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EATON Acadian Legends and Lyrics The Heart of the Creeds, Historical Religion in the Light of Modern Thought The Church of England in Nova Scotia and the Tory Clergy of the Revolution Tales of a Garrison Town (with C. L. Betts) Acadian Ballads and De Soto's Last Dream Poems of the Christian Year Poems in Notable Anthologies Recollections of a Georgia Loyalist, Edited and Introduced Educational Works Compiled and Edited Family Historical Monographs THE LOTUS OF THE NILE AND OTHER POEMS THE LOTUS OF THE NILE AND OTHER POEMS BY ARTHUR WENTWORTH EATON NEW YORK THOMAS WHITTAKER MCM VII 70300 Copyiight, I90« Bj Anm WimwoiTa Hahhton Eaton jUI Rigbit RmmeJ Published January, 1907 J TO MY SISTER ANNA I DEDICATE THESE POEMS CONTENTS PAGE The Lotus or the Nile ,3 Fountains Abbey , ■ By THE Bridge 20 The Prophecy of Beauty 23 The Garden of Song j* The Roots of the Roses 27 The Voyage of Sleep 28 Autumn Pomps 20 Lombardy Poplars 22 Once Again the Summer Dies 35 The Whaung Town 37 The East and the West (to d. r. h.) ... 39 Thou Art My Guiding Star 4, 'Twere Better to Love 43 The Poet's Brain ^ The Pipes of Pan ., 9 I Watch the Ships 46 Foundry Fires 49 The Street Organ 51 Flood-Tide 53 The Virgin's Shrine 55 An Orient Prayer 56 Answer of a Despondent Soul 59 It Matters Much 62 Not in Vain. 64 Compelling Thoughts 65 If I Could Have It Back 66 Pearls that Are Rarest 68 Love Letters 70 The Hearth IsCold 71 The Mystery J2 The Meadow Lands 73 Small and Great 74 I Plucked a Daisy 75 Peasant and King 77 Arthurian Days 79 A Fire of Straw 81 10 The Pokt PAsaso My Way 82 Thb Pokt"* Would 83 The Awakening 8^ Deepening the Channel <5 Chance Meetings 86 The Painter's Grief 88 Where Are Ye Now? 90 The Still Hour gj At Grandmother's 94 The Old Church and the New 97 "Day of the Triumphant Sun" 100 The Ancient Gods Are Dead 103 Toward the West 105 The Angel Sleep 107 When Night Shuts In : 109 Iffl THE LOTUS OF THE NILE pROUD, languid lily of the sacred Nile, ■*■ Tis strange to see thee on our western wave, Far from those sandy shores that mile on mile, Papyrus-plumed, stretch silent as the grave. O'er limpid pool, and wide, palm-sheltered bay. And round deep-dreaming isles, thy leaves expand, Where Alexandrian barges plough their way. Full-freighted, to the ancient Theban land. On Kamak's lofty columns thou wert seen. And spacious Luxor's temple-palace walls. Each royal Pharaoh's emeralded queen Chose thee to deck her glittering banquet halls; Yet thou art blossoming on this fairy lake As regally, amidst these common things, 13 THE LOTUS OF THE NILE As on the shores where Nile's brown ripples break, As in the ivory halls of Egypt's kings. Thy grace meets every passer's curious eyes, But he whose thought has ranged through faiths of old Gazing at thee feels lofty temples rise About him, sees long lines of priests, white- stoled. That chant strange music as they slowly pace Dim-columned aisles; hears trembling overhead Echoes that lose themselves in that vast space. Of Egypt's solemn ritual for the dead. Ay, deeper thoughts than these, though undefined. Start in the reflective soul at sight of thee. For this majestic orient faith enshrined Man's yearning hope of immortality, And thou didst symbolize the deathless power That under all decaying forms lies hid. The old world worshipped thee, O Lotus flower. Then carved its sphinx and reared its pyramid! '4 FOUNTAINS ABBEY I NEVER caught so clear the master note From old monastic centuries, days remote In thought and speech, most in religious mood, As when a lonely traveller I stood Amidst the ruins England loves so well, Her Fountains Abbey in the Vale of Skell. Fresh lawns and spangled meadows far and near Laughed at the menace of the waning ; sar, But like some furrowed rock high up the shore, That ne'er again shall list the plash of oar Nor feel the tides, estranged from wold and wood These wasted walls and crumbling cloisters stood. Univied pillars, pensive, proud, aloof. That long withstood the weight of Norman ro"f ; And arch decayed, and base of buoyant tower Disdained the threats of time, despised its power, And seemed like ancient men who magnify The statelier manners of an age gone by. >S FOUNTAINS ABBEY By broken buttressed walls I still could trace The Abbey's wide expanse, in thought could place On this side and on that the narrow skell, Nave, choir, dim chapter house, low crypt, and cell,- A noble harmony of chiselled stone, A gothic forest in this valley grown. It was not strange I felt once more the thrill Of the old life, for every place at will Brings back its myriad dead, not ghosts but men. Who take the old tasks up, and walk again The common ways; alive grew plain and wood With the white-robed Cistercian brotherhood. Some tilled the fields, some from the forest came Laden with fresh-cut fuel or with game; Some tended glowing ovens, deep and wide. Or turned the heavy spit from side to side. Some thoughtful, with the air of courtly men. Cowls back, sat silent, wielding brush or pen. In holy sanctuary, where the east Poured purple splendours through the church, a priest i6 FOUNTAINS ABBEY With broidered robes at the high altar sung A sacred mass, whose echoes faintly rung Into the raftered gloom, and lingered there Like Skell's own murmurs on the evening air. On traceried v-ndows, rich with red and gold, Time-honourea legends of the Church were told; Martyrs and saints, released from want and fear, Had reached an aureoled existence here; In haloed splendour, over all was he Of Bethlehem's manger and Gethsemane. I saw the abbot, cloistered potentate. Come riding proudly through the open gate. While as he rode a lithe-limbed novice bore With lifted hands a silver cross before. And every hooded brother, low or high. Took reverent posture as his lord went by. I saw the wearied traveller alight Before the abbey walls at dead of night, Too tired to take the bridle from his steed Or tell the kindly hostler-monk his need. To claim the bounty here as freely given As Israel's manna, or the dew of heaven. 17 FOUNTAINS ABBEY The castellated feudal towers that frowned Their moated terrors on the country round, And o'er the serf-tilled soil with verdure drest Held despot sway from glittering east to west, From neighbouring woods looked on, half-shamed to see Such peace, such liberal hospitality. O golden days, I said, when rich and poor. Knights riding home across the dangerous moor, The lowliest swain that delved in field or fen. Princes and cassocked priests and serving men. Were ever welcome to an abbey's fires. Its ripening fruits, the fat kine in its byres. O wondrous age, when poets sang their songs In these cool cells, unhindered by the throngs That love not melody; when Science knew A place where, welcome, she might search the blue. Still dome of heaven, or unsuspected pry Amidst the rocks, her field the earth and sky. O happy men, whom cruel, cureless hate. Love unrequited, festering sores of state. The din of clashing creeds, domestic strife, i8 . FOUNTAINS ABBEY The lusts and lies that sicken us of life, Drove here for shelter: discords as of hell Were hushed within your souls beside the Skell. Long-ruined abbey, all the hope and fear Of ghostly centuries are gathered here, 1 iie sense of brotherhood, the lust and greed. The noblest triumph and the darkest deed; The world's heart beats in these fair violet blooms That fringe your nameless monks' forgotten tombs. •9 BY THE BRIDGE ■flT'ITH subtlest mimicry of wave and tide, Of oiean storm, and current setting free. Here by the bridge the river deep and wide, Swaying the reeds along its muddy marge Speeds to the wharf the dusky coaling-barge, And dreams itself a commerce-quickening sea. Wide sedge-rimmed meadows westward meet the eye. Brown, silty, sere, where driftwood from the mills Is thrown, as Spring's full flood sweeps by. And weeds grow rank as on the wild salt-marsh, And lonely cries of sea-gulls, loud and harsh. Pierce evening's silence to the echoing hills. The scene, with all its varied, voiceless moods, My eyes have looked upon so many years That like my mother's songs, or the deep woods 10 BY THE BRIDGE In whose mysterious shade I used to play, Weaving sweet fancies all the summer day, It has strange power to waken joy or tears. I love the lights that fringe the farther shore. Great golden fireflies by a silver mere; Mysterious torches they, that o'er and o'er Recall to mind the dear souls gone, not set Cold-gleaming crystals in God's coronet, But gems that light our way with ruddy cheer. Sometimes inverted in the wave they seem Like orient palace-roofs and towers aflame With rubies, or those sapphire walls that g'eam Amidst the visions of the holy Seer, Who by the blue Egean, with vision clear, Saw splendours in the heavens he might not name. When all the river lies encloaked in mist So far away those trembling orbs of hght They symbol memories fair that still persist. With glow or glimmer, of the shrouded years Before we left, for laughter, cries, and tears. That world serene where souls are born in light. I cannot watch unmoved the sunset here. When swift volcanic fires of liquid gold 21 BY THE BRIDGE Alight on hills of purple haze appear And clouds, deeps:rimsoned in the d'zy's decline. L,ke snowy festal-garments splashed with wine. Lie careless, resting fleecy fold on fold. So deep the meanings in these changing mood. Of earth and heaven, that I who reverent stand Before a flower, and in the sombre woods Hear speech that silences the common creeds. Mand lost in wonder, like a man who reads Immortal prophecies none can understand. 22 J THE PROPHECY OF BEAUTY QOMETIMES I think the source of soul, ^-' must be The Primal Beauty, we so quick respond To loveliness in earth and sky and sea— Green in the majestic oak and fine fern-frond. Purple in sunsets, undulate lines of hills. Ships spreading white wings on the western wave, White-foaming currents turning mossy mills. The dim cathedral's arch and spire and nave; The moon's reflection on the limpid lake, The plash of oars, the rowers' voices there; The enrapturing scent that follows in the wake Of Spring's first mov-ment in the forests bare. Who has not often felt a sovereign power To lift his spirit to m.;iestic pose 23 THE PROPHECY OF BEAUTY In the.e, or mountain peak, or vine-clad bower; In violet blue and crimson-petalled rose. Who has not dreamed that some last rapturous day, When evening', silent speech has just begun, And the deep-crimson clouds have turned to gray That liveried the death-chamber of the sun, His eyes shall open on scenes lovelier Than ever sveept on man's bewildered sight In Indian isles, where languid spice-winds stir Luxuriant forests the long summer night; In any orient, or enchanted land That in poetic vision e'er had binh. Where fevered souls by featheiy palms are fanned. And beauty springs perennial from the earth; Where hill and valley, sea and sky are wed In bonds of princely colour, perfect line Where ruby lights the landscape overspread. From clouds that crisp-waved seas incarnadine. THE GARDEN OF SONG Q GIVE me a place in the garden of song, I would linger and labour there all sum- mer long. There are comers to care for, stray beds to make bloom, I ask not for wages, I only seek room In the garden of song. The soil is so fertile, the season so fair. There are life-throbs and thrills in the magical air, I would nourish and nurture the delicate seed, I would watch the young plants, I would water and weed, In the garden of song. What joy to help Nature burst forth into flower. To add a fresh rose here and there to her bower. Make daisies spring softly, and lilies unfold, And dafl^odils deluge the brown earth with gold. In the garden of song. 25 THE GARDEN OF SONG I may not have (kill in the gardener'i art To .ummon to .trength all the wed. of the heart, But w,th love a. it. impuLe, and beauty it. end There mu.t be wme fruit from the labour I .pe^d In the garden of wng. In the wane of the year, when sweet .ummer i. done If my v,ole„ from heaven', clear fountain have won The blue that i,' kept there exhau.tles, a. light. If my pan.,e, have drawn down some purple from night To the garden cf song; If a heart here and there has been lifted from gloom ;^it looked at the rose, my care had made bloom. The wmd, of late autumn will not seem so wild, rhe snow, not so cheerless stem winter V .s piled Round my garden of song. a6 THE ROOTS OF THE ROSES npHE roses come, and the roses go, But the roots of the roses live under the snow. To visions awhile in their tents they cling. But they wake at the bugle-call of spring. Life's pleasures come, and life's pleasures go. But the roots of true joy shelter under the snow. The hope of the heart has its winter's drear, But the roses come back when the brooks run cle^r. Friendships are bom, and friendships die. But the fountain of love runs never dry. The blossoms of fellowship come and go, But the roots of the roses live under the snow. 27 THE VOYAGE OF SLEEP ' I ""O sleep I give myself away, ■*■ Unclasp the fetters of the mind, Forget the sorrows of the day, The burdens of the heart unbind; I With empty sail this wave-tired bark Drifts out upon the sea of rest. While all the shore behind grows dark, And silence reigns from east to west. At last awakes the hidden breeze That bears me to the land of dreams, Where music sighs among the trees And murmurs in the shadowy streams. O weary day, O weary day. That dawns in fear and ends in strife. That brings no cooling draught to allay The burning fever thirst of life; 28 THE VOYAGE OF ?LI- l-P O sacred night, when ? gei hands Are pressed upon the t^^rohSinf' brow, And when the soul on shining sands Descends with angels from the prow. And sees soft skies and meadows sweet, And blossoming lanes that wind and wind To bowers where friends long parted meet And sit again with arms entwined, And catch the perfumed breeze that blows From pink-plumed orchards sloping fair And every fresh-expanding rose That throws sweet kisses to the air. O sacred night, O silvery shore, O blossoming lanes that wind and wind. Ye are my refuge more and more From ghosts that haunt the waking mind. To sleep I give myself away. Forget the visions of unrest That came through all the clamorous day. And drift into the silent west. J9 AUTUMN POMPS ■^JEVER wore an Indian King Richer robes than Autumn weaves, Broidered dedp with sumach leaves, Round earth's ripening form to fling. Never mixed such magic dyes Tyrian artificers old, Persian palaces of gold To enrich, as meet our eyes: Maples mantling distant hills Kindle flames of scarlet rare, Trumpet-vines with orient flare Drape the dusky window-sills; Purple asters line the way Where the plodding labourer goes, Goldenrod the plain o'erflows, Salvias make the garden gay; 30 ■ AUTUMN POMPS Nightshade berries gleaming red Dip their burnished spheres in dew. With the gentian's fringes blue Many a mound is carpeted. Scarlet cannas lure the sun To their chalice centres warm, Orange-turbaned lilies swarm Where the close-clipped hedges run. Great magician, Nature, tell Where the fount of colour lies Whence thou draw'st, ere summer dies, Grace like this for field and fell; Make the lovely current spread. Arched above with purple haze, When we reach our autumn days. Round the paths our souls shall tread; Crimson hopes about us strew. Golden memories in us light. Let us drift adown the night On soft, billowy wave-thoughts blue. 3» \] LOMBARDY POPLARS "DEFORE the planters' houses old ■'-' They stand like statues, stern and cold, Of foreign lineage proud to be. The poplars t?ll of Lombardy. SoiJ-clustering lilacs droop below O'er banks of lustrous golden glow, And purple foxgloves bend to greet Green spangled mosses at their feet, But they look on with moveless face. Nor yield to friendliness or grace In blossoming vine or bush or tree. The poplars tall of Lombardy. Why passed New England's yeomen by Their native woods indifferently. Refused the oak and maple fair. And gracious elm with breeding rare, 3* LOMBARDY POPLARS And these grim strangers from the Po, All taciturn and hard to know, Transplanted here, unloved to be. The poplars tall of Lombard/? The hearts of that undaunted band Who left in wrath the motheriand Contemned the syren beauty's charm, Or shunned her features in alarm; They feared, perhaps, the landscape bare Would false become if it grew fair. Wide-branching elms might cloak in shade Some graceless thing old earth had made, But sin or schism could never shield From sleepless watch, by dyke or field. Of sentries strict as these would be. The poplars tall of Lombardy. So they were set in rows severe, From sunny spring to autumn sere Like mutes at funeral feasts to stand. While joy should bourgeon in the land. 33 i! LOMBARDY POPLARS And now they gaze, outworn and old, The men who loved them turned to mould. On scarce a friend this side the sea. The poplars tall of Lombardy. 34 ONCE AGAIN THE SUMMER DIES /^NCE again the summer dies Not with dirge and deep despair, Not with meanings to the air, Not with wildly-weeping skies. Once again the summer dies. Conscious that her strength is spent. Yet with measureless content Breathing out her last good-byes. Once again the summer dies, Ruddy bloom to riper yields. Nature plays in woods and fields Sensuous colour-symphonies. Once again the summer dies, Purpit grapes and yellow corn Deck the bier so softly borne To the chamber where she lies. 35 ONCE AGAIN THE SUMMER DIES Once again the summer dies, Tender lights on sea and shore Seek the soul, untouched before, With soft importunities. Once again the summer dies. But the walls of death are thin. And the spirit cased within Waits the kiss of living skies. iH i /i'l THE WHALING TOWN A DZE and hammer and anvil-stroke ■* ■* Echo not on the shore, The wharves are crumbling, old and gray. And the whale-ships come no more. Grass grows thick in the empty streets, And moss o'er the blackened roofs. And the people are roused to wonderment At the sound of horses' hoofs. There's not a woman in all the town But keeps in memory The face of a husband, a lover, a friend, Lost, she says, at sea; Lost in the days when in every storm Some well-known ship went down. And mothers wept, and fathers prayed. In the little whaling town, 37 fl \ THE WHALING TOWN When food was gained by toil as now, But not in the fields at noon, For the toiler's sickle, scythe, or plow Was the fisherman's harpoon. When every sail the children saw As they tossed the sparkling sand, Came from the storehouse of the sea With light to cheer the land. AdM and hammer and anvil-stroke Echo not on ihf shore, The fields are tilled, and the people know Less heart-ache than of yore. But still to the edge of the rotting wharves The tides from day to day Come with an eager wish to bear The whalers' craft away. And many an aged mariner looks Across the tumbling sea And dreams that the strong-built ships are there As thick as they used to be. 38 THE EAST AND THE WEST (to D. R. H.) nPHOU far down from the crest In the glow of the morning sun, The peak for me overpast In the march of my life to the west; And I know not which is the best. Thou with thy zeal and zest, I with the strife near done,— A brook that floweth fast. Or a lake that lies at rest; And I know not which is the best. Thou with truth as thy quest. And the goal, thou thinkest, in view, I with a milder hope, Though still to duty prest,— And I know not which is the best. 39 THE EAST AND THE WEST Thy faith in rote-tint dreit, Mine in a soberer hue, From the h'ght on the eanem ilope, Or the gray of the darkening west, And I know not which is the best. Yet over the hill's high crest Sometimes I turn to thee. And side by side for an hour, To love's sweet task addrest. We walk, the east and the west. My spirit then at rest Like the waves of a summer sea, A passive thrall of thy power, No longer makes request Or asks of worst or best. 40 THOU ART MY GUIDING STAR 'J^HOU art my guiding star. Swing not in heaven too high, For earth from heaven i& far. I need thee nigh. Thou art my guiding star, When thou reigns't o'er the night No mist can rise to mar My soul's dehght. Thou art my guiding star, If I am ever led Beyond the harbour bar. My courage stead. Thou art my guiding star. Should I on some strange sea Make voyage with broken spar. Keep close to me. 41 THOU ART MY GUIDING STAR Be, love, my guiding star Till churlish clouds are past, And I from journeying far Come home at last. 4« I 'TWERE BETTER TO LOVE "'Tli better u tan loieil ud leet TbM iieirerto bare loved at aU." »'T^WERE better to love, though the heart be broken, Than to sit alone, from passion free, Never to have a sign or token Of the Hfe that deepest lies in thee. 'Twere better to love, though peace should never Softly climb to thy soul again, Than to live the blinded life forever Of barren-hearted, loveless men. Twere better far that the gates, in shadow. Of heaven, should once have come in view. Than that thou till death, from thy dull meadow, Shouldst never have seen the pearl and blue. ' 43 THE POET'S BRAIN 'TpHE vaulted chambers of the poet's brain •*• Are peopled by a restless throng who beat Bewildering music, sometimes low and sweet, Sometimes a loud, wild-resonant refrain. There glide pale, sheeted ghosts of long-spent years, — Sweet, sensuous loves of youth that lived an hour, Hope's phantom forms, delicious dreams of power. When all the world was new, and later fears Entangled not the boy's swift-flying feet. Beneath the dim, unearthly arches hide Odours from far-off flowers, and there abide The mother-songs that childhood's ears first greet. 44 THE PIPES OF PAN /^ VOICELESS poet, find the pipes of Pan, A torrent of sweet song lies back of thee. Time is too short to voice the melody Created for thee ere the world began. O voiceless poet, find the pipes of Pan, Nor tiy to slalce men's thirst with common speech , Its own divinest lessons Truth must teach In music, to the throbbing ears of man. O voiceless poet, find the pipes of Pan, They are thine own familiar river-reeds. Inspire our earth-bound souls to nobler deeds, Stir the soft air our fevered lips to fan. 45 m IBi Ifi I WATCH THE SHIPS T WATCH the ships by town and lea ■*■ With sails full set glide out to sea, Till by the distant light-house rock The breakers beat with roar and shock. And crisp foam whitening all the decks; While deep below lie ocean's wrecks. What careth she! I stand beside the beaten quay And look while laden ships from sea Come proudly home upon the tide Like conquering kings, at eventide; Or from fierce fights with wintry gales Steal harbourward with tattered sails, O cruel seal I pass the ancient moss-grown pier Where men have waited year by year I WATCH THE SHIPS For ships that ne'er again shall glide By town and lea on favouring tide, Strong ships that struggled till the gales Of winter hid their shrouds and sails In ocean drear. With sails fuM set young spirits glide From harbour, on a sea untried, To breast the waves and bear the shocks Beyond the guarded light-house rocks, To strive with tempests many a year; Strong souls, indeed, if they can bear Life's wind and tidel I watch beside the beaten quay The surf bring back all joyously To anchor by the sheltered shore Souls laden deep with precious ore. Or spices won from perfumed sands Of rich, luxuriant tropic lands,— O kindly seal But some come back on wintry gales With broken spars an \ shattered sails 47 I WATCH THE SHIPS And fling to shore a feeble rope; While many a loving heart in hope Waits on for ships that nevermore Shall anchor by a friendly shore, O sad, sad seal a Wi FOUNDRY FIRES CEE the foundry fires gleaming '-' With strange, meteoric light. Listen to the anvils ringing Measured music on the night; Clanking, clinking, never shrinking, Strike the iron, mould it well. On the progress of the nations Each determined stroke shall tell! Showers of fiery sparks are falling Thick about the workmen's feet, Some are carried by the night wind Far along the winding street; Clanking, clinking, never shrinking. Labour lifts her arm on high. And the sparks fly from her anvils Out upon the darkened sky. 49 FOUNDRY FIRES In the quickened glow of feeling, 'Neath the anvil strokes of thought, Ancient errors disappearing, Nobler creeds to birth are brought; Clanking, clinking, never shrinking, Strike the trufh, yea mould it well, On the progress of the nations Each unswerving stroke shall tell. Crude the mass time's fiery forges At your eag^r feet have hurled, Centuries of toil must follow Ere ye shape a perfect world; Yet with clanking, clinking, clanking, Strike the iron, shape the truth, Knowledge is at last beginning. Thought is in its lusty youth. O ye forgemen of the nations. Keep the world's great fires alight, Let the sparks fly fiom your anvils All along the roads of night; Clanking, clinking, never shrinking. Work till stars fade, and the mom Of diviner faith and feeling In the radiant east is bom. SO THE STREET ORGAN A N organ grinding below in the street, ^*- You smile that I think the music sweet, And you think it strange that I love to listen. And stranger still that tear drops glisten In my eyes, where so seldom a tear is 'seen; Ah, if you knew how many things. Like twilight-birds with silver wings. Come back with these simple airs to me Over the leagues of summer sea My boyhood self and me between; If you knew that a voice I am hungiy to hear Spoke thro' the music, plaintive, clear. That a face appeared as the old tunes play, A face I have longed for night and day And never see except in my dreams. SI THE STREET ORGAN You would not wonder I stop and liiten, You would not wonder that tear-drops glisten In my eyes, as down to the street below A few poor pennies I gently throw For the grinder to snatch from the passing teams. i 5* FLOOD TIDE "" I '"HE tide came up as the sun went down, * And the river was full to its sedgy brim, And a little boat crept up to the town On the muddy wave, at evening dim; But that slender stiff with its reed-like oar Brought news to the town that broke its sleep. And the people were startled as never before, And a harvest of pain was theirs to reap : Brought news of a wreck that the rower had seen Off in the bay in a boisterous gale; Common enough, such things, I ween. Yet the women cried and the men were pale. Strange that so tiny a craft could bring Tidings to plunge a town in tears; Ay me I and how often some trivial thing Makes wreck of the loftiest hope of years. 53 FLOOD TIDE O none but the angel with silver wingi , That watchei the river and wards the town, Is ware of the woe each evening brings, As the tide comes up and the sun goes down I THE VIRGIN'S SHRINE II^HO kneels in silent rapture on the sod ~ ' In open sky, or on the marble floor Of some dark church his soul's true prayers says o'er, Adores the holy motherhood of God. The shrine of Maiy is not reverenced less By men whose feet are swift, whose arms are strong, Than by sweet woman-souls to whom belong By right maternity and gentleness. All lofty things in our conception meet In the divine, all beautiful and good; The sterner attributes of Fatherhood Alone make not for man a God complete. If we at Mary's altars •^est may feel God's true maternity, there should we kneel. 55 I AN ORIENT PRAYER "HnlDf obtalied tranqiiUtf ou ii on irogbted, iiid ruulDlnf u ii even It lh«llaeof dcaib.hc juamon to Mdnctloo la Ibe I Sriilt.' -'MbtgMVMd GU» TI/ITH undimmed eye I listen to thp wisdom old which saith: Man shall be reabsorbed in God at death. The human spirit is a deep-drawn breath Oj Him on high. No Hving thing Save man has ever dreamed of higher spheres Wherein to taste delights the fleeting years Have here denied, or compensate earth's fears And sufl^ering. Sad hearts that pray. Soft petalled crimson flowers that bloom and fade, Trees that grow sturdier in storm and shade. Begotten are they all of God, not made Like cups of clay. 56 AN ORIENT PRAYER Why have we right To some chief boon of immortality Not given our brothers of the wood and sky,— Strong beasts, soft-fluttering winged birds, that fl From light to light ? Then let me go Into the long hereafter joyously, To live, yet not to live apart from thee, From thy great life the !i'"s now lent to me No more to flow. The Ocean vast Has need of all his wayward waves and streams, The Central Sun has need of all his beams; It is full time these empty, isolate dreams Of mine were past. I turn to thee, O thou great Father, Universal Soul, Unheeding the false bells that seem to toll Dead things; for all life's turbid rivers roll Back to the sea. 57 AN ORIENT PRAYER O what can be So grand for Nature or for Man, what fate So lofty, as to sweep in solemn state At evening through a majestic, open gate To Deity! ANSWER OF A DESPONDENT SOUL '^7'OV tell me that life may have songs or sighs ■*• As men shall elect their lot, This is one of your winning lies, In childish faith begot; A favoured fiew to the purple bom Make sport of the threats of chance, Look at the race, oppressed and vfom. Poor slaves of circumstance I ff^e may take what wt will our strength to stay. Fine wheaten bread, or a stone. We may walk in the sun the livelong Jay, Or move in the shade alone; We may gather a store of hope or doukt. Grow warm at the fires of love. Or freeze in the open fields without, A wintry sky above: — 59 ANSWER OF A DESPONDENT SOUL I pray you look over the walls of your creed, Heaven-sentried and staunch as they seem, At the manacled shapes of human need With which the ages teem; At the quivering hearts that creak and strain In the trough of a maddened sea. At the sinewy hands that seek in vain Strong opportunity. 1 What we are given we have, and fate (Name it God if you will) may be kind. But she shuts in our face the iron gate Of her plan, and keeps us blind. We sit in the midst of a clamouring crowd Of priests .-md lettered men. But we find that they only babble loud Of things beyond their ken; We peer through the mists that fall like night On our island's shifting sand. But there never comes a gleam of light From any larger land; 60 ANSWER OF A DESPONDENT SOUL If worlds have been made where we may mend Our life-work, soiled and torn, If heavens can be found where come to end The griefs our hearts have borne. No soul has come back of the dead we love To tell us whether they lie In the silent blu? of the arch above. Or in some subjective sky. What is left ? 'Tis to hope, and take our wage From whatever powers there be; But to scorn with the scorn of a truthful age All cheap philosophy. 6i IT MATTERS MUCH 'IIT'HETHER I live in the crowded town, Or in si^cious lands beside the sea. Since the curtain of life so soon comes down What difference can it make to me, But whether I feel the trembling touch Of the hand of need, where'er it be. This matters much. Whether the breezes from sweet fields blow Through my spirit's halls in tenderness. Or, bleak from the hills of ice and snow Give me a foe's unkind caress. If only I have the love of such As long for a brother's tenderness, I care not much. For life with its toil and pain and sin Leaves every spirit tired at best, 62 IT MATTERS MUCH And I trow of the care that lodges in Many a soul that seems at rest; So I pray that Heaven through my hand's touch May healing bring some hearts un blest,— This matters muchl 63 NOT IN VAIN THOUGH angry tempests plough the sea And hide the hravens at night, Life is not lived in vain if we Keep simple truth in sight, In following it the soul shall find Some sweet, secluded bay, Where doubts that long have chased the mind Shall shrink and fade away. Life is not lived in vain if we In cold mid-winter's gloom May clothe one barren, leafless tree With copious summer bloom; To braid the luminous stars again Across some darkened sky — This is heaven's ovm true task for men To compass, ere they die! 64 COMPELLING THOUGHTS piTY the man who has no gift of speech *• For those compelling thoughts, that peace and pain, That press unsought from the remoter reach Of mind and soul to the near heart and brain; Who plucks a wild-flower in a dewy field, Or lifts a pebble from the dusty road, And reverent reads the secrets Truth has sealed In the small flower or stone, of man and God; Who sees beneath the sunset's red and gold. Behind the silver silence of the stars, Visions like those vouchsafed to seers of old, Yet fate keeps dumb, or from fit utterance bars. What joy is his who has an open eye For the great truths concealed in rocks and trees, Discerns the thoughts of God in earth and sky. And has the power to tell men what he sees. 6S I") i: IF I COULD HAVE IT BACK TF I could have it back, -*■ The sweet expectancy I used to feel When time was young, and all my dreams were real. And endless years seemed held in trust for me, How glad my heart would be. li If I could have it back. The fond forgetfulness I used to know Of all the petty ills that plagued me so, As soon as night's kind shadows round me fell. Again I'd love life well. If I could have it back. The treasure lost in bogs of blind mistake, Could bid the remorseless past to pity wake And once again restore to me my right, O I would hold it tight. 66 IF I COULD HAVE IT BACK I cannot have them back, The flood that moved the mill has swept to sea, The treasures gone will not return to me; But if through loss above myself I rise, Such loss my soul must prize. 67 PEARLS THAT ARE RAREST PEARLS that are rarest Hide lowest in sea, Flowers that are fairest Most perishing be, 1 \ Sunshine the brightest Comes soonest to rain. Hearts that are lightest Sink lowest in pain. Go with the divers Down under the wave, Patientest strivers Best jewels shall have. Live with the roses. Though fleeting are they. When summer closes Their perfume shall stay; 68 ;-i i ' PEARLS THAT ARE RAREST Treature the ioiTOTr That breaketh thy re«t. Through it to-morrow Thy toul (hall be blett. 1 'J, 'Jii J Ui, LOVE LETTERS T T T'HO keeps not somewhere safely stored away, » ' Like jewels in a casket quaint, from view, A bundle of love-letters, old or new, Yellow with age, or fresh as buds of May. Who, sometimes, ih the silence of the night. With stealthy fingers does not draw them forth. Dear, tender treasures, not of common worth, And live the old love o'er that suffered blight. Mi 1 V : Yes, here are mine, not faded yet with ytirs. Sometimes I laugh at the old tender flame That kindled them, but is it any shame To whisper they are wet, to-night, with tears. What strange, persistent power love has to hold Its life, though all its ashes have grown cold. it I 70 THE HEARTH IS COLD ' I '■HE hearth is cold, the fire no more ■*• Glows in the twilight gray, 'Tis colder, colder, than before The bright flame had its way. Love's (ire is quenched, its glow is o'er. Its ashes now are gray, My heart is colder than before The red flame had its way. I shall remember it no more. This passion of a day. But I am glad, though it is o'er. The (ire once had its way. THE MYSTERY ■p ESTLIJSS world I love thee well, ■'•^ Sparkle of the sunlit sea, Flitting shapes on moor and fell, Nature's colour-mystety; But, wide world, thy raptures lie In the love-warp in thy plan, The deep colour-mystery Of the love of man for man. 7a THE MEADOW-LANDS I HE tide flows in and out and leaves ■*• Luxuriance on the meadow lands. The barren mould with power enweaves And fertile makes the sterile sands. The meadow-lands of life lie bare, The tide comes up, the tide recedes, The muddy wave's residuum there Creates the soil for lofty deeds. Mjrsterious tides that silent creep Across the meadows of my soul. And from the nameless nether-deep Your silt of joy and sorrow roll, This waste turn to a field of flowers, And foster many a noble tree, Make fruitful all the barren powers That lie unwakened yet in me. 73 SMALL AND GREAT THE ripple that stirs on the sea of thought As we drop our smallest question there, Into the ocean's life is wrought And moves it everywhere. Who strikes a chord in the human soul, Be he labourer, poet, priest, or sage, Makes music that rings from pole to pole, And lasts from age to age. The feeblest prayer that to heaven flies Has infinite power beneath its wing, And the treasure of peace it brings from the skies Is not a foreign thing. For all is in each, and each in all, Twixt Heaven and Earth there is no line. The small is the great, the great the small. And truth is mine and thine. 74 I I I PLUCKED A DAISY T PLUCKED a daisy from the sand, -■■ A white field-daisy, carelessly, I saw it tremble in my hand And cast a piteous glance at me; Its sisters seemed to chide me too, Enclustered thick beside the way. And beg me, since their hours were few At best, in peace to let them stay. Then as they bent 'heir golden heads. Rimmed close with bonnets snowy-white, Tears seemed to come like silver beads From their soft eyes, and dim the night. O little daisies of the sod. One law controls your life and mine. Ye are the humblest flowers of God, But ye like man are half divine. 75 ■fp" I PLUCKED A DAISY And as ye cheer the dusty walk, And whiten all the meadows fair, I see a spirit on each ~st»lk That moves responsive to the air. Bloom on, bloom -