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Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la m*thode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART iANSI and ISO TEST CHART No 2 1.0 I.I |ii III ?.8 *'* 32 m 26 40 II 2.5 II 2.2 2.0 1.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 ^ ./APPLIED INA^GE he r.^ "ochestef. r4e* Tork 14609 uSA .= ' 1 6) «82 - 0300 - Phone = Me) 288 - 5989 - Fa> ^' ' -i'^r.^aST: if.ivi;'; '3^' AT THE SHRINE AND OTHER POEMS By GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE STEWART & KIDD COMPANY PUBLISHERS - - - CINCINNATI «CT— 1^ ^ 1. ¥tA 7 7();{6;< f'^'^ 19/i- 1 C. H 11 C O PYR I G H T. 19 14. GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE Mr- - - -t^ .> - - y/j - « 1 ^fe""-- i i NOTE The poems contained in this volume were written, for the most part, during the past ten years. Thanhs are due to the editors of the following magazines for their kindness in permitting the repub- lication of poems included here that appeared origi- nally in their columns : The English Review, The In- dependent, The Forum, The Bookman. The Outlook. Lippincott's Magazine, The New England Magazine, and The Canadian Magazine. a H. c. Knoxville, Tennessee, May. 1914. CONTENTS 1r I. To u Friend, -------- ...1) Bounty. --------.... 14 "A Life Beyond?" -15 Deu8 Inenarrabilis, ------.... |a The Last Desire, ------..,,.17 The Dream of Dreams, -----,,.. ig The Mother. |g A Priest of Humanity, ------.., 20 The Chess-PIayer, - - . - . , . . . -21 Childwist, ---------.. 22 Das Ewig-Weibliche, ,..23 Faces, ---------... 24 The Heretic. -----------25 The Chief Witness. - - 26 The Silent Sisters of the Poor. 27 Petri Interrogatio, ------,... 28 "Wanga Nzambi, Wanga>" ------..,29 Day's End in Durham, -----.... 31 A Voice to the Dying, ----.-..,.33 On a Friend's Death, ------.., 35 At the Shrine, -------.,._•>« "Yonder He Lies," ------.,,. 4Q A Winter Twilight, 42 Quo Abeo ? 44 Antinomy, - - ------ .._4A On My Dog's Death, 47 The American Black, -------..-50 La Pucelle de Vercheres, ----.-... 52 5 II. Serenade, ------..,, f.\ The Perfect Comrade. ------... (.7 Renunciation, -------... a-i The Master- Wooer, r. To an Unnamed Lady, ----.... ^.i; The Two Flowers, -----... (^ The Return, --------.. f.7 Sea-Secrets, - - - . . ^o ~ ■ " - - - DO ^"■yt- - - - 69 To Laure, --------.. 70 Delia and I, ------.. 71 The Wine of Love, -----.... 71 Second Thoughts, y, "Until Death Us Do Part." - ------- 75 Love's Similitudes, -------. 7/: To a Young Girl, yy Waiting, yg At Parting. . _ gj The Novice, ---...___ „, A Girl's Complaint to Her Heart. ge A Sonnet of Spousal, or Amor Sempitemus, ------.. 07 Paura Non ^ Nella Carita, - - - go The Firefly, „q The Transfigurer, --- oq "The Moon, and My Love, and I." oi Her Heart Breaks Silr ice. ----..._ n-i "She is not Dead." oc III. "O Earth, What Changes! " gq The Elarthquake, -------.. ifvi An Old Master. ■---... mi • '^ i-"^". 102 A Lake Sunrise. -----.... in-i Daybreak, \^ 6 Les Camarades En Voyage, To Night. A Summer Night, Ariel's Revenge, The Aeronaut, - - . A Settler's Grave, The Eyes of the East, - A Forest Graveyard, Song of the Evening Cloud, "Brown Fellow" "The Rain It Raineth," Outward Bound, The Last Lullaby, The God of the Gulls, A Night on the St. Lawrence, God's Eyes, - - - To a Butterfly, - - . Lyrics of the Rail, - The Scorned Town The Canyon The Sleeping-Car Tempest-Tost, 105 106 107 108 109 110 III 112 113 114 il5 116 117 118 120 122 124 126 128 IV. Hamlet, - - . . A Grace Before Shakespeare, To Shakespeare's Mother, - To a Class in Shakes|>eare, To Harriet Shelley, To John Keats, To George Borrow. Pippa and Her Flowers, - "Storm Still," - . . To the Friendliest of Poets, To My Lord Verulam, To Master Henry Fielding, To Miss Jane Austen. - 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 i - ; S V- ^-*C-^ *^'^ r- . * . , c- i,-;' »»'5-,ii-'-v^-..'. AT THE SHRINE AND OTHER POEMS -7V-. ^:J^J^ ■Z'hS. TO A FRIEND "T^HRO^ JGH drenching deeps a ship is saiUng, ■■• A battered, broken journeyer; And yet she keeps her course unfaiUng, — A harbour waits for her. Hope of that port her way doth order, How far soever on the sea; Ah, so thy heart, beyond the Border, Beckons and governs me! 13 BOUNTY A CHILD and a rose, ** A rose and a child; In the heart of the one repose, And joy in the heart of the other! A child and a friend, And the rose changes hands; In the heart of the man godsend: Child, rose and white soul of his mother! 14 itv "A LIFE BEYOND?" A LIFE beyond? Not mine the mournful cry! •** O Hidden One, what holier mystery? — Every morning we are born : every night we die. 15 ih ll DEUS INENARRABILIS DID ever* author pen a book That all his spirit's fibre took? — The Word of God was never writ That men might make a Book of it. 16 THE LAST DESIRE 7R0M dreamless nights to wake to mockinc; morrows, To make toward the surface from the Deep, For silence to put on old sins and sorrows, — Unknown One, nay! let me forever sleep! Secret, sufficient, all-subduing Sleep, — In thine embrace eternal to be lying. The while thine ancient eyes their vigil keep, — How blest a thing to die, if this be dying! ! 17 THE DREAM OF DREAMS "That the life of man is but a dream, many a mrtn has surmised here- tofore: and I, too, um everywhere pursued by this feeling." Cjoethe: The Siirrous of \i'i rl/n r. LJOWEVER real it seem. * * Sleeping we or waking. Giving we or taking, True, or all-forsaking, — L;fe is a dream, a dream! Shineth there a gleam That gives it sudden sweetness, Sadly we feel its fleetness. Fading to incompleteness; — Life is a dream, a dream! Ah ! when we would redeem April from drear December. Fresh fire from waning ember, Why must we Ihcn remember Life is a dream, a dream? 18 I THE MOTHER (She speaks, sitting up in bed:) IT ARK. hark! ^ '■ Did you not hear a sound from out the Dark— A little, broken, uncontented cry? (Hush, darling, I am nigh!) The quick, bewildered walking mark you not. The hands beseeching, The white face stained with tears, the curls that clot The tiny brow, the mother-want past speeching? Oh, can you see my baby frir^htened there. And can you bear To keep me from her? (Sweetheart, wait for mother!) How may she find the way. uncomforted? And how shall comfort come from any other Save me alone? The people there are dead! 19 o A PRIEST OF HUMANITY F SORROWS bitter-strange is wove his fate: A mother weeping for her infant dead; A father crying curses on the head Of his wild son thrust forth degenerate; The love that flamed, and faded to dull hate, Of a wed pair that fain would be unwed ; A mind destroyed by the dark things it said; — With these old woes his life is penetrate. Yet for each alien anguish does he mourn, — A sad compassion in his deepening eyes, — Counsels, consoles, reveals "the better part;' How great soever be the burden borne, (Ah! this the secret of his ministries) More bitter is the grief that eats his heart! 20 I THE CHESS-PLAYER PLAYED at chess with Lasker, but to lose. Beaten from the beginning; yet the game Wavered awhile in seeming, and no shame Possessed me. It was mine to check and choose, To marshal, menace, try this sudden ruse And that side-ambuscade, with hope aflame Hailed to be as he that overcame. The laurel once at least not to refuse. Vainly! He sat before me patient, still, His dark eye searching out each secret plot. And by his brooding, stern-compelling will The game was guided, though I knew it not; — Yet find I strength in failure as 'n strife: As I played Lasker, so I challenge Life! m 21 R CHILDWIST APT dreamer, what revealments dost thou see? We that are blinded with the vagrant dust Of our long way, and stifled by each gust That stills the spirit when it moves too free — So tired we are we turn ourselves to thee Whose eyes are wide with wonder, and whose trust Feels Something, Somewhere, that is W nd and just, Ancient and vast in its Eternity. Ah, vain! Youth's vision only youth may learn; Thou, too, dear maiden, must arise and seem A destined path to tread, the while thine eyes Gaze troubled, and the hardlier discern The glory dimmed and gone; — O then thy dream Still silent cherish till the daylight dies! 22 DAS EWIG-wEIBLICHE 26? 36 trust id just, :arn ; em 6 6y6S dream I I T AST night I saw thee gHding to my bed ^ ■*— ' So gently, mother, to caress my brow With all the old compassion, — "Darling, now Is nothing wrong. Sleep, and be comforted!" And I laid hold upon thine hand, and pled Thou wouldst not leave me, till — I know not how — Buried in peace I slept, the while that thou Wert there beside me, not among the dead. I woke and found thee vanished, yet I feel A sense that will not vanish of a hand Still clasping mine, and on my lips the seal Of a high matter, hard to understand, — A touch, a kiss, a whisper'd word to me: "Mother, and wife, and sister, — one in three!" 23 FACES THERE are two pictures hanging on my wall: One is the Woman of Dagnan-Bouveret — Mary Madonna, with sad, dark eyes that say Hidden and holy things, her peasant shawl Folding her babe and breast; the other, call "My Mother in Old Age," gracious and gray,— Hers is a lonely sleeping, long leagues away, Nor can she hear her son's prayers passional. But sometimes the two f-. . dim and blur, The darks and deeps are mingled, the lights turn Trembling toward one another, and I see Then, as with subtler vision, the eyes of her. My mother, from the Virgin's aureole yearn. And Mary Maiden gray the mother of me! 24 11 THE HERETIC H E GIVES to death world-prejudice. World-woe Therefore upon its witless gods is crying Never to spare, nor suffer more the lying Counsels, contentions of this human foe: It is not right that he should teach them so. That worship of the runes is reason dying, That for the spirit there is satisfying Not in the formal Yea, but faithful No. Aroused, those apathetic gods would hearken What time they shook the stupor of the years. And, making human lovelight droop and darken. Crush out the rebel in a night of fears — Not now, not now! Nay — they are gone abroad To seek a truce of heaven with heaven's God. 25 li H THE CHIEF WITNESS ER that hath hid a babe beneath her breast Through the long, secret days and deejiening nights, Kindling with happy hopes and dear delights, Or brooding silent v/ith a dim unrest. — Ask her, the Mother, what is for women best. — The chase of phantom freedom, mechanic "rights," Sharing with fevered face the cruder fights, Or her high part in the Eternal Quest? She only of her sex can say, for she Alone is Woman whose word is of a son : "In the great Heart-of-Things I feel a plan Encompassing the mystery of me: I mother all mankind in mothering one, — Through me the race aspires from man to Man !" 26 iK If -J THE SILENT SISTERS OF THE POOR MEEKLY, with folded hands and patient brows. Come two from out the ivy-clustered door; A cross is on the altar of their House, — It hushed their voices while it heard their vows; Ay me, -the Silent Sisters of the Poor! The cross upon the altar is of gold. And coldly gleams in the chill chapel air; — Is it for this their bosoms are so cold, Nor beat as they were wont to beat of old? — Or is a wintry cross enfixed there .- The sun is dimly drooping down the west The ancient House against its glory stands Sombre and gaunt and dark; and darkly drest. Two figures seem to fade within its Dreast, Meekly, with patient brows and folded hands. 27 PETRI INTERROGATIO (After Dante Gabriel Rourtth DILIGIS Me, Simon Joannis?' 'Etiam, Domine," Petrus ait, "Tu scis quia Amo Te. " 'Pasce agnos, Pasce," dicit, 'Agnos Meos!" 'Diligis Me, Simon Joannis? Diligis MeV 'Immo vero; Tu scio quia Amo Te." 'Pasce agnos, Pasce," dicit, 'Agnos Meos!" 'Amas Me, Simon Joannis? Amas Me?" Tristi sane corde Petrus: "O Domine, Omnia Tu nosti; certe Amo Te." "Pasce oves, Pasce," dicit, "Pecudes!" 28 (h •WANGA NZAMBI. WANGA?" (It 19 the custoni of the Bakongo natives to end a speech by saying "Wanga," a word signifying: "Do you understand?" A little African boy, brought up in the Mission, prayed that he might always have plenty to eat, that he might never have any work to do, that he might have fine clothes to wear, and that when he grew up he might at- tain the social .standing of the white man. Then said he at the end of his heartspoken prayer: "Wanga Nzambi. Wanga ?" meaning; "Do you under- stand, God, — Do you understand?" — Herl^ert Ward: ,4 Voice from the Congo.) /^ WARM Upleaping, swift Flame-Flowing, '' ^^ That blesseth and banneth the eager hand. Driving the Dark, yet into Darkness going, — Lord Fire, dost understand? O radiant Lighter of the Life of Day, Regally coursing it along the sky, — Sun-God, to Thee we lift our hearts and pray; O hear us, or we die! I Great Father Zeus, mighty among the mighty. Stern of Thy thought, severe of Thy command,- Tyrant of Cronos, Hera, Aphrodite, — Hearken, and understand! Hakeem! th. '^ vanished in the sunset glory. When to Thy faithful shalt Thou reappear? Long have we brooded Thy celestial story, Waited Thee many a year. 29 IS^ Mary, immaculate, humanity's one Mother,— Thou in the Presence that dost intercede,— Minister Thou (nor have we any other) To our so bitter need! Centre of Cosmos, what Thou art who knoweth? Whether the worlds and we are nobly planned, Or whether ebbing tide and tide that floweth Eterne shall change, and Being never groweth.— O who may understands 30 DAY'S END IN DURHAM IN the Abbey at Durham, ^ With its great stony Silence. Builded of silences, I bowed me and knelt. After a long time I prayed to the Silence To enter my spirit. And give me to know. And the dim-sweeping arches And solemn spaces, Deepening, darkening. Regarded the mortal. The humble human. Kneeling there, praying. At last spake the Silence, Silently, after its wont: "We columns and cloisters Are very ancient ; The tale of our years Is Hearing a thousand; Once it resounded — Our vast-flung vaulting — With glory and passion 31 3' tl To the chants of our masters, Your fathers long vanished; Now we are dreaming Of memories only: Alike they and we Are sinking to ruin. Slowly to death. Reluctant or willing. Must all things yield them." And the darkness deepened. "Slowly to death," Were the words re-echoed, "Must all things yield them. An'^ v.\'e I krx-!^ there. Unfolded a vision: Before me was tending The Earth in her orbit, — An old pulsing planet. Blind beating the void; — And out of her bosom. With castles and palaces. Prisons and temples. Crumbling upon it. There came the old sorrow: "Slowly to death Must all things yield them." 32 I ) ii)l "Customs and continents, The secret-souled ocean. Wars and war's rumours. Men's poetry and music. Their quarrelling systems. Their sure revelations Of the Made and the Maker, The counters they trade in. Their greeds ard red rivalries, Brave bursts of brotherhood. Kindliest ministries. Wooings and marryings, Their ventures victorious. Their gloomy forebodings, — All shall decay and pass Down to oblivion. With me, their old Mother, The Ruin they dwell on. "AM ^V\ey are. all they have, All they think or imagine. Can little avail them In the blind end of being; — They are midges that hover By my withering bosom, And 1 but a midge On the breast of Eternity! "On the breast of Eternity I" She spake, and was silent. Save for the sudden 33 Tremor that shook her: "Ah! what is Eternity? It, too, a Ruin?" T In the Abbey at Durham, With its great stony Silence, Builded of silences, I wondered, and woke. 34 iii> u A VOICE TO THE DYING NKNOWN and uncounted the years thou hadst Iain in my bosom Ere thou wast born, — Thou, and the wife thou hast loved, the dog thou hast fondled. The trees and the grasses by which thou hast lived; A dim, ageless travail brought ye all forth. And quiet hath been your mothering. A quiet mothering, — Yet have mine eyes not ceased from beholdmg thee, Thee and all thy ways, — thine eager pride, and thy powers That failed thee, thy yeas and nays and silences. Thy reckoned gains, thy mad revolts, thy crowding sorrows. Confessions sad; — all these thy mother's eyes have seen. Come home, — Thou who hast never been far from me, for all thy thinking. Thy little human tragedy — come home, dear child! Beneath my breast come slumber once again, Peradventure again to be born, again to die. But never to be parted from her that bids thee come! W I m 35 ON A FRIEND'S DEATH TKZE thought that Death was hard and harsh, a Doomcr of y y dread power; — Ah no ! his wings wave gently as the petals of a flower. What hath he done? Why have we watched and wcpO He touched our friend's tired eyeUds, and he slept. What hath he taken? Not the kindly smile, The sterling worth, the wisdom without guile. How hath he wronged us? Still we have our friend; For love and trust there cannot be an end. Who mourneth overmuch, and murmureth? The Soul that made shall care for him in death. The mortal in him slept, th' immortal changed; Over the hills of heaven he hath ranged, — A boundless country, and a beautiful; And Death its usher is and sentinel. Who seals the eyes of them he loveth well (And all he loveth well!), Till they have journeyed whither they may not tell,— A boundless country and a beautiful ! 36 liii Ah, what their secret? Why does none return? Their Mentor Death hath won them, long they learn. Gladly they wander with him far and high; — Death 's Love's disguise to all of them that die. We thought that Death was hard and harsh, a Doomer of dread power; — Ah no ! his wings wave gently as the petals of a flower. 37 AT THE SHRINE JX/TARY, humanity's Woman, immaculate Mother. -^'■^ Is it Thou, Thou alone, that art pure, and never another ? For the babe at my breast many deaths did my body endure: The girl died, the virgin, — yea, all that the Past counted pure. Then the deepest last dying, the shudder so woeful and wild, The smothering darkness . . . the pitiful cry of the child! O Mary, the bliss that came after, — the rapture of bliss, — How I would laugh him to laughter, and how we would kiss! How I would clasp him in terror when trouble would linger and stay! Trouble? for any but him, my masterful man-child alway. How he would lie in my bosom, and how I would breathe his name. How I would watch him and love him and dream of his lordly far fame! 38 f V T was a wraith, a mistake, — 't was not / that lived there in the Past, A pale, futile girl, — now a woman, a woman at last! For how could she know, that pale one, so saintly and so clean. That Madonna dwells eternal in the breast of Mag- dalene? Mary, humanity 's Woman, immaculate Mother, Is it Thou, Thou alone, that art pure, and never another ? 39 'YONDER HE LIES" Yc ONDER he lies — My best of friends, His faithful eyes Filled with a tragic wondering surmise. The days flash by — The fields, the woods — When he and I Looked out on life and had no thought to die. We did not need Whistle or whine: It seemed indeed What nature wrote upon us each could read. So word or bark Broke seldom out. Save when at dark Each for his comrade's signal stood ahark. He does not move. But looks on me As he would prove The virtue of our old sufficient love. 40 Dear God, to sit And watch his eyes! Whose law is it. — Whose justice issues this tremendous writ? My dog, my friend. Look up once more! — Is this the end? . . . As thou hast loved me. Love thy soul defend! 41 'i^i A WINTER TWILIGHT 'T'HE 5'ear has reached December days, * The fire is creeping into flame; Gently I call my comrade's name, And silent both we sit at gaze. His head is prest against my knee. My hand upon his brow is set, — The flames spring upward, and we let Our fancies play with all they see. I see the face of one who died Ere the low whisper she had heard That sought the moment and the word To woo the maiden for my bride. He sees a strange, enchanted land That wanes and waxes with the flame; He does not sense himself the same, And dimly deems I understand. My listless form yields slowly down ; He also droops with half-closed eyes. Yet with a mute regard that tries To feel his master's smile or frov.n. 42 On her dear face a pensive smile, — The fire sinks low, and I repose; The mystery of Wyrd who knows? Are these real hours we beguile? I cannot answer, yet am blest; And from the hearth he turns his eyes Till they meet mine in trustful wise. And so he dreams himself to rest. iJs I , 1; I ill 43 1'.; r .B ■') QUO ABEO? HTHE flood flows down, the sails are spreading, "'• The destined voyage must begin; - A quiet farewell, and then, undreading, I enter in. But far at sea — "Sir Captain, shelter Awaits us whither? What harbour saves?"- Nor sound nor motion but the welter Of heavy waves. "Yet tell me — there shall be an ending? Some port with hope of us is lit? Within some haven we find friending? Ah! teach me it! "Captain, . . . these seas . . charted? We voyage not in blind amaze. Growing forever fainter-hearted. Unending days?" are not un- No word — until I fall entreating: "If here we wander evermore. If there shall never be a meeting Again, ashore — li 44 "Oh, why the vessel, why the saihng?- Sink we to rest beneath the sea. Unsought, unlonging, unavaiHng, No more to be!" I' Silence — that stings me with the daring To spring and seize that Shape unknown: O God — t is / with whom I m faring Alone, alone! m ■ '■ ',i I 45 ANTINOMY Tf HERE is no truth! If here it ever dwelt, now it is dead; Cant and shrewd Custom flourish in its stead; — There is no truth! Her heart is holy -pure, and speakclh Very soolh. There is no health! For all men with a sore disease are smit, Past help or hope, and all men die of it; 1 here is no health! Her broken body shineth with unimagined wealth. There is no light, — But doubt, and secret dread, and shadow-dreams; Woeful we wander, following phantom gleams; — There is no light! And yet a homelit haven unjoldeth to her sight. There is no faith! Our sages disavow the ancient tales. Holding that when the breath fails, being fails; There is no faith! Let them persuade themselves ! It is not so she saith. There is no love, — But only vanity, or passion, or pretence, Self-interest, instinctive social sense; — There is no love! This evil thing ye publish her woman-eyes disprove. 46 ON MY DOG'S DEATH M Y FRIEND has gone Thicgh the door of darkness; Wearily waiting. He fainted and fell Upon its threshold. And ghostly fingers Out of the silence Laid hold upon him And drew him through. He did not know The subtle secrets Of Death the wary; Deeply he loved me. My little comrade,— His eyes were shining With lights of worship. Of modest wonder. When I caressed him. Even at the last, Before the darkness, He never doubted: He thought his lord Was tired or troubled, But would surely save him. Thy lords* Ah, comrade, Futile thy faith! 47 I ■^j^'ii And futile my will To heal and keep thee I We dwelt together As midges merely, Afloat in the fathomless Dust of the ages. Drifted we near Unto each other, Enjoying the sunlight Playing upon us; And then, on a sudden. Came the chill glooming. The separation. And yet ... I feel . . . There are strange things about love: Love is so loving. So patient, enduring. Through the doom of defeat And utter sorrow! There are strange things about love . I feel their strangeness. 48 lij Love may be somehow More great than the midges, Greater than ages, Than loss and heartbreak And death and distance, Greater perhaps Than It that orders The swing of the planets. Than all things else That are or shall be. The love I bear thee. My lit' !e dead comrade, Forever is trying To tell me something. I am learning to listen. 49 ,!i THE AMERICAN BLACK (A Study in Race-Consciousness.) MIGHT! Night! And of the dawn no promise. Wrong is right, And right is wrong! / ' Long, long ago, ah long, I roamed the forests vast and awful, bending Around me with their leafy aisles unending. And smelt their dense sweet savours many a league. And fought or loved their Shadows silent-striding Without a fear: or, when a hard fatigue Befell, would sink to utter sleep, confiding In the fierce gods o' the Jungle I confest; Ah, that delicious, peaceful, dreamless rest! No hubbub of the kraal-folk now I hear. No spear-songs, no war-music wild and thrilling; Not now I shoot the arrow, hurl the spear, And rush with warrior-rage unto the killing; — The Old is dead, Or, if it live perchance. It dwells in the so distant battle-dance Unfindable again, and poisoned lance With foe's blood wet and red. That into Past and Place its ghost has vanished. 50 lil Instead, — Instead, — White faces, houses, streets; white ways, white works ; Faces that frown and yet are not unkind. Faces that smile where yet no kindness lurks, ( 1 he gods were angry or were gracious, one!) Houses that wear a shutter and a blind Streets all alike, and work that 's never done-- Work endless, pitiless, that craves and craves Slaves for Its worshippers, themselves its slaves: Work without aim or meaning, save to breed Money, the mother of more work, and greed, Its father; work whose drudging devotees' Bear heavy loads with harness on their back. A J **^^ T" ^- sodden, and we black men's black. And none has joy or ease: The poor seek riches, and the rich seek more. And both must have our service, hard and sore;— And so we serve and share not, nor rebel, (For one must suffer when he is in hell) And wear the yoke with silent, sullen shame. And dream of Freedom that is not a name. 51 ^ LA PUCELLE DE VERCHERES \TAME of Heaven! "No woman," you say, "may be ^ ^ brave with the courage of man; She may suffer with patience, endure; but let him en- counter who can!" Ah, but, my friend, it is idle, for how should you know what you say? The Maid, you will have it, is liker Our Lady, — we kneel to and pray, — La Sainte Vierge, — liker Her spirit, than they that must wandering go Down the way of the woman in silence, whether for welfare or woe . . . I know not; — Our Lady was silent; not seldom the Maid was withdrawn, Ahark for the voices that v/hispered through the night and the dawn. But to me was it shown, — I have seen and 't is mine to declare What the soul of a woman may do in the hour of dark- est despair. Just fourteen years had she, no saint, but of Canada's breast, — A girl in her fibre-of-fear, yet a general true to the test. No saint? Mais nonl The good God knoweth no angel so fair As she that dwells pure in His heaven now, — Madeleine de Vercheres! 52 Verch^res was unguarded, look you, the Seignior on duty away. And Madame at Montreal, and the people afield for the day, — The twenty-second October, Sixteen Hundred, Ninety- Two, — And Madeleine stayed at the landing-place, expecting my canoe; For I brought in supplies for the fort each day, or shine or rain, Wresting its good from the forest-soil; — one needed Pierre Fontaine; And I knew the need, and met it, and was making ready that morn. When suddenly in my bosom the sense of fear was born; — Ah God! that cry of anguish, ever it echoes to me. As I saw the Iroquois fiends of hell beginning their butchery. They had stolen upon the settlers, and were scalping them in the fields, Fifty savages red with blood. "T is now that Vercheres yields," I thought; "It is time to die," but I ran for my canoe. And into it urged my dear ones, and waited what to do; Ma foil it was hard to know, but my heart for joy gave a leap When I saw little Madeleine running, — not her had they caught asleep; She was in the fort, and the gate was shut, and the breaches all repaired 53 1 i \i 1» il "i Ere the enemy could enter, though he came as near as he dared. Leaping, and yelUng his frightful yells, and waving in the sun The dripping spoil of his human hunt; — Sacred Name, — that it should be done! There were only three men in the lort, and none of them could fight. For one was weary for the grave, and the rest no men aright; But Laviolette, who gave the alarm and entered with her the gate, — Let him be named as a brave man there who bravely faced his fate; — He it was told me after of the craven soldier pair That Madeleine found in hiding and drove to the open air; He it was told me her saying to her brothers young but true: "We must fight to the death for God and country. I count on you. Remember, our father has taught you that gentlemen are born To shed their blood for God and the k'* Let our name sustain no scorn!" For me and mine, the Indians had seen us at last, and 1 knew That the one hope left was to reach the fort, and I sud- denly turned the canoe 54 To the landing-place, and tore the water, paddling for life or death. When all at once I saw a sight that made me catch my breath; — 'T was Madeleine coming from the fort alone, to meet and bless. And the Iroquois stood stupid.—stark images, no less! For they feared it meant a sortie, and they stood and watched us feign, And fired no shot, till they saw the gate swing open and close again. And the night fell on us, and a storm swept down, — wind and snow and hail, — And the spirits of all were darkened, and some began to quail; But the maid she showed no sign of dread, and a cheer- ful tone she chose: "Until this moment the hand of God has saved us from our foes. Now let us have courage and ward them off, whate'er may hap to-night. Gladly will I command the fort, and the six who can shall fight." The soldiers and I were to guard the blockhouse, with orders clear, And she placed the boys on the bastions,— good lads that had lost their fear, — And the aged man and the child herself made up the sentinel four, 55 ' t I'li ^i I •H >U ' (! And through the long night the cry "All 's well!" rang out 'mid the storm's downpour. And the enemy made no move, for he thought that our few were a host. But he bode his time, and our little band were be- leaguered a week almost; And if Madeleine ate or slept I know not, but this I know, — When I looked toward the bastion she was there; in the blockhouse, there also; Smiling, rallying, promising help, shaming and cheer- ing us all. With a gliding grace as sweet to see as though she were leading a ball. My friend, had Daniel beheld her, our maid in his wild beast's den. Rescue might come what time it would, how should it matter when? In a girl's young soul I had seen for a week the soul of the human race. And I longed to bear more and do more before I should leave that place. But the moment came — too soon it came, — our maid was adoze, with her gun Lying across her tired-out arms, for the day was spent and done, When some of us heard a sound below, down by the riverside, And iristantly from the bastion " Qui oive ?" a. sentinel cried; 56 And little Madeleine started up, and La Monnerie stood without, — With his forty fighting men come up to put the foe to rout. He praised her wit and her courage; right gallantly did he bow; But she smiled and said: "Lieutenant, to you we sur- render now." And we crowded round her to kiss the hand and have the heavenly smile, But she would not listen to our thanksgivings, and went apart awhile. Would she had grown a woman in years, for woman she was in power! But to test our own was Madeleine's soul lent us from Heaven an hour. i 57 "T' :'■ " 1 I \ \i ii< II '/ it !».! ■i ) O '!-' n Tn SERENADE E leaves in the shaaow And starlight are glistening: Ahark is the darkness! — Love, art thou listening? Love, art thou listening? . . The night shall adore thee, And, when we are parted. The silence sing for me. 61 '/ !!,,: II 1^ THE PERFECT COMRADE THE perfect comrade says nothing, nothing,- But her calm thoughts and pure Make her brow as a cloudless sky, With twin stars, shining serenely. !! I 62 RENUNCIATION HAVE lost you, my friend, — But my heart was your advocate, is to the end: I, a woman, love utterly you, and if you have left me. Not yours the blame of it, mine be the shame of it, or indeed you 've bereft me! ' i 1 Ml 63 't ') .!'. rV!i THE MASTER- WOOER ij I SAW thy heart to-day : A rock against whose breasc the ceaseless spray Dashed itself into madness, woe and death, Like one that all in vain beleaguereth. Ah, but the ccaselessmss / The sea that dieth liveth none the less : After a thousand years must come a day The rock shall yield herself to him for aye. 'i| i ! I !i 64 ■ : W" TO AN UNNAMED LADY EN there are others by, in vain I dream To dwell within the orbit of thine eyes, — Or should there dart a sudden starry gleam. It hardly lives and lightens ere it dies. But, sweetheart, how they "swim into my ken" When we 're alone, — how ruth and trust and pride Smile in their shining depths! Amen, Amen, — For here th' eternal mysteries abide! 65 't »: ■i i I 'ii rl! THE 1^0 FLOWERS HELEN wore it in her hair. That httle fragile flower, Wore it for an hour, — Then she laughed and gave it me to wear; — No little flower so holy anywhere! Fate looked and found my Helen fair, — That little fragile flower, — Spared her but an hour; When she died the dayspring vanished there ;- No little flower so holy anywhere! Ml 5 i 1 I 66 THE RETURN LIELEN softly stole to me just now, * * Smiled and chided while she smoothed my brow: "Why so still and serious? Please do n't be mysterious! Laugh and love and let us both be gay! " The shadow stirred and vanished ; life was lit, Quick ecstasy irradiating it ; — Ah, how I sprang to clasp her hand! Hardly yet can I understand; — Helen died a year ago lo-day. 67 ^1 ' •»! •1- m M SEA-SECRETS LITTLE one. woman-one. whither are you saiHng? J From far at sea your slender craft is heading for the haven. — But harbour 's here, and harbour 's there, and all unavailing Are the eyes that strain to see your course, the lips to give you hailing; — Homing one, flash it me,— whether for woe or bliss: Is my heart your haven, or his? Little one, woman-one, I fear me he is dreaming, — Young Cupid at the wheel there, so carelessly he turns it; Whisper to him, tell him you are tired of seeming, That you in port would be, beyond the fitful waters' gleaming; — Come, then, a sea-secret! Silently breathe me this: Is my heart your haven, or his? 15 Jf \ 68 :f il' TRYST I THOUGHT to have made her my bride, * And now she is dead; Death holds her close by his side In his earth-dark bed. Not a murmur, a motion, a breath! — In vain does he woo: Being dead, yet she yields not to Death ;- Endlessly true! She knows that I need her now All else above: She will come to me; when and how We leave to Love. !'h k 69 1! ■ I I t j \\ TO LAURE LAURE, when I look on thee -< My heart 's the heart of youth; Thy sweet simpHcity Endowers me with truth: Then never must we part, — Thyself my spirit art. When thy soft eyes on me With maidenwist are turned. In their pure depths I see Where love may best be learned, From lesser love, sweetheart, Thyself my saviour art. Laure, till I looked on thee The man I was was no man, High faith and honour free Won me when I won woman: Thou dost redeem my heart. And still its sovran art. :i; 70 i; DELIA AND I DELIA and I are driving alone, — Driving, driving; Sleepily jogs the reliable roan, And over the meadows the blossoms are blown, And the song of the thrush finds an echoing tone — Shriving, Shriving my soul to be clear as her own. Delia and I are moving content, — Moving, moving; And few words are spoken, but many are meant; She smiles at the sunshine, on her I 'm intent. And still through the wood steals the jessamine scent. Proving, Proving our hearts and laughing at Lent. Delia and I are turning toward home, — Turning, turning; The stars are alight in the infinite dome, — The field-hues have faded to glimmering chrome. The moon-ship is launched from horizons of loam ; — Learning, Learning the roads that lead lovers to Rome! 71 ^f *" mi . » { f I; lit H THE WINE OF LOVE THE wine of love, — a winged wine, Crushed from the warm, incarnadine. Deep breathless sunset, and compounded With star-songs in the midnight sounded; Vivid as the summer lightning. Still glowing, paling, fading, bright'ning; wonder-wine, thy cup I covet. Nor linger long my lips above it! What matter though the draught destroy The sober mind and dull employ? What matter all the ancient tasks? — To live, to live, my spirit asks: Content no more with placid quiet. But, kindling with the race and riot Of the swift-enchanting potion. To enter earth's supreme emotion; Its pains I dare, its farthest fortunes 1 11 compass, as a ^/ng importunes! The wine of love — a warrior-wine — I quaff, and all the world is mine. I I 72 .-.v SECOND THOUGHTS W AS it I who dreamed In the doubtful Dark That distant gleamed A kindling spark? Was it I who sought it And found its flame, And seized and brought it The way you came? Was it I who bowed And held the fire? Was it you whose proud Regard drew nigher? Was it your torch took Sudden light from mine, And your radiant look That I drank like wine? "t-* Or, did you pass Serene and still, — No smile, alas! On those lips so chill; Your torch unlit. And the Dark about, — Sole light in it Fast flickering out? 73 li i f Nay, dying not. Though its flame must be By fated lot Unpassed to thee; Though the Dark be dark, One torch may prove A meeting-mark In the Endless, love! ■I V\ f ! it 74 / \> "UNTIL DEATH bS DO PART" CHE never meant to leave me so *^ W!io dowered me with Love's estate, And taught my troubled soul to know Redemption in the woman-mate: Yet every day, although she smiled, She moved about so slow and mild. 1 heard a whisper in the air, And felt at times a furtive touch, — It followed me upon the stair. And gloomed my doubtful spirit much : But when my fear I breathed to her. She murmured: "Nay, I love y-/-, dear!" And then her hand in mine was laid And we sate siLnt through the night. And though It stirred, were not afraid. But waited for the morning light. And thought that life was hers and mine. That God was good, and Love divine. Ah then, even then, the look of pain. And peace, and sorrow on her brow! And never does she speak again. Nor clasp me any longer now : Death, who may hope to rival thee, — False Death, that stole her hence from me? 75 1; ( A I ].■ I LOVE'S SIMILITUDES N vernal grove a poplar slim Queening it over every tree, Lithest grace in girth and limb, Slender little sovereign she; — A feeble trope, a whilom whim, — No poplar is a peer for the.! Through azure air a soft young cloud. Lit with the sun, and floating free: About her all the heavens are bowed To guard and keep caressingly ;— But nay, my lady Gracious-Proud, How shall a cloud compare with thee? On autumn nights the harvest moon Touching with magic land and sea. And in the hearts of men the tune Of far, forgotten minstrelsy; — Though shod with wandering music-shoon. The mellow moon 's no match for thee! Sweetheart, no longer I 11 essay To seek thy like in cloud or tree That come, and bless, and pass away, Striving forever how to be; For all my guardian-angels say Perfection 's perfected in thee I 76 TO A YOUNG GIRL D( 'O not forget. When you are old, Margaret, And I am — cold. That long ago I was your loyal lover. Two, when we met, Were you, — no more, Margaret ; And I — twoscore; Far in the past, those sunlit days are over,- Those days God let Shine pure and bright, Margaret, When man and mite Merrily played amid the summer clover. My sun has set That yours might rise, Margaret ; Now all men's eyes Rejoice your radiant beauty to discover. 77 u And yet. and yet My soul says slowly: "Margaret Does not forget! Her child-heart noly Once and for aye enshrined you as her lover." i^ \ ♦ If 78 WAITING AGAIN, a song! Wo'-.Id he be silent? Silence and doubt are wrong. It ■'- not long. . . . No. . . . No. it is not long. . . . Even now his sturdy wings must beat toward home and me. Oh, let me sing As though my notes he waited, listening Somehow amazed; — let his mate's music bring His erring flighl ♦^o yearned-for rest, unerringly! Hark! . . . T is not yet, . . . But I am happy; 't is not meet to fret. . . . Am I not happy? The sun is well-nigh set. And soon, and soon he homes him to the old beech tree. lying dead, the Yes, soon! . . . Yes, soon! Another . . . might be wind a-croon; Broken his wings, unheeding sun or moon. . . , But not my love; my strong one co; leth back to me. Dear love, do not, (If thou art hiding near the trysting-spot) Do not delay, though sweet the little plot! . . . I wait, and oh, sing as I may. Fear also waits for tr 5. 79 > 1 . ( v< All song is done. . . . Shrunken to nothing is the shameful sun; And out the stars are coming, one by one. . . . And in the cold night lies my life, under a beechen tree! i; }; 3* 7 / 80 AT PARTING THE niglit is silent, love, and here beside thee, Holding the hand that is not now denied me, I too am still ; how shall I say farewell? No words have we, and yet the summer weather, Lulling the garden, gathers us together, And mingles us with myrrh and asphodel. Was there a time before that time, I wonder. When something flashed and rent the veil asunder, And visions faded and the Truth befell? And now, because thou art the Truth I '11 grieve thee No longer by forbearing to believe tftee, Though I am sent upon a sorrow-spell. How long the way thou sayest not, but only That I must tread it loyally and lonely. Unheeding whether heaven wait, or hell. '>,. Why this must be I cannot know,^ beloved. But thou dost know, and, howsoe'er removed. Some day, perchance, the secret thou wilt tell. 91 ?* I.i Nothing I ask; how shall the Truth be bounded? I leave thee, yet by thee I m still surrounded: The sea's voice sounds about the farthest shell. The moonlight deepens, love, and grows to golden, And thou and I in it are strangely holden; — Ah, holy, holy moment of farewell! ]M ii- t ' I? I!' 82 h ^11 I THE NOVICE SHE had a lover in the world, A lover wooing her to wed ; "And does he live, or is he dead?" She knows not, but she bows her head, And broods upon the blessed beads, And spends the day in holy deeds. "Mary, for one," she intercedes, "Who is not good, thy grace I crave; Madonna, grant his soul to save! "He is not good, but, ah! so brave. And strong, and tall, and careless-glad— Careless and proud, my lover-lad! "Madonna, I am very sad; i do not know, I cannot hear — And once I held him passing dear. "O Mother, let me breathe my fear Into your bosom true and pure: I am not sure! I am not sure! " 'To wed the Christ shall be my cure,' I thought: 'I must no earthly love. But fix my heart on Him above.' 83 u j 1 f I! "Bear witness, Mary, how I strove To melt his image into thine. And thy dear Son's, incarnadine! "And wilt thou not bestow a sign? May not my rebel heart be blest? Or is t unworthy of thy rest? "Here in the twilight I 've confest, Mary, to thee alone — thou knowest How I, among thy maidens lowest, "How I, even I, acre; and owest Thou not thy votary a grace? — Once more, but once, \o see his face! "Mother, I clasp thy knees, embrace Them, kiss them, in abandonment! But once — and I shall be content! "Too weak and wrong for thine assent? Nay, Mary, she was not a nun Who bore thee, and who yearned to one. "And tnou thyself didst bear a Son (Whose name be praised!) — Saint through and through, O Mary, thou rt a woman, too!" (i 84 lii ;r: A GIRL'S COMPLAINT TO HER HEART -%■ FELT a breeze blowing upon my brow. Beside the open window as I lay. And dreamed it whispered: "Lo, the dawning day! Awaken! for the winds are waking now. " A bird sang dimly from her swaying bough, And in my dream I struggled to obey The breeze and bird, and joy even as they In the broad Sun, — and woke, I knew not how. About my heart, too, hovers a waiting wind: I v/ould my heart would waken, but it seems Stubbornly sleeping, careless of any cry; I know it is not cruel or unkind, — Yet if it rouse not from insensate dreams. How may it hope for morning? It must die. '•i^i 83 I! p.) V i! O A SONNET OF SPOUSAL VER the mountain hangs the hush of dawn, Irresolute to be or cease to be; The mist-bathed valley and each lonely tree Stretch motionless, as on a canvas drawn; Afar, ahark, a flight-arrested fawn Stands tense, th' eternal sacrament to see — The quickened sky, that pulses tremblingly Till red with day's-blood lighting hill and lawn. So is it with the love that 's born in me: Silent it waited, wavered; risen now. The sky of life it climbs with steady power; Sweetheart, its day is ours. Oh. may we see Together its high noon, together bow And worship in its holy evening hour! (■ III 86 I w AMOR SEMPITERNUS HEN first I found thee. Ruth, I thought: "How rare!" As one with quiet pleasure may behold A wildwood flower her fairy leaves unfold Because a herald zephyr lingered there. After a new adventure: "She had an air Of mirth and mischief;" then — "With how con- trolled And clear a vision she views the stars untold!" Last, on a sudden: "God, how she is fair!" When was the mystery that made thee mine? What moment married us, — the first surprise? The summing of thy linked lovelinesses? Or the pang of passionate hope, desire divine? . . . Ah none! We looked each other in the eyes, Remembering a Chaos of caresses. i. i 87 MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2i 1.0 f m 1- ilia I: m U ^ il" 2.2 I.I 2.0 1.8 1.25 1.4 IJIII 1.6 ^ APPLIED irvl^GE Inc ^r 165J East Main Street ~— Rochester, New York 14609 U5A .^ (716) 482 - 0300 - Phone =^ (716) 288 - 5989 - Fax [-'■ i. 'I' I! i'- PAURA NON E NELLA CARITA T~'HE place, a Tuscan churchyard, and the time, •■' Languorous autumn, and late afternoon; The silence of surrender: the solemn moon,— Pale ghost of some unexpiated Crime, — Viewing the sun's recessional sublime Austerely; while the shadowy lagoon Trembles along the surface, ceasing soon As to the whisper of an alien clime. But who are these, unheeding the chill gloom, That move along the avenues of Death, Or idly pause before some ancient tomb. Where each, to hold the other, lingereth? Ah, only lovers can bear the eyes of Doom, And smile to hear the fatal words she saith! \ J 88 THE FIREFLY Vjr^HILE on my bed I lay, watching the night, ^ A sudden something flashed about the room. At brilliant battle with the giant gloom. Pulsating vividly, — a point of light; A brigand with a bosom; a roving knight Of old Romance, ready to reassume The quest of Roland, and challenge Roland's doom In the dead Dark; — a firefly, fleet and bright. So darts a tireless thought about my mind, — Luminous, magic, passionate with joy. Scourging and slaying the melancholy drove That fear its power, as the dust the wind ; Within its heart of fire a winged boy Comp)elling, and his radiant name is Love. :';^ 89 k i r ft ' THE TRANSFIGURER /^ SWEET to hear thy name on friendly tongue,— ^^ But sweeter far to hear thee utter mine! O joy to enter memory's secret shrine And find thee throned sovereign saint among All hopes and h^ -lours I have sought or sung ; — But greater joy to see the image shine Of my sole self within thy tender eyne, And lose the years, and share thy spirit young! If this be selfish, dear, or selfish seem. Let me confess my fault, and bear correction;— And yet from penance may this plea redeem: My name I love not, but as thou dost call, Nor my presentment save in one reflection, For thou art Love, and loved, and lover all. 90 It "THE MOON. AND MY LOVE. AND I" 'T'HE moon, and my love, and 1 ; * A welter of clouds in the sky; And the night-wind sighing by! I turned to her and I said: "Why are we yet unwed? Soon the moment will have sped." Trembling, she touched my hand: "How may you understand? Is love a thing to be planned, "Or its own sufficient light? How the storm-clouds drive to-night! Fearsome to me the sight! "Can the moon be happy above, — The moon, dear symbol of love? She thrives not, where once she throve. "Lover, I dread the maze Of 'wildering sorrow-ways That may darken all our days." But I made answer to her: "The moon is the happier For the sky's strange strain and stir. 91 i (H : IT" rf ^4 If. "She shines as she always shone. And still reigns — she alone — On her storm-besiege'd throne. "Soon must the clouds subside; Soon shall the wind have died; Through a heaven new-glorified Love's majesty shall ride, — God's Moon, th' eternal Bride!" A hush in the air, — no sound! Somehow her hand I found; The moonlight wrapt us round. I ) Ml 92 HER HEART BREAKS SILENCE DECAUSE that thou art pale and cold and still, I feel thy spirit. Winter, one with mine; All times are sunlit saving only thine. And all but thee the joys of life fulfill: Sweet madcap Spring skips free from hill to hill. And Summer's golden sap swells every vine. The wine-dark eyes of Autumn brood benign Through purpling ways upon the whippoorwill. His note is silenced, gray and lonely ghost. By thee alone: from thee the birds and streams Shudder away for shelter, love thee not ; And the great Glory thou dost worship most Withdraws his being, and averts his beams. And leaves thee to thy melancholy lot. He does not know the secret in thy heart, And why thy face is pale he does not dream, Nor yet how excellent thy sight would seem If he approaching saw thee what thou art: In his smile smiling, of his presence part. By his warm radiance made to glow and gleam ; — Thy fruitful beauty straight becomes his theme. And love his challenge is, and love his chart. 93 So, Winter, is it with the soul of me My hero scorns so sHght and frail to find — And ever slighter while it waits unblest; — O turn he but a moment, he should see His own light in these eyes, to all else blind, His holiest honour in this faithful breast! :1, 94 t 'SHE IS NOT DEAD" ^HE is not dead : it shall not be ^That she has gone away from me Into a stark Eternity. Her limpid eyes were large with ruth And wonder; in her senses, youth, And hunger in her heart for truth. Ah, how she loved to watch them glide So dreamily from side to side, — The birds that but a summer bide; And how she joyed in greening trees And every saucy little breeze That with her locks took liberties 1 But if a shadow fell, and Pain — My tireless harrier, unslain, Unslayable — should strike again. Child though she was, the mother-soul Would rise within her, and would roll The stone away, and make me whole. So child and mother she, now wise Beyond the books, while now surprise And maiden-mischief lit her eyes; 95 Hi Then dreamy as the birds that glide, Her gaze would change; unsatisfied And wistful would it wander wide, Seeking the secret still denied To mortals. ... So. they say, she died. li is not irue : it shall not be That she has gone away from me Into a stark Eternity. ^1 % Mi m. - Im I ^4 1^ I I -■ t, n }* •O EARTH. WHAT CHANGES!" (Macaulay'a New Zealander.) LIE climbed no more, but turned at dusk of day,- •^ * A statued doom. At last he sigh'd and said: "And this was London!" Died the word away, Trembling to silence with that mighty dead. 99 111 I 1 n ' » THE EARTHQUAKE A ROLLING, griding rumble: a sharp shudder ;- The earth in spasm! A long multitudinous wail . . . Sudden flames leaping; fingering, swallowing Dust and darkness' 'h 100 AN OLD MASTER I SAW a picture yesternight, * By a most ancient Master done; Ah me! its beauty smote so bright I saw it, and — *t was gone. Dark were the woods, and dark the plain, And dark clouds drifted all about. When from a storm-heart rent in twain The white-pure Moon looked out. 101 [; ) « !•* THE TOUCH AGE-OLD, age-silent. Nature queen, ^ Mindful of ancient vows. Changeless, with finger sibylline Touches once more the trembling Ireen ; Shyly and dreamily the green Wavers along the boughs. 102 i A LAKE SUNRISE CHEATHED by the everlasting sky *^ That bends caressing from on high In garments blent Of white and blue, And fairer, farther, fainter hue. The silent lake lies musing and is we!l content. Calm child-of-many-waters, dream! Sudden across thy breast shall gleam A wave-kissed way Of floating gold, Fixed skyward with a steadfast hold. Whereon an angel lingering may kneel and pray. M ill 103 m H (' DAYBREAK ^UN! Sun! Sun! Sun! Chorus of earth-birds, chorus of sky-birds, myriad matins begun, Cross-tangled adventurous music, anthems of awe. Of appeal, adoration: litanies now of law, And now raptured singings of trust in the truth of the light. The Lighter's proud power, and the rich-altared East, all bedight With the glimmer, the glow, and the glory, till it mounts into f^ame. And the mass-music mightily swells to the sovereign Name — Sun! As his garment, incredibly golden, the edge of the world has won. And life is astir, and love is alive, and the sighing and sleeping are done; — Sun ! Sun ! Sun ! 104 ni LES CAMARADES EN VOYAGE HTHE vessel is restlessly rushing over the waters, — ■'• But the moon is silent and still; Hundreds of men and women a'e aboard, Listlessly lounging, or sleeping, or chatting, or play- ing,— But the moon is solitary; The heart of the ship labours incessantly. With fierce energy driving her forward, forward, — Ever the effortless moon is astern ; The lights of the port shine out, The passengers stir, show interest, crowd eagerly up, — "We are arriving," they say. "We have made a speedy voyage. " And as they step upon the pier, lo the whiteness there ! Jl ill I . M 105 M M\ 14 1 sill 3 -' w K ^. ii TO NIGHT C DOLING, quieting Night. Subtle abolisher of the long-burning light Of Day; wrapt with thine ever-darkening hair, Searching with agile, patient fingers everywhere Lest in some undiscovered spot thy foe, reluctant, hideth ; — Mother, in whose deep bosom Sleep abideth. Thy child and Death's, the gloomier Shade that glideth Constantly after, stern husband-soul of thee. Whom only thou regardest and dost not flee, — O lead him soon to me, That I too feel him Father, unfearing tread where he hath trod. And be at one with the silent Three that brood and move in the Shadow of God! i'- '' A 1* 106 A SUMMER NIGHT CI LENT the vast of night: *^ Silent the hills on horizons, Low, dark, continuing; Not a leaf is bestirred on the branches By the wind, now hushed into nothing. Or the careless, confident touch of a bird alighting; Silent the rocks, sullen resisters; Silent the waters. Even the very young waves, the gentle rippling washes of the slim sand's little lovers; Very silent the moon, that rises and rises, dear sorceress — Never a whisper, a hint, yet the luminous, tremulous path is forever Turning and twinkling to me, appearing, evanishing. Infinite points of light liquescent, sparkling and darkling ; And I look at the hills and the trees and the rocks and the waters, And I look at the moon and the glorified path to her glory. And share my brothers' silence. I ; I f !l i 107 I: 4 ! V \] ARIEL'S REVENGE IN olden time sprite Ariel would fly To do his Master's bidding, far and high; But that was ere Man looked at him askance, And changed him to a shadow-of-romance. Long Ariel endu»-ed his friendless fate. But a strange miracle has happened late: The restless prisoner has broke his span And flown into the very heart of Man, Making us mad our new-felt wings to try, — We rise, we dive, we climb, we mount the sky! Forgive us, Aviator Ariel, — T is thou hast freed us, and we love thee well! 108 I THE AERONAUT 1 yEAN, sing paean! For I have made me wings; No more the empyrean Withstands my journeyings; — The empyrean. Eternal, silent, vast! I enter it at last, And the god in me sings. 'ower, smg power For I am greater grown; This is the mighty hour When all becomes mine own ;- — The mighty hour Dreamed, laboured for, fulfilled. Won as my spirit willed, — The firmament known. Yet, in the singing, Hearken a low. sweet cry: "Wouldst thou, O Man, be winging The stretches of the sky; - Wouldst thou be winging Thine ever-upward way. Did not Love smile and say: 'Thy courier I !'?" 109 Ipl 1 1 li A SETTLER'S GRAVE F''AR on the outflung headland thou dost He, Silent and lone, the lonelier for thy kin; Here they have railed thy rotting tombstone in. And here a thousand times they pass thee by. Theirs the unwistful, unillumined eye. To whom the earth is earth, who never win A whisper'd word from heaven when suns begin. But toil and sleep; — these live and thou dost die. Or is it death to leave the ways of men And lie upon the headland with no sound Save for the brooding Love that covers glen And lake and forest in its vast profound; — While the gulls shrill their secrets to thy breast, And in the boughs above the redbirds nest? ! j 1 10 THE EYES OF THE EAST I SING the East at sunset, the low Elast, *■ The lonely East, that is not looked upon; Her glory hath departed, from her wan And straitened eyes the stare is unreleased; She sees the marriage and the marriage-feast. The shameless ardour of the Bride o' the Sun, The troubled yielding of the Captive One, Who droops and wavers till his light hath ceased. Still sits the East and broods across the earth With fixed eyes: Is motherhood in vain? And mindi her of the marvel of his birth And the long silences that spoke again; Thus through the night she dreams; at dawn her eyes With awe are holden and with strange surmise. i V -Cu^ ill i«i I i 1 I T A FOREST GRAVEYARD HE birds brood silent in the underbrush, A stricken ghostliness stands each ytark tree, The hesitating river gUdes less free. Fearful of the inviolable hush; Beyond the stream a solitary thrush Sings, and the sun's deep crimson drapery Is droopmg o'er the land, but breathes to me No hope the wintering shadows cannot crush. 1 turn to go, and in the littered leaves Stumble upon a shell, a shapeless stone, A withered rose, huddled together there; O secret grave, sure no sad mother grieves The little ward of death thou guard'st alone: Be I thy mourner, child, and thou my care! 112 ■}r- SONG OF THE EVENING CLOUD IVyJOTHER. O mother. Moon my mother. *'^*- I hear your whisper over the sky, Gentle its breathing as you dravv nigh. It is softer and sweeter than any other, — The whisthng sweep of the breezes keen. The murmurous hum where the Sun has been. Or the croon of the Night in her shadow -sheen ; Mother, O mother. Moon my mother, Come, and my kisses shall smile and smother! Mother, O mother, Moon my mother, Why must you glide so swiftly by? — Yet how pure is my life and my heart how high. Higher this moment than any other! While I clung to you, dear, and your word had blest. While your white spirit became my guest, O the joy I felt to be so caressed; — Mother. O mother. Moon my mother, Brighten us, lighten us. brother and brother! 113 iil i * ■f- H t\\ "BROWN FELLOW" DROWN FELLOW, rusty fellow, better cease your '-' wooing: All Summer long your loves have laughed at your appealing glances. Too whist you are, unkissed you are — yours is no way of doing; For bright Lord Sun each leaf that blows be- dimples her and dances; But you 've no share, mute surly Earth, In this green and golden mirth. Give o'er, give o'er. Leaf-loves desire no more! Brown fellow, rusty fellow, wise you are and patient; Madcap Summer's day is done, and friendly Autumn careth; They stoop to you, they droop to you — what though you 're dark and ancient — The little leaves they lowly turn, each to your bosom fareth. And as it falls the tender hush Of love and longing 's in its blush. Amen to ye, Your brides they all shall be! 114 M "THE FIAIN IT RAINETH" TpO green the grass, •'• And mud the road, To run the lass. And draw the toad, The rain it raineth cheerily. On ploughed field. And cistern dry. On woods and weald Lest saplings die. The rain it raineth busily. To stream the plains. And scare the kine. To bang the panes, And drench the pine. The rain it raineth wilfully, Down to the sea, Whose slumbrous waves Insensate be, — Dull-shining graves. The rain it raineth mournfully. 115 It OUTWARD BOUND OAILING. sailing. Over the waters and over the world. High to the heaven our sheets unfurled; — Hailing, hailing Our Lord the Sun, our Lady Moo" The starlit Night, the ardent Nooii; — Failing, Paling, To twilights breathless. And dreamings deathless, — And aft the Creole sailor's croon. Leaping, leaping. Quick with the quivering life of the Trades, — On our bow grows the sea-line, to windward it fades ; — Steeping, steeping The good ship and her marineres In sea-hght, sea-dark, years and years; — Creeping, Sleeping, — The Wind-God numbers Our sudden slumbers. Our eeriest fancies, strangest fears. 16 THE LAST LULLABY 'X'HE shepherd moon mothers her shining sheep,- ■■■ The Httle stars that cluster close and deep; And soon they sleep. The flower's wings are folded to her breast : She hears a whisper from the darkling west ; — How pure her rest ! Dim droop the drowsing birds upon the trees; The boughs are still as they: no unquiet breeze Troubles their ease. The far and lonely waters feel the spell, Whose monotones sound slowly out, and tell Their sway and swell. All nature is asleep and dreaming dreams Aglow with wonder that on waking seems But broken gleams. So let my spirit sleep the sleep of death : Close, eyes; be idle, hands; and silent, breath! Wait what It saith! 117 Hi 1. I i'i \y I 1 11 i THE GOD OF THE GULLS OTHE God of the gulls goes straight and swift. Whatever winds may be: Straight he goes, and swift he goes, Over the secret sea. For the God of the gulls has a restless heart That will not let him be: By day and by night i^ nrges him With the urge of ete /. Yet the tireless God of the tireless gulls Forgetteth not his own: Out of his bosom booms a cry, — Wave-echoed, tempest-blown; And the birds beat down to the sheltering shrou's. Or gather upon the hull; Safely they sail on the breast of the giant, — The strong or the young sea-gull. But the storm dies down, and the clouds dissolve. And out on the sunlit sea Wheel and circle the white-feathered folk. Playing right merrily. Then their God laughs kindly, and tosses food To the eager-whirling things;— A rapturous dive of the sea-children With the sun on their glistening wings! lis i O the God of the gulls goes straight and swift. Whatever winds may be: Straight he goes, and swift he goes, Over the secret sea. i\ Ive, 119 ^f 1 ' il I! i. Frail insect, mad-possessed Of quenchless, fruitless quest, Patiently brooding the loneliest leaf. Searching the silentest flower. Placing the hills and the meadows in fief. Scorning no spot of the arid or arable. Questing for aye in thy life of an hour, — Butterfly, butterfly. Utter thy parable! Tireless discoverer, Voyager vagrant, Hopefullest hoverer. Lured by the fragrant; Ruthless deserter of grapes and camellias. Yearning to, turning from, countless Ophelias,- 124 Ir* i Urged on by the vision Of wonder supernal. To autumn's decision Referring the vernal; All to see, all to see: Of the Past the history, Of the Last the mystery; For brief engrossing moments joying in the real, Yet swift again to know the sting of the ideal; Wary of Nature's benison, (In the inmost heart of thee the pang, the sting!) Of this demesne no denizen. No captive, but an age-appointed Thing! Butterfly, can nothing win thee into rest,- No petal here or yonder? . . . Nay, flutter by, contcntless, as is best,— While with thee I wander! ;■! 125 11 i LYRICS OF THE RAIL I. The Scorned Town THE green fields waver, break a space To black and white and gray. — Men standing, staring in a place That quickly dies away; And swift again on left and right The living, slipping green. What was that black and gray and A phantom never seen! w hite? 1 1 \% i X Ml II. The Canyon The sky withdraws, the cutting narrows, A vague intention fills the air; Still past the window stream the arrows Of lifehc .nd darkiiess, everywhere. A moment, and the battlers waver; — Another, and the night has won; Into the mountain's dark disfavour Plunges the train at set of sun. III. The Sleeping-Car The land is silent, and the moon Is slowly rising; the long jar Of wheels on rails all afternoon Is past, and stars and stillness are. 126 t As from the darkness of the couch I turn my wakeful eyes, and gaze Thro' lonely panes, I could avouch That earth and m.in, and nights and days. Are lost and gained, that all are one: The low-heard sF>eeding of the train. The cloud-swept moon, the stars that run. The heart's assumptions and its pain. 127 ■J It. : i. I TEMPEST-TOST N a flash the rain roars down. Tearing a way to the ground With a splashing, unmusical sound, With a quivering, quick rebound, — Striking each dusty town Into a gloom of the flood, Into a chill of the blood, At tie ravenous roar of the rain. The thunder struggles for breath, Beaten with moanings of ire, Mad with a rebel desire, — Lightning, its heart of fire. Goads it to desperate death, — Fear follows everywhere. On the earth and the sea and the air, Forebodings of terror and pain. II 1 Then the voice of the sea outcries: — "AH my waves have in anger arisen. Scorning my bosom a prison. Lashing me while I listen To the prayer as of one who dies : 'O Infinite Love, come thou, Save me and pilot me now!' And straight there is silence again." 128 Low earth-murmurs kindle and loom. And its secrets have thickened the sky. Till it sweeps them before the fierce eye Of the hurricane hurrying by. Clash all the drivings of doom, — Storm! and the world in collapse, — Despair! were it not that jjerhaps There 's a whispering promise-refrain. ; 129 ^'i \ I li i 1. 1.1' IV. {\ K I! \v 3 t' ! ( H HAMLET E would see all, this thinker! He would see The lure of life, the deep of mystery; — He sees, and he is silent: Love and Hate Sink into nothing while he stares at Fate. 133 :! fi ji A GRACE BEFORE SHAKESPEARE ("I own that I am disposed to say grace upon twenty other occasions in the course of the day besides my dinner. I want a form for setting out upon a pleasant walk, for a moonlight ramble, for a friendly meeting, or a solved problem. Why have we none for books, those spiritual repasts — a grace be- fore Milton — a grace before Shakespeare — a devotional exercise profjer to be read before reading The Faerie Quecnef — Charles Lamb: K«i