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diff --git a/7110-8.txt b/7110-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0e15aae --- /dev/null +++ b/7110-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2908 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rose and Roof-Tree, by George Parsons Lathrop + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Rose and Roof-Tree + Poems + +Author: George Parsons Lathrop + +Posting Date: November 7, 2012 [EBook #7110] +Release Date: December, 2004 +First Posted: March 11, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSE AND ROOF-TREE *** + + + + +Produced by Michelle Shephard, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + + + + +ROSE AND ROOF-TREE: + +POEMS + + + +by + +GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP + + + + +[Illustration: JESSAMINE] + + + + + Upon the enchanted ladder of his rhymes, + Round after round and patiently + The poet ever upward climbs. + + + + +_DEDICATION_. + +_I need give my verse no hint as to whom it sings for. The rose, +knowing her own right, makes servitors of the light-rays to carry her +color. So every line here shall in some sense breathe of thee, and in +its very face bear record of her whom, however unworthily, it seeks to +serve and honor._ + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + WINDFALLS. + + ROSE AND ROOF-TREE + MUSIC OF GROWTH + A SONG LONG AGO + MELANCHOLY + CONTENTMENT + + + PART FIRST. + + AN APRIL ARIA + THE BOBOLINK + THE SUN-SHOWER + JUNE LONGINGS + A RUNE OF THE RAIN + THE SONG-SPARROW + FAIRHAVEN BAY + CHANT FOR AUTUMN + BEFORE THE SNOW + THE GHOSTS OF GROWTH + THE LILY-POND + + + PART SECOND. + + FIRST GLANCE + "THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES" + "WHEN, LOOKING DEEPLY IN THY FACE" + WITHIN A YEAR + THE SINGING WIRE + MOODS OF LOVE: + I. In Absence + II. Heart's Fountain + III. South-Wind Song + IV. The Lover's Year + V. New Worlds + VI. Wedding-Night + LOVE'S DEFEAT + MAY AND MARRIAGE + THE FISHER OF THE CAPE + SAILOR'S SONG + JESSAMINE + GRIEF'S HERO + A FACE IN THE STREET + THE BATHER + HELEN AT THE LOOM + "O WHOLESOME DEATH" + BURIAL-SONG FOR SUMNER + ARISE, AMERICAN! + THE SILENT TIDE + + + + + WINDFALLS. + + + ROSE AND ROOF-TREE. + + O wayward rose, why dost thou wreathe so high, + Wasting thyself in sweet-breath'd ecstasy? + + "The pulses of the wind my life uplift, + And through my sprays I feel the sunlight sift; + + "And all my fibres, in a quick consent + Entwined, aspire to fill their heavenward bent. + + "I feel the shaking of the far-off sea, + And all things growing blend their life with me: + + "When men and women on me look, there glows + Within my veins a life not of the rose. + + "Then let me grow, until I touch the sky, + And let me grow and grow until I die!" + + So, every year, the sweet rose shooteth higher, + And scales the roof upon its wings of fire, + + And pricks the air, in lovely discontent, + With thorns that question still of its intent. + + But when it reached the roof-tree, there it clung, + Nor ever farther up its blossoms flung. + + O wayward rose, why hast thou ceased to climb? + Hast thou forgot the ardor of thy prime? + + "O hearken!"--thus the rose-spray, listening,-- + "With what weird music sweet these full hearts ring! + + "What mazy ripples of deep, eddying sound, + Rise, touch the roof-tree old, and drift around, + + "Bearing aloft the burden musical + Of joys and griefs from human hearts that fall! + + "Green stem and fair, flush'd circle I will lay + Along the roof, and listen here alway; + + "For rose and tree, and every leafy growth + That toward the sky unfolds with spiry blowth, + + "No purpose hath save this, to breathe a grace + O'er men, and in men's hearts to seek a place. + + "Therefore, O poet, thou who gav'st to me + The homage of thy humble sympathy, + + "No longer vest thy verse in rose-leaves frail:-- + Let the heart's voice loud through thy pæan wail!" + + * * * * * + + Lo, at my feet the wind of autumn throws + A hundred turbulent blossoms of the rose, + + Full of the voices of the sea and grove + And air, and full of hidden, murmured love, + + And warm with passion through the roof-tree sent; + Dew-drenched with tears;--all in one wild gush spent! + + + + MUSIC OF GROWTH. + + Music is in all growing things; + And underneath the silky wings + Of smallest insects there is stirred + A pulse of air that must be heard. + Earth's silence lives, and throbs, and sings. + + If poet from the vibrant strings + Of his poor heart a measure flings, + Laugh not, that he no trumpet blows: + It may be that Heaven hears and knows + His language of low listenings. + + + + A SONG LONG AGO. + + Through the pauses of thy fervid singing + Fell crystal sound + That thy fingers from the keys were flinging + Lightly around: + I felt the vine-like harmonies close clinging + About my soul; + And to my eyes, as fruit of their sweet bringing, + The full tear stole! + + + + MELANCHOLY. + + + Daughter of my nobler hope + That dying gave thee birth, + Sweet Melancholy! + For memory of the dead, + In her dear stead, + 'Bide thou with me, + Sweet Melancholy! + As purple shadows to the tree, + When the last sun-rays sadly slope + Athwart the bare and darkening earth, + Art thou to me, + Sweet Melancholy! + + + + CONTENTMENT. + + Glad hours have been when I have seen + Life's scope and each dry day's intent + United; so that I could stand + In silence, covering with my hand + The circle of the universe, + Balance the blessing and the curse, + And trust in deeds without chagrin, + Free from to-morrow and yesterday--content. + + + + + PART FIRST. + + + AN APRIL ARIA. + + When the mornings dankly fall + With a dim forethought of rain, + And the robins richly call + To their mates mercurial, + And the tree-boughs creak and strain + In the wind; + When the river's rough with foam, + And the new-made clearings smoke, + And the clouds that go and come + Shine and darken frolicsome, + And the frogs at evening croak + Undefined + Mysteries of monotone, + And by melting beds of snow + Wind-flowers blossom all alone; + Then I know + That the bitter winter's dead. + Over his head + The damp sod breaks so mellow,-- + Its mosses tipped with points of yellow,-- + I cannot but be glad; + Yet this sweet mood will borrow + Something of a sweeter sorrow, + To touch and turn me sad. + + + + THE BOBOLINK. + + How sweetly sang the bobolink, + When thou, my Love, wast nigh! + His liquid music from the brink + Of some cloud-fountain seemed to sink, + Built in the blue-domed sky. + + How sadly sings the bobolink! + No more my Love is nigh: + Yet rise, my spirit, rise, and drink + Once more from that cloud-fountain's brink,-- + Once more before I die! + + + + THE SUN-SHOWER. + + A penciled shade the sky doth sweep, + And transient glooms creep in to sleep + Amid the orchard; + Fantastic breezes pull the trees + Hither and yon, to vagaries + Of aspect tortured. + + Then, like the downcast dreamy fringe + Of eyelids, when dim gates unhinge + That locked their tears, + Falls on the hills a mist of rain,-- + So faint, it seems to fade again; + Yet swiftly nears. + + Now sparkles the air, all steely-bright, + With drops swept down in arrow-flight, + Keen, quivering lines. + Ceased in a breath the showery sound; + And teasingly, now, as I look around, + Sweet sunlight shines! + + + + JUNE LONGINGS. + + Lo, all about the lofty blue are blown + Light vapors white, like thistle-down, + That from their softened silver heaps opaque + Scatter delicate flake by flake, + Upon the wide loom of the heavens weaving + Forms of fancies past believing, + And, with fantastic show of mute despair, + As for some sweet hope hurt beyond repair, + Melt in the silent voids of sunny air. + + All day the cooing brooklet runs in tune: + Half sunk i' th' blue, the powdery moon + Shows whitely. Hark, the bobolink's note! I hear it, + Far and faint as a fairy spirit! + Yet all these pass, and as some blithe bird, winging, + Leaves a heart-ache for his singing, + A frustrate passion haunts me evermore + For that which closest dwells to beauty's core. + O Love, canst thou this heart of hope restore? + + + + A RUNE OF THE RAIN. + + I. + + O many-toned rain! + O myriad sweet voices of the rain! + How welcome is its delicate overture + At evening, when the glowing-moistur'd west + Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest! + + At first it would allure + The earth to kinder mood, + With dainty flattering + Of soft, sweet pattering: + Faintly now you hear the tramp + Of the fine drops falling damp + On the dry, sun-seasoned ground + And the thirsty leaves around. + But anon, imbued + With a sudden, bounding access + Of passion, it relaxes + All timider persuasion, + And, with nor pretext nor occasion, + Its wooing redoubles; + And pounds the ground, and bubbles + In sputtering spray, + Flinging itself in a fury + Of flashing white away; + Till the dusty road + Flings a perfume dank abroad, + And the grass, and the wide-hung trees, + The vines, the flowers in their beds, + The vivid corn that to the breeze + Rustles along the garden-rows, + Visibly lift their heads,-- + And, as the shower wilder grows, + Upleap with answering kisses to the rain. + + Then, the slow and pleasant murmur + Of its subsiding, + As the pulse of the storm beats firmer, + And the steady rain + Drops into a cadenced chiding. + Deep-breathing rain, + The sad and ghostly noise + Wherewith thou dost complain,-- + Thy plaintive, spiritual voice, + Heard thus at close of day + Through vaults of twilight-gray,-- + Doth vex me with sweet pain! + And still my soul is fain + To know the secret of that yearning + Which in thine utterance I hear returning. + + Hush, oh hush! + Break not the dreamy rush + Of the rain: + Touch not the marring doubt + Words bring, to the certainty + Of its soft refrain, + But let the flying fringes flout + Their gouts against the pane, + And the gurgling throat of the water-spout + Groan in the eaves amain. + + The earth is wedded to the shower. + Darkness and awe, gird round the bridal-hour! + + + II. + + O many-tonèd rain! + It hath caught the strain + Of a wilder tune, + Ere the same night's noon, + When dreams and sleep forsake me, + And sudden dread doth wake me, + To hear the booming drums of heaven beat + The long roll to battle; when the knotted cloud, + With an echoing loud, + Bursts asunder + At the sudden resurrection of the thunder; + And the fountains of the air, + Unsealed again sweep, ruining, everywhere, + To wrap the world in a watery winding-sheet. + + + III. + + O myriad sweet voices of the rain! + When the airy war doth wane, + And the storm to the east hath flown, + Cloaked close in the whirling wind, + There's a voice still left behind + In each heavy-hearted tree, + Charged with tearful memory + Of the vanished rain: + From their leafy lashes wet + Drip the dews of fresh regret + For the lover that's gone! + All else is still. + But the stars are listening; + And low o'er the wooded hill + Hangs, upon listless wing + Outspread, a shape of damp, blue cloud, + Watching, like a bird of evil + That knows no mercy nor reprieval, + The slow and silent death of the pallid moon. + + + IV. + + But soon, returning duly, + Dawn whitens the wet hill-tops bluely. + To her vision pure and cold + The night's wild tale is told + On the glistening leaf, in the mid-road pool, + The garden mold turned dark and cool, + And the meadow's trampled acres. + But hark, how fresh the song of the winged music-makers! + For now the moanings bitter, + Left by the rain, make harmony + With the swallow's matin-twitter, + And the robin's note, like the wind's in a tree: + The infant morning breathes sweet breath, + And with it is blent + The wistful, wild, moist scent + Of the grass in the marsh which the sea nourisheth: + And behold! + The last reluctant drop of the storm, + Wrung from the roof, is smitten warm + And turned to gold; + For in its veins doth run + The very blood of the bold, unsullied sun! + + + + THE SONG-SPARROW. + + Glimmers gray the leafless thicket + Close beside my garden gate, + Where, so light, from post to picket + Hops the sparrow, blithe, sedate; + Who, with meekly folded wing, + Comes to sun himself and sing. + + It was there, perhaps, last year, + That his little house he built; + For he seems to perk and peer, + And to twitter, too, and tilt + The bare branches in between, + With a fond, familiar mien. + + Once, I know, there was a nest, + Held there by the sideward thrust + Of those twigs that touch his breast; + Though 'tis gone now. Some rude gust + Caught it, over-full of snow,-- + Bent the bush,--and robbed it so + + Thus our highest holds are lost, + By the ruthless winter's wind, + When, with swift-dismantling frost, + The green woods we dwelt in, thinn'd + Of their leafage, grow too cold + For frail hopes of summer's mold. + + But if we, with spring-days mellow, + Wake to woeful wrecks of change, + And the sparrow's ritornello + Scaling still its old sweet range; + Can we do a better thing + Than, with him, still build and sing? + + Oh, my sparrow, thou dost breed + Thought in me beyond all telling; + Shootest through me sunlight, seed, + And fruitful blessing, with that welling + Ripple of ecstatic rest, + Gurgling ever from thy breast! + + And thy breezy carol spurs + Vital motion in my blood, + Such as in the sapwood stirs, + Swells and shapes the pointed bud + Of the lilac; and besets + The hollows thick with violets. + + Yet I know not any charm + That can make the fleeting time + Of thy sylvan, faint alarm + Suit itself to human rhyme: + And my yearning rhythmic word, + Does thee grievous wrong, dear bird. + + So, however thou hast wrought + This wild joy on heart and brain, + It is better left untaught. + Take thou up the song again: + There is nothing sad afloat + On the tide that swells thy throat! + + + FAIRHAVEN BAY. + + I push on through the shaggy wood, + I round the hill: 't is here it stood; + And there, beyond the crumbled walls, + The shining Concord slowly crawls, + + Yet seems to make a passing stay, + And gently spreads its lilied bay, + Curbed by this green and reedy shore, + Up toward the ancient homestead's door. + + But dumbly sits the shattered house, + And makes no answer: man and mouse + Long since forsook it, and decay + Chokes its deep heart with ashes gray. + + On what was once a garden-ground + Dull red-bloomed sorrels now abound; + And boldly whistles the shy quail + Within the vacant pasture's pale. + + Ah, strange and savage, where he shines, + The sun seems staring through those pines + That once the vanished home could bless + With intimate, sweet loneliness. + + The ignorant, elastic sod + The feet of them that daily trod + Its roods hath utterly forgot: + The very fire-place knows them not. + + For, in the weedy cellar, thick + The ruined chimney's mass of brick + Lies strown. Wide heaven, with such an ease + Dost thou, too, lose the thought of these? + + Yet I, although I know not who + Lived here, in years that voiceless grew + Ere I was born,--and never can,-- + Am moved, because I am a man. + + Oh glorious gift of brotherhood! + Oh sweet elixir in the blood, + That makes us live with those long dead, + Or hope for those that shall be bred + + Hereafter! No regret can rob + My heart of this delicious throb; + No thought of fortunes haply wrecked, + Nor pang for nature's wild neglect. + + And, though the hearth be cracked and cold, + Though ruin all the place enfold, + These ashes that have lost their name + Shall warm my life with lasting flame! + + + CHANT FOR AUTUMN. + + Veiled in visionary haze, + Behold, the ethereal autumn days + Draw near again! + In broad array, + With a low, laborious hum + These ministers of plenty come, + That seem to linger, while they steal away. + + O strange, sweet charm + Of peaceful pain, + When yonder mountain's bended arm + Seems wafting o'er the harvest-plain + A message to the heart that grieves, + And round us, here, a sad-hued rain + Of leaves that loosen without number + Showering falls in yellow, umber, + Red, or russet, 'thwart the stream! + Now pale Sorrow shall encumber + All too soon these lands, I deem; + Yet who at heart believes + The autumn, a false friend, + Can bring us fatal harm? + Ah, mist-hung avenues in dream + Not more uncertainly extend + Than the season that receives + A summer's latest gleam! + + But the days of death advance: + They tarry not, nor turn! + I will gather the ashes of summer + In my heart, as an urn. + + Oh draw thou nearer, + Thou + Spirit of the distant height, + Whither now that slender flight + Of swallows, winging, guides my sight! + The hill cloth seem to me + A fading memory + Of long delight, + And in its distant blue + Half hideth from my view + This shrinking season that must now retire; + And so shall hold it, hopeful, a desire + And knowledge old as night and always new. + Draw nigher! And, with bended brow, + I will be thy reverer + Through the long winter's term! + + So, when the snows hold firm, + And the brook is dumb; + When sharp winds come + To flay the hill-tops bleak, + And whistle down the creek; + While the unhappy worm + Crawls deeper down into the ground, + To 'scape Frost's jailer on his round; + Thy form to me shall speak + From the wide valley's bound, + Recall the waving of the last bird's wing, + And help me hope for spring. + + + + BEFORE THE SNOW. + + Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare + Shatters the windy rain. A thousand leaves, + Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air, + Flutter away from the old forest's eaves. + + Autumn is gone: as yonder silent rill, + Slow eddying o'er thick leaf-heaps lately shed, + My spirit, as I walk, moves awed and still, + By thronging fancies wild and wistful led. + + Autumn is gone: alas, how long ago + The grapes were plucked, and garnered was the grain! + How soon death settles on us, and the snow + Wraps with its white alike our graves, our gain! + + Yea, autumn's gone! Yet it robs not my mood + Of that which makes moods dear,--some shoot of spring + Still sweet within me; or thoughts of yonder wood + We walked in,--memory's rare environing. + + And, though they die, the seasons only take + A ruined substance. All that's best remains + In the essential vision that can make + One light for life, love, death, their joys, their pains. + + + + THE GHOSTS OF GROWTH. + + Last night it snowed; and Nature fell asleep. + Forest and field lie tranced in gracious dreams + Of growth, for ghosts of leaves long dead, me-seems, + Hover about the boughs; and wild winds sweep + O'er whitened fields full many a hoary heap + From the storm-harvest mown by ice-bound streams! + With beauty of crushed clouds the cold earth teems, + And winter a tranquil-seeming truce would keep. + + But such ethereal slumber may not bide + The ascending sun's bright scorn--not long, I fear; + And all its visions on the golden tide + Of mid-noon gliding off, must disappear. + Fair dreams, farewell! So in life's stir and pride + You fade, and leave the treasure of a tear! + + + + THE LILY-POND. + + Some fairy spirit with his wand, + I think, has hovered o'er the dell, + And spread this film upon the pond, + And touched it with this drowsy spell. + + For here the musing soul is merged + In moods no other scene can bring, + And sweeter seems the air when scourged + With wandering wild-bees' murmuring. + + One ripple streaks the little lake, + Sharp purple-blue; the birches, thin + And silvery, crowd the edge, yet break + To let a straying sunbeam in. + + How came we through the yielding wood, + That day, to this sweet-rustling shore? + Oh, there together while we stood, + A butterfly was wafted o'er, + + In sleepy light; and even now + His glimmering beauty doth return + Upon me, when the soft winds blow, + And lilies toward the sunlight yearn. + + The yielding wood? And yet 't was both + To yield unto our happy march; + Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both + Could pass its green, elastic arch. + + Yet there, at last, upon the marge + We found ourselves, and there, behold, + In hosts the lilies, white and large, + Lay close, with hearts of downy gold! + + Deep in the weedy waters spread + The rootlets of the placid bloom: + So sprung my love's flower, that was bred + In deep, still waters of heart's-gloom. + + So sprung; and so that morn was nursed + To live in light, and on the pool + Wherein its roots were deep immersed + Burst into beauty broad and cool. + + Few words were said; a moment passed; + I know not how it came--that awe + And ardor of a glance that cast + Our love in universal law! + + But all at once a bird sang loud, + From dead twigs of the gleamy beech; + His notes dropped dewy, as out of a cloud, + A blessing on our married speech. + + Ah, Love! how fresh and rare, even now, + That moment and that mood return + Upon me, when the soft winds blow, + And lilies toward the sunlight yearn! + + + + + PART SECOND. + + + FIRST GLANCE. + + A budding mouth and warm blue eyes; + A laughing face;--and laughing hair, + So ruddy does it rise + From off that forehead fair; + + Frank fervor in whate'er she said, + And a shy grace when she was still; + A bright, elastic tread; + Enthusiastic will; + + These wrought the magic of a maid + As sweet and sad as the sun in spring, + Joyous, yet half-afraid + Her joyousness to sing. + + What weighs the unworthiness of earth + When beauty such as this finds birth? + Rare maid, to look on thee + Gives all things harmony! + + + + "THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES." + + The sunshine of thine eyes, + (Oh still, celestial beam!) + Whatever it touches it fills + With the life of its lambent gleam. + + The sunshine of thine eyes, + Oh let it fall on me! + Though I be but a mote of the air, + I could turn to gold for thee! + + + + "WHEN, LOOKING DEEPLY IN THY FACE." + + When, looking deeply in thy face, + I catch the undergleam of grace + That grows beneath the outward glance, + Long looking, lost as in a trance + Of long desires that fleet and meet + Around me like the fresh and sweet + White showers of rain which, vanishing, + 'Neath heaven's blue arches whirl, in spring; + Suddenly then I seem to know + Of some new fountain's overflow + In grassy basins, with a sound + That leads my fancy, past all bound, + Into a region of retreat + From this my life's bewildered heat. + Oh if my soul might always draw + From those deep fountains full of awe, + The current of my days should rise + Unto the level of thine eyes! + + + + WITHIN A YEAR + + I. + + Lips that are met in love's + Devotion sweet, + While parting lovers passionately greet, + And earth through heaven's arc more swiftly moves-- + Oh, will they be less dear + Within a year? + + + II. + + Eyes in whose shadow-spell + Far off I read + That which to lovers taking loving heed + Dear women's eyes full soon and plainly tell-- + Oh, will you give such cheer + This time a year? + + + III. + + Behold! the dark year goes, + Nor will reveal + Aught of its purpose, if for woe or weal, + Swift as a stream that o'er the mill-weir flows: + Mayhap the end draws near + Within the year! + + + IV. + + Yet, darling, once more touch + Those lips to mine. + Set on my life that talisman divine; + Absence, new friends, I fear not overmuch---- + Even Death, should he appear + Within the year! + + + + THE SINGING WIRE. + + Hark to that faint, ethereal twang + That from the bosom of the breeze + Has caught its rise and fall: there rang + Æolian harmonies! + + I looked; again the mournful, chords, + In random rhythm lightly flung + From off the wire, came shaped in words; + And thus, meseemed, they sung. + + "I, messenger of many fates, + Strung to the tones of woe or weal, + Fine nerve that thrills and palpitates + With all men know or feel,-- + + "Oh, is it strange that I should wail? + Leave me my tearless, sad refrain, + When in the pine-top wakes the gale + That breathes of coming rain. + + "There is a spirit in the post; + It, too, was once a murmuring tree; + Its sapless, sad, and withered ghost + Echoes my melody. + + "Come close, and lay your listening ear + Against the bare and branchless wood. + Say, croons it not, so low and clear, + As if it understood?" + + I listened to the branchless pole + That held aloft the singing wire; + I heard its muffled music roll, + And stirred with sweet desire: + + "O wire more soft than seasoned lute, + Hast thou no sunlit word for me? + Though long to me so coyly mute, + Sure she may speak through thee!" + + I listened; but it was in vain. + At first, the wind's old, wayward will + Drew forth the tearless, sad refrain: + That ceased, and all was still. + + But suddenly some kindling shock + Struck flashing through the wire: a bird, + Poised on it, screamed and flew; the flock + Rose with him, wheeled, and whirred. + + Then to my soul there came this sense: + "Her heart has answered unto thine; + She comes, to-night. Go, hie thee hence! + Meet her: no more repine!" + + Mayhap the fancy was far-fetched; + And yet, mayhap, it hinted true. + Ere moonrise, Love, a hand was stretched + In mine, that gave me--you! + + And so more dear to me has grown, + Than rarest tones swept from the lyre, + The minor-movement of that moan + In yonder singing wire. + + Nor care I for the will of states. + Or aught besides, that smites that string, + Since then so close it knit our fates, + What time the bird took wing! + + + + MOODS OF LOVE. + + + I. + + IN ABSENCE. + + My love for thee is like a winged seed + Blown from the heart of thy rare beauty's flower, + And deftly guided by some breezy power + To fall and rest, where I should never heed, + In deepest caves of memory. There, indeed, + With virtue rife of many a sunny hoar,-- + Ev'n making cold neglect and darkness dower + Its roots with life,--swiftly it 'gan to breed, + Till now wide-branching tendrils it outspreads + Like circling arms, to prison its own prison, + Fretting the walls with blooms by myriads, + And blazoning in my brain full summer-season: + Thy face, whose dearness presence had not taught. + In absence multiplies, and fills all thought. + + + II. + + HEART'S FOUNTAIN. + + Her moods are like the fountain's, changing ever, + That spouts aloft a sudden, watery dome, + Only to fall again in shattering foam, + Just where the wedded jets themselves dissever, + And palpitating downward, downward quiver, + Unfolded like a swift ethereal flower, + That sheds white petals in a blinding shower, + And straightway soars anew with blithe endeavor. + + The sun may kindle it with healthful fire; + Upon it falls the cloud-gray's leaden load; + At night the stars shall haunt the whirling spire: + Yet these have but a transient garb bestowed. + So her glad life, whate'er the hours impart, + Plays still 'twixt heaven's cope and her own clear heart. + + + III. + + SOUTH-WIND SONG. + + Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's ease + (Sweet breath, whereof the violet's life is made!) + Through lips moist-warm, as thou hadst lately stayed + 'Mong rosebuds, wooing to the cheeks of these + Loth blushes faint and maidenly--rich Breeze, + Still doth thy honeyed blowing bring a shade + Of sad foreboding. In thy hand is laid + The power to build or blight rich fruit of trees, + The deep, cool grass, and field of thick-combed grain. + + Even so my Love may bring me joy or woe, + Both measureless, but either counted gain + Since given by her. For pain and pleasure flow + Like tides upon us of the self-same sea. + Tears are the gems of joy and misery! + + + IV. + + THE LOVER'S YEAR + + Thou art my morning, twilight, noon, and eve, + My Summer and my Winter, Spring and Fall; + For Nature left on thee a touch of all + The moods that come to gladden or to grieve + The heart of Time, with purpose to relieve + From lagging sameness. So do these forestall + In thee such o'erheaped sweetnesses as pall + Too swiftly, and the taster tasteless leave. + + Scenes that I love to me always remain + Beautiful, whether under summer's sun + Beheld, or, storm-dark, stricken across with rain. + So, through all humors, thou 'rt the same sweet one: + Doubt not I love thee well in each, who see + Thy constant change is changeful constancy. + + + V. + + NEW WORLDS. + + With my beloved I lingered late one night. + At last the hour when I must leave her came: + But, as I turned, a fear I could not name + Possessed me that the long sweet evening might + Prelude some sudden storm, whereby delight + Should perish. What if Death, ere dawn, should claim + One of us? What, though living, not the same + Each should appear to each in morning-light? + + Changed did I find her, truly, the next day: + Ne'er could I see her as of old again. + That strange mood seemed to draw a cloud away, + And let her beauty pour through every vein + Sunlight and life, part of me. Thus the lover + With each new morn a new world may discover. + + + VI. + + WEDDING-NIGHT. + + At night, with shaded eyes, the summer moon + In tender meditation downward glances + At the dark earth, far-set in dim expanses, + And, welcomer than blazoned gold of noon, + Down through the air her steady lights are strewn. + The breezy forests sigh in moonlit trances, + And the full-hearted poet, waking, fancies + The smiling hills will break in laughter soon. + + Oh thus, thou gentle Nature, dost thou shine + On me to-night. My very limbs would melt, + Like rugged earth beneath yon ray divine, + Into faint semblance of what they have felt: + Thine eye doth color me, O wife, O mine, + With peace that in thy spirit long hath dwelt! + + + + LOVE'S DEFEAT. + + A thousand times I would have hoped, + A thousand times protested; + But still, as through the night I groped, + My torch from me was wrested, + and wrested. + + How often with a succoring cup + Unto the hurt I hasted! + The wounded died ere I came up; + My cup was still untasted,-- + Untasted. + + Of darkness, wounds, and harsh disdain + Endured, I ne'er repented. + 'T is not of these I would complain: + With these I were contented,-- + Contented. + + Here lies the misery, to feel + No work of love completed; + In prayerless passion still to kneel, + And mourn, and cry: "Defeated + Defeated!" + + + + + MAY AND MARRIAGE. + + + THE LOVER WHO THINKS. + + Dost thou remember, Love, those hours + Shot o'er with random rainy showers, + When the bold sun would woo coy May? + She smiled, then wept--and looked another way. + + We, learning from the sun and season, + Together plotted joyous treason + 'Gainst maiden majesty, to give + Each other troth, and henceforth wedded live. + + But love, ah, love we know is blind! + Not always what they seek they find + When, groping through dim-lighted natures, + Fond lovers look for old, ideal statures. + + What then? Is all our purpose lost? + The balance broken, since Fate tossed + Uneven weights? Oh well beware + That thought, my sweet: 't were neither fit nor fair! + + Seek not for any grafted fruits + From souls so wedded at the roots; + But whatsoe'er our fibres hold, + Let that grow forth in mutual, ample mold! + + No sap can circle without flaw + Into the perfect sphere we saw + Hanging before our happy eyes + Amid the shade of marriage-mysteries; + + But all that in the heart doth lurk + Must toward the mystic shaping work: + Sweet fruit and bitter both must fall + When the boughs bend, at each year's autumn-call. + + Ah, dear defect! that aye shall lift + Us higher, not through craven shift + Of fault on common frailty;--nay, + But twofold hope to help with generous stay! + + I shall be nearer, understood: + More prized art thou than perfect good. + And since thou lov'st me, I shall grow + Thy other self--thy Life, thy Joy, thy Woe! + + + + THE FISHER OF THE CAPE. + + At morn his bark like a bird + Slips lightly oceanward-- + Sail feathering smooth o'er the bay + And beak that drinks the wild spray. + In his eyes beams cheerily + A light like the sun's on the sea, + As he watches the waning strand, + Where the foam, like a waving hand + Of one who mutely would tell + Her love, flutters faintly, "Farewell." + + But at night, when the winds arise + And pipe to driving skies, + And the moon peers, half afraid, + Through the storm-cloud's ragged shade, + He hears her voice in the blast + That sighs about the mast, + He sees her face in the clouds + As he climbs the whistling shrouds; + And a power nerves his hand, + Shall bring the bark to land. + + + + SAILOR'S SONG. + + The sea goes up; the sky comes down. + Oh, can you spy the ancient town,-- + The granite hills so hard and gray, + That rib the land behind the bay? + O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! + Fair winds, boys: send her home! + O ye ho! + + Three years? Is it so long that we + Have lived upon the lonely sea? + Oh, often I thought we'd see the town, + When the sea went up, and the sky came down. + O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! + Fair winds, boys: send her home! + O ye ho! + + Even the winter winds would rouse + A memory of my father's house; + For round his windows and his door + They made the same deep, mouthless roar. + O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! + Fair winds, boys: send her home! + O ye ho! + + And when the summer's breezes beat, + Methought I saw the sunny street + Where stood my Kate. Beneath her hand + She gazed far out, far out from land. + O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! + Fair winds, boys: send her home! + O ye ho! + + Farthest away, I oftenest dreamed + That I was with her. Then, it seemed + A single stride the ocean wide + Had bridged, and brought me to her side. + O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! + Fair winds, boys: send her home. + O ye ho! + + But though so near we're drawing, now, + 'T is farther off----I know not how. + We sail and sail: we see no home. + Would we into the port were come! + O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! + Fair winds, boys: send her home! + O ye ho! + + At night, the same stars o'er the mast: + The mast sways round--however fast + We fly--still sways and swings around + One scanty circle's starry bound. + O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! + Fair winds, boys: send her home! + O ye ho! + + Ah, many a month those stars have shone, + And many a golden morn has flown, + Since that so solemn, happy morn, + When, I away, my babe was born. + O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! + Fair winds, boys: send her home! + O ye ho! + + And, though so near we're drawing, now, + 'T is farther off--I know not how-- + I would not aught amiss had come + To babe or mother there, at home! + O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! + Fair winds, boys: send her home! + O ye ho! + + 'T is but a seeming: swiftly rush + The seas, beneath. I hear the crush + Of foamy ridges 'gainst the prow. + Longing outspeeds the breeze, I know. + O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! + Fair winds, boys: send her home! + O ye ho! + + Patience, my mates! Though not this eve + We cast our anchor, yet believe, + If but the wind holds, short the run: + We 'll sail in with to-morrow's sun. + O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! + Fair winds, boys: send her home! + O ye ho! + + + + JESSAMINE. + + Here stands the great tree still, with broad, bent head, + And wide arms grown aweary, yet outspread + With their old blessing. But wan memory weaves + Strange garlands now amongst the darkening leaves. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm_. + + Beneath these glimmering arches Jessamine + Walked with her lover long ago, and in + This moon-made shade he questioned; and she spoke: + Then on them both love's rarer radiance broke. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm_. + + Sweet Jessamine we called her; for she shone + Like blossoms that in sun and shade have grown, + Gathering from each alike a perfect white, + Whose rich bloom breaks opaque through darkest night. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm_. + + And for this sweetness Walt, her lover, sought + To win her; wooed her here, his heart full-fraught + With fragrance of her being, and gained his plea. + So "We will wed," they said, "beneath this tree." + _And the moon hangs low in the elm_. + + Was it unfaith, or faith more full to her, + Made him, for fame and fortune longing, spur + Into the world? Far from his home he sailed: + And life paused; while she watched joy vanish, vailed. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm_. + + Oh, better at the elm tree's sun-browned feet + If he had been content to let life fleet + Its wonted way!--there rearing his small house; + Mowing and milking, lord of corn and cows! + _And the moon hangs low in the elm_. + + For as against a snarling sea one steers, + Ever he battled with the beetling years; + And ever Jessamine must watch and pine, + Her vision bounded by the bleak sea-line. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm_. + + At last she heard no more. The neighbors said + That Walt had married, faithless, or was dead. + Yet naught her trust could move; the tryst she kept + Each night still, 'neath this tree, before she slept. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + So, circling years went by; and in her face + Slow melancholy wrought a tempered grace + Of early joy with sorrow's rich alloy-- + Refinèd, rare, no doom should e'er destroy. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + Sometimes at twilight, when sweet Jessamine, + Slow-footed, weary-eyed, passed by to win + The elm, we smiled for pity of her, and mused + On love that so could live with love refused. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + Nor none could hope for her. But she had grown + Too high in love for hope, and bloomed alone, + Aloft in pure sincerity secure; + For fortune's failures, in her faith too sure. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + Oh, well for Walt, if he had known her soul! + Discouraged on disaster's changeful shoal + Wrecking, he rested; starved on selfish pride + Long years; nor would obey love's homeward tide. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + But, bitterly repenting of his sin, + Oh, bitterly he learned to look within + Sweet Jessamine's clear depth--when the past, dead, + Mocked him, and wild, waste years forever fled! + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + Late, late, oh, late beneath the tree stood two! + In awe and anguish wondering: "Is it true?" + Two that were each most like to some wan wraith: + Yet each on each looked with a living faith. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + Even to the tree-top sang the wedding-bell; + Even to the tree-top tolled the passing knell. + Beneath it Walt and Jessamine were wed; + Beneath it many a year she lieth dead! + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + Here stands the great tree still. But age has crept + Through every coil, while Walt each night has kept + The tryst alone. Hark! with what windy might + The boughs chant o'er her grave their burial-rite! + _And the moon hangs low in the elm. _ + + + + GRIEF'S HERO. + + A youth unto herself Grief took, + Whom everything of joy forsook, + And men passed with denying head, + Saying: "'T were better he were dead." + + Grief took him, and with master-touch + Molded his being. I marveled much + To see her magic with the clay, + So much she gave--and took away. + Daily she wrought, and her design + Grew daily clearer and more fine, + To make the beauty of his shape + Serve for the spirit's free escape. + With liquid fire she filled his eyes. + She graced his lips with swift surmise + Of sympathy for others' woe, + And made his every fibre flow + In fairer curves. On brow and chin + And tinted cheek, drawn clean and thin, + She sculptured records rich, great Grief! + She made him loving, made him lief. + + I marveled; for, where others saw + A failing frame with many a flaw, + Meseemed a figure I beheld + Fairer than anything of eld + Fashioned from sunny marble. Here + Nature was artist with no peer. + No chisel's purpose could have caught + These lines, nor brush their secret wrought. + Not so the world weighed, busily + Pursuing drossy industry; + But, saturated with success, + Well-guarded by a soft excess + Of bodily ease, gave little heed + To him that held not by their creed, + Save o'er the beauteous youth to moan: + "A pity that he is not grown + To our good stature and heavier weight, + To bear his share of our full freight." + Meanwhile, thus to himself he spoke: + "Oh, noble is the knotted oak, + And sweet the gush of sylvan streams, + And good the great sun's gladding beams, + The blush of life upon the field, + The silent might that mountains wield. + Still more I love to mix with men, + Meeting the kindly human ken; + To feel the force of faithful friends-- + The thirst for smiles that never ends. + + "Yet precious more than all of these + I hold great Sorrow's mysteries, + Whereby Gehenna's sultry gale + Is made to lift the golden veil + 'Twixt heaven's starry-spherèd light + Of truth and our dim, sun-blent sight. + Joy comes to ripen; but 'tis Grief + That garners in the grainy sheaf. + Time was I feared to know or feel + The spur of aught but gilded weal; + To bear aloft the victor, Fame, + Would ev'n have champed a stately shame + Of bit and bridle. But my fears + Fell off in the pure bath of tears. + And now with sinews fresh and strong + I stride, to summon with a song + The deep, invigorating truth + That makes me younger than my youth. + "O Sorrow, deathless thy delight! + Deathless it were but for our slight + Endurance! Truth like thine, too rare, + We dare but take in scantiest share." + + He died: the creatures of his kind + Fared on. Not one had known his mind. + + But the unnamed yearnings of the air, + The eternal sky's wide-searching stare, + The undertone of brawling floods, + And the old moaning of the woods + Grew full of memory. + + The sun + Many a brave heart has shone upon + Since then, of men who walked abroad + For joy and gladness praising God. + But widowed Grief lives on alone: + She hath not chosen, of them, one. + + + + A FACE IN THE STREET. + + Poor, withered face, that yet was once so fair, + Grown ashen-old in the wild fires of lust-- + Thy star-like beauty, dimm'd with earthly dust, + Yet breathing of a purer native air;-- + They who whilom, cursed vultures, sought a share + Of thy dead womanhood, their greed unjust + Have satisfied, have stripped and left thee bare. + Still, like a leaf warped by the autumn gust, + And driving to the end, thou wrapp'st in flame + And perfume all thy hollow-eyed decay, + Feigning on those gray cheeks the blush that Shame + Took with her when she fled long since away. + Ah God! rain fire upon this foul-souled city + That gives such death, and spares its men,--for pity! + + + + THE BATHER. + + Standing here alone, + Let me pause awhile, + Drinking in the light + Ere, with plunge of white limbs prone, + I raise the sparkling flight + Of foam-flakes volatile. + + Now, in natural guise, + I woo the deathless breeze, + Through me rushing fleet + The joy of life, in swift surprise: + I grow with growing wheat, + And burgeon with the trees. + + Lo! I fetter Time, + So he cannot run; + And in Eden again-- + Flash of memory sublime!-- + Dwell naked, without stain, + Beneath the dazed sun. + + All yields brotherhood; + Each least thing that lives, + Wrought of primal spores, + Deepens this wild sense of good + That, on these shaggy shores, + Return to nature gives. + + Oh, that some solitude + Were ours, in woodlands deep, + Where, with lucent eyes, + Living lithe and limber-thewed, + Our life's shape might arise + Like mountains fresh from sleep! + + To sounds of water falling, + Hosts of delicate dreams + Should lull us and allure + With a dim, enchanted calling, + Blameless to live and pure + Like these sweet springs and streams. + + But in a wilderness + Alone may such life be? + Why of all things framed, + In my human form confessed + Should I be ashamed, + And blush for honesty? + + Rounded, strengthy limbs + That knit me to my kind-- + Your glory turns to grief! + Shall I for my soul sing hymns, + Yet for my body find + No clear, divine belief? + + Let me rather die, + Than by faith uphold + Dogmas weak that dare + The form that once Christ wore deny + Afraid with him to share + A purity twofold; + + Yet, while sin remains + On this saddened earth, + Humbly walk my ways! + For my garments are as chains; + And I fear to praise + My frame with careless mirth. + + Joy and penance go + Hand in hand, I see! + Would I could live so well, + Soul of me should never know + When my coverings fell, + Nor feel this nudity! + + + + HELEN AT THE LOOM. + + Helen, in her silent room, + Weaves upon the upright loom, + Weaves a mantle rich and dark, + Purpled over-deep. But mark + How she scatters o'er the wool + Woven shapes, till it is full + Of men that struggle close, complex; + Short-clipp'd steeds with wrinkled necks + Arching high; spear, shield, and all + The panoply that doth recall + Mighty war, such war as e'en + For Helen's sake is waged, I ween. + Purple is the groundwork: good! + All the field is stained with blood. + Blood poured out for Helen's sake; + (Thread, run on; and, shuttle, shake!) + But the shapes of men that pass + Are as ghosts within a glass, + Woven with whiteness of the swan, + Pale, sad memories, gleaming wan + From the garment's purple fold + Where Troy's tale is twined and told. + Well may Helen, as with tender + Touch of rosy fingers slender + She doth knit the story in + Of Troy's sorrow and her sin, + Feel sharp filaments of pain + Reeled off with the well-spun skein, + And faint blood-stains on her hands + From the shifting sanguine strands. + Gently, sweetly she doth sorrow: + What has been must be to-morrow; + Meekly to her fate she bows. + Heavenly beauties still will rouse + Strife and savagery in men: + Shall the lucid heavens, then, + Lose their high serenity, + Sorrowing over what must be? + If she taketh to her shame, + Lo, they give her not the blame,-- + Priam's wisest counselors, + Aged men, not loving wars: + When she goes forth, clad in white, + Day-cloud touched by first moonlight, + With her fair hair, amber-hued + As vapor by the moon imbued + With burning brown, that round her clings, + See, she sudden silence brings + On the gloomy whisperers + Who would make the wrong all hers. + + So, Helen, in thy silent room, + Labor at the storied loom; + (Thread, run on; and, shuttle, shake!) + Let thy aching sorrow make + Something strangely beautiful + Of this fabric, since the wool + Comes so tinted from the Fates, + Dyed with loves, hopes, fears, and hates. + Thou shalt work with subtle force + All thy deep shade of remorse + In the texture of the weft, + That no stain on thee be left;-- + Ay, false queen, shalt fashion grief, + Grief and wrong, to soft relief. + Speed the garment! It may chance. + Long hereafter, meet the glance + Of Œnone; when her lord, + Now thy Paris, shall go t'ward + Ida, at his last sad end, + Seeking her, his early friend, + Who alone can cure his ill + Of all who love him, if she will. + It were fitting she should see + In that hour thine artistry, + And her husband's speechless corse + In the garment of remorse! + But take heed that in thy work + Naught unbeautiful may lurk. + Ah, how little signifies + Unto thee what fortunes rise, + What others fall! Thou still shalt rule, + Still shalt work the colored crewl. + Though thy yearning woman's eyes + Burn with glorious agonies, + Pitying the waste and woe, + And the heroes falling low + In the war around thee, here, + Yet that exquisitest tear + 'Twixt thy lids shall dearer be + Than life, to friend or enemy. + + There are people on the earth + Doomed with doom of too great worth. + Look on Helen not with hate, + Therefore, but compassionate. + If she suffer not too much, + Seldom does she feel the touch + Of that fresh, auroral joy + Lighter spirits may decoy + To their pure and sunny lives. + Heavy honey 't is, she hives. + To her sweet but burdened soul + All that here she doth control-- + What of bitter memories, + What of coming fate's surmise, + Paris' passion, distant din + Of the war now drifting in + To her quiet--idle seems; + Idle as the lazy gleams + Of some stilly water's reach, + Seen from where broad vine-leaves pleach + A heavy arch, and, looking through, + Far away the doubtful blue + Glimmers, on a drowsy day, + Crowded with the sun's rich gray, + As she stands within her room, + Weaving, weaving at the loom. + + + + "O WHOLESOME DEATH." + + O Wholesome Death, thy sombre funeral-car + Looms ever dimly on the lengthening way + Of life; while, lengthening still, in sad array, + My deeds in long procession go, that are + As mourners of the man they helped to mar. + I see it all in dreams, such as waylay + The wandering fancy when the solid day + Has fallen in smoldering ruins, and night's star, + Aloft there, with its steady point of light + Mastering the eye, has wrapped the brain in sleep. + Ah, when I die, and planets take their flight + Above my grave, still let my spirit keep + Sometimes its vigil of divine remorse, + 'Midst pity, praise, or blame heaped o'er my corse! + + + + BURIAL-SONG FOR SUMNER. + + Now the last wreath of snow + That melts, in mist exhales + White aspiration, and our deep-voiced gales + In chorus chant the measured march of spring, + Whom griefs of life and death + Are burdening! + Slow, slow-- + With half-held breath-- + Tread slow, O mourners, that all men may know + What hero here lies low! + + O music, sweep + From some deep cave, and bear + To us that gasp in this so meagre air + Sweet ministerings + And consolations of contorted sound, + With agonies profound + Of nobly warring and enduring chords + That lie, close-bound, + Unstirred as yet 'neath thy wide, wakening wings; + So that our hearts break not in broken words. + O music, that hast power + This darkness to devour + In vivid light; that from the dusk of grief + Canst cause to grow divergent flower and leaf, + And from death's darkest roots + Bring forth the fairest fruits;-- + Come thou, to quicken this hour + Of loss, and keep + Thy spell on all, that none may dare to weep! + + For he whom now we mourn, + As if from giants born, + Was strong in limb and strong in brain, + And nobly with a giant scorn + Withstood the direst pain + That healing science knows, + When, by the dastard blows + Of his brute enemy + Laid low, he sought to rise again + Through help of knife and fire,-- + The awful enginery + Wherewith men dare aspire + To wrest from Death his victims. Yea, + Though he who healed him shrank and throbbed + With horror of the wound, + Brave Sumner gave no sound, + Nor flinched, nor sobbed, + But as though within the man + Instant premonition ran + Of his high fate, + Imperishable, sculptured state + Enthroned in death to hold, + He stood, a statued form + Of veiled and voiceless storm, + Inwardly quivering + Like the swift-smitten string + Of unheard music, yet + As massively and firmly set + As if he had been marble or wrought gold! + + Built in so brave a shape, + How could he hope escape + The blundering people's wrath? + Who, seeing him strong, + Supposed it right to cast on him their wrong, + Since he could bear it all! + Lo, now, the sombre pall + Sweeps their dull errors from the path, + And leaves it free + For him, whose hushed heart no reproaches hath, + Unto his grave to fare, + In shrouded majesty! + His triumph fills the air: + Behold, the streets are bordered with vain breath + Of those who reverent watch the train of death; + But he has done with breathing! + + Wise Death, still choosing near and far, + Thou couldst not strike a higher star + From out our heaven, and yet its light + In falling glorifies the night! + + Leader in life, his lips, though dumb, + Still rule us by their restfulness, their smile + Of far-off meanings; and the people come + In tributary hosts for many a mile, + Drawn by an eloquence + More solemn and intense + Than that wherewith he shook + The Senate, while his look + Of sober lightning cleft the knotty growth + Of error, that within the riven root + Uplifted, lit with peace, truth's buds might shoot, + And blow sweet breath o'er all, however loth! + + Unspeaking, though his eyes forget + The light that late forsook + Their chambers, there doth rise + Mysteriously yet + A radiance thence that glows + On brows of them, the great and wise, + Poets and men of prophecies, + Who, with looks of strange repose, + Calm, exalted, here have met + Him to follow to his grave. + Well they know he's crossed their bound, + Yet, with baffled longing brave, + Seek with him the depths to sound + That gulf our lonely life around. + Oh, on these mortal faces frail + What immortality + Falls from the death-light pale! + + Ev'n thus the path unto thy tomb, + Sumner, all our brave and good + Still shall pace through time to come, + For in distant Auburn wood + Seeing the glimmer of thy stone, + They a shaft shall deem it, thrown + From a dawn beyond the deep, + And so haste with thee to keep + Angelic brotherhood! + O herald, gone before, + For these throw wide the door, + Make room, make room! + + Now, music, cease, + And bitter brazen trumpets hold your peace! + Now, while the dumb, white air + Draws from our still despair + A purer prayer. + Then must the sod + Fulfill its humble share, + Meek-folded o'er his breast, + Here where he lies amongst the waiting trees: + They shall break bud when warm winds from the west + And southern breezes come to touch the place + Made precious by this grace + Of memory dear to God. + + We leave him where the granite Lion lies + And gazes toward the East, with woman's eyes + That read the riddle of the undying sun, + Bearing within her breast the stony germ + Of continents, but--lasting no less firm-- + The memory of those marvels done, + The battles fought, the words that wrought + To free a race, and chasten one. + We leave him where the river slowly winds, + A broken chain; + The river that so late its hero finds, + Without a stain, + Whose name so long expectantly it bore; + And, echoing now a people's thought, + The Charles shall murmur by this reedy shore + His fame forevermore. + + + + ARISE, AMERICAN! + + The soul of a nation awaking,-- + High visions of daybreak I saw, + And the stir of a state, the forsaking + Of sin, and the worship of law. + + O pine-tree, shout! And hoarser + Rush, river, unto the sea, + Foam-fettered and sun-flushed, a courser + That feels the prairie, free! + + Our birth-star beckons to trial + All faith of the far-fled years, + Ere scorn was our share, and denial, + Or laughter for patriot's tears. + + And lo, Faith comes forth the finer + From trampled thickets of fire, + And the orient opens diviner + Before her; the heaven lifts higher. + + O deep, sweet eyes, and severer + Than steel! he knoweth who comes, + Thy hero: bend thine eyes nearer! + Now wilder than battle-drums + + Thy glance in his blood is stirring! + His heart is alive like the main + When the roweled winds are spurring, + And the broad tides shoreward strain. + + O hero, art thou among us? + O helper, hidest thou still? + Why hath he no anthem sung us, + Why waiteth, nor worketh our will? + + For still a smirk or a favor + Can hide the face of the false; + And the old-time Faith seeks braver + Upholders, and sacreder walls. + + Yea, cunning is Christian evil, + And subtle the conscience' snare; + But virtue's volcanic upheaval + Shall cast fine device to the air! + + Too long has the land's soul slumbered, + And triumph bred dangerous ease,-- + Our victories all unnumbered, + Our feet on the down-bowed seas. + + Come, then, simple and stalwart + Life of the earlier days! + Come! Far better than all were it-- + Our precepts, our prayers, and our lays-- + + That the heart of the people should tremble + Accord to some mighty one's voice, + The helpless atoms assemble + In music, their valor to poise. + + Come to us, mountain-dweller, + Leader, wherever thou art, + Skilled from thy cradle, a queller + Of serpents, and sound to the heart! + + Modest, and mighty, and tender, + Man of an iron mold, + Learned or unlearned, our defender, + American-souled! + + + + THE SILENT TIDE + + A tangled orchard round the farm-house spreads, + Wherein it stands home-like, but desolate, + 'Midst crowded and uneven-statured sheds, + Alike by rain and sunshine sadly stained. + A quiet country-road before the door + Runs, gathering close its ruts to scale the hill-- + A sudden bluff on the New Hampshire coast, + That rises rough against the sea, and hangs + Crested above the bowlder-sprinkled beach. + And on the road white houses small are strung + Like threaded beads, with intervals. The church + Tops the rough hill; then comes the wheelwright's shop. + + From orchard, church, and shop you hear the sea, + And from the farm-house windows see it strike + Sharp gleams through slender arching apple-boughs. + + Sea-like, too, echoing round me here there rolls + A surging sorrow; and even so there breaks + A smitten light of woe upon me, now, + Seeing this place, and telling o'er again + The tale of those who dwelt here once. Long since + It was, and they were two--two brothers, bound + By early orphanage and solitude + The closer, cleaving strongly each to each, + Till love, that held them many years in gage, + Itself swept them asunder. I have heard + The story from old Deacon Snow, their friend, + He who was boy and man with them. A boy! + What, he? How strange it seems! who now is stiff + And warped with life's fierce heat and cold: his brows + Are hoary white, and on his head the hairs + Stand sparse as wheat-stalks on the bare field's edge! + + Reuben and Jerry they were named; but two + Of common blood and nurture scarce were found + More sharply different. For the first was bold, + Breeze-like and bold to come or go; not rash, + But shrewdly generous, popular, and boon: + And Jerry, dark and sad-faced. Whether least + He loved himself or neighbor none could tell, + So cold he seemed in wonted sympathy. + Yet he would ponder an hour at a time + Upon a bird found dead; and much he loved + To brood i' th' shade of yon wind-wavered pines. + Often at night, too, he would wander forth, + Lured by the hollow rumbling of the sea + In moonlight breaking, there to learn wild things, + Such as these dreamers pluck out of the dusk + While other men lie sleeping. But a star, + Rose on his sight, at last, with power to rule + Majestically mild that deep-domed sky, + High as youth's hopes, that stood above his soul; + And, ruling, led him dayward. That was Grace, + I mean Grace Brierly, daughter of the squire, + Rivaling the wheelwright Hungerford's shy Ruth + For beauty. Therefore, in the sunny field, + Mowing the clover-purpled grass, or, waked + In keen December dawns,--while creeping light + And winter-tides beneath the pallid stars + Stole o'er the marsh together,--a thought of her + Would turn him cool or warm, like the south breeze, + And make him blithe or bitter. Alas for him! + Eagerly storing golden thoughts of her, + He locked a phantom treasure in his breast. + + He sought to chain the breezes, and to lift + A perfume as a pearl before his eyes-- + Intangible delight! A time drew on + When from these twilight musings on his hopes + He woke, and found the morning of his love + Blasted, and all its rays shorn suddenly. + For Reuben, too, had turned his eye on Grace, + And she with favoring face the suit had met, + Known in the village; this dream-fettered youth + Perceiving not what passed, until too late. + + One holiday the young folks all had gone + Strawberrying, with the village Sabbath-school; + Reuben and Grace and Jerry, Ruth, Rob Snow, + And all their friends, youth-mates that buoyantly + Bore out 'gainst Time's armadas, like a fleet + Of fair ships, sunlit, braced by buffeting winds, + Indomitably brave; but, soon or late, + Battle and hurricane or whirl them deep + Below to death, or send them homeward, seared + By shot and storm: so went they forth, that day. + + Two wagons full of rosy children rolled + Along the rutty track, 'twixt swamp and slope, + Through deep, green-glimmering woods, and out at last + On grassy table-land, warm with the sun + And yielding tributary odors wild + Of strawberry, late June-rose, juniper, + Where sea and land breeze mingled. There a brook + Through a bare hollow flashing, spurted, purled, + And shot away, yet stayed--a light and grace + Unconscious and unceasing. And thick pines, + Hard by, drew darkly far away their dim + And sheltering, cool arcades. So all dismount, + And fields and forest gladden with their shout; + Ball, swing, and see-saw sending the light hearts + Of the children high o'er earth and everything. + While some staid, kindly women draw and spread + In pine-shade the long whiteness of a cloth, + The rest, a busy legion, o'er the grass + Kneeling, must rifle the meadow of its fruit. + + O laughing Fate! O treachery of truth + To royal hopes youth bows before! That day, + Ev'n there where life in such glad measure beat + Its round, with winds and waters, tunefully, + And birds made music in the matted wood, + The shaft of death reached Jerry's heart: he saw + The sweet conspiracy of those two lives, + In looks and gestures read his doom, and heard + Their laughter ring to the grave all mirth of his. + + So Reuben's life in full leaf stood, its fruit + Hidden in a green expectancy; but all + His days were rounded with ripe consciousness: + While Jerry felt the winter's whitening blight, + As when that frosty fern-work and those palms + Of visionary leaf, and trailing vines, + Quaint-chased by night-winds on the pane, melt off, + And naked earth, stone-stiff, with bristling trees, + Stares in the winter sunlight coldly through. + But yet he rose, and clothed himself amain + With misery, and once more put on life + As a stained garment. Highly he resolved + To make his deedless days henceforward strike + Pure harmony--a psalm of silences. + + But on the Sunday, coming from the church, + He saw those happy, plighted lovers walk + Before proud Grace's father, and of friends + Heard comment and congratulation given. + Then with Rob Snow he hurried to the beach, + To a rough heap of stones they two had reared + In boyhood. There the two held sad debate + Of life's swift losses, Bob inspiriting still, + Jerry rejecting hope, ev'n though his friend, + Self-wounding (for he loved Ruth Hungerford), + Told how the wheelwright's daughter longed for him, + And yet might make him glad, though Grace was lost. + + The season deepened, and in Jerry's heart + Ripened a thought charged with grave consequence. + His grief he would have stifled at its birth, + Sad child of frustrate longing! But anon-- + Knowledge of Ruth's affection being revealed, + Which, if he stayed to let it feed on him, + Vine-like might wreathe and wind about his life, + Lifting all shade and sweetness out of reach + Of Robert, so long his friend--honor, and hopes + He would not name, kindled a torch for war + Of various impulse in him. Reuben wedded; + Yet Jerry lingered. Then, swift whisperings + Along reverberant walls of gossips' ears + Hummed loud and louder a love for Ruth. Grace, too, + Involved him in a web of soft surmise + With Ruth; and Reuben questioned him thereof. + But a white, sudden anger struck like a bolt + O'er Jerry's face, that blackened under it: + He strode away, and left his brother dazed, + With red rush of offended self-conceit + Staining his forehead to the hair. This flash + Of anger--first since boyhood's wholesome strifes-- + On Jerry's path gleamed lurid; by its light + He shaped a life's course out. + + There came a storm + One night. He bade farewell to Ruth; and when + Above the seas the bare-browed dawn arose, + While the last laggard drops ran off the eaves, + He dressed, but took some customary garb + On his arm; stole swiftly to the sands; and there + Cast clown his garments by the ancient heap + Of stones. At first brief pause he made, and thought: + "And thus I play, to win perchance a tear + From her whom, first, to save the smallest care, + I thought I could have died!" But then at once + Within the sweep of swirling water-planes + That from the great waves circled up and slid + Instantly back, passing far down the shore, + Southward he made his way. Next day he shipped + Upon a whaler outward bound. She spread + Her mighty wings, and bore him far away-- + So far, Death seemed across her wake to stalk, + Withering her swift shape from the empty air, + Until her memory grew a faded dream. + + Ah, what a desolate brightness that young day + Flung o'er the impassive strand and dull green marsh + And green-arched orchard, ere it struck the farm! + Storm-strengthened, clear, and cool the morning rose + To gaze down on that frighted home, where dawned + Pale Ruth's discovery of her loss, who late, + Guessing some ill in Jerry's last-night words + Of vague farewell, woke now to certainty + Of strange disaster. So, when Reuben and Rob, + Hither and thither searching, with locked lips + And eyes grown suddenly cold in eager dread, + On those still sands beside the untamed sea, + Came to the garments Jerry had thrown there, dumb + They stood, and knew he'd perished. If by chance + Borne out with undertow and rolled beneath + The gaping surge, or rushing on his death + Free-willed, they would not guess; but straight they set + Themselves to watch the changes of the sea-- + The watchful sea that would not be betrayed, + The surly flood that echoed their suspense + With hollow-sounding horror. Thus three tides + Hurled on the beach their empty spray, and brought + Nor doubt-dispelling death, nor new-born hope. + But with the fourth slow turn at length there came + A naked, drifting body impelled to shore, + An unknown sailor by the late storm swept + Out of the rigging of some laboring ship. + And him, disfigured by the water's wear, + The watching friends supposed their dead; and so, + Mourning, took up this outcast of the deep, + And buried him, with church-rite and with pall + Trailing, and train of sad-eyed mourners, there + In the old orchard-lot by Reuben's door. + + Observed among the mourners walked slight Ruth. + Her grief had dropped a veil of finer light + Around her, hedging her with sanctity + Peculiar; all stood shy about her save + Rob Snow, he venturing from time to time + Some small, uncertain act of kindliness. + Long seemed she vowed from joy, but when the birds + Began to mate, and quiet violets blow + Along the brook-side, lo! she smiled again; + Again the wind-flower color in her cheeks + Blanch'd in a breath, and bloomed once more; then stayed; + Till, like the breeze that rumors ripening buds, + A delicate sense crept through the air that soon + These two would scale the church-crowned hill, and wed. + + The seasons faced the world, and fled, and came. + In summer nights, the soft roll of the sea + Was shattered, resonant, beneath a moon + That, silent, seemed to hearken. And every hour + In autumn, night or day, large apples fell + Without rebound to earth, upon the sod + There mounded greenly by the large slate slab + In the old orchard-lot near Reuben's door. + But there were changes: after some long years + Reuben and Grace beheld a brave young boy + Bearing their double life abroad in one-- + Beginning new the world, and bringing hopes + That in their path fell flower-like. Not at ease + They dwelt, though; for a slow discordancy + Of temper--weak-willed waste of life in bursts + Of petulance--had marred their happiness. + And so the boy, young Reuben, as he grew, + Was chafed and vexed by this ill-fitting mode + Of life forced on him, and rebelled. Too oft + Brooding alone, he shaped loose schemes of flight + Into the joyous outer world, to break + From the unwholesome wranglings of his home. + Then once, when at some slight demur he made, + Dispute ensued between the man and wife, + He burst forth, goaded, "Some day I will leave-- + Leave you forever!" And his father stared, + Lifted and clenched his hand, but let it unloose, + Nerveless. The blow, unstruck, yet quivered through + The boy's whole body. + + Waiting for the night, + Reuben made ready, lifted latch, went forth; + Then, with his little bundle in his hand, + Took the bleak road that led him to the world. + When Jerry eighteen years had sailed, had bared + His hurt soul to the pitiless sun and drunk + The rainy brew of storms on all seas, tired + Of wreck and fever and renewed mischance + That would not end in death, a longing stirred + Within him to revisit that gray coast + Where he was born. He landed at the port + Whence first he sailed; and, as in fervid youth, + Set forth upon the highway, to walk home. + Some hoarding he had made, wherewith to enrich + His brother's brood for spendthrift purposes; + And as he walked he wondered how they looked, + How tall they were, how many there might be. + At noon he set himself beside the way, + Under a clump of willows sprouting dense + O'er the weed-woven margin of a brook; + While in the fine green branches overhead + Song-sparrows lightly perched, for whom he threw + From his scant bread some crumbs, remembering well + Old days when he had played with birds like these-- + The same, perhaps, or grandfathers of theirs, + Or earlier still progenitors: whereat + They chirped and chattered louder than before. + But, as he sat, a boy came down the road, + Stirring the noontide dust with laggard feet. + Young Reuben 't was, who seaward made his way. + And Jerry hailed him, carelessly, his mood + Moving to salutation, and the boy, + From under his torn hat-brim looking, answered. + Then, seeing that he eyed his scrap of bread, + The sailor bade him come and share it. So + They fell to talk; and Jerry, with a rough, + Quick-touching kindness, the boy's heart so moved + That unto him he all his wrong confessed. + Gravely the sailor looked at him, and told + His own tale of mad flight and wandering; how, + Wasted he had come back, his life a husk + Of withered seeds, a raveled purse, though once + With golden years well stocked, all squandered now. + At ending, he prevailed, and Reub was won + To turn and follow. Jerry, though he knew + Not yet the father's name, said he that way + Was going, too, and he would intercede + Between the truant and his father. Back + Together then they went. But on the way, + As now they passed from pines to farming-land, + The boy asked more. "'T is queer you should have come + From these same parts, and run away like me! + You did not tell me how it happened." + + + JERRY. + + Foolish, + All of it! But I thought it weightier + Than the world's history, once. I could not stay + And see my brother married to the girl + I loved; and so I went. + + + THE BOY. + + I had an uncle + That was in love. But he--he drowned himself. + Why do men do so? + + + JERRY. + + Drowned himself? And when? + + + THE BOY. + + I don't know. Long ago; it's like a dream + To me. I was not born then. Deacon Snow + Has told me something of it. Mother cries + Even now, beside his grave. Poor uncle! + + + JERRY. + + His grave! + (_That_ could not be, then.) Yet if it should be, + How can I think Grace cried-- + + + THE BOY. + + How did you know + My mother's name was Grace? + + + JERRY. + + I am confused + By what you say. But is your mother's name + Grace? How! Grace, too? + + A strange uneasiness + In Jerry's breast had waked. They walked awhile + In silence. This he could not well believe, + That Grace and Reuben unhappy were, nor that + One son alone was theirs. Therefore aside + He thrust that hidden, sharp foreboding: still + He trusted, still sustained a calm suspense, + And ranged among his memories. "Tell me, son," + He said, "about this Deacon Snow--Rob Snow + It must be, I suppose." + + + THE BOY. + + Oh, do you know him? + + + JERRY. + + A deacon now! Ay, once I knew Rob Snow-- + A jolly blade, if ever any was, + And merry as the full moon. + + + THE BOY. + + He has failed + A good deal now, though, since his wife died. + + + JERRY. + + What! + (Of course; of course; all's changed.) He married! + + + THE BOY. + + Why, + How long you must have been away! For since + I can remember he has had a wife + And children. She was Gran'ther Hungerford's-- + + + JERRY. + + Her name was Ruth? + + + THE BOY. + + Yes, Ruth! 'T is after her + The deacon's nicest daughter's named; _she's_ Ruth. + + Then sadly Jerry pondered, and no more + Found speech. They tramped on sternly. To the brow + Of a long hill they came, whence they could see + The village and blue ocean; then they sank + Into a region of low-lying fields + Half-naked from the scythe, and others veined + With vines that 'midst dismantled, fallen corn + Dragged all athwart a weight of tawny gourds, + Sun-mellowed, sound. And now the level way + Stretched forward eagerly, for hard ahead + It made the turn that rounded Reuben's house. + Between the still road and the tossing sea + Lay the wide swamp, with all its hundred pools + Reflecting leaden light; anon they passed + A farm-yard where the noisy chanticleer + Strutted and ruled, as one long since had done; + And then the wayside trough with jutting spout + Of ancient, mossy wood, that still poured forth + Its liquid largess to all comers. Soon + A slow cart met them, filled with gathered kelp: + The salt scent seemed a breath of younger days. + They reached the road-bend, and the evening shone + Upon them, calmly. Jerry paused, o'erwhelmed. + Reuben, surprised, glanced at him, and then said, + "Yonder's the house." Old Jerry gazed on him, + And trembled; for before him slowly grew + Through the boy's face the mingled features there + Of father and of mother--Grace's mouth, + Ripe, pouting lips, and Reuben's square-framed eyes. + But, mastering well his voice, he bade the boy + Wait by the wall, till he a little while + Went forward, and prepared. So Reuben stayed; + And Jerry with uncertain step advanced, + As dreaming of his youth and this his home. + Slowly he passed between the gateless posts + Before the unused front door, slowly too + Beyond the side porch with its woodbine thick + Draping autumnal splendor. Thus he came + Before the kitchen window, where he saw + A gray-haired woman bent o'er needle-work + In gathering twilight. And without a voice, + Rooted, he stood. He stirred not, but his glance + Burned through the pane; uneasily she turned, + And seeing that shaggy stranger standing there + Expectant, shook her head, as though to warn + Some chance, wayfaring beggar. He, though, stood + And looked at her immovably. Then, quick + The sash upthrowing, she made as if to speak + Harshly; but still he held his quiet eyes + Upon her. Now she paused; her throat throbbed full; + Her lips paled suddenly, her wan face flamed, + A fertile stir of memory strove to work + Renewal in those features wintry cold. + And so she hung, while Jerry by a step + Drawn nearer, coming just beneath her, said, + "Grace!" And she murmured, "Jerry!" Then she bent + Over him, clasping his great matted head + With those worn arms, all joyless; and the tears + Fell hot upon his forehead from her eyes. + For now in this dim gloaming their two souls + Unfruited, by an instant insight wild, + Delicious, found the full, mysterious clew + Of individual being, each in each. + But, tremulously, soon they drew themselves + Away from that so sweet, so sad embrace, + The first, the last that could be theirs. Then he, + Summing his story in a word, a glance, + Added, "But though you see me broken down + And poor enough, not empty-handed quite + I come. For God set in my way a gift, + The best I could have sought. I bring it you + In memory of the love I bore. Not now + Must that again be thought of! Waste and black + My life's fields lie behind me, and a frost + Has stilled the music of my hopes, but here + If I may dwell, nor trouble you, such a joy + Were mine, I dare not ask it. Oh forgive + The weakness! Come and see my gift!" + + Ah, tears + Flowed fast, that night, from springs of love unsealed + Once more within the ancient house--rare tears + Of reconciliation, grief, and joy! + A miracle, it seemed, had here been wrought, + The dead brought back to life. And with him came + The prodigal, repenting. + + So, thenceforth, + A spirit of peace within the household dwelt. + In Jerry a swift-sent age these years had brought, + To soften him, wrought with all the woe at home + Such open, gracious dignity, that all + For cheer and guidance learned to look to him. + But chiefly th' younger Reuben sought his aid, + And he with homely wisdom shaped the lad + To a life's loving duty. Yet not long, + Alas! the kind sea-farer with them stayed. + After some years his storm-racked body drooped. + The season came when crickets cease to sing + And flame-curled leaves fly fast; and Jerry sank + Softly toward death. Then, on a boisterous morn + That beat the wrecked woods with incessant gusts + To wrest some last leaf from them, he arose + And passed away. But those who loved him watched + His fading, half in doubt, and half afraid, + As if he must return again; for now + Entering the past he seemed, and not a life + Beyond; and some who thought of that old grave + In the orchard, dreamed a breath's space that the man + Long buried had come back, and could not die. + But so he died, and, ceasing, made request + Beside that outcast of the deep to lie. + None other mark desired he but the stone + Set there long since, though at a stranger's grave, + In heavy memory of him thought dead. + + They marked the earth with one more mound beside + The other, near a gap in the low wall + That looked out seaward. There you ever hear + The deep, remorseful requiem of the sea; + And there, in autumn, windfalls, showering thick + Upon the grave, score the slow, voiceless hours + With unrebounding stroke. All round about + Green milkweed rankly thrives, and golden-rod + Sprouts from his prostrate heart in fine-poised grace + Of haughty curve, with every crest in flower. + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Rose and Roof-Tree, by George Parsons Lathrop + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSE AND ROOF-TREE *** + +***** This file should be named 7110-8.txt or 7110-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/1/1/7110/ + +Produced by Michelle Shephard, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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