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diff --git a/76783-0.txt b/76783-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3343c11 --- /dev/null +++ b/76783-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2978 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76783 *** + + + + + + HEART OF NEW ENGLAND + + + + + Heart of New England + + By + Abbie Farwell Brown + +[Illustration: [Logo]] + + BOSTON AND NEW YORK + HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + =The Riverside Press Cambridge= + 1920 + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY ABBIE FARWELL BROWN + + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + + + + =To + The Memory of my Ancestor + Mary Allerton Cushman + Last of the Mayflower Pilgrims= + + + + +Thanks are due the publishers of various magazines for courteous +permission to reprint poems that first appeared in their pages, as +follows: _The Atlantic Monthly_, _Harper’s Magazine_, _The Bookman_, +_The Bellman_, _Contemporary Verse_, _The Delineator_, _The Designer_, +_The Ladies’ Home Journal_, _The Woman’s Home Companion_, _The Smart +Set_, _The Youth’s Companion_, _The Living Church_, _The Christian +Endeavor World_, _The Congregationalist_, _The New England Magazine_, +_Life_, _Saint Nicholas_, _Radcliffe Quarterly_, _Boston Transcript_, +_Boston Herald_, _New York Tribune_, _New York Times_, _The Old Farmer’s +Almanack_. + +“The Rock of Liberty; A Pilgrim Ode,” with music for Chorus by Rosseter +Cole, is copyrighted and published in 1920 by the Arthur P. Schmidt +Company, of Boston. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + EAST WIND 2 + NAMES 3 + COMFORTERS 6 + PILGRIM MOTHERS 9 + CROSS-CURRENTS 11 + SAVAGES 14 + PIRATE TREASURE 16 + THE WALL 19 + HAMPTON TOWN 22 + THE OLD GARDEN 24 + GRANDMOTHER’S HOUSE 25 + GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN 27 + THE FRIGHTENED PATH 28 + DEVIL’S GOLD: A HAMPTON LEGEND 29 + THE HAUNTED HOUSE 32 + ROSE PERENNIAL 34 + SCARECROW 37 + INSPIRATION 39 + A WASTED MORNING 40 + CIPHERS 42 + PINE MUSIC 44 + MAIDS AND MUSHROOMS 45 + IN THE DARK 47 + GARDEN THOUGHTS 48 + THE PASSER-BY 49 + FROST 51 + WINTER SONG 53 + TANAGER 54 + SONG 56 + THE KNOCK 57 + AN OLD-WORLD CONVENT GARDEN 59 + A SEPTEMBER BIRTHDAY IN BRITTANY 61 + THE BLAZED TRAIL 64 + BUT THERE ARE WINGS 66 + SAFE? 67 + THE UP-HILL STREET 68 + CITY SMOKE 71 + GREEN CROSSES 73 + THE MYSTIC CIRCLE 76 + SONG OF THE BOOKWORM 80 + THE BOOKS I OUGHT TO READ 82 + JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE 83 + THE JOY-VENDER 85 + THE SPARROW 88 + SYLVIA 90 + THE PLUME 91 + THE WOODSY ONES 93 + THE WEE KNITTER 94 + A CHARM SAID UNDER AN OAK 96 + FAIRY RING 98 + DANGEROUS PASSING 99 + THE DRYAD 101 + FAIRY WINE 103 + WEBS 104 + THE FAIRY FORT 105 + ───────────────────────────────────────────────── + PEACE—WITH A SWORD 109 + THE CRY 112 + CRUSADERS 114 + THE KNIGHTS 115 + FROM THE CANTEEN 117 + CRIPPLED SOLDIER 119 + THE FLAG TRIUMPHANT 121 + THREE GOLDEN STARS 123 + THE SPRING OF THE YEAR 126 + PRAYER FOR AMERICA 128 + ───────────────────────────────────────────────── + THE ROCK OF LIBERTY; A PILGRIM ODE. 1620–1920 131 + + + + + HEART OF NEW ENGLAND + + + + + EAST WIND + + + _I dream of a languorous, tideless shore, + Of azure light in magic caves; + Of heathery hills with summits hoar, + That wade knee-deep in northern waves; + Of rainbow sails like butterflies + That flutter to an Old World quay; + Of where a buried city lies + Beneath the sands of Brittany._ + + _Nay! But my own New England coast, + Pungent with wild rose, pine, and bay; + Brown marsh, white sand, gray rocks that boast + The fiercest surf, the wildest spray! + Ho! For me, + Where the white, white sails go flashing to the sea; + And the sea wind is the east wind, as the sea wind ought to be!_ + + _I dream of a castle-covered height; + Of gardens with eternal flowers, + And mossy fountains gleaming white; + Of lemon groves and myrtle bowers; + Of fairy glens and haunted halls, + Where mystery walks to and fro; + Of palaces on gay canals; + Of English green, and Alpenglow._ + + _Nay! But New England’s apple trees, + Her homely houses, square and plain, + The simple gardens loved of bees, + The maple groves, the firs of Maine! + Ho! For me, + Where the spring comes slowly, like a play to see; + And the sea wind is the east wind, as the sea wind ought to be!_ + + + + + Heart of New England + ⁂ + + + + + NAMES + + + From Somerset and Devon, + From Kent and Lincolnshire, + The younger sons came sailing + With hearts of steel and fire. + + From leafy lane and valley, + Fair glebe and ancient wood, + The counties of old England + Poured forth their warmest blood. + + Out of the gray-walled cities, + Away from the castled towns, + Corners of thatch and roses, + Heathery combes and downs, + + With neither crown nor penny, + But an iron will they came, + Heirs of an old tradition + And a good old English name. + + A brooding silence met them + On a nameless, savage shore; + But they called the wild—“New England,” + For the sake of the blood they bore. + + “_Plymouth_, _Exeter_, _Bristol_, + _Boston_, _Windsor_, _Wells_.” + Beloved names of England + Rang in their hearts like bells. + + They named their rocky farmlands, + Their hamlets by the sea, + For the mother-towns that bred them + In racial loyalty. + + “_Cambridge_, _Hartford_, _Gloucester_, + _Hampton_, _Norwich_, _Stowe_.” + The younger sons looked backward + And sealed their sonship so. + + The old blood thrills in answer, + As centuries go by, + To names that meant a challenge, + A signal, or a sigh. + + Now over friendly waters + The old towns, each to each, + Call with the kinship in a name; + One race, one truth, one speech. + + + + + COMFORTERS + + + Raw April came. The snow was melting fast + From the bleak Plymouth hills. The _Mayflower_, + Who had been fretting at her anchor-chains + Through the unfriendly weeks of rain and snow, + Flew like a homing pigeon out to sea, + With treacherous captain and a sulky crew. + But not one of the Faithful was returning. + Iron of purpose, worn but undismayed + By the fell winter, on a little hill + That bedded half the flock in a long sleep, + Pale Pilgrims watched the shining sails grow dim, + With straining vision. So, the final link + With home was severed now! The happy ship + Was homeward bound to the belovèd land, + Where soon the may would blossom in the hedges + Of Kent and Suffolk; while in Lincolnshire + The friendly robin sang by flooding tides. + “Never again to see the green of England + Or hear that song!” they murmured. “Never again! + For us sad exiles on a barren shore, + Sorrow and toil till death, uncomforted. + Yet the Lord’s will be done!” + Running there came + A little maid with treasure-trove in hand, + A flushed and furry blossom. “Look!” she cried, + “The first pink posy peeping through the snow + Upon a sunny hillside in the wood! + Is it not like the precious English may, + But sweeter still?” “Behold, the mayflower!” + The Pilgrims whispered. “God has sent to us + A messenger of homeland and the spring!” + The wistful shadow faded from their eyes, + Their set lips softened. + Came a little lad, + Leaping and laughing. “I have heard a song! + A redbreast bubbling in the willow-tree + Caroled ‘Cheer up! Cheer up!’ See where he flies + With his bright feathers!” Eagerly they peered, + Elder and Captain, man and weary wife, + Orphans with little faces pinched and pale. + Forgetting now the vanished ship, they cried— + “The robin and the mayflower are here! + Now in New England shall we be at home, + God wills it so.” Thereon they shyly smiled, + Straightened bent shoulders, and with lifted hearts + Slowly departed; thinking more than speaking, + In the old English fashion. + + + + + PILGRIM MOTHERS + + + Now thank God for the women + Who dared the perilous sea + With our adventurous ancestors, + To bear them company! + + They sailed, they knew not whither, + They came, nor questioned why, + But that the men-folk whom they loved + Without their care would die. + + Babes newly born they carried, + And bairns with wavering feet; + But never a cow was there for milk, + And never a stove for heat. + + Through icy waves they landed, + They washed in frozen streams; + They shivered through the nights of dread + With horror in their dreams. + + Through toil and want and danger + High-hearted they could wait; + They lived and died for the commonweal, + And mothered a nursling State. + + They had no voice in meeting, + No vote in pact or law; + But of their flesh and blood is built + Our strength for peace and war. + + Thank God for the brave women + Of a hard three-hundred years! + Have they not earned a nation’s trust + Through sacrifice and tears? + + + + + CROSS-CURRENTS + + + Through twelve stout generations + New England blood I boast; + The stubborn pastures bred them, + The grim, uncordial coast, + + Sedate and proud old cities— + Loved well enough by me. + Then how should I be yearning + To scour the earth and sea? + + Each of my Yankee forbears + Wed a New England mate; + They dwelt and did and died here, + Nor glimpsed a rosier fate. + + My clan endured their kindred; + But foreigners they loathed, + And wandering folk, and minstrels, + And gypsies motley-clothed. + + Then why do patches please me, + Fantastic, wild array? + Why have I vagrant fancies + For lads from far away? + + My kin were godly Churchmen— + Or paced in elders’ weeds; + But all were grave and pious + And hated heathen creeds. + + Then why are Thor and Wotan + To me dread forces still? + Why does my heart go questing + For Pan beyond the hill? + + My people clutched at freedom, + (Though others’ wills they chained) + But made the Law and kept it, + And Beauty they restrained. + + Then why am I a rebel + To laws of rule and square? + Why would I dream and dally, + Or, reckless, do and dare? + + O righteous, solemn Grandsires, + O Dames, correct and mild, + Who bred me of your virtues, + Whence comes this changeling child? + + The thirteenth generation— + Unlucky number this!— + My grandam loved a pirate, + And all my faults are his. + + A gallant, ruffled rover, + With beauty-loving eye, + He swept Colonial waters + Of coarser, bloodier fry. + + He waved his hat to Danger, + At Law he shook his fist. + Ah, merrily he plundered, + He sang and fought and kissed! + + Though none have found his treasure, + And none his part would take, + I bless that thirteenth lady + Who chose him for my sake. + + + + + SAVAGES + + + The Heathen hailed us from the beach, + Prayed the new gods to bless and teach. + They worshiped us and gave us food, + Sweet water and maize, nuts from the wood; + Showed us safe harbor. Liquor and beads + Got us broad acres for our needs; + We set shrewd boundaries to the farms. + Too generously we loaned them arms; + Froward they grew and scorned our laws, + They bared white fangs, unsheathed fierce claws. + Haunts in the wilderness they made + To spy upon our barricade, + Our meeting-house and granaries, + Coveting them with cruel eyes. + One stole a heifer from our yard; + We hanged the whelp; they scalped our guard; + We shot their chief and eight tall braves. + The devils swarmed from dens and caves, + And burned the roofs above our heads; + Murdered the children in their beds! + With righteous wrath we armed for war, + Scouring the forest near and far, + River and lake with uncouth name, + All the fair region once their claim, + Killing the Redskin fiends at sight. + At last we rid us of the blight; + We made the savage race to cease, + And earned a Sabbath Day of peace. + We walled the tilth and reared this town. + + O great Jehovah looking down, + Reward our pious people still, + Who set Thy temple on the hill. + + + + + PIRATE TREASURE + + + A lady loved a swaggering rover, + The seven salt seas he voyaged over, + Bragged of a hoard none could discover, + Hey! Jolly Roger, O. + + She bloomed in a mansion dull and stately, + And as to Meeting she walked sedately, + From the tail of her eye she liked him greatly, + Hey! Jolly Roger, O. + + Rings in his ears and a red sash wore he, + He sang her a song and told her a story; + “I’ll make ye Queen of the Ocean!” swore he, + Hey! Jolly Roger, O. + + She crept from bed by her sleeping sister; + By the old gray mill he met and kissed her. + Blue day dawned before they missed her, + Hey! Jolly Roger, O. + + And while they prayed her out of Meeting, + Her wild little heart with bliss was beating, + As seaward went the lugger fleeting, + Hey! Jolly Roger, O. + + Choose in haste and repent at leisure; + A buccaneer life is not all pleasure. + He set her ashore with a little treasure, + Hey! Jolly Roger, O. + + Off he went where waves were dashing, + Knives were gleaming, cutlasses clashing; + And a ship on jagged rocks went crashing. + Hey! Jolly Roger, O. + + Over his bones the tides are sweeping; + The only trace of the pirate sleeping + Is what he left in the lady’s keeping, + Hey! Jolly Roger, O. + + Two hundred years is his name unspoken, + The secret of his hoard unbroken. + But a black-browed race wears the rover’s token, + Hey! Jolly Roger, O. + + Sea-blue eyes that gleam and glisten, + Lips that sing—and you like to listen— + A swaggering song; it might be this one, + “Hey! Jolly Roger, O!” + + + + + THE WALL + + + “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall” + ROBERT FROST + + “Not love a wall!” + I sit above the meadow in the glowing fall, + Tracing the gray redoubt from square to square + That bounds the acres harvest-ripe and fair, + And wonder if it’s true? + Nay! Ask the sumac and the teeming vine + That lean upon the boulders; + The crimsoning ivy and the wild woodbine, + Whose eager fingers clutch the stony shoulders; + The golden-rod, the aster, and the rue. + Ask the red squirrel with the chubby cheek + Skipping from stone to stone + By a quick route, his hidden hoard to seek, + Making the little viaduct his own. + Look where the woodchuck lifts a cautious head + Between the rocks, close by the cabbage bed; + The honey-bees have built a secret hive + In a forgotten chink; + And there a gray cocoon is tucked away, + Shrouding a miracle of mauve and pink + To wait its Easter Day. + The wall with pageantry is all alive. + + And I who gaze + On the dark border here, + Drawn like a ribbon round the pasture-ways, + Embroidered with the glory of the year— + What is the wall to me? + Has it no beauty more than eyes can see? + Lo, I remember how in days of old + A grandsire toiled with weariness and pain + To dig the clumsy boulders from the mould; + Piled them in ordered rows again, + Fitting them firm and fast, + A monument to last + Long after his own harried day was past. + He cleared the rocky soil for corn and grain + By which his children throve + To carry on the race. + We live by his life-giving. + I see each stone, rough like his granite face— + Uncompromising, stern, no slave to love, + Dowered with little grace, + Grim with the hard, unjoyful task of living; + But strong to stand the wrath of storm and time, + And bolts that heaven lets fall. + Built of a patriot’s prime— + How well I love the wall! + + + + + HAMPTON TOWN + + + The Hampton marshes to the sea + Stretch out a colored tapestry; + A woven, iridescent gleam, + Patterned with many a sea-filled stream, + Where dips the heron silently. + + Above the Hampton meadows soar + Wisps of a quaint, forgotten lore, + Wild legends of another day, + Sea-born and salty, like the spray + Flung from the great tusks of the Boar. + + And as I wander down the street + Of Hampton Town with loitering feet, + A fragrance breathes from gardens old, + Drawn from the centuries of mould, + Thyme, bleeding-heart, and bitter-sweet. + + The ghosts of lovely ladies rise, + With terror in their haunted eyes; + Witches and redskins, soldiers grim; + Pirate and Puritan—oath and hymn— + All in a web whose threads I share. + + The Hampton pines these legends know, + And gossip them in whispers low. + They spin an eerie charm that twines + About the lovely Place of Pines, + To blood that throbs from long ago. + + + + + THE OLD GARDEN + + + I chanced upon the little bowered retreat + For the first time, and never shall forget + The spell of tangled mystery! The wet + Bejeweled leaves like fingers curled to meet + My childish hand; the unimagined sweet + Of briar, heliotrope, and mignonette; + The tang of box, and quainter blossoms set + By mazy paths for liliputian feet. + + High walls of hollyhock and morning-glory + Concealed the ancient house with gables wide; + Shut out the world of swift and merry hours. + In the long silence of a fairy-story + My heart stood still. Then, at a turn I spied + My Mother, smiling at the other flowers. + + + + + GRANDMOTHER’S HOUSE + + + Grandmother’s house is far away. + You take the train and you ride all day, + Till you come to a meadow beside the sea, + As green and still as a place can be. + + In a little white room is a little white bed; + The pillow is sweet where you lay your head; + And all around is the scent of rose, + That breathes wherever Grandmother goes. + + Down in the meadow the crickets trill + As if they thought it was daytime still; + “_Cheep! Cheep! Cheep! Cheep! + Cheepy, cheepy! Cheep! Cheep!_” + Oh, how can a body go to sleep? + + All alone you lie and hark + To the curious sounds that come in the dark; + For the wall says “_Crick!_” And the floor goes “_Creak!_” + Then out in the hall is a rustle and squeak. + + A wee voice cries and is still again; + Then Something taps on the window-pane. + There’s a whispering in the tree outside, + And a sigh, that Grandmother _says_ is the tide. + + Grandmother’s house is nice by day, + But at night you seem very far away. + And the noise of the quiet is so loud, + It bothers you more than the noise of a crowd. + + + + + GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN + + + This was the garden that Grandmother made, + Here in the filtering sunlight and shade. + Here grew the delicate, old-fashioned posies, + Columbine, larkspur, cinnamon roses, + Balsam and lavender, briar and box, + Pale mignonette and chintz hollyhocks; + Neatest of paths for the tiniest feet, + Wandering, wavering, all through the sweet. + And there, quite the prettiest blossom of all, + Mother went tiptoeing when she was small. + + This is the garden that Grandmother made— + New buds to open as older ones fade. + With her wee waterpot making the showers, + _My_ mother dallied with _her_ mother’s flowers; + Quaint little figure with cheeks like a rose, + Starched pantalettes and slippers with bows; + Bonny brown hair and a bonnet of straw, + And the merriest eyes that the sun ever saw. + But for Grandmother’s garden and all that was in it, + Why, where should _I_ be this blessed minute? + + + + + THE FRIGHTENED PATH + + + The wood grew very quiet + As the road made a sudden turn; + Then a wavering, furtive path crept out + From the tangled briar and fern. + + “Where does it lead?” I asked the child; + She shivered and shook her head. + “It doesn’t _lead_ to any place. + It is running away!” she said. + + “It is running away on tiptoe + Through the untrodden grass, + To join the cheerful highroad, + Where real, live people pass. + + “It runs from a heap of ruins + Where a home stood in old days; + But nothing living goes there now, + And—Nothing Living stays!” + + + + + DEVIL’S GOLD + + + A HAMPTON LEGEND + + The General rolled in a coach-and-four, + His head held high in pride; + And Mary, who should have married me, + Cowered in silk at his side. + + The mud of the General’s chariot-wheels + Grimed me, plodding by; + But I saw a doom on his pallid face, + And met the fear in her eye. + + For well she knew—as I know now, + As neighbors guessed full well— + He had sold his soul for a bootful of gold + To the Devil himself from Hell. + + · · · · · + + He called from the hearth of his paneled hall + To the Fiend on the chimney-crown; + His jack-boot stood in the chimney-place, + And the gold came pouring down. + + The gold poured down in a tinkling flood, + And covered the great hall floor; + But the General roared to the Devil above— + “Nay! more! and more! and more!” + + For the great jack-boot was never filled + Till the gold lay three-foot thick; + The bargainer had cut the toe, + And fooled the Fiend by the trick. + + But the lady shivered in the dark + At the roar of the General’s mirth; + While brimstone flashes seared the roof, + And the Fiend’s wrath shook the earth. + + · · · · · + + I read in the face of the smitten man + As he passed me on that day, + And in the haunted lady’s eye— + That his hour was near to _pay_. + + And when we bore the General’s bier + To his proud tomb up the road, + Ten of the sturdiest lads in town + Staggered beneath the load. + + Ten of the sturdiest lads in town + Turned pale as lime-bleached bones + When their burden dropped and the cover loosed; + The coffin was filled with stones! + + My Mary fled from the haunted house + To toil as a poor man’s wife; + For not one pound of her widow’s wealth + Would I suffer to curse our life. + + The only dower she brought away + Was the terrible tale she told; + And our children bred in a humble home + Are marked with the hate of gold. + + + + + THE HAUNTED HOUSE + + + Upon a little rise it stands alone, + Dark and forbidding, where three crossroads meet; + The dim, fierce windows frown upon the street + From walls with mould and mosses overgrown. + + Pink hollyhocks group idly at the door, + And bend above the latch with prying eyes, + Or shake their heads and whisper, gossipwise, + Secrets that trouble living hearts no more. + + The rusty hinges give a warning scream; + The jealous panels shudder as they swing. + About my face the dusty cobwebs cling, + Soft as the shadow-fingers of a dream. + + There is a window looking to the sea; + The small, cracked panes are blurred as if with tears. + Here long ago a young bride felt the fears + That even now creep coldly over me. + + Here trembling still she sat, yet made no moan, + But felt an unseen presence fill the door, + And heard a light step steal across the floor, + And shrank beneath a touch that chilled her own.... + + Once more I pass the hall, the dim oak stair. + A sudden gust breathes down, a tremulous sigh; + A silken rustle lightly whispers by; + A fragrance as of roses fills the air. + + + + + ROSE PERENNIAL + + + The worn gray slab yet lies before + What once was a thrifty farmer’s door; + Now roofless cellar and scattered stones + Show skeleton hopes with time-picked bones. + Here backed against a crumbling wall + Still blooms at bay, unpruned and tall, + A soil-disdaining moss-rose bush, + The delicate buds in faintest flush, + Clutched by the brambles and woodbine, + Whose envious fingers tear and twine. + + There was the huge barn; here the yard, + Where the grim farmer labored hard + From dawn to dark, and never knew + A dream beyond the crops he grew, + The stock he raised, the silver store + Under the loose board in the floor. + + To and fro, to and fro, + The feet of his little wife would go, + All day long and half the night, + Up a flight and down a flight; + Pantry to kitchen, pen to barn, + Cellar to garret with loom of yarn; + In to the babies, out to the men, + Down to the pasture and back again. + Farms were never planned, you find, + To save the steps of womenkind. + + One can trudge and drudge through a long life’s course, + If she discover a hidden source + To seek when the spirit is faint and dry. + + Here was her rosebush growing high, + That he never knew—for he never cared; + This was her joy no mortal shared. + Her hands were never too stiff or tired + To foster beauty the soul desired; + The first shy green, the venturesome shoot, + Flushing sap from the sturdy root, + Moss-veiled bud and passionate bloom; + Scarlet hips for the winter gloom. + Never too worn the busy feet, + Never too dull the old heart’s beat, + For a furtive trip to the little shrine + That made the moment a pause divine. + + Here by the bush one glimpsed the Hills, + Where forests crooned and ran free rills; + One breathed deep draughts from a windswept sky, + Sunset, moonglow, mystery. + + This was her rosebush by the wall. + Gone is the farmer, farm and all; + Gone herd and crops and silver store. + The children grown return no more + To the hearth deserted, the loveless place, + Haunted by one enduring grace; + A dream of beauty, torn with briar, + Clutched in vain as it reaches higher. + + + + + SCARECROW + + + Rags and tags of what he was, + Topped with straw and stuffed with hay; + Balanced tipsily askew, + It grins to scare the crows away. + + I saw _Him_ first in that old hat— + It seemed the crown of a king to me. + I liked his careless swagger then; + Lord! He was straight and fine to see. + + He courted me in that same coat— + He couldn’t meet it now, I guess. + That gay vest was the one he wore + When I walked bride in my silver dress. + + He seemed as proud as I, those days. + I never dreamed, when we were wed, + I’d think the Scarecrow a better man, + With a broom for a spine and a pumpkin head. + + Rags and tags of what he seemed, + Mocking me in the field all day. + What can I make a scarecrow of, + To drive the hungry thoughts away? + + + + + INSPIRATION + + + Life—Death in a drop of dew; + And a prism to sift a sunbeam through. + + Fragile, perfect, briefly bright, + A tremulous miracle of light; + + Beauty poised on a flower-tip; + A whole round world for a Thrush to sip! + + + + + A WASTED MORNING + + + I wasted a morning! + Where? And why? + I let swift hours go silently by, + As I lay at the foot of an ancient tree, + And let God’s universe talk to me. + + Wind and shadow, cloud and bird, + Spoke each to my heart a musical word. + The little brown cone that fell on my cheek, + The squirrel who mocked with an impudent squeak, + The golden mushroom brimmed with death, + The twin-flower blessing the air with its breath; + Old spider spinning above my head + A magical dream with her rainbow thread; + The liliput vases of moss below; + The sudden caw of a picket crow; + The rhythmical green of a supple snake + Quivering into a lair of brake; + The grumbling bee, the whispering pine— + What need had they for a word of mine? + They lived the poem; they wove the spell + No tongue could utter, no phrases tell; + And a human voice could but disgrace + The eloquent stillness of the place. + + So I lay at the foot of the ancient tree, + And let God’s free verse sing to me. + + + + + CIPHERS + + + Oh, to be a wonder-child + And read the cipher of the wild! + + A starry-splintered alphabet + In the ancient rocks is set, + Spelling, if one held the key, + All creation’s history. + Cryptic messages I trace + Etched on many a flower-face; + Graven symbols score the pines, + The birches wear mysterious signs— + Perhaps the wistful diary + Of the Dryad in her tree. + + On the open page of snow + Curious hieroglyphics show, + Dots and dashes, twist and thrust, + Carven in the crystal crust; + Marks of furred and feathered things + With furtive feet or startled wings— + Comic secrets of the dark, + Silent tragedy and stark. + + Ciphers, ciphers everywhere, + In the sky, the wave, the air! + On the faces that one meets + Adrift upon the eddying streets; + On the near and dear, that change + With lines inscrutable and strange— + Palimpsests that time has wrought + With the signs of hidden thought, + Dreams unguessed and griefs unsaid, + Passionate yearning unbetrayed. + + Ah, could Love but find and own + Nature’s old Rosetta Stone! + + + + + PINE MUSIC + + + A hundred years I seek the stars + Through tempest, heat, and cold; + My body scarred by many scars, + My spirit wisely old. + + Yet the eternal song I sing, + From sun and shadow made, + Is lisped as sweetly every spring + By the least flowers that fade. + + + + + MAIDS AND MUSHROOMS + + + Oddly fashioned, quaintly dyed, + In the wood the mushrooms hide; + Rich and meaty, full of flavor, + Made for man’s delicious savor. + But he shudders and he shrinks + At the piquant mauves and pinks. + Who is brave enough to dare + Curious shapes and colors rare, + Dainties in peculiar dresses, + Fairy-rings and inky messes? + Something sinister must be + In the strange variety. + It is better not to know; + Safer but to peer—and go. + + So the mushrooms dry and fade, + Like full many a blooming maid, + With her dower of preciousness + Hid too well for men to guess. + But the toadstools bright and yellow + Tempt and poison many a fellow, + With their flaunting beauty bright, + The bold promise of delight. + Taste and suffer, ache and burn; + Generations do not learn! + + Nay, a little mushroom study + Would not injure anybody. + + + + + IN THE DARK + + + In the dark I lie and think + Of the glory in a day; + Of the sunshine and the shade, + All the color soft or gay. + + I can see it better now + As I lie with curtained eyes. + Oh, the rainbow and the moon; + Oh, the opal of the skies! + + How the poppies glow and thrill, + How the pigeon-feathers shine! + I will weave them into dreams, + I will make them ever mine. + + All the wonder of a wave, + All the magic of a tree— + I shall wear them in my soul + When these eyes no longer see. + + + + + GARDEN THOUGHTS + + + Some of us are roses, + Some of us are weeds; + All of us began in clay, + Silent little seeds. + + Some of us are flaunting, + Some of us are shy; + All of us have roots in earth, + Faces to the sky. + + Some give joy by living, + Some leave fragrance, dead; + Thorns and spines and ugliness + May yield balm or bread. + + Twisted, seared and stunted, + Radiant, sweet and glad; + Who shall say that one is “good” + And another “bad”? + + + + + THE PASSER-BY + + + In the fragrant, moonlit night, + Without a thought of fear, + I wakened in my seaward room + And felt a Presence near. + + The open window glowed, + And suddenly I knew + That Some One was out walking + Above the summer dew. + + The tall pines held their breath, + And the little cedar trees, + With all the grasses in the field, + Were kneeling on their knees. + + Beyond the dunes the sea + Was like a silver floor, + For Some One’s holy feet to cross + Out of a foreign shore. + + Then lo! Above the trees + A halo, round and bright! + No more I saw of One who passed + All silent in the night. + + + + + FROST + + + Hark to a call in the late September night, + From the little garden-close crying—crying! + As the cold stars watch from their safe, untroubled height, + Faintly breathes the scented prayer—“Help! We are dying!” + + Who would invade the sisterhood of flowers, + In their cloistered innocence fresh and gently gay? + What so cruel foe would dare profane the hours, + To fright the tender sleeping buds and steal their peace away? + + Hark! The wistful cry again! Wafted o’er the grasses + Comes the trembling fragrance, a sigh from hearts of gold. + Something sly and sinister in the shadow passes; + Shivering draw the covers close, the blood runs cold! + + Lo, in the morning, the bleak and hoary morning. + Desolate the garden where the white foe crept; + Wall or moat no bar to him, come without a warning. + Capturing the pretty ones helpless where they slept. + + Cruel was the touch of him, blighting was his breath. + Beauty shrank before him, but found no place to hide. + Fragile, piteous martyrs coldly done to death, + Was there none to answer when your sweet souls cried? + + + + + WINTER SONG + + + Because I sang in April + With magic in the air. + Must I be sad and silent now + When winter boughs are bare? + + My heart is not a songster + That waits upon the spring, + But while there is a blessèd sky + And friendly earth, I sing! + + For evergreen my joy is, + Like any cedar tree; + It makes a tune of ice and snow + And whispers it to me. + + + + + TANAGER + + + Scarlet bird! + Whence have you fluttered into my green gloom, + My sleepy solitude, on quiet wing, + Your voice unheard? + Why do you linger there upon the tree. + And still forbear to sing, + As if your message were a silent doom? + O torch of fire; + Enkindled at the flame of heart’s desire. + In some enchanted land! O wingèd rose. + Blown from the living garden of delight! + O flash of joy + Deliriously bright. + Escaping from the heart of some fierce boy, + Or girl who thrills and glows! + O dream incarnadine + Out of the jeweled past; red rapture that was mine! + Why sent to torture me? + You cut the shadow like an open wound; + The forest bleeds with your intensity, + In a mysterious anguish unrelieved by sound. + + And when you flit away, + Back to your radiant realm, your vivid day, + And shivering I shall gaze + Down the dim alley empty of your blaze, + The darkness will be darker evermore, + The silence stiller than it was before. + Then faded peace will brood— + A moment stirred + In the transfigured wood, + O scarlet bird! + + + + + SONG + + + Oh, yes, I love you still, my lad, + For that is woman’s way; + A whole life long of tenderness + For the fancy of a day. + + I gave you golden loyalty + And starry faith to wear. + You gave me pearls that were my tears, + And silver in my hair. + + You gave me something less than good, + I gave the best I had. + But yes—the man I thought you were, + I love him still, my lad. + + + + + THE KNOCK + + + Did you knock at the door, my Dear? + Knock, and I fail to hear? + + Was I so eager to bind my hair, + And fasten a flower to make me fair; + Study a book that I might be wise, + Or make you a song for a sweet surprise? + Mixing a cake, + Saying a prayer, + All for your sake, + All for your care— + So busily happy I did not hear + When you knocked, my Dear! + + Will you pass to another door, + And knock at my own no more? + + Shall I listen and wait and long, + No more laughter, no more song? + But still with the faded rose in my hair, + Still on my lips the tremulous prayer; + Till the fire goes out + To a single spark. + Ending the doubt; + And in empty dark, + Shall I sit and hear + The knock, knock, knock of my heart? My Dear! + + + + + AN OLD-WORLD CONVENT GARDEN + + + Walled quiet from the din. + So near, of worldly strife; + A cloistered peace within, + A life apart from life. + Shrines bowered in roses sweet, + And in a hidden dell + Worn by accustomed feet, + A holy well. + + Along the ancient wall + Fruit basking in the sun; + Flowers radiant and tall— + A coquette every one. + Bees busy on the stalks, + Birds mating in the weeds— + Here a pale Sister walks, + Telling her beads. + + High walls to shut aside + The world’s dear bliss and care! + O Birds, your nestlings hide + In sanctuary there. + High walls to her, to me— + But ah! to wings, how low; + Blest little Birds, quite free + To come—and go! + + + + + A SEPTEMBER BIRTHDAY IN BRITTANY + + FOR C. N. B. + + + Who counts the foolish years? + This Brittany of ours, + With all her gathered hopes and fears, + Her scroll of smiles and tears, + Is young, amid her sweet, perennial flowers. + About the lone, deserted shrines + Carol melodious songsters of to-day; + Weaving their modern spell + Through Carnac’s mighty lines + The sun-burned children play, + Knowing, perchance, the ancient secret well. + Above the buried Ys, + Stout fishers in their rainbow shallops ply; + Gazing into the azure depths they sigh, + Dreaming of fair Dahut, and brighter realms than this, + Longing to feel her kiss. + But homely love is waiting them ashore; + Soon they will sigh no more. + Joy of the present, full of light and life, + Faith of the future years, with promise rife— + Belovèd of the sea, + How young is Brittany! + + Who marks the months’ retreat? + It is not fall when roses are abloom, + When strawberries are sweet, + And snowy, great magnolias breathe perfume. + This bright September day, + With radiant sky and balmy airs at play, + Renewing joy in every living thing, + Is Spring! Is Spring! + + And so with you, dear Mother! Heart of youth, + Wise in your dreaming, soul of mystery, + Tender in faith and truth. + Lo, in your gentle hands you hold the key + Of Spring eternal, of the spirit’s prime; + You make a slave of time. + With his malicious fears, + And as this _spring_ day brightly + Clasps like a gem the threaded years + You wear so lightly, + Who shall seek to sum them, + Admiring still how sweetly you become them? + + _Vitré + September 3, 1913_ + + + + + THE BLAZED TRAIL + + + Just when the path is lost to me, + Bewildered wanderer in the maze, + Upon some unexpected tree + I spy the Woodman’s blaze; + + A mystic rune of sight or sound, + A message quick from sense to soul, + That lifts the spirit from the ground + And speeds it to the goal. + + A wind-flower nodding by an oak + Has given assurance from afar; + Once in the dark a fragrance spoke, + And once it was a star. + + The silver fluting of a thrush; + The bursting of a sunken flame; + A sigh of wind, a sudden hush— + Out of the depths I came. + + A burning challenge to despair + Flashed from an idly-open book; + A small dumb creature’s silent prayer, + A friend’s revealing look; + + And all the doubtful horrors fade, + The weary heart leaps up again. + Through tangled thickets in the shade, + The Trail shows broad and plain. + + + + + BUT THERE ARE WINGS + + + “How big it is, the Blueness everywhere!” + Between two seas, her playtime scarce begun, + Trembles the shy, bewildered little one. + Above her roll the shoreless depths of air + Reflected in her azure eyes; and there + Close to her feet in thunderous fury run + The crowding waters, peacock in the sun, + That fling a salty threat upon her hair. + + “But there are wings!” They brood against the sky, + A cloudy wonder; while upon the deep + She sees them dip and flutter, far and near. + “The same kind wings that shelter one asleep!” + So, drawing reassurance in a sigh, + She digs the treacherous sand without a fear. + + + + + SAFE? + + + If I but set my casement high + Where none peer in at me, + I shall look only at the sky + And the fair top of the tree. + + I shall forget the sorry things + The swallows do not tell; + I shall not see the wounded wings + Of the little bird that fell. + + And if below there crawls a road, + Where dusty travelers go, + Groaning beneath a weary load— + Why, I shall never know. + + I can pretend there is no sin, + No pain and misery, + If I gaze out where none look in + To read the heart of me. + + + + + THE UP-HILL STREET + + + There’s a lane through grassy meadows, + There’s a turnpike to the sea, + There’s a trail across the mountain + Which is very dear to me. + There’s a shady, quiet roadway + On the border of the town; + There are footpaths going blithely + Up the little hills and down. + And oh! I love the highroads + My happy feet have pressed. + But walk at evening, walk at morn, + There’s one I love the best. + + It is a narrow city street + That clambers with a will + Between two ragged cliffs of brick + Upon a windy hill. + I see it from my window, + I watch it every day + Slope to the level sky-verge + Whereon it melts away; + While etched across the picture + Stands straight and strong and tall, + The oak tree that I planted + When I was very small. + + Above, a narrow sky-way + The houses frame for me; + Beyond, across the city— + Though I can hardly see— + I know the blue bay opens, + With towering blocks between; + I feel, I smell, I hear it + When winds blow east and keen! + And I have dwelt here always; + A child I saw it climb, + The quaint, forgotten byway, + Unmarked by change or time. + + How often have I trod it! + Each brick and stone I know! + Each little rise and hollow + Though hidden under snow. + And looking from my window + I almost think to see + A childish figure climbing— + The little shade of Me. + But as I watch her, smiling— + The child who once was I— + My Fancy climbs the little hill + And merges in the sky. + + + + + CITY SMOKE + + + Oh, the smoke of the city! + Pouring in columns black and thick; + Swooping, a nightmare bird of prey, + From a hideous eyrie of iron and brick, + Obscuring the day; + Sinister, greasy, noisome, vile, + Spoiling the delicate, fouling the pure, + Creeping like sorrowful sin or guile + Through tiniest cranny and lock secure. + The rosiest chamber reeks with its breath, + And the dens already besmirched with death. + It broods impartial, sullying all, + Palace, tenement, hovel and hall; + Beauty’s ruin and Nature’s ban, + Price of the fierce, packed struggle of man. + Grim smoke hovering without pity, + Over the city. + + Oh, the smoke of the city! + Rising and rolling a magical stream, + Spreading and wavering higher and higher; + Bright with the opaline colors of dream, + A torrent of beauty, a cloud of desire. + Delicate gossamer rags float free, + Drifting into eternity, + Washed with radiance, purged and clean, + All-escaping, ethereal, new; + Vision of poets sublime, serene, + Etching the blue; + Life transfigured by hope again, + Prize of the dear, near loving of men. + Glorified smoke, like a halo of pity, + Over the city. + + + + + GREEN CROSSES + + + At the back of the pompous houses, + Above the beautiful river-way, + A row of squalid barrels + Blush at themselves in the morning light. + From one grotesquely leaning, + Dusty and scarred + Amid the dead, forgotten slag and ashes, + A fir-tree thrusts its live, protesting fingers— + Crosses of green. + About it still cling a few silver cobwebs, + Rags of its brief splendor. + It was the Christmas Tree + That graced the cheerful drawing-room + A little while; + That blessed the comfortable house with its fragrance, + And with its symbols of love, + The small green crosses. + + A pinched, pale child with hungry eyes, + Ragged and wolfish, but with wisps of glory + Still haloing her hair, + Comes with her bag of rubbish. + Her eyes brighten; + She sets down her heavy burden, + She forgets the cold as she picks at the little tree, + Plucks eagerly at the fragile cobwebs; + They are so silvery few! + But they do not go into the heavy sack. + Her thin, blue fingers snap one of the green crosses; + She twists the tinsel thread about it, + And sticks it in her breast. + Then she shoulders her bundle of trash, + And stumbles away, smiling. + + The green crosses, alive in the dust! + The Christmas Tree! + The evergreen tree whose roots are cut— + On the dump it will die! + + The Christmas Tree! + What if this ornament of brief holidays, + This plaything of a favored few, + This strong, slow-murdered creature of pure woods, + With its green crosses, + Were really growing! + If it were rooted in the hearts + Of Christendom! + How different a world would see this sunny morning! + No war; no hate; + No want nor selfishness; + No ragged children, starved for tinsel joys, + Furtively clutching at rejected beauty + On a forgotten cross, + The green cross of Love. + + + + + THE MYSTIC CIRCLE + + + Eight lusty bell-ringers + In the loft of the campanile; + Eight quick-eyed, firm-muscled, clean-lipped lads, + Forming a mystic circle, + Poised a-tiptoe, + Hands above heads, + Waiting. + Eight stout ropes mysteriously pending + From the unrevealing, dusty rafters. + The bells are poised for the peal, + Though they remain unseen, + Waiting. + + The magic word is spoken by the leader— + “_She_’s off!” (The unmistakable English accent.) + The treble bell gives signal first, + The racing merry scales descend. + The cue is flashed from eye to eye; + The Bob-major double, + An intricate combination of sequences, + A miracle of mathematics resolved into sound; + A psalm of joy! + While the sturdy arms pull in ordered eagerness, + And the bright eyes shine. + + The Bells! + Their tongues are loosed. + The charm of the mystic circle has made them animate, + Has lifted the enchantment of silence + And given sound to their joy. + In the tower above the young men, + (So near, unseen,) + They shout till the rafters ring; + A revel of frank, untrammeled spirits, + Like innocent children with clear, full voices, + Merry, unrestrained, irresponsible. + A somersaulting group of eight, + Praises God in mirth. + Still farther above, + High in the vault of the church, + Revealed in ethereal, vibrating overtones, + Like the whirring of great wings, + The heavenly choir chanting Te Deum + Join in the song; + The Angels of the Bells, + Tender intermediaries between earth and heaven, + Breathing holy gladness, singing ineffable praise. + + Above, above again, + Far above the pointed spire, + Above the seething city and the sinning world, + Above the singing in the hearts of men, + The clamor of bells, the choiring of angels— + Silence. + The eternal harmony of all sound, + The caught-up commingled praises of creation, + Blended into quiet, + The Silence that is God: + God listening; God approving; God the Father of Joy, + Blessing His angels and His bells, + Blessing the ringers with rapt faces, + Tense, devotional, + Who consummate the ritual of sound + In a religious office. + + Eight young men + In a mystic circle, + Whose center is the center of the universe, + God. + + + + + SONG OF THE BOOKWORM + + + Who would long for wings to wander + Over sea or mountains yonder? + Who would hang on risky pinion, + And become the breezes’ minion, + When the spirit, birdlike, hovers, + Borne between two leathern covers? + These are wings a fay might sigh for, + Or a chubby cherub cry for! + + So the dusty Bookworm quivers + Into life; the cocoon shivers, + Bursts into a world of glory, + Borne on tinted wings of story, + Poesy, romance or fairy— + Wings of book-leaves thin and airy; + Floats and flutters off, away, + To Avonside or far Cathay. + + There is no land so strange, so far, + From pole to pole, from star to star, + But he may visit passage free, + No duty, fare or grudging fee. + Hey for Egypt! Ho for Arden! + Mowgli’s jungle, Omar’s garden! + None shall limit, none can stay, + When the Bookworm flits away! + + + + + THE BOOKS I OUGHT TO READ + + + On dusty shelves in serried ranks they stand, + Reproachful thousands, quaint, and grave and great. + My guilty conscience hears their mute commands, + Yet day by day—they wait. + + Their army grows more deadly every year; + Their captain-names I cannot call to mind. + A friend amid the order would, I fear, + Be very hard to find. + + But to a corner shelf by most forgot, + I steal, and to my conscience pay no heed, + With boon companions dear. Yet these are not + The books I ought to read! + + + + + JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE + + FEBRUARY 12, 1916 + + + Wizard of youth! How many years, + Since first we felt the story-spell, + Your name has thrilled the childish ears + That knew your magic well. + + Dear noble head of snowy hair, + Face with the sunglow; keen, kind eyes; + Presence erect and debonair, + Heart generous and wise. + + No more our Poet walks the land! + Your mellow voice no more is heard. + Oh, for the warm clasp of your hand, + The friendly, precious word! + + But in the hearts whose love you share, + In countless friends you never met, + In the world’s childhood everywhere + Your life is singing yet. + + Your merry quips; your thought’s pure gold; + Your knightly quest and champion cry; + The songs you sang, the tales you told— + Their echoes do not die. + + They make a part of what we are, + Of all the best we think and do. + The land you loved is better far + Because her youth loved you! + + + + + THE JOY-VENDER + + + Giovanni Carbone, lame and old, + Has a struggling bunch of balloons to hold; + Balloons like giant, luscious grapes, + With shiny skins and the roundest shapes. + They dodge and tug to get away, + Like children, peevish at control. + + Early and late the patient soul + Smiling and nodding keeps his stand, + On a corner where the breezes play, + And the child-parade goes by each day; + For windmills whirl in his other hand. + Petaled windmills of every hue + Known to his native, opal land, + Busily, dizzily whiz and whir, + Making rosettes of rainbow blur, + Too bewildering to be true. + Giovanni guards the corner well; + A kindly wizard, ready to sell + For a tiny bit of sordid money + A gaudy joy, when the day is sunny. + Flimsy joys! Just pretty toys, + Fragile and useless anywhere; + Except to little girls and boys + Empty and meaningless as air! + + How babies love the foolish things! + Their chubby, mittened hands they reach, + Pout rosy lips in lisping speech, + Coaxing the wizard with wrinkled face + To part with his treasure, + The joys that have wings. + He is willing enough, for a nickel or two— + And what is a nickel to me or you? + He grins and nods with an artist’s grace, + Pleased with the little ones’ guileless pleasure. + He airily pockets the proffered pence, + Tethers his wares to the iron fence. + With gentle fingers he ties the strings + To proud small buttons; he thrusts a wand— + A fairy wand—in a baby hand. + “_Va bene!_” + Off to a Wonderland! + + Giovanni Carbone! No wonder you grin, + With your burning eye set in parchment skin; + Purveyor of dreams for the innocent; + Maker of laughter rather than pain; + Vender of perfect, rounded content. + I envy you again and again + Your job and your bit of wonder-money, + And your breezy stand, when the day is sunny. + + + + + THE SPARROW + + + Little bird of dusty brown, + Why do you stay here in town, + In the noise and dirt and heat + Hopping in the ugly street? + Other songsters choose to go + Where the grass and clovers grow, + Where the dew is on the hill + And the shady woods are still; + Where the baby rivers skip, + And the cool green mosses drip. + There to-morrow I shall be! + Sparrow, do you envy me? + + Saucy bird, alert and quick, + Lingering on stone and brick— + Little children linger too, + Who perhaps are fond of you; + Pale and pitiful to see, + Sick and sorry too, maybe. + They can dream, but never stray + Where the ferns and daisies play. + All the sultry summer through + They will hear no bird but you, + Cheap and common, sharp and shrill, + Chirping, chirping, chirping still, + Picking bugs and crumbs and things. + Yet—you have the gift of wings! + They can see you dart and fly + Free and high to tree and sky— + Only little comrade given + Who can bring them news of heaven! + + Sparrow, though I run away, + Is that why you choose to stay? + + + + + SYLVIA + + + Sylvia is always gay. + When she winged to earth one day, + Through the wonders of the sky, + She caught a star as she flew by, + Green and gold and amethyst, + In her tiny baby fist, + And hid it in her little breast + As a secret unconfessed. + + Like a jeweled lantern she + Shines for all the world to see. + In her eyes the sparkle beams, + From her burnished hair it gleams; + Radiant all she does and says, + All her pretty, twinkling ways— + Just because she dared to leaven + Lifetime with a bit of heaven. + Sylvia! Without your spark, + Oh, the journey would be dark. + + + + + THE PLUME + + + “Here is a gift,” the Brownie said, + As something fell on the little maid’s head— + “A golden feather with silver bars + Of the Faraway Bird who sings to the stars; + A beautiful plume to use as you will, + Fortunate friend on top of the hill! + Fasten it into your curly hair; + Love will follow and find you fair. + Put it into the Magi’s hands; + They will pay you with gold and lands. + Feather a shaft with the magic thing, + And bring down Fame with a crippled wing. + Other wonders the plume can do, + But I wouldn’t bother, if I were you!” + + Now the queer little maid on top of the hill + Clipped the plume to a scratchy quill— + The golden feather with silver bars + Of the Faraway Bird who sings to the stars! + She wrote and wrote, all night, all day, + The curious things it made her say— + Wonder-tales and whimsical rhymes, + Faraway deeds from faraway times, + Told for the clamorous boys and girls, + With bangs and braids, with clips and curls. + The children laughed and clapped and cried— + “Tell it again! Tell more beside!” + Then the queer little maid was proud and glad, + And this was the good of the gift she had— + The magical plume of the Faraway Bird. + + But the Brownie sighed, for never a word + To the busy house on the hilltop came + Of flattering love, or wealth, or fame. + + + + + THE WOODSY ONES + + + Hear them creeping, creeping, creeping, + through the mosses and the brush, + The Woodsy Ones whom I can never see! + Now they snap a twig and falter, + now they laugh and whisper “Hush!” + As they dodge their little heads behind a tree. + + Hear them dancing, dancing, dancing, + in the grass when I’m abed, + And singing at my window in the moon! + Oh, the fairy music bubbles + in my dizzy little head, + And I drift away to Nothing all too soon! + + + + + THE WEE KNITTER + + + _Click! Click! Click!_ + Hark to the needles knitting fast + Of the wee Knitter in the sun. + Over the fairy finger-tips are cast + Gossamer threads by an old witch-spider spun + In her den at the heart of a flower + In a moonlit hour. + + _Click! Click! Click!_ + The wee small Knitter is all in green, + With thistledown hair, + And petal-shoon on her silver toes + That she swings in the air, + From her perch on a tremulous rose, + Knitting unseen. + + _Click! Click! Click!_ + The slender needles of the pine + Flash spicy fragrance as they go, + To and fro, + In the sweet sunshine, + Knitting a secret few can know, + Of magical meshes none may spy + With a mortal eye. + + _Click! Click! Click!_ + A fairy laugh rings clear and wild, + As eagerly the needles knit, + Knot by knot and bit by bit, + A purse invisible to hold + Not gold— + But a bit of luck for a human child. + + Do you hear, do you hear, O Fortunate One, + The wee small Knitter in the sun? + _Click! Click! Click!_ + + + + + A CHARM SAID UNDER AN OAK + + + _Deus Robur Meus._ + Oak, with thy straightness, + Oak, with thy wholeness, + Oak, with thy brightness, + Hearten me! Aid me! + Rooted in passionate earth, + Crowned in ethereal blue, + Breathing ineffable love, + Shelter me! Shade me! + + With thy sweet strength, + With thy cool peace, + With thy green joy, + Touch me and thrill me! + Spirit of patience, + Spirit of courage, + Spirit of wisdom, + Cover me! Fill me! + + Balm-giving oak, + Force-giving oak, + Self-giving oak, + Inspire and elate me! + Lovely green tree of life, + Happy tall tree of hope, + Holy great tree of good, + Oh, consecrate me! + _Deus Robur Meus._ + + + + + FAIRY RING + + + I stepped within the fairy ring, + Where it was green, so green. + Then I heard the trill of a fairy bell, + And the song of the Fairy Queen. + + The secret that she murmured me, + To the trill of the fairy bell, + Was sweet, so sweet you’d not believe, + If I should try to tell. + + But step you too in the fairy ring, + And hold fast to my hand; + Then we may hear a lovelier thing, + And both will understand. + + + + + DANGEROUS PASSING + + + Who ventures to the Magic Wood? + Who dares the moonlit way, + Full perilous in the silver flood, + Though safe enough by day? + + Who brushes through the mystic dew + To hear the flute of Pan, + And spy upon our dancing crew? + Beware, O Maid, O Man! + + The Wee Folk lurk behind the trees + And ambush in the fern; + Our mischief whispers in the breeze— + Ye Trespassers, return! + + Enchanted, each to each shall seem + Transfigured and divine; + Your faces with strange beauty gleam, + Your lips hold maddening wine. + + You shall forget for what you seek; + Careless of all about, + Hand clasped to hand and cheek to cheek, + Sport for the elfin rout. + + We tangle never to be free + The feet that tread too far. + Beware the moonlight witchery, + The magic of a star! + + + + + THE DRYAD + + + I was a Dryad cloistered in a tree, + Nor knew it for a cell, so close and kind; + Till some one’s careless fingers found the key + And set me free to sun and sky and wind. + + Heigho! The outer world seemed very sweet, + For all the sunlit mysteries were new, + The tender little moss caressed my feet, + I drank of flower-wine and crystal dew. + + I heard quaint stories from the birds and bees; + My cheeks were of the sun’s warm kisses fain; + I joined wild frolics with the reckless breeze, + And mocked the mocking echoes back again. + + But when the evening fell and all the world + Folded to rest without a thought of me, + With fear a-shiver as the dark unfurled, + I longed to shelter in the ancient tree. + + The sun has gone and now my heart is cold! + My friend the breeze, grown weary with his play, + Slumbers upon the flowers; while all the gold + Has faded from the glory of the day. + + O good great Oak, close me within your bark! + I droop and faint and cannot wander more. + But though through all the world I search the dark, + I cannot find my cloister’s wrinkled door. + + O good great Oak, let me not seek in vain + A helpless Dryad, exiled from her tree! + Ah, but to feel your clasping strength again + Between the cruel, careless world and me! + + + + + FAIRY WINE + + + You from east and I from west + Both stumbled into Fairyland; + And there we wandered, blithe and blest, + Through elfin mazes, hand in hand. + + They poured a cup of magic brew + And laid enchantment on our eyes; + I thought I read the heart of you, + You saw me in a fairy guise. + + Out of the wonder-hill we came; + We blinked and stammered, wild and wan. + For you and I were just the same, + But lo! the witchery was gone! + + So, go your way and I’ll go mine, + You to the west, I to the east. + But ah, how sweet the fairy wine + We sipped together at the feast! + + + + + WEBS + + + Oh, they spread out their silver webs + Upon the moonlit grass, + Their wee bright webs of faërie, + To catch the Dreams that pass. + + The wistful dream that stole from me + And crept away to you, + They tangled it in glistering knots + Of witchery and dew. + + And whisht! Your bashful little thought, + So innocent and bright, + Got trapped in that same silver web + And kept with mine all night. + + Then ah! Whatever shall we do + Upon to-morrow day, + Our dreams are snared together so + And cannot slip away? + + + + + THE FAIRY FORT + + + As I went by the fairy fort + I heard a laughing wee voice say— + “Whisht! Be these humans rale at all? + I’ll not believe it, nay!” + + “Aye, but ye see the crayturs plain?” + “But seein’ niver makes it true, + No more that not to see be proof; + ’Tis what they think and do. + + “They just have faith in what they see, + And they be blind as midday owls— + Except the little childher dear, + And some with childher sowls. + + “They chase unrale things all day long— + Money and aise and fame and power— + With niver time to pipe and dream, + Or gossip with a flower. + + “Such stupid things they be, and quare! + I’ll not believe in them, not I! + Come, let us pipe a rale, true lilt, + And lave the crayturs by.” + + As I went by the fairy fort + I heard a piping sweet and small; + I wonder, are the Wee Folk real, + Or am I real at all? + + + + + PEACE—WITH A SWORD! + + “ENSE PETIT PLACIDAM SUB LIBERTATE QUIETEM” + (_Motto of Massachusetts_) + + + Peace! How we love her and the good she brings + On broad, benignant wings! + And we have clung to her, how close and long, + While she has made us strong! + Now we must guard her lest her power cease, + And in the harried world be no more peace. + Even with a sword; + Help us, O Lord. + + For us no patient peace, the weary goal + Of a war-sickened soul; + No peace that battens on misfortune’s pain, + Swollen with selfish gain, + Bending slack knees before a calf of gold, + With nerveless fingers impotent to hold + The freeman’s sword: + Not this, O Lord! + + No peace bought for us by the martyr dead + Of countries reeking red; + No peace flung to us from the tyrant’s hand, + Sop to a servile land. + Our Peace the State’s strong arm holds high and free, + The “placid Peace she seeks in liberty,” + Yea, “with a sword.” + Help us, O Lord! + + O Massachusetts! In your golden prime, + Not with the bribe of time + You won her; subtle words and careful ways + In perilous days. + No! By your valor; by the patriot blood + Of your brave sons poured in a generous flood. + Peace, with a sword! + Help us, O Lord. + + Fling out the banners that defied a king; + The tattered colors bring + That made a nation one from sea to sea, + In godly liberty. + Unsheathe the patriot sword in time of need, + O Massachusetts, shouting in the lead— + “Peace, with a sword! + Help us, O Lord!” + + + + + THE CRY + + + Hark! From the trampled gardens once so fair, + From hateful trenches in the harried fields, + From vineyards wasting in polluted air + Their rich, ungarnered yields, + There comes the piteous, instinctive cry + Of soldiers in their lonely agony— + “Mother!” “Mère!” + + Alas! Those bonny yellow heads low-lying! + Blue anguished eyes—like eyes beloved and near! + Weak, fevered lips with painful effort sighing + That word of all most dear— + So like on every tongue, so understood, + Sign of our common, outraged brotherhood— + “Mutter!” “Mither!” + + They cry to Her—the Pity of the race, + The fostering Care from which they marched afar, + The Sympathy forsaken, and the grace + Of Love betrayed by war. + In this their bitter hour the brave men cry + To her who bore them, piteously to die— + “Madre!” “Mat!” + + And she at home, the pale, heart-broken mother— + She who had nought to do with war and strife— + Knows Cain and Abel, brother slaying brother! + Sad Eve who gave them life + Must watch and wait and weep and work, and hear + Those kindred voices crying to her ear— + “Mutter!” “Maman!” + + Oh, hearken, human Love! unselfish, high, + Impartial as the love of mothers good! + Not vainly died the lads, if their last cry + Prove us our brotherhood; + If horror so abound for kindred slain, + Man ends forever War, the crime of Cain. + “Mother!” + + + + + CRUSADERS + + + They who have seen the vision, + We who have dreamed the dream, + Are comrades of a mighty host, + Crusaders of the Gleam. + + Some lads will fall in battle, + Some wave victorious swords; + Some knit the pitying web of love, + Or forge the glowing words. + + Still, shoulder set to shoulder, + We tread the fields of fate, + Our hearts invincible to crush + Truculent ranks of Hate. + + And comrade heartens comrade + Through voids of time and space, + Flashing the Sign upon his brow, + A light upon his face. + + + + + THE KNIGHTS + + + Not dust! Not dust the chivalry, + The knightly heart of high romance + Enshrined in ancient poetry. + Behold, the battle-fields of France! + + Gone plume and crest and jeweled sword, + Gone pomp and picturesque array. + War is a grim and hideous word! + Yet heroes walk the world to-day. + + A Launcelot or Lion Heart? + A Roland or a Godfrey bold? + Nay, simple lads who bear their part + As gallantly as knights of old. + + Our lithe brown legions swinging by, + Our bonny sailors proudly free; + The dauntless champions of the sky, + The dragon-chasers on the sea! + + A thousand Sidneys pass the cup + Of blessedness on fields of blood; + And countless Bayards offer up + Their joyous hope for others’ good. + + Never were hearts so nobly bold, + Nor bodies built so strongly fair. + The tree of life has not grown old, + But blooms to-day beyond compare! + + No more we glory in the past + And yearn to see those kings of men. + The peerless knights arise at last, + And epic deeds are done again! + + + + + FROM THE CANTEEN + + + Sailor, we shall miss you, + Swaggering up and down, + Bringing picaresque romance + To the mouldy town. + + On your lips a whistle, + In your heart a dance, + A merry lass upon your arm, + Mischief in your glance. + + Childish in your loneliness, + Boyish in your needs, + But a man in strong desire, + A man to do bold deeds. + + Fearful tales you told us— + Some of them were true; + Furtive tears were often spilled + In the cups we poured for you. + + How we yearned to help you; + Longed to understand + The riddle of your restless look, + The strange lines of your hand. + + You brought us pain and vision, + Bright youth and gallant ways. + Sailor, we shall miss you + In the peaceful days! + + + + + CRIPPLED SOLDIER + + + I may have used but half my strength, + And you but half your mind, + To help the Cause for which he bled, + Leaving a limb behind. + + You may have stumbled in your task, + I may have limped and failed. + But he leaped forth to give his hope, + Nor once looked back, nor quailed. + + We may be scarred with vain regret + For duties left undone, + With stiffened limbs and slackened hearts, + When the great war is won. + + Then who will say that he is lame, + While we are safe and whole? + Who bears dread wounds for others’ sake + Has the uncrippled soul. + + And life for him may now begin, + With a new hope at heart, + While we, disfigured, face a peace + In which we won no part. + + + + + THE FLAG TRIUMPHANT + + + Across my window blow the splendid folds + Of the great flag hung out for Victory + And Peace. They gleam through traceries of vine + And struggling plants, cherished through four grim years + For comfort, now in blossom. Everything + I see between the flutterings of the flag; + The unimportant doings in the street, + The homely houses opposite, the folk + Carelessly passing; and the flight of doves— + Peace doves—along a narrow strip of sky. + I see them glorified by red and white, + Under a blessed hidden field of stars. + + And when I turn away to read or write, + My eyes are dazzled still by vivid flashes, + Caught from the floating colors. No escape + From thoughts of death heroic, life triumphant! + The room is full of red and white reflections. + The very picture-glasses are aglow + With patriotic fervor, not content + To be mere shields for ancient, precious things— + Precious for being ancient; they would share + The pride of present effort. Even shy prisms + Hung in old candelabra flush and pale + Alternately, with tremulous, caught emotion. + + O Flag of sacrifice and chivalry, + Never before so dear! Your holy red + Dyed with the blood of hero-friends; your white + Clear like their vision; and your starry field + Steadfast with life devotion! Not again, + I think, shall I look out upon the world + But through the folds of your eternal glory. + Flash your fair challenge still across my window, + Flag of my Country! + + + + + THREE GOLDEN STARS + + (IN MEMORY OF THREE RADCLIFFE GIRLS WHO DIED IN SERVICE ABROAD; RUTH + HOLDEN, ’11; LUCY N. FLETCHER, ’10; AND HELEN HOMANS) + + + Lucy, Helen, Ruth! Sweet names they have, + Our brave young soldiers, womanly and kind! + Sweet as the glorious youth of heart and mind, + The years of promise they so gladly gave. + + And they have wound the ribbon of their love + About and through the nations sundered far, + Drawing them close; each with a golden Star + Setting her seal on bonds that time shall prove. + + For one, a Briton born and Island bred, + Chose for America to serve, and bless + Our wounded with her strength and steadfastness. + She sleeps in France among her Yankee dead. + + One of New England, back to England gave + The treasure of her wisdom and her skill, + To use for hapless refugees, who still + Are weeping by her lonely Russian grave. + + And one has won a hero’s _Croix de Guerre_, + “_Morte pour La France_,” so honoring a debt. + Our sister nation never will forget + The foreign Saint who gave her soldiers care. + + Oh, greater love hath no man shown than they, + The dear, bright spirits with the radiant eyes, + Fearlessly venturing the great emprise, + Cheerfully pacing down the dolorous way! + + So, never deem their golden web unspun, + Blighted the hope, and lost the precious dower! + For Three have died to speed the blessed hour + When Truth and Love make all the nations one. + + + + + THE SPRING OF THE YEAR + + + On fields of France the violets are fair, + The skylarks sing above the broad champaign; + But where are they who walked and listened there, + The hero-lads our spring finds not again? + They leave to us who did not share the fight, + The earth’s expectancy of green delight. + + Nay! They have journeyed to a sweeter bourne, + Where ghosts of all the garnered springs survive, + With all earth-joys that never will return, + And all the flowers that ever were alive; + Where bird-songs that have echoed through the years + Make harmony too sweet for mortal ears. + + Oh, what a radiant company are they! + Forever one with all that’s newly fair; + Out of the heat and burden of the day, + The blight of fall and winter’s aged care. + They are Youth’s Gladness, ever blossoming + Beyond the wistful limit of our spring! + + + + + PRAYER FOR AMERICA + + + O Lord of justice and of right + Who made the generous Cause prevail, + Who helped our heroes win the fight, + Now let not their endeavor fail. + Facing new dangers that arise, + Oh, make us wise! + + Draw out the best of each to serve + Unselfishly the common good, + Nor let the wider vision swerve + From the true goal of brotherhood. + To this, thy mighty-blended race, + Oh, give thy grace! + + Give us great leaders we can trust + To strive for righteousness alone; + Cast small ambition in the dust, + With greed and malice overthrown. + Lord God, Preserver of the State, + Oh, make us great! + + + + + THE ROCK OF LIBERTY + A PILGRIM ODE, 1620–1920[1] + + ⁂ + + + + + I. VISION + + + PRAYER OF SAILING + + Lord God of Hosts, Defender of the weak, + With thine Almighty arm deliver us, + Thy suffering people, exiled and forlorn, + Pilgrims of faith, who dream a glorious dream! + Beyond the deep, where no man knows the way, + To savage shores beneath an alien sky, + Guide us in hope to Liberty and Peace. + Jehovah! Hearken to thy people’s cry! + Oh, grant us freedom, Lord, within thy law, + To toil or worship, live or die for Thee, + In thy name building that which shall endure + Beyond the little while we have to live. + + + THE VISION + + O rolling waste of unimagined ocean, + Dividing continents and parting men! + Yield to the fragile sails of destiny, + Maimed by the will that conquers mighty force! + Bow to the courage that endures to die, + The faith that anchors to a solid Rock. + O waves that do divide! The time will come + When water shall unite the sundered lands. + Then over sea, under the sea and through, + Shall fare the galleons of brotherhood, + Bearing the freight of liberty and love + From a great nation, heir of our desire, + To every corner of the peopled earth. + + + THE MAYFLOWER + + O Pilgrims in a cockle frail + Upon a perilous quest, + Out of the old world making sail + Into the golden west; + Beyond the misty ocean veil + Awaits a Vision blest! + + A simple little yeoman band, + None of the rich or great, + But stout of heart and strong of hand, + The pioneers of fate; + The patient builders of a land, + The founders of a State! + + Your fragile bark adventuring + Upon a fearful sea,— + Awful the cargo that you bring; + The seeds of destiny, + Promise of future harvesting + In sheaves of liberty. + + + CHORUS OF WOMEN + + The peril of the frozen wave + Our faith cannot betray; + Mothers and maidens, be ye brave, + And teach the babes to pray,— + “Jehovah! Who art strong to save, + Guide to Thy chosen Bay!” + + Famine and cold and fever come + To meet us on the shore; + Labor and want and sorrow, dumb + For joys we see no more. + O Lord, give hope in a new home; + Strength for what lies before! + + Yea, though he slay with scourge forlorn, + We trust Jehovah’s will. + Although the pitying rows of corn + Hide many a little hill + Where lie our loved and newly-born; + Our God is with us still. + + + CHORUS OF MEN + + No snarling danger in its den + Can make our courage quail; + No prowling savage of the fen + Will turn our color pale, + Nor treachery of brother men + Make our endeavor fail. + + With freedom are our furrows filled, + To blossom in the spring. + To freedom run the roads we build: + “_Freedom!_” the gray walls sing. + For FREEDOM is the word we willed + Should through the ages ring! + + + II. STRUGGLE + + + PSALM + + _The Lord is my strength; of whom shall I be afraid? + He hath brought me forth into a place of Liberty. + Oh what great and sore troubles hast Thou showed me, + And yet dost Thou quicken me again, + Yea, and shalt bring me up again out of the deep. + Thou hast tried me as silver is tried. + The Lord will give strength to His people. + The Lord will bless His people with peace._ + + + THE CAPTAIN + + We who have challenged fate + To buy the boon of peace, + Shall we not watch and wait, + Nor from the vigil cease? + Pray God for strength and trust his word, + Guarding our treasure with a sword! + + We who have burned the past + Upon an altar fire, + Will pay our lives at last + To win the soul’s desire. + Give us our peace! Renew our faith, + O Lord, to seek it unto death! + + + THE ELDER + + Come, let us build a temple to God, + Here in the wilderness, made by our might, + Set in our midst, the center of life. + Smite the tall pines that fall with a roar! + Hew the great logs and heave them in place + Square is the meeting-house, simple and stern, + Barren of beauty, honestly builded, + A shield from the arrow that flieth by day, + A haven from storm and peril of night. + Slender the spire that points to the sky, + First one of many to blaze out a path + Through the wild jungle, lifting men’s eyes + Out of the shadow into the light. + Old men and maidens, young men and children, + Enter His house with thanksgiving and praise! + + + PILGRIM MOTHERS + + Patter, patter, in and out, + Go the women’s loyal feet. + Hither, thither, roundabout, + Late and early hear the beat; + To the crib, the well, the hay, + From the kitchen to the loom; + Treading out a people’s way, + From the cradle to the tomb. + + Flutter, flutter, to and fro, + Busy hands fly out and in. + Flaxen threads are white as snow,— + Rough the little hands that spin; + Drawing out the thread of life, + Working early, winding late; + Gentle mother, noble wife, + Knitting firm a nation’s fate. + + + PILGRIM FATHERS + + Lord of the harvest and the toil, + Prosper the laborer on thy soil. + Steady the shoulder to the plow, + And let there be no faltering now. + Our lot is in a goodly land; + Inspire the heart and steel the hand + To build a fabric grandly sure + In righteousness that shall endure! + + + THE CONGREGATION + + Sing to the Lord! Here there shall be + No leading into captivity, + And no complaining on our shore. + But we will guard the lowly poor, + The little children and the weak, + And they shall find the prize they seek. + + O Liberty! The corner-stone + Of a greater hope than men have known! + + + III. ACHIEVEMENT + + + SONS + + We have felled the forest and pierced the hill; + We have scoured the prairie and venture still, + Turning the torrent to our behest, + Sons of the Pilgrims, East and West. + + + DAUGHTERS + + We have followed our men to make a home; + Wherever they fared we dared to come, + From the mountain top to the river mouth, + Daughters of Pilgrims, North and South. + + + THE NEW GENERATION + + We have builded well by the waterside, + We have garnered a harvest far and wide, + Setting our mark from sea to sea, + Heirs of the Pilgrim liberty. + + + THE ALARUM + + Daughters of men, arise! + Sons of the soil, awake! + What are the hopes ye prize + When Freedom is at stake? + Hark to a warning cry + Out of the sacred dust; + Dare all for Liberty, + Give all to keep the trust! + + “_Pray God for strength and trust his word, + Guarding our treasure with a sword!_” + + Arise, O glorious Land, + And make confusion cease! + The foes of Freedom stand + Across the path of peace. + In loyal might arrayed + Assail the host of shame. + Forward! Unafraid! + In God’s Almighty name! + + “_Give us our peace! Renew our faith, + O Lord, to seek it unto death!_” + + America! Be strong! + Heir of a noble race, + Bear the proud Flag along + Up to the highest place. + The road our fathers made + Is bright as living flame. + Forward! Unafraid! + In God’s Almighty name! + + + THE VISION FULFILLED + + O waves that did divide! The time has come + When water shall unite the sundered lands! + Now over sea, under the sea and through, + Shall fare the galleons of brotherhood, + Bearing the freight of liberty and love + From the great Nation, heir of men’s desire, + To every corner of the peopled earth. + + + THE UNION + + Lovely is this, the land of our abiding, + From shore to shore across the leagues of freedom, + From North to South in merciful abundance; + Land of our heart, America! + + The little school, the farmstead, and the chapel, + Type of the treasure that our fathers cherished, + Followed the feet that tramped beyond the mountains, + Making thy ways, America! + + Out of the East came men in mighty millions, + Into the savage corners of the country, + Scattering wide the seed of old tradition, + Germ of thy power, America! + + From deep to deep, from gulf to frozen forest, + The mountain and the plain have known their courage, + The harbor and the town have seen their wisdom, + Quickening thee, America! + + They chained the Titan, Steam, to be their servant; + They made the thunderbolt to do their bidding, + And gave thee Light to be thy living halo, + Glorious one, America! + + The old world turned to thee in time of trouble, + The people held their empty hands for succor; + Thy bread and wine of love went forth to feed them, + Strength of thy strength, America! + + Thy Liberty became the hope of nations; + To Victory thy banner crossed the ocean, + Borne by the gallant sons of Pilgrim honor, + Shouting thy name—“_America!_” + + Yet are we humble, mindful of the fathers. + Not unto us, but unto God the glory, + Who gave them grace, and made us to inherit + Their sacred trust,—America! + + + DOXOLOGY + + Praise God from whom all blessings flow. + Praise Him, all creatures here below; + Praise Him above, ye heavenly host; + Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. + Amen. + + + + + =The Riverside Press= + CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS + U . S . A + +----- + +Footnote 1: + + Copyright, 1920, by the Arthur P. Schmidt Company. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. + ● Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76783 *** |