light, the uttermost, - Was smiling him a dubious farewell. - - He stood there when the waves began to roll, - The wind to sigh and whine in sail and rope, - And night closed round him with forebodings dark - Of dangers for the rocking little bark, - On which full many souls now stayed their hope, - That it would bear them to their journey’s goal. - - But he feared not, no, rather pleasure found - In the arising fury of the deep, - Since it expressed the sorrow of his soul, - And he did hear its wild alluring call, - Into its mystic rest at once to leap, - A rest beneath the billows’ angry sound. - - And now the elements did more and more - Unstop their many-voiced organ-keys: - The thunder’s loud diapason, the shriek - Of wailing wind, the flopping and the creak - Of rigging; and the rain upon the seas, - The lightning’s hiss and surging water’s roar. - - But all of this his heart enjoyed with glee, - And he refused to leave his lonely post, - Though drenched, and clinging to the vessel’s railing, - A good old ship, though sorely tried, yet sailing, - It was her sturdy captain’s boast, - That she could weather even the roughest sea. - - Sordino heard in all the symphony - Of nature’s stormy mood, the misery - And rage pent up in her great heart, like his, - Thus all its terror was to him a bliss, - He heard in it majestic melody, - Since all God’s universe is harmony. - - The wind grew chilly and at last him drove - Into the hold, where slumber soon him claimed; - And when the morning dawned, the ship was near - The cliffs of England; this a grateful tear - Brought from the anxious hearts, which almost shamed - Sordino whom this sight left quite unmoved. - - - XVIII - - Fair England, long by God elect and blessed, - His chosen land, as Palestine of old, - From which His light to all the world has shone, - Where Freedom sits with monarchs on their throne, - Where truth, more precious than the ruddy gold, - Is by her wise men fearlessly professed. - - Where he, the many-minded genius - Arose to make her name and tongue immortal, - With never dying characters and song, - Who knew the soul among the vulgar throng, - As well as that of kings in castle portal, - And made them all so much akin to us. - - Great Shakespeare, harbinger of Britain’s glory, - The child of ages, product of a race, - Born in the fulness of the time,--the world awaking - To a new day, its rusty fetters breaking,-- - He with his torch showed it the better ways, - And linked the new with ancient fairy-story. - - Sordino’s times were all with forces seething, - The new and old at war for mastery, - But through its hope and fear, its love and hating, - The nation with its rulers vacillating, - There came the age when light gained victory, - And Freedom through the songs of Shakespear breathing. - - That Freedom then, as ever, bathed in blood, - And tried by fiery fagot and the stake, - The Freedom of the soul to trow and live, - As Christ commanded, ev’n that men should give-- - Like He--their lives for His own Kingdom’s sake, - For none was free as He, upon the rood. - - The voice of Freedom whispered through the world-- - Like quick’ning breezes of advancing Spring, - Which wake the modest crocus ’mongst the hills, - And violets along the laughing rills, - And bid returning songster’s music ring - Through budding woodlands by the mist impearled. - - Thus Freedom’s voice did wake the souls of men, - The lowly and the mighty felt its power, - But most the pure in heart who saw their God, - Their hearts rejoiced ev’n ’neath the scourging rod; - Alone they stood in suffering’s dark hour, - But in a strength which heaven did grant them then. - - - XIX - - Sordino came to London just in time - To view a drama, not unseldom seen - By Englishmen in Mary Tudor’s reign, - Who left upon her country’s page a stain - So dark and bloody that scarce any queen - Has ever steeped her rule in fouler crime. - - From Newgate prison, in the early morn, - An old decrepit man was rudely led, - Amid the gibes and scoffings of a mob, - Which drowned the words of pity and the sob; - Abuses fell upon his hoary head; - But for his Master they were gladly borne. - - They brought him to an open square, where stood - An upright stake with iron rings and chains, - Awaiting his frail body to entwine, - And round about were twigs of birch and pine, - Piled up in bundles, groaning with the pains, - They should inflict on one whose life was good. - - The rising sun cast on the earth a soft, - Warm, trembling light, God’s Cherubim who told - To all whose soul had vision: “He is Love;” - At least one marked it, smiled and looked above, - Into infinity of blue and gold, - And as his eyes were lifted thus aloft, - - He said: “What profit hath a man, if he - Should gain the entire world and lose his soul? - What can he give for it in true exchange? - This is the truth which saves or doth avenge, - And now as I am here to give my all, - I thank thee Father for the Victory.” - - A pray’r which followed was by clamor drowned, - The torch applied set loose the crackling flame, - Which leaped about his limbs and to his face, - Extinguishing the glory of his gaze, - And silencing the lisping of His name - Who hath with immortality him crowned. - - - XX - - I said, Sordino was a Catholic, - But more than that, a true philosopher, - And at this sight within himself he mused: - “How is the Gospel of the Christ abused - By those who should its saving love confer, - Upon a world with sin and hatred sick!” - - “The light of love changed into flames of hell, - The praise of joy to wails of agony, - The cross into a fetish of dark fear, - Around the which the fiendish demons leer, - While erring souls are shackled to the tree, - And fagots blaze amid the rabble’s yell.” - - “How terrible is zeal without true knowledge; - How awful bigotry, born by religion! - How black is priestcraft, bred by selfishness, - Before whose judgment-seat there’s no redress - For any sympathizer with rebellion - Against the schemes of Jesuitic college!” - - His tender-heartedness aroused such thought;-- - He paused, and crossed himself, perhaps he sinned,-- - In thinking thus, and carried thus away - By that sad spectacle, and then did say, - Within himself: “May be the fellow grinned, - Because his faith a glory to him brought.” - - “Was that the motive which led him to suffer? - Then was he despicable more than they - Who brazed themselves his dirty flesh to fry, - Then was his smoke a stench beneath the sky, - His ashes unfit for his country’s clay, - He, not a martyr, but a worthless duffer.” - - “If pride, quite obstinate, of fancied light, - Diviner, truer than of mother church, - Did actuate the Protestants to die, - Then there is justice in the people’s cry, - For such an arrogance the truth will smirch, - And rob its scepter of celestial right.” - - Thus did philosopher and churchman speak, - And now the poet whispered: “Peace be still! - Where are thy chimes? All England needs their tone - Of harmony to make the people one; - Thy golden chimes! At last their music will - Interpret all which men through suff’ring seek.” - - - XXI - - Pained and disgusted with the sight, he passed - Out of the city--’twas not very far - Before he struck the open country-road-- - Which led to Shoreditch church, and meadows broad, - And fields of golden grain, where nought did mar - The peace of all that was with nature classed. - - Amid a field, below a hillock’s slope, - He saw a man at work, also a lad, - With sickles in their hands, a-cutting grain, - He stopped and looked at them, the boy with pain - Seemed, raise himself, when he a bundle had - Completed, trying with his sire to cope. - - And while he stretched his aching, weary back, - He gazed across the field with longing look, - A-measuring how many days ’twould take - To reach the end--the field’s dividing stake, - Then spit into his hands and firmly took - His place behind his father’s cleancut track. - - This incident Sordino much impressed, - He read at once the feelings of the boy, - That not alone in body, but in mind - He suffered, sought deliverance to find, - And so he said: “I will the lad employ, - I need a guide whom heav’n with dreams hath blessed.” - - The father would not listen to Sordino, - Whose English he but scarcely understood, - And half afraid of this so swarthy stranger, - In times, like those, so full of lurking danger, - But when he saw his gold, it seemed quite good, - And gave consent to let his helper go. - - But not before his mother had been seen, - Her sanction gained, for what he felt some fears, - And so they left the sheaves of ripened wheat, - And sought their humble dwelling’s blithe retreat,-- - A little cottage, thatched, and gray with years, - Amid the trees and garden-beds still green. - - And here they tarried till the close of day, - Till Vesper-bells proclaimed its toil should cease, - Yea, tarried over night, for mother’s heart - Is more reluctant with the child to part, - But in the morn she said: “Do as ye please,” - And gave her blessing, and they went away. - - And as they left, the peals from Shoreditch tow’r - Came on the crispéd morning air like streams - Of living water from the Holy Mount,-- - Where priests with silver basins at its fount - Oblation brought to golden Cherubims, - Amid rejoicing of the festive hour. - - Their cleansing tones, refreshing to the mind, - And nature, smiling, drank their harmony, - The crystal dew vibrating with delight, - A veil of mist, the garment of the night, - Hung o’er the deepest valley, seemed to flee - Before their dancing with a timid wind. - - Sordino felt their rapture like a flow - Of scented warmth, which crept through limbs and brain, - And to his heart, where lotus-like it stayed, - Until each chilling sorrow was allayed, - And joy of other years returned again, - Enkindling in his face a new life’s glow. - - The silent, wond’ring lad, who followed him, - Had often heard this gladsome melody, - It was a part of him from infancy, - It cast upon his soul a witchery, - From which no mood or attitude was free, - And claimed him for a realm remote and dim. - - It was the springtime of the golden age - Of England’s minstrelsy, and here and there - A youth did feel its heart-throb ’mid the flowers, - And saw sweet, flitting forms amongst the bowers, - And heard transporting voices in the air, - Which captured him and did his life engage. - - And though, perhaps, he never won a name, - And though it spoiled his life for “useful things,” - And Fate endowed him, as she did a Greene, - With wretched penury and squalor mean,-- - Still he who sees and hears and gladly sings - Hath recompense, transcending gold and fame. - - Woe, unto him around whose cradle danced - The fairies on the golden morning ray, - Anointing him with essence of the rose, - Into whose soul the magic music flows, - To shape itself into a deathless lay, - Who all denies, by earthliness entranced. - - To him no smiling faces shall appear, - When comes the eve of life with lowering sky, - But voices chiding him with cowardice, - Because he chose the lucre and the ease, - And did his calling wilfully deny,-- - To him no light shall be,--but darkness drear. - - - XXII - - ’Twas here that from the church and nature rose - The English stage, when he, the stable-groom, - Should write the Drama of Humanity,-- - The greatest poet of all history, - Who mingled laughter with the deepest gloom, - Life’s music with its sterner prose. - - The modern drama,--modern Ishmael, - Begotten of religion; like a youth, - Fair, myrtle-crowned, and slender, innocent, - With dancing measures upon pleasure bent; - Then cast away by “guardians of the truth,” - And, homeless, nourished at the secret well. - - And when his great Emancipator came, - He dared to dance and frisk on country lanes, - But not in London town (his mother’s there); - Until the king of poesy laid bare - His ancient birthright, lost ’mongst Grecian manes, - Then waxed he strong and daily gained in fame, - - And found a home within the city wall, - Where still he dwells, and ever will abide, - In his duplicity, since life is very double, - A-laughing, crying, at its fleeting bubble, - Appearing on the restless ocean-tide, - In morning splendor, or dusk even-fall. - - Still Ishmael, to Sarah’s first begotten, - Still preached against by heaven’s best elect, - And he returns, at times, with taunts and gibes; - But if they put away some modern scribes, - And did great Shakespeare’s drama resurrect, - Our modern stage would not be half as rotten. - - Regenerated, cleansed, what ally this - To all that’s true and noble under heaven! - A mirror of ourselves? Much more! A vision - Of life’s ideal, and its highest mission, - And though the weary heart must mirth be given, - The thrill of truth’s clear gleam is better bliss. - - So, let the true born help the quondam alien, - They need each other in their common quest - For happiness, the rainbow’s pot of gold, - And let the secret of the quest be told - By each, in love, that each may do his best - To lift and cheer, where life is low and failing. - - - XXIII - - Into the city on the Thames they walked, - And to the inn, where he had rented rooms, - An hospitable inn, by no means small, - Of quaint designs, o’ershadowed by some tall, - Outspreading elm trees, in whose pleasant glooms - The thievish rooks to one another talked. - - And there were gardens in its rear, where fruit - Of cherries and of pears were sweetly ripe, - For London still had nature in its heart, - Long since ejected by a soul-less mart; - Though knowing statesmen may its grandeur pipe, - Another Shakespeare it makes ever mute. - - Here did Sordino hope to respite find - From journeys which accounted seemed but vain; - He would his simple country-lad engage - In spying bells, and in the work of page, - For such a boy he easily could train: - He had an honest heart and ready mind. - - This tavern was, however, seldom quiet, - But oft for merry souls a rendezvous,-- - For wits and poets, chiefly for the latter, - To whom the outside of the social platter - Was less important than the inside true, - Whose highest law was their own spirit’s fiat. - - When God makes poets He’s misunderstood, - The mixture is too much for common folk; - The blending of all things in earth and heaven, - Of light and darkness, unto them is given, - An angel and a fiend in common yoke, - The great extremes of evil and of good. - - As in time’s morn the light from darkness sprang, - And cosmic beauty out of Chaos rose, - Thus out of reeking stews and taverns came - A Marlow’s strong, illuminating flame, - And stars of magnitudes did follow close,-- - The morning stars which rapt together sang. - - - XXIV - - The sights of London were but meagre then, - Compared with all its wonders of to-day;-- - Still each age thinks his own the grandest, best, - A truth, may be, why else the ceaseless quest? - Though it is left to Wisdom yet to say, - If things are worse or better among men. - - The Tow’r knew greater anguish in those days, - The bridge gave terror with its ghastliness - Of hoary heads uplifted high on spits; - The palaces had dungeons, vermin-pits - Of heartless cruelties and grim distress; - And halls of splendor had dark, hidden ways. - - But there was sunlight on the crimson tile, - And there was blueness in the open sky, - And breezes bore the scent of rose and thyme, - As in the morn they met St. Mary’s chime, - No cloud of smoke, as now, oppressed the eye, - And made the gentle breath of heaven vile. - - And men were frank and honest with their friends, - And also frank and honest with their foes, - And either loved with nakedness of soul, - Or fought until one of the two did fall, - Strong was the love, and hard the hater’s blows, - While now his love and hate man subtly blends. - - Sordino loitered much in lane and street, - And listened well to every swinging bell, - And searched the city for his treasure lost, - But not a sound was from a steeple tost, - Of its abiding-place his ear to tell, - Nor did a single clue his vision meet. - - He daily searched, until the winter fog - Began to close about the sightly town, - Then melancholy claimed him for her own, - And lest he should be lost in grief and groan, - He sought the company of those who drown - The sorrows of their hearts with ale and grog. - - - XXV - - Once poets tuned their lyres in praise of Bacchus,-- - Forsooth he was a mirth-inspiring god-- - All garlanded with leaves of blooming vine,-- - Adored by Aphrodite and the Nine,-- - Bacchant and Satyr at his worship trod - Fantastic measures, such as now would wrack us. - - Bards have turned preachers, which is for the better, - And no more should their songs extol his name, - But rather sound the anguish and the woe - Brought upon man by this relentless foe, - Take up the note of poverty and shame, - And ills of drunkenness which man enfetter. - - Until his pow’r, in human nature seated, - As on a throne, shall no more have its sway,-- - When man shall cease forgetfulness to borrow,-- - Of failures, disappointments and dark sorrow,-- - From his delusions, which no ills allay,-- - Until--until--his reign shall be defeated! - - But judge not harshly those who suffer most, - The victims of the cup, the self-condemned, - Who fight a hopeless battle and go down; - Show love and pity, rather than a frown, - For though the sot by men may be contemned,-- - Still there is One who came to save the lost. - - We know but little why he gave himself - An abject slave to appetite and lust, - What passions of past generations found - In him their culmination, held him bound, - And though he struggled hard, it seems he must - Into the depths of sin and darkness delv. - - Perchance ambition was his Waterloo, - And having lost the last and strongest trench, - He spends a starless night mid weeping gloom, - Abandoning life’s dreams to their dark tomb, - He seeks, at last, his soul’s remorse to quench - With what he knows his manhood will undo. - - Perhaps the fire of love has been extinguished, - And left but cooling ashes on the hearth, - And one, whose face was radiant with light, - Moves ’round him like a shadow of the night, - And since his life has lost its highest worth, - He turns to Rum, and soon is all relinquished. - - - XXVI - - When men are drunk, they often babble things, - They scarce would whisper to a bosom-friend, - But when the wine has loosened sense and tongue, - The hidden secret to the crowd is flung, - And with an oath its owner will defend - A truth exaggerated, till the ring - - Of brawlers doth declare it is a lie, - For which he ought to buy a round of drinks; - Thus in that tavern, on a foggy night, - A group was sitting in the candle-light, - Around a table, drinking, till their blinks - Did tell that Reason was about to fly. - - And one, a bearded, lion-voiced sailor, - Began to tell of escapades at sea,-- - Of war in foreign lands, of victory, - In such a loud and boasting way, that three - Out of the five did laugh derisively, - And said, he was a bandy-legged tailor. - - At which he swore and drained his tankard dry, - And called them all a motley lubber-gang, - And rose to go, but then his friends cried “no,” - “You must not leave us yet, for dontcher know, - The best is coming? Say how did ye hang - Those tinklers in the tow’r?--Let’s have a rye!” - - Sordino being witness to this scene, - Approached the table and said: “Gentlemen, - Allow me to provide a drink for all,” - A sentence which upon their ears did fall - With some surprise, since he a stranger; then - A grin of acceptation in their mien. - - And he sat down with them, and freely drank, - And paid for all the drinks, the barmaid poured, - Thus made them almost feel, he was their host, - And when he ordered for their midnight lunch a roast, - They sang his praise; the grizzly sailor roared: - “Say, fellow, have you robbed the Venice bank?” - - They revelled, and caroused, and stories told, - The most of which were tavern-coarse and smutty,-- - The sailor being richest in his stores - Of drunken bouts and fights on foreign shores, - But as the chemist in the chimney-sut finds tutty, - Thus sought Sordino in this slag the gold. - - For he had thought at first to see a glint - Of something in the “tinklers and the tower,” - And now he tried to draw the sailor out - On this allusion in his fellow’s flout;-- - An instant’s hesitation and a lower, - And then the old tar understood the hint. - - “The tinklers, aye, ha! ha! those merry bells, - We carried up from France to Limerick,-- - And nearly lost in a confounded gale,-- - Aye, aye, old top, by these there hangs a tale,-- - I heard from one who wounded lay and sick,-- - A soldier who had seen a hundred hells.” - - “Those bells were taken in a bloody war - Sir,--what is that to thee?--another drink!” - Sordino forced a laugh, and ordered wine,-- - A bottle of old port--none did decline, - But drank, until the weak began to wink, - And Silence made encroachment round the bar. - - The sailor bibbed the longest, ate his roast, - And told Sordino, how the bells were sold - To a great churchman in the Irish isle, - That they are ringing daily from a pile - Most venerable, whence no price of gold - Can e’er return them to their native coast. - - Sordino knew, they were his own, and smiled - To learn the place where strangely they had landed, - And when the sailor swore it all was true, - Sordino from the company withdrew, - But not before it was of him demanded, - That what he heard for ever must be “tiled.” - - - XXVII - - Sordino looking for his boy that night, - Found him departed, whither, none could tell; - They sought him in the tavern and the street, - But all in vain; the watchman on his beat - Was queried, as he passed and cried: “All’s well!” - And laughingly replied: “He’s out of sight!” - - The boy had weary grown and sick for home, - When he his master saw with drunkards douce, - And dared the denseness of the fog, to find - That place which daily occupied his mind,-- - The little cottage ’mongst the trees, recluse, - Seemed grander than the city’s pillard dome. - - A dog might find its way, but not a child, - Through such a maze, bewildering and weird; - He thought, he surely knew the homeward road, - And eagerly, for hours, he onward strode, - But only to discover, what he feared: - He was as lost as ’mid a forest wild. - - The Thames was like a spectral realm of sound - And shapes: The masts of many ships at tow - Were dimly visible, and larger seemed,-- - Like mighty giants, as the moonlight beamed - Into the woolly fog. The sounds below:-- - The river’s song, and baying of a hound. - - All else was silent till a sailor coughed - And damned the dog which thus disturbed his sleep; - And now the wand’ring lad called out in fear: - “I’m lost, oh, help me, who-soe’er is near!” - To which a voice arose, as from the deep: - “It is a lubber straying from his croft.” - - But then, ere long, there was a splash of oar, - And muffled talking twixt two drowsy tars, - The boy took heart, since rescue was at hand; - But when he found himself pushed out from land, - And lifted to a deck of lofty spars, - He kind of wished himself back to the shore. - - The sailors showed him to a bunk for rest. - “Yea, in the morn the fog may lifted be, - So you can find your way,” thus cheered they him; - But as of old the halfbaked Ephraim - Howled on his bed, so would now even he, - Had not submission been for him the best. - - - XXVIII - - The fog grew lighter with the dawn of day, - As did the boy’s heart after night of weeping, - He early ’rose, and would have left the ship, - But since for boatswain he possessed no tip, - He dared not rouse him from his pleasant sleeping, - And distance from the shore compelled his stay. - - At last both crew and passengers awoke, - And all gazed at the lad, some with a smile, - When of his rescue told, some poked their fun; - But ’mongst the passengers his eye met one, - Who read the trouble of a homesick child, - And in strange accents kindly to him spoke. - - She seemed to him the fairest he had seen, - A spirit, from the silv’ry mist emerged, - A gleam of light, strayed from the hidden sun, - Enlivening the sodden scene and dun, - A Venus from the foam where billows surged, - Born to be worshiped, or to be a queen. - - But what she said to him was quite Egyptian, - It mattered not, since he could understand - The sympathy and goodness of her heart, - A thing much better than linguistic art - In any woman, yea, in any man,-- - Though speech is fine, the deed is much more Christian. - - She gave him food and wine and cheered his soul, - Then left him to himself, an hour or so, - When came the captain and thus to him spake: - “Art thou a stranger here, or canst thou make - Thy way alone and knowest where to go, - When lifted is the fog’s distressing pall?” - - To which the lad replied: “I know the town, - When I can see its street and thoroughfare, - And now can find my way up to the inn, - Where dwells my master; oh, it was a sin, - That I deserted him, since he may care! - I will return to him;--please let me down!” - - To which the captain said: “We have on board - Two passengers who wish an inn to find, - And canst thou guide them to such place, my son? - That lovely lady, whom you met, is one, - The other is her father, noble, kind, - A foreign scholar, and methinks, a lord.” - - The boy responded readily to this, - As mid-day drew on clear, became their guide, - Up to that quite pretentious hostelry, - Half glad, half ’fraid his master there to see, - But ignorant how fate strode by his side, - And how it seldom seems to go amiss. - - - XXIX - - That afternoon Sordino sought his place - Among the garden-trees, a rustic seat, - Which during gloomy days had stood alone, - But now again the sun so brightly shone, - Inviting him to this belov’d retreat, - Though it had lost the summer’s tender grace. - - And whom should here his pensive eyes behold, - But one of whom he at that moment thought, - And as he met her quite astonished gaze, - Surprise brought strong emotions to his face, - He knew not what strange magic this had wrought, - His heart beat fast, his hands grew clammy cold. - - She smiled, and greeted him in his own tongue, - Then wist he that it was no mere illusion, - But Stella, yea, the Stella of his dreams, - So strange, so sweetly strange, it ever seems - To lonely lovers such a rapt confusion, - When that which separates aside is flung. - - And yet it did not give to him the joy - Of one who knows why his beloved came; - He wondered much, but did not dare to ask, - His self-control became a subtle mask, - Which hid the raging of the inward flame, - That might again a newborn hope destroy. - - A woman’s eye can look through lover’s feint, - Behind his mask she sees the naked soul, - And laughs with mingled sympathy and scorn, - She suffers not because he is forlorn, - And rather likes to see him prostrate fall - Before her feet, as if she were a saint. - - And Stella knew, it racked Sordino’s mind - Why she was there, but only this she told: - “My father and myself last night arrived - In London harbor, but the fog contrived - To keep us captives in the vessel’s hold, - Until this morn, when we this place did find.” - - “How found ye it?” Sordino dared to question. - “A lad who said his master’s lodging here, - Did guide us, and, methinks I see him there.” - Sordino turned and saw the boy’s despair, - And called him in a tone that felled his fear, - He came, and was forgiv’n without confession. - - And Stella took his hand and stroked his head, - Sordino wishing that he was the lad, - He found a coin and told him to be gone, - And like the earth from which the fog was blown, - The boy felt in his heart relieved and glad, - And brushed his master’s clothes and made his bed. - - Alone, the conversation of the two - Was chiefly about trifles and the weather, - With many pauses, since so much did press - Sordino’s heart, so much he would confess, - And since it was so strange to be together - With her whom he adored, yet did not know. - - Soon Stella, pleading cold, arose to go, - Without a promise of another meeting, - Sordino feeling chills about his heart, - And as they from the garden did depart, - That little hour so full, and yet so fleeting, - Seemed to him fatal, and mal á propos. - - - XXX - - Love’s like a great musician, whose deft fingers - Control the hidden pow’r of organ-keys; - He plays upon the soul with mastery, - And uses all the stops of melody, - Of deepest sorrow, highest ecstacies, - Of stormy fugues, or tune that softly lingers. - - Thus did he play upon Sordino’s heart, - When to himself he suddenly was left; - A flood of passion overwhelmed his soul, - In which he heard himself her name to call, - And spent, did leave him painfully bereft, - Yea, caused unmanly, bitter tears to start. - - He wiped away the furtive tear, and went - Into the bar-room, where he called for wine, - And freely drank, then entering the street, - The sailor of last night he chanced to meet, - Who told him, for a drink he sore did pine, - And had, alas! his very farthings spent. - - Sordino handed him sufficient coin - To make him happy for another night; - He thanked him most profusely, and betook - Himself into the tavern’s pleasant nook, - Where he did find his life’s supreme delight,-- - A cup of sack and others it to join. - - Sordino sauntered carelessly along, - And with no aim but to assuage his mind, - Which wandered twixt a ray of hope and fear, - When all at once he saw her drawing near, - In company with one whose eye did find - Her smile surcharged with an affection strong. - - A moment’s glance told of his manly cast; - Well-knit and tall, in military suit, - But with a face so much unlike her mien; - And what Sordino could instantly glean, - It had a strength, but not of thought and truth, - But rather courage, stemming any blast. - - Correctly he surmised, this very man - Was Stella’s fiancé; and Jealousy, - That “greeneyed monster,” held him by the throat, - Or, as in modern parlance “had his goat,” - A phrase suggestive of the purity - Of English, even among a college clan. - - The jealousy of outraged marriage bonds, - Real, or imagined as Othello’s, - Oft finds expression in a dark revenge, - The faithless spouse is treated as a wench, - The vile seducer suffers every loss, - Unless, perchance, he with his prize absconds. - - With hapless suitors has she gentler ways, - When pledgeless smiles is all they have obtained, - Though none may fully know what she may do, - (For even of such full many ones she slew), - But in this case, Sordino, deeply pained, - She led about as in a dreamy haze. - - He wandered on the banks of wimpling Thames, - And on the anchored ships did idly stare, - But had no mind for all the life and mirth - Beneath the languid sails upon the firth, - Since nought he saw but that one happy pair, - And but two eyes, more glorious than gems. - - With night’s approach his feelings took the hue - Of creeping shadows and the purple dark, - And sadness grew to an oppressive load,-- - Then Jealousy to anger did him goad, - And to its fouler plots he once did hark, - Which with a frenzy did his blood imbue. - - Then came the music of St. Mary’s bell, - Commingling with St. Paul’s of deeper tongue, - And oped his prison of unhappiness, - They had a solace that could calm and bless, - And when the last vibrating note was rung, - He homeward turned, and whispered: “All is well.” - - - XXXI - - As a philosopher Sordino tried - To make himself believe that all was well, - Howe’er something opposed his wise decree,-- - He sought to sup, but found each dish to be - Devoid of savor both in taste and smell, - His spleen the head’s philosophy defied. - - He sought his couch and courted gentle sleep, - And stoically scorned his love-affair, - But Somnus was so far away, unheeding, - And thoughts in solitude were slowly feeding - Upon his heart, like lions in their lair, - Instead of rest, his misery grew deep. - - The clock struck ten, he rose and left his room; - The bar was lively, and he chose its folly; - There was the sailor, garrulous and drunk, - In company with one, a quondam monk, - From Henry’s reign, when monks, unduly jolly, - Were driven from pretended cloister-gloom. - - But if the ruby brightness of his nose - Was then acquired, or in his homeless state, - Is not for me to say, but it surpassed - Even his who years had sailed before the mast, - And with the aid of gin and stormy fate - Had made it blossom like an Irish rose. - - These two from spheres so far apart had met - Across a stoop of ale, which like the river - Of classic eld can quench all mundane sorrow, - Make men forgetful of the past and morrow, - Upon whose bosom dreams all sunlit quiver, - Until it empties in a sea of jet. - - Upon the sailor’s quick discovery - Of Count Sordino’s presence, he approached - Him with a courtsy very risible - And whispered that he had something to tell, - Which on their precious secret did encroach, - And asked him, come aside from company. - - Sordino followed with a sense of fear, - That it was money which the rogue was after, - And cared but little for his muddled talk; - Soon on the dark, deserted garden-walk - They stood, where faint the hum and laughter - Of drinking men, fell on the listening ear. - - In broken sentences, and low, the croon - Confided to Sordino something strange: - He had that very eve beheld the man, - Who brought the bells from France to old Ireland, - First on the street, then on a garden-bench, - Embracing a young lady, ’neath the moon. - - Moreover, he had chanced to meet a fellow, - Who used to wear the cowl, in whilom days, - But had doffed cloth and everything religious, - And though his story was somewhat ambiguous, - He claims to know the chimes, and doth much praise - Their wondrous tones as very clear and mellow. - - This tale engrossed Sordino’s mind intensely; - They entered, sought the monk, who half asleep - Sat by a table all alone; the two - Aroused him with a drink of better brew, - Now with the sailor he the best did reap - From the Count’s interest and liberality. - - Sordino made agreement with these men - To go with him to Ireland, even that week, - Which they did promise for a goodly hire,-- - For both declared, they knew the very spire, - Around whose golden cross his chimes did seek - Their flight up to the list’ning choirs of heaven. - - - XXXII - - O, god of gold, whose universal sway - Is not the underworld, on the Plutonic shore, - And hideous, like that of Spencer’s dream, - But on our terra’s face, bright with the gleam - Of mid-day sun, thy power has ever more - Commanded human nature to obey! - - Thou sittest not in gloomy woods and caves, - A loathsome creature with the hoarded pelf, - But in the palace and the mansion bright, - In marble temples large and fair, bedight, - A princely being, though controlled by Self, - To whom most men submit themselves as slaves. - - The beautiful, the learnéd, and the strong - Are vying with the baser mass to serve - Thee ardently, that favor they may find, - They offer beauty, skill of hand and mind, - And ceaseless toil, until the vital nerve - Of life is gone, the source of joy and song. - - Some barter soul and body for the gold, - And bear but semblance to the freeborn man; - The food is rich, the wine is sparkling red, - What matter then, if soul and heart are dead;-- - But in the darkness stand the masses wan, - And homeless children shiver in the cold. - - Thou rulest kings and statesmen in their places, - Thou makest war, and causest it to cease, - Thou art the world’s supremest autocrat, - And e’en our land is bending on the mat - Before thy power’s terrible increase, - Which even the shallow lawgiver amazes. - - It is not lavish gifts alone that bind, - But ev’n the droppings of the shining ore, - Thus here, the tips, Sordino gave the salt, - Enthralled him to a virtue or a fault,-- - So in a whisper, recklessly he swore: - “I’ll take that coward and knock out his wind!” - - Just then Sordino’s foe was entering - The bar-room with a smile of exultation;-- - The salt arose and held him by the arm, - The soldier looked at him with small alarm, - Or rather with a frown of irritation, - And sought the drunken sailor from him fling,-- - - Who brawled aloud: “Thou Judas ’Scarioth, - Who would again for thirty shillings sell - Our holy Mary’s son, look on my face - As one who helped thee in thy wicked ways, - To make a fortune on a stolen bell, - Inscribed with glory to Lord Zebaoth!” - - “I knew not better then, but now I do,-- - Those bells, we freighted, were but stolen good, - And thou the thief, enriched by robbing God,-- - Thou thinkest, all are resting ’neath the sod, - Who knew their tale, but by the holy Rood, - There is one yet alive who’ll make thee rue!” - - At which the soldier grasped his sword to fight; - The sailor laughed: “Strik’st thou the weaponless?” - He fell upon the floor, stabbed in the breast. - Then rose Sordino and to all confest: - “I am the man behind this sorry mess, - But will take pains to settle it aright.” - - He drew his sword and challenging his rival, - They bore upon each other with a fury, - Which in Sordino reached a double strength, - He felt that fate had brought him this, at length, - Not even the Archbishop of Canterbury, - Could stop him now from being the survival. - - The parries of the combatants revealed - Their mastery in fencing, and it seemed - A doubtful issue who should win the fray, - When suddenly besides the sailor lay - The soldier with a gash, from which there streamed - A flood of life, the young man’s doom was sealed. - - That night the sailor and the soldier perished; - Sordino and his page set out on flight; - But Stella and her father mourned the loss - Of one whom they thought gold, but was mere dross,-- - A fortune-soldier with no sense of right, - Who nought but selfish aims had ever cherished. - - A double life may win the noblest heart - By hiding foulness neath pretended good, - Until the judgment-day reveals the truth, - And to the innocent the crushing ruth, - When he, that trusted was, is understood, - And all dissemblings from his life depart. - - - XXXIII - - The foot is fleet when conscience spurs it on, - And fear of death is calling in one’s trail, - Then lonely country roads and midnight dark - Seem better than the torch-illumined park, - Where smiling faces even a stranger hail - On gala-nights in merry old London. - - And to possess a trusted friend, in flight, - Who knows the road and place of safe retreat, - Is more than thousand when all things are well, - His whispered counsel more than when they yell - Their loud approval in the hour of heat, - While wine is flowing, on a banquet night. - - The boy did follow him, and strange to tell, - The monk had offered him his services, - And led the way, for much he traversed had - The country near and far. Sordino, glad - To grasp this straw of help in his distress, - Did follow him through lane and murky dell. - - Amid its trees a hermit’s hut did stand, - Upon whose door the monk three times did knock; - “Who’s there?” a voice did clearly ask within, - The monk replied: “Thy well-known brother Quinn;” - The door did ope, a man in cloister-frock - Appeared with light and crucifix in hand. - - “Grant to us all a shelter over night, - True sons of Holy Church, though fugitives, - Not without recompense shall be thy care, - For though we nothing in our hands do bear, - This gentleman no favors e’er receives, - Without a thanks which lingers with delight.” - - “I do not covet payment for a favor,” - The hermit answered, “hospitality - Is but a duty upon all enjoined, - And deeds of kindness into lucre coined - Cannot in heaven as holy treasures be - Stored up, since of man’s selfishness they savor.” - - “But I would know who comes to hermit’s cot, - With fear upon his face and hard of breath.” - To which the monk replied: “A man of rank - From that most classic land, where Dante drank - From the clear fountain which o’ercometh death, - Gives hope to hearts whose is the exile’s lot.” - - “As ’neath the temple in Jerusalem - A fountain issued forth all sweet and clear, - So doth from mother-church a well-spring flow, - And all who drink thereof must feel the glow - Of life within which makes them see and hear - The joy that trembles round Christ’s diadem.” - - “His quest is to regain some precious bells, - That blessed his land, to whom his soul is wed,-- - And on his painful journey he has found - The man who stole them, brought him to the ground; - From dire avengers he has justly fled, - Protect him thou, lest him some villain quell.” - - The hermit promised him his hut’s protection, - And of a secret cave beneath a tree, - Meanwhile the monk and page should preparation - Make for departure to that stalwart nation, - Whose melodies, one with its history, - Have from its sacred lore the true inflection. - - - XXXIV - - With first grey dawn of day the hermit rose - To pray, as was his custom every morn, - And with him knelt Sordino, in contrition, - For through the hours of night the awful vision - Of wanton murder to his mind was borne, - And robbed him of all rest and soul-repose. - - And to the holy man he did confess, - And begged his absolution, which was granted, - But still the deed so weighed upon his heart, - That when his two companions did depart, - He fain would have his own death-dirges chanted, - To make an end of harrowing distress. - - Such is the soul, that once attuned to peace, - Must pass through Becca’s vale of dark remorse, - In whom the joy of heav’n and grief of hell - Are seeking one another to expel; - Well then if the afflicted take recourse - To Him who calms the storm and gives surcease. - - The ruing of our sins, the soul’s repentance, - The coming to oneself, and meeting God, - Is, after all, the only way to rest, - All else is but a vain and foolish quest, - A hiding from the terror of His rod, - A coward’s quailing for a righteous sentence. - - For it is then, and only then, the Father - Can meet His child, such as it left His home, - Bestow the kiss of pardon and the love - Of ring and raiment from His treasure trove, - And bid him to the Palace with Him come, - There with the tranquil spirits ever gather. - - Sordino now, like Israel of old, - Passed through the inner struggle with the Lord, - Until the morning of his soul appeared, - And with the light of victory him cheered, - The brook of bitter weeping he did ford, - And found beyond the comfort of God’s fold. - - - XXXV - - Deem it not strange that men of deeper thought, - Retired to solitudes of woods and mountains, - Where, by a life of pray’r and contemplation, - They strove to find the soul’s complete salvation, - And drink of heaven’s unpolluted fountains, - And comprehend what God for man hath wrought. - - The solitude, in which the hermit dwelt, - Was deep and undisturbed by human strife, - No sound was heard but nature’s matchless tones, - Its song, the cry, the sigh, the wandering moans, - Which lift the poet’s vision to a life, - That has no language, but alone is felt. - - Such quiet is a balm for wretched minds, - A cooling water to the soul athirst; - Sordino drank it like the cup of grace, - In which you see the Saviour’s crownèd face, - God spoke to him, not as to Cain accurst, - But as a father, in the whispering winds. - - - XXXVI - - Towards eve, that day, arrived his faithful aid, - Who after stealthy search had found a ship - For Ireland bound, to sail that very night; - And in the dark, before the moon rose bright, - They might into its hiding safely slip,-- - The captain willing to be doubly paid. - - So, as the dusk grew on, the kindly dusk,-- - Which like a mother’s weeping love embraces - Her guilty child, to pardon, shield and hide, - Close to her breast, where nothing shall betide - Him but the shelter from the cruel faces - Of an avenging world,--he rose to busk - - With his companions, yet, ere he took leave, - He prayed the hermit’s blessing on his soul, - Then put a golden pound within his palms, - The hermit thanked him for his gen’rous alms, - Then blessed him with the cross, yea, blessed them all, - And bid them fare in hope, and not to grieve. - - Then they departed to a little boat, - Hid in a wooded nook upon the river, - And in the darkness for the ship set out, - And Quinn, who plied the oars, did make the route, - Without a blunder, to the “Guadalquiver,”-- - As proud a galleon as was afloat. - - - XXXVII - - When man has lost the moorings of his home, - And on the sea of life is tossed about, - Bereft of childhood’s anchorage of heart, - Nor wife, nor child have in his life a part, - Then cares he little for the farewell shout, - And sometimes little whither he may roam. - - Not so with children, when the evening-star, - In the cerulean, like mother-eye, - Sends forth its heavenly gleam of love and peace,-- - The longing for the home doth then increase, - And from the soul goes up a bitter cry - To be with those so dear, but so afar. - - Sordino’s page stood at the railing, as - The ship bore down the Thames, that star-lit night, - And none did mark the tears that trickled fast, - And none did see the glances which he cast - Towards the home which was his soul’s delight, - While farther, farther from it he did pass. - - Sordino missed him, sitting in the hold, - And asked his new-found friend to bring him down, - And as he came and stood in the dim glow - Of candle-light, at once with pain he saw - The redness of his eyes, so large and brown, - And felt his hands, that they were strangely cold. - - And he did put his arm around his neck, - And lowly spoke with tenderness and cheer, - That he should see again the home he loved, - And him with goodly promises endowed - Of favors that would make each coming year - As carefree as the sailors on the deck. - - - XXXVIII - - The sea attracts the soul that deeply yearns - For freedom and adventure, like the iron - Which is by magnet drawn; and so it be, - That ’mongst the cruder natures one may see - The dreamer’s eye of Masefield or a Byron, - Or wit and humor of a Robert Burns. - - And sailors love to sing, or tell a tale, - Songs set to music by the wave and wind, - And yarns with tang and laughter of the deep, - And on a day when all things seem asleep - In golden calm, you best may find - The squatting crew itself of these avail. - - On such a day a sailor-lad did sing - A little lay which to Sordino’s page - Had spirit-flight, as never he had known, - It was to him the lifting of a dawn - From night’s and sorrow’s dark and fearful cage, - The skylark’s rise and soar on raptured wing. - - “Adieu, my native land, adieu, - I leave thee for a while, - As fade thy cliffs amid the blue, - And trembling of thy smile! - I sing my parting song with tears, - But not as cravens do, - Thy love casts out the coward’s fears - And leaves a courage true.” - - “For England’s sons did ever find - Their strength in love of thee, - Thy name, a lode-star to their mind, - Guides o’er the stormy sea; - They breathe it as the lover does - Her’s whom he most adores; - And where the English standard goes - Her name lights up the shores.” - - “There is a land far in the west, - Bright with the sun-set’s glow, - Arising from the billow’s crest, - With mountain-peaks of snow, - With palms and roses in the vales, - And fountain-gleams among, - And rich as any fairy-tale, - In gold and fruit and song.” - - “And men have sailed the weary leagues - To find this wondrous realm, - Have spurned the danger and fatigues, - And waves that overwhelm, - To reach that land, but none returned - To England from his quest, - Unless his heart within him burned - With thanks for what is best.” - - “For English isles is Paradise - To every native child, - Since things more precious he doth price - Than riches of the wild, - The gold of love is more than all, - And faith more rare than gems, - He heeds not the alluring call - And glittering diadems.” - - “He loves his land, he loves his God, - Be riches what they may, - The bleeding Christ upon the rood - Protects him on his way, - And meets he luck, as it may hap - To any sailor boy, - He brings it to his mother’s lap, - Her thanks, his greatest joy.” - - “Adieu, adieu, my native land, - Adieu, my father’s home, - Adieu my lass, O, may thy hand - Greet me when back I come! - For sailor’s heart, when outward bound, - Is filled with sorrow’s pain, - But hope lies glimm’ring on the sound-- - Of coming home again.” - - - XXXIX - - The song was ended, and the crew’s applause - Did please the lad, who sang it to his lute.-- - The midshipman then essayed to relate - A story with a mystery and fate, - Of queen in English castle, and a brute - Whom she did love, her absent, heartless spouse. - - But while he spake, the captain did appear, - (Unfinished hung the story on the lips), - A Spaniard would not let such story pass, - Since holy was his monarch, though an ass; - Castilian, yea, to the finger-tips, - Who for his God and king had equal fear. - - But all his crew was English and did pity, - Though not from love, their queen of grief and rage, - The most unfortunate on any throne, - Who languished in her palace sad and lone, - A zealot for her faith, who dared to wage - A final fight for the Eternal City. - - Her love for Philip was a tragedy, - Of whom the people spake and lent it hue - Of fateful romance and a mystery; - Yea, in the night strange phantoms men did see - Of things the superstitious counted true, - But round it all clung native sympathy. - - The captain becked Sordino to his side, - And spoke in accents, foreign to his men, - On whom a silence fell deep as the sea’s, - When, lo! there rose a curling little breeze, - And then another stronger than its friend, - Who called on Neptune’s horses for a ride. - - The captain bid the men to tend the sails, - And quickly did each sailor now respond; - The sheets were spread before the rising wind, - And swiftly did they leave the coast behind, - To reach the vast and sunlit mere beyond, - Where ocean billows surge with piercing wails. - - - XL - - Sordino’s mind sank into gloomy night, - As time grew heavy with a voyage long; - He brooded on the past, and as he did, - It seemed that shadows all its sunshine hid; - And sickness, too, did make the man, once strong, - Feel aged, worthless, and in awful plight. - - The story by the midshipman did linger - Upon his heart, increasing spectral-like, - Awaking sympathy, for he did see - In Mary’s life the gathered misery - Of many storms which ’gainst her soul did strike, - And on a dark and hopeless deep did bring her. - - The greatest souls must bear the greatest pain, - And sometimes sweetness turns to bitterness, - And they who for the heights have been appointed, - And by the gods or fates have been anointed, - Must know the “Welt-smertz” of the vintage press, - And tread it all alone, may be in vain. - - Thus did he meditate, and pleasure found - In philosophic musings, day by day; - But this was unknown to the hardy crew, - Who melancholy with their laughter slew, - They liked him not, and wished him out of way,-- - Well that he had the captain to him bound. - - Alas, to him the Chimes of life were lost! - And that they ever rang seemed but a dream; - The boist’rous elements of sea and air - Enveloped him, but little did he care, - Since death itself a friend to him did seem,-- - Of all things weary, sick and tempest-tost. - - But in such hours, whene’er the boy drew near, - Whom he did love, a light shone in his eyes, - And he did speak to him so tenderly - As any parent, which did set him free - From painful broodings and the low’ring skies, - And mid the deepest darkness brought him cheer. - - - XLI - - ’Tis not our aim to tell of voyage long, - Of storms and struggles on the wintry seas, - Of harbourage and waiting in its course, - Mid sheltered inlets upon Ireland’s shores, - Though full of hardship, yet it would not please, - And we must draw to close our lengthy song. - - But I have seen full many a ship depart, - Receding into dimness gray and cold, - Then slip away, lost in a mighty void;-- - And in my musings I have tugged and toyed - With memories of friends, or what they told, - In words that strayed from an unguarded heart. - - For “wise words” are, sometimes, but foolish mumbling, - And critic’s arrogance a dark conceit, - While silence often has the truest depth; - But when the child, which in thy bosom slept, - Awakes to speak, a morning light doth greet - The restless trav’ler in his painful stumbling. - - For there are seas, and many a distant shore, - And life is but a journey and a fight, - Amid the mighty elements at war;-- - But by-and-by the pilgrimage is o’er, - And when the peaceful harbor is in sight, - Love’s word alone can ope the Palace-door. - - - XLII - - Upon an April morn the ship emerged - From fitful seas into the placid pool - Of Limerick. The day was clear and calm, - And nature drew the breath of spring, its balm - Was tempering the breezes, somewhat cool, - From western realms, where ocean-billows surged. - - The woods and lanes stood draped in flimsy veil, - Of hues most delicate; a purple shade - Uniting with a tender touch of green, - While here and there a golden glint was seen - Of butter-cups upon the sloping glade, - Or round the ponds, where fleecy clouds did sail. - - The skylark, lavishing its melody - Upon the freedom of the airy height, - Did carol from the lofty blue so long, - That not of earth but heaven seemed its song, - An Ariel amid the dazzling light, - Who thrilled the heart of man with ecstasy. - - Sordino harkened to this happy flood - Of music, and he saw his servant boy - Gaze upward, like the holy men that day, - When Christ ascended, for it did allay - His sorrows, and like theirs, restore his joy, - Since skylark song is in the English blood. - - For have not Wordsworth and great Shelley proven - That none it stirs just like the British heart, - To whom the lark gave immortality, - When it inspired them with its poesy, - And made their odes the acme of their art, - Creations from Apollo’s texture woven? - - Sordino’s mind, however, at that hour, - Lacked the repose which was on land and sea; - And without mood no music doth arrest,-- - For by an eagerness he was possest, - To know in truth if this the shore might be, - Which held his treasure in Cathedral tower. - - The fire of his Italian blood awoke, - Though he had aged so much upon this journey, - He longed to leave the ship, and pass along - The river, which was famous made in song, - By the immortal Moore, and quaint Mahoney, - Whose “Shannon Bells” remain a master-stroke. - - Sordino’s wish, to be the first to land, - Was granted, and a boat placed to his service, - Manned by two sailors and the monk and page, - The former only did the oars engage; - Sordino, in the stern, sat like a dervise, - In musings deep, with head posed on his hand. - - No finer vista could itself unfold - Than that which burst upon his dreamy eye, - As full in view the city did appear, - A sight which drew from weary hearts a tear,-- - A city glimmering twixt sea and sky, - With citadels and shrines, even then, so old. - - The sailors left off rowing and gave way - To dreaming on the scene, until a spell - Possest them all, and silent did they rest - Upon the river’s calm, translucent breast, - When all at once the clear tone of a bell - Came floating softly o’er the tranquil bay. - - And then a hymn of praise rose up to heaven - From bells whose tongues had notes beyond compare, - Sordino’s chimes--when on his ears they fell, - He knew such happiness which none can tell, - And angel hands to Paradise did bear - The soul who for true harmony had striven. - - As riveted he sat with empty stare, - Even when the soul had from its temple fled; - The boy did note it first and gave a cry, - It was to him as if his sire did die; - The monk did say a prayer o’er the dead, - And bid the sailors to the city fare. - - They buried him within the hallowed pale - Of the Cathedral, that the Chimes might sound - Their daily dirge above the master’s grave, - Who for their music life and fortune gave, - Who with their mystery his fate had bound, - A lonely pilgrim through a gloomy vale. - - His sacrifice, howe’er, was not in vain, - And not amiss his oft belittled quest, - His poet’s mantle fell upon the lad, - To whom his substance he bequeathéd had,-- - A singer he became, among the best, - With cadence of the Chimes in lyric strain. - - And through his faith the faithless was restored, - The quondam monk became a godly priest, - Who humbly made the message of the bells, - A life of peace where discord often dwells, - To tell of this strange man he never ceast, - Since he his name and memory adored. - - And on the Danube, in her father’s hall, - Sat Stella, sorrowing her youth away, - The people said, it was for her dead lover; - But none did know, and none did e’er discover - The secret of her heart, until one day, - Her father heard her on Sordino call. - - - - - THE SIBYL’S PROPHECY - - - Amid a vale in Norway stands a church, - An ancient building, on historic ground; - Its massive walls are white like newfall’n snow, - Its lofty spire seems golden in the sun; - Around it mighty elm-trees spread their boughs - And throw their shadows on the moss-grown graves, - And crumbling monuments of centuries, - Their music blending with the jack-daw’s cry - And with the deep, pure tones of bells, whose sound - Reecho ’mong the wooded hills and dells, - Awaking fancies of the Saga-age: - Of royal bards who sang before their king, - That early morning of the fatal day, - When Olaf ’neath his standard of the cross - Fought pagan armies from those sloping heights, - And lost his cause! The altar has been built - Above the stone, he leaned against, while flowed - His precious life-blood from the cruel wounds; - The ground was consecrated by his blood, - And when the people understood, and bowed - Before the Christ whose saint they slew, they built - A chapel on the place of martyrdom, - Which in succeeding ages was enlarged, - Until a worthy monument stood forth. - The ravages of time have wrought their change, - But it is ne’ertheless the trysting place - Between the valley’s people and their God, - A place which links the present to the past-- - And heaven’s gates to Norway’s history. - - * * * * * - - On parchment, dim with age, a chronicle, - Two cycles old, was found within a chest, - Amid the iron-coffins in the vaults - Below the church, which learnèd parsons read, - And then restored it to its resting-place. - For some strange reason then the narrow door - Was closed up with a solid masonry; - But on the people’s lips, from age to age, - The legend of that chronicle has passed, - And I relate it here as told to me, - When but a boy, by my great grandmother.-- - One day, the legend says, the parish priest, - A young and pious man, came to the church, - To read the mass for a departed friend, - When he beheld a lonely woman stand - Within the shadow of a mountain-ash, - Which spread its crown of green and red beside - The gate which led into the sacred place. - Her hair was black as night, her eyes a deep - Of melancholy mystery and dreams; - Her chiselled features had the striking charm - Of youthful beauty and a mind mature; - She was unlike the women of the vale, - A stranger whom the priest had never met; - And he espied her with a sense of fear. - Her sable garb and downcast mien betrayed - A state of grief, wherefore the kindly man, - Led by a heartfelt sympathy, did ask - What great bereavement weighed upon her soul, - To which she answered: “Sir, I sorrow not - For any one within this hallowed ground, - Nor elsewhere for the dead; but for this church - I grieve, when I behold how it is doomed - To dire destruction”--here she paused and sighed. - Now he surmised she was the prophetess, - The sibyl whose renown had come to him, - And therefore asked that she would further tell - About her vision of the things to be. - “I see two saplings, of the mountain ash, - Grow up, one on each side of this thy church, - I also see a breach made in the wall, - And when the saplings have grown up to meet-- - As mighty trees above the chancel-roof, - And when the rent shall grow sufficient wide - To be the hiding of a prayer book, - Then shall the church sink down and be no more.” - Then quote the priest, with frown upon his face: - “The house built on a rock can never sink.” - “But what is built on sand the floods destroy,” - The sibyl said, and quickly went away. - - * * * * * - - Into the church the parson passed, and knelt - Before the altar in an earnest prayer, - That God would have great mercy on the soul - Of his departed friend whose earthly life - Had been cut off in a most tragic way; - His widow now bestowing on the church - Rich offerings--atonements for his deeds - Of sinfulness--outweighing charity; - And while he prayed, he seemed to hear the cry - And groaning of the soul, from out the fire - Of purgatory; supplications strong - Ascended to the mercy-seat of God - From humble altar-steps, until he felt, - The soul was loosed in heaven as on earth. - Departing from the church, he looked about - For that strange, mournful face; but she was gone. - Then came a thought to him, a memory - Of something which the baron him had told: - How on a summer’s day, while on a hunt, - He met a maiden in a forest glen, - A slender girl of beauty, such as he - Had seldom seen--of Oriental cast, - Who weeping told him of his fate most dire, - That fire should him consume, a prophesy - So terribly fulfilled, and now, perchance, - The very same had prophesied to him; - This thought possessed his mind, as home he strode, - With dark forbodings of impending doom. - - * * * * * - - It was a Sunday, in the month of June, - A morn of most bewitching summer-charms; - The air was charged with fragrance of the trees, - Of blooming cherry trees, and glist’ning birch, - Of mountain ash and tow’ring balsam trees, - Of hazel-wood and prickly juniper, - Of alder trees along the winding brooks, - Of mountain forest of the pungent pine; - Of thousand flowers in the meads and vales, - An odor sweet--unknown to tropic clime.-- - Within God’s acre stood the nodding rose - In checkered sunlight, neath the cypress tree, - And greeted every breeze that wandered by. - Groups of the peasant folk were gathering - About the graves, in silent thoughtfulness, - And some in sorrow round the recent mounds; - The air so calm and mild with fragrance filled, - The tolling of the church bells deep and strong, - Made this a day of sweet solemnity, - Felt by the aged and the youth alike; - And while they lingered, lo, the sibyl came. - From group to group a whisper passed with awe: - “It is the sibyl!” Slowly gathering - About her, fearing what she might pronounce, - They gazed upon her pale and mournful face. - “All is but vanity, all things are nought, - All flesh is grass, which flourisheth a while, - Then withers, dies, and mingles with the dust,-- - Like leaves upon the trees which now are green, - And full of juice, but in the autumn turn - All sear and yellow, falling to the ground, - Whirled by the chilling blast into a heap,-- - And thus must ye return to dust some day, - And all your work must perish, even so; - Yea, even the church must perish on that day, - When crowns of mountain ash trees meet above - The chancel roof, and when the wall receives - Within its rent a common prayer book, - Then shall the earth engulf it, and the pride - Of generations perish in the deep.” - Thus spake the sibyl, and the fearful crowd - Displeasure showed by mien and murmuring; - One, much perturbed, essayed to argue thus: - “Thy words, O woman, are but idle talk; - This church, built on such firm and rocky ground, - Can never sink, such prophecy is vain;” - To which she answered with a sigh subdued: - “I’ve told you only what I’ve heard and seen - In truest vision of the things to come.” - These words were uttered as the last bell rang - Its summons to the Mass, obeyed at once - By all the people, leaving her alone; - And while they prayed, she found a resting-place - Within the cooling shadow of the church, - And listened to a lark that soared on high, - Against the blue of heaven’s temple-dome, - And to the chorus ’mongst the sighing trees, - But most of all did note the jack-daws cry, - That melancholy bird of occult hue; - As in a trance she listened to them all, - To thousand voices of a summer’s day; - But ere the Mass was ended rose and went - Along a forest path her solitary way. - - * * * * * - - Then after many years, upon a morn - In early autumn, when the aspen trees - Were turning golden, and the starlings sang - In darkling flocks from meadows shorn and sear, - The pastor took his much accustomed walk, - For he did love to be alone and muse - Upon the wondrous scenes around his home, - And feel great nature’s sweet and changing moods. - Although the years had turned his hair to grey, - And robbed his steps of elasticity, - Still was his spirit quite susceptible - To happiness, but more to sorrow’s touch, - And on a day like this with feelings mixed, - The sadness of the dying summer won, - And thoughts of life, its purpose and its end - Did occupy his mind as he did meet - The sibyl, by a certain turn of road; - For twenty years he had not seen her face, - And it did startle him to meet her now. - She, too, had changed, and silver locks adorned - Her noble forehead, but her eyes were keen - And piercing, even as in days of youth. - And as she stopped to speak with him, he felt - Their searching glances knew his very soul. - “Long working-day has God ordained for thee”, - She said, to which he sadly answered thus: - “My life seems but a transitory dream, - And all its efforts profitless and vain.” - “When thou art dust, thy prayer shall be heard,” - She said a-smiling, and passed on her way. - He too moved on, while pondering her words,-- - The dark enigma of the prophetess. - - * * * * * - - The Sibyl’s prophecies we thus have heard, - And their fulfilment now we will relate, - Which have their place in ages afterwards.-- - The priest as well as prophetess were gone, - And so were generations after them, - Half hidden by the dread oblivion; - The prophecy forgotten;--but a few - Had heard it as an old tradition vague, - A fable only, to which none gave heed, - Though twain ash saplings grew from year to year, - And saw at least two generations pass, - Before their branches met above the church; - A breach also was creeping from the ground - Up through the side-wall’s massive masonry, - Increasing with the changes of the years, - Two things which did recall the sibyl’s lore, - And led the people to cut down the trees, - To fill the rent and hide it from man’s view. - Again they felt assured that all was well, - But from the roots new shoots began to grow - And unmolested through full many years. - - * * * * * - - For ages had the river sung its song, - A-blending with the church bells’ melody; - May be it was the charm of liquid chimes, - Which drew the river closer year by year, - But almost imperceptibly, - Until one spring it overflowed its banks, - And in a rage, fed by the mountain-streams, - Did wear away the distance from the church, - And forced its course up to the church-yard wall. - A gruesome scene it wrought, as days went by; - The coffins in the graves began to show, - And bones in sepulchres of old decay; - Occasionally came a musty skull - A-whirling down the maelstrom of the flood, - And now and then a crash and splash was heard, - When some tall monument did tumble down, - Its name and praise lost in the seething deep, - For nought can man achieve but it is doomed, - At last, to ruin and oblivion. - And mighty trees were undermined and sank - With loads of earth, their branches ’mid the stream, - Like outstreched arms, imploring heav’n for help. - The people also lifted hands in prayer, - For night and day they feared the dreadful hour, - When--as it seemed--the church must be destroyed. - The pastor summoned them to spend a day - In penitence and supplication true. - They came from far and near both old and young, - Yea, even the sick and crippled folk were brought, - That all might help to lift one prayer to heaven, - A common prayer from their humble hearts, - Through him who knelt upon the altar stair, - Whose voice had notes of anguish for his church. - With tears a penitential psalm was sung, - On bended knee; and when again they rose - To leave the place, they passed with downcast heads - Out through the chancel door, beside the which - The old time rent was plainly visible, - And where again the mountain-ash had reached - Above the roof, and met another’s crown. - With fear they listened to the water’s roar, - (Now only hundred cubits from the church) - And to the moaning of the chilly wind, - Which bare the rainclouds o’er the naked fields. - - * * * * * - - It was the midnight hour, and densely dark, - In torrents fell the rain, the thunder rolled, - And lurid lightning gleamed across the sky, - Its light revealing nature’s misery, - And one lone woman groping ’mongst the graves, - Who sought the church that she too there might - pray, - The only one who at the mid-day mass - Had absent been, for death had kept her home,-- - Her husband struggling with the last grim foe. - The struggle being ended, she desired - To share in that great prayer of the day. - For this she stemmed the terror of the night - And spectral fear of sepulchres and shrine; - She found the door unlocked and opened it, - She entered, crossed herself, and sought a pew, - And fervently God’s mercy did implore. - Then something strange did happen, for behold, - The church became with dazzling light illumed, - And stranger still, a crowd of people streamed - Through every door, and without footfall sound. - A congregation, not of mundane mien, - But glorious in countenance and dress, - Whose utter silence seemed a breath of praise. - They filled the seats, and by the woman sat; - But to her touch they were as empty space. - Up from the vaults below emerged a band of priests, - Arrayed as in the days when each did serve - Before the altar of this selfsame church; - All knelt; but one ascended to the Host, - An aged man, whose picture still adorned - The gallery, about whose name there clung - The legend of the sibyl’s prophecy. - He led them in a supplication strong, - Both for the living and the many dead, - Whose ashes were imperiled by the flood, - And that kind heaven would spare the sacred shrine. - Now Kyrie Eleison sang the flock, - With hands outstretched toward burning altar lights. - While all the ministers exclaimed: Amen! - The woman felt such wondrous happiness, - She thought that she had died and gone to heaven, - Yea, all at once she felt assured of this, - For now she saw her husband, and near him - Two little ones, departed years ago. - She ran with joy to clasp them in her arms, - But they did vanish from her fond embrace; - Yea, all did vanish, even the heavenly lights, - And she stood there alone in darkness gross; - The silence, too, was gone, and now the storm, - Which raged in all its fury, took its place. - A distant rumbling noise was clearly heard, - And then a terror-striking thunder-crash; - The church did tremble in its very depths; - The woman thought the judgment-day had come; - Her strength did fail her, and she swooned away. - - * * * * * - - When morning o’er the mountain-tops appeared, - There was no cloud to hinder its approach, - And all creation hailed its harbinger: - The first faint blushes of the snowcapped peak; - The raindrops on the grass and upon trees - Soon glittered like innumerable pearls - And diamonds on the bosom of the earth. - The hidden chorus in the woods began - Its songs of praise for the returning calm. - In every home the frightened people ’rose, - And hardly dared to speak what most they feared,-- - The church destroyed--and timidly the first - Came to behold the ruins of the night; - But when they saw the church still standing there, - They ran to tell the people and the priest, - Who came with joy and found it even so. - A miracle, it seemed, had taken place: - The raging flood had wholly disappeared, - Its empty channel bearing witness to - How great and terrible had been its pow’r. - A mighty landslide from the mountain side - Had changed its course back to an ancient bed, - And what the people thought the dreadful noise - Of their beloved sanctuary’s fall, - Was of the rushing, rumbling earthen slide. - How great was now their joy, when they perceived, - That God had heard their prayer and spared His house! - With praise the priest across the threshold stepped, - And many followed gladly after him, - To join in common, heartfelt gratitude; - But suddenly an unexpected scene - Possessed their souls and filled them with alarm: - Before the altar steps a woman lay, - Stark dead, it seemed, for cold and pale was she, - And for a moment all did hesitate - To touch her, thinking she was surely dead,-- - A moment--only this, for soon the priest - Had ascertained that life was not extinct, - And altar-wine helped to resuscitate; - Now slowly she emerged from deadly swoon, - And gaining consciousness at last could tell, - Why she had come to be in such a place, - And all the things which she had heard and seen, - Of phantom congregation and its mass, - Of priests in strange array before the Host. - They marvelled greatly at her narrative, - When said the pastor: “I believe forsooth - The spirits of the dead have worshiped here, - Joined in the prayers of their living friends, - And now a legend, clust’ring ’round the name - Of him whose picture you have pointed out, - Comes to my mind, the sibyl’s prophecy: - “When thou art dead, thy prayer shall be heard.” - - - - - ELEGIACS - - - - - IN MEMORIAM - - Judge Gorham Powers, Died April 15, 1915. - - - I - - The flowers lie faded on his mound, - The rose and lily are decayed; - The stam’ring words of praise, we said, - Did vanish almost with their sound. - - The throng that stood around his bier, - Is scattered in accustomed ways; - And now and then a neighbor says: - “This was the saddest of the year.” - - Alas, if this was all we gave; - Then were our eulogies a shame; - Unworthy of his noble name, - A mockery around his grave. - - - II - - A month has passed, and April showers - Have come and gone upon the scene; - The fields are turning deeper green, - And leaves are growing into bowers. - - The butter-cup and violet - Appear among old leaves and grass, - The Iris stands where runnels pass - Into the larger rivulet. - - The meadow-lark sings in the fields, - The thrush chants in the willow-hedge, - And mid the marsh and from the sedge - The blackbirds merry music peals. - - Thus spring has conquered winter’s gloom - The spring, we hoped would give him strength, - Its life increase his journey’s length, - Even though a little from the tomb. - - - III - - But in our heart something begins - To stir, and grow, and take a shape, - It flings away the dismal crape, - And o’er our lamentation wins. - - It is a flower of rarest hue, - Belonging to Eternity,-- - The blossom of the memory - Of what in him was good and true. - - With this we will his grave adorn, - In summer-sun and winter’s frost, - Its beauty never shall be lost, - But growing brighter with each morn. - - - IV - - ’Tis evening, and the clouds hang low, - The rain has fall’n the livelong day, - But in the west there is a ray, - A gentle gleam of evening-glow. - - Down are the curtains and the shades, - Where hearts in silence weep and brood, - They nature’s sadness may exclude, - But also that one gleam--which fades. - - I would that she might see it now, - That which was once her soul’s delight, - That it could meet her tearful sight, - From o’er the verdant hillock’s brow. - - It would, indeed, be rude to say, - To those around the cheerless hearth, - “Arise, and smile, let grief depart, - Forget the clouds which gloomed the day.” - - For sorrow, like a swollen stream, - Must have its course, or break its bounds, - And oft its bitterness redounds - To joy, of which we did not dream. - - But that sweet sunset seems to say, - “He was a good man, and a just, - “You best can honor him by trust - “In Him who leads us day by day.” - - - V - - The maple and the apple-trees, - Around his home, are blossoming, - There is the hum of insects’ wings, - The droning of the honey-bees. - - This is the season, he loved best,-- - To labor in his garden-plot, - To prune the trees that flourished not,-- - This was to him a pleasant rest. - - For he from youth was nature’s child, - He loved unfeigned simplicity, - He found it in the field and tree, - In bird and beast, the tame and wild. - - He found it in the “common” folk, - He loved them, they loved him again, - He was the poor and needy’s friend, - His feeding tramps became a joke. - - For it is told, both near and far, - How he the tramp led to his board, - To all the best it could afford, - Then offered him a choice cigar. - - Forgive a smile amid the tear, - The simple hearts will understand, - And bless the kind, unstinted hand, - Which gave to them new hope and cheer. - - The apple trees send out their sweet, - The purple pomp of maples droop, - They stand alone, they stand in group, - And wait in vain their lord to greet. - - - VI - - The morning lifts its saffron veil, - And smiles with happiness replete, - With Sabbath peace it doth us greet, - And with the risen Lord’s “All Hail!” - - It mingles with the mellow sound - Of church bells calling man to prayer, - It falls upon the altar-stair, - Where souls disconsolate are found. - - No more along the aisles shall move - His stately figure, cloth in black, - On days when other folk seemed slack - In the expression of their love. - - Not to repeat a senseless creed, - Did he the house of God attend, - But none like he his ear did lend, - To truth of heart and human need. - - He was a seeker after truth, - Pursuing it on flights of thought, - His mind to keenness had been wrought - By constant study, even from youth. - - He loved the truth in thought and life, - He hated sham and cunning cant, - And had a scornful smile for rant, - Whose purpose was to gender strife. - - The Protestant and Catholic - He judged alike from human view, - Both were his friends, if only true, - The false alone a heretic. - - No honest Faith he e’er did scorn, - But saw the human heart in all, - The upward reaching of the soul, - The waiting for a better morn. - - Though he with Burns did sometimes laugh - While reading “Holy Willie’s Prayer,” - Or satires, like the “Holy Fair,” - Or “Holy Willie’s Epitaph.” - - For when we cease to fear and dread - The phantoms of a darker age, - We read them like a comic page, - And smile to think that they are dead. - - The darkness from man’s faith cast out, - And truth and love alone its good, - Then he shall know that brotherhood, - God’s greatest prophets speak about. - - Then man the Father’s heart shall know, - The “larger Hope” and nobler meed, - Then shall his life be one grand creed, - The measure of what he doth trow. - - Was this his faith? He never told, - Except in modest daily deeds, - He said no prayers, nor counted beads, - Yet was he one of God’s true fold. - - - VII - - There moves along the street and lane - A motley crowd of old and young; - The nation’s anthem has been sung, - A homily preached at the fane. - - It moves along to sound of fife - And muffled drum, the step to aid; - The flag is to the breezes laid, - A flag which bears the marks of strife. - - These men who carried it on high, - Amid the battle’s great array, - But feebly follow it to-day - To where their fallen comrads lie. - - “He must increase, but I decrease,” - Thus spake the prophet long ago, - “Old Glory” has been strengthened so, - “The boys in blue” may rest in peace. - - And one by one is mustered out, - From ranks which ever thinner grow, - Soon but a remnant we shall know, - A remnant in the North and South. - - So let us plant our flag and flow’r - Upon their grave, in Memory,-- - Of what they were--what we should be, - In this the larger, newborn hour. - - But most of all, let us be kind - To these who linger yet a while, - Come, walk with them the last long mile, - And carry those who fall behind! - - - VIII - - He was a member of this post, - Lieutenant of artillery, - Great Lincoln’s gift for bravery, - Of which you never heard him boast. - - At Cedar Mountain and at Reams, - Antietam and the Wilderness, - Cold Harbor, with its vain distress, - And Petersburg’s dark bloody streams, - - He knew the brunt of bitter fight, - The hardship and the painful wound, - He knew the cost of conquered ground, - The price of freedom and of right. - - He knew, indeed, that “war is hell,” - And did not proudly speak of it, - Although his eyes were strangely lit, - When campfire stories he did tell. - - But peace was regnant in his soul, - He dreamed about that distant day, - When man shall know the better way, - Of peace on earth, good will to all. - - He read with sorrow of the war, - Which Europe’s mighty nations wage, - To him it seemed an insane rage, - Which e’en a soldier must deplore. - - It cast a shadow o’er his mind - To think that progress is so slow, - That highest life is still so low - Among the foremost of mankind. - - His peace increased, as strength declined, - The world’s sad plight he keenly felt, - And human hope he clearly spelt, - In Peace alone, with Truth entwined. - - - IX - - The silver clouds move lazily, - Beneath a sky so high and blue, - And seem to touch the distant view - Of our mid-summer scenery. - - They are like dreams of other days, - Of life that was and is no more, - Except upon another shore, - Beyond the sun’s prismatic rays. - - They hang above the peaceful town, - They brood above the courthouse tower, - Like blessings on the morning hour, - And on the judgments there set down. - - Beneath the lawyer’s able brief, - Beneath the arguments set forth, - Beneath the rulings of the court, - There is a silent, manly grief. - - The thoughts of him, who for so long - Did hold the chair within this hall, - Leap from his portrait on the wall, - To men whose hearts are true and strong. - - It seems so strange, he is not there, - To guide them with his light of law, - Who seldom failed the right to know, - Whose judgments were both just and fair. - - Whose mind cut keenly through the maze - Of subtlest labyrinth of guilt, - Who undeceived by lawyer’s tilt, - Pursued serenely logic’s ways. - - Was justice clear,--his heart was more, - He pitied, where the law was plain, - And but for duty, he had fain, - Forgiv’n where sorrow did implore. - - - X - - A year is gone, again the spring - Returns in tender verdure clad, - The little children’s hearts are glad, - And robins in the maple sing. - - A boy is playing with the rim - Of some discarded carriage-wheel, - A large and rusty rim of steel, - Which on the lawn lends sport to him. - - To me it speaks of circling years, - Of circling Providence and Fate, - And the return of this sad date, - The day of loss and bitter tears. - - “Let children play” I heard him say, - “The cares of life will come full soon;” - The sun is dancing with the moon, - At the beginning of the day. - - I hear a child sing a refrain, - A song his mother sings full oft, - The laddie’s voice is clear and soft, - An anodyne for sorrow’s pain. - - I see another munching bread, - It seems much sweeter in the free, - Beneath the budding apple-tree, - With soaring April clouds o’er head. - - Clouds growing denser and more dark; - The rain begins to spot the ground, - There is a gleam, and then a sound, - Which make the children stop and hark. - - And one is crying out in fear, - And all are skurrying for home; - O, well for him to whom doth come - Its comfort, when the storms appear! - - - XI - - Whose carriage, drawn by sable span, - Stops at the long deserted home? - It is his dear ones who have come,-- - The daughters of a noble man;-- - - And she whose life was one with his,-- - Whose love transcends the bounds of death,-- - Comes with a rose-boquet’s sweet breath, - To greet his mem’ry with a kiss. - - The heavens weep, and true hearts weep, - And in the house is evening-gloom, - They stand together in the room, - Where he this hour did fall asleep. - - Then pass into the world again, - From sorrow’s holy sacrament;-- - To one, who lingered near, it lent, - Abiding greetings from his friend. - - - XII - - White clover studs the velvet lawn, - And fancy forms a monument - Of marble-frieze, a tracing blent - With emerald and rosy dawn. - - The carved stone is for the eye - Of passers by, who needs be told, - In characters and numbers bold, - His name; when born; when he did die. - - To those who love, the strolling breeze - Is kindly whispering his name, - And who can tell from where it came, - Or whither all its music flees? - - O’er those the flowers cast a spell, - The dream of a midsummer night, - And with their shapes and hues, delight - Bring forth his name in mead and dell. - - And sprightly, as from Elfin coast, - There comes the boy he loved so well, - His eyes and locks and forehead tell, - He is his grandsire’s child the most. - - The clover-blossoms, white as snow, - Attract his eye, as they do mine, - We gather them and lightly twine - A garland for his comely brow. - - Such wreath put round his tresses dark, - Gives godlike aspect to the lad; - He laughs and runs, his heart is glad, - With gladness of a soaring lark. - - I heard thee say, when life did slope: - “Man is immortal in his race;” - And now I see thee in this face, - So radiant, so full of hope. - - - - - THE FAREWELL - - In Memoriam Frank J. Cressy, M. D. - - - ’Twas here, where slopes the hill into the vale, - With many a roof and tow’r and heav’nward spire, - And rows of lofty elms,--that wan and pale - He gazed upon the sunset and its fire, - Which glowed in sky and river, on the green - And curving hills and far-off hazy plain; - The early summer was upon the scene-- - All fresh and verdant after days of rain-- - He looked upon it all with wistful eye, - His life’s arena ere he went to die. - - What thoughts came to him then I do not know, - But seldom man was granted better place - To take farewell with everything below, - And look into the Father’s smiling face,-- - For nature’s Vesper, glorious with light, - Held sweet communion with the days of yore, - And blessed the deeds of service and the right, - The things that vanish not, forevermore; - And saw he this, then had his last adieu - No painful pang, but rather, that he knew, - The morrow of that evening would be fair, - And rich in great and good realities, - Though, like all pilgrims, he wist hardly where - The homeland looms with bright felicities. - - With Cato he believed “it must be so.” - That this strange sojourn is not all in vain, - And that somewhere the longing soul shall know - The meaning of the journey’s toil and pain, - And find the quest for which he daily strove, - Embodied in the light of truth and love. - - He said farewell to friends of many years, - As sank the sun behind the farthest ridge, - And chilly shadows came with darksome fears - To those who homeward turned, across the bridge; - And he passed on with that which ne’er I see - Without the feeling of a mystery,-- - The train of life, the unknown destiny, - The ardent hopes, the crushing misery - It bears along, as with a magic speed,-- - The wonder of the age, the country’s iron-steed. - - And in its speed was hope, for at the end - Stood Skill and Wisdom to prolong his life, - And with him fared a kind and trusted friend, - And more than all, his e’er devoted wife, - But Skill and Love’s most consecrated aid - Could not prolong a life--that was complete, - And like a man, the last great toll he paid, - Unfaltering, his God and Judge to meet. - - But we, who took his hand upon this slope, - With parting words, have in this fitting frame - Of nature placed his life of work and hope, - And writ upon it all his honored name, - A name that lives in grateful memories - Of those to whom he gave his ministries. - - - - - BABY BRUCE - - - I see her kneeling at the mound - Of baby Bruce, - And placing on the turfless ground - Sweet flow’rs, profuse, - I see the pearls of bitter tears - Fall on their leaves; - Alas, that one in tender years - So sorely grieves! - - Yes, he was fairer than the flow’rs - Of rarest hue, - His smile sweet as the morning hour’s - Gleam in the dew, - And as we looked into his eyes - So large and brown, - It seemed an angel from the skies - Had just come down. - - What heaven gave, again it took-- - Its ways are good, - But now in pity it does look - On motherhood,-- - Whose love so young, so pure, so deep, - Eats sorrow’s bread,-- - And whispers: “Woman do not weep, - He is not dead.” - - - - - A FUNERAL OF A CHILD ON CHRISTMAS EVE - - - The dusk was upon hill and wood, - Upon the fields of soft new snow, - The pine-trees in God’s acre stood, - With branches laden, bending low, - And marble shaft and monument, - Like mystic, beings draped and pale, - Seemed listening to the bells that sent - Their Christmas greeting through the vale. - - Around an open, little grave - There stood a group of weeping folk; - “The Lord hath taken what he gave, - We sorrow not as without hope, - For he who gave us Christmas eve - Said: ‘Let the children come to me, - Of such the kingdom is,’ they live, - With him in joy eternally.” - - Thus spake the minister of God, - But still the parent’s heart did sob, - And when they heaped the frozen clod, - He felt that heav’n his hope did rob, - Congealing tears did cease to fall, - And thicker, denser grew the gloom, - The church-bell’s clang jarred on his soul, - He wished that grave for him had room. - - - - - THE WREATH - - - How shall I shake off the darkness, - The nightmare that feeds on my soul?-- - I looked through the windows this morning, - Upon the embankments of snow, - That ridged to the porch of my dwelling, - And covered its floor, - Where a half buried branch of an ever-green rested, - Torn from a discarded Christmas-tree, - Back of the church;-- - The terrible wind of the night - Had cut it and carried it thither, - Where in the white, like a wreath it protruded its green, - A wreath for the dead, - Whose soul mid the storm of the night - Had taken its flight.-- - O, God, how utterly eerie it seemed - To my mind that had worried alone - Through the vigils of night! - And on that day came the message, - That she was no more. - - - - - LINES WRITTEN ON RECEIVING NEWS OF MY FATHER’S DEATH - - - I sit alone in evening-gloom, - The night is cold, and shrill the wind, - I make a church out of my room, - To find some solace for the mind. - - Oft have I spoken mid the throngs - Of such who pitied the bereaved, - Oft have I listened to the songs - Which other burdened hearts relieved. - - But with my grief I am alone, - Far from the scene of those who weep, - Within the old ancestral home, - Beyond the ocean’s stormy deep. - - I have his picture at my right, - I have it clearer in my heart, - For blurred and darkened is the sight, - And rays of mortal day depart. - - * * * * * - - Thou wert so strong, so brave, so true, - I looked to thee, as boy and youth, - My life did take from thee its hue - In whatsoe’er it has of truth. - - Thy toil, thy suffering, and love, - The love of home and native land, - So strangely clear come to me now, - Like blessings of an honest hand. - - Thou saidst to me: “I will not leave - The land wherein thy mother rests;” - How could I seek thy heart to grieve - With all this new world’s varied quests? - - Farewell, I may not see the place, - Where they have laid thee by her side, - But memories of vanished days, - Shall ever dear with me abide. - - The distance would not let me lay - A garland on thy sable bier, - Therefore this wreath, a simple lay, - Fresh with the dew of many a tear. - - I’ll weave out of my heart a wreath - Of flowers which e’er shall blossom there,-- - Like those red blood-drops on the heath, - The ling which winter cannot sere. - - - - - THE GREAT STRIFE - - - - - WAR AND PROVIDENCE - - - Above the monster cannon’s roaring thunder, - Above the hailstorm of the musketry, - Above the shrieking shells that burst asunder, - With def’ning crash, man’s strongest masonry: - Above the tumult and the din of battle, - The loud command, the bugles’ egging call, - Above the groans of wounded and the rattle - Of death in thousand throats, above it all-- - - There is a hand that overrules man’s madness, - And causes ev’n his anger Him to praise, - A hand which from destruction, grief and sadness - Brings better prospects for the struggling race; - The hand of Providence which in all ages - Has shaped the history of human-kind, - And we may read upon its blood-stained pages - The loving purpose of the Father’s mind. - - From Europe’s awful carnage, ruin, sorrow, - Caused by a greed insane and pride of Kings, - There will arise a brighter, better morrow - With righteousness and healing in its wings. - A day of freedom when the thrones must tumble, - A day when nations shall cast off the yoke, - When none shall batten on the poor and humble, - And untruth walk about in priestly cloak. - - When Celt and Teuton, Slav and Anglo-Saxon, - Shall wisdom learn from this their plunge in gore, - And cease to spend their strength in paying tax on - Their daily bread for implements of war; - When they shall dwell in harmony as brothers, - Which is the true foundation of the world, - When good of one is good of all the others, - Then will His Kingdom’s banner be unfurled. - - - - - THE YELLOW PERIL - - Written after having heard the Hon. Duncan McKinley’s lecture on - “The Japanese in America.” - - - Whene’er the races of the East - Shall rise like floods in melting-time, - With fury of the hungry beast; - And homeless in their native clime - Shall shelter seek in this great land; - Woe then to us, if unprepared - We are the influx to withstand; - Remember Rome, and how she fared! - - Her wealth and vineyards did allure - The Goth, the Vandal and the Hun, - Their hordes swooped down, while quite secure - She dwelt beneath her summer-sun; - Proud of her past and opulent - She scorned the wild advancing foe, - But found full soon her legions spent - In warding off the fatal blow. - - She fell and alien nations took - The scepter from her feeble hand; - Thus written is the judgment book, - Let statesmen read and understand; - The yellow peril from the East, - From Nippon and from old Cathay - Will come unbidden to the feast, - If we neglect to guard the way. - - - - - THE VETERAN - - - Eighty winters have turned him white, - White of beard and of crown, - Slackened his steps and dimmed his sight, - Bent him and weighed him down, - Not only with war, but with toils of peace, - Toil of the pioneer’s life, - Now at eighty he takes his ease, - The fruit of his years is rife. - - Proud he is of the things achieved, - Glad for things as they are, - Greater far than he once believed - When new was his battle-scar; - But he lives in the past, and speaks - Often of bloody frays, - Of roaring guns and shrapnel’s shrieks - In dark Rebellion days. - - Bull Run, Chancellorsville, but most - Gettysburg’s three days fight, - Pickett’s charge, and the thousands lost, - Burying them in the night, - These are subjects on which he dwells, - For he himself was there. - Younger he seems while he sits and tells, - A smouldering fire seems flare. - - Tales of war by a man who loves - Peace and good will among men, - Veterans pride without silken gloves, - Calling the rebel his friend, - Sighs he and says: “Oh, war is hell; - Peace is the pearl of great price, - Costlier far than mortal can tell, - Nations who keep it are wise.” - - Met him I did the other day, - Reading a morning-sheet: - “Blame on the Mexicans for the way - Our Old Glory they treat, - Tearing it down from our consulate, - Trampling it in the mud, - Flag of the free must it meet such a fate, - Flag, bought with patriots’ blood!” - - “Reading such things, I feel that I could - Shoulder a musket still, - Feel that my insulted country should - ‘Rise in its strength with a will, - Lifting Old Glory o’er Mexico, - Ne’er to come down again, - Patriots’ fire--has it ceased to glow?-- - Look to your flag, young men!” - - - - - DIES IRAE - - - A cry arises from the blood-soaked earth, - A cry of anguish, dying in despair, - And with hell’s horrors is the world engirt, - The prince of darkness ruleth in the air. - - The gods are passing, and the kingdoms fall, - And Cosmos trembles like an autumn leaf; - What seemed the greatest sinks into the small, - And what seemed glory changes into grief. - - The jewelled crowns and diadems are cast - Into the balance of the Only Just, - They are like chaff, which scattered by the blast, - Is lost, and mingles with the common dust. - - The Dies Irae has arrived at last, - The books are opened by the Lamb of God, - The age of tyranny and greed is past, - He breaks oppression with His iron-rod. - - And truth imprisoned, justice quite forgot, - Stand ‘for His judgment-seat in spotless white, - The earth and heaven new shall be their lot, - Upon the morn, now dawning from the night. - - - - - A MAY MORNING, 1917 - - - From purple woods the stock-dove’s notes are flowing, - As deep and melancholy as the night, - Whose shadows from the early morning’s glowing - Now take their flight; - So sweetly clear, and gently wooing, - They bring my soul an exquisite delight. - - A byre-cock’s crow comes shrilly from afar, - And wakes loud answers in the neighbor’s yard, - They greet the coming of Apollo’s car, - Like many a modern and accepted bard; - But to the woodland notes compared they are - So challenging, and hard. - - The farmer rises wearily from bed, - Looks on the morn, and smiles that it is fair, - For he must toil that others may be fed, - And Providence has placed on him its care, - While others fight, and mingle with the dead, - To nourish hope and life becomes his share. - - But who has eyes and ears for nature’s ways? - Who goes to matin at the stock-doves call? - When man his brother man so foully slays, - And nations into utter ruin fall; - Must war obscure the morning’s rosy rays, - And keep a May-dawn’s music from the soul? - - A time like this demands the bread and meat, - But also music for the famished heart; - And we should rise the better things to greet, - Be they in nature, or in perfect art, - Lest struggling man at last must fall beneath - The load in which now all men have a part. - - - - - MY SAILOR-LAD’S LETTER - - - In the city of tents, by the restless sea, - My sailor-lad long has dwelt, - Since Fate has put forth her dark decree, - And strangely our children’s future is spelt, - By the horrors of things to be. - - And I think, in his heart he begins to know - The meaning which glamor obscured, - For his words are like cups that overflow - With things which he has endured, - Though never just saying so. - - For he is as brave, and more I ween, - Than many a fellow-lad, - And courage excels in his cheerful mien, - He even tries to make others glad, - This sailor of seventeen. - - But a letter arrived, the other day, - To his little sister of seven, - To whom he wrote in a childlike way - Of things in a vision given, - And this is what he did say:-- - - “I stood on the shore of the moonlit lake, - Where the billows came rolling high, - The sound of the sea did my soul awake - To the breaker’s music and westwinds sigh - And to musings of my own make.” - - “Methought I saw on the whitecapped waves - My dear ones come to me,-- - For the heart perceives what most it craves, - On the world’s dark, turbulent sea, - The sea of clamoring waves.” - - “And I saw you dance on the foamy crest, - Like a Naiad or spirit fair, - And mother and all whom I love best - Did beckon to me out there, - In the wind from the plains of the west.” - - “And I called on you all by your dearest name, - As lonely I stood that night, - But none of you heard me, and none of you came, - But vanished full soon from my sight, - Like the sheen of a dying flame.” - - “And it may have been the mist from the spray, - Or something like that which blurred - My eyes as I tried to look away, - And only the moan of the billows I heard, - As they came in a wild array.” - - “I went to my little tent in the camp, - All cold in the April night, - My bed was cheerless and chill and damp, - And my heart was heavy as I did write, - In the light of the sky’s bright lamp.” - - - - - THE BUGLE CALL - - - America, awake, awake! - Put on thy armor, for the hour - Has come when Freedom is at stake! - Arise, and show thy spirit’s power, - And now, as in thy youth, - The tyrant’s shackles break; - And let the truth, - Which made thee great, - Decide the destiny of mankind - Ere ’tis too late! - - To thee the world is looking for salvation; - Thou hast it. Give it in God’s name! - And it will make thee tenfold more a nation-- - Withhold it, and on thee shall be the blame - Of ages--and the shame. - - This is the testing-time, - Which like a fire brings forth - The people’s real worth; - For men from every clime - Is now this testing-time, - But we shall joy to see, - The gold of love is there, - For home and Liberty, - And Loyalty shall be - Their watchword everywhere. - - Awake, America, awake! - The bugle-call to arms is sounding, - Thy sons are hearing it and shake - Old Glory to the winds, with faith abounding, - And ’neath this emblem of the free - A sacred pledge they make, - That it shall be - Unharmed by any foe, - And aid the world in despots’ overthrow. - - They come--these lads from country-home and town, - From crowded cities and the lonely plains, - They come in blouses blue and khaki brown, - They come by thousands on the speeding trains, - To meet the hardships and the pains. - - Still, thou, America, art half asleep, - Entranced by pleasant ease, - Thou dreamest yet of peace, - For it seems far across the deep, - Where death and grave a harvest reap-- - It seems so far away - The nations’ judgment day, - But, like nocturnal thief, - It may bring thee to grief,-- - Therefore obey the bugle-call to fight, - Arise, put on thy armor, show thy might! - - July, 1917 - - - - - FLAG-RAISING - - - No longer as an ornament, - Adoring festive places, - The flag is to the masthead sent, - Before uplifted faces,-- - No longer as a children’s play - We fling it to the breezes, - With thoughtless praise on gala-days, - When each acts as he pleases. - - But like a sacramental act - Its raising is attended, - When loyal hearts behold a pact - In colors sweetly blended,-- - When men, responsive to its call, - Make grim determination, - That tyranny at last must fall - Before a freeborn nation. - - And as it waves above their heads, - ’Tis like a benediction - Which sacredness and glory sheds - On men of just conscription,-- - They stand aloof, they seem apart, - Like heroes consecrated, - So true and brave, so strong of heart - To freedom dedicated. - October, 1917 - - - - - THE RED CROSS - - (_In hoc signo vinces._) - - - O, crimson cross of Calvary! - O, heavenly sign of Constantine! - O, mercy-emblem of the free, - The victory must still be thine! - Thou paradox of horrid war - Shalt stand unscathed when it is o’er! - - Was by this sign the pagan host - On Tiber’s banks subdued at last, - Without the reck’ning of the cost, - And all the suff’ring of the past, - How much less now should money be - The measure of its victory! - - A holy emblem of the hearts - Which love and weep, and gladly give, - That each true soldier who departs - May mid the conflict hope to live, - For when he does the cross behold, - It cheers his soul and makes him bold. - - Ah, let it go where’er he goes, - With all its kindly ministries! - Through this from million hearts there flows - A stream of warmest sympathies; - And must he give his all, even then, - It is to him his last true friend. - - Speed on, Red Cross, thou heaven-sent, - Into the lands of pain and woe, - Until their madness shall be spent, - And thou shalt stand amid the glow - Of that new dawn of Brotherhood, - A symbol of man’s highest good! - - - - - THE DOLEFUL MOTHER OF MANKIND - - “Rest, rest, perturbed Earth! - O, rest, thou doleful mother of mankind!” - Wordsworth - - - I have not seen thy beauty for the pall - Of horror, hanging over all the world, - I have not heard thy music for the din - Of battle-lines against each other hurled. - - And now thy face is covered with a shroud - Of purest white, and thou wilt take thy rest; - The winds will sing their evening lullabies, - With memories of love and feathered nest. - - And mothers, at the dusk, will list thereto, - And think of croonings in the years gone by, - When little boys sat by the window-panes, - And gazed with wonder on the moonlit sky. - - And now, perchance, they lie beneath thy shroud, - Or destined soon to join the sleeping host,-- - War’s sacrifice, O God, how man doth sin! - How in the utter darkness he seems lost! - - How far from nature has he erred and strayed, - A prey to greed, and arrogance of kings! - Shall he at last, a prodigal, return - To dwell in peace ’neath the “Almighty’s wings?” - - The doleful mother of mankind doth wait, - And when her children come, anew she dons - Her spring-attire, and smiles forgivingly, - And breathes her peace upon her weary sons. - - And then again I’ll feel the throb of joy, - And glory in the wonders of thy face, - Yea, revel in thy thousand harmonies, - And wander satisfied along thy ways. - - - - - MIDWINTER’S DREAM - - (1918) - - - Full tired of war and worry do I turn - To nature in her sweet midwinter dreams, - To purple twilights, when the day’s last beams - Like flick’ring candles on the snowdrifts burn, - While star and crescent, in the deepest blue, - Shed peace on fields and woods and frozen lakes; - And from the creeping shadows soon awakes - Life’s fairy-world, the one as boy I knew - In unfeigned joy that varied with each scene - Of winter’s whiteness, or midsummer’s green. - - The dormant earth dreams of the life to be, - When spring returns to call it from the grave, - When through its breast shall rush the ardent wave - Of love and hope, and songs of ecstasy;-- - But in the moonlight and the shadows dun - The dreams appear in emblems vague and frore, - Like wandering spectres from a mystic shore - Which track the glory of the setting sun - Like love, that plays behind a rosy screen, - Because ’tis yet too modest to be seen. - - The winter heavy hangs on humankind-- - In homes, and camps, and on the stormy seas, - On Europe’s battlefields, whose miseries - Appall with horrors every normal mind; - Its million graves, decked with the covering - Of jewelled purity, where heroes sleep, - At whose low crosses countless hearts must weep,-- - Is holy ground, where life shall take its wing - To truer freedom and a larger love, - With peace on earth and good will from above. - - Our country’s dream: that when the southwind’s - breath - Shall wake to life and gladness all the land, - Like risen pow’r our chosen youth shall stand - Around the flag which means the tyrant’s death,-- - That like the life which quickens everything, - Our hosts from South and North and East and West - Shall fare rejoicing o’er the ocean’s crest, - And Freedom’s victory to Europe bring,-- - Midwinter’s dream in every loyal heart, - Who dreams it not, in Freedom has no part. - - - - - BY THE WAYSIDE - - - - - THE CANADIAN PRAIRIES - - - Two hundred long miles and never a tree, - O, nothing but plains all scorched by the sun! - The buffalo’s trails one freely may see, - Which over the billowing ridges run, - And here the Indian hunted at will, - And slaughtered and wasted the bison wild, - The heaps of its bleached bones bear witness still - How wanton was he, the prairie’s child. - - Yes, here is a wildness which bids my soul - To saddle my pony and ride away, - And follow its weird and mysterious call - To freedom complete, if just for a day, - To follow the paths where the bison did roam, - To list to the coyotes and prairie-dog’s bark, - But thankful at night for the lone settler’s home - And a gleam of his light in the dark. - - - - - THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS - - - Majesty, power, and dominion and glory, - Be unto Thee who these wonders hast wrought, - Mountain peaks lofty, all snow-capped and hoary, - Thou alone knowest their wonderful story, - When from the bowels of the earth they were brought. - - Strangest formations and glaciers beaming, - Cataracts rushing from dizziest heights, - Emerald rivers with great swiftness streaming, - Crystal-clear rivulets rushing and gleaming, - Ne’er did I witness more glorious sights. - - Down in the valley the flowers are growing, - Trees too, yea, forests are flourishing there, - Sweetly their fragrance on cool breezes flowing, - Terrible grandeur is meek beauty wooing, - Happy the love-pact, the harmony rare. - - Thus is the image of God here reflected, - Mighty sublimity, lowliness sweet, - Happy the pilgrim who this has detected, - Travel-worn be he, yet never dejected, - Since he, O, Father, may sit at Thy feet. - - - - - MOUNT SHASTA - - - When from the fiery pangs of earth this queen - Of mountains was brought forth, the spirits of - The air desired to dress her in the sheen - And glory of their pure celestial love; - They gave her for a veil the fleecy cloud, - Which gently floats about her lofty brow; - They gave her for a mantle to enshroud - Her shoulders strong the ever glittering snow; - And then they called upon the fir and pine - To weave a robe of never fading green, - And with the silver stream their wool entwine, - That here and there its bright gleam might be seen; - She thus adorned has stood for eons long, - The queen among the mountains of the west, - In beauty cloth, inspiring men to song, - And lifting human thoughts to what is best. - - - - - VERSES - - Written while sailing from Vancouver to Seattle. - - - I’ve seen the forest and mountains, - I’ve seen the far stretching plain, - But oh for a whiff of the briny sea, - And a journey across the main! - - Oh, then does my soul find its pleasure, - Akin to my childhood joy, - For my home was close to the seashore, - And I lived with the fjord as a boy. - - Its unbounded freedom and greatness - Created a love in my soul, - And never I sail o’er the surging sea, - But liberty’s voice does me call. - - Its mystery, aye, and its music - Have followed me all the way, - And borne--as they are--by the foaming wave, - They blend in an unsung lay. - - And all day long do I listen, - And all day long do I look - To freedom which never was nation’s, - To songs that were never in book. - - - - - TO AN UNKNOWN MUSICIAN - - (Verses written while listening to a melody played on board the - “Princess Charlotte,” sailing through the strait of Juan de Fuca) - - - What is nature’s charms and grandeur, - When compared to what man is, - In his sorrows and his longings, - In his triumphs and his bliss! - Oh, a soul that hath such feelings, - As the one who now doth play, - Such a depth of true emotions, - Lives in God’s eternal day! - - Thou unconsciously hast moved me, - I’m a captive at thy will, - Though in thousand leagues of journey - Oft my soul has had its fill - Of the beauty of creation, - Known its raptures and delight, - Yet not once such inspiration - Has possessed me as tonight. - - Play, play on thou sweet musician, - While the darkness gathers round, - While our ship is speeding onward - With a rhythmic, rushing sound, - While the stars look down upon us, - Mirrored in the tranquil sea, - Render thy interpretation - Of life’s joy and misery. - - - - - SEATTLE - - (A meditation) - - - Thou princess of the sea, how thou hast grown, - Since last I saw thee, and how beautiful! - The ocean-breezes must to thee have blown - The ardent health which nothing wrong could dull, - The blood of races mingle in thy veins, - The spirit of two worlds have met in thee, - Most genial and free thou here dost reign, - A charming princess of the western sea. - - It was with thee I did a year abide, - A year so antithetically mixed, - When painful doubts forbade me to confide, - And life’s career, confessed, still was unfixed; - May be it was thy spirit, which I felt, - That gave me song and Oriental dreams, - And when in Occidental shrines I knelt, - Of Oriental truth there came bright gleams. - - And hath not doubts been harassing my soul, - And had I shunned to give a heed to fears, - But followed--like thyself--the Spirit’s call, - How different had been the lapsing years; - Perhaps I then with glory now could meet - The growth and life, I see on every hand, - But now I sit in sorrow at thy feet, - And find my name was written in the sand. - - - - - GJOA - - Capt. Amundsen’s Ship in San Francisco - - - Within the sound of the Pacific’s roar - Stands Gjoa amid palms and myrtle trees, - Her prow is lifted toward the rocky shore, - As if impatient for the stormy seas, - The sturdy little ship of Arctic fame, - Which bears from storms and ice full many a mark, - Now like a lion in a cage, grown tame, - Stands here--a relic only--in a park. - - A precious relic to Norwegian hearts, - With pride and gratitude they look on thee; - Proud that thou sailed, where man had made no charts, - The first explorer of a strait and sea, - And grateful that the land of Vikings still - Has sons of courage and adventure bold; - For Roald Amundsen forever will - Remain a man of true heroic mold. - - And thou art here incaged to sniff the brine, - Forsaken by the captain and his crew, - A monument the great throngs to remind, - What talent mixed with manliness can do, - And that a nation may be small, yet great, - Be poor and still excel in noblest ken, - A silent witness at the Golden Gate; - A nation’s glory is her greatest men. - - - - - THE GRAVE IN THE DESERT - - - Amid the plains of yellow sand and cactus, - Encircled by the distant barren hills, - Amid the awful desert of Nevada, - Beneath the glaring sun which burns and kills, - There is a lonely grave, where the San Padro - Fast speeds from palm-groves of Los Angeles, - A lonely grave just by the road-side, - Which kindly hands unselfishly did bless. - - A wooden cross is standing at its head, - On which no name nor date they did inscribe, - Still, half in ruin, it stands there to bless - An unknown sleeper of the wandering tribe. - And at the foot the symbol of his life, - No fitter epitaph on any grave-- - For man is but a restless sojourner, - So there they placed the pilgrim’s handworn stave. - - Who was he? None can tell, some say a tramp, - Who stole a ride and crushed was ’neath the wheels; - But tramps are also men, and sometimes more - Of worth than their unhappy plight reveals; - But this I know: He was a mother’s son, - Who still may wonder how her boy does fare, - Who still, perchance, is praying for this one, - The chiefest object of her loving care. - - May be some other hearts are looking for - His coming home, though after many years, - Who think of him as he was in his youth, - And seldom speak his name, except with tears, - Who know not of this solitary grave, - Where death and weird oblivion do reign, - Where all seems hopeless, save the crumbling cross, - Which shall at last life’s mystery explain. - - - - - THE MOUNTAINS OF THE PROPHET - - - In the purple of the morning, - Through the dreamy haze of day spring, - Did the mountain-tops ’round Salt Lake - Loom before us, as the desert - We were leaving far behind us. - “Lofty mountains of the prophet,” - Did I mutter without thinking, - Came the words, as if repeated - After some one who knew better, - After one whose inspiration - Was from truth and heavenly wisdom; - And instinctively I pondered - That the prophet’s eyes had often - Lifted been to these blue mountains, - Whence his help should come, and glory - Of the Lord appear to Zion, - And ’mongst which the trail was winding, - Bloody trail of weary pilgrims, - Seeking an abiding city, - Guarded by their rugged fastness, - And the wide expanse of Salt Lake. - - Here, where seemed but barren desert, - Did the prophet’s eye see visions - Of a city and a temple, - Where the saints should dwell in saf’ty, - Where in peace they God might worship; - And this vision, now made real, - Lends a lustre to the mountains, - Gives a romance to their valleys; - And whate’er their names may be, I - Call them mountains of the prophet. - - - - - CHICAGO - - - O, wonder of our age! - Consummate wonder, not of state alone, but of our land, - Unique among the cities dost thou stand - Upon the page - Of history, in youth and might! - Thou didst spring forth as in a night, - From where the redman roved - Along the dreamy shores of Michigan, - Where four-score years ago - Thy life began; - Some fairy moved - Her wand upon thee, - For like a fabled urban didst thou grow. - - Colossal mart, - Of commerce, like the heart - Thou sendest out through arteries and veins - Pulsating life into the world; - Napoleons of business-brains - Are marshalling their forces, - With colors high unfurled, - Not on war-harnessed horses, - To madly fight, - To kill and blight, - But to employ each pow’r - To make thee stronger, better every newborn hour. - Thy mighty citadels of stone, - So huge, so tall, - So many and immense, - That with their burden mother earth seems groan, - Throb with a life intense, - And from thy canyons, we call streets, - Great traffic’s constant roar us meets. - Great is thy wealth, - Great is thy woe, - Less great thy health, - But great is its foe; - Within thy pale the great extremes - Of good and evil dwell: - Felicities of heavenly dreams, - And hopelessness of hell: - Above thy scum of things - The voice of heaven sings. - - July, 1915 - - - - - THE ISLE OF DREAMS - - - The island of dreams lies not far away, - Encompassed by sunlight and sea, - I happened to reach it the other day, - While breezes were playing so languidly-- - My boat scarcely moved on the bay. - - And this is the island I happened to find, - The isle ’mid the glittering deep: - A bower with luxuriant foliage entwined, - ’Mongst rocks that are mossy and steep, - Where shadows give rest to the mind. - - And here in the shade is a clear, cooling spring, - Which ceaselessly murmurs its song, - And down in a glade the brown thrushes sing, - In afternoons drowsy and long, - In hours that bear dreams on their wings; - - And balm for the care-laden spirit have they, - Of duty forgetfulness sweet, - With fragrance of roses they lead you astray, - To realms of fair visions replete, - Bright visions of midsummer-day. - - The fairies are here and the unreal things, - Derided by men of pure facts, - Though Science doth saunter here, sometimes she clings - To fancy’s prophetical acts, - And out of the dreamland them brings. - - Yea, great things are born in this enchanted place, - Where poets do loiter and rest, - Beholding fair visions which beckon their race - To vistas more lofty and blest, - In beauty’s immaculate ways. - - - - - LAKE HARRIET - - - Behold the noiseless sailboat and canoe, - That slowly glide upon the glassy lake, - Which wedded seems to heaven’s lofty blue, - And every silver cloud within its wake; - The lonely youth dreams as he moves along, - And who can tell what wondrous dreams they be, - Fit theme, I ween, for any poet’s song, - Of sadness or of gladsome reverie. - - There also sail the lover and his lass, - They laugh and chat, and have a gleeful time, - For them the golden moments swiftly pass, - Since they are living in life’s summer clime, - To them sweet nature’s beauty doth exist - As background only to their happiness, - And heav’n the blue-eyed Harriet has kist, - Because their own true love they dare confess. - - And o’er the water strains from Lohengrin - Come floating from the Grecian-pillard stand, - And add enchantment to the charming scene, - The wedding-scene of sky and sea and land,-- - The hymeneal of youth’s dreams of life, - Of hearts aglow with love’s sweet fervency, - Of thousand souls who here forget their strife, - And for an hour their wonted misery. - - - - - THE CUBIST - - - I wandered to-day in an institute, - A wonderful palace of art, - And this I can say in spirit and truth, - It was a delight to my heart, - To see how the masters of ages past - Have found a place in this shrine, - Till I came to a room, methinks ’twas the last, - Which the Cubist’s contortions confine. - - A disgrace, I said, to allow in this place, - What lunatic homes should adorn, - An insult to art and the human race, - Of spirits degenerate born, - A meaningless daub, a horrid display - Of colors and lines and all, - But then to myself I also did say: - May be ’tis the age--and its soul. - - A wicked word it was this to say, - As I left for the congested street, - And followed the masses which made their way - To a place where ten thousand did meet - Three times a day, to be edified - With burlesque, in Jesus name, - And painfully in my soul it cried: - “The Cubist again, just the same!” - - I glanced at a paper at hour of sleep, - And found a whole page about bards, - Who gained a renown by a single leap, - With something which all art discards, - Again I said: ’tis the Cubist’s age, - A prophet is he after all, - Of the church and the stage and the printed page, - Of the age that has bartered its soul. - - - - - THE HANDCLASP - - - Full thousands of leagues over land, over seas, - I travelled, for two things to find: - From work, and its routine, a needed surcease, - And knowledge, to quicken the mind. - - I moved mid the crowds in the cities of fame, - I pondered their pleasures and pride, - A stranger, alone, wherever I came, - I heard but the surge of the tide. - - Though knowledge increased with the sight of the new, - Though grandeur gave thrills of delight, - Though marvelling oft at the things, man can do, - Yet weariness came with the night. - - And I longed for the sound of the voice of a friend, - I longed for my home far away, - When, behold, I met one at a thoroughfare’s end, - At the close of a wearisome day! - - The clasp of his hand, with the love of his heart, - The warm and the genuine grip, - Brought greater delight than the sight of all art, - And all wonderful things of the trip. - - - - - A COUNTRY STORE - - - Beside a winding country road - A house unique one sees, - It used to be the Lord’s abode, - Now that of groceries. - - A church with graveyard in its rear, - Where many saints do sleep, - O, could they rise, I greatly fear, - It would be for to weep, - - Beholding what the years have wrought - In changes of the place, - How man for gain has rudely sought - Its mem’ries to efface. - - For here, where generations met - To worship God in truth, - Now Mammon has his motto set, - With Vandal hand uncouth. - - Where once did sound the Holy Word, - By men of earnest heart, - Now bargainings are daily heard,-- - The language of the mart. - - Where once the altar stood, now stands - A stove around which sit - The gossiper’s unholy bands - And swear and lie and spit. - - And could each much neglected mound - Yield up its dust to life again, - The words of Christ would then resound: - “My Father’s house ye made a den.” - - But thus our sacrilegious age - Is blinded by the god of gold, - Soon finished is its sacred page, - Our days of worship well-nigh told. - - - - - SUNSETS ON CLEARWATER LAKE, MINN. - - (To Mrs. A. W. W.) - - - _First Evening_ - - A path of trembling gold, from where I stand, - Across the limpid lake, to darkling woods, - Upon the far off strand, - Where evening’s glory broods, - Until it changes into rose, - A livid pink, suffusing all, - The mighty water’s deep repose; - And as the fiery ball - Drops into clouds on the horizon’s rim, - The hue, most delicate, takes on a crimson glow, - In which the shadows of the shore grow dim, - And slowly all things into darkness flow; - Anon the moon appears and clothes the scene - And floating mist-veil into languid sheen. - - - _Second Evening_ - - A sea of fire in which a sky - Of lavender and blue and red - Together with the clouds of changing dye - Reflected are--divinely wed; - And we, who rove about, are led - By an illusion, such as seldom seen: - A strange receding of the deep, - As if we sat above a waterfall, - O’er which our skiff full soon must leap - Into immensity, bright, hyaline, - Where brooding spirits beck and call. - - A glorious view is heaven in the depth - Of tranquil seas, but more - Its virtues, mirrored in a human heart; - And thou, who hast its kindnesses so kept, - That changing vistas or receding shore - Can not extinguish life’s immortal part - In the abiding love divine, as clear - As all this evening glory in a glassy mere, - Art more than all what nature can express, - Whose word can cheer, whose gentle hand can bless. - - Illusions!--much is but illusions: - Fear, and all the ghosts that troop with it. - The good alone, in all its sweet effusion, - Is real as the sun, by which the world is lit; - The cataract of death, the dread abyss-- - Does not exist, for all the light is His. - - - _Third Evening_ - - To-night the rising storm-clouds hide - The sun’s departure from our gaze; - A heavy mist begins to glide - Across the water’s ashen face; - A host of swallows, circling, fly - Like cavalcades upon a plain; - A myriad of insects die, - Uncounted lives, like drops of rain - Lost in the sea, lost in the All, - The life, the death, the Oversoul. - And little children laugh and play - Upon the beach, and on the pier, - In them the closing of the day, - With gathering storm, awakes no fear, - For in their souls the light remains, - That oped the water-lily’s breast, - And woke the warbler’s glad refrain, - And all the heart of nature blest; - What matters though the clouds obscure - Its finished course one single eve, - If we, like children, can allure - Even clouds and mist to pleasure give. - - - _Fourth Evening_ - - The glitt’ring wavelets blind my sight, - And neath the hand I needs must scan - The dazzling shimmer of the light, - Which like Seraphic highways span - The breeze-swept, glad expanse; - Methinks I see the Naiads dance - To music of the swaying reeds - And rushes, where the narrows jut, - Adorned with many-colored weeds, - From Neptune’s gardens freshly cut. - - Amid the glimmer one discerns - A boat wherein a youth doth stand, - Like Hiawatha’s passing, turn - Its prow with dreamy ease from land, - The well nigh naked youth to me - Is like a god of Grecian mould, - Whose perfect form and symmetry - Is like Apollo’s of old; - He speaks to fellows in the deep, - Whose heads move ’mid the curling gleams, - Alas, that death should ever reap - Among such scenes of pleasant dreams! - - But nature always clamors for - What she hath lent to life a while, - And though we borrow more and more, - And all her powers do beguile, - Yet comes the hour on land or sea, - She asks for all with usury. - - The boy lifts up his hands and dives, - A pleasant plunge that has no dread, - But I recall some precious lives, - Which thus were reckoned ’mongst the dead, - And in my heart, at end of day, - A prayer for the lads I say. - - - _Fifth Evening_ - - Song of the West-wind o’er the waves, - Song of the billows, as the lave - The shoreline with a mystic moan, - Song of the rushes in the shallow, - Song of the aspen tree and sallow,-- - Ever as the undertone. - - Song of cicadas and the cricket - From ragged grasses and the thicket, - Song of the whirring dragon-fly, - That goes to sea, but for to die, - Song of the warblers, flitting nigh, - Song of the loon’s weird, distant cry. - - Song of a horn on yonder hill, - That echoes in the far away, - The tone is soft as of a rill,-- - “The end of a perfect day”-- - As sinks the sun, and I depart, - With all this music in my heart. - - - - - TWILIGHT - - - A dull, pink evening sky, - A white ridge shadow-streaked below, - The tall, dark trees near by,-- - In the deep snow. - - Two horses, one is white, - As white as is the new-fall’n snow, - The other black as darkest night,-- - Along the highway go. - - One, emblem of the parting day, - The other, of approaching night, - And o’er the hill the rosy ray - Of this one hour’s delight. - - - - - APRIL - - - O, I love the month of April, when the southwind gently blows, - Calling nature from its slumber, from cold winter’s long repose, - Till the meadow its awakening by a tint of verdure shows, - And the willow with bright saffron in the evening sunshine glows; - - When the meadow-lark is standing on the fence-post, with its throat - Lifted up to merry lovesongs which across the prairies float; - When the robin on the house-lawn proudly stands in his red coat, - Then a-sudden makes departure with a shrill and happy note;-- - - When the air is full of meaning, clothed in life’s sweet mystery, - Touching all things with its magic, even with love’s ecstasy, - And you see it and you feel it, it is upon land and sea, - It is nature’s Easter dawning after drear Gethsemane. - - And the children’s faces brighten, and their laughter has a ring - Which no winter-sport could give them, and no lamplight play could bring; - Even the aged in whose bosom life’s enchantments seldom sing, - Take a pleasure in the message of this happy month of spring. - - Jocund April, lovely April, of all months my choice thou art, - Since in thee there is a solace for all nature’s weary heart, - And in thee there is a promise that we all shall have a part - In the hope which man professes through his worship and his art. - - - - - I’M A PART OF THE WIND AND THE CURLING WAVE - - - I’m a part of the wind and the curling wave, - Of the budding trees and the tender blade, - A part of the life that has burst its grave, - Of crocus and buttercup studding the glade, - Of the goose-berry bush and the shadow it throws, - Of the moss on the rocks and the slender ferns, - Of the burly weed that earliest grows, - And all that quickens and upward yearns. - - I’m a part of the light, and the golden flash - Of the flicker’s wing o’er the glittering pond, - Of the sable crow in the lofty ash, - A-calling his mate in the trees beyond; - Of the dragon-fly’s gossamer wing and flight; - Of the insect just risen from winter’s sleep; - Of things that find in the sun delight, - Whether they blossom, or fly, or creep. - - A part of the risen life and the all - Eternal Spirit, anew each spring, - Wherefore I follow its kindly call, - To hear the carol His angels sing,-- - What saith it? O, you must hear it alone, - In the paths of the woods on an April day, - And feel, as I do, you are truly one - With nature--to fathom the glorious lay. - - - - - THE CHIPPING SPARROW - - - The clouds are hanging dark and low, - The budding trees are still quite bare, - And from the North the cold winds blow, - Of spring we almost might despair. - - But from the branches, ashen gray, - Outside my window, comes a song, - A warbling Chipping Sparrow’s lay, - To cold and dimness nonchalant. - - His music has a thrilling joy, - It warms the soul, allures a smile, - Its brooding doubts he does destroy, - And makes it happy like a child. - - And now a sudden, cheering gleam - Falls on him from a rift of blue, - I see him in a golden dream,-- - I know that song alone is true. - - His crimson tuft a poet’s crown, - His tawny breast a badge of love, - And that clear sunray coming down, - Our Father’s watchful eye above. - - - - - IN THE LILAC-BLOSSOM-TIME - - - When the fragrance of the purple and lavender lilac-bloom - Meets the sweet distilled aroma from the plum and apple-trees, - And the dainty scent of violets amid the garden-gloom, - Where’s the music of the hum and drone of pollen-painted bees, - Then my soul takes up its harp, which long upon the willows hung, - And attunes it to the gladness that is floating in the air, - For it is in lilac-blossom-time that everything grows young, - And the heart of man is lighter, and has little less of care. - - In the lilac-blossom-time it seems, the brown thrush blithest sings, - And the wood-dove cooes the deepest from a breast brimful with love, - And the Oriole’s glad music clearest ’mongst the branches rings, - To its mate that sits abrooding on the nest upon the bough; - And the Whip-poor-will is calling from the woodlands dark, at eve, - With a zest which makes the farmer feel that even the night hath song, - And in the cool of day he thinks, it is quite good to live, - “Since after toil I here can rest the lilac-trees among.” - - In the lilac-blossom-time, methinks, are children happiest, - Since with that blossoms’ coming a great liberty draws nigh, - The days of school are over, and they feel supremely blest - In the days mid nature’s glories, ’neath the blue and open sky, - Or to lie beneath the lilacs with a story-book in hand, - Reading perfume into fancies, Puck and fairies twixt each line, - Till the heart is with them dancing in a happy wonderland, - While the shadows of the after-noon with lilac hues combine. - - In the lilac-blossom-time the lovers often fondly meet, - And drink the blossom’s odor, a true potency for dreams, - And oftest when the evening-dew makes it a tenfold sweet, - A-trembling like a tear of joy within the clear moonbeam, - The youth in his new happiness a prince of kingdoms is, - The maiden is a being fair, as from some other clime, - And heaven itself is upon earth in that pure, binding kiss, - There in her father’s garden in the lilac-blossom-time. - - - - - THE RUNNEL’S DITTY - - - I met a runnel amid the meads, - In the evening, in the evening, - And it did ramble ’mongst rush and reeds, - In the evening, in the evening, - And I did linger to hear its song, - As it did carelessly wind along, - In the evening, in the evening. - - What sang the runnel upon its way? - In the evening, in the evening; - I listened long to its happy lay, - In the evening, in the evening; - But all my musing seemed but in vain, - And all its music awoke but pain, - In the evening, in the evening. - - The blooming thornapple on its bank, - Also listened, also listened, - And flags and buttercups, dewy dank, - Also listened, also listened; - And thrushes nestling in alder-trees, - Did hush their babes with its melodies, - And they listened, and they listened. - - I asked the violets on its side, - In the evening, in the evening,-- - If they its song would to me confide, - In the evening, in the evening; - And like some children of guileless soul - They said: “Its lay is the song of all, - In the evening, in the evening.” - - “The ceaseless longing to reach the sea, - In the evening, in the evening; - The song of life and eternity, - In the evening, in the evening; - A lay of love in the early morn, - A lay of hope to the lone and lorn,-- - In the evening, in the evening.” - - - - - THE CHILD AND THE GOSPEL OF ST. JOHN - - - She pored o’er the open page - Of the Gospel, according to John, - Where the Ruler did Christ engage - At hours of the silent night, - And sought for his soul that light, - Which God sent forth through His Son. - - But she could not read a word, - A child of four summers she, - Not ever, even once, had she heard - That story of second birth, - Nor asked, like the wise of the earth, - “O, Lord, how can these things be?” - - Her face had the glory of heaven, - The look of an angel her eye, - I said: “And to her it is given - To know, for her soul is one - With the soul of this page of John, - And the wisdom that comes from on high.” - - - - - THE BIRTHDAY CAKE - - - Five little candles on her birthday cake, - Five little candles brightly burning, - We gaze on them, while memories awake - Of happy moments, nevermore returning. - - Five little years of childhood happiness, - Five little years, when oft we played together, - How often did her love and joy us bless, - When days seemed dark, and stormy was the - weather. - - The tiny lights are dying one by one, - As one by one the years their flight have taken, - I shed a tear for that which thus is gone, - And kiss the child for whom the cake was baken. - - - - - MY GOLDFISH - - - Five little goldfish in a vase - My simple study-room do grace, - And oft when tired of reading books, - I turn to them my weary looks, - And pleasure find in their quaint ways, - Reminding me of ancient lays. - - Amid the deep, on sparkling sands, - A tow’ring Gothic castle stands, - Its gates and windows open wide, - Through which the lustrous carplings glide, - Like sea-nymphs in the days of old, - Like mermaids in an age of gold. - - They hide beneath the dark green weed, - And fondly on its frondlets feed, - It seems an island near the shore, - Where Lorelei did sing of yore, - And gold and green most softly blend, - As then--ere romance had an end. - - O, days of legendary lore, - Of fairy-folk and nymphs galore! - When tired of this prosaic age, - And weary of the modern page, - I find my golden fish suggest - The dreams with which your life was blest. - - - II - - Sometimes, when in uphappy mood, - I on my limitations brood, - And think how narrow the confines, - In which the soul almost repines, - I turn again--just to behold - My finny friends of burnished gold. - - How little is their rounded sphere, - Though rivers wide are rushing near! - How little chance themselves to be, - In freedom’s realm, the sunny sea! - I wonder not that mournful gape, - And rolling glance they seem to ape. - - Yet, all the pity I bestow - Is tearless, since in heart I know, - It would be fatal for my fish - To leave the boun’dry of their dish, - For they would be an easy prey - To larger ones in stream or bay. - - And then this moral comes to me, - While craving larger liberty; - It might be death the bounds to break, - Which fate and duty round me make, - So be content and get the best - Of what, perhaps, is but a jest. - - - - - THE FIDDLER’S CHRISTMAS MUSIC - - (Founded on a Norwegian Folk-lore.) - - - There lived in the land of Ole Bull - A peasant-fiddler of old, - Whose soul with music was often more full - Than his violin ever told. - He knew not the art of clefs and notes, - Such seemed but some mystic runes, - But he heard the music that richly floats - In nature’s unwritten tunes. - - He played for the dances at many a farm, - Led many a bridal train, - And everywhere did he naively charm - The mirth-loving maid and swain; - But sometimes he played in a lonely place, - When no one, perchance, was near, - And then there was sadness in his face, - In his eyes a furtive tear. - - For the strains which he heard he could never play, - Though trying it o’er and o’er, - Forgotten they were from day to day, - And wandered his way no more; - Sometimes in anger he flung the thing, - Which would not obey his soul, - Then took it again with its broken string, - Like a mother her child from his fall. - - On a Christmas eve he had listened long - To the tones in the snowy air-- - The bells that sent forth their joyous song, - Re-echoing here and there - In mountain hollow or forest deep, - Or far o’er the frozen fjord, - A thousand voices woke from their sleep, - To join in the heavenly chord. - - In the house the Christmas feast was spread, - And he ate and drank as he should, - There was meat and pudding and raisin bread, - And the Yule-tide brew was good; - They feasted well on that holy eve, - And did not forget a pray’r, - And the fiddler felt it was good to live, - For banished he had all care. - - In his sleep that night he seemed to see - His room full of fairy-folk, - They danced about with a wondrous glee - To the tunes their fiddler awoke-- - Such tunes as he never had heard before, - So soft, so clear, and gay, - Like silver ripples against a shore, - In the morn of a summer’s day. - - He saw the player, his strings and bow, - Each touch of his finger tips, - From which such gladness did overflow, - With pleasure of lovers’ lips; - He asked the elfin to teach him one, - Ah, one from his repertoire, - Which he gladly did, and when it was done, - Another, just for encore. - - He taught him three, and he taught him four, - Yea, six, while the fairies danced, - Till a tankard of beer fell to the floor, - At which the elfin glanced, - And saw a cross on its side engraved, - Then rose and run with a cry, - The fairies following, as morning waved - His rosy plumes in the sky. - - The peasant awoke from his fairy dream, - Sought his fiddle, began to play, - And strange enough, as it now may seem, - Remembered tunes in the elfin way, - He played them all till the day shone bright, - He played them all till the church bells rang, - To call to mass among candle lights, - To hear the story which angels sang. - - But neither mass, nor the homily - Could fix his mind on the solemn things; - An absent look in his face one might see, - And his fingers moved as on fiddle-strings; - His wife did see it and almost wept, - And prayed that he for sweet heaven’s sake - Might be from fairies and devils kept, - Both when asleep, or when awake. - - That Christmas season, for three weeks long, - He played for dances, yea, every night, - His melodies were both sweet and strong, - And gave the people such great delight, - They said they never before had heard - Such music come from a violin, - And wondereed much of what things had stirred - The fiddler’s heart, or where he had been. - - But this he kept to himself alone, - For often since he the fairies saw, - List to their music when brightly shone - The moon on greensward or glitt’ring snow, - And more and more did he learn their art, - Yea, some did whisper, he was possest, - But he had won every woman’s heart, - When he was old, and was laid to rest. - - - - - CRUEL KITTY - - - Kitty is playing on the side of the hill, - All in the new-mown grass, - Hunting a butterfly; O, don’t you kill - That beautiful thing, alas! - She caught it and wounded its wings! - - “How cruel of kitty to play in this way;” - Your friend on top of the hill, - If she were alive, now surely would say, - Alas, that her voice should be still! - That prattled of beautiful things. - - In her grave on the hill the little one lies; - Her kitten at play in the hay; - And looking thereon a mother’s heart cries, - With grief she is pining away, - Like the butterfly’s sunder-torn wings. - - - - - TO---- - - - Were I an artist, I would paint thee thus:-- - Tall, lithe and slender, like a Grecian youth - In flowing garb, whose lines enhance the form, - A face whose soul is innocence and truth, - And eyes of dreamy love, that blesses us - With gladness, like the sunlight after storm. - - Were I a master of sweet music, I - Would turn the rhythm of thy motion, and - Thy voice and laughter into melody, - A symphony, fit for a royal band, - With joy of glitt’ring waves and zephyr’s sigh - With love’s entrancement and pure ecstasy. - - But I, alas, have nothing but a rhyme, - In which to clothe the pleasure of an hour,-- - An hour amid the fields and on the stream; - I picked for thee the rarest, sweetest flower, - A wild rose, mingling odor with the thyme, - Since that seems truest of a poet’s dream. - - - - - FAREWELL - - - Farewell, dear lass, it grieves me much - That thou must leave us here alone, - Thou gav’st our summer months a touch - Of happiness, as seldom known, - Thou gavest such a sunny cheer, - That every day seemed like a play, - And now, when autumn’s winds blow drear, - Thou needs must go so far away! - - The leaves lie yellow on the lawn, - The blackbirds gather into flocks, - The thrush and lark have long since gone, - The crows sit cawing on the rocks, - The heavy clouds soar wild and black - Across the meadows, sear with frost, - I stand alone beneath their wrack, - And feel that summer’s joy is lost. - - But I shall ne’er forget thy smile, - And ever in my heart shall ring - The laughter which did e’er beguile - Each brooding care to take its wing, - Thy winsomeness which woke my soul - From lethargy’s dun dreariness - Shall leave a glamour over all, - And even winter’s darkness bless. - - So fare thee well, my brown-eyed lass, - May heaven keep thee pure and sweet! - May ne’er a shadow o’er thee pass - Of evil’s harm or dark deceit! - And mayst thou from the Southern clime - Return when April’s breezes blow, - When minstrel hosts perceive ’tis time - To lift their wings and northward go. - - - - - ALONE - - - It is good to be all alone, - In the dark of the night, aye, the starry night, - When those you love truest are from you gone, - In the far away, beyond sound and sight; - When the wind is singing its sad, strange song - In gloomy tree-tops, a-tow’ring high, - And whispers the names for whom you long, - And the love for which you sigh. - - It is good to be all alone with one’s soul,-- - The soul which so seldom has chance to speak; - It is good to be freed from the narrow and small, - To rise from the vale to the mountain peak, - To be guided by stargleams into a sphere, - Where the world does not reach with its clamour and cry, - And there in the silence pause, till you hear - Your innermost self and the God that is nigh. - - - - - LINES ON AN OLD SONGBOOK - - - An old hymnbook, owned by my great-grandmother, and bearing the - following inscription: - - Cenfebam Hafniae d. 9 Sept. Anno 1684, - - is a collection of hymns and religious songs, written by Dorothe - Engelbrets Datter, a poetess of considerable distinction in Norway and - Denmark in the 17th century. - - I faintly can remember still - A scene from childhood years, - A picture dim which always will - Be treasured in my heart until - Beyond the change of good and ill, - It glorified appears. - - I saw through an half-open door - An aged woman’s face, - Amid the sunlight on the floor, - Uplifted and it seemed adore - A heavenly vision, or implore - For mercy and for grace. - - An open book was in her hand, - From which she read and sang, - I was too young to understand, - And yet I thought it was most grand, - A music from a better land - Which through her singing rang. - - This is the book, or part thereof, - An aged, thumbworn tome, - Quaint hymns of penitence and love, - By one whom heaven did endow - With glory fit for Sapho’s brow, - Far in her northern home. - - I look upon each yellow page, - Each stain and finger-mark, - And see in them my heritage,-- - My Great Grandmother’s heritage, - Which did her pious soul engage, - In times remote and dark. - - - - - PEARLS AND PALACES - - - I wandered down a dusty road, - And spent myself to sheer fatigue, - Until I fell beneath a load - Of misery and man’s intrigue, - When all at once I saw a string - Of lustrous pearls, close by the way, - It seemed such strange a hap and thing, - That I believed my sense astray. - - But as I dared to touch the gems, - And as I felt their soft delight, - And saw the coloring, which hems - The robe of dawn o’er snowcapped height, - Play in their orbs, I felt a thrill - Of pleasure surging through my soul, - And then a peace, so rare and still, - Upon my restless heart to fall. - - At length I rose to journey on, - But with a new-born strength and zest, - The burden gone, I saw the sun, - I felt that life is heaven-blest, - The string of pearls I treasured most, - And guarded it with fondest care, - Lest such a fount of joy be lost, - Lest doubt again should me ensnare. - - I travelled long, at last I came - Into a place of Palaces, - Such as in heaven have highest fame, - But which the earthbound covet less; - The saints of old did know them well, - And gave their all that they might win - Admittance to the humblest cell, - And God’s forgiveness for their sin. - - Each pearl became within my hand - A key wherewith the doors to ope, - And angel guides did ready stand - To point to each sincerest hope; - And dazzling glory filled the halls, - To archéd roof the music rose, - And master’s art adorned the walls, - And o’er it all hung sweet repose. - - The first and nearest door, I tried, - Was one a singer, long ago, - Found when distressed with pain he cried - For healing streams to him to flow, - Then sang his praise alone to Him, - “Who healeth all thy sicknesses,” - And there I found a truth, now dim, - That God with health the sick can bless. - - Another palace-door a pearl - Swung open widely to my gaze, - And like the waves that gently curl - Upon the sunlit water’s face, - There came in waves of harmony - A thousand voices in this place, - All promises of things to be, - And of His daily help of grace. - - As the orchestral melody - By variations is enhanced, - So did his words: “Come unto me,” - Lead jubilant; I stood entranced,-- - “Come unto me, I’ll give you rest, - My yoke is easy, burden light,”-- - Ah, here I found all that my quest - Had sought in weariness and night. - - Another pearl did ope the gate - To throne-rooms of the Sovereign’s pow’r, - Where not a shadow of dark Fate - Had part in any dial’s hour; - But truth and righteousness and love - Did govern life and destiny, - The Sovereign’s will, supreme above - The ways of man, did all decree. - - And in this hour of awful gloom, - When faith is wrecked, and hope is low, - The glory from this Palace-room - Makes all the mountain-peaks aglow; - And shadows flee from vale and plain, - And struggling armies see a gleam, - Commensurate with grief and pain,-- - The truth of what seemed but a dream. - - My rosary has many beads, - I need an endless life to learn, - To what exalted things each leads, - For which my soul doth truly yearn,-- - And when the innermost I gain, - There hangs a cross which lights the way - To Palace-portals where I fain - Would be this moment, and for aye. - - - - - VICTOR HUGO - - - It was on a midsummer night, - Now long ago, - In the far-off land of Norway, - I sat in an open window, - And dreamed. - - The valley and hills and distant mountains - Were all like a dream - In the soft light and wonderful calm - Of the night. - - The odor of cherry-blossoms and birch, - And the mingled perfume from meadows and hills and vale - Wrought with a fairy-potion, - Dreams and thrills of the soul. - - The lazy smoke of the Saint John’s fire - Like pillars rose from the wooded heights - To the sky cerulian, - Where the evening star shone bright, - Like an eye that twinkles with tears of joy; - It shimmered above a cataract, - Whose music rose and fell - Where the river leaped over the rocks to the fjord. - - The night had voices: - Laughter and singing of youth round the bonfires; - Purling of streams, and twitter of sleepless birds; - Yet all was peace, and joy, and life, - And mystery such as the Avon Bard - Did see and hear on a Midsummer night. - - I was but a boy, and the names of the great - Were new to me, and yet not strange,-- - I knew not why. - That day I had read about Hugo, - That he, the greatest of singers - In our own day, was dead; - I felt a heart-gripping sorrow, - And wept as over a friend. - - It seemed that his spirit was there, - In the dreams of that Saint John’s night, - That all the fairies and flowers and streams - Were greeting him with a love that had sadness, - And yet which rose on the wings of gladness, - Up to the stars. - - My soul did feel it, I know not how, - That he was there, a part of it all, - The Highpriest of Nature, Romance and Life. - - - - - TO A FRIEND - - - In the stillness of the evening, - When the dew is on the grass, - And the forest stands a-dreaming, - ’Round the moonlit lake of glass, - Do I hear a sighing whisper, - As when happy lovers part, - It is thine I hear, my lady, - Rising from all nature’s heart. - - When the autumn winds are blowing, - And the yellow leaves fall down, - Whirled upon the river, flowing - To the mighty, distant sound,-- - Then I hear thy soul a-weeping, - For the love that is no more, - For the life now in God’s keeping, - On a far-off, unknown shore. - - When the fields and hills are covered - With a blanket of pure snow, - And the streams, where oft we hovered, - Unseen ’neath the thick ice flow, - Then I know thy life lies hidden - Under sorrow’s wintry plaid, - But the hope, which seems forbidden, - In its course cannot be staid. - - When in spring new life is risen - From the grave with songs of joy, - Then thy soul shall leave its prison, - And its broken harp employ, - Then again that sighing whisper, - Charged with love and happiness, - I shall hear amid the woodlands - Which the dreamy lake caress. - - - - - TO A “KNOCKER” - - - This sturdy world is hard to knock, - Though hit it as you may, - It moves, unmindful of the shock,-- - In its accustomed way. - - It laughs a little cynic laugh - And says: “Fall into line, - The use of Mose’ rod and staff - Is but for the divine. - - “Come, son, or thou must surely die, - One fool the more or less - Will not provoke a mournful cry, - Nor cause an hour’s distress. - - “So know thy best, be like the rest, - And stop thy foolish knocking, - Who cares for ‘vision’ and for ‘quest,’ - Save one, the quest of shopping.” - - - - - A VISION - - - To-day I had a vision of the thing - Which we call life--the sum of human life-- - In person of an upright monster-man, - Decked in a foot-long robe of many hues, - Whose front was squares of yellow, red and green, - And blue and purple and the violet, - Whose back was sombre brown, but mostly black; - His large and bony feet strode heavily, - A-trampling, upon beings in his path, - On men and women and on little babes, - And crushed them in the dust without a pity, - Once in a while he lifted to his breast - Some one with fondling pleasure, and did bear - - The favorite aloft, that all might see - His glory’s contrast to their misery; - But then at length, he tired of even such, - And cast them down into the common dust. - I looked upon his visage, strangest this, - A blending of the human and the beast:-- - But then the vision vanished, and I heard - A cry and circling of the Pheonix bird. - - - - - SIGNS CELESTIAL - - - I read in the mystic Kabbala - That there is a creature in heaven - To which the most blessed Jehovah - Two wonderful tokens hath given: - - A word in its forehead at morning, - A word in its forehead at night, - Like jewels those words are adorning - The creature with glory and light. - - The first one is “Truth” which is telling - The angels of heaven, it is day, - Its lustre most joyous, compelling, - Is guiding and keeping their way. - - The other is “Faith,” which betoken - That night is advancing apace, - With rays that are dimmer and broken, - Like sunset through silvery haze. - - And I pondered this much, till I ventured - The signs on this world to apply, - Though Rabbins of old might have censured, - And judged that for this I must die. - - But the sign that is set on this creature-- - The world--I perceive is the last, - The first may belong to the future, - When night’s gloomy vigils are past. - - - - - DESPAIR - - - Hence vain, illusive Hope, - Thou errant guide, thou jesting, mocking fool! - For thee should be the hangman’s rope, - Or drowning in the deepest pool, - Or everlasting prison in the darkest pit - Of Dante’s hell, - Where like a Siren thou should’st sit - And mock thyself by saying: all is well. - - I henceforth choose black Melancholy’s aid,-- - The only prophetess of real truth, - Who nothing promises, who never made - A fair illusion for aspiring youth;-- - “All is nothing,” she doth whisper still, - A whisper from a Sibyl’s cave it seems, - A soothing balm for every human ill, - A true solution of man’s checkered dreams. - - Thou sable sovereign of man’s destiny, - Thou cypress-crowned queen of night and grave, - Thou ruler of man’s woe and misery,-- - The world’s great cry which like a wave - Breaks on the rocks of cruel Fate,-- - Thou autocrat of all that overwhelms - Man’s soul with sorrow, disappointment, hate, - To thee belongs, at last, all worlds and realms. - - - - - HOPE - - - When mid the ruins of my life - I sit dejected and forlorn, - And think, how useless was the strife - That was by strong ambitions borne, - And count the years and reck the cost, - Which all seem idly spent and vain, - Fair Hope comes, saying: “Nought is lost, - Life’s failures bring the better gain!” - - When sorrow, troubles come in flocks, - Like angry clouds, driven by the blast, - Like waves against the riven rocks, - On which my helpless soul is cast, - And night and darkness come apace, - With not a friend around to cheer, - Again she shows her angel face, - And whispers gently: “Do not fear.” - - When by the graves of those I love - Dark doubts are hovering around, - She lifts my tearful look above - The withered lily on the mound, - And in the blue, so far away, - I see a gleam, it seems a smile,-- - Again I hear her softly say: - “Despair not, wait a little while.” - - O, blessed Hope, without whose aid, - No victory is ever won, - In life’s sweet morn and sunny glade, - Or evening shadows drear and dun, - Thou art our guardian angel, who - Walks with us, when all others fail, - And scatters roses, fresh with dew,-- - O, heaven-born all hail! all hail! - - - - - BE STILL MY SOUL, BE STILL - - - Be still my soul, be still; - Fret not thyself with cares of life, - With worldly vanity and strife, - Which bring but ill. - - Withdraw thyself and be alone, - Alone in holy solitude, - Then shalt thou know the highest good, - And for thy sins atone. - - Then shalt thou know the harmony - Of sweet celestial strains, - Whose soothing notes allay the pains - Brought on by human misery. - - This world is void of peace,-- - ’Tis nowhere found, except within, - When from the earthly gain to win, - Thou deignest cease. - - - - - AWAKE - - - The livelong night I lie awake, - While all the world is slumbering, - And weary I am numbering - The hours which on the stillness break; - - The hours, which give to others balm, - The blessed balm of soothing sleep, - My mind in cruel torture keep, - And yet demand a perfect calm. - - The hours whose loss I oft bewail - At close of busy workingday, - Now gladly I hear pass away, - And the approaching morning hail. - - And yet their woe hath recompense, - Which sleeping mortals do not know, - For gentle voices come and go, - With solace to the weary sense. - - From distant meadows comes the sound - Of cowbells, stirred at intervals, - And to my heart with joy recalls - The age when in their clang I found - - Suggestions of a fairy land, - When Elfins rang their silver bells - In flow’ry meads and shady dells, - Or on the quiet moonlit strand. - - I hear the cricket’s autumn song, - The ceaseless music of the night, - It tells about the summer’s flight, - And of its life, so full and strong, - - Of memories with love aglow, - In youth and manhood’s fuller life, - Of vanished days with glory rife, - Whose joys I ne’er again shall know. - - And far away the river sings - Its lullaby out to the sea, - A sense of rest comes over me, - Perhaps sweet sleep at last it brings. - - - - - THE AWAKENING - - - Some morn I shall awake and find life’s dreams are ended, - And find its fears and hopes have into meaning blended, - And from the gloom of night the day, at last, ascended. - - To find that storms and waves have into calm subsided, - My well-nigh broken bark has into harbor glided, - And find the compass true in which my soul confided. - - - - - ASTERS - - - A bunch of fresh asters, purple and white and red, - Stands on my table, fixed in a Mexican bowl, - Thanks I did render for food which my body has fed, - But not for the blossoms that gladdened and nourished my soul. - - The joy they awake may be truer thanksgiving, - Though wordless, accepted by Him who did say: - “Man by the bread alone shall not be living,” - And bid us behold the fair lilies that grow by the way. - - - - - BUTTERFLIES - - - I sit on my porch the long after-noon, - And dream, and dream, and dream; - And the butterflies hover across the lawn, - In shadow and golden beam, - From flower to flower they flutter and fly, - The sweet of their beauty to find, - And out of my dream I wake with a cry: - “Ah, thus is my unquiet mind!” - - For the chalice of life has few sweets for me, - But mostly some bitter thing, - The flowers which I planted with youthful glee, - So often their poison bring, - And the dreams that I dream are of things that are past, - With remorse for their follies and hopes, - That the few joys of life so briefly do last, - And the noon-day so rapidly slopes. - - Yet, the butterflies dance for a time without care, - And why should I murmur and fret, - While the summer is here, and all nature is fair, - And gleams mid the shadows are set? - I’ll banish remorse and the sorrow which slays, - And dance with the butterflies gay, - And dream little less, and enter the ways - Of things which remain for a day. - - - - - THE ROSEBUSH - - - Against a quivering, golden beam, - Where dance a myriad winged things, - A rosebush stands, entranced in a dream, - While one gay thrush in the elm-tree sings, - It sends from wealth of a perfume sweet - An offering up to the happy bard, - Whose flood of melody flows to meet - The floating essence of wild-rose nard. - - The flush of pink amid shades of green, - Is like a wreath for a June-day bride, - Its crown is decked with a lustrous sheen, - Yet it has gloom where the fairies hide, - For this is midsummer’s perfect eve, - When minds are roving on fancy’s wing, - When hearts are young and all things believe, - And childhood’s gladness from long since bring. - - A rare creation, a gift divine, - This rosebush is in my garden nook, - Whose beauty all of the sacred Nine - Would fancy more than the wisest book, - For not a poet in any age - Did joyful loveliness e’er express - Like that which lolls round the unseen mage, - So perfect, charming, and effortless. - - It stands apart from the world of woe, - An yet has balm for the troubled mind, - An holy altar where one may know - The joy of beauty, and solace find, - Since God is there as in days of eld, - When Moses heard Him ’mid flaming thorn, - (For I have always in secret held, - That bush had also its roses borne.) - - From crowds pretentious and gibbering, - I turn oppressed to this holy place, - Instead of clamor, the thrushes sing, - Instead of crudeness, the perfect grace; - My soul is free, as I bend to kiss - The smiling rose, whose enchanting breath - Fills all my being with such a bliss, - That I could wish it the sting of death. - - - - - TWO ASPECTS - - - There’s a golden light on one side of the tree, - On the other there is a shadow, - The shadowy side goes out to me, - The other runs down to the meadow, - And the light is beckoning me away - To the leas and fields of new-mown hay, - Beckoning out from the shadow. - - There’s a shadowyness on one side of the tree, - On the other a golden light, - And the shadowy side is inviting me - To rest in its sweet delight, - For the porches are wide, and the ladies are fair, - And the heat of the sun is not striking there,-- - And I stand at the tree in a plight. - - - - - THE GREAT “I AM” - - - Thou art, and there is nought besides Thee! - Man’s myriad errors in thought and striving, - Seen and unseen, are not of Thee! - They are not,-- - But self-eliminating,-- - Since Thou alone art Truth and Love. - - What is of man’s finiteness - Is nothing in Thy Everlastingness;-- - He only is; That only is, - Which is a part of Thee in mind or matter! - - - - - THE DEATH CHANT - - - I heard a chant and a wailing, - Among the wooded hills, - From an Indian hut where they carried away - A man from his earthly ills. - - The black-garbed women were chanting - The weirdest song I have heard-- - An Indian lamentation, - Till nature itself seemed stirred. - - And my heart was filled with pity, - As I saw that band forlorn, - Its poverty and sorrow-- - On that bright September morn. - - And I thought of their ancient story, - When the country was all their own, - And they dwelt ’mid its unshorn glory-- - A splendor to us unknown-- - - The glory of forest and prairie, - A-teeming with herds and game, - And the rivers and streams and glittering lakes-- - For food but another name. - - When they were lords of the realms they surveyed, - And lived to their heart’s content, - Till the white man came and robbed them - Of all but their rotting tent. - - And the chiefs sat down in the ashes - Mid the hearth-stones of the past, - And a race of pride and adventure - Stood round with eyes downcast. - - And the songs of the chase and the battle, - And the ballads of joy were hushed-- - But the death-chant is still remembered, - By hearts that are sad and crushed. - - And it seemed like the wail of a people - Whose sun upon earth has set-- - The chant of the weeping women, - And the men to burial met. - - - - - THE LETTER - - - I wrote a letter from my heart, - Aglow with pain and passion, - In angry words and sudden start - Of pity and compassion. - - The thing was done in utmost haste, - The pen inclined to caper, - I count it now an awful waste - Of rather decent paper. - - And when the thing, I had achieved, - Was folded in my pocket, - My soul felt wondrously relieved, - Spent, like a fiery rocket. - - When I did think of sending it, - I made a vague decision, - That it should wait a little bit, - Ere going on its mission. - - It waited one, it waited two - And three days for the mailing, - And on the fourth myself did go - Where it was sure of failing. - - Upon our journey did we cross - A stream of gentle flowing, - Where I impulsively did toss, - Against the breezes blowing,-- - - The letter torn to smithereens, - Like snowflakes slow descending, - Received by lambent hyalines - And current gaily wending. - - Thus on the river’s peaceful breast - My words of pain were carried, - Some swiftly with the stream’s unrest, - And some did longer tarry. - - And to the sea may be they sailed, - Where ocean swells are moaning, - Where life’s great agony is wailed - Mid nature’s endless groaning. - - Though nought is lost, yet it is well - To let the fiery letter - Find such a fate, for it will quell - Things that destroy the better. - - And this advice I freely give: - Write down your spirit’s frowning, - For three days let it lonely live, - Then kill it all by drowning. - - - - - GOD’S TRUTH-TELLER - - - The poet is no liar. No! - Though truth may not be told - By him, just so, and so,-- - By weight, and measure, or the cold - And soulless numbers-- - By facts, so called, that cloy and cumber - The Psyche in its flight - Into that heavenly light - Of things, which children know,-- - And poets see and feel - In beauty, which is truth, - Whose life-inspiring glow - Sometimes doth steal - Upon him, as does love upon the youth, - And moves his heart to song-- - The music of his being, - Whose notes are pure and strong, - While he is seeing - God’s Seraphims, and all - The earth replete with glory,-- - And hears the call - From ages hoary - To his own day, and times to be-- - The voice of God; - Truth-teller he, - Despite the rod - Of proud custodians - Of labelled “scientific facts” sans - Poetry,-- - Before whom he refuses to bend knee;-- - Truth-teller he, because to him was given - The vision to behold--the glory-trail of heaven, - In little things and great, - In life, and death, and destiny, and fate. - - - - - THE DEATH OF THE POET - - (Suggested by Gottschalk’s composition, “The Dying Poet.”) - - - Life’s checkered dream is over, - Ended its joys and woes; - Silent the bard and the lover - Down to the valley goes; - Down to the dark, broad river - Wanders his restless soul, - Into the vast Forever, - Which he so oft heard call,-- - Ever, forever, - Singing through each and all. - - Over him spirits hover, - Spirits who knew his life, - Knew all that holy power-- - Wasted in grief and strife,-- - Knew how he gave, not heeding - Sordidness, greed and sin, - Knew how his heart was bleeding, - Only the true to win,-- - Ever, forever, - Living within. - - Music too vast for language, - Bursting the bonds and bounds, - Now shall be free from anguish, - Free from discordant sounds, - Finding what here it never - Reached in its noblest fight, - The cadence of life’s forever, - The glory of deathless light,-- - Ever, forever, - Leading him through the night. - - Pale now the brow of the singer, - Undecked by laurel-wreath, - Only a few friends linger, - To whom he his songs bequeathed; - But a host is waiting yonder, - Whose praise on his ears doth burst, - And the soul, who does lonely wander, - Shall quench its immortal thirst,-- - Ever, forever, - And the things that are last shall be first. - - - - - IN SEARCH OF THE PERFECT - - - The snow was new, and soft, and deep, - The forest far away from me, - And yet how could I Christmas keep - Without a perfect Christmas tree? - - So I set out, a boy of twelve, - With sled in hand to reach the pines, - And through the snow made for myself - A track amid most wild confines. - - Beneath the lofty trees there stood - Full many a little evergreen, - And all were straight, and seemed quite good, - But not a perfect one was seen. - - I waded on from tree to tree, - And thought, at times my choice I’d found, - But lo, it lacked true symmetry, - True symmetry from top to ground. - - And thus the afternoon was spent, - Until the evening-shadows fell, - My axe, at last, was deftly sent - Into a spruce, each stroke did tell - - Its fate through all the silent wood, - On echoes distant, echoes near, - Which seemed to say in mocking mood: - “The perfect one is here--is here!” - - My ardor for the perfect one - Subsided as I strapped my prize, - Half of my strength was also gone, - And easy was the compromise. - - My basking in the new-fall’n snow - Had drenched me and brought on a chill, - The homeward journey, long and slow, - Sent me to bed severely ill. - - Long was I racked with fever’s fire, - My life was like a flick’ring light, - They thought its last gleam would expire - Amid the storm of New Year’s night. - - Thus did I almost pay full score - For that my first and youthful quest - For perfectness, and evermore - I’ve found this is her stern behest: - - Who would find me must give his all, - And even then may sorely fail, - But it adds glory to the soul - To walk in the Immortal’s trail. - - - - - THE CHRISTMAS CACTUS - - - Born on the desert’s sandy plain, - Born among thorns and heat and pain, - Brought to my home, amid cold and snow, - Unfolding blossoms of blood-drop glory, - Telling in symbol the Christ-child story, - And the way that He still must go. - - For tokens of joy in a world of woe, - ’Mid sorrow and loneliness often grow, - The word of truth and the song’s clear strain, - That warms the heart when the earth is frozen, - The Lord of life has nourished and chosen - In deserts of thorns and pain. - - But the beauty and joy of my Cactus flower - Has sweetest meaning at that great hour, - When the church-bells ring on Christmas eve, - Then its crimson seems with a wonder glowing, - And from its petals a love is flowing, - Which none but Christ can give. - - - - - CHRISTMAS NIGHT - - - Night, and a lonely star, - Night, with its deep repose, - A gleam of light from afar-- - To souls oppressed with woes. - - Light of the Bethlehem-star - On the inn and the shepherd-cotes, - That breaks o’er the golden bar, - Whence the angel-anthem floats. - - Song of peace upon earth, - Peace which to heaven has fled, - But shall find its second birth, - Where the blood of millions is shed. - - “Peace and good will to men!” - Verily ’tis His voice, - Bidding us trust again, - Yea, even in hope to rejoice. - - Let us follow the guiding ray, - Let us go to the manger and see - The things which the angel did say, - The things that must surely be. - - And our doubts and our fears shall cease, - As we enter the holy place, - Where dwelleth the Prince of Peace, - The Christ-child of love and grace. - - Like children we there will bend - Ourselves in true adoration, - And humbly in worship blend - With every people and nation. - - And sing with the unseen choir: - “A Saviour to us is born!” - Till kindles the heavenly fire - In our hearts on Christmas morn. - - - - - A NEW YEAR’S INVOCATION, 1918 - - - Lord in this hour of tempest dread, - Be Thou our stay! - While boisterous billows lift their head - Upon our way; - While angry clouds the sun obscure, - Be Thou our light! - And give us courage to endure - The night! - - Deliver us from coward’s fear, - And craven’s wish for pleasure. - Help us defend what is most dear, - With love’s full measure,-- - The Liberty our fathers won - Through storm and bloody fray, - The Liberty of Washington, - Of Lincoln, and of Clay! - - Grant us to guard this heritage - For all mankind, - That when the world shall cease to rage, - It here may find - The gift of Heaven, beyond all price, - To show the way, - That through this awful sacrifice - May dawn a better day! - - We know not what the year will bring - Of loss and sorrow; - But help us Thou in faith to sing - Of every morrow - As that of hope and victory, - And larger meed, - With trust that Thou wilt ever be - Our help in need! - - Thus we will breast the darkest storm, - Since not alone, - And confident, Thou wilt perform, - At last enthrone, - Thy righteous acts among all men, - And tyrants overthrow; - Grant that this year’s recording pen - Such victories may know! Amen. - - - - - EASTER - - - Our souls have need of Easter-- - Of resurrection light, - For never times were trister, - Nor darker seemed the night. - - Our souls have need of Easter - With sunrise on the tomb, - For Mary has many a sister - Who weeps within the gloom. - - Our souls have need of Easter, - Its lily pure and sweet, - As when the day-dawn kissed her - Before the Saviour’s feet. - - Our souls have need of Easter, - With angel heraldry, - Which breaks the base and bister - Seal of the Pharisee. - - Our souls have need of Easter, - With faith more glad and strong, - To be the firm resister - Of untruth and the wrong. - - Our souls have need of Easter, - Which scatter’s arméd foe, - Whose bloody spears still glister - Where midnight watch-fires glow. - - Our souls have need of Easter, - With gleams of victory - O’er powers dark and sinister, - And cruel tyranny. - - - - - SONNETS - - - - - LUX EX ORIENTE - -(Inscription on Haskal hall, University of Chicago) - - - A feeble light of mummy-cloth and bones, - From crumbling coffins and the broken tombs, - From hieroglyphic mysteries on stones, - Removed from pyramidal catacombs, - Or sacred rock-hewn shrines where silence, and - Dark night have reigned five thousand years,-- - A flick’ring flame, hid ’neath the desert sand, - And now revived, until its brightness clears - The gloom of history, thanks to the toil - Of sages who are following its gleam - Into the hoary past, and there the oil - Of wisdom find which turns the agelong dream - Of resurrection to reality, - And Egypt from Oblivion sets free. - - - - - ON THE STATUE OF VOLTAIRE - - (In the Art Institute, Chicago) - - - He looks upon the daily passing throng, - As in his day he gazed upon the world, - With cynic smile while it did pass along - With standards of its varied creeds unfurled; - Upon his forehead, reason’s citadel, - His searching thoughts have left their runic stamp; - The meager hands and neck the story tell, - How frail the temple of his spirit’s lamp; - In classic robe and fillet does he sit, - The poet-critic of France’ golden age, - By whom the torch of liberty was lit, - In truth and beauty on the written page;-- - And work and freedom in this sage did find - Their true apostle to all humankind. - - - - - A VENETIAN WELL-HEAD (XV CENTURY) - -(In the Gothic room of the Minneapolis Art Institute) - - - When I behold these grooves, cut in the edge - Of Istrian marble by the bucket-ropes, - Thy ancient history its romance opes - From Zorzi palace garden and its hedge: - I see the dark-eyed maidens, near the ledge, - And plumed signors feeding ardent hopes - From glances darting o’er thy watery slopes: - Or hear the lovers whisper soft their pledge, - As deep and pure as was thy cooling drink,-- - The fount of life, the elixir of youth, - The well-spring of Venetian art and song, - When truth was beauty and all beauty truth;-- - Even now thy charms can make the weary strong, - While pausing at thy side to dream and think. - - - - - THE PROSPECT - - - A youth lay stretched upon the new-mown hay, - In woodland meadow, near a winding stream, - And gazed at summer-clouds so far away, - And who can tell the substance of his dream?-- - A span of horses and a rusty rake - Stood near him, where his father made repair,-- - The ground was rough, and things did sometimes break, - And added trouble to the toiler’s care;-- - At last the rake was fixed, the boy arose - To take his place upon its iron-stool, - And doing so, he said: “Do you suppose - That I can go away, this fall, to school?” - To which his father answered: “We will see,-- - If you work hard, till snow flies, it may be.” - - - - - THE HARVEST - - - The perfect, all resplendent moon looks down, - From cloudless realms of blue, upon a scene - Most marvellous,--Earth in her harvest-gown,-- - A golden garment, hemmed by darkish green, - Moved by the wandering winds that drink the sweet - Of new-mown clover-fields and tasselled corn; - The sound thereof is as when lovers meet, - And whisper gladness out of hearts love-lorn;-- - Her royal robe, to which the world is clinging, - On which the moon and sun smile with delight, - Of which all nature’s minstrels now are singing - In varied melodies, by day and night,-- - Earth’s great achievement, loveliest and best, - The golden harvest of the Middle West. - - - - - THE REWARD OF EPIMENIDES - - - When Solon gave to Athens laws, and sought - To cleanse it from pollutions and the crimes - Which dire disasters from the gods had brought, - He called a prophet from the purer clime, - Of sunny Crete, great Epimenides, - The wise, the nymph-begotten, whose long sleep - Had let him into nature’s mysteries, - And things that are for common minds too deep: - He came, and did the work of bard and priest, - That Solon’s code might shine clear as the sun. - And what reward?--The people hardly wist - But offered riches for the service done. - “An olive branch is all I ask,” he said; - That branch is green, though Athen’s glory’s dead. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The lost chimes, and other poems, by Gustav Melby - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOST CHIMES, AND OTHER POEMS *** - -***** This file should be named 62614-0.txt or 62614-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/6/1/62614/ - -Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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